Private Charbydis

[Tilon Quill]

Hypergate Mechis bristled with long spines of slow traffic, each linked by shifting skeins of opportunistic service craft and overlooked by hair-trigger military patrols. A knot of tired refugee ships, fresh from unloading, sat on the flat of the hypergate overlooking its intermittent warp. Frogs on the edge of a well.

The ships' crews had linked up with the heavy freighter Wake of Balmorra or come over by space suit. Tilon, the freighter's captain, had procured some fresh food during the unloading, and now relief workers and a few remaining refugees were eating. Tilon sank down on a bench in a detritus-strewn, cot-packed cargo hold and slurped from a drink bulb. A window looked out over the huge hypergate, horizontal from this perspective.

A very, very long thirty-six hours.

Aiden Porte

 

[Aiden Porte]

Tilon Quill

Aiden Porte leaned against the bulkhead near the viewport, hands folded loosely behind his back as the hum of the Wake of Balmorra's systems filled the cargo hold. The air was thick with the mingled scents of sweat, cheap ration packs, and the faint sweetness of the fruit Tilon had bartered for. It wasn't serenity, but there was life here. Tired, battered, uncertain life clinging to whatever light they could still find.


His blue eyes lingered on the sprawl of the hypergate outside, the massive ring lying on its side like a wound cut into space. Traffic crawled through its veins, each vessel another story of flight or desperation. He felt their exhaustion in the Force, rippling threads of hunger, grief, and quiet resolve. It pressed against him like the weight of water, but he steadied himself with breath and patience. He could not take their burdens, not all of them, but he could carry some.

A child's laugh rose from the cluster of refugees at the food crates. It startled him with its brightness. For a moment, the tension in his shoulders eased, and he allowed himself to smile. Hope survived in strange, fragile sparks.

Still, Aiden's gaze returned to the hypergate. Patrol craft traced tight arcs beyond the spines, vigilant, hair-trigger. He could feel the storm beneath the surface, not yet breaking but close. This thirty-six hours had been long, yes. But the galaxy was not done with them yet.

The Jedi looked over to Tilon and moved to sit next to him. "I appreciate the assistance my friend, I owe you big time."

 

[Tilon Quill]

The first dozen times someone had thanked him for flying one of these runs, he'd stumbled through some variant of 'it's nothing.' Eventually he'd understood that most only had thanks to give and nothing else, and you had to take that seriously. "Of course," he said.

He had an x-pack of drink bulbs, three left, and offered it to Aiden Porte while drinking. It was a stimulant electrolyte favoured by long-haul freight pilots.

"Good work on the tractor beam that last time. I thought they were dead. How many evac runs have you done this year? What ships?"

 

[Aiden Porte]

Aiden accepted the drink bulb with a small incline of his head, turning it once in his hand before taking a measured sip. The taste was sharp, bitter salt and chemical citrus, but it cut neatly through the weariness that hung at the edges of his mind.

"The tractor wasn't mine alone," he said, his tone quiet but steady. "The Force guided the timing. And your crew held their nerve when it mattered."

At the question, he exhaled slowly, gaze drifting to the viewport where the hypergate pulsed in its slow, patient rhythm. "I've stopped counting," he admitted after a pause. "Half a dozen.... Maybe more since the year began. Two convoys from Chandrila, a refugee flotilla fleeing Corellian patrols." His jaw tightened a fraction.

The drink bulb shifted in his grip as his eyes returned to Tilon, earnest beneath the weight of fatigue. "Every run feels like the first. The fear in their eyes never changes."

He let silence linger a moment before adding, softer: "But neither does their courage. That's what makes it worth flying again."

Tilon Quill

 

[Tilon Quill]

"It's fulfilling," Tilon admitted. "And impactful. But I'm too burned out to see it clearly anymore. This is my second war and the first one hurt me. I was...a medic, more or less, helping handle and treat Sithspawn, figure out what could be reversed to help them get their agency back, make them safe. Very different work from refugee and scouting runs and I was very young.

"I think I'm done for now."

He hadn't thought of it in those terms before, hadn't really come to that realization.

"This last one wasn't too bad, neither were the two Chalacta runs, but Byss to Arkania through the Deep Core, and that loop around Eclipse, and defending Kattada, and the raid on Cato Neimoidia, and Balmorra before that, and I've ignored one too many distress calls along the way. I think I've hit a level of burnout that's unsustainable.

"Case in point: putting this on you. Definitely not fair of me." Tilon drank the last of his bulb and curled up with his shoulder against the window, watching traffic. "Half the reason I started talking was to let you know I know how you must be feeling by now."

Aiden Porte

 

[Aiden Porte]

Aiden let the man's words hang, listening with the patience drilled into him since childhood. Not patience as waiting for his turn to speak, but the true kind, giving weight to what another soul risked to share. He held the empty bulb loosely at his side.


"You're not wrong," he said at last, voice low. "It does take its toll. Each run, each call you answer or can't—those moments stay with you. Sometimes longer than you'd like." His eyes softened, finding Tilon's reflection in the viewport glass. "But you're wrong about it not being fair. The burden doesn't get lighter when you try to carry it alone. Sharing it, that's not weakness. It's wisdom."

He shifted his stance, crossing his arms, his gaze sweeping the cargo hold and the slumped forms of those finally eating, finally safe. "What you've done… I've met Knights who gave less. And they were celebrated for it."

For a moment, silence, punctuated only by the muffled laughter of a child in the distance and the constant rumble of the ship. Then Aiden's tone grew firmer, a quiet conviction:

"If you're burned out, rest. You've earned it. Doesn't make you lesser. You can step back without stepping away. When you're ready, the galaxy will still need hands like yours. Until then, let yourself heal. I could use some rest myself, I say we take a small break, at least enough to recharge our minds."

Tilon Quill

 

[Tilon Quill]

"That's maybe more understanding than I'd expected," Tilon admitted, "and thanks for it. I'm used to killer Jedi, not kind ones."

Out there, a trio of Connestoga superfreighters lurched down into the stargate, and a longing nostalgia came back. Had it really been only a year or two since he came back to the galaxy on the Longjumper's Mark?

"We're not far from the Botor Enclave and Herglic Space. I've been wanting to go out to Kooda and Giju, spend time on Herglic trade stations, pick up some Herglese. Pre-Republic, the Herglic worlds. Lot of history that humanoids never get to see. Good place to set up refugee connections and safe harbors too; hardly anything gets in there, those lanes are so dense. How about you? What's calling to you now in terms of rest?"

Aiden Porte

 

[Aiden Porte]

"Well, I'm not your average Jedi, or so I've been told." Aiden said with a small smirk.

He listened attentively to what he spoke of Herglic space and the Botor Enclave. Yet after everything that he heard, he was only thinking of one place, and that was home. Perhaps he would return home in a few more weeks, he wanted to do something else, and see something else. Perhaps something he hadn't witnessed or experienced before.

"Home sounds like a winner, yet I know that's just my own mind thinking too much. I need to branch out and find something else to see."

Aiden look over to Tilon. "I say we go and check out this Botor Enclave, and even the stations in Herglic space. There's bound to be something useful and relaxing to do there. What do you say?"

Tilon Quill

 

[Tilon Quill]

"I'm more than curious. Who told you that about you and what did they mean by it?"

His shipsuit had a mechanic's marker in the breast pocket as ever, suitable for writing on hull or canopy or engine, and coming off with just a shop towel without damaging the finish. He started drawing on the viewport: slanted oval for the Core, X for the Mechis hypergate, Atrisia, Eufornis Major, then Botor and Giju each with a tiny oval around it.

"Botor Enclave's ursines, Herglic Space is cetaceans, both with galactic standard species present on the outer worlds. Of the two, I'm more interested in Herglic Space because it's older and I like the sound of Herglese. You're welcome to come along. It's a big ship and having someone aboard won't mess up my need for peace and quiet."

He said that part quietly, not wanting to be overheard, just in case. There weren't many passengers left aboard but he didn't want to make them feel unwelcome if anyone happened to overhear.

"I don't answer to any Council, I can just go. Do you need to check anything off beforehand?"

Aiden Porte

 

[Aiden Porte]

Aiden tilted his head, watching the shapes emerge on the viewport under Tilon's marker, worlds and corridors simplified into strokes of grease pen, but still carrying weight, like a star map whispered over a campfire.


"You asked who told me," he said, his tone thoughtful, as if tasting the memory. "A youngling on Naboo, barely old enough to hold a training saber. After I'd run them through drills, they told me I was kind. Not because of the lesson, but because I'd stayed afterward, sat in the grass, and let them ask about my favorite holodramas." His lips curved faintly, almost amused. "To them, that was worth more than a hundred strikes parried. It made me wonder how many times we mistake severity for strength."


His eyes traced the small oval Tilon had drawn around Giju, lingering there. "Your offer… it's generous. And tempting." He leaned a shoulder against the bulkhead, arms folding. "I'd be lying if I said I didn't want to see Herglic Space with my own eyes. Learn their language, hear their history spoken where it still lives."

He met Tilon's eyes again, steady but with a hint of warmth. "So perhaps the answer yes I would welcome the journey. I've got everything I need."

Tilon Quill

 

[Tilon Quill]

---

Twenty-four hours of cleaning, sleep, spaceflight, and caffeination put the Wake of Balmorra on approach to a Herglic trade station. The green-mottled orb of Kooda stretched out below, a hardscrabble Herglic planet off the beaten path.

Tilon took his hands off the controls as tractor beams and repulsor fields pulled the heavy freighter in precisely. The ingress channel rushed around them and an outbound craft zipped by almost close enough to touch.

They settled down on one of the station's landing pads. From what Tilon could see from the bridge, the whole place was built at larger than human scale: keyboards at chest height, screens you had to look up at. He felt the old excitement of going somewhere complex, new, unpredictable , and real. A place that didn't care if he lived or died, wouldn't defer to him; a place he could prove himself by making connections.

They'd passed through atmospheric fields coming in: Herglics and assorted others — a couple of humans, a couple of Botor ursines — moved around in space suits with their helmets off, retracted or bumping on a hip.

"Old station," Tilon said, unclipping from his seat. He opened the nearest space suit locker just off the bridge. "Very old. Precautions, I guess. We should suit up too unless your fancy temples taught you to breathe vacuum."

Aiden Porte

 

[Aiden Porte]

Aiden rose from the co-pilot's seat, stretching the stiffness from his shoulders. The view from the bridge lingered with him, the vast docking structures, every proportion shifted, doors and consoles designed for beings who moved like mountains through water rather than men who lived among gardens and towers. It was humbling, in a way that even the sprawl of Coruscant rarely managed.

He moved to the locker beside Tilon, fingertips brushing the suit's seals before pulling one free. "I was taught discipline, patience, even how to breathe slow enough to stretch a ration of air when it mattered," he said with a wry edge. "But no temple ever taught me to breathe vacuum."

The helmet was heavier than he remembered; he settled it under his arm for the moment, looking out past the viewport again. There was different rhythms of movement, lives crossing without ceremony. The Force thrummed in it, a tapestry woven from countless strangers' intentions.

"This place feels… alive," he admitted quietly, almost to himself. "Not in the way the core worlds do. There's no pretense here, no need to be impressed or to impress in return. Only survival, and trade, and history still being written." Turning back to Tilon, he managed a faint smile. "Old station or not, it's stood the test of centuries. Let's make sure we do the same while we're here."

He began locking the suit's seals into place, the soft hiss of pressure checks filling the space between them.

Tilon Quill

 

[Tilon Quill]

The suits were old too, mostly. All the seals and filters and other life-bearing essentials were courtesy of professionals within recommended change-by thresholds. You couldn't scrimp on your suit.

Tilon clipped his helmet to his hip, cumbersome but a matter of long habit, not an uncommon sight on a working station. This one was certainly that. The thought was compatible with Aiden Porte 's comment, so Tilon said, agreeing:

"Whoever's here, they're here to work, find angles to survive and thrive. It's not a place for disposable income like some stations I could name."

He went down the bridge stairs to the hold and activated the maintenance airlock rather than opening the main ramp. No point in showing off an empty hold.

"The systems said there's paying passengers and scientists looking for transport. I've had two hundred refugees in my cargo holds more often than not the last few weeks, I'm a little tired of people, but if the passengers are Herglics it might be an opportunity to pick up some of the language. Did get a ping on exotic technology as well, but that kind of thing tends to attract the attention I'd like to avoid."

 

[Aiden Porte]

Aiden followed Tilon down into the hold, helmet clipped to his own hip, boots steady against the freighter's familiar decking. The hum of the maintenance airlock filled the pause before he spoke.

"You're right," he said. "This isn't a place for luxury or pretense. Every step I've taken here so far feels… deliberate. No wasted movement, no excess. It has the honesty of survival." He glanced sidelong at Tilon, a trace of dry humor edging into his voice. "Almost refreshing, compared to Senate corridors."

The mention of passengers drew his brow upward. "Two hundred souls pressed into a hold is more weight than any ship should carry. If these new passengers are Herglic, it's not just language you'd gain. Cultures that old, every word carries centuries behind it. Worth the effort."

He rested a hand briefly on the airlock frame, eyes narrowing slightly in thought at the ping of exotic technology. The Force whispered there, a subtle ripple of possibility and danger twined together. "As for technology… you're right to be wary. Knowledge can uplift, but it can just as easily draw the greedy and the cruel. If it crosses our path, we'll weigh it carefully. But we don't go hunting shadows."

He settled his helmet in place, the seals hissing closed. His voice came through the comm inside the suit, steady and calm. "Passengers, language, even technology, they're all threads. We just need to decide which are worth weaving into the road ahead."

Tilon Quill

 

[Tilon Quill]

"It's true enough, and yet there's this tricky balance, weighing the potential consequences of everything while recognizing that not everything has weight. Not every choice matters. The hard part is living with the knowledge that you'll never know for sure which ones do. I can't imagine being a prophet. The temptation to see the future all the time, good or bad, it must be brutal."

Tilon had spent a portion of the travel time going through Herglese phrase books and practicing with the two translator droids he kept aboard. He brought the former and left the latter. A phrase book was a useful reference even while talking with people; a translator droid took almost all the learning out of it.

Aiden sealed his suit, but Tilon kept his helmet bumping clumsily at his hip. The airlock cycled them through.

The old station smelled of seaweed, sweat, and rust. His suit instrumentation read a bit higher humidity than most stations or ships. Of the Herglics in sight, one clearly worked here in the hangars. In stilted simple Herglese, he asked who to speak to about topping up the fuel tank, and got pointed to a Herglic-scale utilities terminal that switched readily between Herglese and Basic.

"Nothing like a side-by-side," Tilon said, making his choices in Herglese then verifying them the the Basic toggle. "You ever learned another language before? I never asked — what do you speak?*

Aiden Porte

 

[Aiden Porte]

The recycled air carried that tang of salt and rust through his filters, and Aiden slowed his pace a fraction to take it in. The smell spoke of oceans, machinery, and labor—lived-in rather than sterile, alive in its own way.

At Tilon's question, he stepped closer to the terminal, watching the way Herglese characters curved across the display, heavy strokes that reminded him of waves pressing against stone.

"I grew up with Basic, of course," he began, voice steady through the helmet's comm, "Every phrase could be a lesson or a proverb, depending on how you heard it. The Jedi archives called it impractical, but I found it gave me patience. Words aren't just tools, they're windows into how others see the world."

His eyes flicked toward Tilon, a faint smile ghosting across his features. "And patience is a skill you learn all over again when you start with a new language. I've picked up scraps—Selkatha, Mirialan, Huttese, Binary...... Enough to listen respectfully, not enough to claim fluency. There's humility in that, too."

He watched the Herglic workers beyond the hangar, their movements slow but purposeful, voices rising and falling like deep surf against cliffs. "Herglese… it feels like a language built for resonance, not just speech. If I'm to learn another, this could be a worthy one."

"What about you?"

Tilon Quill

 

[Tilon Quill]

Tilon pulled the balance of his attention from the high terminal. "Oh, you've spent time on Manaan too? I lived in or near Ahto City for a good few years. Selkatha is beautiful. There's actually some elements borrowed from Herglese millennia back. The Herglic Trade Empire was that far-reaching and I guess the old common ground was strong."

He wrapped up the terminal work and recorded a few Herglese words and phrases in a well-worn notebook.

"Mirialan, now, that's not one I run into much. What prompted that? I know there's a couple of Mirialan Jedi Masters, is there a connection there?"

Aiden Porte

 

[Aiden Porte]

Aiden's gaze lingered on the vast hangar as Tilon spoke of Manaan. The notion of Selkatha and Herglese sharing roots drew a quiet spark of interest. "It makes sense," he murmured. "The galaxy forgets how often its histories entwined before the Republic. Empires, traders, explorers, connection is older than we think."

At the mention of Mirialan, he gave a small nod. "Yes, you're right. There are Masters of their people, respected, patient, steady. But my lessons in the language came less from them and more from their pilgrims. I spent a season on Mirial, and Mirialan elders insisted we learn at least the prayers and courtesies in their tongue. Many years ago as a young child. When Tanaab fell under Sith influence my family vacated their and we travel quite a bit. Mirial was a stop of ours during our constant travelling"

His tone softened, almost reverent. "Mirialan is precise. Ritualized. Every syllable carries a weight, an intention. It's not a language you can rush, and that teaches you something. When I spoke their prayers, even haltingly, I felt the Force flow differently, measured, deliberate, like every word was a step in a larger pattern."

He looked back to Tilon with a faint, almost wry smile. "It's humbling to be reminded that the Force speaks in a thousand voices, not only Basic or what the Jedi deem proper. Every new word is another way to listen."

Tilon Quill

 

[Tilon Quill]

This portion of concourse came to a window that looked out from the cavernous hangars along an age-roughened arc of the station's primary superstructure. At a guess, it hadn't boasted particle shielding until recent decades. Beyond was an arc of the planet Kooda and a tenuous indigo nebula farther out. Tilon leaned on the railing.

"That's not an experience I've had, feeling the Force interact with language in that way, specific language I mean. I'll have to keep an eye out for it." Weak in the Force, he figured he'd probably just failed to feel or recognize the phenomenon. He was, he'd realized, used to a much different mode of conversation than many Jedi. He tended to talk less in the abstract or about ideals and values in this kind of a way. Often, that difference in modes had been a barrier for him. It wasn't as much this time, and probably because Aiden struck him as sincere and without arrogance, a rare Jedi combination.

"You're right. The Jedi are just the tradition that won, in their way. There's probably a million Force traditions in the galaxy, tucked away here and there."

Aiden Porte

 

[Aiden Porte]

Aiden rested his hands on the railing beside Tilon, eyes following the planet’s curve where it met the faint shimmer of the nebula. The sight had the hush of a cathedral, age and light layered together in silence.

“You’re not wrong,” he said quietly. “The Jedi didn’t invent the Force. We only… traced one path through it. And we’ve guarded that path so long that we sometimes forget there are others, just as old, just as true.”

A breath left him, more like a sigh than anything else, but not weary, thoughtful. “If there are a million traditions out there, then there are a million truths. It humbles me. Reminds me to listen first, and only after that to speak.”

His gaze lingered on the nebula, the faintest smile curving his lips. “Maybe that’s what language does. It forces us to listen differently, so the same truth can reach us in a new way.”

Tilon Quill