Private Easiest Questions

[Aiden Porte]

Naboo
Porte Homestead
Sela Basran​

It was just about noon on the homestead, when the sun sat high enough to bleach the edges of the fields and turn every pale stone on Naboo into something softly radiant. The breeze carried the clean, green scent of grass and water from somewhere beyond the rise.

He stood on the small entryway that led into his home, one hand resting against the doorway's smooth frame, the other loose at his side. From here, he could see the gentle slope of the land, the line of trees in the distance, and the way the path curved toward the homestead like a quiet invitation. It was peaceful in the way only Naboo could manage, peace that felt earned, but never permanent.

Aiden had received word from Sela Basran that she intended to visit.

He had not needed the Force to guess at the reasons, though it hummed faintly in the back of his awareness all the same, like a second heartbeat. Sela was not the sort to arrive without purpose. She might want to talk about his withdrawal from the Jedi Order, to measure the decision with her own eyes and decide what it meant for him, for Naboo, for everything that had once fit neatly into the word duty. Or maybe, just maybe, she simply wanted to see him, to sit for a while under an open sky and speak like people rather than positions.

Either way, Aiden found himself smiling.

It was small, almost private, and it softened the tension he had not realized he was holding in his shoulders. Whatever questions came with her, whatever concerns followed in her wake, he wanted this. A conversation without a Council chamber. Without ceremony. Without distance. A visit on his own threshold, on his own ground, with the life he was building in full view around him.

He lifted his gaze down the path again, listening for the faintest hint of approaching steps, and let the bright midday light warm his face as he waited.

 

[Sela Basran]

NABOO
PORTE HOMESTEAD

​

WORDS WORDS WORDS

The loss -- no, Sela reminded herself kindly, for he was not lost at all, the exit -- of Aiden Porte had been like a tremor through the Temple. The strength of the muscle did not fail and the grip did not falter, but something in it was different. Something had changed. Something was diminished.

Sela had forbidden gossip in her classes and in her quarters, and was quick to suggest more useful activities for students who could find no other matter of import to focus their energies on. She had no way of knowing whether that would stop young people from gossiping at all, but she did not care for it in her presence and that would be non-negotiable. She was not privy to the exact reasons for Aiden's removal of himself from the Order which was, she was a little ashamed to admit, one of the reasons she was on the footpath out to the homestead.

Not to interrogate him. Not to pursue. She wished to understand him, and to make him understand that whatever his formal relationship with the Shirayan Order, he was only as isolated as he wanted to be. And then, probably not even then, because he had given a busybody of an old auntie his address.

A rookie mistake, she mused ruefully, her raspberry lips turning up at the edges in amusement.

The Master rounded a gentle swell and she looked up, reaching up to tug her hood back carefully. The midday sun was not yet sweltering, but much further in her robes might well undo the older woman. Luckily, the homestead came into view presently, and unless she was much mistaken there was the Jedi Knight standing in the doorway. Sela raised her free hand as she spotted him, the other shifting the weight of an oiled canvas bag over her other shoulder. Master Basran was not moving in; rather she had come bearing gifts.

As she approached, Sela called out a greeting. "Aiden, you are a sight for sore eyes."

Aiden Porte

​

 

[Aiden Porte]

Sela Basran​

Aiden saw her before he heard her, the shape of her cresting the gentle swell of the footpath like a familiar note returning to a song he had not realized he missed. There was a steadiness to Sela Basran's stride that time never seemed to steal, a calm authority that did not need a Temple corridor to carry weight. Naboo's midday light softened the folds of her robes and caught the edge of her hood as she tugged it back, practical as ever, refusing to let the heat win a battle it did not deserve.

He did not reach for the Force to read her. He did not need to. He could feel the intent in her presence in the same way he could feel the homestead beneath his feet, solid, honest, and entirely her. But there was also something else, threaded under it: concern, carefully contained perhaps curiosity, disciplined; and that particular brand of affection that made its way into a scolding when it had to, and into humor when it could.

Aiden's mouth lifted into a real smile, the kind he did not have to manufacture.

He stepped down from the entryway, meeting her partway as though closing the distance would make it easier on both of them. His hands stayed relaxed at his sides. No formal bow. No ceremonial posture. He was not greeting a Master in the Temple now; he was greeting Sela on his own threshold, on his own land, in a life he was still learning how to inhabit.

He caught sight of the oiled canvas bag slung over her shoulder and his brow arched with quiet amusement, as if he had just been handed proof of a suspicion he already held.

"Master Basran," he said, and the title came out by habit first, then softened as his gaze warmed. "You say that like I have been hiding under a rock."

He let the humor sit for a beat, then continued, gentler, more honest.

"It is good to see you. Truly."

His eyes tracked briefly over her face, taking in the lines that spoke of long years and longer patience, and the bright curve of her mouth that suggested she had come armed with both intent and mercy. He glanced again at the bag.

"And it looks like you did not come empty-handed," he added, the faintest hint of a chuckle and tease in his voice. "Should I be flattered, or should I be concerned?"

 

[Sela Basran]

NABOO
PORTE HOMESTEAD
​

"Between those two options? Concerned. And..." Sela began, but she slowed as she considered the question. "...cautious. And careful, I'm afraid."

Sela allowed herself to pause a few paces from Aiden, simply taking him in in the context of this environment. She didn't know it, didn't have a feel for it yet. But he looked at peace, and that was worth something to her. "It will not surprise you, I think, to learn that I am as concerned about propriety and Temple rules as anyone -- and rather more than some." She shifted the bag at her shoulder, and there was a gentle clinking sound from within. Mysteries on mysteries, but Sela was pleased to reveal all in short order. "The protocols around smuggling foodstuffs out of the kitchen storerooms to -- forgive me -- former members of the Temple were unclear. Custom can be as binding as law in institutions like this, as you know better than most. The long story made short -- em, shorter -- is that the guidelines are less restrictive about people using the kitchens to make things themselves and giving it to whomever they like."

She reached into her bag and pulled out a little jar, clear of color exposing pale green contents; it was efficiently wrapped at the top in a kind of pale cloth, with a small tag identifying it with a label and date in Sela's own hand affixed with an elastic that kept the cloth around the screw-top lid. "I heard you were fond of the shuura jam they sometimes served in the mornings, and I happened to have a bush in my allotment. It was a simple matter of convincing the stewards to lend me the recipe and requesting to use the kitchens during off-hours. My Padawan and I managed a batch without burning the place down. Well, just."

The older woman tucked the jam jar back into the bag and held it out to Aiden Porte . "The caveat -- why you should perhaps be cautious and careful -- is that I am a scholar and not a culinary artist. I believe it is not poisonous or harmful in any other way, but I could not vouch for how it compares to what the Temple serves -- in terms of the texture and taste. It looked all right and it tasted fine but I have nothing to compare it against for I am, I confess, more inclined to porridge of a morning." A slightly embarrassed smile there. "You know what they say about old dogs and new tricks."

Looking around at last, she allowed her gaze to take in the lines and the light, the lush green and the brilliant blue of the Naboo sky. "What a lovely place you have here. Are you getting on well?"

Aiden Porte​

 

[Aiden Porte]

Sela Basran​

Aiden's smile widened, the kind that carried warmth without turning sharp, and he let the jar settle into the crook of his arm as though it belonged there. The carefulness in Sela's explanation, protocols, custom, the Temple's unwritten rules, was familiar enough that it tugged at something fond in him.

"Well," he said, lighthearted and deliberately conspiratorial, "rules were meant to be broken."

The teasing tone landed gently, a nudge rather than a challenge, and his eyes brightened with it. He tipped his head toward the bag and the faint clink within, as if acknowledging the sheer audacity of her "cautious" generosity.

"And shuura jam has an incredibly great taste," Aiden added, grin softening into something openly pleased. "I do enjoy it. Besides, I am more than sure your culinary skills are up to par. I have full confidence in the survival odds."

Sela's praise drew a soft breath of amusement from him, and he shook his head, humility easy where truth lived.

"Thank you," he said, "but I cannot take credit. My mother and father built this place."

"As for me," Aiden continued, glancing back at her with the same steady kindness. A soft and easy smile all the same. "I am doing rather well. All things considered. It's okay to ask, I'm not hiding from it."

"Shall we put this jam to the test" he inquired, voice warm with sincerity. "And if it turns out you have accidentally invented the Temple's most dangerous new recipe, then at least we will have a very memorable afternoon."