Private The Quiet Between Stars

[Isla Reingard]

Lorn sat at the old wooden desk in his quarters, a datapad glowing dim in his hand. The message had been open for an hour now, half-written, half-erased, redrafted a dozen times and still unreadable. He didn't know how to write this. He could risk his life a thousand times in battle. He could slice through durasteel doors and rip lies out of a traitor's throat. But asking a friend for help? That was apparently an impossible task.

He stared at the blinking cursor. It blinked back like it was judging him.

To: Ala Quin
Subject: Isla

I hope this message finds you well. I know that's a strange way to start, but I don't know how else to begin this without pretending I'm better at small talk than I am.

I've left someone at Shiraya's Sanctuary. Her name is Isla. She's… she's important. To me.

You'll know her when you see her. Brown hair. Eyes that look through you like she's already read the next ten thoughts you'll have. She won't say much, unless it's something that hurts, somehow in exactly the way you needed to hear it. She's… strong. But she shouldn't have had to be.

She's recovering from something… difficult. I'm not ready to explain all of it. Not yet. I'll deal with the Council eventually. But right now, I just… I need someone to check in on her. Someone who sees light in the darkest of places, someone who see's everything with the glass half full.

That's you, Ala.

You're better at this part. The human part. She'll need that. Not a soldier. Just someone who sees her, who can listen to her.

I don't know how to do this. Not yet. But I'm trying.

I trust you.

- Lorn

He hovered over the send button, jaw set like stone, then tapped it with the kind of quiet finality usually reserved for sealing tombs.

​

Isla sat alone at the long stone bench near the edge of the refectory's garden, chin resting in her palm. The sun had been a pale flame on the horizon when she arrived. Now it carved sharp shadows along the Naboo cliffs, the sky stretching into impossible blues and soft pinks. A painting pretending to be a planet.

She hadn't spoken much since she arrived. Not to the Masters. Not to the other Padawans who watched her like she was either sacred or contagious.

She just kept watching the sun move.

There had been a vision. A flicker of certainty in the endless fog of the Force. Today. This beautiful refectory. Waiting. She didn't know who she was waiting for. But she knew they'd matter.

The students passed her like leaves on a river, their conversations brushing past her like wind on glass. Some were kind enough to smile. Others weren't subtle with their stares. It didn't matter. None of it reached her.

She missed the air on Mirater. Dry. Acidic. Honest in its cruelty. This place smelled like flowers and grass and things that pretended nothing bad ever happened. It made her itch. Or maybe it was just how long it had been since anyone looked her in the eyes without expecting her to explode.

She hadn't seen Lorn since they landed. He dropped her off like contraband and vanished into the trees.

Good.

She didn't need him. Or his guilt. Or his long dramatic silences.

Except… she sort of did.

And that made everything worse.

A bird landed on the tree in front of her - sleek, dark feathers, head tilted in a knowing sort of way. Isla tilted her head back, a mirror. "You waiting for someone too?"

The bird blinked.

She sighed.

"Cool. Let me know if they show up."

And so she sat. Waiting.

The Force curled in the air like a held breath. Not urgent. Not loud. But alive.

And somewhere, just out of sight, her future was walking closer.

Ala Quin​

 

[Ala Quin]

The stone pathways of Shiraya's Sanctuary wound ahead like lazy rivers through gardens so vivid it almost hurt to look at them. Ala Quin walked slowly, her hands trailing along the low hedgerows as she went, letting the soft leaves brush her fingertips. Every few steps, she bent down to examine a flower, or to apologize—quietly and earnestly—to a beetle she nearly stepped on. It was... very Ala. A bundle of wonder and nerves and stubbornness all wrapped in soft curls and a heart a little too big for the galaxy she lived in.

She had read Lorn's message three times before she even finished her morning tea. And twice more after that. Each time, the words pressed heavier against her chest. "I trust you," he had written. Simple. Crushing.

It was funny, in a not-funny sort of way, how words like that could unravel her. Words from a man she hadn't even realized she was growing feelings for, not until it was far too late for it to be easy. Maybe not too late for it to be real, though. And wasn't that the terrifying part?

Her boots scuffed softly on the stones. A little ahead, a loth-cat stretched out across the path, belly to the sun. Ala stopped. Looked down at it. The loth-cat yawned extravagantly and, in a fit of impulse, she dropped into a crouch to scratch its head.

"You're living the dream, huh?" she whispered, grinning when it batted lazily at her hand before sprawling even more dramatically.

For just a moment, she stayed there, crouched beside a creature who had mastered the art of not carrying the weight of expectations. And for just a moment, she let herself remember.

She remembered arriving at Yavin 4. Seventeen years old, carrying everything she owned in a weather-beaten satchel, her heart stitched together with hope and fear in equal measure. She remembered standing at the Temple gates, trying so hard not to look lost, not to look like the last choice of a broken world. The other students had looked at her like she didn't belong. And maybe she hadn't, not really. But she had smiled anyway. She had thrown herself into belonging, heart-first, because what else was there?

The road curved gently. The refectory came into view, its garden caught in the slow golden melt of the afternoon sun. The colors of Naboo were too soft, too easy. She could imagine how someone hurting might find it unbearable.

Her heart ached at the thought. For Isla, yes. But also for herself. And for Kaila, still a raw and unfinished place inside her. That love was a ghost at her side, silent but ever-present. Ala wondered if it always would be.

She straightened, dusted imaginary dirt from her leggings, and shook her head as if clearing water from her ears. No more thinking. Thinking made everything heavier.

Action. Action was lighter.

She approached the bench quietly, spotting Isla immediately. Alone. Arms wrapped around herself without even meaning to, the way people did when they didn't trust the world to keep them safe. And there was a bird, a sleek thing perched nearby, almost like a silent sentinel.

Ala didn't walk straight up. No, that would be too predictable. Too confrontational. Instead, she veered off toward the tree, looking up at the bird first.

"You're not who I'm here for, unless you've got a surprise for me," she said lightly, hands on her hips. The bird gave her a unimpressed blink. Ala gave a stage-whispered aside to no one in particular: "Tough crowd."

Only then did she turn toward Isla. Not looming. Not demanding. Just... there.

"Hey," Ala said, her voice the verbal equivalent of sitting cross-legged in a sunbeam. "Mind if I join you? Or are you and your bird friend solving the mysteries of the universe without me?"

She smiled, not the bright, blinding sort of smile, but the small, real kind. The kind you could trust not to burn.

The Force stirred around them, not loud, not urgent, but somehow... welcoming.

Ala didn't rush the moment. She knew what it was like to need time. To need someone to wait with you, not drag you forward. She would be that, if Isla let her.

If Lorn trusted her, she could trust herself, too.

Maybe.

| Outfit: xxx | Tag: Isla Reingard | Equipment: Two short blade yellow sabers |​

 

[Isla Reingard]

​

Isla tracked the woman through the garden with the kind of narrowed, suspicious gaze usually reserved for poisonous creatures and unwanted tutors. She knew exactly who this was.

The woman from her vision.
The woman she'd warned Lorn about.
The one who might, someday, swing a red blade straight for his heart.

Surely.... surely, this wasn't the person she had been waiting for all day. The Force had been humming, pulling her like a current toward something important. And it brought her... this?

Isla rolled her eyes so hard it was a minor miracle they didn't fall out of her head. She shifted on the bench, turning her body pointedly away from the approaching figure, broadcasting pure teenage "go away" energy into the atmosphere. Maybe the bird would get rid of her.

But no, Ala just kept coming, undeterred, smiling at the bird like a fool. A long, suffering sigh hissed out of Isla's nose.

"Hey." she said finally, the word dry and thin as cracked paint, feigning a casual indifference that fooled no one, least of all herself. She scooted over, making room with the reluctant grace of someone offering space to a stray dog they weren't sure they liked yet.

The woman sat beside her, easy and quiet, like she'd been invited.

"You're different than I thought you'd be." Isla muttered after a long beat, still refusing to look directly at her. She picked at the hem of her tunic, feigning intense interest in the fraying fabric as silence settled like a heavy fog between them.

Minutes ticked by. Long ones. When Isla finally stole a glance, Ala was still just sitting there, relaxed, smiling, like patience itself had decided to incarnate as a curly-haired Jedi. Ugh. That knowing, soft smile made Isla's skin itch. It wasn't judgmental. It wasn't pitying. It was worse. It was understanding.

And then it hit her like a slap.

Of course.

Lorn had sent her.

Not himself. Not the person who should have been here. No, he ran again. Same as always. Coward.

Isla's heart twisted, the anger bubbling under her ribs like something alive and furious and desperate to be heard. Here she was, dropped in a strange place, stitched together with spit and spite - and the man who was supposed to be her anchor couldn't even bother to show his face.

He thought he could just send his pretty Jedi friend with her big, patient smile and it would fix everything? That Isla would sit here and be grateful for a surrogate to pat her on the head and tell her everything was fine?

Her fists clenched tight in her lap, nails biting into her palms. When she spoke, her voice came out sharp enough to cut stone.

"I don't need a babysitter." Isla snapped, turning her full body now to face Ala, the words spat like little knives. "I'm more than capable of taking care of myself."

Ala, frustratingly, didn't even flinch. She just stayed where she was, breathing like the galaxy hadn't just tilted sideways. The restraint made Isla want to scream.

She twisted the knife without meaning to, the words spilling out before she could stop them.

"How do you know Lorn anyway?" Isla said, tilting her head with that same predatory deadpan that had scared off teachers and would-be caretakers alike. "I'm surprised anyone could be friends with that man. Or maybe..." she leaned forward now, her eyes bright and cruel in the fading light. "Maybe you're just punishing yourself by being around him. Did something hurt you? Did... someone... hurt you?"

There. The truth laid out like a challenge between them. Isla didn't know if she wanted Ala to deny it or admit it. Maybe both. Maybe neither. Maybe she just wanted someone else to hurt the way she was hurting.

For a moment, she almost, almost, felt guilty. But guilt was a luxury for people who had homes to go back to.

And Isla Reingard had learned a long time ago: you hit first, you hit hard, and you never, ever show them where it hurt.

Ala Quin​

 

[Ala Quin]

For a moment after Isla's words, Ala didn't move. She just looked at her with that same maddening, soft smile — only now, it was heavier, laden with a sadness so deep it felt almost oceanic. Like something inside her had cracked open, quietly, without a sound.

Then Ala turned back toward the tree where the bird still perched, her gaze going distant, unfocused. The silence between them grew thick, and for once, Ala didn’t try to fill it. She let the ache of it settle, heavy and real.

After a few painful moments, her voice rose, soft but steady, threading itself into the stillness.

"Once, not so long ago... I was cut off from the Force." She smiled again, but it was a fractured thing, brittle at the edges.

"Not because I chose it. I was... taken. Locked away by people who didn’t see a person, just a thing to be studied. Dissected."

Her fingers traced idle patterns on her knee, slow and absentminded, like the memory was a scar she was feeling out all over again.

"I escaped. After too long. I don’t even know how. Half-mad from it, I think. I ran across a world that was nothing but rock and acidic rain. No shelter. No warmth. The rain..." Ala's voice faltered for the first time, the image too vivid behind her eyes. "The rain turned against me. My own clothes, soaked through, started to burn my skin. Every time the wind changed, it felt like losing all the progress I'd made. Every drop a fresh betrayal."

She glanced down at her arms, pale and unmarked, and laughed — a dry, humorless sound.

"You can’t even tell now." A ghost of something darker flickered in her voice. "But that’s a whole other story."

She turned then, finally facing Isla fully. The softness in her smile didn’t vanish, but something in her gaze sharpened — an understanding that cut to the bone.

"You think hurting first keeps you safe." Ala said gently, no malice in it, only a quiet, devastating truth. "You think if you shove people away fast enough, hard enough, you’ll beat them to the part where they decide you’re not worth it."

Her voice dipped even softer, but somehow carried more weight than any shout could have.

"I see you, Isla. Not the rage. Not the armor. You."

Ala leaned back a little, giving Isla the space she clearly needed, but not abandoning the thread between them. Her next words were an invitation, not a demand. "You don’t have to be that girl forever. The one who thinks survival means loneliness."

She smiled again — the kind of smile you gave a broken thing you still believed could fly.

And then Ala said no more. She simply stayed, sitting there on that cold stone bench, the patience of a thousand heartbreaks wrapped in the small, stubborn body of a girl who refused to stop believing.

| Outfit: xxx | Tag: Isla Reingard |
| Equipment: Two short-bladed yellow lightsabers |​

 

[Isla Reingard]

​

Isla hated her.

Not in the real way - not the way you hated someone who'd hurt you or lied to you. It was worse. It was the kind of hate born from being seen when you weren't ready. The kind of hate that felt suspiciously close to grief.

Ala had just... sat there. Had just told her about the acid rain and the burning skin and the way loneliness could wrap itself around your bones until you didn't recognize yourself anymore. She spoke about it like it was a story she'd pulled out of her pocket, worn smooth from retelling — but Isla knew better.

Isla felt the weight in Ala's voice. The cracks she didn't bother to hide. It terrified her. Because Isla knew what it meant to survive something that stripped you down to nothing and then expected you to keep breathing after. She gripped the edge of the bench tighter, fingertips whitening. The garden blurred in front of her, all the beauty of Naboo turning into an ugly smear of color she couldn't stand to look at.

"You don't know me..." she muttered, voice low and flat, a dying star throwing its last light into the void. It was the only shield she had left, words sharpened to razors, tossed out to make the space between them wider, colder, safer.

She scrubbed the back of her hand across her face roughly, even though there was nothing there. No tears. No weakness. Just the burning itch behind her eyes, like grief trying to claw its way out.

She didn't cry. Not for them. Not for this place. Not even for herself.

"I don't need saving." she said, louder this time, forcing the words through clenched teeth. Maybe if she said it enough times, it would finally be true. Maybe it would fill the hollow place inside her where people used to live.

But the lie soured on her tongue. Bitter. Familiar. Because as much as she wanted to shove Ala away, Isla had listened. Had heard the part Ala didn't say out loud - the part where you survive something monstrous, and you keep surviving, and it never really stops hurting, even when everyone else pretends it should.

The part where you keep running until you don't remember how to stop. The part where you don't remember how to be anything but alone.

She wondered if that was what Ala saw when she looked at her - not a sharp-tongued kid spitting anger like venom, but a reflection. A younger version of herself, before she learned how to survive the loneliness without letting it eat her alive.

The thought made Isla sick.

She didn't want to be like this lady. She didn't want to be like anyone. She wanted to be untouchable. If she let herself recognize the parts of Ala that mirrored her, it meant admitting how badly she wanted someone to stay. How much it scared her to want that. The bench felt too small suddenly. Too exposed. Like she was standing naked in the middle of a storm. She fought the instinct to bolt, legs trembling with the urge.

But her body betrayed her. She stayed rooted in place. Small. Angry. Shaking in ways that didn't show on the surface.

After a long, aching silence, Isla finally breathed out, a ragged sound, like air escaping a cracked vessel.

"You'll regret it." she said, voice almost lost to the wind, so quiet she almost didn't recognize it as her own. "Staying for whatever... this is. For whatever he wants. It only ends in pain for everyone. I've seen it as clear as the sky."

It wasn't a threat. It wasn't even a warning. It was a truth. Raw and ugly and unfixable.

She pulled her knees to her chest, wrapped her arms tight around them, and buried her face in the crook of her elbow, hiding from the world. From Ala. From herself.

Because deep down, in the place she never let anyone touch, Isla already knew:

No matter how far you ran...
No matter how hard you fought...

Some hurts were stitched into you.
And even the brightest smiles couldn't sew you back together.

Not really.

Not forever.

But part of her, the part she hated the most, still hoped Ala would stay anyway.

And that was the cruelest thing of all.

Ala Quin​

 

[Ala Quin]

The wind stirred the garden lightly, brushing curls across Ala’s face, but she didn’t lift a hand to move them. She simply sat there, breathing in slow and steady rhythm, as if she could anchor Isla just by being still. She didn’t react to the bitterness Isla threw at her. Didn’t argue. Didn't deny.

Instead, Ala tilted her head back slightly, gazing up into the boughs of the tree above them. The branches creaked softly against each other, and somewhere in the higher limbs, the bird still perched, silent and watchful. Time stretched, a long aching pause, until Ala finally spoke — her voice not bright, not trying to fix, but low and steady, like stones being set carefully one atop the other.

"Maybe you're right." she said quietly. "Maybe this ends in pain. Maybe it always does. People leave. They break. Sometimes they shatter in your hands even when you try your hardest not to hurt them."

Another pause, but not an uncomfortable one. She let the truth of that settle into the air between them. She wasn’t here to sell Isla a fairytale.

"But I’m not here because I think I can fix it." Ala continued, turning her head just enough to look at Isla sideways, a softness pulling at the corner of her mouth. "I’m here because I choose to be. Because staying... matters. Even when it's hard. Especially when it's hard."

She turned her gaze back to the tree, letting another long moment fall between them. The sun dipped lower behind the cliffs, casting the garden into deeper hues of blue and gold.

"I never learned how to close the door," she said softly, a distant kind of wonder in her voice, "even when it hurt. Even when it would have been easier. Some part of me always believed there would be someone worth leaving it open for."

She smiled faintly, a worn, tender thing.

"And I was right. Even if it took longer than I thought. Even if it broke me a few times along the way."

Her hand drifted across the hem of her sleeve, fingering a loose thread, her posture easy, unrushed, as though she had all the time in the world to sit there with a girl who wished more than anything to believe she didn’t need anyone.

"You see things, don't you?" Ala said after a breath, not demanding, just... knowing. "Visions. Moments that don’t belong to the now, but sneak into your mind anyway. They can feel so certain, so vivid, that it's hard to imagine they could be wrong."

She smiled faintly, almost sadly.

"But visions are like rivers. Always moving. Changing. We catch glimpses, but we rarely see the whole. Trust them, yes — but not blindly. Not so much that you let them carve out your choices before you've even made them."

Ala's voice grew softer still, dropping to the kind of warmth you reserved for a fire just beginning to catch in the hearth.

"The future is a living thing, Isla. It's not written in stone. It's written in choices. Your choices."

She let that hang in the air for a while, not rushing, not forcing. Just... letting it be what it was.

Slowly, Ala leaned back into the bench, stretching her arms loosely along the backrest, her whole posture radiating a lazy patience that seemed utterly at odds with the tension bleeding from Isla’s hunched frame. It was a silent declaration: I’m not leaving just because you think you’re unlovable.

"You don’t have to trust me," she said eventually, almost conversationally, "I wouldn’t, if I were you. Not yet."

Another slow breath.

"But you can watch. You can see if I mean what I say. You get to decide if you want to believe it."

Her smile deepened, soft and real.

"And if you decide I'm full of bantha dung... well. I'll still be right here until you tell me otherwise."

Ala didn’t reach out. Didn’t press. She simply stayed there, the way sunlight stays even when you close your eyes to it, gentle and unrelenting in its quiet insistence that maybe — just maybe — the world could be a little kinder than you remembered.

| Outfit: xxx | Tag: Isla Reingard | Equipment: Two short-bladed lightsabers |​

 

[Isla Reingard]

​

For a long time after Ala finished speaking, Isla didn't move.

She just sat there, arms wrapped so tightly around her knees it felt like she was trying to hold herself together with sheer force. Her head bowed low. Her breath shallow. The garden stretched around them, still and waiting, the air heavy with the kind of silence that only happens when two souls are balancing on the edge of something irreversible.

Isla wanted to scream at her. She wanted to throw every ugly thing she was feeling right into Ala's face. To shout that she was wrong, that staying didn't matter, that people always left, that hope was just a prettier word for stupid.

But no words came out. Only the ache. Only the betrayal of her own stupid, desperate heart, thudding so loud she was sure Ala could hear it.

Isla wiped her face again and when her hand came away wet, she told herself it was just sweat. Just the heat. Not tears. Definitely not.

"You're so stupid." she said finally, the words wobbling, broken, not even aimed at Ala so much as at herself. "You're supposed to run. That's what smart people do. They run. They don't..." she choked, swallowing against the lump clawing its way up her throat "...they don't stay and wait to get hurt."

Her voice cracked on the last word. Loud in the quiet. She hated herself for it. Hated Ala for making her feel it. Hated Lorn most of all for setting this all in motion and then running, like he always did.

Isla dropped her forehead to her knees, squeezing her eyes shut so tightly it hurt.

"You'll leave." she mumbled into the fabric of her tunic. "Everyone does. You'll get tired of waiting for me to stop being... this." She waved a hand at herself, vague and miserable and furious. "You'll realize I'm too broken to bother with, and you'll go find someone easier."

A sob tried to claw its way out of her chest, but she bit it down viciously, shoulders shaking with the effort. Her fingernails dug into the sides of her legs hard enough to leave crescents. It wasn't supposed to hurt this much. It wasn't supposed to matter.

The bird above them shifted on the branch, a soft flutter of wings. Isla heard it, the small, careful sound of life carrying on. Somehow, that tiny sound made her crack.

Fine.

Fine.

Slowly, awkwardly, like every inch cost her something vital, Isla uncurled herself. She shifted on the bench without looking at Ala, arms still wrapped protectively around her ribs.

And then, almost angrily, like she could still take it back if she needed to, she edged closer. Half a breath at a time. Closer until her shoulder brushed against Ala's arm.

She paused there - trembling, uncertain, a heartbeat away from bolting - before, with a tiny, shuddering sigh, Isla leaned sideways and dropped her head onto Ala's shoulder.

Not heavy. Not demanding.

Just... there.

Testing if the galaxy would break under her again.

And when it didn't, when Ala simply stayed, quiet and solid and there, Isla closed her eyes.

She didn't say anything else. Didn't apologize. Didn't explain.

She just breathed.

For the first time in longer than she could remember, Isla let herself rest.

Just a little. Just for a moment. Before the galaxy demanded she be strong again.

And if a tear slipped free and soaked into Ala's sleeve, well... Isla didn't bother wiping it away.

She was too tired to lie to herself anymore.

Ala Quin​

 

[Ala Quin]

Ala didn’t move.

When Isla's trembling form leaned into her, she stayed exactly as she was, silent, steady, offering nothing that could be mistaken for pressure or expectation. She simply breathed, quietly, letting her presence be the small, immovable thing Isla could lean on without fear of it collapsing. Her eyes drifted closed, not in tiredness, but in silent meditation — feeling the depth of the young one's grief without trying to force it away. Grief was a storm, and some storms simply had to pass in their own time.

The weight of Isla’s loneliness settled into Ala’s heart, familiar and painful, but not frightening. She had known that kind of hurt. She had known what it meant to carry it for so long it felt stitched into your very bones.

In the stillness, her mind wandered — not to lectures or lessons, but to a memory so absurd she nearly smiled aloud.

She remembered being eighteen, barely out of her first real trials with the Students of Light, still too young and too reckless to know how fragile life could be. It had been on Yavin IV, where the temples crouched in the heavy snows like ancient beasts. She had gotten it into her head that she could forge her own shortcut through the deep forest during a blizzard to impress the senior Knights. No compass. No guide. Just blind stubbornness, a pack full of ration bars, and more enthusiasm than good sense.

By the time they found her — three days later — she was halfway to frostbite, perched inside a hollowed-out tree, lecturing a very offended-looking tooka-cat about proper survival techniques. She had been so delirious with cold she had tried to knight the poor creature by touching its head with a stick and solemnly declaring it a "Guardian of the Snowy Path."

The laughter from her rescuers had been warm, real, and — for the first time in a long time — it hadn’t made her feel small. It had made her feel seen. Worth rescuing. Worth laughing with, not at.

Ala opened her eyes slowly, blinking back the bittersweet echo of that moment, and turned her head ever so slightly, enough to look at Isla.

Her big, beautiful brown eyes caught the waning light, soft and liquid, and in them was no judgment. No pity. Only quiet admiration. Quiet pride.

"It’s not stupid to care," Ala said at last, her voice low but sure. "It never was. I am a Jedi. I chose to care. That was my oath. And staying... staying is my choice."

She let that truth hang between them, offering it not as a weight, but as a hand left open, palm up, should Isla ever want to take it.

"But you made a choice too." Ala continued, her smile deepening ever so slightly. "You chose not to run. You chose to stay. Even if it was just... a few inches closer. Even if it feels like nothing to you right now."

A breath, soft and easy.

"It matters to me. And I’m grateful for it. For you."

She turned her face back toward the garden, giving Isla space without pulling away. No pressure. No demands. Only the quiet, stubborn truth of Ala Quin. She had only ever once chosen someone she couldn’t stay for — and that was a choice she should never have made. A love born from a place neither of them could cross. But Isla wasn’t like that. Isla was light, battered and buried under heartbreak, but light all the same. And for her, Ala would stay. Without hesitation. Without regret.

After a few moments, almost too quiet to be anything more than a whisper meant for the falling twilight, Ala added with a wry smile tugging at the corner of her mouth: "Pretty sure that tooka still outranks me at the temple, though."

| Outfit: xxx | Tag: Isla Reingard | Equipment: Two short-bladed lightsabers |​

 

[Isla Reingard]

​

Isla stayed very still, head resting against Ala's shoulder, as if afraid any sudden movement might tear the fragile peace apart.

Ala was warm. Real. A soft, steady breathing presence unlike the brittle silences and barked orders that had made up most of Isla's short, messy life. Her curls brushed against Isla's temple when the breeze shifted, smelling faintly of sun-warmed grass and something simple and good, like old parchment and soap.

Isla closed her eyes, clutching the moment to her chest like it might slip through her fingers if she wasn't careful. And she thought. Hard.

I barely know her.

The thought bloomed sharp and stunned inside her head. Barely an hour since they met and already... Isla felt safer than she had in years.

The memories came rushing in uninvited, cruel, bright things.

Long corridors echoing with boots. Stern faces demanding she look again, deeper, harder, until her visions snapped like overstretched wires inside her skull. Being ordered to speak of death like it was weather, cold and inevitable. Visions of burning cities, screaming soldiers, and endless, endless blood. A child made a weapon before she could even learn what it meant to have a childhood.

She remembered scraps of gentler things too, but they were tattered now, dreams she couldn't hold on to no matter how hard she grasped. A hand smoothing her hair. A soft laugh in the dark. The smell of something sweet baking somewhere.

Her mother. Virginia.

But that feeling, that safety, was unreachable now, like trying to catch smoke with her bare hands. She thought, stupidly, that maybe when she guided Lorn back to her, it would come back. That he would bring it with him.

But he'd dropped her here like contraband. Like a problem to be handed off. And left. Her chest ached sharply at the thought.

She pressed her forehead harder against Ala's shoulder, trying to push the pain away through sheer force of will.

And then, without warning, the world tilted sideways. Her breath hitched, body going rigid as a vision slammed into her like a boulder.

She didn't see Ala anymore. She saw a thousand scattered pieces of her future, vivid and wild:

A flash of Ala laughing breathlessly, hair tangled by wind, perched precariously atop the back of some ridiculous beast Isla couldn't even name, daring Isla to race her across a sprawling golden field.

Ala tossing a battered training saber to Isla, her stance cocky and inviting, a devilish glint in her eye. "Bet you can't hit me even once." she teased, and Isla, for once, laughed without fear.

Nights sprawled under endless stars, Ala and Isla arguing over constellations, inventing new ones just to win.

A fierce hug after a hard fight. A whispered, almost reverent, "I'm proud of you."

It burned behind her closed eyes, the warmth of it, the hope of it, so bright it almost hurt.

For one fragile, impossible moment, Isla believed it could happen. That maybe her story didn't have to end the way she always assumed it would.

A tear slid down her cheek before she could stop it, soaking into Ala's sleeve. The wetness jolted her back to reality like a slap.

She jerked upright, scrubbing furiously at her face, smearing the evidence away with the heel of her palm. No matter how safe Ala made her feel... something in her, something old and sharp and brutal, screamed that she couldn't be weak. Not here. Not ever. She wanted to thank her for staying but just couldn't bring herself to do it.

She cleared her throat roughly, masking the wreckage in her voice with practiced indifference. Then, with a sharp lift of her eyebrow, she shot Ala a sideways look, clinging to her default setting of sarcastic armor.

"How does a tooka outrank you?" Isla deadpanned, voice thin but steady. "Aren't you, like... old?"

The words weren't cruel. Not really. They were a clumsy olive branch, tossed across the bench like a lifeline. The best Isla could offer.

Still blinking back the remnants of emotion she couldn't quite kill, Isla dropped her hand low and crooked two fingers toward the tooka lounging nearby. It lifted its head at once, studying her with bright, cautious eyes.

Of course it did. Birds. Tookas. Stray creatures. Isla had spent the last year making friends with anything that wasn't human enough to betray her. The tooka stretched in a lazy arc and padded toward her, tail curling high, accepting her silent invitation like it had been waiting all along.

And for the first time since arriving on this too-bright, too-soft planet, Isla smiled.

It wasn't much.

But it was real.

Ala Quin​

 

[Ala Quin]

Ala let out a soft, breathy laugh at the jab about her age, the sound warm and low, vibrating gently against Isla's temple.

"You have no idea, Isla," she said with a playful glint in her voice, not moving an inch from where they sat. "I'm way older than I look."

The words faded into the garden air, and Ala let the quiet take over again. She didn’t need to fill it. Some moments were better lived without noise.

Her eyes softened as she tilted her head slightly, watching Isla out of the corner of her vision. So much pain. So much fire. And underneath it all, something fragile and radiant, like the first light of dawn trying to break through a storm. Ala felt her chest tighten, not with pity, but with something deeper. Fiercer.

Love. Protectiveness. A bone-deep certainty that she would walk through fire for this young woman without a second thought. Isla was the love that Ala had been craving all these years. Not a love of passion and mutual fulfillment, but a love of selfless sacrifice, a love that would nurture and grow someone into their best life.

And then the realization crept up on her, slow and undeniable.

Lorn.

Isla had said nothing directly. No title. No claim. But Ala was a Jedi — she listened to more than words. The grief Isla carried, the desperate yearning beneath the sarcasm, the way she spoke about Lorn — like a wound she couldn't stop poking.

Isla wasn’t just someone Lorn cared about.

She was his daughter.

The truth clicked into place with a clarity that made Ala’s breath catch for half a second. It explained everything: Lorn’s guardedness, his reluctance, his request for help wrapped in all the words he couldn't say. His cowardice in running, not because he didn’t care, but because he cared too much — and didn’t know how to bridge the gap.

For a moment, Ala felt something bitter and fierce stir inside her. How could he leave Isla here, alone and wounded, even in safe hands? How could he burden someone else to be the arms he was too afraid to open?

She pushed the anger down, not denying it, but folding it carefully away. There would be time for those questions later. For now, Isla needed something Lorn hadn’t given her.

She needed someone who wouldn’t run.

Ala's heart ached with the certainty of it. And without even meaning to, she loved Isla already — not the way she had loved before, with reckless hope, or tragic longing. But with the steady, patient love of someone who chose it. Someone who would choose it again and again, even when it hurt.

The horizon was bleeding into deep golds and dusky blues as the sun kissed the edge of the cliffs. The garden held its breath, and Ala let herself savor the moment, burning it into memory.

Finally, softly, she exhaled and shifted slightly, careful not to jar Isla.

"Time for food," she said, her voice full of something lighter now, almost teasing. "Showers. Sleep. The essentials."

Slowly, deliberately, Ala stood up.

She knew — she felt it — the way Isla’s body would tense, the way that old terror would flare: another one leaving.

She walked forward a few slow steps, letting the distance stretch unbearably between them. Letting the fear be real. Letting the choice be real.

And then she turned.

Her brown eyes caught the last glimmer of the setting sun, wide and warm and unwavering as they met Isla’s.

"That was an offer to come with me, Isla," she said, voice low and steady. "Not a goodbye."

She held out a hand, not commanding, not pleading —

| Outfit: xxx | Tag: Isla Reingard | Equipment: Two short-bladed yellow lightsabers |​

 

[Isla Reingard]

​

Isla snorted softly at Ala's claim of being "way older" than she looked, a skeptical, half-scoffing noise that barely hid the cautious curiosity sparking behind her eyes.

"What does that even mean?" she muttered under her breath, suspicious.

She wasn't ready to admit it yet, but the teasing felt good. Like muscles unclenching after being tensed too long. Like remembering how to breathe. But the moment didn't last. Ala shifted, rising to her feet with a fluid, easy grace, and for one horrifying, gut-wrenching second, Isla's heart slammed against her ribs hard enough to make her dizzy.

She's leaving.

The thought roared through her like a lightning strike, white-hot and wild, and Isla's breath hitched painfully. Her arms tightened instinctively around herself. She could already feel the space Ala had left behind, a gaping hole tearing wider with every step she took away.

The edges of the world wobbled, the threat of a full-blown panic attack clawing up her throat, hot and mean and humiliating. Her vision tunneled. She wanted to move, to run, to hide, anything to stop the hurt before it cracked her open again.

But then Ala stopped.

Turned.

And met her gaze - steady, certain, still there.

"That was an offer to come with me, Isla," Ala said, holding out her hand. "Not a goodbye."

Isla blinked, the panic stuttering in her chest like a fire struggling to catch.

An offer. Not abandonment. Not a shove. A choice. Her choice.

She stared at Ala's outstretched hand for a long, frozen moment, the garden blurring behind it. Then, slowly, almost shyly, Isla reached out and took it. Her fingers were small and cold against Ala's palm, but she gripped tightly anyway, like some part of her was terrified the moment would vanish if she didn't hold on hard enough. She stood, her legs shaky but determined, and fell into step beside Ala without hesitation, moving with a sort of battered dignity, chin up, heart hammering so loudly she was sure Ala could hear it. They walked a few paces before Isla, unable to help herself, glanced sideways with narrowed eyes full of suspicion and a touch of returning mischief.

"So," she said, voice carefully casual, "how old are you actually?"

Isla wrinkled her nose dramatically. "If you hang around Lorn, you're probably, like... thirty." She said it like she was announcing a terminal illness. "Which is basically one foot in the grave. Ancient."

She shook her head in mock mourning. "I hope they have wheelchairs at the Sanctuary. You're gonna need one soon."

The words were light, but under the sarcasm was something real, fragile, Isla reaching out again, testing the space between them, trusting just a little more that Ala would still be there when she did.

She didn't let go of Ala's hand. Not yet. Maybe not for a while. And maybe that was okay.

Ala Quin​

 

[Ala Quin]

Ala laughed, a soft, genuinely amused sound that curled into the warm twilight like the slow unraveling of a ribbon.

"I am happy you think I’m thirty," she said, flashing Isla a crooked, conspiratorial smile. "You have no idea how much older I am than that."

She left it there, teasingly, without elaboration. A little mystery never hurt. Especially not when it made Isla's suspicious glance sharpen into something almost resembling real curiosity. It was a tiny thing, but Ala treasured it — the way Isla was starting to want to know, starting to care.

They walked together through the winding halls of the Sanctuary, Ala matching Isla’s slower, tentative pace without comment. She let the silence stretch comfortably between them, letting Isla set the distance, letting her breathe without pressure.

As they moved, Ala’s thoughts circled back again to the revelation that had settled like a stone in her chest. Isla. Lorn’s daughter. There was no doubt in her mind anymore. The shape of her pain, the fierce stubbornness wrapped around such a fragile, aching heart — it was a reflection of Lorn’s own wounds, his own regrets.

Ala's feelings tangled strangely in her heart. Affection for Lorn. Affection for Isla. But the affection she felt for Isla was different — deeper, sharper, more immediate. It was a fierce, protective love that had nothing to do with romance or history. It was instinctive. Elemental. She wanted to shield Isla from every harsh thing the galaxy might still throw at her.

And she wanted to shake Lorn just a little too — for running, for leaving this girl to carry so much weight alone.

But that anger didn’t diminish the warmth blossoming quietly between Ala and Isla now, step by slow step.

The hallway narrowed slightly, the lights dim and soft against the polished stone walls. Ala slowed and gently gestured to a simple but comfortable door not far from her own quarters.

"This one’s yours," she said, her voice still low, still easy, as if they were discussing something as casual as picking a seat in a garden rather than shaping the fragile start of trust between them.

"I'm just a few doors down. If you need anything."

She didn’t reach for Isla. Didn’t hover or crowd. She simply stood there, solid and calm, the steady gravity she had promised she would be.

Her brown eyes gleamed softly under the hall lights, warm and luminous, filled with the kind of patient affection that didn’t demand anything in return.

Ala smiled again, smaller this time, but no less genuine.

"Tomorrow, you’ll meet some of the others here," she added lightly, a teasing glint flickering to life. "Try not to scare them too much, okay?"

The teasing was a gift — a rope tossed across the quiet spaces between them, an invitation Isla could pull on or leave alone as she chose.

Either way... Ala would stay.

As long as Isla needed her to.

| Tag: Isla Reingard |​

 

[Isla Reingard]

​

Isla followed alongside Ala, glancing at her sideways now and then, still frowning slightly. Older than thirty. The words kept bouncing around in Isla's head like a stone she couldn't stop tripping over. Ala had said it so casually, like it didn't even matter. No big deal, no explanation needed. Maybe it was a polite way of telling Isla that it was an inappropriate question - a reminder that she was still just a kid, and Ala was... whatever ancient, cryptic category she fell into.

Probably one of those high and mighty manners types, Isla thought grumpily. She could practically hear some ghost of a temple instructor chiding her for "lacking decorum."

She rolled her eyes at herself and shook her head, falling back into step beside Ala. If the woman wanted to keep her secrets, fine. Let her. It didn't matter. Not really.

As they walked, Isla found herself relaxing, little by little. The tension in her shoulders didn't vanish completely, it never really did, but it lessened, like someone loosening a too-tight binding.

She liked the way Ala walked beside her without hurrying her. Without pulling or pushing. Just being there, like it was the most natural thing in the world. Like Isla didn't have to earn the company. She could just exist, messy and sharp-edged and all, and Ala would still stay.

When they stopped in front of a door, Isla blinked up at it, a nervous flutter catching low in her stomach.

"This one's yours," Ala said, her voice easy and warm. "I'm just a few doors down. If you need anything."

Isla stared at the door for a second, heart hammering stupidly hard for no reason she could name. She glanced at Ala, at the way she stood there and something in her tightened painfully and then eased, like a muscle she hadn't realized was clenched finally letting go.

"Okay." Isla mumbled, nodding sheepishly as she pushed the door open.

Inside, her room was small but clean and cozy. A wide bed with a soft-looking quilt. A little writing desk by the window, and shelves that already had a few empty books stacked on them, waiting to be filled. There were woven rugs underfoot, their patterns intricate and soft under her boots. Everything smelled faintly of cedar and fresh linen.

The second she stepped inside, Isla felt it, this wasn't a cell, or a temporary cot shoved in the corner of a barracks. This was... hers. A place she was allowed to stay.

The realization hit her harder than she wanted it to.

Before she stepped fully inside, she turned back, her hand hovering near the doorframe. Her throat felt tight, but she forced the words out anyway, the smallest crack in the armor she wore so desperately.

"Thank you." she said, voice soft and a little hoarse.

She didn't wait for Ala's reply. She didn't think she could survive it. Instead, she slipped inside and closed the door gently behind her, leaning her forehead against the cool wood for a moment, just breathing.

She was safe. At least for tonight.

Later, long after the quiet had settled into the halls and the moon painted silver light across the floorboards, Isla lay tangled in the soft sheets, her body exhausted but her mind anything but.

Sleep came fitfully. And when it came, it came wrong.

Visions clawed through her dreams - vicious, violent flashes of things not yet happened. Fire swallowing forests. Shattered temples. Shadows moving through the Sanctuary like oil slicks. A mask, a saber burning red, a familiar voice twisted into something broken.

She tossed and turned, fists clenching in the sheets, a thin whimper escaping before she could bite it down.

The Force stirred with her nightmares, swirling wild and unsettled, pulling at the edges of the room. The little trinkets on her desk rattled quietly. A book slid an inch across the surface, nudged by the restless energy bleeding from her small, battered soul.

But Isla didn't wake.

She was trapped, drowning under the weight of her Sight, her body trembling, caught between worlds she couldn't control.

Ala Quin​

 

[Lorn Reingard]

Ala Quin

​

Lorn moved through the Sanctuary like a shadow, his boots soundless against the cool stone floors. The halls were dim this late, bathed in soft golden light from the wall sconces, but he didn't need light to find his way.

He could feel her. A knot of pain and fear stirring the Force, raw and sharp, like an old wound ripped open all over again.

Isla.

His chest tightened painfully. He didn't pick up his pace, that wasn't his way, but his steps grew heavier, more deliberate. Like if he didn't hold himself together piece by piece, he might fall apart before he reached her door.

He knew he had pawned her off on Ala. There wasn't any prettier word for it. He hadn't been ready. Hadn't known how to be ready.

The truth was, he was terrified. Terrified of touching something so fragile and precious and finding that his hands, built for war and wreckage, would only make it worse. He didn't want to fail her. He had already failed too much.

So he had done the only thing he could think to do: he had tried to provide.

The last few months, he'd been working in the quiet hours - building, arranging - putting together a place of his own. A home. Not just a barracks bunk or a corner of a Temple library. A place meant to be his.

And when Isla had crashed into his life like a shockwave, he had moved faster the past few days. Thrown everything he had into making sure that when she was ready, when he was ready, there would be something permanent waiting for her.

Something that said you're not alone anymore. Maybe it was cowardice. Maybe it was love. Maybe it was both.

He hadn't been here enough. He knew that. And guilt gnawed at him with every step he took.

When he reached her door, he stopped, his hand lifting automatically to press against the wood. The Force shivered beneath his touch, vibrating with the intensity of Isla's nightmare. He closed his eyes and leaned his forehead gently against the door, letting the storm of her emotions wash over him. Letting himself feel it. The loneliness. The fear. The battle she fought even in sleep.

He could almost hear her, the small, broken sounds of a girl trying so hard not to need anyone even as the world kept clawing her apart.

His throat burned. I'm sorry, he thought, the words forming helplessly, uselessly, in the space between them. He should go in. He should wake her. Should tell her she wasn't alone anymore. Should stay until the nightmares faded. But still, he hesitated, his hand splayed flat against the door like it was the only thing anchoring him to the ground.

He didn't know how to do this. He didn't know if he deserved to.

But Force help him, he wanted to try.

Tonight he would let her fight her battle, not because he didn't care, but because he had to trust she was stronger than the darkness chasing her. And he would be right here, on the other side of the door, if she needed him.

 

[Ala Quin]

Ala's smile was warm and small when Isla hesitated at the door. She kept her voice soft, no louder than the hush of the hall around them.

"You are welcome," she said simply.

When Isla slipped inside and the door clicked shut, Ala stood there for a moment longer, hand still loose at her side, heart caught somewhere between breaking and blooming.

The tears came quietly. She didn't fight them. They slipped free and tracked down her cheeks as she stood alone in the hallway, her body a stillness carved out of the fading light. Not loud. Not desperate. Just... soft grief for a young girl who deserved a thousand days of peace for every hour of fear she'd ever known.

She wiped her face after a minute, breathing deeply to steady herself, and turned away. Her steps were slow, almost reluctant, as she moved back toward her own quarters.

Inside, Ala changed into a simple robe, the soft fabric clinging to the lingering shape of exhaustion wrapped around her shoulders. She only realized then how tight the muscles in her neck and back had been, the stress of the day knotted deep into her bones.

She sat on the edge of her bed, bare feet touching the cool floor, breathing in and out, trying to let it go.

That's when she felt him. Lorn.

The Force shivered faintly, and she let her door drift open without thinking, tilting her head slightly toward the source of the disturbance.

He was there — just down the hall — standing motionless before Isla’s door like a sentinel lost between guilt and hope.

For a heartbeat, irritation flared inside her. Why was he just standing there? Why wasn't he inside, where he belonged, where he was needed?

But she closed her eyes, letting the tide of the Force rush over her senses, and she felt it then — the maelstrom inside him. The fear. The helplessness. The love so big he didn’t know how to hold it without breaking it.

Ala’s anger softened into something gentler. Sadder.

She rose and walked toward him slowly, each step deliberate, careful not to startle him, not to tread too heavily on a heart already staggering under its own weight. When he finally turned toward her, his face shadowed with too many unsaid things, Ala did the only thing that felt right.

She balled her small fist and punched him lightly in the arm. It didn’t hurt him, not really. It wasn't meant to. It was a declaration: I see you. I know you're better than this.

And then she hesitated — just for a breath — before stepping forward and wrapping her arms around him, fitting herself against his chest with the quiet certainty of someone who had decided long ago that love was a choice, not a reward.

Her side pressed lightly against him, the thin fabric of her modest robe making the contact feel somehow more intimate, not less. The Force stirred and flowed around them, a warm, golden tide of comfort and steadfastness pouring from her into him.

Ala closed her eyes against the thud of his heart beneath her cheek and whispered into the space between them:

"I will do what you cannot... until the day you can."

She didn’t let go. Not yet. And she would not move away until he chose to, until he was ready.

Because some promises were meant to be lived in, not spoken.

| Tag: Lorn Reingard | Equipment: Her whole heart |​

 

[Lorn Reingard]

Ala Quin

​

Lorn stood still, hand on the door like it was the only thing keeping him tethered to the present, to her. His head bowed, eyes closed, and through the thick tension of the Force, he reached out.

Gently.

Like approaching a wild creature, afraid it might flee - or worse, lash out.

I'm here, he thought, but he didn't force it. He didn't push. He just let his presence brush softly against Isla's.

She was flailing in sleep, trapped in some twisted current of pain and memory. It was like feeling someone drown behind glass. He couldn't drag her out, not without breaking something, but he could be there. A weight to hold onto. A tether.

Through the bond they barely understood, barely shared, Lorn reached inward, not to command, but to give. And what he gave were his memories. Small, golden things.

Virginia's laugh, unburdened and bright, echoing across the training fields when they were just children on Mirater. The way she used to flick his ear with the Force when he got too serious. Her fingers stained with kyber dust as they sat in the hollows of the Hollund Mountains, crafting their first sabers side by side, hearts full of too many dreams.

He sent the warmth of the crystal light reflecting in her eyes as they sat beneath the glowing walls. The fluttering weightlessness of their first kiss, awkward and too quick, hidden from the rest of the world like it was their secret, their sanctuary. He let Isla feel it. The safety of it. The hope they once had before war, before betrayal, before everything collapsed in on itself. And he felt her ease - just a little. Like the tide shifting. Her mind quieted slightly, the spike of pain receding as something steadier flowed in.

But then, just as he sent comfort through the bond... the other end opened.

Her pain surged into him - sharp, cutting, overwhelming. The isolation. The weight of being used. A child made into a tool, molded for visions and violence. He felt the way she'd begged the Force to stop showing her terrible things, and how it never listened.

And deeper still, the grief, so raw it made his chest ache, of remembering Virginia not as he did, but as she had become. Cold. Cruel. Hollowed out by the dark. Lorn staggered slightly, breath catching. He nearly pulled back, nearly broke the bond out of instinct, but he didn't.

He held. Even when it hurt. Because he was her father. And if he couldn't carry her pain, what good was he?

Then... he felt her start to settle. Still uneasy, still bruised, but the worst had passed. His memories had helped her ride the wave. He could sense her body now, no longer thrashing in sleep, but curled in on itself like a leaf in the rain.

He let out a slow, trembling breath, the pressure behind his eyes mounting. And then he felt her. Ala.

The stormfront of emotion and purpose, soft robes whispering down the hall like an approaching judgment. He didn't move. He didn't open his eyes.

He knew what was coming. The punch landed with a quiet thump against his arm. He didn't even flinch. He deserved worse.

He was ready for it - the scolding, the disappointment, the long, cutting look that said I expected more of you.

But it didn't come. Instead, she stepped into him. Wrapped her arms around him. And Lorn froze.

It had been so long since someone had touched him like that, not for war, not for duty, not out of necessity. Just... because. Because they saw him buckling and chose to hold him up.

He stood stiff for half a second, breath shallow, afraid to lean into it. Afraid he'd shatter. But then Ala's presence, warm and patient, melted into him like sunlight on snow. She didn't take the weight, she just held it with him.

And Lorn let go.

He exhaled a shaky breath and let his arms move, slow and unsure, around her. Holding her. Needing her.

"Thank you." he whispered into her hair. His voice cracked, low and rough like gravel.

And then the tears came, silent at first, then heavier, unstoppable. They carved down his cheeks like something sacred being released.

"I didn't know." he murmured. "I didn't know she was mine. Not until it was too late to protect her from any of it."

He pulled back just far enough to look at Ala, but not so far that he had to stop holding on.

"I don't know how to be what she needs. I want to... I want to. But I look at her and all I can see is everything I missed. Everything I let happen."

His voice broke entirely now, barely above a whisper.

"I'm scared I'll break her even more. That I already have."

His hands tightened slightly at her back, not out of desperation, out of truth.

"I can fight armies. Survive anything. But this? Being her father? I don't know how to do this without hurting her."

He bowed his head again, resting it gently against Ala's.

"I don't want to fail her."

He didn't have any answers. No battle plan. No Jedi doctrine to lean on.

He had guilt. He had fear.

And he had Ala.

And for tonight, that would have to be enough.

 

[Ala Quin]

He shook in her arms. Not violently. Not dramatically. Just enough for her to feel how close the ground was beneath him — how hard he was trying not to fall through it.

Ala didn’t flinch. She didn’t rush to fill the silence. She let it stretch. Let it hold them, the warmth between their forms and the weight between their hearts doing all the talking.

When he spoke — raw, broken — she listened with every part of herself. The guilt. The confession. The fear of being more harm than healing.

She exhaled slowly, a breath like silk, and only when the last of his words had faded into the quiet did she finally shift. Just a little. Just enough to lean her forehead gently against his chest, her cheek brushing the fabric of his tunic.

The steady beat of his heart answered something in her.

“You didn’t know,” she murmured, barely above a whisper, “but you know now. And she needs that version of you — not the one who ran, not the one who hurt — but the one standing here, trembling with love and terrified of letting her down.”

Her arms tightened briefly before easing again, not holding him back, just... holding him.

Ala closed her eyes.

Inside, she ached. Because she could feel it — the change just within reach, the healing almost begun. But it wasn’t hers to finish. It could never be. It wasn’t her place.

She longed for him to reach out — really reach — not for her, but for Isla. To stop hovering like a shadow outside her life and step into the light she’d already begun to follow.

“I don’t want to replace you,” she whispered, the truth pouring out of her like warmth from a hearth. “I will step back the moment you can step forward. I promise you that. But I will not step away. Not from her. Not ever.”

Her voice caught for half a second, and she pulled in a small, steadying breath. “She has my heart now. Completely. And that’s your fault.”

She pulled back slightly — not to leave, just enough to lift her head and meet his eyes. Her own gaze shimmered, wide and wet with unshed tears, as she looked up at him.

For a moment, the air between them shifted.

There was something more in her expression. A tenderness that hovered just on the edge of something else — something unspoken. Not romantic exactly, but more than neutral. The barest flicker of something aching in her, something that might have reached for him if the stars had written a different story.

But she blinked once, and the spell broke.

Ala tucked her head back down against his chest, pressing in gently with a sigh that settled the moment back into what it was: not romance, but love. The kind that healed. The kind that stayed.

She felt the trembling still in him. Not gone, just dulled. She reached out through the Force — delicately — a ripple of warmth, like a hand smoothing troubled waters.

“You should rest,” she said softly, still folded against him. “I can help quiet your thoughts. Just enough to let you sleep. No tricks. No meddling. Just peace.”

She tilted her face a little, brushing her cheek once more against him — soft, maternal, intimate in the way only truth could be — and waited.

She would stay if he needed. Leave if he asked. And be there again the moment Isla called.

Because some kinds of love didn't need declarations. They just needed to remain.

| Tag: Lorn Reingard |​

 

[Lorn Reingard]

​

Lorn held her there, in the hush between breaths, in the stillness where nothing had to be fixed, only felt. Ala's words drifted through the space between them like soft thread stitching his frayed heart back together.

She didn't scold. She didn't push. She simply told the truth. And Lorn, for once, let himself hear it.

When Ala pulled back just enough to look up at him, he met her gaze without flinching. Brown eyes. Wide. Steady. Open in a way that made him ache.

He saw it then - everything.

The promise she had already made to Isla with her actions. The pain she still carried behind that strength. The quiet way she'd taken this weight he didn't know how to hold and balanced it with something close to grace. He understood, all at once, that he could trust her fully. Not just with his daughter's well-being - but with all of it. The late-night terrors. The questions Isla wouldn't ask him. The softness he hadn't yet earned.

Ala would give Isla everything she had. Everything Lorn wasn't ready to give. Not yet. And she would do it without resentment. Without expectation. Because she already loved Isla.

He felt a hot surge of guilt again, sharp and biting. His voice came low, just above a whisper, rough with emotion. "I shouldn't have dropped this on you. Not like this. You didn't ask for it, and I didn't know if you were ready."

He paused, then added with a bitter half-smile, "I know I wasn't."

Their eyes locked again, and something flickered in him - unspoken, delicate, impossible.

He didn't need to say it. She was too good at reading the space between words. The way she looked at him told him she already knew.

He'd thought about her. Once. Twice. Too many times, if he were honest with himself. The way her laugh crinkled the corners of her eyes. The way she stayed when others ran. The way she could make things grow just by being nearby.

But Ala was still healing, too. Still holding her own pain behind that soft smile. And he couldn't be the reason she broke again. He wouldn't.

He had to be solid now. For both of them. Not the ghost of Mirater. Not the man who ran. But the man who stayed.

She tucked her head back against his chest, and this time, Lorn didn't hesitate. He squeezed her tighter - not crushing, not desperate, but firm. Sure. A quiet thank you in the language of warriors too tired for grand gestures. She didn't ask for this. He knew that. But she carried it anyway.

"I think I should be there." he said after a moment, his voice quieter now. "When she wakes up. I need her to see me. To know I didn't just vanish again."

He gently stepped back, hands sliding to hers, and held them for a moment between them. His fingers curled around hers - careful, reverent - and he met her eyes one last time before parting. He didn't say anything more. He didn't need to.

It was in his gaze. All the weight. All the gratitude. And the beginning of something he thought could be deeper - something he wasn't quite ready to name, but hoped would still be there when they were both a little less broken.

Then, without a word, he let her hand slip from his, turned, and opened the door to Isla's room.

He stepped inside quietly.

The air was warm, thick with the aftershocks of her dreams. The girl was curled tight on the bed, wrapped in her blanket like a cocoon, her breathing now soft and steady.

Lorn crossed the room without a sound, and eased into the chair beside her bed. He didn't reach for her. He just stayed.

He sat there, hands folded in his lap, eyes soft with something like awe at the girl he hadn't been there to raise, but would never abandon again.

And sometime between watching her breathe and watching the moonlight shift on the floor, Lorn Reingard fell asleep.

Not as a Jedi. Not as a ghost. But as a father trying his best.

And for the first time in a very long time, the Force was quiet.

Ala Quin​

 

[Isla Reingard]

​

The room was quiet when Isla stirred.

No shadows clawing at the corners of her dreams. No invisible hands dragging her through scenes of fire and fear. Just soft morning light pressing through the sheer curtains, painting pale gold shapes on the walls.

She blinked sleepily, disoriented by the silence - the peace. It was the most restful sleep she'd had in… Force, she couldn't even remember. Her limbs didn't feel like lead. Her chest wasn't tight with leftover panic. For the first time in ages, she didn't wake up already braced for war.

She sat up slowly, rubbing her eyes with the back of one hand, and let the blanket slip from her shoulders.

That's when she saw him.

Lorn.

Folded awkwardly into the chair by her bed, chin tucked to his chest, arms crossed in the kind of posture that suggested he'd tried to stay alert but had lost to exhaustion. One boot had slipped off. His lightsaber hung from his belt, untouched. He looked like someone who'd come a long way and hadn't quite figured out how to stop running.

Isla stared at him, a flicker of something unreadable crossing her face. Of course now he showed up.

Now, when she'd finally gotten used to the ache of his absence. When Ala had stepped into the void without complaint.

She rolled her eyes - a slow, tired motion full of equal parts exasperation and resignation. Classic Lorn. Late to every emotional checkpoint like he was allergic to feelings. Still, her chest didn't twist the way it used to. Not this time.

She stood, careful not to make too much noise, and padded quietly toward the door. She didn't want to talk to him. Not yet. Maybe not for a while. She didn't have the energy to unpack that mess this early in the morning.

When she opened the door, the hallway beyond was hushed in that way early mornings always were, full of long shadows and the scent of dew caught in stone.

And there, curled on the floor across from her door, was Ala. Her legs tucked beneath her. Arms folded. Her back against the wall, head tilted at an awkward angle that would definitely cause regret later. Asleep.

Like she had meant it. Like when Ala had said she wasn't going anywhere, she meant it.

Isla froze in the doorway, her breath catching in her chest in a way that wasn't panic or fear or sorrow.

It was... happiness. Real. Sharp. Shocking. It sat in her throat like a song she didn't know the words to.

She moved forward, slow and quiet, and sat down next to her. The floor was cold against her legs, and she pulled her knees to her chest instinctively, arms wrapping tight around them. For a moment, she just... sat. Watched Ala breathe.

And then, after the smallest of hesitations, she leaned sideways, gently resting her head against Ala's shoulder. Just like before.

No words. No drama. Just trust.

She closed her eyes again, letting the stillness wrap around her like a cloak. She didn't care that the hallway was hard or that her sleep shirt was crooked or that her hair was a disaster. She didn't care about the ache in her chest that still hadn't quite left.

For now, this was enough. She wasn't alone. She didn't need to run. Not when someone had chosen to sit on cold stone floors just to keep a promise.

And for the second time in as many hours, Isla let herself rest. Not because she was weak. But because, maybe for once… she didn't have to be strong.

Ala Quin​

 

[Ala Quin]

Ala stood there in the hallway long after Lorn had disappeared behind the door to Isla’s room, the cold of the stone creeping slowly up her spine. The warmth of his embrace had gone, and with it, something deeper — something she fully acknowledged she was missing.

For a moment, she simply stood, eyes fixed on the closed door. Her arms were still tingling from where he had held her, and a strange ache stirred in her chest. The space around her suddenly felt colder, emptier — not just because Lorn was no longer there, but because Kaila’s absence still lingered inside her. She tried not to well on how much it hurt, the loss of the woman who had a sudden burst of life followed by a painful loss.

A pang of guilt rose in her chest, sharp and unexpected. It was a subtle thing, fleeting, but there. She was here, for Isla — giving the girl all of the love and support that should have come from her father. But in this moment, she couldn’t deny that something deep in her heart longed for the connection she had once shared with Kaila.

But she pushed the thought away. Kaila was not the same woman anymore. And Isla needed her.

She gave a small, soft sigh, moving back to her quarters. The emptiness in her room greeted her, but she felt no desire for company. She walked slowly to her bed, considering for a moment whether she should entertain the idea of a holonovel by Lady Velvet, something lighthearted to distract her.

She paused, staring at the collection for a second, before shaking her head. Not tonight.

Instead, she grabbed a soft cushion from her bed and walked back to the wall across from Isla's room to sit, cross-legged, tucking the cushion beneath her. Her hands settled, and her eyes closed as she slipped into meditation. She was calming her own mind, but this time, it was different.

She focused on the Force, reaching outward, sending small waves of warmth and tranquility through the hall. Not to force anything, but to gently soothe the energies in the air. Isla, in her own room, still felt like she was in need of something — a quiet anchor. Ala closed her eyes tightly, letting the peace settle deep into her bones before slowly releasing it back into the world.

Minutes passed like hours, and finally, when she felt the last of her restlessness ease, she let herself drift toward sleep.

But just before she fully succumbed to rest, she felt it. The soft pressure of Isla's presence. A tiny shift, but it was enough to pull her awake. Slowly, tentatively, she opened her eyes.

And there she was.

Isla, as quiet as ever, leaning against her shoulder, close but not asking for anything. A small, innocent act of trust that made Ala’s heart both ache and swell in ways she didn’t quite understand.

For a long moment, she remained frozen, her heart pounding with the fear that Isla might push her away again. She could feel the girl’s tension, the uncertainty, the wariness — and Ala wasn’t sure if it was time to step forward or just hold back.

But then Isla’s body softened, a small exhale of breath brushing against her cheek, and Ala’s fear melted. Her arm shifted, slowly, cautiously, and then slipped around Isla’s shoulders, pulling the girl just a little bit closer. The warmth of her body pressed against Isla’s, like something unspoken, solid, and unbreakable.

Ala closed her eyes again, finally allowing herself to rest in the embrace that felt right.

Her heart swelled with a love she hadn’t been prepared for, but she couldn’t deny. Isla had become her heart’s focus, in ways she hadn’t yet named but knew instinctively. The girl had claimed a place in her soul that would not be easily shaken.

Tears slipped down her cheeks, soft and unbidden, but not from sorrow.

She held Isla gently, her thoughts swirling, her heart full. She would do this. She would be the mentor, the protector. She would give Isla everything she could. Not to replace Lorn — no. Never to replace him.

And in that moment, in the stillness between breaths, Ala smiled softly to herself. For the first time, she felt like she was exactly where she was meant to be.

She settled deeper into the embrace, the soft weight of Isla’s body against her own, and let sleep claim her again, feeling the last remnants of her doubts fade away.

Ala Quin had finally found what she had longed for. She would never abandon Isla. She would be her guide, her protector, her teacher — loved as family. And when Isla awoke, she would see it.

Ala drifted off with a smile, the warmth of Isla’s presence the final comfort she needed. The Force was calm. It had woven its peace into her heart, and with it, the assurance that this was only the beginning of something beautiful.

| Tag: Isla Reingard |​