Private Echoes of Hope: Light Among Ruins | The Jedi Order

[Aiden Porte]

Naboo: Theed Hangar - Evening
Arhiia Voronwe​

With a long, metallic sigh, the ramp lowered, almost in harmony with the breath Aiden Porte exhaled. He stepped into the golden glow of Theed's hangar lights. The air of Naboo hit him first: warm, gentle, fragrant with river blossoms carried down from the palace gardens. The cold, starless corridors of the Core, where he had spent the last several weeks, provided a stark contrast.

Behind him, the ship hummed with motion. Refugees, mothers clutching children, elders wrapped in threadbare cloaks, young padawans still wide-eyed from what they had endured, began to descend the ramp in slow, cautious lines. At the threshold, some paused, almost disbelieving: the soft evening breeze couldn't be another trick. Could it be another trap? Near the bottom of the ramp, Aiden waited, his posture steady despite the ache threading through his limbs. He was well aware of the signs of exhaustion. A subtle tremor shook his fingers; heaviness lurked behind his eyes. Each breath failed to chase away the tightness in his chest. Still, he stood tall. The weight he carried would remain hidden. Not after what they had been through.

Naboo would meet them with grace. And he would, too.

As more disembarked, Aiden offered nods, quiet reassurances. "Follow the Soldiers, and Jedi Order members present, yes, that way. You're safe now. Warm quarters await, food, water, medical care."

The words weren't rote. They were a promise. Farther back in the group, he spotted the rescued Jedi, three Knights, and two Padawans. Moving with that particular blend of discipline and barely contained dread, they revealed the trauma only those who had escaped the core worlds understood. One kept her hand steady on her apprentice's shoulder, grounding him every time his gaze flicked toward a new sound.

Aiden's chest tightened. He knew that look. He had worn it once. He raised his hand in a quiet greeting. "The Sanctuary has rooms prepared. The healers are waiting."

The Knight with a wrapped shoulder bowed his head, voice rough. "Master Porte… thank you. If you hadn't..."

Aiden stopped him softly. "You all saved yourselves. I only opened a door."

He didn't mention the running, the smoke, the cold clarity of the saber in his hand, or the way the Force had whispered warnings too late for so many others. He didn't mention the faces he still saw each time he closed his eyes. Instead, he turned slightly, letting the Jedi fall into step behind him as the last of the refugees left the ship. Around them, the hangar bustled: Republic Soldiers hurried by, Naboo volunteers offered quiet reassurances, and even intelligence personnel guided people toward waiting transports. Warm halos from the ceiling lights played across the polished stone. After weeks of desperation, the entire scene felt almost surreal.

Hope lived here. Tangibly. Softly. Persistently.

Aiden breathed it in, weariness tugged ever more insistently at him now. It settled into his shoulders like a mantle he could no longer shrug off. True, the mission had been successful, but success came with a price. His muscles, aching from days without proper rest, reminded him of every sleepless hour. His mind felt stretched thin; the Force within him remained steady, yet strained after too long spent shielding the fears of others.

But the sound of a child laughing, truly laughing, as she was lifted into a volunteer's arms, sparked something warm in his chest.Every moment. Every risk. Every mile between the Core and here, was completely worth it. He glanced toward the exit of the hangar, where the soft evening light of Theed tinted the stone a shade somewhere between honey and sunset. Beyond it lay the sanctuary grounds, the temple gardens, the river, the quiet pathways where survivors could breathe again.

Somewhere in that peace, he hoped to find a moment to breathe too.

Not yet, though.

There were still people to guide, still names to learn, still relief to offer. And despite the fatigue dragging at him, there was a steady, unbroken light in his eyes, one that had endured fleets, sieges, purges, loss, fire, and darkest of nights.

Hope walked with him.

 

[Arhiia Voronwe]

Tags: Aiden Porte



​

The din of the hangar had grown, voices overlapping with shuffling feet and the clatter of supplies. Arhiia paused, hands on her hips, eyes scanning the crowded scene. Her dirty-blonde hair, loosely pulled into a practical bun, caught the golden light, stray strands clinging to the warmth of her brow. Crystal-blue eyes swept over the crowd, sharp, taking in every faltering step, every child clinging to a parent, every tremor of exhaustion visible in the Jedi who had just arrived.


Her lips pressed into a thin line. Enough.


She straightened, shoulders squared, drawing a deep breath that carried through the Force. The hangar went still. For a heartbeat, no one moved; even the humming of the ship seemed to soften. Then, amplified through the Force, her voice rang out—not harsh, but unwavering, commanding:

"Listen to me!" she called, stepping forward. "I know you are tired. I know you are hurting, scared, and unsure. You have survived unimaginable things, but we are here to help. Follow directions, move carefully, and you will receive the care you need. Stay together, watch each other, and trust that this place—these people—are here for you."

The words echoed, cutting through panic like a lightsabre through mist. Slowly, order began to form. People fell into lines, soldiers and healers moved with purpose, and the wounded and weary found the tents prepared for them. Arhiia moved among them, hands guiding, reassurances whispered where needed, her eyes always alert, always noting what still needed tending.


And then she saw him.

Aiden Porte. The Knight's posture, though steady, carried fatigue deeper than the line of refugees around them could see. She had noticed him before—fleeting glimpses from across the Sanctuary ans Spire—but never this close, never in this vulnerable state. Her gaze lingered longer than she ever normally allowed, weighing the signs of exhaustion and the subtle tremor in his hands.

Once the crowd had been organized, the last of the healers in position, she moved toward him. Her approach was purposeful but measured, the air around her carrying a quiet insistence.

"Knight Porte," she said, crisp, with just a trace of warmth beneath the professionalism, "you can't help others if you're not at one hundred percent. Come with me—you're not getting through this hangar unscathed if you don't take a moment for yourself — force or not, you’re not immortal."

Her crystal-blue eyes met his, not accusatory, not pleading—just observant, bold, and impossibly steady. Even as the chaos continued around them, a tiny bubble of order seemed to form in her presence.

 

[Aiden Porte]

Arhiia Voronwe​

The voice cut cleanly through the noise, steady, commanding, edged with the kind of clarity that made people stop without realizing they had. It reached him before he even registered the words. He knew that voice. Or rather, he had heard it before, passing through the Sanctuary halls, speaking in brief reports during council gatherings, echoing down stone corridors during crisis briefings. A Jedi with presence, one whose name had been mentioned more than a few times in his orbit. Arhiia.

Yes… that was it. Arhiia. The name rose in his mind like a half-remembered melody, familiar yet frustratingly distant through the exhaustion fog layering his thoughts. He turned toward her just as she approached, her stride purposeful and her posture sharp against the backdrop of organized chaos. Aiden blinked once. And in that blink, the weariness he'd been holding at bay, the ache in his limbs he'd been ignoring. The Force wavered around him just slightly, as though nudging him to acknowledge what she saw.

But he straightened instead.

A quiet exhale slipped past his lips, meant to be steady, though a faint tremor betrayed him. He clasped his hands at the small of his back and met her gaze fully, offering a respectful nod.

"Arhiia, isn't it?" he said, voice low, roughened by days without proper rest. "Your efforts here are appreciated. Truly. But I'm fine."

His tone was controlled, polite, but carrying the steel of someone refusing to shift even an inch from their stance. He stepped slightly to the side, motioning toward the gathering of exhausted refugees now being guided to warmth, food, and safety because of her earlier intervention.

"They need far more than I do right now," he continued. "See to them. I've been through worse, and I can manage."

Another breath, slow, deep, smoothing over the fraying thread of fatigue in his voice. But she hadn't moved, and he didn't smile at least not yet.

He attempted a faint smile, something meant to reassure her, or perhaps deflect her concern, but it didn't fully reach his eyes.

"There are many here who deserve your attention more than me. See to them."

 

[Arhiia Voronwe]

Tags: Aiden Porte


​

Arhiia's smirk deepened ever so slightly at his words, though her posture never wavered. Crystal-blue eyes glinted with both amusement and that razor-sharp precision that marked her every move.

"'Fine,' Porte?" she repeated, tilting her head ever so slightly, letting the single word hang in the air as if daring him to argue further. "You realize that's not a request, correct? I don't care if you've been through worse. You are not helping anyone if you're running on empty."

She gestured with a flick of her hand, and through the Force, her voice carried softly but unmistakably over the remaining bustle of the hangar. "All refugees and soldiers are being attended to. The other healers have them, and the Padawans and Knights on the ground are assisting with reunifications. You are my only concern right now."

Her stride brought her closer, boots clicking lightly over the polished stone. She stopped a half-step from him, just close enough that her presence pressed gently on the edges of his awareness. Her tone softened, though it carried the same unyielding authority.

"Now come with me," she said, and her smirk turned just a touch mischievous. "Don't make me force the issue, Porte. I will if I have to."

She led him toward a quiet area near one of the medical tents, deliberately chosen so the chaos of the hangar would fade into the background. Every step she took radiated control, precision, and the subtle amusement of someone dealing with a thoroughly stubborn Jedi. Once they reached the small clearing she had prepared, she gave him a look that brooked no argument.

"Remove your upper armor," she instructed, her voice steady, crystal-clear, and edged with authority. "I need to examine you thoroughly. I'm serious, Porte. Every joint, every muscle, every thread of exhaustion visible in you—it's my job to fix that before you collapse halfway through the next crisis."

Her hands rested lightly at her sides, but there was a taut energy in her stance, an almost imperceptible hum of Force presence surrounding her. She was deadly serious, utterly competent, stubborn and an rancor and inwardly, she bristled a little at his stubborn hero act.

"You're not saving the galaxy on empty," she said, almost as if scolding a particularly obstinate apprentice. "And don't think I won't pull medical rank on you if it comes to it. Now."

Even as she spoke, her smirk lingered—the corner of her mouth twitching with amusement at having finally cornered the Knight. Inside, she felt the familiar rush of exasperation she had always carried when faced with someone who refused help, someone who reminded her far too much of her father. But professionalism kept her tone smooth, her movements controlled, her eyes locked on him, waiting for compliance.

 

[Aiden Porte]

Arhiia Voronwe​

Aiden followed because resisting would have caused a scene and because exhaustion tugged at him with the quiet persistence of gravity. Still, each step felt like an argument he refused to voice. The hangar noise faded behind them as Arhiia led him toward a quieter alcove near the medical tents, the scent of bacta gel and sterilized equipment hanging faintly in the air.

Her presence pressed at the edges of his awareness, focused, deliberate, unwavering. Aiden wasn't used to being herded. Jedi Knights rarely were. But more than that, he wasn't used to someone cutting so cleanly through the walls he kept up around others.

When she stopped and turned to him with that look, a mix of command and challenge, he let out a slow, controlled breath.

'Remove your upper armor.'

He blinked once. Then again. The Force around him stirred, a ripple of dry amusement pushing through his fatigue.

Of all the times of all the days to cross paths with someone this stubborn.

"You're remarkably persistent," he said, voice low but steady. "Most take the hint after the first dismissal."

"Why does my armor need to be removed? With the use of our technology, you should be able to just scan me, and I'll be on my way."

Jedi Knight's voice turned stern. He had known this person for a whole minute, and already she was beginning to be the most annoying he had ever met.

 

[Arhiia Voronwe]

Tags: Aiden Porte
​

Arhiia's brow arched sharply, a flicker of disbelief crossing her face before it hardened into an ice-blue edge. For the briefest instant, her lips pressed together, jaw tightening ever so slightly—an almost imperceptible flash of irritation that would have been dangerous if she weren't the epitome of control.

"You do not get to dictate how I perform my duties, Porte," she said, voice clipped, precise, carrying a weight that would have made anyone else think twice before speaking again. Her hands flexed at her sides, a subtle signal of the energy coiled just beneath her composure. "Technology does not replace a thorough, hands-on examination. That includes posture, circulation, subtle fatigue, micro-injuries—things sensors won't pick up, things I have trained years to look for as a healer."

Her smirk had vanished, replaced by a glare that somehow sharpened her already striking features. The blue of her eyes was almost painfully clear now, unyielding and cold, yet tempered with the unwavering care that defined her work.

"This is not a request, Knight Porte," she added, leaning just slightly closer so he could feel the insistence without her touching him. "You? — can be stubborn anywhere else in the galaxy. Here? You follow my instructions. Now, remove your upper armor."

Her tone carried a subtle undercurrent of personal challenge, one that mixed exasperation and authority. She had been caught off guard by his boldness, yes—but more than that, his arrogance and deflection triggered a reflexive edge in her. She would see this through, even if it meant standing toe-to-toe with the most obstinate Knight she had ever encountered.

"You are under my care," she added, softer now, but still firm, letting just the barest hint of exasperation slip in. "And I take care of my patients properly. That includes you. Don't make me repeat myself."

 

[Aiden Porte]

Arhiia Voronwe​

Aiden held her stare, the hangar's dim lights catching the gold in his irises. Despite her sharpened authority and precise voice, he didn't step back. Instead, he settled into place, immovable as Theed's marble spires.

Her command cut clean, but his silence cut cleaner. Finally, he exhaled, not defeated, not chastened, but steady, unyielding. "Arhiia," he said, his tone level but edged with something unmistakably firm, "You're very good at what you do. No one is disputing that."

He shifted, arms crossing over his chest with the certainty of someone who knew his line. A soldier's stance. Jedi poise. Too tired to bend for anyone.

"But I'm not under anyone's control," he continued. "Not here. Not on the battlefield. Not anywhere." Her ice-blue glare didn't faze him. It drew a faint, tired smirk, one that didn't reach his eyes but held the stubborn will of someone forged by fire, unwilling to reshape for anyone.

"You don't get to dictate to me," he said calmly. "Medical protocol doesn't override my autonomy. The Order doesn't own me. And exhaustion doesn't make me incapable of making my own choices." He paused, letting the words settle like a boundary set in stone.

"I'll accept help when I decide I need it. Not because someone barks orders in a crisp tone." The Force shifted around him, quiet, controlled, resolute. He was tired; she saw that. But tired didn't mean passive. He lifted his chin, gaze steady as tension simmered.

"I appreciate your concern," he said, voice lower now, but no less stubborn. "Truly. But if I say I'm fine enough to stand and continue my duties, then that is exactly what I'm going to do."

He stepped past her, not shoving or dismissing, but with calm certainty, a man hardened by storms fiercer than irate healers.

"You can examine the others," he added as he moved. "But I decide for myself." Without breaking stride, his tone softened, betraying weary sincerity:

"I've been through worse than this. A lot worse, more than you will ever know. This? I can handle."

 

[Arhiia Voronwe]

Tags: Aiden Porte ​

Arhiia did not watch him step past her.


She pivoted after him.


Not with a dramatic flare, not with Force, not with theatrics — but with the lethal, controlled turn of someone whose patience had just been set ablaze.

"Stop."

The word cracked through the air like a vibroblade through ice.

Aiden would feel her presence spike — not wild, not unrestrained, but focused, burning hot and bright and uncompromising.

When he turned, she was already there, stepping into his path with the grounded certainty of someone who'd lived her entire life in service and sacrifice.

Her voice was low when she spoke. Low and furious.

"Do not—"

her finger lifted slightly, not touching him, but close enough to mark the line he'd crossed

"—ever imply that I don't understand suffering. Not you. Not anyone."

Her chest rose sharply, breath tight, not from anger alone — from memory.

"You think I don't know loss?"

Ice-blue eyes hardened into something diamond-sharp.

"You think I don't know what it is to push so hard you break and don't tell a soul?"

Her jaw clenched. A muscle ticked.

Then her voice dropped lower — softer, but infinitely more dangerous.

"Do you recall the last invasion of Tython?"

A beat.

"My father," she said, the words precise even through the tremor she didn't allow to escape, "Master Iston Voronwe — died there. Protecting our own, our creed, our ideals. I told him he needed to rest. For weeks I told him."

A breath. Controlled. Devastating.

"When they brought back his body… the autopsy showed a failing heart. He knew. And he said nothing because he 'could handle it.'"

Aiden would see something flicker across her expression — not weakness, not self-pity.

But pain weaponized into purpose.

She inhaled sharply, the barest tremor in the breath. Then — a subtle motion:

Arhiia slicked her hair back with one hand, pushing it from her face.


Not vanity.
Not nerves.
A soldier sharpening herself.

Her teeth caught her lower lip for just a moment — a tell she hadn't shown anyone in years — emotion knotted beneath iron discipline.


"My mother died giving birth to me. My father died because he ignored his limits and our relationship? — never even got a chance to know him before he died. I have been alone in the galaxy since the day I entered it."

Every word vibrated with raw charge — hurt, fury, and fierce conviction braided together.

"So don't you dare stand there and act like your stubborn pride to admit your exhausted make you special. Don't act like your scars give you supremacy over anyone else's."

She stepped closer — final, uncompromising, unafraid.

"I am not trying to control you, Knight Porte. I am trying to keep you alive. Because that is what I do. That is what I dedicated my life to."

Her voice cracked—just once—before hardening again.

"If you walk away, you are not proving strength. You are repeating every fatal mistake of every stubborn jackass who thought they were invincible."

A breath.
Sharper this time.
Fire under ice.

"If you want to throw your life away," she finished, voice almost a whisper, "do it somewhere I don't have to watch."

The Force around her trembled — not with rage, but with the depth of a wound rarely shown, and the intensity of someone who refuses to lose anyone else to preventable pride.

 

[Aiden Porte]

Arhiia Voronwe​

Aiden stopped, but not because he had been ordered to. Not because her presence sliced like a blade.
But because something in her voice, low, cracked, dangerous in its honesty, caught the breath in his chest and held it there.

He turned slowly, caught between reluctance and the pull of her voice.

Arhiia stood before him like a storm held in human shape, every line of her body taut with something more volatile than fury. Her pain flared through the Force with such clarity it hit him like a breath of cold air, sharp enough to sting, real enough to silence anything he might have said.

For a moment, he didn't move. He didn't argue or deflect.

He simply looked at her, truly gazing. Past the authority, past the razor discipline, past the composure she wore as armor.Her words sank into him, one by one, Father. Autopsy. Failing heart. Alone since the moment she entered the galaxy.

He felt the tremor she held back. Felt grief honed to purpose, vibrating through the air.

And for the first time since stepping off the ship, he felt himself waver, not with exhaustion, but because her words struck something deep within him, unsettling his certainty.

When he spoke, his voice was quieter. Not so soft or fragile, just stripped of distance.

"I never meant to diminish what you've endured."

He stepped closer, no longer defiant, but with deliberate, grounded resolve. His stance stayed firm, unyielding, though the tension in his shoulders eased slightly. His eyes locked on her. "I don't know your losses. I won't pretend. I can't assume to understand your father's memory or its cost."

The hangar, distant now, seemed to fall away until it was only the two of them, their stubborn wills colliding in the quiet space between breaths.

"But understand this."

The edge returned to his voice, not sharp, not defensive, but solid.

"I'm not trying to be special or show off scars. I'm trying to serve, but when I stop, someone else out there gets hurt. If I stop, someone out there is put at risk of falling into darkness."

Aiden's gaze dropped, just briefly, to the ground between them.

Then he looked up again, steady and honest.

"You're wrong about one thing, though."

He stepped close, close enough that she could feel his steadiness through the Force worn and frayed, but real.

"I'm not walking away to throw my life away. I walk away because I don't want anyone to see me fall."

His jaw tightened, not from arrogance, but from the brittle heft of a truth rarely unshrouded.

"And maybe that's a mistake. Call it pride, fear whatever you wish." Aiden took a slow, grounding breath. "But it's not disrespect. And it's not invincibility, its hope that I believe in. If ask anything of you right now, don't disprespect me by disregarding my hope."

He held her gaze, unflinching.

"I hear you, Arhiia. I do. More than you know."

Another pause long enough to matter. "If it will help ease your mind, then so be it." He walked back inside, and he began to shed his armor as he sat on the medical bed.

 

[Arhiia Voronwe]

Tags: Aiden Porte
​

Arhiia followed him into the medbay alcove, but only far enough that the curtain's shadow swallowed the noise of the hangar behind them. She didn't speak. Didn't move toward him. Not at first.

She just stood there, a few steps inside the threshold, her breath caught behind her ribs like something barricaded. It took her a long, long moment before she could even lift her eyes to him.


When she finally did, it wasn't with authority.
It wasn't with anger.
It was with something stripped back to bone.

"…I should not have spoken to you like that."

The words were soft, but they hit the air with the weight of someone who never apologized unless it cut her open to do so.

She stepped closer—not enough to crowd him, just enough to choose honesty instead of retreat.

"You weren't the stubborn one," she said quietly. "I was."

A breath. A pause. Her jaw tightened, loosening only when she forced herself to keep talking.

"And what I said… about my father…"

Her gaze fell to the floor, then lifted with effort.

"It wasn't fair to throw that at you."

For someone so stern, so controlled, the vulnerability trembling at the edges of her voice didn't belong in a public space—but she kept going anyway.

She approached him slowly, movements deliberate, healer's hands steady even while her emotions weren't.

"May I?" she asked.

Only after he didn't refuse did she begin.

She started at his shoulders, her palms warm against the worn tension in the muscles. No tech yet. Just touch. Just the Force—the quiet ripple of her senses extending through tendon and bone, feeling for strain, bruising, imbalance.

Her breath softened.
The tension in her shoulders eased.
Her voice dropped.

"The Force tells the truth more clearly than any scanner."

Her fingers moved down the line of his arm, slow, precise, checking joints, feeling the tremor of fatigue he tried to hide. Her brow furrowed—not in frustration now, but something gentler. Something closer to worry.

"You know…" she murmured, "you remind me of him."

She didn't stop the examination, but her voice thickened as she spoke.

"My father was the same. Wouldn't stop. Wouldn't rest. Wouldn't let anyone see him slip."

Her inhaled breath shook the slightest bit.

"He died on Tython because he waited too long to ask for help… but even then, maybe he died there because that was how he wanted it — on his terms… protecting, serving… keeping hope alive…. "

Her hands moved to his ribs, gentle but thorough, pressure testing for hidden fractures.

"And when I pushed you earlier…"

She swallowed.

"…it wasn't because I thought you were weak."

Her hands paused just over his sternum, not touching now—hovering just barely above his skin.

"It was because I saw him in you. And it frightened me more than I expected."

A long breath.
A longer silence.

Then—soft, almost ashamed:

"And maybe I pushed harder because I didn't want you to think I was incompetent. Or… overbearing. Or incapable." Her lashes lowered, and she steadied herself. "Maybe I was trying too hard."

A pause.

A flicker of courage pulling her chin up.

"…trying to impress you."

She let the confession sit.
Didn't run from it.
Didn't dress it in anything else.

Then she resumed her work, placing her hand lightly against the back of his neck, letting the Force sweep through one final time—reading the strain, the fatigue, the weight he carried like a second spine.

Quietly, almost reluctantly, she said:

"You don't have to let me in, I get it — most people find me… overbearing, take the hint right? But don't ever mistake my frustration for disrespect. I only push when I'm afraid of losing someone…. And I didn’t want to see anything happen to you… I know how hard you work to take care of us, I know how seriously you take your position in this Order and I would…. never mock that Aiden… never disrespect that."

Her hands finally lowered, her exam coming to a completion — as her crystal clear blue eyes locked with his silence between them now as her hand rested gently on his forearm.

 

[Aiden Porte]

Arhiia Voronwe​

Aiden stood still beneath her hands. The dimmed medtent light caught the tired planes of his face as Arhiia's confession settled between them. He didn't interrupt or recoil. He let her speak, allowing her honesty to breathe in the quiet space carved out from the chaos outside. But when her fingers left his skin and her crystal-blue eyes met his, something in him, usually tightly locked, unfolded just enough to be seen.
Not all the way. But enough.

A long breath left him, steady and quiet, betraying both relief and lingering anxiety. He reached up, gently covering the hand she'd rested on his forearm. He anchored it there for a moment, an unspoken assurance: he wasn't pulling away. His gaze softened. The hard edges of command and exhaustion faded into something far more human.

"Arhiia," he said, and though his voice was low, it carried a clarity that left no room for doubt. "I never thought you incompetent. Or overbearing. Or incapable. You're far more than you think you are. Don't forget that."

He let the silence linger, not awkward, but meaningful. A pause to steady both of them. Then he continued, quieter still.

"You won't lose me."

There was no bravado in the words. No insistence, only a quiet earnestness and a glimmer of hope. Just truth. soft spoken and unguarded. He shook his head, not denying her worry, but acknowledging its weight.

"But I can't stop. Not now. Not yet."

His eyes lifted, tired but fierce with stubborn resolve and a spark of determination that defied his exhaustion. "I've promised too many people I would stand for them. Refugees. Padawans. Survivors who don't have the strength to keep fighting. I've told them again and again, as long as I draw breath, they aren't alone. And I'm not going to break that promise, for anyone."

His posture straightened, not with arrogance, but with purpose deep in his marrow. The Force stirred around him, weary but steady. A quiet glow marked Aiden Porte, even in his darkest hours.

"I know you want me to rest," he said. "I know you want me to stop before I fall. And… you're right that I push too hard. Maybe more than I should."

He let out a slow exhale, a faint smile tugging at the corner of his mouth, tired, but warm.

"But I'm not done yet. Too many still need hope. Too many need someone to carry them until they can stand again. And that's who I am, Arhiia."

He didn't pull away from her hand. If anything, his grip softened, became more intentional.

"But I hear you," he added. "More than you think." His gaze held hers with quiet sincerity. "And when the time comes. When the galaxy gives me even a moment to breathe, I'll let myself rest."

A final breath, grounded and resolute.

"But not before I finish what I've promised to those who still need me."

He stood up and began to put on his armor.

"Do you understand?" He asked, with a genuine look.