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I’m going to die here, you realize as you stand on your first battleground, watching as artillery fire blocks out the first dawning rays of light. Through the trees comes the first wave of the Separatist army, the sun reflecting off the vast metal in front of you. They’re going to slaughter us all.
“Commander, look out!”
Wolffe shoves you hard and you stumble into a bush, just as a blaster bolt embeds itself in the tree where your head had just been. The enemy fires again, but this time you block it with a lightsaber, the impact sending adrenaline coursing through you.
You frantically rush the offending battle droid, ducking under its outstretched arm and jamming your lightsaber up through the groove between its chin, the metal plating melting into its head. The droid jerks slightly before falling towards you. It falls in pieces at your feet, and you gag in horror at the sight. Another enemy falls near you, showering you with splatters of oil and bits of smoldering gears.
You remain frozen on the battlefield, lightsaber limp at your side, staring at the droid at your feet.
Wolffe roughly grabs you by the front of your robes. “Wake up, Commander!” He shakes you desperately.
A bead of sweat trickles down your temple and you furiously blink it away. The deep breaths you're taking do very little to calm your racing heart as the battle wages on around the both of you. Blaster bolts whiz by your heads and explosions rock the ground, throwing you both off balance.
Wolffe snatches the lightsaber from your limp grasp and holsters it back onto your belt; he grabs your elbow and starts running perpendicular to the company line, skimming the outskirts of the forest and dragging you along with him.
The Separatists start pounding the Republic troops with more massive shells, their aim getting more accurate. You both keep running, but there are so many soldiers in the way.
Another blaster bolt whizzes past your shoulder, but you’re too terrified to consider the consequences of if it had hit you. The place behind you is obliterated from the artillery fire; the bombardment wreaks hell on the Republic line. Barely ten yards in front of you another shell hits, and the impact sprays dust and debris in your face. Momentarily blinded, you trip and stumble into the crater; you cough up dirt and grass as you try to orient yourself, the lightsaber on your belt digging into your ribs.
Wolffe yanks you up and you keep running. The second Republic company line attacks at the sound of the chant “For the Republic!”, the clones pouring from the trees around you. A clone runs into you and you both fall; the clone rolls before scrambling back up and running back into the fray. Wolffe pulls you up again.
There are too many soldiers. You’re knocked down again, and you tumble out of Wolffe’s reach; you scramble back up and continue on alone, fearful that wiping the dirt from your eyes would slow you down. There is a battle droid who gives chase, firing every time it gets a lock on you. It gets closer and you zig-zag to avoid the target lock, fumbling for your lightsaber, but drop it. You leave the lightsaber in the grass and escape as a few clones stop to attack the battle droid.
Wolffe finds you again, and he grabs your hand. You hold onto him with all that you have.
"Don't let me go," you hear yourself screaming.
"Never," he answers, shouting over the sounds of battle, but all you can hear is your heavy breathing and the battle cries of the soldiers and the artillery and the gunships and the screaming.
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“History is a lesson in humility.”
You blink, pausing your petting of a curious manka cat and calmly turn back to face Master Plo Koon. A mild gust of wind rustles through the airy Jedi Temple and wraps around you fondly like an invisible embrace. Your pale linen robes flutter to the rhythm of the breeze, amplifying the faint chill that crawls up your arm in pleasant goosebumps. Towering pine trees dress the horizon alongside blooming flowers of various shades. The stone of the temple is warm from the sun shining through the trees.
“In the last century alone, the Republic has fought seven wars. And we did not win all of them, even during our Age of Great Peace,” he says. He waves his hand, and the manka cat snarls before slinking back into the tall grass to hunt for its next meal.
“How upbeat,” you mutter, turning to completely face him.
If he had heard you, he does not acknowledge it. “The Republic used to span into the Outer Rim. The High Republic was the birthplace of modern civilization, and Coruscant the center of the galaxy. The planetary delegates have brought their culture and methods of good governance to the Republic, thus strengthening us.”
You tilt your head. “Why did relations sour between the cartels like the Trade Federation and the Republic? What happened? What did they want from us?”
“With all of these cultures, not all relations were peaceful,” Master Koon explains. “The Trade Federation is ambitious and has always wanted more, even if it was nominal.”
He draws his lightsaber. “Show me Form V, Djem Sho variation.”
You comply, unhooking your new lightsaber and holding it with both hands above your head, angling it back at a forty-five degree angle. At his nod, you lunge forward with the signature avalanche attack, slamming your lightsaber down with as much force as you can muster, and Koon turns to block it. As he does, you bring your leg up to round-house his unprotected head, stopping inches before contact. You pause, and Plo nods in acknowledgment.
“Continue.” he instructs, parrying a swipe at his side. You track his movements, deflecting blows before they fall. He launches himself up and over you, narrowly avoiding the swing of your lightsaber. He lands lightly on his feet, ready to continue.
“Shein Form.”
You adjust quickly, holding your lightsaber with two hands near your head, like a baseball bat, your dominant leg held back to allow powerful step-through strikes.
You stab and slash, trying to find an opening in Plo's defenses. But every time you reach for his heart, your blade is driven out of line. He effortlessly deflects a rain of streaking cuts, forcing you to give ground. He leans into a thrust at your gut, which you deflect, stopping his attack and bringing you both to a stand-still. “You will have to do better than that.”
“Sorry,” you say, struggling to get through his defense. You feint an attack for his face before dropping to sweep his legs out from under him. Plo Koon leaps over you again and you roll away.
You barely get your lightsaber up in time to stop Koon from slicing you in half. You do your best to ground yourself and dispel the energy of the blow evenly across your body and into the ancient tile. The tile cracks under the force, but the Jedi isn’t done. He shifts his lightsaber, pointing his blade towards your hilt and jabs, causing you to drop your lightsaber to protect your hands from being cut off. You do a back-spring to get some distance between you.
When you touch down, he’s already there. You leap back further, adopting a defensive stance, but Plo spins, slashing at your leg. You manage to evade the blow, but his lightsaber is already swinging at you as you right yourself. Frantically, you call on the Force and stop the attack mid-swing. You breathe a sigh of relief, only to realize he had your lightsaber as well, which was currently pointed at your neck.
“Why did you lose?” He asks, keeping your lightsaber aimed at you.
“I was distracted.”
“Yes, but not what I was looking for. How did I know how to beat you?”
You wrack your brain, struggling to find an answer. “Well, you’re taller than me, and–”
“Then Master Yoda would not be the Grand Master, now would he?”
You suppress a growl. Master Koon was frustratingly vague and deliberately obtuse. He would dance around answers, and liked to make you circle around the answer like a pterathki vulture before giving you a morsel of understanding.
Your brows furrow. “You had asked me to change forms mid-fight.”
Pleased, he continues. “Tell me about the Shien variant.”
In the course of your research that Master Koon had assigned you, you had discovered that Form V was created from Form III, and Shien was the first variant to be developed, devised as an anti-blaster form, allowing the user to deflect blaster bolts right back to their attacker.
“It’s built for defense, but unlike Form III, this form attempts to create an opportunity to attack, and relies on counterattacks to gain the advantage. It also requires an enormous amount of physical demands.”
“So, why did you lose?”
“It requires both speed and strength, but I–”
“It is not you I am critiquing, I am critiquing the Form itself.” He says. After a moment, he elaborates. “How many people can you defend against with Form V?”
“Theoretically, a multitude.” At his nod, you continue. “So I lost because I’m using a form made for multiple opponents, not one. And because the form requires speed and physical strength, I no longer have the agility–”
“To fight one opponent. Very good,” he praises. He hands your lightsaber back to you, and you clasp the cool metal in your palms.
Master Koon steps into Form V Shien, and you follow suit. He nods.
You lunge.
He parries, blocking an overhead attack and directing it into the temple floors. You spin and whirl around each other, like dancers at a ball. He feints to the left and then spins to the right, trying to catch you off-guard. You are not fooled, however, and effortlessly dodge his attack. You remain in a low stance, your body poised and ready to strike.
“You are doing well,” he says after a moment. “Let us put Form V’s real use to the test.”
You’re not sure what he means as Koon swings his blade at your legs, but you jump back into the air and somersault over his head, landing in a crouch. You strike at his legs, but Plo leaps high and spins, bringing his blade down.
The force of the blow sends you stumbling backwards, and he takes advantage of the opening to deliver a barrage of wild attacks, driving you backwards. You desperately try to defend yourself, but Plo is relentless, driving his blade towards your chest. Just before the blade can make contact, you twist to the side and break Form V. Plo tries to disarm you again, pointing his blade towards your hilt again and jabs.
You drop the lightsaber with one hand, duck under his attack, and catch your lightsaber with the other hand. You swing upwards, nicking the hood of his robes before leaping backwards. A noise behind you makes you glance backwards, just in time to see a stun bolt heading your way.
“You’re resisting the Force. Let it flow through you.”
You’re almost positive Master Koon hates you.
But it is not Master Koon that you see when you wake up, but Wolffe kneeling over you, his softened brown eyes searching your face. “Are you hurt, Commander?” he asks.
“You must learn to let go,” Master Plo continues, “if you’re only focused on the enemy’s weapon, you’ll always be on the defensive. Look past the weapon.”
Wolffe grabs your chin, turning your head left and right to check for injuries as he soothingly runs a hand through your hair before cupping your cheek. Without meaning to, you lean into his caress.
He minutely strokes your cheek with a thumb before freezing. He shakes his head quickly, as if clearing his thoughts, and continues to search your body for injuries… shoulders, wrists, arms… you halt his frantic hands, butterflies fluttering in your stomach. “Wolffe, I’m okay.”
He stands and offers you a hand, before clearing his throat. “Be careful next time, Commander. I don’t have time to pull you out of every battle; for the Republic to win, we need well-trained soldiers, and we need the best.”
Seemingly oblivious, Master Koon continues his lesson. “Precisely. In the confusion of a fight, your mind must be still and as steady as a rock. You must be grounded in your center, able to see and control everything around you…”
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His thighs are struggling to keep him upright, the loss of blood from his thigh wound finally getting to him; his pistols are shaking in his hands. A sea of droids remain. The rocks dig into his knee guards as he collapses, and the droids surround him. There were 10 of them, blasters crackling with plasma discharge, all of them aimed at his heart. Wolffe closes his eyes.
There is the sound of someone landing hard next to him before blasterfire surrounds him, but none of the bolts hit their target. He hears a blaster bolt hit flesh, a yelp of pain, just before the zinging sound of a lightsaber and the roar of a rancor surround him.
You crouch above him, snarling at the droids as you block their shots. Your lower back is smoldering, the skin around the wound blackened from the plasma bolt. The linen of your robes is still sizzling out.
He watches your form twirl above him, your lightsaber reflecting so many bullets that the two of you seem to be surrounded by a barrier of light. You move with a grace that belies your wild appearance, dodging and deflecting blaster bolts, seemingly untouchable.
There is an otherworldly presence about you, as though time itself had slowed down for Wolffe to fully appreciate you. In his periphery he sees the jungle rancor that you’ve commanded grab droids and crush them into the dirt. He feels his breath catch in his throat as he watches a bead of sweat trail down the side of your face, past your eyes, and down your gleaming neck.
With a final cry, you twirl on one foot and bring your lightsaber down in a powerful slam, cracking the ground below you and sending the remaining droids flying backwards. The clay dirt kicks up around you both. The air is silent except for the echoes of artillery fire in the distance. Your lightsaber encircles you as you call the rancor back to you, chest heaving as you wildly scan the area for any additional attackers. Your eyes are feral, your teeth bared. Seeing none, you quickly deactivate your lightsaber and holster it, dropping to your knees in front of him.
Then there seems to be two of you with him. Wolffe blinks. Now there’s three. And now one. Wolffe blinks again and you push his hair back to check his head. He may or may not lean into it. Then you notice the gushing wound on his thigh and you pale. At least he thinks you do, he can’t quite see straight.
You return to the rancor and seem to speak to it. It must understand you, because it disappears back into the jungle from which it came, and you approach him again.
“This is going to hurt,” you say.
You’re pretty, he thinks, before blinding pain is all he knows as you lift him into a fireman’s carry, his entire body slung across your shoulders as you march your way across the active battlefield. Despite the blasterfire around you, nothing seems to come close to him. His mind is hazy, but he swears there was a plasma bolt coming right for you, but somehow it swerves just out of line so it misses both of you. You might be a wizard or something, he swears. So pretty and cool.
You chuckle. “You’re pretty and cool too, Wolffe.”
Of course I am, he thinks. You laugh again.
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“You could have died, Commander.”
You and Wolffe stand together in the soft glow of the explosion's fire, which paints a mysterious and unearthly orange and gray across the night sky. The glow of the flames wrap around you both, bathing you in warmth as the flickering light dances between you. Everything is illuminated, making Wolffe's armor look like a sunset.
You glare at him. “Look, we needed those cannons destroyed, and we didn’t have time to wait for permission! I can take care of myself!”
Wolffe tears his helmet off and pins you with furious eyes, his cybernetic implant glowing orange in the light. “I don’t care what you can do – I almost had to watch you get taken down by farking cannon fodder!” His hand has found your gauntlet to keep you rooted in front of him, and his grip tightens as you angrily try to free yourself. He notices his fellow vod approaching and acts quickly by dragging you behind some crates.
You try to shake free from his grasp. “Let me go, Wolffe,” you demand.
Wolffe drops his helmet into the dirt and pulls you into a crushing embrace, clawing at your robes. He buries his face into your hair and takes a deep breath, the sound washing over you like a wave. Your fingers instinctively curl around the straps of his heavy chest plate as his gloved hand follows the curve of your waist before pressing flat against the small of your back, the other coming up to caress your cheek.
Each exhaled breath entangles you. He rests his forehead against yours, watching your lips. Your breaths intermingle, and he’s so close, he’s so close. When he speaks, his voice is raw from an unleashed wave of emotions. “I can’t let you go. I–I can’t…”
The air between you feels like lead with every breath dragging you to the core of the planet. You feel like if this moment were to last any longer it would be enough for an eternity. As he inches closer, seconds turn into unworldly minutes; heartbeats speak more than simple words ever could. Your voice is hoarse as you answer. “It’s…”
Your lips graze his slightly. He shudders against you, his breathing ragged. His lips brush yours. They linger a little longer this time.
You try again. “It’s the price we pay…”
To feel.
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It was him or the galaxy, you realize.
Wolffe was teetering off the edge of the bridge in the datacenter with only you to hold on to, death's arms opened wide below.
The Separatist ultimate weapon, stored in a cartridge on this ship, was threatening to be unleashed unless you could retrieve its plans in time.
You hold onto his hand with all of your strength. You feel a wave of terror wash over you as the ship you’re on begins plummeting towards the planet below. As you desperately hold onto Wolffe, a dozen node cartridges fly from the vault's datatree behind you. The one you need starts to tip and slide out of its node. You and Wolffe are running out of time.
Everything seems to move in slow motion, except for your pounding heart that thunders against your rib cage.
The cartridge falls onto the bridge and begins sliding towards the edge, and you frantically reach towards it. It’s too far away and it falls just out of reach. It tips over the edge, and you call on the Force, stopping its movement at the last second.
Wolffe is too heavy and is pulling you down with him, the bridge support is digging into your already-bruising skin. Your grip is weakening. The seconds seem to pass by slowly before you gain the courage to look at him. His eyes are dull with sadness, but his voice is resolute when he speaks: "You need to let me go, Commander."
A memory flashes in your mind with crystal clarity; his strong arms wrapped around you, the smell of his aftershave, and his snarl that forms when defending you. You shake your head vehemently, not trusting your voice to not break.
"The Republic is at stake! It’s either me or the galaxy– please, let me go."
Tears spring to your eyes as those words strike a chord deep within you. Struggling against an onslaught of emotions, you can barely contain one last plea: "Don't say that– don't you dare say that! I can save you both!"
You can feel the pain from the bridge support radiating heavily into your skin, and you try to readjust, but it causes you to slip, and the plans fall further. Wolffe gently pries your fingers from his hand as you scream at him.
“You were a good friend, Commander. I will miss you.”
Friend. Friend.
Another memory: hands intertwined, caressed cheeks, and stolen kisses. An “I love you”.
This isn’t real.
This isn’t real.
You open your eyes, blinking into the light of the Council room. The sunlight pours in from the grand windows, creating a contrasting warm yet solemn atmosphere. Master Plo Koon kneels across from you, hands resting in his lap as the rest of the Council looks on.
The only sound to be heard is Master Yoda's cane tapping gently against the soft carpet beneath him as he approaches you, the sound echoing through the chamber and carrying a finality that is almost tangible. His face is grim– they've seen everything. Master Plo bows his head as he contemplates this new knowledge, while you remain silent and still before them.
You have failed the Jedi Trials. This is the price you pay to feel.
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“I miss you. I miss having you near me.”
Wolffe’s holo flickers on the dusty holocom. The tooka-cat that was sleeping in your lap stretches before covering its face with a paw, and you stroke its fuzzy violet pelt as it goes back to sleep. “I miss you, too.”
He sighs loud enough for the mic to pick it up. “I know the war is almost over, it’s just…” He quickly turns towards a noise behind him that you can’t hear, and then you see a hologram of his back. You hear a muffled “No, sir” and something about reports before a few seconds of silence. Then his face returns, disgruntled from the encounter.
“That was the General.”
You send him a rueful smile. “How is he?”
“I think he still looks for you, even after the Council told him to leave it be.”
“Do you think he suspects you?”
He sighs again, wiping a gloved hand over his face. "Most likely– given our history. But he hasn't said anything yet, and I think he wants you to stay hidden until–"
Your perimeter alarm sounds and you whip around to the radar. A large spot blinks on the edge of the map and skirts along the perimeter. It’s moving too fast for it to be a stray animal.
“What’s happening?” Wolffe says, panic lacing into his voice.
“Perimeter breach.” You stand, dumping the cat onto the ground, and grab your blaster rifle from its mount on the wall, slinging it over your shoulder. “I’m just going to check.”
“Okay, but…” He fumbles for words, his shoulders already showing his telltale signs of stress. “Take the pistols, too.”
You chuckle, sending him a lazy salute. “Yes, sir.” You sling your holster around your waist and cinch it tight, glancing up at him. “Don’t worry, I’ll be safe. I can handle myself.”
“I know you can.” His eyes caress your face, memorizing every detail, and you do the same. “Just… come back to me.”
“Always.” You glance back at the map. The red spot on the radar is starting to move closer into the perimeter. “I’ve got to go. I love you.”
“I’ll see you soon, cyare.”
You shut off the holocom and wrap your hair and cover your nose and mouth in a scarf to protect from the dust. You take a deep breath and exit the farmhouse, stepping out into the sunshine of rural Naboo, your adrenaline fueling your determination.
You climb up the rickety ladder onto the roof of your home as the wind kicks up dust around you. You crawl on your belly towards the ledge and take out a pair of monoculars and pull the rifle off of your back.
The sprawling grassy plain stretches on for miles around you, and another gust of wind stirs up more dust and sways the tall grass like an ocean current. The air smells sweet with earthy aromas. The only sound is that brought from nearby birds soaring over the golden, dusty expanses.
The monoculars finally pick up movement to your left, and you zoom in. Eleven speeder bikes fly over the grass towards your farm, the Devaronian pirate at the front continually barking orders to the other men.
You watch as they draw closer, and you put down the monoculars and close your eyes. You draw on the Force, feeling every grain of sand that touches your face, every gust of wind that caresses each blade of grass. Your mind touches the wildlife surrounding your farm, their presence like a living heartbeat, and you urge them to help you. They all answer the call: the bogwings soar overhead in flight, the herd of gualaars gallop across the land towards, while the long-legged ikopis stand ready for battle. A narglatch appears below you, and you drop onto its back and grab onto its blue spiky mane, feeling its fan-like tail swish back and forth as it anticipates your command, its claws digging into the dirt.
Suddenly, you hear the cries of the pirates and explosions as the bogwings attack the raiders, snatching a few from their speeders and flying high into the sky. With a cry, you urge the narglatch into battle, and it takes off, each stride bringing you closer.
The herd of gualaars arrives, knocking the lackeys off their speeders and trampling them into the dirt. Quickening your pace, blasterfire lights up the horizon and your sight blurs with all the commotion around you– fire, raiders, claws scraping against speeders… with the ferocious movements of the other wildlife and a cacophony of howling noises surrounding you, the narglatch launches itself at one of the speeders. You leap off its back in midair and take steady aim at the Devaronian. With one clean shot of the rifle, you bring down the raiding party's leader.
Not even thirty seconds pass after you send the all-clear signal to Wolffe before he calls you. His chest plate is soiled with clay dirt, and a new blaster burn glows across his right pauldron. Past his helmeted face you can see stray plasma bolts and his brothers rushing into battle.
“You’re okay,” he simply states. His voice crackles over the comm. Around him, screams and shouts fill the air.
“Wolffe, are you in the middle of a battlefield?!” You ask incredulously.
“I had to see you to–” His voice is drowned out by an explosion nearby. Heavy clay dirt rains down on his armor, yet he remains looking at you through the comm.
“Yes, I’m okay, but please get down–”
"Marry me."
Your words squeak to a stop, your mouth hanging open as you stare at this holographic image. Against the backdrop of blood and sweat that surrounded him, the words felt so surreal; but the intensity in his voice was clear, an unspoken tenderness hidden beneath the force of war.
A clone behind him falls into view before scrambling back up and into the fight. Wolffe continues, his pace quickening as he rushes to push out his sentence. "It won't be anything official since us clones aren't citizens of the Republic, but I can get us rings, and–"
"Yes."
"Yes," he echoes. "Yes," he repeats, and you know he’s smiling underneath his helmet.
"Yes," you answer again, beaming at him.
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His call brings a smile to your face, but when his face appears on the holocom, your smile dissolves.
“Wolffe, what’s wrong? Are you okay?”
“We’ve found General Grievous.”
You sit up straight, your eyes wide. “Oh my– that’s it, isn’t it? It’s really–”
“The 212th is going to apprehend him. It’s over,” he breathes. “It’s over.”
He looks away and his comm retreats behind his back. There is a moment of silence before you hear a “right away”, and it’s another moment before you see his face again.
“I’ve got to go. We’re taking back Cato Neimoidia once and for all.” He stops, his face falling slightly.
“What’s wrong?” You ask, brows furrowing.
“I’m not sure…” he trails off. “I’m not sure what I’m going to do after this… I’ve– We’ve– been bred for war. What do we do when there’s no next battle?”
His words hang heavily in the air between you, as if a pall of smoke settles on both of your shoulders. You search for words that make sense as his soft brown eyes look to you for guidance. Both of you had been so young when it started— too young— sent into war before you had a chance to understand what it all meant.
“We’ll just have to figure that out together.”
He nods, and he forcefully expels a deep breath that he had been holding onto in anticipation. You hear a muffled shout in the background and Wolffe nods at the voice. “I’ve got to go. I’ll see you soon, cyar’ika.”
He holds his hand up and you follow suit, intertwining your hands with his holographic ones. “I love you.”
“I love you, too.”
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The emergency beacon flashes on your communicator, filling you with a frenzied joy. The Republic did it. Wolffe is free. You answer, your congratulations forming on your lips.
Wolffe is a picture of stress, his figure huddled in on itself; his eyes were sunken with worry, his shoulders stiff and tight with exhaustion. It takes him a moment to process who you are before launching into frantic instructions, his voice heavy with fear. "Pack your bags and leave Naboo immediately."
“w–What–”
“You get onto the nearest shuttle, buy a ticket under a fake name, and–”
“Wolffe, slow down. What's going on?”
“Something's wrong. My brothers…” he trails off, his eyes searching for something before returning to you. “They killed him.”
Your blood runs cold, but you prod him anyways. “They killed…”
“They killed General Koon… and I’ve overheard them. They’re–” He snarls. “They’re looking for you. You need to get out of there– leave no trace, do you hear me?”
You sputter, incredulous. “Me? What about you? You’re on board with them!” You frantically reach for him, your hand passing through his digitized form. “What’s going on– what did I do? Why do they want to kill me–”
“They won’t,” he says with a finality that makes you want to believe him, his voice sending an undeniable chill through you. He quickly glances over his shoulder. “I’ve got to go. I’ve sent you coordinates. Meet me there. I won’t be able to contact you from this holocom again.”
He searches your face desperately, memorizing every detail. “If I don’t–”
“Don’t,” you interject, your voice quivering as your Jedi trials flash in your mind. “Don’t you start.”
“I want to get married to you, and do mundane things like garden and laundry with you.” His lashes glint in the fluorescence of the Triumphant. “I will make it back to you.”
You choke on a sob, nodding incoherently. “Okay… okay. I’ll wait for you.”
“That’s my girl. I’ll see you soon, cyare. I love you so much.”
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The dry heat was oppressive, radiating off the salt flats and saturating the air with parching temperatures as you nail another board into place. A bead of salty sweat trickles down your forehead only to evaporate at once; in this arid landscape there is no reprieve from the blistering sun above.
Surrounding you are endless stretches of dry salt flats, the searing heat of the sun reflecting off their white surface, leaving it to glitter in the sunlight. According to the local exiles, in the next few weeks these fields will partially flood with water as the wet season begins, transforming this region into something new altogether. The only wildlife that resides here are joopa worms, creatures the size of leviathans, that roam the region and prey upon settlers.
Seelos was barren and dangerous, but you stayed. And you waited.
Days turn into nights, and the wet season is almost upon you, the aroma almost palpable in the air. You meditate underneath the cloudy night sky, bathing in the cosmic glow. A gentle breeze blows through the silent flats, the coolness seeping into your bones and reemerging in the form of a quiet tranquility.
The perimeter alarm sounds nearby, and you stand and climb down from the roof of your home and into the garage. The red dot blinks lazily as the signature on the screen slowly makes its way towards you. Your brow furrows.
You snatch your monoculars from its hook as you sprint out the door and into the darkness. Your hands shake as you mash buttons on the monoculars, smacking it a little as it boots up too slow. You need to–you must– have to see. You grip them tightly, your knuckles turning white as you hold them up and peer through the lens.
You can hear the radar light blipping frantically as you take in the figure slowly approaching. White armor glints in the partial light of the moon, and you can make out familiar markings on the chestplate and gauntlets. You drop the monoculars and start running, adrenaline rushing through your body like a freight train, anticipation building with every step towards him.
The cool breeze whips your face as the clouds break above, rain droplets falling onto the salt flats and hitting you. The figure starts running too as the rain begins to pour. You can feel the droplets on your skin and taste the salt in the air. You're so close and you give a cry of joy as you rush into Wolffe’s arms. Then he's holding onto you tightly, his shoulders trembling as he cries into your hair. You reverently kiss his shoulder, his chest, and his hands. You rain kisses on his face as the rainstorm drenches you both.
His warm breath is on your face and he grabs your face with both hands and kisses you with all he has, not caring that your noses bump and teeth clash, each kiss communicating an ocean's worth of love more than words ever could.
─── ─── ─── ─── ─── ⋅ ⋅ ∘ ☽ ༓ ☾ ∘ ⋅ ⋅ ─── ─── ─── ─── ─── ─
The metal from his wedding band catches in the lamplight and you huff a laugh. “Still wearing the ring to bed, I see.”
“Always.” He curls up behind you, burying his face in your hair. “I like the reminder that you’re mine.”
You hum softly, enjoying the warmth he radiates. “And that you’re mine.” You glance over your shoulder at him. “But most people still take their rings off when it’s bedtime.”
“I’ll take off the ring at night when you don’t hog the bed.”
“I do not!” You playfully try to shimmy away from Wolffe’s embrace, but he holds you against him. “Hogging the bed would mean I’m selfish, and that’s not the Jedi way.”
“You’re not a Jedi, so there goes your entire argument.”
You decide not to dignify that with a response.
He lets out a sleepy chuckle and kisses your shoulder. “Your silence is as good of an answer as words.”
You bite your lip, trying to think of a comeback. “Remember our wedding night?”
Wolffe groans, throwing his head back for dramatic effect. “Don’t remind me. It was so embarrassing.”
You hide your chuckle. “I thought your ‘moves’ were… endearing.”
“I drew hearts on my boxers with a red pen.”
“And it was,” you involuntarily let out a snort of laughter, “unique, and–”
“Alright, alright– you win. Cheater.” He settles on his back and you turn to rest your head on his chest.
The room is silent for a moment before he speaks again, his gentle words filling the silence. “After all we’ve been through, I am… eternally grateful that this is how it ended up.”
You close your eyes to revel in the moment. You open them as he lifts your chin towards him and kisses you delicately. You sigh contentedly as you pull away, intertwining his fingers with yours. “Promise you won’t let me go.”
He lightly brushes his thumb across your knuckles. “Never.”