Private Storm and Scars

[Veyran Solis]

Jutrand Outskirts
Xian Xiao ​

The wind howled over the cliffs, dragging the taste of iron through the storm.

Veyran laid on his back, the cold of the night bringing snow down on him. The blood came slower now hot, steady, pattering onto the cracked stone in dark, spreading blooms.

He pressed a trembling hand against his chest, fingers sinking into the four ragged slashes that cut through armor and flesh alike. The pain was exquisite sharp enough to burn through the edges of his vision. His breathing came uneven, wet, but the grin never left his face.

So this was it.

The world tilted, red and gray blending as dust coiled in the air. He could still feel her, that echo of power fading into the storm. The pulse she'd left behind in the Force was like a phantom heartbeat one that didn't belong to him, but lingered in his blood all the same.

He laughed, cackling the sound cracked in his throat, half cough, half joy. Blood streaked his teeth when he exhaled.

The storm pressed close now, wrapping around him like a shroud. Lightning flared somewhere beyond the cliffs, turning the dust to silver for an instant, enough to catch the faint gleam of his eyes. There was no fear there. Only awe.

He slumped onto his back, staring up at the blackened sky. The Force thrummed dimly around him, his awareness slipping in and out of focus. Somewhere in that blur, he thought he saw her shape again the curve of a shadow, the glint of gold eyes in the dark.


"Little kitten…" The words were a whisper now, barely a breath. "You'll make a fine predator."


His smile lingered even as the color drained from his face, lips parted in something between a smirk and prayer. The blood pooled beneath him, warm, familiar. The storm carried the rest away his laughter, his name, his breath until there was only silence, and the soft hum of the Dark, curling like smoke around the place where he was near death.

 

[Xian Xiao]

Xian lingered at the edge of the training hall in her mind, recalling that night—the tremor in his hands, the quiet pull of something unspoken between them. Curiosity threaded through her like a soft current, urging her forward. What had become of him? Was he alive in the ways that mattered, or had the fight consumed him entirely?

The Force guided her steps across star systems, drawing her to the muted gray skies of Jutrand. Snow fell in slow, ghostly spirals, carrying a pulse she could feel at the center of her chest, tugging her onward.

Rounding a jagged ridge, she saw him—half-hidden in the drifts, snow settling over the dark stains of blood. Four ragged claw marks cut across his chest, raw and angry. His chest rose and fell in shallow, uneven gasps, limbs splayed against the frozen ground.

Her breath caught. The Force hummed, pulling her forward. And there, faint but undeniable, she felt the echo of him, a rhythm like a heartbeat not her own, a thread of consciousness flickering at the edges of her awareness. He's here…he's still here.

She landed her ship on a flat ledge not far from him, the engines humming quietly. Without hesitation, she ran through the snow, reaching him, hands gentle as she checked his chest and shoulders.

"Veyran…" she whispered, voice trembling, barely audible over the wind. Carefully, she lifted him, steadying his weight against her. Step by careful step, she carried him toward the ship, feeling a sharp knot of worry twist in her chest. He's so fragile…so human, even with all he's carried. How did he survive out here like this?

Once inside, the warmth of the cabin pressed against the chill, the hum of the ship's engines wrapping around them. She laid him down on a bench, brushing snow and frost from his shoulders and hair.

She prepared warm water and a cloth, her hands dipping into it as she knelt beside him. Gently, she began dabbing at the blood streaking his chest, careful, slow, letting the water seep warmth into his frozen skin. Four deep claw marks marred his chest, but her touch was steady, precise. He's trembling…not just from the cold. He's carrying something heavier than this wound. I can't fix that, but I can…do this much.

Softly, almost under her breath, she murmured, "You're not alone…not now…I've got you." Her words were a tether, a quiet anchor threading through the room, the hum of the engines, and the lingering chill.

And then, faintly, she felt it again, the echo of him in the Force. Not a voice, not a thought, but a presence, subtle and insistent, a pulse beneath the chaos. Her fingers paused, hovering above his chest, as if the connection itself gave her courage. He's alive. He's still here. He's not gone.

Her presence was calm, unwavering, a small bridge across the hollow spaces he had clung to. The engines hummed, the wind outside softened to a whisper, and in that fragile stillness, a quiet hope threaded through her—a hope that even amidst scars, frost, and clawed pain, there could still be endurance, connection, and care.

Even if he didn't respond, she would not leave him. She would hold the line, as the Force had guided her here, to him. And for now, that was enough.

Veyran Solis

 

[Veyran Solis]

Xian Xiao​

Pain was the only truth that still belonged to him.

It crawled through his chest in slow, burning waves, each heartbeat a throb of molten ache beneath the torn flesh. The cold should have dulled it, it didn't. The cold only sharpened the edges, made the hurt sing, made it real. He had thought that if he bled long enough, if the storm swallowed him whole, the galaxy would forget his name.

But the Force… the damned Force never forgot.

A sound cut through the dull roar in his ears soft, steady. A breath. A heartbeat that wasn't his. The scent of thawed air and warmth drifted against his face, fingers brushing his skin, grounding him back in a world he had already tried to leave.

He wanted to curse. To push her away. To tell her she was too late.

Instead, a fractured smile tugged at his lips, the kind born from pain so deep it lost its meaning. He didn't even have the strength to lift his head, just enough to let his eyes slit open, the light stabbing through the haze.

"...You shouldn't be here." he rasped. The words came out raw, cracked. "Should've left me… where I fell."


His throat burned with the effort, but he didn't stop. "You don't save what's already gone, Xian."

The warmth of the cabin pressed against his frozen skin, a cruel kindness he hadn't earned. She was still there he could feel her through the Force, the steady hum of calm she carried even now. It reached him like a hand through darkness, and for a fleeting second, he hated how much of him wanted to take it.

Another wave of pain surged through his ribs; he let it wash over him, welcomed it. It reminded him he was still something, even if that something was half-dead and undeserving. His vision blurred the ceiling, her outline, the shimmer of her aura through the haze.

He didn't understand why she came. Why she always reached for things that were already bleeding.

The smile stayed, weak but real. "You should've let the snow keep me." he murmured, eyes half-lidded. "It would've been… quieter that way."

But beneath the words, beneath the weariness, a pulse faint, stubborn still tied him to her through the Force. No matter how much he wanted to let go, something in him couldn't. Not yet.

 

[Xian Xiao]

Her hands stilled against his skin, the cloth heavy with melted snow and blood. For a moment, she just looked at him — at the faint curve of that broken smile, the defeat sitting in his eyes like something he'd already made peace with.

Then she shook her head slowly. "You really think I crossed half the galaxy just to let you die quietly?" Her tone was soft, but there was steel beneath it — the kind forged from loss, from knowing what it meant to be left behind.

She wrung the cloth out, the water falling in slow drops that hit the basin like muted heartbeats. "You're not gone, Veyran. You're just… lost in the noise. The storm doesn't get to have you — not like this."

He tried to look away, but she caught his chin gently, just enough to make him meet her eyes. "If you're going to go out, it's not going to be as a whisper buried under snow. You don't die in silence. You roar."

The words came out rougher than she meant them to, carrying all the stubborn defiance that had kept her alive this long. "You owe that to yourself — to the fight, to the anger you keep pretending is all you have left. Don't you dare let it fade into nothing just because it's easier to stop."

She let go of his face, her voice quieting again as she rinsed the cloth and laid it back over his chest, her touch steady. "You're still here," she murmured, more to herself than to him. "And as long as that's true, I'm not letting the snow take you. Not yet."

The ship's hum filled the silence between them, and for a heartbeat, she thought she saw something flicker behind his eyes — not surrender, but recognition. The faintest spark of what she'd followed the Force across the stars to find.

Veyran Solis

 

[Veyran Solis]

Xian Xiao​

The pain came in waves again sharper now, almost alive. But through it, her voice cut cleanly. Not soft. Not pitying. Real.

Veyran's breath caught halfway between a groan and a laugh, the sound raw against his throat. The words shouldn't have mattered he'd long stopped believing in the kind of fire she carried. And yet, hearing them now, here, with her hands warm against his chest, the snow melting in his wounds, he felt something old twitch awake.

He wanted to look away, but she wouldn't let him. Her grip was gentle, but unyielding. Her eyes were the same as he remembered fierce, unrelenting, a storm that refused to move on.

"Always…" he rasped, voice thin as smoke, "…so damn righteous."

It wasn't mockery. It was recognition. Almost reverence.

He blinked slowly, the motion heavy, the world tilting around the pulse of her presence. "You shouldn't waste that fire on me, Xian. You heal what can be saved. That's… not me."

 

[Xian Xiao]

Xian's hands didn't falter. The water had gone pink where it touched his skin, the cloth in her grasp darkening as she pressed it gently to the torn flesh across his chest. Each pass was careful, steady despite the slight tremor in her own fingers.

"Don't," she said quietly, but her tone left no room for argument. "Don't tell me who's worth saving."

The words came sharper than she intended, but she didn't take them back. Her gaze stayed fixed on his face, on the flicker of defiance that still burned beneath the pain. "You think I'd waste my fire on someone who didn't still have something left?" She drew in a breath, her voice softening, though the conviction beneath it remained unbroken. "You're still fighting, Veyran. Even now. You call that nothing, but I do not."

The cloth slipped from her fingers, forgotten, and she pressed her hand against his chest instead, just above the worst of the wounds. "You said once the fight was all you had. Fine. Then fight for this: for one more breath, one more chance to decide what else you can be. You are no lamb who goes out with a whimper."

Her thumb brushed faintly over his skin, careful not to reopen what she'd cleaned. "You don't get to go quiet," she murmured. "Not like this. Not buried under snow."

Her gaze softened then, the fierce line of her jaw easing. "When it's your time to go, it should be with a yell that shakes the stars. Not a whisper."

She stayed like that for a moment...her hand steady, her presence anchoring him, before she whispered, almost too softly to hear, "So don't you dare fade yet."

Veyran Solis

 

[Veyran Solis]

Xian Xiao​

For a long moment, he didn't breathe. Or maybe he did, and the sound just got lost in the silence between her words.

The weight of her hand against his chest warm, deliberate cut through the fog more than any medicine could. The pain still clawed at him, but it was a cleaner ache now, tethered to something living. He could feel her through it, the pulse of the Force that threaded her touch to his heart, steady and resolute.

When he finally exhaled, it came out in a shudder half-laughter, half-surrender.

His voice was little more than a rasp. "You talk like you've already decided for me."

The tremor in his chest wasn't from the cold anymore. It was from the absurdity that she'd come all this way, dragged him out of death's shadow, just to argue with the silence he'd chosen. "Always had to win, don't you?" he whispered, the faintest ghost of a smile tugging at his lips. "Even against the void."

But he didn't push her hand away. Couldn't. The warmth of it grounded him in a way that frightened him more than the claws or the snow ever could. It reminded him that he still existed, still occupied space in a galaxy he'd tried to vanish from.

He blinked, the motion heavy, his breath catching on the edge of pain and something dangerously close to hope.

His voice dropped to a whisper. "Don't stop talking, Xian. If I fade, I want that to be the last thing I hear."

 

[Xian Xiao]

Xian's hand stayed pressed to his chest, the warmth steady and grounding as she spoke, weaving her words carefully. Each one was chosen to keep him tethered—not to the pain, not to the shadows, but to something human, something light.

"I've been…busy," she began softly, her voice low, as though afraid to shatter the fragile line she was holding. "The children…they've been learning to build star-skiffs out of scrap. Pirates thought they could ambush us on Jutrand. They didn't expect a dozen kids to throw ration packs at them while I hid behind a crate jamming their comms." She smiled faintly, though the edges were fiction. "The kids were so proud. So proud of themselves…I think they were almost more dangerous than the pirates."

Her eyes flicked to him, searching for any sign he'd noticed the thread of untruth in her tale. "And on Bastion…I've been practicing elemental control: fire, water, and a little lightning. Sometimes I set the air ablaze to see it dance, then cool it down so the city doesn't complain. Diarch Rellik believed in me when no one else would. Took me in, gave me a chance when all I had were scraps and luck. He saw something in me worth shaping. He…he trusted me, and I'll never forget it."

Her thumb traced faint circles just above his heartbeat, deliberate, gentle. "You can have that chance too, Veyran, even if it's hard to see it now. Even if it feels like the fight is all that's left to you. There are still people who will give you space to breathe, to exist… to come back."

She shifted slightly, her voice threading between calm and encouragement. "And maybe…one day, you'll find yourself in the middle of a ridiculous story you've made up just to distract someone else from their pain. Maybe you'll laugh at it, like I do. But until then… rest. Focus on the breath, the warmth. I'll tell you stories, even if some of them are lies, until the snow can't touch you anymore."

Her gaze held his, steady, gentle, insistent—a quiet promise that he didn't have to fight alone, and that even amidst the wreckage, there could be moments of care, of choice, of hope.

Veyran Solis

 

[Veyran Solis]

Xian Xiao​

The sound of her voice filled the small cabin like heat. It wasn't loud; it didn't need to be. The cadence itself carried rhythm like the hum of the engines, like the faint pulse under her hand that she refused to let still.

Veyran listened. At first out of exhaustion, later because it was easier than fighting the pull of her words. The stories wound through the fog behind his eyes—children flinging ration packs, a woman making lightning dance above a city, the hint of laughter caught between syllables. He knew she was lying; not all of it, but enough. Yet he found himself holding onto the sound as if it were truth.

"You are lying...." he murmured. His breath trembled against her palm, barely enough to move it. "But… keep doing it."

The corner of his mouth twitched. He could almost see the scene she painted the impossible brightness of it, the mischief in the faces of the children, the light bending to her will. Something in that image settled deep inside him, a memory he wished had been his.

"Maybe…" His eyes fluttered, lashes heavy. "…maybe I could've built a skiff too." Memories of his own past flooded back, the pain and anger as the washed over him again and he closed his eyes for a brief moment, trying to find comfort in that paint yet he just opened his eyes once more, listening to the sound of her voice.

The air between them felt thick, charged with something more than the hum of machinery. Through the Force, he felt her presence as a slow, radiant tide, washing over the ragged edges of his consciousness. For the first time since the fight, the ache in his chest didn't feel like punishment. It felt like proof.

He drew in a ragged breath, her scent, metal, snow, smoke, anchoring him. "If I make it through this," he whispered, "you'll owe me another story. One that isn't a lie."

A pause, the smallest ghost of humor colored his tone. "Maybe one about you setting the city on fire on purpose." His chest rose again, steadier this time. The rhythm of her hand kept time with the pulse beneath it, and slowly, his breaths began to match her own.

"Don't stop talking, Xian." he murmured again, voice drifting toward sleep. "Just… stay. Until the storm forgets my name."

 

[Xian Xiao]

Xian's lips curved faintly, the smallest, tired smile ghosting across her face. "The storm didn't know your name, Veyran," she said quietly. "It only knew your silence. But I do. And I will not let it take that from you."

Her voice slipped back into its rhythm, low and steady, half lullaby, half confession. "Did I ever tell you about the glass trees on Oriva?" she asked, though she didn't wait for an answer. "They hum when the wind touches them. Whole forests that sing when the sun rises, and shatter when it sets. I stayed there once, long enough to learn the tune. Long enough to know that when one breaks, the others sing louder to fill the quiet. That's what you sound like right now. Like something trying to remember how to keep singing."

The lie was smooth, practiced, but beneath it ran the texture of truth. "Bastion wasn't like that," she admitted softly. "It was hard. Cold. I used to train until my hands bled: earth, fire, ice, air. Trying to control everything that wouldn't stay still. Rellik found me in the middle of a storm once. I'd lost control of the wind and nearly brought down a shuttle. Instead of casting me out, he just… stood there. Waited for me to calm the sky. He said power meant nothing without purpose. I didn't believe him then. I do now."

She adjusted her hand slightly, fingers spread to feel the rise and fall of his breathing. "You could learn that too, you know. To control it. To live with it instead of running from it."

Her tone lightened, the warmth of her voice curling around him like the heat from a low flame. "There was a trader on the Rim once who swore he'd seen me bend moonlight. Said I stole it from a crystal pool on Lothal." She chuckled under her breath. "Maybe I did. Maybe it just wanted to follow me."

Her eyes softened as she looked down at him, her following words nearly a whisper. "And once—this one's true—I slept on the edge of a canyon in Bastion's winter. The wind tried to cut through me, but the fire stayed. Not because I forced it, but because I wanted it. That's the trick, Veyran. The fire listens when you stop fighting it."

Her thumb brushed the edge of his jaw, slow, deliberate. "You could do the same. The storm doesn't need to remember you. Let it forget. You have better things to answer to now."

The sound of her voice filled the cabin again, soft and rhythmic, each word woven with calm insistence and the faintest trace of affection. "Now close your eyes," she murmured, leaning closer, her breath ghosting against his temple. "I'll tell you about the time I made the lightning dance for the children…or maybe about the day Bastion thawed and the Diarch smiled."

She let her words trail into the hum of the engines, steady, unbroken. "Just stay with me, Veyran. I'll talk until the storm is nothing but a story."

Veyran Solis

 

[Veyran Solis]

Xian Xiao​

Veyran let the words sink through him like warmth sinking through armor. He could almost hear the trees she described each one a note in some ancient chord that never quite ended. The image drifted into the dark behind his eyelids, bright and unreal: forests of glass, light bending, the air alive with song.

He wanted to tell her he remembered what that kind of sound felt like. He wanted to tell her that once, long ago, he had believed the Force could sound like that too. But the words wouldn't come. They didn't need to.

Her hand stayed where it was, gentle and insistent, her thumb tracing calm across his jaw. The air smelled of meltwater and oil and blood life and ruin mixing together. Every breath was a fight, but it was his to take. When she spoke of Rellik, of the fire that listened, something deep inside him stirred. It wasn't belief, not yet, but the faintest echo of it. The Force moved around him, through her, wrapping the edges of his awareness in something that felt like stillness instead of pain.

Her next breath ghosted against his temple, and for the first time since the fight, his body stopped bracing for the next blow. The tremor in his chest eased. His heartbeat steadied beneath her palm. He wanted to see the trees she spoke of their shattering, their song. In the darkness behind his eyes, he imagined them made of light, bending in the wind, and for the briefest moment, he could almost hear them hum.

"Keep talking." he whispered, the words slipping out as sleep began to drag him down, and unknowingly he found his forehead leaning into her embrace. Then his breathing slowed, the lines of strain around his mouth easing as he drifted into unconsciousness his pulse faint but steady under her hand, the rhythm of the ship and her voice carrying him through the quiet that followed.

 

[Xian Xiao]

Xian kept her voice low even after he'd gone quiet, her words threading through the hush like a soft current. The stories came easier now, their edges blurring between memory and invention: fragments of laughter in crowded markets, of storms that raged and obeyed in equal measure, of a girl who learned to speak to fire before she could trust her own reflection.

She spoke of Bastion again, the endless gray of its skies, the sound of rain against metal roofs, the smell of ozone that lingered after every lesson. "Rellik said the elements have moods," she murmured. "That lightning is just the sky's way of remembering it used to be alive." She smiled faintly to herself. "I think he was right. Everything remembers something. Even you."

Her gaze lingered on Veyran's face. His breathing had fallen into rhythm, slow, deliberate, as if the galaxy had finally permitted him to rest. The tension had left his jaw, the fight gone from his shoulders. For the first time since finding him in the snow, he looked almost peaceful.

A warmth spread through her chest; not pride exactly, but something softer. She felt the weight of his life in the fragile beat beneath her hand, and the thought came unbidden: I might actually be good at this.

The idea startled her. A mother. The word felt too big, too heavy for someone who still stumbled between her own storms. She wasn't ready for that kind of stillness, that kind of responsibility. And yet, the tenderness that rose in her was undeniable, stubborn as the light that refused to die in winter skies.

She exhaled slowly, letting the thought drift away like vapor. He wasn't a child. And she wasn't ready to be anything but what she was — a former Jedi trying to keep one life from slipping away in the dark.

Her thumb brushed once more against his cheek, a small, grounding gesture. "Sleep," she whispered. "You've earned it."

She lingered just a moment longer, letting the sound of his breathing fill the space where her stories had been. Then, carefully, she rose. Her movements were quiet and practiced as she gathered her cloak, secured the medpack, and adjusted the ship's controls. The navicomp blinked to life under her fingers, its hum steady and familiar.

Outside, the storm had thinned to drifting flakes that caught the light like ash. Xian angled the ship's nose toward the horizon, toward Bastion. The engines thrummed, a low, comforting sound.

As the ship lifted, she glanced back once. Veyran was still, his face pale but no longer gray, his chest rising in calm rhythm.

Xian allowed herself a breath she hadn't realized she'd been holding. Then she turned back to the viewport, the faintest smile ghosting her lips. "Hold on, Veyran," she murmured. "We're going home."

Hours slipped by in the hush of hyperspace, a quiet, steady rhythm of stars and heartbeat. And somewhere amid that stillness, as the light of Bastion began to glimmer faintly ahead, Veyran's fingers twitched against the blanket. A sharp inhale followed, slow but certain. It was the sound of someone beginning again.

Veyran Solis

 

[Veyran Solis]

Xian Xiao​

The hum of the engines came first. Low. Constant. A sound that pressed against the edges of sleep until it became thought.

Veyran's fingers twitched, a reflex more than intent. The blanket under his hand was rough, warm where the air was not. For a long moment, he didn't open his eyes, just listened. To the quiet vibration of hyperspace. To the faint, rhythmic whisper of someone breathing nearby. To the steady beat that wasn't the ship at all but his own chest.

Alive. He was alive.

The realization settled like a weight instead of a relief. Every nerve felt raw, his body too heavy for motion. But the pain was different now muted, almost bearable, like the echo of something that had already decided to let go. When he finally blinked his eyes open, the light was soft and fractured, slipping through the viewport in streaks of blue and white. The stars stretched long and silent beyond the glass, and in their reflection he caught the faint silhouette of her.

Xian.

He let his gaze linger there, tracing the small details: the faint smudge of ash on her sleeve, the loose strands of hair fallen across her cheek, the exhaustion written in the curve of her shoulders. Something inside him ached—not from the wounds, but from the quiet grace of it.

He swallowed once, the sound rough in his throat. "You stayed." he rasped. His voice sounded strange too thin, too human.

The words hung there for a while, absorbed by the hum of the engines. He looked toward the stars again, the pull of hyperspace distorting their light into endless streaks. He shifted slightly, grimacing as the motion sent dull fire across his chest. The movement drew a soft hitch in his breath, but he didn't stop. He wanted the pain it meant there was still something left to feel.

His eyes found her again. "How long?" he asked, voice low. "How long was I out?"

A pause. Then quieter, almost hesitant, "And… why do I feel like I dreamed you singing?"

The last question wasn't meant to be spoken, but it slipped free anyway—half delirium, half truth. Somewhere in the haze of unconsciousness, he had heard her voice, threading through snow and darkness like a lifeline. He exhaled slowly, letting his head rest back against the wall. "If this is still the in-between." he murmured, eyes closing again, "Then I suppose I can live with it a little longer."

 

[Xian Xiao]

Xian turned at the sound of his voice — faint, ragged, but alive. Relief didn't cross her face, not in the way most would expect. No sharp intake of breath, no tearful smile. Just that stillness she carried like a second skin, the kind forged in too many battles and too many silences. He was awake. That was enough.

"I don't remember singing," she said after a moment, her tone quiet but sure. "But maybe my voice sounded different."

Her gaze drifted over him, taking in the shallow rise and fall of his chest, the tension in his hands as he shifted. The lines of pain were still there, but they were alive now, not the hollow stillness she'd seen when she first dragged him aboard.

"You were out for a few hours," she added, glancing toward the viewport where hyperspace still flowed in pale ribbons. "Long enough for the ship to stop complaining and for me to remember what silence sounds like." A faint curve touched her mouth, not quite a smile, but close enough to be thought of as one.

When she looked at him again, there was no pity in her eyes. No soft edge of sympathy. Whatever lived there was quieter, deeper, something she didn't have a name for. Veyran wasn't a cause to save or a wound to mend. He was something else...raw and uncontained in a way that made the Force around him hum with tension. Wild. Unrefined. Alive in a way that felt dangerous and necessary all at once.

Caelan had been order: disciplined, deliberate, bound to his duty. Veyran was the opposite: storm without pattern, instinct without restraint. And somehow, that made her steadier.

She crossed the small space between them, kneeling beside where he rested. The faint light from hyperspace caught against her eyes as she studied him. "You're lucky," she said quietly, adjusting the blanket over his shoulder. "Another hour out there and even the Force might've stopped listening."

Then, softer—almost to herself—"But I didn't."

Her hand lingered for a moment, fingers brushing the edge of his wrist before she drew back, folding them loosely in her lap. "You should drink when you can," she said, her voice returning to its even cadence. "And rest. Bastion's a few hours off. The medics there will want to see how much of you I managed not to break."

A small silence followed, filled only by the hum of the ship. Then, without looking at him, she added, as if the thought had been tugging at her since he woke, "Dreams have strange ways of finding truth. Maybe what you heard wasn't me. Maybe it was the Force, reminding you that you're not finished yet."

Her gaze flicked briefly toward him, sharp and steady. "Don't make me wrong about that, Veyran."

Veyran Solis

 

[Veyran Solis]

Xian Xiao​

The rhythm of her words reached him before their meaning did, each one tugging at something beneath the surface of half-sleep. Veyran blinked, vision still edged in blur, the light from hyperspace sliding across the cabin in blue-white ribbons. It painted her like a figure caught between fire and frost unmoving, watchful.

He listened. You were out for a few hours… Bastion's a few hours off.

The words carried shape, direction, reality. The kind of facts you could anchor to when everything else still felt like water.

His throat worked around the first sound that managed to escape.

"Not finished." he echoed, voice rough. A humorless breath followed—half a laugh, half surrender. "Didn't think anyone would say that about me again."
The muscles in his jaw flexed as he turned his head toward her. The motion pulled at the bandaged lines across his chest, and the sting grounded him in the present.

"I don't remember much." he admitted, eyes narrowing slightly. "Just cold. And… you."

The last word hung there longer than he meant it to.

For a while, neither of them spoke. The ship hummed, steady and alive. The Force itself felt thicker here less like a current and more like a low, endless note vibrating through the metal and their breath alike.

When he finally found words again, they came quiet.

"You shouldn't have stayed out there for me. I wasn't worth the risk." He looked away, toward the streaking light beyond the viewport. "You said the Force might've stopped listening."

A pause, then softer: "Maybe it still hasn't. Maybe it just… started listening to you instead."

He let out a long, careful breath, the corners of his mouth curving faintly despite himself.

"Guess I owe it for sending you my way."

The silence after felt easier this time, shared rather than heavy.

 

[Xian Xiao]

Xian's lips curved faintly, the ghost of a smile that carried more understanding than amusement. The hum of the ship wrapped around her, the streaked light of hyperspace sliding across her face like shifting shadows and firelight.

"You don't owe it anything," she said quietly, voice steady and low. "The Force doesn't deal in debts. It just…moves. Sometimes toward you, sometimes through you."

Her eyes lingered on him, tracing the lines of exhaustion and the scabs along his chest. "You're still breathing. That's all that matters right now."

She leaned back slightly in her chair, one leg crossed over the other, fingers brushing absentmindedly along the edge of her sleeve. The soft rhythm of her movements was deliberate, a tether of calm she offered without expectation.

She glanced at the container of water she'd set nearby, the plastic cool against her palm. Tilting it slightly, she held it where he could see. "Here," she murmured. "Drink a little. You need it. Don't worry about talking…sip."

Even as he reached for it, she began speaking again, letting the cadence of her voice fill the cabin like a soft current. "I remember Castell and Coruscant," she said, almost to herself, though the words were meant for him. "The streets and the markets, the smells of fresh spice and rain-soaked stone. There were days I thought I'd never get out. And yet…Rellik saw something in me. Something worth taking in, worth teaching. He gave me a chance I didn't know I deserved."

Her hands flexed against the cool plastic, tracing small patterns along the edge of the container. "I learned to bend the elements, to make the wind dance, the flame listen. It wasn't always graceful or safe. But it gave me…choice. And choice, well, that makes everything else possible."

Her gaze returned to him, steady and unwavering. "You have that too. You might not see it yet, but it's there. The storm…it doesn't care about names or pasts or losses. But I do. And I see you. All of you. The strength you're too afraid to admit, the part of you still reaching out even when the world tried to bury it."

Her voice softened as she let the stories drift through the cabin, some truths tucked in among half-made tales. She told him about children tossing ration packs across a sunlit courtyard, a fire she had almost accidentally unleashed above a city, and the quiet moments she had stolen to breathe and take in the small victories. Some of it was fiction, carefully spun to keep him anchored; some of it was real—her elemental skills, the people who had saved her, the lessons she had carried.

Even as she spoke, a subtle thread lingered beneath the stories. She had no partner, no one else to share these moments with, and the quiet pull she felt toward him hummed beneath her awareness. Not yet named, not yet admitted, but a small, stubborn piece of her wanted him to be more than the survivor she saved—wanted him to be part of the life she hadn't allowed herself to share with anyone.

"Maybe someday," she whispered, almost to herself, "you'll see how much is still possible. Not because the Force picked you, but because you're still here…and still choosing."

The hum of the engines, the soft sway of the ship, and the cadence of her voice became the rhythm of the cabin. She stayed there, speaking, watching, offering the gentle certainty that someone—somewhere—was holding space for him, no matter what.

And in the quiet, Xian felt a small, unspoken satisfaction. She was old enough to guide, strong enough to protect, and yet young enough to still feel awe at the way life could cling to the living, even in the shadow of storms. A part of her, unnamed and barely acknowledged, hoped he could be that other part she didn't yet have. The thought settled, warm and quiet, as she kept talking, weaving stories and truths together, a soft pulse against the edge of pain, carrying him back toward life.

Veyran Solis

 

[Veyran Solis]

Xian Xiao​

Veyran listened really listened this time.

Not because the Force demanded it, not because the silence left him no choice, but because her voice filled the space where his pain used to live.

Each word settled like warmth seeping through old fractures. He drank slowly when she offered the water, the simple act feeling like something ceremonial a reminder that the body could still obey life when the mind had forgotten how. The cool liquid hit his tongue and throat, and the ache that followed was proof that he still existed. When she spoke of Rellik, of flame and wind and choice, his gaze drifted from the stars to her. The blue light from hyperspace flickered against her skin, and for the first time in longer than he could remember, he didn't see a rescuer or a soldier he saw someone who stayed.

"You talk like the galaxy still listens." he murmured, his voice rough but steadier than before. "Like there's still a point to all this noise."

A faint smirk touched his lips, more rueful than mocking. "I forgot what that sounded like."

He shifted, wincing as the wound beneath his ribs pulled, but didn't flinch away from her presence. "You said choice makes everything else possible. Maybe that's what I lost the right to choose. The fight took it, or I let it. Doesn't matter which."

His eyes found hers again tired, yes, but alive in a way that wasn't there hours ago. "But if you're right… if there's still choice left in me, then maybe I'll start by choosing to believe you."

A long silence followed. The hum of the hyperdrive filled the air again, softer now, a pulse that seemed to echo between them.

He let his head fall back, closing his eyes, his tone lower, almost a whisper. "Keep talking, Xian. About Bastion. About fire. About whatever kept you alive."

Then, after a heartbeat quieter, unguarded

"I think I want to remember what it feels like to stay."

 

[Xian Xiao]

Xian's breath caught, just for a heartbeat — not from surprise, but from the weight of the words, the way they reached past the noise and the pain and settled somewhere far quieter.

Her voice, when it came, was softer than before, stripped of the practiced steadiness she usually carried. "The galaxy doesn't listen," she said, almost to herself. "It just… echoes. Sometimes, if you're lucky, something answers back."

She stayed there beside him, her hand resting lightly against the edge of the bunk, not quite touching him but close enough that the warmth bridged the distance. When she spoke again, her tone found its quiet cadence that had pulled him back from the storm.

"Bastion isn't much to look at. Cold air, hard stone, and people who never stop moving. But it's alive. Every morning, the sun hits the towers like they're catching fire, and for a moment, you can almost believe the whole planet is burning to stay warm."

A faint smile ghosted across her lips, though it didn't quite reach her eyes. "That's where Rellik found me. On Castell. Said the fire liked me. I think he just needed someone stubborn enough to stand close without getting burned."

Her gaze shifted to him, steady now, though something unreadable flickered beneath it. "He gave me a place to start over. A purpose when I didn't think I deserved one. Maybe that's what you need too — not forgiveness, just a beginning that doesn't ask what you were before."

The quiet between them deepened, not heavy, just real. She reached to adjust the water container, fingers brushing the edge of his hand — a slight, unintentional touch that lingered.

"You want to remember what it feels like to stay," she murmured. "Then stay. The rest…We'll figure out when we get there."

For a moment, she let herself watch him — the steady rise of his chest, the way the light caught the rough edges of his face. Something unspoken settled in her chest, unfamiliar but insistent. Not pity, not duty — something that felt dangerously close to wanting.

Her voice dropped lower, gentler, as if she were afraid to break the silence they'd built.

"You'll get used to it," she said. "Having someone stay."

But the words weren't just for him.

Veyran Solis

 

[Veyran Solis]

Xian Xiao​

The faint warmth between them more grounding than the bulkheads or the steady pulse of hyperspace. It was the kind of closeness he'd learned to flinch from, the kind that asked for trust he hadn't believed he still possessed. But he didn't pull away. He let the silence stretch, the hum of the engines folding around it. Then, slowly, he turned his head, studying her profile in the shifting light. The blue wash of hyperspace made her look like she belonged to another world entirely, something carved from stillness and fire in equal measure.

"Maybe that's the problem." he said finally, voice low and rough. "I forgot what it feels like to have anyone stay long enough to matter."

He exhaled, the sound halfway between a sigh and a laugh. "Didn't think anyone could out-stubborn a storm, but… here you are."

The faintest flicker of humor touched his mouth, not mocking just human. His hand moved, slowly it shifted beneath hers, slow, uncertain, but deliberate enough that his fingers brushed against her knuckles. It carried the same quiet acknowledgment as her voice a shared recognition of what had been risked and what might still be salvaged.

"You said the sun makes Bastion burn to stay warm." His eyes closed again, the rhythm of his breathing evening out. "Maybe that's all any of us are doing. Trying to burn just enough to keep from freezing."

For a heartbeat, the cabin was filled only with the soft thrum of the ship and the pulse of two lives refusing to drift apart. Then, softer still, almost to the hum itself.

"I'll try." he murmured. "To stay. To see it. Whatever comes next."

He didn't need to say the rest. It lingered in the space between them gratitude, weariness, and the first fragile spark of trust carried on the hum of hyperspace and the warmth of her nearness, both of them suspended in that fragile, impossible peace before the world returned.