Private A Stranger’s Timing

[Ra'a'mah]

The streets of Theed were still alive with muted celebration, remnants of the coronation drifting on the evening breeze—silks brushing against marble, distant laughter, and the faint scent of spiced wine and roasted meats. Ra'a'mah Numare moved through it all with quiet purpose, her presence unassuming yet impossible to ignore.

She paused at the edge of the plaza, eyes sweeping the crowd, noting every gesture, every shift in attention. The Force whispered hints of curiosity, hesitation, and intent, and she adjusted her pace accordingly, taking each step deliberately.

A figure caught her attention—unremarkable, perhaps, to any casual observer, but the subtle cadence of their movement betrayed experience, purpose, and awareness. Ra's gaze fixed on them, calculating, measuring.

She inclined her head slightly, a gesture neither greeting nor challenge, and let her voice slide into the air, calm and measured. "The evening carries more than celebration," she said, tone neutral, deliberate. "And you, stranger… seem to understand that better than most. I am Ra'a'mah Numare. It would serve us both to speak."

Her eyes narrowed fractionally, not in suspicion, but in quiet assessment, letting the stranger know that while she offered words, she demanded honesty—and that every gesture, every reply, would be observed.

Cerrik

 

[Cerrik]

Cerrik had felt her before he'd seen her—like the stillness that comes before a storm, when the wind holds its breath and the tide waits to shift. Her presence in the Force was steady but layered, measured in a way that spoke of control earned rather than assumed. When she spoke, the air itself seemed to hush for her words to pass.

He turned to face her fully. The reflection of the city lights shimmered faintly in his eyes, calm and unhurried as the sea. He took a few steps closer, his movements unthreatening but purposeful, like the tide reclaiming the shore.

He inclined his head slightly, a gesture of respect, though his expression held the faintest trace of a knowing smile. "I am Cerrik. Jedi Master from the Order." He gestured subtly toward a quieter archway off the plaza. "Shall we take this conversation elsewhere?"

Ra'a'mah

 

[Ra'a'mah]

Ra's gaze met his steadily, unflinching, assessing the presence he carried in the Force. She allowed a brief pause, letting the quiet settle, her posture controlled and deliberate.

"I am Ra'a'mah Numare," she said finally, voice low and precise, carrying quiet authority. "I am aligned with the Silver Jedi, though I act according to necessity rather than strict code. Principles guide me, but they do not bind me."

She turned smoothly and led the way through the corridors, each step confident and unhurried. "My office will provide the privacy necessary for this conversation," she added, tone neutral and matter-of-fact, marking the space as hers and leaving no doubt she was in command.

Cerrik

 

[Cerrik]

Cerrik followed at an easy pace, hands clasped loosely behind his back. There was no challenge in his stride, no need to assert presence—only the calm assurance of someone who had weathered more than one storm and learned when to let the wind lead.

"The Silver Jedi," he echoed softly. "Balance before extremity. A philosophy I can respect."

His gaze swept over their surroundings as they walked, eyes tracing the fine architecture and the subtle interplay of shadow and light across the marble. "Necessity has a way of testing one's convictions," he continued. "Sometimes the current carries us where no code was ever meant to reach."

When they reached the threshold of her office, he paused just short of entering, as though acknowledging the boundary before stepping into it. "You draw clear lines of command," he noted mildly, his tone not critical but observant, appreciative even. "It's good. A leader should."

Ra'a'mah

 

[Ra'a'mah]

Ra stopped just inside the doorway, letting him cross the threshold only after she did. His observation lingered in the air, and for a moment she said nothing—only regarded him with that still, assessing calm that seemed to belong more to the room than to her.

Clear lines, she echoed inwardly. They had once been simple. The Silver Jedi called them boundaries; the Dark Hand called them illusions. Ra had long since learned they were choices—lines drawn, erased, and redrawn as necessity demanded.

Aloud, she only said, "Lines make things easier to read. But I've learned they shift, depending on who holds the quill."

Crossing to the low table near the window, she poured a measure of spiced brandy into two glasses. "Naboo has a taste for elegance," she said quietly, offering him one without ceremony. "It helps people think they're safe."

Her gaze returned to him as she took her own glass, unhurried. "You mentioned conviction," she added after a beat. "Tell me, Master Jedi—does yours hold when the current changes direction?"

Cerrik

 

[Cerrik]

Cerrik accepted the glass with a quiet nod, the amber liquid catching the light between them. He didn't drink immediately—just turned the glass slightly in his hand, watching how it reflected the city's soft glow through the window.

"When I was young," he began, his tone unhurried, voice carrying the cadence of someone who often thought before he spoke, "the sea taught me something about conviction. You can fight the tide, or you can learn to move with it. The water doesn't ask permission to change—it simply does."

He finally raised the glass to his lips, tasting the spice, the burn, and the quiet sophistication of Naboo in its flavor. "So yes," he said after a moment, setting it down gently, "my conviction holds. But not because I resist the current. It holds because I listen to it."

His gaze lifted to meet hers, calm yet edged with that subtle intensity that surfaced when he spoke of the Force. "The Code is a compass, not an anchor. Too many Jedi forget that and drown trying to stand still."

He studied her a moment longer, sensing the layered composure she wore like fine armor. "You've been in shifting waters yourself," he said softly, not as a question, but as recognition. "And yet, you're still standing—still watching. So tell me, Ra'a'mah… what tide are you waiting to turn?"

Ra'a'mah

 

[Ra'a'mah]

Ra studied him over the rim of her glass, the faint shimmer of citylight reflected in her eyes. His words carried weight — not of doctrine, but of lived patience — and for a brief moment, she considered the truth of them. The sea, the current, the way things moved without permission.

She set her glass down with deliberate calm. "The tide has never dictated where I go," she said quietly, her voice low but steady, carrying that quiet Naboo poise. "The Force moves as it will, yes — but I've found it easier to carve a path through it than to drift and hope it leads somewhere worth reaching."

Her gaze flicked toward the window — to the silvered reflection of the city beyond, soft and civilized, hiding what the galaxy truly was beneath its sheen. "The fate of my husband rests beyond my hands soon enough. His life will end long before mine does. It is not the tide I fear — only the stillness after."

She let the silence breathe a moment before turning her attention back to him. "As for the galaxy…" Her tone thinned slightly, thoughtful but edged. "It will shape itself as it always does — with or without us. But I intend to leave a mark before it decides what to make of me."

The faintest trace of something unspoken flickered in her eyes — that shadowed thread of the Dark Hand, more philosophy than confession. "I've followed codes before," she added, almost to herself. "They make for good compasses, as you said. But they're terrible masters."

Then, softly, with just a hint of dry precision in her tone: "You strike me as someone who's learned that lesson already. So… Cerrik, what tide are you waiting on?"

Cerrik

 

[Cerrik]

Cerrik watched her as she spoke, the quiet between her words more revealing than the words themselves. There was a stillness in his demeanor, but not emptiness—rather the weight of someone listening deeply, letting each syllable ripple through the Force before he chose how to answer.

"The tide doesn't wait for anyone," he said finally, his voice low, threaded with the warmth of reflection. "It rises, it falls, and we choose whether to meet it head-on or let it carry us somewhere new. I don't wait on it anymore—I've learned to move with it."

Cerrik leaned slightly forward, elbows resting loosely on his knees, the faint hum of city lights painting a soft blue line along his jaw. "But there's a difference between drifting and flowing. The first surrenders purpose; the second understands it."

His gaze softened when he spoke of her husband, empathy deepening his tone. "You speak of loss as though you've already accepted it," he said gently. "That kind of peace… it's a hard thing to earn. But stillness after loss isn't death, Ra'a'mah—it's the space where meaning has to be rebuilt."

He sat back again, taking a slow sip from his glass before setting it aside. "As for the mark you'll leave—" a faint smile touched his lips "—I have no doubt the galaxy will remember it, whether it wants to or not."

Then, quieter, with the measured patience of a teacher but the sincerity of a peer: "The lesson I learned wasn't about rejecting the Code. It was about understanding that conviction without compassion becomes tyranny. The Force doesn't favor masters—it favors balance."

His eyes held hers, calm and unwavering. "So no, I don't wait on any tide. I listen for the shift in the current—the moment it tells me where I'm most needed. And tonight," he added after a breath, tone deepening just a shade, "it seems that current led me here."

Ra'a'mah