Private Correspondences of Hope

[Arhiia Voronwe]

*The following are a series of letters written between Jedi Aiden Porte & Arhiia Voronwe . A series of letters of becoming known to each other, sharing quiet moments and reaching for each other when chaos may be erupting around them. It is about kindling hope, carrying the spark — and gently holding onto what matters most.

Tags: Aiden Porte
​

Aiden,

I'm writing this at the end of another long shift in the medwing — the kind where the lights hum softly overhead and everything smells faintly of bacta and burned circuitry.

Three new patients today. Burns, fractures, one concussion so bad he kept insisting I outranked him by five levels. (I let him believe it. He seemed very proud of me.)

Normally, days like this drain me dry… but something you said has been sticking with me.

Hope — not the triumphant kind people put on recruitment posters, but the quiet sort. The kind that slips in between fear and breath and gives someone enough courage to face the next hour.

I kept thinking about that as I worked.

Maybe that's why it stayed with me when the youngest of them — barely older than a Padawan — grabbed my wrist before sleep finally claimed him. Like he needed to anchor himself to someone who wasn't going to vanish.

It made my chest tighten more than I want to admit.

It made me think of my father.

I still keep his robe folded at the foot of my bunk, and his twin-bladed saber stored where I can see it when I wake. I can hear him sometimes — that low, steady voice pushing through memory:


Keep your forms sharp, Arhiia. Discipline is kindness to your future self.

He could be stern, but even in his strictness he had a tenderness I didn't fully understand until I was older. I hope I make him proud. I hope he would look at what I do here — these small, steady things — and call it good.

And then… there is my mother.

Elara.

I never knew her. She died the day I was born.

Sometimes I wonder what she would've sounded like. Would her voice have been soft? Warm? Stern like my father's? Would she have held me the way I see other mothers hold their children here — with that mix of fierce protectiveness and quiet devotion? I wonder about her more often than I admit. Especially on days like this, when children cling to me in fear or exhaustion and I try — I really try — to be whatever comfort they need.


I hope I'm doing it right.
I hope she would think so.


And… Aiden…


You've been drifting through my thoughts more than I expected.

Not enough to distract me, but enough to cast a quiet warmth over everything. Enough that I catch myself wondering where you are, if you're safe, if the air around you is calm or if you're embroiled in chaos again.

Whether this letter will make it to you.

Whether you're resting when you should be… or being a stubborn jackass, which — as your unofficial healer — I consider the default state for you.


(Yes. Still a medical term. Still using it with confidence.)


Wherever you are, I hope you've eaten something that isn't a ration brick. I hope you've seen something beautiful, even if only for a moment. I hope whatever weight you're carrying feels lighter, if only because you know someone else is thinking of you.

Write me back when you can.
I don't need stories or heroics.

Just something honest. Something real. Tell me you're safe. Tell me how the days shape you. Tell me what sparks hope for you — even if it's something small.


I'm listening, Aiden.


More than I expected to be.
More than I think I should be.
But I won't pretend otherwise.



Until your next letter finds me…

~ Arhiia

 

[Aiden Porte]

Arhiia Voronwe​

Arhiia,

I read your letter twice.

Once, as a Jedi, steady, centered, taking in every detail the way I'm trained to.

And once, simply as a man who felt something in his chest tighten at your words.

Both versions of me stayed quiet for a long time afterward.

The truth is… it reached me deeper than I expected.

I can picture you there: the hum of the lights, the faint sting of bacta in the air. I've spent enough time hearing medbay lectures to know the rhythm of those halls.

I smiled at the individual who was insisting you outranked him. Honestly? He's not wrong. You could order half the Temple to sit down and breathe, and they would. Including me.

Especially me.

When you described that Padawan-aged patient holding your wrist like an anchor in a storm, I felt something in my chest. You have a calm gravity; people cling to what's steady. They don't reach for someone who might disappear.

For those who needed you, just you being there was hope enough.

The way you write about him, I can almost hear him, a balance of stern and tender. Few Jedi realize how rare it is to find strength combined with softness, discipline with devotion.

Discipline is kindness to your future self. That's something I'm going to be thinking about for weeks.

I think he would be proud of you, Arhiia. Not for heroics. Not for perfection. But for the way you show up every single day with your hands steady and your heart open, even when it hurts.

Some Jedi move mountains. Then there's you, making the world safer just by being present, even from the stubborn ones like me.

Your father's lessons live in you. Anyone in the Force could sense it.

Obviously, I never knew Elara's voice. I know your voice, firm when needed, but gentle enough to earn trust without fear.

If even a fraction of that comes from her, then she must have been extraordinary.

I think she would see how children respond to you, how they settle, trust, and breathe, and know you inherited the best parts of her, even without ever meeting her.

You're doing it right, Arhiia. More right than you know.

As for me, your questions lingered.

You asked for honesty, not heroics. So here it is.

I'm safe tonight, a little bruised, a little tired, but intact. The exhaustion is mostly in my mind.

I'm writing this from a small village on the planet of Argus. I've eaten something vaguely recognizable as stew. I've had worse.

Earlier, before dusk, the wind shifted through tall grass and carried the scent of rain. The moment was simple and small, almost unremarkable. Yet it sparked the quiet hope you described—the kind that slips between breaths.

It reminds you there's beauty even after long days and longer shadows.

Your letter helped more than I'd admit to anyone else.

You said I've been drifting through your thoughts.

You've been in mine too, during moments between missions, in the calm after a confrontation, and in those rare, soft places where I allow myself to feel human, before duty calls again.

There's a warmth to you that lingers. I greatly appreciate it more than you can ever know. I've lost a great deal in my life, thus far. All my family is gone; I should've been gone so many times before as well. But here I am, living again. I feel silly, sometimes clinging to hope as much as I do. I just know that at the end of the day, hopefully, after all that I've done. Those that I have helped will pass along what I have taught them. I showed them that hope was the way, and it's not some blind ambition or some fool's errand.

If you let it be, it can be real and true. Stronger than anything anyone's ever known.

When you sit down to eat, or sit on a bench outside the medbay, wherever it is, just know…

You're not alone in those thoughts. Not anymore.

Please write to me again as time allows. I'll answer every letter you send.

Until then.

May the Force keep you warm. May your steps stay steady. And may you truly know that someone out here is thinking of you, too.

~ Aiden

 

[Arhiia Voronwe]

Tags: Aiden Porte
​

Aiden,

I'm writing this one outside.

Flat on my back, nightgown bunched under my shoulders, the night air cool against the nape of my skin. The stars are sharp tonight — the kind that look close enough to touch if you just lift your hand high enough.


I couldn't sleep.
Not after the dream.


Not after waking up with my heart racing like I'd run the length of the Temple. There was a moment — one breath long — where I panicked because I thought something had happened to you.

And then the world came back into focus, one slow inch at a time.


Just a dream.
Just my imagination.
Just… you lingering in places you probably don't even realize you occupy.
So I came out here.


It's quiet. The kind of quiet that holds its breath with you. It felt like the right place to write back.

And yes, I read your letter twice too.
Once with discipline.
Once with my heart.
And both parts of me felt warm after.

You said your chest tightened reading mine — well, mine did the same reading yours.

Your kindness lands deeper than you think. You tell the truth gently, and I… appreciate that more than I expected to. Now, before I get too sentimental, let me update you on my latest brilliant decision:

I told my sparring instructors to "go harder."


A mistake, in hindsight.


I was airborne for all of three seconds before I met the wall behind me with enough force to knock every coherent thought out of my skull.

I remember the impact — a flash of pain, the world spinning — and then nothing until medbay lights stared down at me.

Concussion.
Broken wrist.

Both mended now, but Force, Aiden… sometimes I swear my body hasn't caught up with who I feel like.

A rancor in a sloth cat's body.
A menace trapped in a very breakable container.
Before you say anything — shut up.


I can feel the grin you haven't even made yet.


The one that says "I told you so" without you actually saying it.


And of course, I'm still working on that "automaticity" idea with my healing abilities — a seamless flow, passive, constant, like breathing.

The Masters keep staring at me like I've grown a second head when I explain the theoretical underpinnings.

Maybe I get a little too excited.
Maybe I talk a little too fast.

Maybe I say things like "biological energy translation pathways" and "Force-adjacent regenerative modulation."


And maybe — maybe — I am indeed a dork.
Wipe that grin off your face too.
I can sense it from here.

…You wrote something I keep rereading:

When you sit down to eat, or sit on a bench outside the medbay, wherever it is, just know… you're not alone in those thoughts. Not anymore.

That line landed inside me like a stone dropped into still water — slow, heavy, rippling out in places I didn't know were still tender.

I'm glad you're safe on Argus.

Glad you ate something vaguely stew-like instead of rations.

Glad the wind and rain gave you something small and beautiful to hold onto.

And I'm glad — more than I know how to articulate — that I'm in your thoughts too.

The truth is…
I wish I could see you.
Really see you.

Not just feel your presence from a distance or imagine that smug, stubborn grin of yours that somehow makes everything feel less heavy.

I wish I could sit beside you for even a minute.

Long enough to see with my own eyes that you're real and in one piece.

Long enough to let the silence between us say the things we aren't ready to put into words yet.

But until that day comes…
Write me again, Aiden.
Tell me where the wind takes you next.
Tell me what keeps you steady, what makes you hopeful, what keeps you human.

I'll be here — under the stars tonight — thinking of you more than I mean to.


May the Force keep you safe.
May it bring you back in one piece.
And may it remind you — quietly, persistently — that someone out here cares more than she probably should.


~ Arhiia

 

[Aiden Porte]

Arhiia Voronwe​

Arhiia,

I wish I'd been there to see the moment you looked up and felt the sky looking back. I wish I could've eased the fear that woke you.

When you wrote about panicking, caught for a single, frozen breath, fearing something had happened to me. I felt that. A pulse beneath my ribs: warmth and worry I didn't expect.

If I could've reached across the distance in that moment, when fear and worry drew us together, when I felt your panic echo through me, I would have rested my hand over yours, grounding you in the present.

Without hesitation. Without a second thought. Whether or not I deserve it, and even as guilt brushes the edges of my thoughts, I don't ever want to be a source of fear for you.

Only steadiness. Only warmth.

And as for your brilliant decision. You told your instructors to "go harder."

Of course you did. And then you went harder, into a wall. Three seconds of airtime is impressive, though. Most Padawans manage one, maybe two, before eating duracrete.

Yes, I'm grinning. Yes, I deserve to.

But underneath that grin, there's relief impossible to describe. While I joke, my concern for you runs deeper than I show: a concussion and broken wrist may be healed, but I would have wanted to spare you pain altogether.

And don't you dare call yourself breakable, as if it were a flaw. You have more resilience than you think you do. Strength isn't only in muscle and bone; it's in the way you get back up, the way you meet the world with all that fire, curiosity, and stubbornness.

A rancor in a sloth cat's body? Maybe. But a rancor with heart, discipline, and a very questionable sense of self-preservation.

And yes. You are a dork. A brilliant one. With "biological energy translation pathways."

Yes, I'm still smiling.

The Line You Quoted Back to Me. You reread it. I did too. I meant every word. There's a connection between us. I'm trying not to rush, not to name before it's ready, but… It's there.

Undeniable. Quiet. Steady.

And the way you wrote about it, like ripples spreading through still water, it made something inside me loosen. Something I've kept wound tight for longer than I'd admit. You said you wish you could see me. I wish that too.

More than I should. More than I expected to. More than I'm comfortable saying directly, so I'm writing it.

I want to see you.

Not as a flicker through the Force, not in passing, not as an imagined outline under starlight

But truly.

Sitting right beside me. Where I can hear your breath instead of reading about it. Where the silence between us has weight, shape, and meaning. Where I can look at you and know you're real, safe, alive. Where your thoughts don't have to travel across galaxies to reach me.

As for where I am tonight…

The wind has shifted to a colder direction here; nothing involving Tatooine is ever simple in practice.

Most of the day was spent in shadows, slipping through narrow alleys, alert and purposeful, listening to conversations carried on the wind, letting the Force tug me toward places the eye might miss. The heat under my boots kept me grounded, every breeze a reminder of distance. The shift from focus to reflection came suddenly, almost against my will.

But there was a moment, a small one, when I paused on a ridge overlooking the dunes. The sands weren't just beige or gold. At that hour, with both suns descending, they were bands of copper, rose, and deep amber. Beautiful in a way the galaxy doesn't often make time for.

I thought of you then. Wondering if you'd ever seen a sunset like that. Wondering what you'd say about it. Tatooine isn't known for its beauty, but it has its moments in the sun, and especially in the evening as the moons set.

Eventually, I found her, a frightened girl, hiding behind a toppled moisture tank. She was maybe nine, with wide eyes, scraped knees, and trembling hands. Some fears grow roots too deep to be taught; they are only learned.

I knelt and didn't speak until she steadied her breath. Didn't reach for her until she reached first.

You would've known exactly what to do with her. I did my best. She's safe tonight. Being escorted off-world to a place where she can grow without looking over her shoulder. That alone was worth the heat, the dust, the risk.

Now that the day is done, I can pause, steadied by the memory of your words. I'm safe, and my thoughts circle back to you, moving from tension and risk to gratitude and longing.

What keeps me hopeful?

My padawans, Ensy and Kas, are incredibly bright individuals; I'm more fortunate to have them than they are to have me. I hope to provide as much guidance as possible. I pray to the gods I don't let them down.

Seeing that child smile as she boarded her transport, no fear, just hope, meant everything. If I can do that for anyone, that's my purpose. I know it sounds cliché, but I'll keep fighting for these people as hard and as long as I can.

The force will take care of the rest. I can almost see your eyes rolling now. Stop it.

And also, moments like this,this exchange of letters in the dark, this honesty, this warmth between us that neither of us seems to hide anymore.

What keeps me human?

Naboo, The High Republic, my friends… you.

The way you write. The way you care, even when you pretend you shouldn't. The way your voice finds me between missions and reminds me that I'm more than the battles I step into.

If the stars above you feel close enough to touch, then know this. I'm under the same sky. Maybe different stars, maybe different horizon, but the same galaxy, same quiet, same pull toward you. Write to me again. Whenever your thoughts drift my way. I'll always answer.

And until the day we sit together under the same stretch of starlight. May the Force keep you safe.

May it ease your fears before they take root.

And may it remind you clearly, and gently, that someone out here cares just as deeply for you.

~ Aiden

 

[Arhiia Voronwe]

Tags: Aiden Porte
​

Aiden,



I think I've been trying to write this for days without admitting that's what I was doing.

The mission went… how these things go. We got the civilians out, though not all of them. Too many wounded. Too many we arrived a breath too late for. I kept my head clear. My hands steady. My voice calm. That part of me still works — the one that knows how to move when everyone else is shaking.

I didn't cry until I got home.

I walked through the door, and the quiet hit me harder than the blaster fire ever does. No voices. No footsteps. No one asking if I was alright. Just the emptiness echoing back at me. And that old, familiar whisper in my mind — the one that only shows up when I'm exhausted down to the bone:

"You're alone. No one is coming."

I hate how believable that voice feels on nights like this.

I sat on the floor still in my boots, hands shaking, and I couldn't stop it. I cried until my chest hurt. Until the room blurred. Until I wasn't sure if I was grieving the lives we couldn't save or just… myself.

And in the middle of that — in the ugliest, weakest moment I've had in months — all I wanted was you.

Not because you owe me anything. Not because there's anything between us I can name without feeling foolish. Not even because I believe you'd choose to sit in the dark with someone like me after a day like yours.

But I wished you'd been there.
Just sitting beside me.
Just breathing the same air.

Just grounding me with your presence the way your letters somehow do.

And if all you could offer was a hand on my shoulder out of pity — Force help me, I would've taken it. I would've leaned into it like it meant more than it did, because right now I can't tell if I'm imagining things or holding onto something real.

You give me hope. That's the truth I kept circling around tonight, no matter how much I tried to reason myself out of it. Your letters make the world feel less sharp. Less empty. Less impossible to carry.

I don't know what to call whatever this is between us. I'm not asking you to define it. I'm not even sure I'd know what to do if you tried.

But tonight, when I fell apart in the quiet, I wished your name didn't feel so far away. I wished I could've heard your voice instead of rereading your last letter until the words blurred.

I'm tired, Aiden. I feel… numb.

More than I want anyone else to know.

If you have a moment — even a passing breath — tell me how you are. Tell me you're safe. Tell me you rested. Tell me something real, even if it's small.

And when you do get the chance to take a break… I want to take mine with you. Even if all we share is silence.

Write when you can.


~ Arhiia

 

[Aiden Porte]

Arhiia Voronwe​

Arhiia,

I'm sitting here in the dim light of my quarters, and before I tell you about my day, I need you to know something: I'm right here. I'm not far away, not in the place your mind goes on nights like this. I'm with you in every word you wrote, and you are not alone tonight. Not in the ways that matter.

The rain on Kamino hasn't stopped; it never does, but it feels different now. Softer. Like it's listening.

Because your letter is open in my hands, and the weight of your words… I feel it like a pulse under my ribs.

I would like to share with you my day first, as you asked, and because sometimes the smallest truths are the ones we can hold onto when larger ones feel too heavy.

My Day

I spent the morning on Kamino, and I took a very long run through the massive complex. Some days, the body has to outrun the mind for a little while. Afterwards, I stood in the main corridor watching clones run drills in the stormlight. Something is grounding about their precision, the rhythm, the focus, the certainty of action.

I ate. Slept a little. Woke to more rain. Spoke to no one.

It wasn't a remarkable day. But it was a real one. And I'm here. Safe. Breathing. Thinking of you more than I mean to.



I read what you wrote about the civilians, the ones you saved, and the ones you couldn't save. I know that weight, Arhiia. Not in the same way, but close enough that my chest tightened just thinking of you standing in the middle of all that loss with your hands steady and your heart too complete for your own good.

You didn't fail them. You didn't fall short. You didn't break. You carried them as far as anyone could have.


Silence can wound in ways combat never will.

That voice you heard, the cruel one that whispers you're alone.

That voice lies.

You are not alone. Not on the floor of your quarters. Not in the ache that won't let you sleep. Not in the tears you tried to swallow down. You are not alone in any of it, because I'm here, and I am not going anywhere.

Not for your strength.
Not for your composure.
But for you.

The woman who keeps people alive when everything is falling apart. The woman who feels deeply and fiercely and still stands up again the next day.
The woman who wishes for me in moments of hurt, and doesn't realize how much that means.

If I'd been there tonight, I wouldn't have offered you pity. I would've sat beside you on the floor.

Silent. Steady. Present.

I would've let you cry without flinching away. I would've stayed until your breathing evened out and your hands stopped shaking.

Not as someone doing their duty. As someone who cares. More than I should, maybe. But I'm not pretending otherwise.

Something real, for you.

Right now, as I write this, the rain is hitting the window in long diagonal streaks. The room smells like damp metal and the sea. My boots are still by the door, muddy from the training yard. My hands are warm from holding your letter.

And I'm thinking about how you said you wished my name didn't feel so far away.

It isn't. Not to me. Not tonight.

You asked for something honest.

Here it is.

I wish I could take my next break with you, too. I wish I could sit with you in that quiet room until the numbness loosened its grip.
I wish I could be the one you leaned into, not out of pity, not out of need, but because it felt right.


That day is coming soon, though. A humanitarian event is taking place on Arbra. Offering food, building homes, and everything in between, Arbra is a wonderful planet. I'd like you to meet me there; until then, I am most affectionately yours.

I'm here.

And you are not carrying this night alone.

Write me again when you can. Or when you can't.

Either way, I'll answer.

~ Aiden

 

[Arhiia Voronwe]

Tags: Aiden Porte
​

Aiden,

You have a terrible habit of writing a single sentence that throws my entire world off balance. "Meet me on Arbra." I reread it three times, half-hoping it would soften into something safer, less overwhelming. It didn't. And I'm embarrassed to admit this, but I squealed. Out loud. Like some overexcited initiate seeing snowfall for the first time. You may wipe that grin off your face now—though we both know you won't.

Everything is already in motion. My schedule is cleared, my request was approved without question, and my travel bag is sitting by the door as though it knows more about what's coming than I do. And yet, for all that efficiency and preparedness, I'm nervous. Not about the mission. Not about the work. Those are constants in my life. I'm nervous because of you.

Aiden, you're the only one I write to like this. The only one I trust with the thoughts that slip through the cracks in my armor. Everyone sees the healer, the calm, the steady hands, the certainty I work so hard to project. You're the one who sees past it—the fractures, the empty places, the softness I pretend isn't there. You've seen me at my lowest, at my most unguarded… and you never look away. You don't pull back or shut down or hide behind polite distance. You stay. You steady. You listen.

I don't know what that does to me. I only know that it scares me—not in a way that pushes me back, but in a way that pulls me forward. Like standing at the edge of something vast and realizing you want to step into it, even knowing it might swallow you whole.

And then you wrote about sitting beside me—on the floor, in silence, with no expectation except presence. No pity. No performance. Just you, offering a place for me to breathe. No one has ever said something like that to me with that kind of sincerity. It carved its way into me in a way I'm still trying to understand.

Whatever this is between us… I'm trying not to name it too soon. I'm trying not to imagine things that aren't there. But the thought of seeing you again—hearing your voice instead of guessing at its shape, watching the way your expression shifts when you speak, feeling your steadiness without reaching through the Force for it—it makes something tremble inside me. Only you make me feel this unsure, this aware, this alive. And it isn't a bad feeling. Not even close. It's just new, and deeper than I expected.

I'll be on Arbra as soon as I'm cleared to depart. When I see you—when we stand in the same space without letters bridging the distance—I hope I don't fall apart from nerves. But even if I do… I think you're the only one I'd trust to see me like that.

Write again if you can. If not, I'll find you under Arbra's sky.


Only yours,

Arhiia

 

[Aiden Porte]

Arhiia Voronwe​

Arhiia,

I tell myself each time I sit down to write that I'll keep this brief, that I'll give you a simple update, ask after your healing, and return to the discipline I'm supposed to have mastered by now. And every time, the quiet stretches, and my thoughts settle on you as naturally as breath. If this reads longer than intended…you should know by now that you're the reason.

How are you, truly? Not the answer you give others, the composed one, the reassuring one, but the honest measure of your days. I hope your body is mending without protest, that the lingering aches are easing rather than clinging out of stubborn pride. I know how hard it is for you to rest without feeling as though you're failing someone. Please remember that healing is not absence of purpose. It is purpose. Every slow step, every moment you choose patience over strain, matters. If you find yourself tempted to give more than you should, think of me reminding you, quietly, insistently, to be kind to yourself. For me, if nothing else.

I keep thinking about the homestead, and about you there. The idea of you on the plains feels…right. Naboo has a way of asking people to slow down whether they intend to or not. The land opens wide, the horizon unbroken, and suddenly there's nowhere for the mind to hide from itself. I imagine you waking early, light spilling across the floor, the air cool enough to make the first cup of tea feel earned. I imagine you standing outside for a moment longer than necessary, just listening, to the grasses, the distant calls, the quiet that isn't empty at all. That place has steadied me through years I didn't realize were wearing me thin. Knowing it's holding you now brings me a peace I hadn't expected to feel from so far away.

Life Day preparations have begun it seems. Still, the feeling carries. People soften. Conversations linger. Memories surface whether invited or not. It makes you reflective. It makes you honest. I have something for you, that I was able to get completed. I held it and thought of your hands, your smile when you're caught off guard, that quiet warmth you carry even when you don't realize you're sharing it. I hope it feels like being seen. I hope it feels like something meant only for you.

There are moments on this mission, standing watch beneath unfamiliar stars, listening to the wind through terrain that doesn't yet know my name. When I catch myself reaching for your presence without the Force, out of simple habit. I think of the way you steady a room without effort. Of how your love doesn't demand or overwhelm, but moves, gently, constantly, like water shaping stone. It follows me through long hours and difficult decisions, a quiet constant beneath everything else I carry. When the days stretch thin, it gives them weight. When they grow heavy, it reminds me why I endure them at all.

I don't regret that you occupy this space in me. Not even for a moment.

I'll write again soon, once I'm clear of this assignment and the noise settles. Until then, let the plains hold you. Let Naboo remind you that rest can be sacred, that softness is not weakness, that being cared for does not diminish you. And know, without doubt, that wherever I am, some part of me is always turned toward you, thinking of your healing, your laughter, your presence under that wide sky.

Most truly and affectionately yours,

Aiden

 

[Arhiia Voronwe]

Tags: Aiden Porte
​

Aiden,

I tried to be sensible about this. Truly. I sat down with every intention of giving you a proper update, something neat and reassuring that would let you read this and rest easy. But I can already feel the smile you get when you know I'm lying to myself, so I'm abandoning that plan before it embarrasses us both.

You asked how I'm mending — not as a healer, not as someone checking boxes, but as you. The wound itself is healing well. You were there. You know the work that was done, and your instincts were right — the body remembers, but it is no longer in danger. The ache that lingers is more protest than pain. I've started weight therapy, reluctantly and with commentary, and yes, I am behaving exactly as stubbornly as you're imagining. Don't look so pleased with yourself. I can hear you thinking, of course she is… I have a word for your arrogant “I’m right” attitude… but I’ll be nice, this time.

I've been using my father's cane on longer days. The beskar tip makes that steady, grounding sound when it strikes the floor — sharp and reassuring. The others say it gives me a refined look. I laughed, because if they knew how much it steadies me, how much it reminds me of endurance rather than elegance, they'd understand why I keep it close. And if I'm being honest… every time I hear it, I think of you. Of presence. Of someone who doesn't rush me, but never lets me disappear either.

Work has been relentless. I've officially taken point on a new healing division — consolidated, mobile, meant to go where the need is greatest instead of waiting for help to trickle in too late. Volunteers, Jedi, anyone willing to hold the line with their hands instead of a blade. It's exhausting. It's necessary. And it feels like the only answer I can live with. I know you worry about how much I give. I also know you understand why I can't stop.

What I didn't expect — and what I haven't quite learned how to say without flushing — is how much space you occupy in my thoughts now. Not abstractly. Not gently. I think about your hands. Your scent. The way you stand close without crowding me. The way your touch grounds me when my mind starts to spiral. I catch myself blushing in the middle of reports, and I have to stop and remind myself where I am. It's absurd. It's wonderful. And stars, I want you more than I know how to say without sounding like I've lost all sense.

When you wrote about the homestead, my heart genuinely dropped. Not from fear — from possibility. If you were asking what I would choose, what I would build with you… you already know the answer. Being there with you doesn't feel like running toward something unknown. It feels like coming home to something I didn't know I was allowed to want.

And the gift. That was cruel of you, you know. Completely unfair. Now I'm left pouting and scrambling, convinced I'm woefully underprepared — though I suppose I might have something for you to unwrap when the time comes, if you behave yourself. Try not to look so smug.

This is the part I'm still learning to sit with: you see me when I'm tired, when I ache, when the cracks show — and you don't pull away. You don't try to fix me or armor me back up. You just stay. Being yours, letting you see me like this, is terrifying in a way that feels… right. Like stepping forward instead of bracing for impact.

Take care of yourself, love. Rest when you can. And know that wherever I am, whatever I'm holding together for everyone else, some part of me is always turned toward you — already reaching for the moment I get to see you again.

Yours, completely,
Arhiia

 

[Aiden Porte]

Arhiia Voronwe​

Arhiia,

I keep finding myself reaching for your letter the way someone reaches for warmth, almost without thinking. Like it's become a habit my body learned faster than my mind. I told myself I'd answer once, cleanly, and then return to my discipline.

Instead, I'm writing again because you're in my thoughts with the persistence of a tide.

You'll be pleased to know I did rest, some. Not because I'm obedient, but because I heard you in my head telling me to stop treating exhaustion like virtue. I ate something that wasn't field rations, I slept long enough that my body stopped trying to fight me, and I sat in stillness without pretending it was easy. I don't know if that counts as "taking care," but it's honest effort.

You wrote about the cane like it was a small detail. It isn't.

That sound you described, the sharp, grounding strike of beskar against floor, has stayed with me. It's strange, what the mind holds onto when distance makes everything feel unreal. I can almost hear it when I close my eyes, like an echo down a quiet hall. Endurance. Presence. Proof that you're moving through the day instead of letting the day move through you.

I'm not proud of the thought that followed, but I'll give it to you anyway: I wish I were there to match my pace to yours without you having to ask. I wish I could take the heavier parts of your day and carry them without turning it into an argument you'd win out of stubborn principle.

You said work is relentless. You said the new division is exhausting. Necessary. The only answer you can live with.

I understand. Completely.

But I need you to understand something too: the galaxy will always offer you endless need. That isn't a condemnation, it's simply the truth of the work we chose. If you measure your worth by how much you can pour out before you collapse, the galaxy will take and take and call it noble.

So this is what I'm asking, what I'm insisting, as someone who has no patience left for watching you carry yourself toward the edge:

Let them help you. Let your volunteers become more than hands you direct. Let them become weight you share. Train them to hold the line so that if you have to sit, if you have to lean on that cane a little harder one day, the whole structure doesn't wobble. That isn't weakness. That's leadership done correctly.

And Arhiia… if you hear me saying this with too much intensity, it's because I've seen you try to disappear behind competence. I've seen you take pride in being the calm center while you bleed quietly in the corners.

I won't let you do that if I can stop it.

You wrote about wanting me. About blushing over reports. About my hands, my scent, my touch. I'm not going to pretend those words didn't affect me. I'm not going to pretend I'm untouched by the way you said it, bold and trembling at once, like you were stepping forward even as you dared the ground to vanish beneath you.

I want you too.

The version of you that doesn't have to be steady for anyone. I want the sharpness in your humor, the softness you pretend you don't have, the way you look when you're caught between restraint and honesty and choose honesty anyway. I want to be close enough that I don't have to imagine what your voice sounds like when you say my name in the dark.

And yes, now you can picture me pausing mid-sentence, closing my eyes, and exhaling because that thought does not belong in my head during a mission briefing. You've been warned: you are a dangerous correspondent.

You wrote about the homestead like it was possibility. Like it was a door you didn't expect to want to walk through.

I need you to know that you're not alone in that.

Naboo's plains have always been a place I return to when the galaxy feels too loud. The wind out there doesn't ask questions. The horizon doesn't demand explanations. It just...is. And for years, I thought that quiet was all I deserved. Solitude as penance. Peace in small doses, earned between crises.

And then you began writing to me the way you do, like you were placing something precious in my hands and trusting I wouldn't drop it, and suddenly the idea of that quiet changed shape. It stopped being an empty space. It became something I could share without losing it.

If you're there now, if you've stood on the step and watched the grass bend in the winter breeze, then you've already seen why I go back. I hope it's holding you gently. I hope you've let yourself take up room in it.

Life Day is close enough now that I can feel it even here. People talk about home more. They look at lanterns too long. They grow softer around the edges. It makes the distance sharper in some ways, but it also makes my intentions clearer.

And the gifts for you...

One is small and meant to be kept close. Something you can touch when your day is too heavy and you need a reminder that you are not carrying it alone. The other is, something you will need in the future.

I want to say thank you. For the space you're occupying now, it feels much more every day that its something we would build together.

I don't know how soon I'll be back on Naboo. Missions have their own clocks, and I won't insult you by pretending I can bend them with will alone. But I can promise you this: I'm coming. And when I do, I want to see you under that wide sky with nothing between us but air.

Until then, eat. Sleep. Use the cane without apology. Delegate more than you want to. And if your mind spirals, if the cracks start to show, don't armor up out of habit.

Write to me instead. Let me stay with you, even from a distance. I love you.

Most truly and affectionately yours,

Aiden Porte