Private The Long Walk

[Iandre Athlea]

The walk to Laphisto's office felt longer than she remembered. Perhaps it always had been, or perhaps grief simply changed the shape of distances. The corridors of Aurora Station were familiar enough that she could have walked them blindfolded. Every turn carried memories. Missions briefed and completed. Students guided. Victories celebrated. Failures endured. Entire years of her life had been woven into these halls until the station felt less like a headquarters and more like a second home.

A home she was preparing to leave.

The realization settled heavily in her chest as she walked. Not because she doubted the decision. Because she didn't. That certainty frightened her more than hesitation ever could. Rellik was gone. The Diarchy was gone. The future she had spent years building had vanished so completely that some mornings she still woke expecting to discover a mistake in reality itself. Instead, she found only silence where his voice should have been and empty space where certainty used to live.

She passed familiar faces along the way, offering polite nods when required. None of them knew why she was here. None of them knew that every step carried her farther from a life she had once believed would define the rest of her years. She had spent so long being useful, being needed, solving crises, and carrying responsibilities that she no longer knew where the officer ended, and the woman began.

By the time she reached the office, the composure she had assembled for the journey remained intact, but only barely. Her uniform was immaculate. Her posture straight. To any casual observer, she still looked like the disciplined Knight and commander she had always been. The Force revealed a different story. Exhaustion lingered beneath the surface alongside grief, anger, and a weariness so profound it felt woven into her bones.

For several seconds, she simply stood there, staring at the door. Then she raised a hand and knocked. Not as an officer reporting for duty. Not as a subordinate seeking orders. But as a daughter coming to tell her father that she could not carry the weight any longer. "Master?" Her voice was quieter than usual. "Do you have a moment?"

Laphisto

 

[Laphisto]

Laphisto sat behind his desk with a small black box resting between his hands. A holographic display hovered above it, faces slowly cycling through the pale blue light. Soldiers. Pilots. Officers. Men and women who had worn the colors of the Lilaste Order and never returned home. His eyes followed each image as it appeared. Some names came immediately. Others took a moment. A few forced him to stop and think longer than he wanted to. The office was quiet. Only the distant vibration of Aurora Station's systems disturbed the silence. Usually he barely noticed the sound. Today it seemed to fill every corner of the room. His thumb traced the edge of the box as another face drifted across the hologram.

To anyone else it was nothing special. Just something brought out during memorial services and ceremonies. A piece of tradition. A box sitting on a desk. To him it was heavier than it looked. Inside were the identification tags of every soldier lost since the founding of the Order. Every tag represented a family that had received bad news. A bunk that would remain empty. A voice that would never answer roll call again. His jaw tightened slightly as the next face appeared. Rellik. The image wasn't there, but the thought came anyway. Rellik, reign the two diarchs who lead the diarchy. His brothers the people who had taken him in, were amung the fallen.


For years there had always been another problem demanding his attention. Another battle. Another crisis. Even when things looked bleak, there was always something in front of him to focus on. Some objective. Some goal. Some direction. Now he found himself staring at old ghosts more often than future plans. The knock at the door came once. Laphisto didn't move. A second later he realized someone was there. Only then did he notice Iandre's presence beyond the door. His own Force signature had filled the room so completely that everything outside it felt distant. Grief had a way of narrowing the world until there was little left beyond it. He blinked and looked down at the hologram. The display vanished with the press of a button, and silence returned.

For several seconds he remained where he was, staring at the box resting on the desk. Then he picked it up with both hands. Carefully. The drawer beside him slid open with a quiet hiss. He lowered the box inside and paused before letting go. His hand lingered there for a moment longer than necessary. Then the drawer closed. The click seemed unusually loud. Laphisto leaned back in his chair and rubbed a hand across his face before letting out a slow breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding.

"Come in." The words lacked their usual authority. Not out of anger. Not out of coldness. He was simply tired.

When the door slid open, Iandre would find him where he always was behind the desk, shoulders squared, posture straight, every appearance of the High Commander still intact. Yet exhaustion had become difficult to hide. he had dark circles under his eyes His expression seemed older somehow. Not physically older. Just worn down. For the first time in a long while, he looked less like the man carrying the Order and more like a man trying to figure out how much longer he could carry it.

 

[Iandre Athlea]

The door slid open at his invitation, and for a moment, Iandre remained standing just inside the threshold. It was not hesitation that kept her there. It was the sight of him. Laphisto had never seemed invincible to her, but he had always seemed enduring. Through wars, crises, victories, defeats, and all the impossible burdens that came with leadership, there had always been a certainty that he would still be standing the following day, carrying whatever weight had been placed upon his shoulders. Today, however, he looked tired in a way she had rarely seen. Not physically tired. Not the exhaustion that came from long hours or difficult work. This was something deeper. The sort of weariness that settled into a person's spirit and refused to leave.

"You should sleep more," she said quietly as she stepped inside. The words carried no criticism, only concern. Her gaze briefly drifted toward the desk and the drawer he had just closed. She did not need the Force to know what had occupied his attention before she arrived. The grief in the room felt familiar because she carried so much of it herself. For a few seconds, neither of them spoke. Then she crossed the room and lowered herself into the chair opposite him without waiting to be invited. Formality felt absurd after everything they had survived together.

A faint smile touched her lips and disappeared almost immediately. "I had a speech prepared," she admitted. "It was very professional. Respectful. Probably even convincing." The humor faded as quickly as it had appeared. "Then I walked in and remembered who I was talking to." Her hands settled together in her lap. "You've been my commander, my teacher, my friend, and my family. Pretending this is a formal meeting suddenly felt dishonest."

The silence that followed seemed heavier than the station around them. Iandre lowered her gaze for a moment before continuing. "I can't do it anymore." There were no tears accompanying the admission. No anger. No dramatic collapse. Just exhaustion. "Not right now." The words came steadily, as though she had repeated them to herself enough times that they no longer shook when spoken aloud.

"I keep trying to convince myself that if I stay busy enough, if I keep helping enough people, eventually I'll wake up and everything will make sense again. That if I throw myself into work, responsibility, and duty, I'll somehow find the version of myself that knew exactly what to do." She let out a slow breath. "But Rellik is still gone. The Diarchy is still gone. And every time I put on the uniform, it feels like I'm trying to step back into a life that ended months ago."

For the first time since entering the office, some of the composure cracked around the edges. "I loved him, Master." The words were quiet. "I built my future around him. Around us. Around everything, we were trying to create together. Then one day it was simply gone." Her eyes drifted briefly toward the viewport before returning to him. "I thought time would make it easier, faster than this. I thought I would be stronger than this. Instead, I spent months hiding from the galaxy because I couldn't figure out who I was supposed to be without all of it."

Finally, she met his eyes. "So I've come to resign my commission." The words were steady and certain, and somehow that certainty frightened her more than doubt would have. "I don't know what comes next. I don't know if this is permanent or temporary. Maybe someday I'll find my way back to the Order. Maybe I won't. But I know I can't keep pretending I'm ready when I'm not. For the first time in my life, I don't have a plan. All I know is that every instinct I have is telling me to stop pretending and be honest about where I am."

Laphisto

 

[Laphisto]

Laphisto didn't answer immediately. He simply sat there, staring at her from across the desk while the silence settled over the room. The station continued humming beyond the walls, oblivious to the conversation taking place inside. Reports still needed signing. Ships still needed maintenance. Soldiers still needed orders. The galaxy, as it always did, continued moving forward. For several long seconds he said nothing at all. His eyes eventually dropped to the desk and remained there, fixed on some point only he could see. A muscle worked in his jaw before finally settling. "How long?" he asked quietly. His gaze remained lowered. "How long have you known?" Only then did he look back up at her. There was something in his expression now. Not anger. Not entirely. Hurt. Disappointment. Frustration. Emotions buried beneath centuries of discipline and self-control. "Months?" he asked. "You've been carrying this around for months and this is the first time you've come to me?" He leaned back in his chair and let out a slow breath through his nose. "Do you know what the worst part is? It isn't that you're leaving. Force knows after everything that's happened I'd be a hypocrite if I stood here and pretended I didn't understand why. It's that you've already decided. You didn't come here looking for advice. You didn't come here because you wanted help. You came here because you'd already made up your mind."

His hands folded together atop the desk. "I understand losing people, Iandre. I understand waking up every morning and remembering they're still gone. I understand throwing yourself into work because sitting still hurts too much." His eyes drifted briefly toward the drawer containing the black box before returning to her. "What I don't understand is why you thought you had to carry this alone." The question lingered between them. "I'm your father." The words came out firmer than anything else he'd said so far. "If it had gotten this bad, you should've come to me." He shook his head and looked away for a moment. "Maybe I could've helped. Maybe I couldn't have. But I should've at least had the chance." The frustration wasn't directed at her. Not really. It was directed at himself. At the realization that she'd been drowning while he had been too busy fighting his own battles to notice. First Rellik. Then Reign. Then the collapse of everything they had spent years building. Somewhere in the middle of it all, his daughter had been falling apart and he hadn't seen it.

The silence returned. This time it lingered. Eventually he rubbed a hand across his face and closed his eyes for a moment. When he spoke again, his voice sounded older somehow. Tired. "Part of me wants to tell you no." A bitter laugh escaped him. "Not because I think you're weak. Not because I think you're wrong. Because I'm tired of losing people." His eyes opened again. "Rellik. Reign. The Diarchy. all the men and women of teh order who died upholing our cause. Now I'm sitting here listening to my daughter tell me she's leaving too." The admission sat heavily between them. "And yes, part of me is angry. Not at you. At this. At all of it. At the fact that after everything we've sacrificed, after everything we've fought for, this is where we've ended up." His jaw tightened again. "Because if our positions were reversed, I'd stay. I'd put the uniform back on tomorrow. I'd bury everything I'm feeling and keep moving because that's what I've always done." There was no pride in the statement. If anything, there was regret. "That's how I was raised. That's what the Jedi turned me into. a weapon, a soldier. Every mistake I've ever made, every life I've failed to save, every war I've survived, I've carried all of it because I convinced myself it was my responsibility to do so. Maybe that's strength. Maybe it's stupidity. At this point I honestly don't know anymore."

For a long moment he simply looked at her. Then some of the tension seemed to leave him. Not all of it. Never all of it. Just enough. "The problem is that you're not me." A faint smile appeared. Sad. Tired. Genuine. "And maybe that's for the best." Slowly he pushed himself to his feet and stepped around the desk. There was no authority in the movement now. No High Commander. No legendary warrior. No ancient Jedi. Just a father. When he stopped beside her, one clawed hand settled gently on her shoulder. "I'm disappointed you're leaving. I'm hurt that you're leaving. And I hate the fact that I understand why you're doing it." His grip tightened slightly before relaxing. "But I'm not going to make this harder than it already is." He looked down at her for a moment before continuing. "If this is truly what you need, then go. Take the time. Figure out who you are without all of this. Just don't make the mistake of thinking that because you're walking away from the Order, you're walking away from your family. Those are two very different things."

Iandre Athlea

 

[Iandre Athlea]

For a long moment, Iandre said nothing. His words landed harder than she wanted them to, not because they were unfair, but because they were true. Her gaze lowered to her hands as they rested quietly in her lap. Somewhere during his response, she had stopped looking at him altogether. It was easier that way. Easier than seeing the hurt in his eyes. Easier than confronting the realization that while she had spent months drowning in her grief, she had never truly given him the opportunity to help carry it.

"I know," she said quietly at last. A slow breath escaped her before she finally looked back up at him. "I don't really have a defense." There was no point pretending otherwise. "I knew a while ago. Not about resigning. Not exactly. But I knew something was wrong. I knew I was struggling. Every morning, I woke up and told myself it would get easier tomorrow. Then tomorrow became next week. Then next month. Somewhere along the way, I convinced myself I could handle it." A humorless laugh escaped her. "Which is a remarkably stupid thing for someone surrounded by people who care about her to believe."

For a few moments, she simply sat there, feeling every bit as tired as he looked. The office suddenly felt smaller than it had when she entered, crowded with memories and ghosts neither of them could quite escape. "The truth is that I didn't come to you because I was afraid," she admitted. The confession hung heavily in the air between them. "Not of you. Not of what you would say. I was afraid that if I stopped moving long enough to talk about it, then I would have to admit how much it hurt. As long as I stayed busy, I could pretend I was managing. I could tell myself I was coping. The moment I stopped, I knew I'd have to face the fact that I wasn't."

Her eyes drifted briefly toward the desk and the drawer beneath it. She did not need to see what was inside to know. The room carried its own grief. "You lost people too," she said softly. "Rellik wasn't just my family. He was yours. Reign was yours. The Diarchy belonged to all of us. Every time I thought about coming here, I looked at everything you were carrying and convinced myself I didn't have the right to add more weight to it. I told myself you already had enough to worry about." She shook her head faintly. "Looking back, I know how unfair that sounds."

When he stepped around the desk and rested his hand on her shoulder, something inside her finally gave way. Not dramatically. Not all at once. Just enough. Her eyes closed briefly as she leaned into the simple comfort of knowing she was no longer carrying this conversation alone. A single tear escaped despite her efforts to stop it. "I know," she whispered. "Family is forever." The words sounded simple, almost childish, but they had never stopped being true.

When she opened her eyes again, she managed a small, fragile smile. "And for what it's worth, I'm not leaving you." Her hand rose to rest over his for a moment. "I'm not walking away from my family. I'm not walking away from the people I love. I'm just trying to find my footing again because somewhere along the way, I lost it. Maybe I'll find my way back to this life. Maybe I won't. I honestly don't know. But right now, I need to figure out who I am when I'm not carrying a title, a uniform, or a responsibility. I need to remember how to simply be Iandre."

Laphisto

 

[Laphisto]

Laphisto was quiet after she finished speaking. His hand slipped from her shoulder and he turned away, making his way toward the viewport overlooking Aurora Station. Beyond the transparisteel, ships moved through the traffic lanes without pause. Freighters drifted between docking spires. Shuttles departed for distant systems. The station carried on as it always had. He clasped his hands behind his back and stood there for several seconds, watching the movement outside. Eventually he nodded once, almost to himself. "I think that's the first honest answer you've given me all day." There wasn't any edge to the remark. If anything, it sounded tired. The corner of his mouth twitched briefly before fading again. "And for what it's worth...I don't know who I am without it either."

The admission hung in the air for a moment before he pushed away from the viewport and crossed the room toward his desk. He opened one of the drawers and began searching through its contents. Datapads. Access cylinders. Old authorization chips that had survived long past the people who originally issued them. Eventually his hand stopped. When he withdrew it, a small metal access chip rested between his fingers. He turned it over once, studying it in silence. "This belongs to the Conquest's Agenda." His thumb brushed across the edge of the chip. "My ship." A faint smile appeared. Not the forced kind he'd worn throughout most of the conversation. A genuine one, however brief. "First ship I had after waking up in this era. First ship I ever called mine." A quiet snort escaped him. "First ship I ever stole, technically."

He looked down at the chip again before continuing. "I trained my first apprentice aboard that ship. Most of the people who ended up changing my life stepped aboard her at one point or another." His gaze drifted briefly toward the viewport. "Back then I didn't have the Order. Didn't have an army. Didn't have a title. Half the time I didn't even have a plan. It was just me, a ship that wasn't technically mine, and enough luck to survive another day." The smile lingered for another moment. "Everything started there. Every mistake. Every success. Every decision that eventually led me here." He rolled the chip once between his fingers before finally looking back at her.Without another word, he held it out.

"If you're serious about this, take her." The chip remained extended between them. "She's spent most of her life carrying people who were trying to figure out where they belonged. Seems appropriate. And before you start getting sentimental, no, this isn't me giving her away. I'm expecting her back. when your done with her." For the first time since the conversation began, some of the weight seemed to lift from his shoulders. Not much. Just enough. "Besides, if you bring her back with new holes in the hull, I'll know exactly who to blame."

Iandre Athlea

 

[Iandre Athlea]

For a moment, Iandre simply stared at the access chip resting in his hand. The offer struck her harder than she expected. Not because it was a ship, though that alone was generous enough, but because of everything attached to it. The memories he had just shared. The years of his life were woven into its decks and bulkheads. The people who had walked its corridors. The mistakes and successes that had shaped him. She had come here expecting to leave something behind. She had not expected to be entrusted with something so deeply personal in return.

Slowly, she reached out and took the chip from him. Her fingers closed around the cool metal, and for a moment she simply held it. The weight of it felt strangely familiar. Not physical weight, but the weight of possibility. For months, her world had felt smaller and smaller. Since Rellik's disappearance, every road ahead had seemed obscured by grief, anger, and confusion. She had spent so long looking backward that she had almost forgotten there might still be a future waiting somewhere ahead. Yet now she stood there holding the key to a ship meant for journeys, and she found herself uncertain whether she wanted to cry or laugh at the irony.

"Thank you, Father," she said quietly. The words carried far more emotion than she intended. Her grip tightened around the chip as she looked down at it. "I wish I could tell you exactly where I'm going or what I'm hoping to find." A faint smile appeared and faded just as quickly. "The truth is I don't know. For most of my life, I've always known what came next. There was always another mission, another responsibility, another problem to solve. Now I wake up every morning and realize I have no idea who I'm supposed to be."

Her gaze drifted toward the viewport and the ships beyond it. "Part of me still feels like I'm betraying him." The admission came quietly. "Rellik, I mean. Like if I keep moving forward, if I start building a life that doesn't revolve around losing him, then somehow I'm leaving him behind." She shook her head faintly. "I know that isn't rational. I know he would probably be furious with me for thinking that way. But grief doesn't care much about logic." The words lingered between them for a moment before she took a slow breath. "I'm trying to learn how to carry what happened without letting it become the only thing I am."

A small smile finally returned as she looked back at him. It was fragile, but genuine. "I will return her to you in the same condition she's in now. Possibly cleaner." The attempt at humor softened the heaviness in her voice. "And I promise I'll come back. Maybe not with all the answers. Maybe not even as the same person who walked into this office today. But I'll come back." Her hand tightened once more around the chip. "Family is forever. You taught me that. So when this is over, you'll get your ship back... and hopefully a daughter who finally knows where she belongs."

Laphisto