Private The Weight of the Staff

[Lorn Reingard]

​

Lorn stood at the edge of the sparring field before dawn, long before the first rays of Naboo's soft sun bled over the training pines. Six students were lined up across from him, barely more than silhouettes in the pale light. Most of them had just rolled out of bed, stiff-shouldered and blinking. He didn't raise his voice. Didn't bark instructions. Didn't need to. The bo staffs laid at their feet spoke loudly enough.

He paced slowly in front of the students, his boots silent on the dew-slick grass.

"You carry a lightsaber because you've been told you're meant to," he said. "But a lightsaber will fail you. It's elegant. Flashy. Predictable. A weapon of hope."

He stopped. The staff hit the ground beside his foot with a dull thunk.

"This is a weapon of desperation."

His eyes landed on Phillip.

The boy was thinner than he liked. Slower than he needed. Kind-hearted, too much so. Lorn had seen the kindness cracked open in the Netherworld and found it lacking. Phillip had hesitated there. Hesitation got people killed.

He didn't dislike the boy. He didn't understand him either. Isla had attached herself to him with the strange, desperate loyalty only young people could afford, raw and inexplicable. Lorn hadn't pressed her on it. He never did.

But if they were going to keep sneaking onto Republic vessels and chasing Force-riddled nightmares like fools dancing into a storm, then someone had to make sure the boy could take a hit so Isla could escape.

Lorn gestured for the students to collect their staffs.

"Strength doesn't matter here," he said. "You're not swinging to crush. You're not fencing with light. This is about control. Pressure. Flow."

He turned, stepped into a loose stance, and drove the end of the staff into the dirt, twisting it in with his heel.

"Pressure wins fights. Apply enough, they fall. Apply it wrong, you fall."

His voice never rose. Never wavered. It didn't need to. It carried weight, not volume. He took a step toward Phillip, not threatening, not stern. Just deliberate.

"Your footwork is poor," Lorn said. "Your grip's better than it was. But you drift."

He pointed to the boy's lead toe with the end of his staff, then nudged it back an inch.

"You lean when you should pivot. And if she's depending on you…"

He didn't say her name. He didn't have to.

"…then you can't afford to be almost ready."

Lorn stepped back, gave a faint nod to one of the senior students. The girl lunged forward at him, striking quick and sharp. He met it in an instant, spinning the staff in a tight arc, absorbing the blow, then twisting the shaft low to knock her off balance. She staggered, caught herself, bowed.

He didn't look at her. His eyes never left Phillip.

"Attack me," Lorn said, tone flat. "Do your worst."

He raised his staff again, slow and patient. He didn't need the Force to know where this lesson was headed. The Force, as always, was silent on the things that mattered most.

The boy had heart. Lorn would give him technique. And if he was going to keep standing next to Isla like that... Then he'd damn well learn how to stand his ground.

Phillip Slate​

 

[Phillip Slate]

Tags: Lorn Reingard

Phillip had changed. At least as a student. In the past, he would have started to daydream during a combat class. But it was different now. He had to learn how to fight. Not just for himself. It was true that a Lightsaber could fail him. He had lost his last one, and had basically been useless, since he couldn't fight. A weapon of desperation laid at his feet as he prepared to lift the staff into his hands and...his eyes seemed to narrow for a moment as he adjusted his grip on the staff. It felt...interesting to hold. It wasn't like a Lightsaber. There was weight to the staff. Plenty of weight to it. It would be interesting to manipulate the tool.

Lorn's gaze on Phillip made him feel...uncomfortable however. Before his friendship with Isla, Phillip had always felt a small sense of pride whenever the Jedi had looked in his direction. Whereas now, he felt like he was being judged. Not necessarily in a negative light. It made sense that he'd be judged. His friendship with Isla wasn't exactly a secret. If Phillip learned anything, it was that keeping a secret wasn't something he was good at as he adjusted his stance for a moment, trying to figure out the best way to stand before his toe was nudged back an inch by Lorn's staff. Footwork. That was one thing Phillip had been trying to work on...

Yet, as Phillip opened his mouth to respond to Lorn, the lad's eyes narrowed for a moment. His gaze growing ever so slightly more serious at what Lorn had said. He didn't need to say the name. Isla was depending on him. He couldn't just stand at her side and hope for the best. He had to be able to stand at her side and fight alongside her. Protect her if it came to it. And so Phillip adjusted his stance, making sure not to keep himself rigid. He'd have to be able to move and strike quickly. Strength wasn't important in this. It was about how he moved, how he flowed through the fight. He needed to flow like a paint brush along a canvas...

His eyes went to the Senior Student's attempt to attack Lorn. Taking in both their movements and Lorn's. They had struck quickly, focused on their offense but potentially forgot their defense...which is why Lorn had been able to knock them off balance. It was an interesting approach. He just needed to figure out how he'd get through this. The theory he could understand. It was the practical that he was more worried about. In his head, he could think of a plan of attack, but that plan would crumble as soon as things went into action.

No. That's exactly my issue. I'm overthinking about this. I just need to flow. One movement into another.

And so Phillip finally stepped forward, preparing to strike. He jabbed the quarterstaff forward, deciding not to go for a swing and to use the end instead. This way, he could easily switch to being on the defensive if he needed to, by changing the angle he held the staff to block.

His lips were held shut the entire time. He hadn't said anything since he had arrived for the lesson, and he didn't plan on talking. Not yet at least. It would be a distraction. He had brains and heart. But if he tried to listen to both, he'd get distracted. He'd lose focus. He had to listen to just one...and today he was choosing his heart.

 

[Lorn Reingard]

​

The boy moved.

Lorn didn't flinch. He didn't shift weight. He simply was, like a stone sunk into the riverbed of the field, unmoved by the current, waiting for the pressure to decide whether to break or yield.

Phillip's jab was measured. Not hesitant, not bold. Calculated. A forward thrust of the staff, smartly chosen for control, for follow-through. Good. Better than Lorn expected. Not because he doubted the boy's mind, Phillip's head was always too full of thought, but because action had a way of strangling thought in real time. Many students folded under that pressure.

Phillip hadn't.

Lorn parried the jab, not with brute strength, but a subtle redirect, his staff sliding against the boy's in a quick diagonal. He didn't shove it aside. He let the energy ride out, let the weight carry its own failure, and then stepped into the moment between.

He turned the shaft, used the rotation of his wrist to catch Phillip's staff and lock it briefly in a crossed hold. A trap. One he could've ended a dozen different ways.

But he didn't.

Instead, he held Phillip there.

Not painfully. Not aggressively. Just enough to remind him: this is the space between choices. This is where hesitation lives.

"You didn't speak," Lorn said, voice low, steady. "That's good. Talking gets you killed."

He released the hold, stepped back, and let the staffs disengage with a hollow clack.

"But you're still too careful."

He began to circle, slow and patient, watching Phillip's stance the way a veteran hunter watches an animal in tall grass.

"Strategy doesn't win you time in a fight, Phillip. It costs it. You want to flow, fine. But don't drift into the moment. You choose it. Like a painter chooses the stroke. Purpose, not panic. You understand?"

Another student shifted in the background, nervous. He ignored them.

Lorn's gaze narrowed, not harsh, but cutting.

"You've got a brain full of beautiful ideas and a body that hasn't caught up yet. But your heart's here. That counts for something."

He spun the staff once, slow, a flourish without bravado, and set his feet again.

"Again," he said, planting the heel of one boot. "Don't jab this time. Paint me a picture."

And he meant it. Not as sarcasm. Not as a challenge.

But as a demand to create.

Lorn had seen enough destruction to know that real skill came not from who could end a fight fastest, but who could move through one like they belonged there.

If Phillip could learn that, could move without fear, without apology, then maybe next time, Isla wouldn't have to carry the weight for both of them.

And maybe, Lorn could stop watching every student like they were a countdown waiting to become a casualty.

He braced his staff. Waited.

And watched to see if the boy would finally commit.

Phillip Slate​

 

[Phillip Slate]

Tags: Lorn Reingard

Phillip clenched his teeth for a moment as he was trapped by Lorn during his attack. For once, Phillip felt frustrated. Frustrated for a different reason to normal however. Not because he had failed. No. Because he had hesitated. He had to keep moving. He had to choose a purpose with his attacks. Not to just attack for the sake of it, but to go through a plan with it. Make the plan and then improvise on the spot. Don't incorporate failure into the plan. It's something you can think about how to deal with, but he shouldn't plan for it. To plan to fail, is to expect failure. Phillip took a sharp inhale, before taking a step back to adjust his stance and posture, taking in Lorn's stance once more

"...I understand. Loud and clear."

He had to move like this some form of painting. Some form of dance. That was going to be easier said than done. Painting came naturally to him. Dancing was something he had tried to learn. But fighting? Fighting wasn't something that would ever come naturally to him. It would always be out of his comfort zone. But he had to do this. Not for himself, but for Isla. In the past, he'd have been fine if he got hurt, or struck down. It was true he supposed. That saying. That having something to fight for made you stronger. Made your heart stronger. But it also gave you more of a burden. It put more weight on your shoulders that made things heavier...but he could bear it. He could go ahead with this burden.

And with that, Phillip lunged forward once more. He knew he wouldn't be able to out-strength Lorn through brute force. Phillip had to come up with a technique or plan to try and impress the Knight. So he went on a small flow of strikes, flicking the staff as if it was a paintbrush, pulling it back for a moment to let the back end swing up towards Lorn's. Instead of waiting to see the impact, waiting for his feet to stand firm, he continued moving this time, pushing on the staff this time to bring it striking downwards. Clenching his teeth, fighting the urge for him to see how good his strikes were, Phillip just continued to stay on the move.

He couldn't hesitate. He couldn't stop. He had to imagine that he was in actual danger. That Isla was danger. If he hesitated for a moment, one of them would get hurt. And with that, Phillip moved to his final strike after clashing the staff onto Lorn's, with Phillip both twisting his body and his arms to swing his staff down Lorn's in an attempt to strike the Jedi Knight's hand.

 

[Lorn Reingard]

​

The boy moved, and this time he didn't pause to wonder if it was the right step. It wasn't graceful, not exactly. But there was something better. Intention.

Phillip struck in a chain: flowing, not flailing. His staff came like a flurry of strokes across canvas, quick, overlapping, reactive. Lorn blocked the first without shifting his feet, but the second strike demanded a step. The third required rotation. The fourth-

Lorn's brow lifted the tiniest fraction as the staff rode his own down, the wood skating along the haft in a clean, clever angle. It was a strike aimed at the hand. Precise. Disruptive. And more importantly, committed.

Lorn didn't smile, but his stance changed.

The staff in his hands rotated once, caught the momentum of Phillip's attack, and twisted it wide, but he didn't counter immediately. He let the motion hang, allowed the silence between blows to say something neither of them had yet spoken.

Better.

Then, without warning, he stepped forward into Phillip's space, closing the distance in a single breath, shoulder turned. His staff never struck. It simply arrived, braced across the boy's collarbone like a bar, not with force, not to wound, but to stop.

Not every fight was won with strikes. Some were won by deciding where the fight ended.

"You pushed," Lorn said, voice barely louder than the wind, "but you didn't break. That matters."

He stepped back, lowering his staff to the ground with a soft, final tap.

"Your flow's still loose. Transitions too wide. You leave yourself open in the turn."

Then he looked Phillip in the eyes.

"But you chose your movement. And you didn't ask permission. That's the difference between painting and watching someone else hold the brush."

He turned from him without another word and scanned the line of other students.

"Pair off," he said. "No Force. No sabers. Staff only. I want five minutes of pressure. Not contact, pressure. Make your partner feel like they don't have a choice. Then switch."

As the group began to move, Lorn stepped back toward the edge of the field, watching with that same patient quiet. His shoulders were still, but his eyes kept drifting, back to the boy.

Phillip was trying. He wasn't fast. He wasn't strong. But he didn't run, and in Lorn's eyes, that counted more than half the Order ever realized.

He let his gaze shift, just slightly, toward the tree line, where the temple wall caught the early morning light. A part of him imagined Isla watching from behind the stone, pretending she wasn't.

He shook his head faintly and exhaled.

If the kid was going to stand next to her, then Lorn would make damn sure he could keep standing.

Because one day, kindness would fail Phillip again.

But if Lorn had his way, skill wouldn't.

Phillip Slate​

 

[Phillip Slate]

Tags: Lorn Reingard

If anything, Phillip was willing to keep going even as his strike was twisted to the side. Even as they stayed there for a moment, Phillip prepared to strike out with the other end of his staff to carry it on, but before he could carry on, Lorn had stepped into his space. Phillip couldn't swing at that. That's when Phillip felt the staff against his collarbone. It had just appeared out of nowhere as he blinked to himself, trying not to feel frustrated. He had done better. But not good enough.

He had to get better. Not for himself. In the past, Phillip was fine to get by. As long as he wasn't making a fool of himself, or failing, he didn't have to do amazing. But now? He had to push himself. He took a step back whilst everyone started to pair up, trying to decide who he was going to work with. Pressure was what he was going to need to work. Not making actual contact. That was what he might struggle with if he was honest. Phillip wasn't the most intimidating guy alive. He wasn't the strongest, nor was the tallest. So he felt like it would be difficult for him to apply pressure to any of the other students.

But there was one thing that he had, that he felt like the other students wouldn't. Phillip wouldn't back down. He couldn't back down. Not with what was on his shoulders. And so he made his pair with the student who had went against Lorn earlier, as Phillip gave the older girl a short bow of his head to be respectful. She was less of an unknown than Lorn had been. Phillip had managed to at least see how she attacked when she went against the Knight so he just had to try and imitate it himself.

She was fast. Almost straight away, striking out towards Phillip, as he focused on defending himself with the staff. He was about to root himself in place, until he realised something. That was the wrong idea. Lorn could stand his ground, because the Knight was strong. The Knight wouldn't budge. But Phillip was far weaker, even if he had a good firm stance, too much power against him would cause him to start to crumble. So instead, he played to his strengths. He had spent most of his life watching people, to see what their moves would be. And so he used that to focus on dodging. Staying on the move and staying fluid as he stepped and ducked under what he could, whilst using the staff to block what he couldn't. Each strike sending shockwaves through his arms...but he didn't drop the staff. He could do this. Just survive. For five minutes of pressure and then he could swap...

 

[Lorn Reingard]

Phillip paired himself with the strongest student on the field. Lorn didn't flinch. Didn't stop it. He simply watched. The girl was quick. Compact in her movements, aggressive without being reckless. And the boy didn't back down.

That was the first thing Lorn noted. Not his defense, not yet. That would come. But his posture. Not the stance itself, but the way he didn't crumble under it. She came in fast and Lorn could see it in the way her hips pivoted, how her left elbow tucked tight to her ribs. She expected him to fold.

Phillip didn't.

He moved. Not perfectly. His feet were a hair too slow, his shoulders lagging a beat behind his pivot. But he adapted. Dodged instead of absorbing. Rolled through the momentum like someone who understood, on some gut-deep level, that brute strength wasn't coming to save him.

That was good. It meant he wasn't trying to be something he wasn't.

Lorn's hand rested on the top of his own staff as he stood at the edge of the sparring circle. He didn't pace. Didn't instruct. He simply observed. A commander watching pieces move. A father watching something he didn't quite have the luxury of naming.

She struck again, harder now, frustrated by the way her opponent stayed upright through the rain of effort. She hit his guard, and the shock wobbled him, but Phillip gritted through it, shifted weight, didn't break.

The kid had learned something already. Not technique, not yet. But truth.

Lorn spoke, low but clear across the field.

"Stop chasing perfection, Phillip. It's not a contest. It's survival."

He stepped closer now, staff slung behind one shoulder like a banner of unspoken lessons.

He looked between them, Phillip, sweating and pale but holding his line; The older student, breathing hard, ready to strike again. Lorn's eyes, shadowed and unreadable, turned toward Phillip and settled there.

"You don't win fights like this because you're faster. Or smarter. You win because when the blow lands… you don't leave.You're still there. Still moving."

He tapped the ground once with the staff. Not for emphasis. Just to mark the silence that followed.

"Switch."

As students obeyed, Lorn didn't move. He let Phillip catch his breath, but he didn't give him rest.

"You stayed on your feet," he said quietly, once the others had drifted. "You took hits. You didn't quit."

Then, with no change in tone, no shift in rhythm:

"If you ever run in front of Isla, I'll put you on kitchen duty for a month."

A beat. Not a threat. Just a fact.

Lorn turned, walking past him without waiting for a reply. He left the boy in his own silence. But as he passed, he added one more word, thrown over his shoulder like a coin dropped in a well:

"Better."

And meant it.

Phillip Slate​

 

[Phillip Slate]

Tags: Lorn Reingard

His forearms and hands were throbbing from the impacts he had blocked. It was at least clear to Phillip that he wasn't built to take things head on. At the very least, it was helping him to mark down what Lightsaber forms he should be staying away from when he actually decided to work on them. Defensive blocking just wasn't for him. The best type of defense for Phillip was to just try and not get hit at all.

HIs partner was getting more and more frustrated at Phillip's dodging, giving harder and harder strikes. He had started to clench his teeth by this point, having to shift his grip on the staff every so often. He had to stop chasing perfection...but how could he do that? It was almost ironic in a way. He had been searching for perfection when it came to his art, and now he was searching for perfection when it came to fighting...

And then it was time for them to switch. Phillip took the time to rub his hands together, nestling the staff between his arm and side. He knew he couldn't take too much time to recover but there was at least some time. A small moment as he tried to get some feeling back into his hands, glancing up at Lorn's words.

"I can't afford to quit. Not anymore. I can't...just rely on doing things because I'm afraid of letting people down."

In the past, Phillip couldn't stop fighting in fear that someone would get hurt. It was still a similar feeling now yet he couldn't let himself panic anymore. He could still be afraid, but he had to be able to fight through it. He had to be able to think clearly. That was what was important now. That's what he had to work on.

Though a small smirk came to his face at the idea of having to do kitchen duty. That wasn't even what made him worried. No. The worse thing in that situation would be running and leaving Isla to deal with something by herself.

"I promised Isla, I'd always stay at her side. She doesn't have to worry about me running anymore."

It was a promise. An oath. One that he was now telling Lorn about as Phillip took the staff back into his hands and stepped up to prepare to put the pressure on. Strength wouldn't be something he could rely on, so he'd have to work at figuring out something...

And so he struck. Flowing into an attack pattern like he had done with Lorn, yet he was changing it up far more than he done with Lorn. Incorporating the same strikes as he had done against the Jedi Knight, focusing on swinging the staff upwards and then back down...but he was also shifting his grip on the quarterstaff. Bringing it closer to himself before then pushing it away from himself to change up the timing of his strikes. He wasn't going to let her get into a rhythm of defense against him.

 

[Lorn Reingard]

​

He heard the words. Phillip's promise, soft but certain: "She doesn't have to worry about me running anymore."

Lorn didn't answer. Didn't nod. Didn't let anything show. But the words dropped into the part of him where hope went to flicker and die, and this one stayed lit. He turned his back deliberately, letting the boy have the moment without the weight of a stare. Praise had to be earned, and even then, wielded carefully. Especially for kids like Phillip. Praise too soon and they mistake the milestone for the mountain.

But as he walked the line between students, circling slowly with the soft creak of dew on leather, Lorn watched out of the corner of his eye. Phillip had begun again. New partner. New pressure. And he wasn't repeating himself.

Lorn noticed that first. The boy didn't fall into rhythm. He shifted his grip mid-strike, controlled the range with the kind of messy instinct that wasn't polished but honest. The footwork was still uneven. Too tight on the pivot. Too upright on the retreat. But it was his.

He was building a rhythm. Not someone else's. His. Lorn shifted closer. Didn't interrupt. Just circled, staff tucked behind his shoulder. The breeze stirred the edge of his robe. It felt too peaceful for a fight like this, too green and soft for the kind of training he knew the galaxy would require of these kids soon enough.

But still he watched. Lorn exhaled, quiet and satisfied.

Still needed work. He'd break Phillip down again later. Force the fear back up from wherever the boy was learning to bury it and see what he did when it rose in his throat.

But not today. Today, he had stood his ground.

After a while, Lorn called it.

"Enough."

The students froze, some mid-swing, most panting. Lorn looked across them all without emotion, then raised his voice only slightly.

"You're not training to win. You're training not to die."

He paused, letting that sit. Several students glanced sideways. Phillip didn't.

"You want to know if you're getting better? Here's the answer: next time, you'll know what to do five seconds earlier. Next time, you'll block without thinking. Next time, your hands won't shake after the first hit."

He let the staff fall lightly to the grass beside his boot.

"If there's a next time."

Then his gaze dropped to Phillip again. Only for a second. Nothing lingering. But it was different than before.

Not doubt. Not disappointment.

Just the cold acknowledgment of someone beginning to shift.

He turned.

"Dismissed."

As the students began to scatter, Lorn stayed where he was, arms crossed now, gaze on the horizon. He didn't speak to anyone else. Not yet.

"Phillip. Come see me when you're packed up."

He waited.

Phillip Slate​

 

[Phillip Slate]

Tags: Lorn Reingard

His heart was racing. Not in the good way. Not like when he spent time with Isla, or when he was looking at a good view. It was the exercise kind of racing which he had never been a fan of. Physical training had never been his forte, but he was working at it. He was pushing against the discomfort because what could happen if he didn't train was much worse. He had to keep pushing no matter what the challenge was.

This was still helping him to focus as well. Splitting his brain into different sections to focus on different aspects. Most of it was focused on putting pressure on in the spar, figuring out where to hit without hesitation. But there was a smaller aspect that was taking notes of what he was doing. With how much putting pressure on was causing him to get exhausted, that helped to narrow down more choices for what lightsaber style for him to focus on in the future. Soresu, Ataru alongside Djem So and Shien.

And then Lorn called it. As soon as the other students put their staff in a more relaxed position, Phillip broke out into panting for air. An uneasy white colour coming to his face as he gasped for air. He knew he wasn't that healthy. People liked to say their body was a Temple...and whilst Phillip's body wasn't exactly a McYoda's, it wasn't a temple either. He turned his attention towards Lorn as the Knight spoke, listening to his comment about how they were all training not to die. That was very true. Phillip had mostly gotten by with luck. Instincts. Being with better fighters. But that wasn't always going to be the case. Sooner or later, he was going to need to be the better fighter.

He stood still for a moment, as the other students started to scatter. His own mind abuzz with different thoughts. Whilst his body was exhausted and his muscles were screaming in pain, his mind was more active than ever. There were other students here who were much stronger than him. Faster. But he had a strong Will. He could get back up after getting hit...At least that's what he liked to believe. Phillip didn't want to have some kind of ego at the end of the day. Egos were how people got killed.

But then he heard Lorn telling him to come and see him, so Phillip quickly packed away the staff, making sure it was securely packed to his pack before he moved back over towards the Jedi Knight, giving him a short nod as Phillip tried to figure out the best way to stand.

"Is everything alright?"

 

[Lorn Reingard]

Lorn didn't speak right away. He stood still, shoulders folded into the early light, arms crossed like a closed gate. The others had drifted off now, the sparring field cleared, just grass and morning dew and the last of the breathless silence between teacher and student.

Phillip's question lingered.

"Is everything alright?"

Lorn's eyes flicked sideways. Not sharply. Just enough to pin the boy in place.

"You pack up quick," he said, voice flat, quiet. "Like someone used to being dismissed."

He turned, paced a slow half-circle around Phillip. Not looming. Just moving. Measuring. Not his skill now,but his posture. His nerves.

"Relax." He came to a stop in front of the boy, gaze steady.

"I want to know something." A pause. "Why do you spend so much time with my daughter?" There it was.

The words weren't sharp. There was no accusation in the tone. No bark, no barked warning like some overprotective warden. But there was weight behind them. Old weight. The kind you carry long after it stops making noise. And in his expression, there was no warmth. Not yet.

"You're not like the others," Lorn went on. "That's not a compliment. It's not an insult, either. It's just true. You hesitate. You're kind. You think too much."

He gestured vaguely, not at Phillip but toward the world around them, like all of it was the kind of battlefield he knew too well.

"That kind of boy doesn't walk next to a girl like Isla unless he's either a fool… or has a reason."

Another long pause. Lorn didn't blink.

"I assumed you were the one who pulled her into Calladene."

It wasn't a question. It wasn't even anger. It was the sound of judgment already passed. The kind that had been sitting on the back of Lorn's tongue since the day they came back burned and bruised and half-wrecked.

"Understand me, Phillip."

He stepped a little closer now, not in threat, not in heat. Just so the words couldn't be mistaken.

"If you put her in danger again…" His voice didn't rise. It didn't need to. "You won't see her again."

Not a threat. Not a warning. Just a fact. A quiet, unmovable one, like the sound of a blade being set down between two people who'd never wanted to draw it.

He stepped back, arms crossing again.

"She trusts you. For reasons I don't understand. Maybe that's enough. But if you're going to stand next to her, then you don't get to be average."

Lorn let the silence hang again. A breeze shifted the edge of his robe. Somewhere behind them, the first temple bell rang.

Phillip Slate​

 

[Phillip Slate]

Tags: Lorn Reingard

Phillip didn't comment on being used to getting dismissed. It wasn't necessarily something he wanted to focus on. In his eyes, it wasn't a good skill. It meant he was used to running away or leaving. Though he found himself relatively relaxing at Lorn's words, fighting the urge to fold his arms along his front.

Then came the question. A question Phillip froze up at. It wasn't something that made him feel fear. Far from it. It was more...he felt like this was a test. Did he say what he felt like was the best answer? Or did he say something from the heart. Was he a fool for following her? Maybe...But at the same time...

"...She's used to people acting like she's some kind of weapon. Because of her powers. The things she can do. I don't like that. She's not a weapon. She's not some kind of monster. She's...a girl. One I care for. Deeply. I don't want her to feel alone in the Galaxy. I've made an Oath and a Promise to her that I won't leave her. I'm turning down an Apprenticeship because of that."

He didn't correct Lorn on the Callende statement. Even if it was obvious in his eyes that he wanted to say something about it, to correct him, Phillip couldn't risk the backlash that might come back to Isla. No. If Lorn thought Phillip was the one who did it, then so be it. Phillip was the one who had done it as he found himself staring down Lorn. His knees were shaking almost, but he wasn't going to buckle down.

"...I made a promise to her Sir. Whether you ban me from seeing her again or not, I will keep that promise. I don't mean that...as a slight against you. But I won't let anyone or anything scare me away from her side again. She wanted me to leave her on Callende. I didn't then. And I won't leave her now."

Perhaps he had said something wrong. Maybe he should have backdowned...but there was something inside Phillip that refused to back down against this. He...cared for Isla. A lot. She made him feel important. Valuable. And that was something he planned on feeling for a while.

Yet it was the next comment that caused Phillip to break out into a frown. He didn't get to be average. Yet he wasn't meant to seeking perfection. It was almost like a contradiction of each other. This was more than just something for his own survival. IT had to be for Isla's as well.

 

[Lorn Reingard]

He stood still as Phillip answered, not blinking, not shifting, letting the words fall one by one between them like stones into a deep well. The boy didn't lie. Lorn could hear it. It wasn't the kind of polished truth someone learned to perform. It was raw, hesitant at the edges, but solid at the center. And it was spoken without fear. That part surprised him more than he'd admit. When Phillip said he was turning down an apprenticeship for her, Lorn's brow twitched, not in disapproval, but in calculation.

The boy was scared. Lorn could see it in the way his knees trembled like reeds in the wind. But he didn't run. He didn't flinch. And he didn't fold. Lorn let a long breath escape through his nose, quiet, controlled. He looked past Phillip for a moment, as if weighing what came next, not in the boy, but in himself.

"You don't get points for standing up to me," Lorn said at last, voice calm but edged. "Not here. Not for this."

He stepped forward again, just enough to feel the air shift between them.

"You say she's not a weapon. You're right. She isn't. But don't mistake that for meaning she can't destroy something if she's pushed hard enough. If she loses control. If the galaxy keeps trying to use her instead of protect her."

His voice softened, barely. The kind of soft that meant the fire was just burning further down.

"I've seen what happens to people like her, Phillip. Seers. Force-blessed. Whatever word you want to use. They're fragile in all the places no one can see. And this Order, this galaxy, it's not made for fragile things."

He took a step back now, finally easing the weight of his stare.

"So if she's chosen to tie herself to you, for whatever reason, you need to understand something."

Lorn's hand lifted, tapping lightly against the center of his chest, once.

"She's in here. In my bones. My blood. My past."

Then he tapped again once at his belt, where the hilt of his saber rested like a sleeping animal.

"And if she gets hurt again because someone she trusted thought loyalty was enough?"

A pause.

"I will become something you don't survive."

The words were cold, matter-of-fact. Not violent. Just final. Then, after a moment, his shoulders eased, just a little. A breath passed. A tension pulled back into his spine, like a blade sheathed.

"But," he added quietly, "you stayed on Calladene. You've stayed through worse. And that matters more than I expected."

He turned from Phillip then, started to walk away with the slow, deliberate gait of someone who had seen too many young people think they understood the shape of sacrifice.

And then, over his shoulder:

"You don't need to be perfect. You just need to be there."

A pause.

"And next time you see her, remind her she's grounded. For life."

He didn't look back. But there was, just faintly, the smallest flicker of something like dry humor tucked at the edge of his voice.

The kind of thing a man says when he's already forgiven something he still wants to be mad about.

Phillip Slate​