Chapter Text
For a minute, Enva is distracted by the mountains. They’re capped white, leaning into the clouds, along the endlessness of the sky. He’s sitting by the bank of a lake alone, his speeder parked nearby. He watches the shaky, smudged reflection of the sight before him, in the water, the diffusing shine of the sun.
There are structures in the distance, ruins of fallen stone that suggest long bridges. Snow adorns them like sugar, they’d been welcomed back into the loving arms of nature thousands of years ago. Right now, Enva can almost feel the idle drift of his senses through time, back to when these ruins were more than vague remnants of history. When they were more than the mountains. More than the body of water seeking to engulf it. Yet it only makes him feel smaller.
He stands up eventually, once the spell has worn off. He sets his small holocomm upon the sand. Upon the press of a button, a blue image crackles to life before him, a layer of static pressed over the figure.
“About time,” the familiar voice teases.
Enva smiles, a shy hand migrating up to his hair, which the breeze starts to whip about. “I know, I know, I’m sorry. You know how busy it can get.”
They get to talking about anything, just to hear the other’s voice again after a long spell of distance. Updates from either side, what they’ve been eating.
“So, is everything okay there?” Theron asks, folding his arms.
“Suppose so. I’ll just have to report to the Council one more time, then I’ll be out of here.” The wind blows into him again, he shields his face with his sleeve.
Theron beams at the notion. “Can’t wait.”
Enva remarks the smallest movement of Theron’s hand, he almost gasps. “No, don’t.”
“I wasn’t doing anything.” It had looked as though he was reaching to hang up before he reached to adjust his jacket collar. “Aw, you miss me, don't you?”
“Of course I miss you, you dumbass.”
“Call me all the names you want,” Theron grins, “but at the end of the day, I’m your dumbass. Forever.” He lifts his hand, flashing the ring.
Enva laughs now, but in the brush of wind it’s breathless. “Love you. Guess I’ll head back to the colony now.”
“Love you too. I’ll be waiting.”
He knows he should be going, but he’s stuck in place, his eyes are drawn to the water, where his reflection shivers. Behind him is the sky, duller, quieter; the clouds like smudged paint. The Force speaks in murmurs. He’s examining every detail of himself, whatever he has left, and what has been lost, now, to the depths. To history, years that would become millennia, the sand eroding, the stone receding. Until he is unrecognisable, even to himself.
It’s all drowned now. Drowned, but still shining.
—
In the bitterness of time, everything around him has changed. Almost every Jedi Council member he had approached in the chambers has been replaced, save one; like faulty droids. Throughout the war they had been picked off one by one, and any semblance of stagnance was erased by the time of the Zakuulan invasion.
Only Hisnin Meruyla, the Barsen’thor, remains from the beginning. Yet he sits at the head of the chamber, without the title of Grandmaster. They’ve been too disorganised to sit around and choose. Only a while before he was part of the Alliance, too, one of the pioneers of it alongside his wife Lana Beniko.
“Is there anything else for me, Masters?” Enva asks, clasping his hands together as he stands at the epicentre, at the spotlight. “Otherwise I ought to return to my duties.”
“There is one more thing,” Hisnin says. “It is something that we have unanimously agreed upon.”
Enva’s lips part gently. “What?”
“While you’ve spent your time as a Jedi Knight again, your duties have been temporarily fulfilled by another, am I correct?” asks another Master.
“Yes,” he responds, matter-of-factly. “Theron Shan serves my role while I am away.”
Hisnin inclines his head. “Perhaps we could make that a permanent arrangement.”
Enva swallows. “I beg your pardon, Master?” Already he is piecing together the meaning of this question, the reasons behind it. They are suggesting Theron’s permanent adoption of the title of Eternal Commander. What would be left for him?
“There are many seats on this Council,” Master Jolerya Kinoshika, once the Emperor’s Wrath, says.
“So... you’d like to grant me the rank of Master,” Enva concludes. It’s not an unreasonable thing. “I would be honoured.”
Hisnin almost chuckles. “No, old friend. I know why you would think that, but no. More than that.”
“We believe that the right step forward to rebuilding the Order...” Jolerya says, “is promoting you to the rank of Grandmaster.”
The word is whiplash, an abrupt storm within him. There’s an uncomfortable silence that falls in the confusion of Enva’s emotions diffusing in the Force. There’s a part of him that would like nothing more than to kick the door down, run away, run until he can't feel the presence of anything in the world, until he’s blind.
Throughout everything, he was never a good Jedi. He was always a fragile thing, held on the edge by a thread, a ward of ethereal illness. Far too open to the Force, too vulnerable to its reaches. One crack from an absolute state of brokenness, a near-wound. He wants to crumble, here and now.
“I’d like to take time to think about this,” Enva says, as composedly as he can bear it. Inside, his jaw is tightened, his body is trying not to tremble. “It’s a huge... a huge prospect, isn't it?”
“Of course it is,” Hisnin says. “It would make you the youngest. Thirty-one, no?” He smiles, a slight informality. “Though I was a Barsen’thor at nineteen. And after everything it would not be so unreasonable. But yes, do take your time.”
“Thank you,” Enva says, like it’s not that big of a deal, it’s just a little modesty, it’s for the look. Humility is pretty, makes you look pretty.
Enva returns to the Hyvteros cockpit alone, and he finally lets out the breath he’s been holding, almost collapsing into the pilot’s seat. His face is buried in his palms, his elbows propped on his knees. He’s exhausted, those chambers were a black hole, a dark abscess in the cosmic fabric.
Mindlessly he flicks the radio on, already tuned to 103.5, one of the popular radio stations. The best, they say, for dealings with regret, death, out-of-body experiences in the early hours; all that. But the music fails to drown out the noise of all his thoughts.
It should be—it is the highest honour he can receive. The head of the Council, of the entirety of the Jedi Order. It’s perfect, it’s all perfect. He feels the walls thinning, like ice. It’s too perfect. Why, then, can't he say yes?
The anger boils in his blood, turns it effervescent, foamy. It’s at himself, yet it’s not. It’s at them, it's at the galaxy for burdening him like this. He’s broken, he’s a wound, he’s sick. A sieve of emotion, open to every aspect of the Force no matter how damaging. Yet, if he says no, he’ll be the bad person. The one putting his desires above all else.
He thinks about Theron, about what he would say. Leave with me, leave it all behind. I’ll treat you better than the Jedi ever did.
His teeth are chattering, he’s cold all over. He needs to go, he needs to find back his balance.
—
This time, when Theron embraces him, he returns the pressure a little tighter than normal. It’s fuller, it makes a decision in a way, a means of closure. The kiss is deeper, honeymoon-like; Enva tastes the brandy in Theron’s lips, in the swirl of his breath. The romance begins to set in that way, with the warmth of the sunset before them and the song of his voice.
“You really missed me, then,” Theron says in gentle gasps, little bursts of words between kisses.
They’ve met by the Alsakan cliffs on Alderaan, a sharp cut of land hundreds of metres above the sea, where only the silvery beam of the moon shines, a hole of blooming light in the sky. Its reflection in the water, broken into shards.
Theron’s prepared an evening picnic, set down a checked mat. He’s quick to open the brandy bottle first, pour the glasses carefully. There’s a little projector next to the wicker basket, Enva notes, with its little chrome stand. A datapad, certainly not for work, not with the proximity of it to the edge of the cliff and Enva’s deft hands.
“All of this,” Theron remarks, gesturing around, “and you’re still the most beautiful thing here.”
Enva flushes, it’s far more obvious in him, pale, thin skin, that rush of blood. “Goodness, stop.”
“I figured you'd get used to it already.”
“You’d think that, but I’m not right in the head.” Wrong. A poor response.
Theron tilts his head, like an unhappy dog. “Is something wrong? You wanna talk about it?”
Enva reaches over, but there’s hesitation in his haste as their lips press together, to hush Theron, whose eyes remain open for a second or two, in doubt. With every dizzying motion that seeks to suppress the anxious thoughts within them, he draws deeper and deeper. Every touch is careful, as if Theron were fragile, wavering, set to disappear at any moment. The brush of his thumb against Theron’s jawline, the breeze of his fingers against dark thistle of hair.
“Sorry, that was a bad joke,” Enva whispers, breaking away, hot breath upon Theron’s neck. “Let me drink, and I’ll have a better arsenal.”
“Arsenal is an interesting word,” Theron says, getting up from the mat. “And do try the cheese, too.”
Enva feigns defeat, reaching for him to no avail. “Where are you going?”
“What, you think I’ll grow wings and fly away?” Theron chuckles, producing a thick roll of white sheet from behind the wicker basket. He gets to work, unfurling the sheet between two close trees. It doesn't take too long before he notices the height problem, he's only getting one corner up there if he climbs. “Little help here? Sorry.”
“It's okay,” Enva says. “I'll do this side and you do the other one.”
“All right.”
They both know that Enva’s slowing down a little, so that they both tie up each corner of the sheet, return to each other at the same time. It's an unspoken thing, this advantage he has over Theron, and it's an even more unspoken thing that Enva strains it as much as he can.
When they’ve finished setting up, they sit back on the mat while Theron’s finding the movie.
The decision comes back again, he hasn't told another soul. It's a simple yes or no, would you like to be Grandmaster? As if it's nothing more than a title, a name to flaunt around. If he takes it, it's all everyone’s going to refer to him as. In speech, in archive, in annal.
There's also another choice, beneath that, Enva thinks. A much harder one. But he'll deal with that after.
Once he’s left the blur of his thoughts, he realises Theron is looking at him. The gently furrowed expression, washed in the cold glow of the projector now, has come back. “Are you sure everything’s okay? You’re doing that... that thing again.”
“What thing?”
“Staring off into space like that.”
“I promise you, nothing’s wrong. That was a joke.”
Theron sighs. “It's not about the joke now. I've known you long enough. You staring like that means something is wrong.”
Enva nestles closer, leaning into Theron’s shoulder. He feels his face relax from its guarded state, softening in Theron’s warmth. “I don't want to ruin the moment yet. I’ll tell you later.”
“Promise you’ll tell me?” Theron says, kissing his palm, it's cold, almost hollow.
“Promise.”
Theron is a lot more invested in the movie than Enva’s expected. At the midpoint he even hears the breathless encouragement that won't influence the story in any way. “Just tell her how you feel already, dumbass.”
“He can’t,” Enva says. “What will he gain from it? She has a boyfriend.”
“Who she clearly doesn’t love. It’s only because her parents won’t approve.”
The next scene begins with the flicker of an antique streetlight, the kind that uses flames in a lantern. The man has found her, at last.
“If he doesn’t tell her right now...” Theron says.
“I told you, he has nothing to gain from it.”
I have something I need to tell you, he begins. It’s been something in my brain I can’t get out.
“It's coming,” Theron breathes.
“Don't do it,” Enva mutters.
What is it? she says, dubiously. She doesn't know that he's closing the little gap between them, step by step, motion by motion. Yet, she's open to that possibility, of him crossing the boundary.
I had a dream, last night, he says. I was in a field of roses. Blood-red. The grass was so vivid. The sky was so blue. And amidst the clouds, I saw a gate open, and a ray of light shining down on me.
Then? she says. What?
Theron is hopeful. The fact that she entertains his poetry at all, means something. She must have a degree of awareness what he's leading into.
He says: My planet has this... belief. That the most beautiful of women had descended from the sky, offered by the goddess of the moons millions of years ago, as a gift. They called these women angels, and every beautiful woman is believed to be a descendant of the angels. And the moment I saw you, I began to believe in that legend. I stopped thinking it was all myth.
“Finally!” Theron says.
No matter if I can have you or not, he says, I love you. I just want you to know that before you go with him.
“No, she should leave that asshole.”
“She should,” Enva agrees. Theron is too caught up in the scene that he doesn't notice Enva’s changing rhythm of breath, like something clutches him by the chest. “She can't have both of them at once.”
Don't do this, she says.
I don't care what you say. I love you.
I’m engaged. I’m marrying him. And if I don’t... there won’t be a place for me any longer!
I’ll love you anyway.
She wipes her eyes, pushing him away. I love you too. But you always make it so difficult. That's the last thing she says, before she runs away, leaves him under the mellow light of the lantern, and the scene blackens.
“You do make it difficult,” Enva says.
“He does,” Theron says. He doesn't know that Enva isn't referring to the movie.