Private Simple Gifts

[Aiden Porte]

Arhiia Voronwe​

The Naboo plains opened beneath him like a held breath finally released.

Aiden Porte slowed his speeder as the familiar rise and fall of the grasslands came into view, gold even beneath the pale wash of winter sun. Life Day had reached every corner of the planet, he could feel it long before he saw it. Lanterns glimmered along distant paths like scattered stars fallen to the earth, warm hues of amber and soft blue swaying gently in the breeze. Somewhere far off, laughter carried. Music too, subtle, woven into the air like a second heartbeat. Even the Force felt different here tonight. Lighter. Warmed by intention, by gathering, by hope.

He exhaled slowly, shoulders easing as the tension of the mission finally began to slip away. The galaxy beyond Naboo still burned with uncertainty, politics, shadows, threats that never truly slept, but here, in this moment, there was peace. Not the fragile kind born of denial, but the quiet, earned kind that settled into his bones when he allowed himself to come home.

The homestead appeared ahead, modest and steadfast against the open plains. Snow dusted the roof and clung to the low stone walls, catching the light of the lanterns he'd left burning before his departure. Their glow welcomed him back like open arms. He brought the speeder to rest and sat for a moment longer than necessary, hands still on the controls, simply…feeling.

Arhiia's presence wasn't immediately before him, but he felt her all the same. A steady warmth in the Force, familiar as breath. Grounding. The thought of her waiting inside, perhaps tending the hearth, perhaps lost in thought, perhaps smiling without realizing why, softened something deep in his chest.

Aiden rose and retrieved the small parcel stowed carefully at his side. Two, actually. He handled them with a reverence usually reserved for artifacts or sacred texts, as if the care he'd taken wrapping them mattered just as much as what lay beneath. One was wrapped in deep, muted green cloth tied with a simple ribbon. The other in soft cream, marked by a faint, hand-drawn starburst in the corner. He had wrapped them himself. Uneven edges and all.

As he moved towards his him he gave friendly wave and smile to those of Shiraya's hope in the distance, some of the had invited their families to the homestead to share the time together. It was a good feeling, seeing that they hadn't lost themselves. That they still had faith in Aiden, as well as his visions of the future.

The door opened with a familiar hush, warmth spilling out to meet the cold. The scent of cedar and simmering spice wrapped around him instantly, and he allowed himself a small smile as he stepped inside. He closed the door behind him, shutting out the wind and the world beyond Naboo's gentle borders.

For a moment, he simply stood there, boots dusted with snow, cloak heavy on his shoulders, taking in the quiet hum of home. Lanternlight flickered along the walls, reflecting off polished wood and worn stone. Life Day decorations had been added since he'd last seen the place: a string of lights draped along the mantle, a small woven charm hung near the doorway, catching the glow and scattering it softly across the room.

Aiden crossed to the central table and set the parcels down with care, placing them side by side as if they belonged together. His fingers lingered there a heartbeat longer than necessary. Anticipation stirred, not anxious, not sharp, but warm and hopeful.

"Home," he murmured under his breath, the word carrying more weight than any vow.

Straightening, he unfastened his cloak and let it fall over the back of a chair, the last remnants of the mission finally slipping away. Tonight was not for duty or vigilance. Tonight was for celebration. For warmth. For the quiet joy of giving something of himself to the woman who had become his center.

And when Arhiia would see the gifts, when she would smile, laugh or even call him a jackass, he knew, with a certainty the Force itself could not shake, that every mile traveled and every shadow faced had been worth it just to return here.

 

[Arhiia Voronwe]

Tags: Aiden Porte
​

The kitchen had never felt so small.

Arhiia stood at the counter, sleeves rolled just past her elbows, fingers dusted with flour she kept forgetting to brush away. The last of the food simmered quietly—stews and roasted roots, sweet breads cooling on the side, small plates arranged with more care than necessity. She'd rearranged them three times already. Maybe four. The fire crackled low and steady behind her, soft music threading through the room like a calm she was trying very hard to borrow.

She paused, resting her weight briefly against the counter. The cane leaned nearby, untouched but present, its familiar curve catching the lanternlight. She hadn't needed it in weeks, yet she kept it close—habit, memory, and something else she hadn't found a name for yet. A reminder of where she'd come from. Of who she carried with her.

This—all of this—was new.

Not the waiting. She knew how to wait. She had waited through pain, through healing, through long nights that stretched too thin. But this kind of waiting—hopeful, domestic, quietly sacred—made her chest feel tight in a way battle never had. She wanted this place to feel like rest to him. Like safety. Like somewhere he could finally set things down.

The Force stirred.

Not sharply. Not as warning. Just a gentle shift, like warmth spreading through cold hands. Her breath caught before she even realized why.

"He's home," she whispered to no one.

Boots on stone. The hush of the door. Warmth spilling outward.

Arhiia turned just as he stepped fully inside, lanternlight catching in her dark hair, her eyes already fixed on him as though the rest of the room had faded away. For a heartbeat she didn't move. She simply looked—at the familiar lines of him, the way the road still lingered in his posture, the snow clinging stubbornly to his boots.

Her hands tightened around the towel she'd been holding.

A smile found her slowly, not bright and practiced, but soft and relieved and unmistakably real.

"Aiden," she said, his name grounding her as much as it welcomed him.

She crossed the room, steps careful but unguarded, stopping just in front of him as if unsure whether to embrace him or let the moment breathe. The scent of cold air and travel clung to him, mingling with cedar and spice, and something in her chest finally eased.

"I missed you…," she admitted quietly, a hint of self-aware humor threading through her nerves. "I tried not too, but — failed. Repeatedly."

Her gaze flicked—briefly—to the parcels on the table, curiosity sparking before she reined it in. Instead, she reached up, fingers brushing the edge of his cloak, grounding herself in the simple reality of him being here. Safe. Returned.

"I wanted it to feel like home when you walked in," she said, voice softer now, honest in a way that felt almost vulnerable. "I don't really…know how to do that. But I wanted to try."

A breath. Then, steadier:

"Happy Life Day, welcome home…."

The words weren't ceremonial. They were personal. An offering.

And as the fire crackled behind them and the Force settled warmly around their shared space, Arhiia realized—perhaps for the first time—that home was not something she had to remember how to build.

She was learning.

With him.

 

[Aiden Porte]

Arhiia Voronwe​

For a moment, Aiden forgot how to move.

The mission, every sharp edge of it, every calculation and restraint, fell away the instant she said his name. 'Aiden' Not spoken as a title, not as a Knight returning from duty, but as him. The man who belonged here. The man standing in the doorway with snow on his boots and too many thoughts still trying to settle. He felt her before he truly saw her. The Force wrapped around him gently, unmistakably hers. steady, warm, resilient in a way that had nothing to do with strength and everything to do with endurance. It met him halfway, like she always did.

He let out a breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding.

"Arhiia…" he answered softly, her name carrying the same grounding weight for him that his had for her. He took a step closer, careful, as if the moment itself were something fragile. His eyes traced her in quiet detail, the flour dusting her fingers, the sleeves rolled back, the faint tension she hadn't quite hidden in her posture. She looked…real. Present. Alive in this space she had shaped with intention.

When she said she'd missed him, something in his chest tightened, not painfully, but deeply, like a truth settling into place.

"I felt it," he admitted, voice low and honest. "The whole way back. Like the path kept pulling me forward faster than it should've." A faint, almost self-conscious smile touched his mouth. Her hand brushed his cloak, and that simple contact anchored him more firmly than any meditation ever had. "You didn't just make it feel like home," he said after a moment, gaze lifting to meet hers fully. His eyes were tired, yes, but softened now, unguarded in a way few ever saw. "You made it be home."

His attention flicked briefly to the room around them, the lanternlight, the careful arrangement of food, the small signs of effort layered with thought. The cane nearby did not escape his notice either. He didn't comment on it, but his eyes lingered there for a heartbeat, full of understanding rather than concern.

"This is amazing." Aiden smiled big as he closed the distance between them, his lips finding hers. He then lifted her up and turned with her, a single smooth twirl in the center of the kitchen as if they were dancing to the crackle of the hearth. For a heartbeat, he simply held her there, suspended, as though he needed to prove to himself she was real. That she was here. That he was home.

"Happy Life Day," he whispered, kissing her once more. "I came back to you. That was the easy part."

Only then did he turn slightly, guiding her attention, not away from him, but with him, toward the table. He set her down as he gestured to the two parcels, wrapped with a care that was almost endearingly imperfect. "I brought something," he said, tone lighter now, though the meaning beneath it ran deep. "Two things, actually. And before you say anything, yes, I thought about it too much. No, I don't regret it."

His gaze returned to her, earnest and open. As much as he wanted to tell her what they were, he would explain the meaning behind them, whenever she wanted to open them.

"They're not grand." A pause. A breath. "They're just…pieces of what I carried home with me. Pieces that belong to you." The fire crackled behind them. The food simmered. The Force settled into a warm, steady hush around their shared space. And standing there, with flour on her fingers and his hand in hers, Aiden knew, without doubt, that this was what he would always fight to return to.

 

[Arhiia Voronwe]

Tags: Aiden Porte
​

For a heartbeat after his words, Arhiia simply stood there, caught between the warmth of his hands and the quiet gravity of what he'd just said.

Two things.

Her gaze followed his gesture to the table—and something in her expression shifted immediately. Surprise first. Then disbelief. Then a flicker of panic she didn't quite manage to hide.

"Aiden—" she started, then stopped herself, lips pressing together as if bracing. Her eyes dropped, a crease forming between her brows. "I didn't… I didn't get you anything." The admission came out rushed, edged with frustration—not at him, but at herself. "I thought—Life Day, yes, but I was so focused on this. On you coming home."

She exhaled sharply, scrubbing one flour-dusted hand over her face. "I should have—stars, I should have thought of something."

But he was already looking at her that way—quietly proud, unbothered by imbalance, steady as ever. And she saw it then: not expectation, not disappointment. Only intention. Only care.

That softened her resistance.

"…Okay," she said finally, voice quieter, conceding not because she felt she owed him, but because she trusted him. Her fingers trembled faintly as she reached for the smaller parcel—the one wrapped in cream cloth, marked by the hand-drawn starburst. Something about it pulled at her, gently but insistently.

She untied the ribbon.

The cloth fell away to reveal the necklace.

For a moment, Arhiia didn't understand what she was seeing. Her breath caught—not sharply, but as if the air itself had gone thin. The shard rested against the fabric, catching lanternlight in a familiar way that made her heart stutter.

"No," she whispered.

Her fingers hovered, afraid to touch it. Afraid that if she did, it would vanish. But when she finally lifted it, the truth landed all at once—heavy and undeniable.

Kyber.
Her father's kyber.

Not whole. Not restored. But alive. Preserved. Honored.

Her knees nearly gave out.

Arhiia sank into the nearest chair as if the strength had simply left her body, clutching the necklace to her chest. Her breathing fractured, the composure she carried so carefully shattering without warning. Tears welled fast, spilling over as a broken sound escaped her—half laugh, half sob.

"I—I thought it was gone," she choked. "I felt it die. I felt it—"

Her shoulders shook now, openly. She pressed the shard against her heart as if grounding herself through the pain and memory and love all tangled together. The Force stirred around her, not violently, but deeply, like something old and sacred recognizing itself.

"You brought him back," she said through tears, voice raw. "You brought him back to me."

She barely noticed when Aiden knelt beside her—only that his presence anchored her while she cried, utterly unguarded, for the first time in a long while.

It took her several breaths—several heartbeats—before she noticed the second parcel still waiting.

Her eyes lifted to it slowly.

"…What else could you possibly—" she murmured, already shaking her head, already overwhelmed.

She wiped her face, stood on unsteady legs, and reached for the green-wrapped bundle.

The fabric came away.
And the galaxy stopped.

Her father's lightsaber lay cradled in the cloth—whole. Reforged. Not merely repaired, but reborn. The hilt bore familiar lines softened into something new, something hers. She felt it before she touched it—the resonance, the harmony of a crystal tuned not to memory alone, but to who she had become.

Her hand closed around the hilt.

The Force surged—not explosively, but like a tide returning to shore after a long exile.

Arhiia broke.

A sob tore free, full and unrestrained as she dropped to her knees, clutching the saber to her chest like a lifeline. Tears streamed freely now, breath hitching as grief and gratitude collided in her all at once.

"He destroyed it," she cried, voice muffled against the metal. "I watched him destroy it. I thought— I thought that it was irreparable, just gone forever, when did you even?—….."

She looked up at Aiden then, eyes red, face streaked, utterly undone—and saw the pride there. Not ownership. Not expectation. Just quiet reverence for what he had returned to her.

"You didn't just fix it," she whispered. "You understood it."

She rose unsteadily and crossed the distance between them, lightsaber still clutched tight, and buried herself against him. Her arms wrapped around his waist, face pressed into his chest as she cried openly, fiercely, without apology.

"I don't deserve this," she said faintly.

Then, softer. Truer.

"I don't know how to carry this much love."

But she held on anyway.

And in the warmth of the fire, beneath lanternlight and Life Day's quiet blessing, Arhiia knew—with a certainty as deep as the Force itself—that some things were not lost to time or violence.

Some things always came home.

 

[Aiden Porte]

Arhiia Voronwe
​

"This one…" He hesitated, not from uncertainty, but from the weight of what it meant to offer her something made for her hands, her body, her life. "This one is meant to fit you. Not the idea of you. You."

"That one." he said, voice quieter, "I'm pretty proud of that one."

He watched her unwrap it. The cloth fell away to reveal a small box, and inside, nestled carefully, lay a necklace. A slender chain, simple and strong, meant to sit close to the throat without pulling. At its center hung a piece of crystal, fractured, not polished into false perfection, but shaped in a way that honored what it had been. The facets were uneven, evidence of damage that could never be undone. And still…it caught the lanternlight. Not as a sharp glitter, but as a soft glow. As if the crystal remembered how to be bright.

Aiden felt his chest tighten as he looked at it. He could almost hear the quiet in her, the way her thoughts would go still when something reached the parts of her that didn't have defenses.

"It wasn't salvageable," he said gently, meeting her eyes. "Not in the way we usually mean. It couldn't be restored to what it was. But it still holds light," he continued. "It still holds hope. The fracture didn't take that from it."

He swallowed once, the motion small but telling.

"I had it set like this so you wouldn't have to hide the break. You don't have to pretend it didn't happen. You can carry it as it is… and still let it shine."

Aiden's gaze flicked down to the crystal again, then back to Arhiia, steady and open. "So that way," he said, voice warm with something that bordered on reverence, "your father is always with you."

The words landed between them like a gentle weight, heavy, but not crushing. Aiden didn't rush to fill the silence afterward. He simply stood close, one hand hovering near her back as if ready to grab her if she lost her footing. In the crackle of the fire and the soft music and the quiet, festive glow of Naboo beyond their walls, Aiden watched her with the kind of attention that was its own devotion, waiting not for an answer, but for her to breathe, for her to feel it, for her to know he meant every word.

Then came the second gift.

He watched her unwrap it, every movement of her fingers registering in his mind like a meditation. A long, sleek lightsaber hilt set into foam, crafted with deliberate balance. The metalwork was refined, not ornamental for its own sake, but elegant in a way that suggested intention. The grip was slightly narrower than standard. The weight distribution had been adjusted to sit naturally in smaller hands without sacrificing control. Subtle ridges and a wrap that wouldn't chafe after hours of training. The couplers were clean, seamless, built to lock with certainty.

Aiden's voice softened as he explained, the way it did when he spoke about things he'd poured himself into.

"It's dual-bladed," he said. "But not heavy. I shifted the internal balance, moved the center of mass so it won't fight you when you turn. You shouldn't have to wrestle it just to make it obey. It should feel like an extension of your own movement."

He let her absorb it, let her eyes travel the details, the small etched line near the emitter that echoed a Naboo motif, the understated inlays that caught the lanternlight without demanding attention. The sob that tore free of her wasn't quiet, and Aiden didn't flinch from it. He leaned closer, one hand still firm at her back as if to keep her from tipping into the grief too fast, too deep. He could feel it echoing in the Force, raw, sacred, old.

Aiden didn't move at first.

He simply held her, firm enough that she could fall apart without fear, gentle enough that nothing about it felt like restraint. Her sobs shook against his chest, raw and unfiltered, and he let them. He let the sound exist in the space between them the way the Force allowed storms to pass: without judgment, without interruption, only presence.

One hand settled at the back of her head, fingers threading softly into her hair where the lanternlight caught along dark strands. The other wrapped around her waist, anchoring her against him as if the very act of holding her could keep the galaxy from taking anything else. He could feel how tightly she clutched the saber, the metal pressed between them like a memory made real. He could feel the kyber shard against her heart, warm with her body heat now, glowing faintly in the Force like a steady candle in a long-dark room.

This was grief. And love. And the unbearable relief of something thought lost being returned.

Aiden's throat tightened, he didn't try to fix the tears. He didn't offer a platitude that would make them smaller. He had seen too much of what it cost people to be brave, and he knew Arhiia's composure was not something she wore because she was untouched, it was something she'd built so she could keep standing while the world tried to break her. If the cost of her strength was finally being able to shatter safely in his arms, then he would be the place it happened. Every time.

Her words 'I don't deserve this…I don't know how to carry this much love' hit him like a blade turned inward.

Aiden drew a slow breath and tipped his head down until his lips brushed her temple, not quite a kiss, more a vow pressed into skin.

"You already gave me more than anyone ever has," he said quietly, voice steady, sure. Not loud enough to compete with her sobs, but strong enough to be heard through them. "You gave me a place to come back to. You gave me peace when I didn't know I was allowed to want it."

He pulled back just enough to look at her, only a fraction, because he wouldn't make her leave his arms to meet his eyes. His gaze moved over her tear-streaked face, the tremble in her breath, the way her hands still held on like she feared the universe might change its mind.

"You missed me," he continued, his thumb sweeping gently along her shoulder, smoothing a crease in her fabric as if he could smooth the ache beneath it too. "You waited. You built all of this while you were still healing." His eyes flicked, briefly, to the cane where it leaned nearby, present, patient, a quiet witness, and when his gaze returned to her, it carried nothing but reverence. "You tried when it would've been easier not to."

His voice lowered, the words landing with the certainty of a promise he intended to keep.

"You deserve this," Aiden said. "You deserve to have pieces of what was taken returned to you. You deserve to hold light again without being afraid it'll be ripped away."

He swallowed, the emotion there but controlled, not hidden, not denied, simply carried. "You deserve the world," he told her, plain as truth. "And I'm going to do everything I can to give it to you."

A small pause followed, long enough for the words to settle into the spaces where doubt usually lived.

He tightened his embrace slightly, not to trap her, but to reassure her body that she was safe. His hand slid up and down her back in slow, rhythmic strokes, steadying her breathing without asking her to stop crying.

"You don't have to carry it alone," he added, softer now. "Not the love. Not the grief. Not any of it." His forehead rested lightly against hers. "Let me hold some of it."

The Force around them felt warm and deep, like a hearth that had been waiting for them both. The homestead and the world narrowed to the simple, sacred truth of two people clinging to each other as if home had finally stopped being a place and become a promise.

Aiden kissed her once, slow, deliberate and loving.

"I've got you," he murmured. "I'm here. And I'm not going anywhere."