Private Night Sky

[Aiden Porte]

Naboo
Forests Edge
Tags: Niijima Izumi

The Naboo night was alive with the quiet murmur of the forest. Crickets sang in hidden hollows, their rhythm underscored by the distant call of nightbirds circling above the lake. The canopy stretched overhead like a living cathedral, its leaves whispering in the gentle breeze that rolled down from the Gallo Mountains. In the clearing, a small campfire burned low, its flames licking at the wood with a patient, steady hunger.

Aiden Porte sat close to it, the amber glow catching on the lines of his face, deepening the shadows beneath his eyes. A freshly opened bottle of Naboo whiskey rested near his boot, and in his hand, the glass glinted faintly as he swirled the last measure before taking a slow sip. The taste was sharp, smoky, carrying with it the memory of orchards and distilleries far from the silence of these woods.

He leaned back against a worn travel pack, cloak drawn around his shoulders, and let his gaze wander upward. The stars above Naboo burned clear tonight, unclouded, their light reflected in the silver ribbon of the River threading in the distance. They seemed countless, each one a reminder of worlds he had set foot upon, and others he would never see. He wondered how many of those stars hid war, how many whispered peace.

The campfire cracked softly, sending sparks spiraling into the dark. They rose like fleeting constellations, fading before they reached the canopy. Aiden found himself watching them vanish, wondering if they resembled the lives he and his comrades tried so desperately to save, bright, fragile, and brief.

The whiskey dulled the ache in his chest, but not the thoughts. Here, in the Naboo forests, he felt both at home and apart from it all. The scent of damp earth, the familiar songs of night creatures, the warmth of the fire, it should have been enough. Yet beneath it ran an undertow: memories of the Temple, of the lives lost, of duties that never loosened their grip no matter how far he wandered.

Still, he lingered, letting the silence settle around him, the forest cradling him in its ageless calm. Tonight, under these stars, with the fire at his side and the burn of whiskey in his throat, he allowed himself one rare indulgence, simply being.

 

[Niijima Izumi]

Niijima Izumi's arrival was not heralded by sound but by presence, as though the firelight itself had reached out and pulled her from the forest's shadow. The black and red silk of her kimono shimmered faintly with each movement, the delicate threads catching firelight in whispers rather than declarations. She stepped lightly into the clearing, carrying herself with the kind of grace that made one unsure whether she had walked or simply appeared.

She lowered herself onto a flat stone near the fire, her sleeves folding around her like an elegant curtain. The faint clink of lacquered wood accompanied her movements as she withdrew a small flask and cup. The sake steamed as it poured, releasing a fragrance that curled upward, sweet and warm, delicate enough to weave itself into the smoke of the campfire.

Izumi lifted the cup with both hands, as was proper, though no one was present to judge her form. The vessel's warmth seeped into her palms, its heat bleeding through her skin in slow waves. She lingered on that sensation, grounding herself, before taking the first sip.

The sake arrived gentle, its sweetness brushing her tongue like a silk fan skimming across skin. She did not swallow immediately. She allowed it to rest there, to expand, until the softness unfurled into something fuller—dry, rich, with a faint nutty undercurrent that reminded her of roasted rice crackers passed discreetly between painted lips and whispered laughter. The warmth followed, sliding down her throat like a silken ribbon, settling in her chest where it bloomed outward, quiet but insistent.

The memory of those rooms returned unbidden: paper lanterns swaying softly, the low murmur of shamisen strings, the careful tilt of her smile behind painted lips as she poured drink after drink for men who never saw her eyes. She could almost hear the faint rustle of her former world in the sake's texture; the ritual of it, the illusion of warmth offered to others, never kept for herself.

But here, beneath Naboo's alien stars, there was no audience, no expectation. The sake was not for another's pleasure. It was hers alone, to drink slowly, to let it whisper truths against her tongue that she never voiced aloud. Each sip made the night sharper—the coolness of the breeze, the song of crickets, the hush of the river in the distance. The warmth from within met the chill from without, and for once, she allowed herself to simply feel both.

She opened her eyes again, lashes catching the glow of the fire, and set the cup lightly against her knee. Her gaze lifted across the flames toward the man opposite, her voice soft when it came, neither invitation nor dismissal, but something meant to blend into the night air.

"It seems," she murmured, words smooth as smoke, "that Naboo's night does not let one drink without stirring old ghosts."
​

 

[Aiden Porte]

Aiden's head lifted from the glow of his glass, the crackle of the campfire half-swallowed in the space between them. For a long breath he did not answer, only studied her, this apparition in silk and shadow, seated with the composure of someone who belonged here as much as the forest itself. The firelight painted her like a living brushstroke, ink and flame folded into one.

The whiskey in his hand felt heavier now, its heat dulled compared to the ritual she enacted across the fire. He watched the way she held the cup, the reverence of it, and wondered how many lifetimes had been folded into the simple act of drinking.

"Ghosts," he echoed, voice rougher than he intended, worn by smoke and thought. He tipped the last of the whiskey across his tongue, let it burn its way down, and then set the empty glass beside him. "I think Naboo has more of them than most worlds. They cling to the rivers, to the mountains, to the trees. Sometimes I swear the forest remembers what even the people forget."

His gaze lingered on the fire, though his words stretched toward her. The flames danced in his eyes, reflected in the faint amber of his irises. "But you're right. Nights like this…they call them out of you. Doesn't matter if you want them or not."

The campfire shifted, a log collapsing with a muted sigh, sending sparks spiraling upward. Aiden let the silence breathe for a moment, letting the night itself answer before he continued, softer now:

"The trick is deciding if you'll drink to bury them, or drink to listen."

He leaned back then, cloak rustling against the grass, and turned his eyes skyward again. The stars were sharp, endless, scattered like shards of crystal across black velvet. He let them fill the pause, but he did not close himself off. His attention drifted between constellations and the woman framed by firelight, wondering what kind of ghosts she carried, and if she intended to let them speak tonight.

Niijima Izumi