Post Event
Somewhere Far Along The Beach
The surf hissed against the sand, endless, restless, as though the sea itself mocked him with its patience. Cassian's boots pressed crooked lines along the shore, his steps uneven. The wine still burned in his chest, the whiskey sharper still, but neither had dulled the knot of the night.
He dragged a hand across his face, feeling the salt air cling to his skin. The cool breeze should have sobered him, yet it only carried the words back clearer. Aurelian's sneering confidence, Bastila's sharp defiance, Thessaly's poisoned barbs. Each echo made his jaw tighten until he almost wished he could drown them in another drink.
And the arrival of this harlot...Cassian exhaled hard, dragging a hand through his hair. Thessaly was a problem. Not the kind you cut down with a saber, nor the kind you exposed with clever words, but the kind that lingered in shadows and seeped poison slowly until no one noticed they were dying.
He hated that kind of enemy most.
Should I have spoken louder?
He had risen once, temper raw, only to master it before it mastered him. A soldier's discipline, yes, but was it courage, or was it cowardice? He could not decide. Naboo was not a battlefield of stone and blood, where action meant life or death. Here, restraint itself could be a weapon. Yet as he stared at the endless dark horizon, Cassian wondered if he had done enough. He remembered evenings in Theed when he was younger, standing in the garden's shadow while Sibylla laughed beneath the lanterns. She had always been the brighter one, the voice that drew others in. He had been content to stand apart, silent guard, the brother whose strength was felt more than seen. Tonight had been no different. And yet tonight, for the first time, he wondered if silence had betrayed her.
His thoughts stumbled toward Sibylla, her practiced smile straining at the edges. He had seen it, though few others had. She had borne the night with poise, as she always did, but the crack was there. He should have shielded her better. Should have spoken when Veruna turned his venom toward her, when Thessaly's claws dragged up the past. Instead, he had let silence stretch, trusting composure to protect her. Thoughts riddled his mind as he began to wonder if he himself was the problem too. Cassian looked up as a lone tear rolled down his cheek. Did he put to much pressure on her, just as father did?
Pressuring her to be...more.
She didn't deserve this, she deserved to be happy.
Another step, another drag of sea breeze filling his lungs. More thoughts rolling through his mind, and oh he hated politics, hated the way it twisted truth into theater, dignity into daggers. And yet, tonight had proven it again: Naboo's future would be decided not by soldiers like him, but by those who spoke best at gilded tables. His hand opened, then closed around nothing. The choice was heavy but it laid with Aurelian's promise of strength. One was dangerous, the other untested. And he, Cassian Abrantes, was caught between soldier's pragmatism and a brother's loyalty. He raised the bottle to his lips taking another long drink.
He lowered himself onto a rock, elbows braced against his knees, staring out at the moonlit sea. The waves gleamed silver, uncaring of thrones or ballots. For a moment, he envied them their simplicity. The drink hummed in his blood, loosening the grip of restraint until his voice slipped out, rough and low.
"What would you have me do, Father?"
His father's voice came first, never raised, but steady, measured and true. "A soldier's word is his bond, Cassian. Never promise what you cannot hold, and never speak louder than the truth you're willing to die for."
"Father," he muttered into the salt air, "if I falter, let it be for her. Not for me."
**********
The sea was a perfect cloak. Its constant hiss masked the crunch of boots on sand, the restless crash of waves swallowing breath and movement alike. They had watched him stagger from the villa's edge, wine-heavy and unguarded, carrying himself like a soldier too proud to let his steps falter, too tired to realize how exposed he was. Three shapes moved low along the dunes, cloaked in shadow, their outlines broken by sea-grass and the jagged rocks. The moonlight gilded him, made him easy to track, a silhouette against the surf. The leader raised two fingers, and they halted, sinking into the cover of the dunes. The target had stopped at the shoreline, perched on a rock, his broad shoulders hunched forward as though deep in thought.
Perfect.
Close enough now, they could see the way his hand drifted to his glass, how the salt air tangled through his dark hair. He looked every bit the noble drunk, lost in his own ghosts. But they knew better. They had read the reports. Cassian Abrantes was not a man to underestimate. The leader's response was curt, a hiss in the dark. "Even drunk, he'll fight like four men. We strike clean, no warning. Quick and quiet." They circled in, one to the rocks behind him, another slipping closer along the tide's edge, boots sinking into wet sand. The sea lapped eagerly, as though it longed for blood.
The leader slid a throwing blade into their palm, the steel catching the faintest thread of moonlight. "On my mark," they whispered, eyes narrowing on the soldier's back.
Abrantes shifted his stance, his head tilted toward the horizon. And even so, even now, Cassian just lightly turned his head, the faintest crunch heard even among the loud sea waves as they came ashore.
Shadows, could their steps be heard...
And thus, the night held its breath...
Somewhere Far Along The Beach
The surf hissed against the sand, endless, restless, as though the sea itself mocked him with its patience. Cassian's boots pressed crooked lines along the shore, his steps uneven. The wine still burned in his chest, the whiskey sharper still, but neither had dulled the knot of the night.
He dragged a hand across his face, feeling the salt air cling to his skin. The cool breeze should have sobered him, yet it only carried the words back clearer. Aurelian's sneering confidence, Bastila's sharp defiance, Thessaly's poisoned barbs. Each echo made his jaw tighten until he almost wished he could drown them in another drink.
And the arrival of this harlot...Cassian exhaled hard, dragging a hand through his hair. Thessaly was a problem. Not the kind you cut down with a saber, nor the kind you exposed with clever words, but the kind that lingered in shadows and seeped poison slowly until no one noticed they were dying.
He hated that kind of enemy most.
Should I have spoken louder?
He had risen once, temper raw, only to master it before it mastered him. A soldier's discipline, yes, but was it courage, or was it cowardice? He could not decide. Naboo was not a battlefield of stone and blood, where action meant life or death. Here, restraint itself could be a weapon. Yet as he stared at the endless dark horizon, Cassian wondered if he had done enough. He remembered evenings in Theed when he was younger, standing in the garden's shadow while Sibylla laughed beneath the lanterns. She had always been the brighter one, the voice that drew others in. He had been content to stand apart, silent guard, the brother whose strength was felt more than seen. Tonight had been no different. And yet tonight, for the first time, he wondered if silence had betrayed her.
His thoughts stumbled toward Sibylla, her practiced smile straining at the edges. He had seen it, though few others had. She had borne the night with poise, as she always did, but the crack was there. He should have shielded her better. Should have spoken when Veruna turned his venom toward her, when Thessaly's claws dragged up the past. Instead, he had let silence stretch, trusting composure to protect her. Thoughts riddled his mind as he began to wonder if he himself was the problem too. Cassian looked up as a lone tear rolled down his cheek. Did he put to much pressure on her, just as father did?
Pressuring her to be...more.
She didn't deserve this, she deserved to be happy.
Another step, another drag of sea breeze filling his lungs. More thoughts rolling through his mind, and oh he hated politics, hated the way it twisted truth into theater, dignity into daggers. And yet, tonight had proven it again: Naboo's future would be decided not by soldiers like him, but by those who spoke best at gilded tables. His hand opened, then closed around nothing. The choice was heavy but it laid with Aurelian's promise of strength. One was dangerous, the other untested. And he, Cassian Abrantes, was caught between soldier's pragmatism and a brother's loyalty. He raised the bottle to his lips taking another long drink.
He lowered himself onto a rock, elbows braced against his knees, staring out at the moonlit sea. The waves gleamed silver, uncaring of thrones or ballots. For a moment, he envied them their simplicity. The drink hummed in his blood, loosening the grip of restraint until his voice slipped out, rough and low.
"What would you have me do, Father?"
His father's voice came first, never raised, but steady, measured and true. "A soldier's word is his bond, Cassian. Never promise what you cannot hold, and never speak louder than the truth you're willing to die for."
"Father," he muttered into the salt air, "if I falter, let it be for her. Not for me."
**********
The sea was a perfect cloak. Its constant hiss masked the crunch of boots on sand, the restless crash of waves swallowing breath and movement alike. They had watched him stagger from the villa's edge, wine-heavy and unguarded, carrying himself like a soldier too proud to let his steps falter, too tired to realize how exposed he was. Three shapes moved low along the dunes, cloaked in shadow, their outlines broken by sea-grass and the jagged rocks. The moonlight gilded him, made him easy to track, a silhouette against the surf. The leader raised two fingers, and they halted, sinking into the cover of the dunes. The target had stopped at the shoreline, perched on a rock, his broad shoulders hunched forward as though deep in thought.
Perfect.
Close enough now, they could see the way his hand drifted to his glass, how the salt air tangled through his dark hair. He looked every bit the noble drunk, lost in his own ghosts. But they knew better. They had read the reports. Cassian Abrantes was not a man to underestimate. The leader's response was curt, a hiss in the dark. "Even drunk, he'll fight like four men. We strike clean, no warning. Quick and quiet." They circled in, one to the rocks behind him, another slipping closer along the tide's edge, boots sinking into wet sand. The sea lapped eagerly, as though it longed for blood.
The leader slid a throwing blade into their palm, the steel catching the faintest thread of moonlight. "On my mark," they whispered, eyes narrowing on the soldier's back.
Abrantes shifted his stance, his head tilted toward the horizon. And even so, even now, Cassian just lightly turned his head, the faintest crunch heard even among the loud sea waves as they came ashore.
Shadows, could their steps be heard...
And thus, the night held its breath...
