Private What Was Left Behind

[Zesiro]

Zesiro remained quietly beside him while he spoke, never interrupting or rushing to fill the silences that opened between his words. Some stories needed room to breathe, and this one more than most. Even the Candlewake seemed to still itself around them, as though the ship understood the weight of what was being shared within its walls. When he finally fell silent, she found herself looking at the floor rather than at him, not out of discomfort but because she was trying to imagine it: the overcrowded station, the darkness, the panic, thousands of frightened people trapped together while the systems keeping them alive slowly failed. She had seen battlefields and worlds burn and grief in almost every form the galaxy could invent, but a child should never have been asked to survive something like that.

Slowly, her gaze lifted toward him again. "How old were you?" The question was gentle, not meant to pull him deeper into the memory or dissect it, but simply to understand. Afterward, she sat quietly, her posture relaxed and open, one arm resting loosely across a raised knee. She stayed close enough that he would not feel abandoned, yet careful not to crowd him, leaving space if he needed it and company if he wanted it.

When she finally spoke again, her voice carried only understanding. "I think most people would have broken under that. It would have probably broken me. You were a child, hungry and frightened and alone, and then you were forced to endure something that would overwhelm most adults." Her eyes drifted briefly toward the shelves and records surrounding them. "And afterward you woke up in a galaxy that expected you to keep going."

The thought settled softly between them. Perhaps that was what struck her most. Not that he carried grief, and not even that he dedicated his life to helping others through theirs, but that somehow, despite everything, he had remained kind. Many people emerged from suffering convinced the galaxy owed them something. Others hardened themselves until they no longer felt much of anything at all. Malach had taken a different path, turning all that pain outward into compassion.

"I understand why you care so much about the dead," she said quietly. "They were the last people you were with. When everyone else moved on, you couldn't." She let the truth rest there without pushing further, then allowed a faint, sad warmth to soften her expression. "And I think breathing counts as being alive. Not enough on its own, but it counts."

Her gaze drifted around the Candlewake again, taking in the records, the dog tags, the belongings preserved with such care, before returning to him with quiet certainty. "You say you were not really alive when they carried you off that station. Looking around this ship, I don't think that remained true for very long."

Malach Orren

 

[Malach Orren]

"I don't remember," he said when she asked how old he had been. "Nine, maybe ten. Young enough that they put me into a foster system that didn't know what to do with me. Not that I knew what to do with myself. I was shut down."

As she spoke, he found himself listening more than thinking. She wasn't trying to dismiss what had happened to him. She wasn't asking him to justify it or explain every feeling attached to it. Somehow, she simply understood.

Or understood enough.

For so long, he had been the one listening to others. The one helping them navigate their grief. Being on the other side of that felt strangely unfamiliar.

He had awakened to a galaxy that didn't know him, though many pretended they did. The lone survivor from a station full of death. For a while, people had been fascinated by him. Other children had simply thought he was strange. They made fun of him for surviving. They made fun of him for not having parents. So he learned to compartmentalize.

"I don't even remember my parents' names."

The words left him before he could stop them. And for the first time, the weight of that truth truly landed. His eyes closed. Tears slipped down his cheeks. He couldn't remember their faces. Couldn't remember their voices. Couldn't even remember their names.

A hand rose to rub at his eyes, though it did little good.

"I stole this ship," he admitted quietly.

The confession felt almost insignificant compared to everything else.

"I was a teenager. People were dying, and I felt like I needed to do something."

His gaze drifted toward the crowded interior of the Candlewake.

"So I stole it. Renamed it. Turned it into a memorial as much as a home. I haven't been far from it since."

His eyes moved across the shelves, displays, and crates surrounding them.

"Almost eighteen years now."

He looked at her.

"I'm running out of room."

Zesiro

 

[Zesiro]

For a long moment, Zesiro remained silent.

The revelation about his parents lingered in the air between them, and she found herself looking away, not because she was uncomfortable, but because there was something painfully familiar in what he had described. She understood loss. She understood grief. What she had not expected was how much she understood the strange emptiness that came with missing pieces of your own history.

"I don't know my parents' names either," she said quietly. "In truth, I don't even know if Zesiro was the name they gave me. My memories were taken when I was young, and whatever existed before that is little more than scattered fragments. There are moments, impressions, feelings I can't quite place, but names and faces..." She shook her head gently. "Those are gone."

The admission did not carry bitterness. There had been a time in her life when it might have, but years had a way of smoothing even the sharpest wounds into something quieter.

"I think people assume memory is what keeps someone alive within us, but I'm not sure that's true anymore. There are things about my past I can no longer recall, people I know must have mattered to me once, and yet the absence remains. It changes shape over time, becomes less immediate, less painful, but it never truly disappears."

Her eyes drifted across the interior of the Candlewake as she spoke. The ship made more sense to her now than it had when she first stepped aboard. Earlier, she had seen shelves crowded with belongings, displays filled with keepsakes, and records stretching farther than any one person could reasonably maintain. Now she saw something else entirely. Every object surrounding them represented a refusal to let absence become erasure. Every name preserved here existed because someone had cared enough to remember.

When he admitted he had stolen the ship, a faint smile finally touched her lips.

"I probably shouldn't admit this," she said, "but my first ship was acquired under circumstances that local authorities would have viewed with equal disapproval."

There was a touch of warmth in her voice now, not quite amusement, but something close.

"The details are different, but I suspect we would both have made rather poor examples of responsible citizenship."

The smile faded slowly as her gaze returned to him.

What struck her most was not the theft itself, nor even the fact that he had spent nearly two decades aboard this vessel. It was the choice he had made afterward. A frightened, grieving child had grown into a lonely, grieving young man, and somehow his answer to that pain had not been anger, vengeance, or bitterness. Instead, he had devoted his life to ensuring that strangers were remembered.

The thought settled heavily in her chest.

"I think that's what surprises me most," she said softly. "Not the ship. Not the records. Not even the fact that you've dedicated so much of your life to this work."

Her blue eyes met his.

"I think it's the simple fact that after everything you've told me, you still chose compassion."

For a few moments, she allowed the silence to return before continuing.

"Most people would have looked at what happened to them and concluded the galaxy had failed them. They would have spent the rest of their lives angry about it. Instead, you built a place for people who would otherwise be forgotten, and you've spent eighteen years carrying burdens that were never yours to begin with."

There was no praise in her tone, only simple honesty.

"I don't know your parents, Malach. I don't know what they were like, what they believed, or what they hoped for you. But I find it very difficult to believe they would look at this ship, look at the life you've built, and feel anything but pride."

Malach Orren

 

[Malach Orren]

The fact that she didn't remember her parents either struck him more deeply than he expected. For the first time in his life, he felt as though he was speaking with someone who truly understood. He had spent so long believing no one could. Yet here she was.

Not because she had studied loss or listened to stories about it, but because she had lived through something similar herself. The realization left him wondering how many others were out there carrying the same wounds. How had he never considered that before?

The admission that she had acquired her first ship in much the same way earned the faintest smile.

"Guess we aren't that different."

The smile faded after a moment. Her attention still felt undeserved. He was just a man trying to help people grieve. Trying to keep the lost from being forgotten. Maybe one day others would see value in what he was doing. Maybe the Candlewake would become something larger than a single ship.

Maybe.

She continued, telling him that what surprised her most was that he had endured everything he had without becoming bitter. The words lingered with him. Perhaps it was compassion. Strange, considering how hard he had tried to push her away when they first met. Yet she had seen through that almost immediately.

"I don't want people to hurt the way I do," he said quietly. "Nobody deserves that. I was never angry at people for what happened. Just the circumstances."

He turned to look at her. Really look at her. She was beautiful. His gaze drifted to her hands. Through the Force, he knew what those hands had done. The lives they had taken. The blood they carried. But perhaps she carried that burden because she didn't know how not to.

Or perhaps she regretted it more than she let others see. Before he could second-guess himself, he reached out and took her hand.

The gesture felt strange. Unfamiliar. Her skin was warm and unexpectedly soft. He had expected callouses, the sort common among soldiers and those who made a living through violence. Instead, her hand felt gentle.

"I don't like seeing people hurt," he said, his thumb brushing lightly across her hand. "Maybe because I know what it feels like."

His gaze remained on hers.

"I can't imagine being the reason someone else carries that pain."

Zesiro

 

[Zesiro]

The contact surprised her, not because it was unwelcome, but because it had happened at all. For most of the afternoon, Malach had treated distance like armor. Every question had been met with caution, every attempt to understand him answered with another wall placed carefully between himself and the rest of the galaxy. Even when he had begun speaking about his past, there had still been the sense of an invisible boundary he refused to cross.

Now, for the first time since they had met, that boundary seemed to have shifted.

Zesiro looked down at the hand holding hers before lifting her gaze back to him. She did not pull away. The warmth of another person's touch felt strangely unfamiliar, and somewhere along the way, she had grown accustomed to living without it. There had been friends and allies and people she trusted, but trust and closeness were not always the same thing, and years had passed since she had allowed anyone to be this near without instinctively retreating behind the distance she showed the rest of the world.

For a moment, she simply sat there, letting herself feel the unexpected comfort of it. Then her fingers closed gently around his in return.

"I know." The words were quiet, not because she believed she fully understood him, but because she believed him.

Her gaze drifted to the shelves surrounding them, to the records and keepsakes and fragments of lives gathered from every corner of the galaxy and preserved with a care most people reserved for family. Nothing aboard the Candlewake suggested a man capable of indifference.

When she spoke again, her voice carried the thoughtful tone she used when trying to put something difficult into words. "I think people who have never carried that kind of pain assume it teaches you anger. Sometimes it does. I've met people who built their entire lives around old wounds and spent years trying to make the galaxy hurt as much as they did." A faint sadness touched her expression. "They never seem to realize it doesn't work."

Her thumb brushed lightly across the back of his hand, the gesture unconscious. "Pain doesn't become smaller when it's shared that way. It just spreads."

She sat quietly beside him for a few moments, her shoulder resting against the wall of the Candlewake, her hand still in his. "I wasn't always a particularly good person, Malach." The admission came without defensiveness. "I've done things I regret. Some because I believed they were necessary. Some because I was too young to know there were better choices."

Her eyes lowered briefly. "For a long time, I convinced myself that regret and guilt were the same thing. They aren't. Regret is wishing you had chosen differently. Guilt is deciding you deserve to suffer forever because you didn't."

When she looked back at him, her expression held a quiet steadiness. "I don't think either of us escaped our past untouched. I think the difference is that you've spent eighteen years trying to make sure no one else carries the same wounds you do."

A small smile appeared. "That is a difficult thing to dislike, even when you are trying very hard to push people away."

The smile softened. "Compassion doesn't make you weak. It makes you brave."

The words were simple and entirely sincere. And because the moment seemed to deserve honesty, she added one last truth, spoken softly and without expectation. "It has been a very long time since I trusted someone enough to let them hold my hand. And I'm glad I didn't pull away."

Malach Orren

 

[Malach Orren]

She didn't shy away from the touch. After a moment, she embraced it, her fingers intertwining with his. He felt her thumb brush against his hand. That was different. He knew what it was like to hold someone's hand. Over the years he had held many while helping them through grief. But they had never held his in return the way she was now.

As she spoke about people who turned grief into anger, he listened and understood. Many did what she described. Instead of confronting their pain, they spread it. They made others feel what they felt, creating more suffering rather than easing their own. Those were often the people who needed the most help, yet they were also the hardest to reach.

Too often, they wanted a fight. And Malach didn't fight.

"People who spread their anger and pain are the hardest for me to help," he said quietly. "Most of the time they just want someone to fight. I don't fight."

When she spoke of her past, his gaze drifted to their joined hands. The traces of what she had done still lingered in the Force. He could see them as clearly as before. But people could change. The past could not be undone, yet that did not mean someone was forever trapped by it. Atonement was possible. At least, he wanted to believe it was.

"Do you want to do something different with your life?" he asked. "Make atonement for the things you regret?"

It was an honest question. If she truly wanted to change, perhaps he could help. He had spent his life helping people through grief. Maybe there were other kinds of wounds that deserved the same attention.

When she commented on letting someone hold her hand, his eyes lifted back to hers.

"I've never held someone's hand, aside from my parents, when it wasn't meant to comfort someone."

A faint smile touched his lips.

"It's not... bad."

Zesiro

 

[Zesiro]

A faint smile touched Zesiro's lips at his admission. "It's not bad," she said softly, her voice carrying a quiet warmth. "Touch can matter a great deal. People use it to comfort, to reassure, to remind someone they aren't alone. Words can do those things too, but not always." Their hands remained joined, steady rather than intimate, a point of contact she seemed almost surprised to accept.

For a few moments, she considered his question, letting the silence settle between them. Did she want to do something different with her life? Did she want atonement? The answer resisted anything simple, and a slight shake of her head followed, not in disagreement but in the uncertain way of someone still trying to understand the shape of the question itself. "I don't know," she admitted, and the honesty came easier than she expected.

"When I was younger, barely more than a teenager, the man who kidnapped me took far more than my memories. He stole my childhood. He stole the chance to become whoever I might have been without him." Her gaze drifted somewhere beyond the walls of the Candlewake, as though the past lived in the spaces between the shelves. "He spent years shaping me into exactly what he wanted. Every lesson, every expectation, every punishment pushed me toward a single purpose until eventually I stopped questioning it. I became what he made me."

There was no anger in her voice now, only the distant clarity of someone who had lived with an old wound long enough for it to become part of the landscape. "But I'm not that person anymore," she said quietly. "I haven't been for a very long time."

Her eyes returned to his. "When my husband looked at me, he didn't see the darkness. He didn't see the killer. He didn't see all the things I was terrified other people would see." A faint smile softened her features. "He saw a human being." The memory warmed her voice in a way few things could. "And somewhere along the way I realized I didn't have to spend the rest of my life being the person someone else had turned me into."

She paused, searching for the right way to describe something that had never happened all at once. "It wasn't sudden. It took years. More than I can honestly remember." Her smile deepened with a hint of self‑aware humor. "Considering my relationship with memory, that's not surprising."

The warmth faded into something gentler, more vulnerable. "So when you ask whether I want to change, whether I want atonement, I think the truth is that I've already spent years trying. I just don't know if there's a finish line for something like that."

The Candlewake felt quieter around them, as though the ship itself understood the weight of the moment. Perhaps it was simply that neither of them felt quite as alone.

"If you can be as patient as he was," she said at last, her fingers tightening slightly around his, "then yes. Help me." The words carried no hesitation, no pride, no attempt to soften the vulnerability they required.

A softer smile followed, small but certain. "And I suspect that help is going to go both directions, Malach." Her blue eyes held his steadily. "Whether either of us intended that or not."

Malach Orren

 

[Malach Orren]

When she spoke about not seeing the killer, his gaze drifted away. He knew she hadn't meant it as a response to what he had said earlier, yet it still felt like one.

The thought unsettled him. He didn't want to look at her that way. For reasons he couldn't fully explain, the idea felt wrong. What she had said before lingered in his mind as well.

The more he listened, the more he wondered whether her past had truly been the product of her own choices. If someone had manipulated her, guided her down a path she would never have chosen otherwise, then perhaps what she needed wasn't atonement.

Perhaps she needed understanding.

"What you did after being manipulated isn't a reflection of your character," he said quietly. "You shouldn't carry it forever."

It was the closest he could come to telling her she could let it go.

"I'm sorry for what I said before about the blood on your hands."

His thumb brushed lightly against her hand.

"I shouldn't have said it."

He didn't let go. The simple act of holding her hand made him feel strangely grounded. Safe, in a way he hadn't experienced in years. That realization alone was unsettling. When she asked for his help, surprise crossed his face. That wasn't what he had been suggesting.

His entire life had been built around solitude. Around moving from place to place alone. The Candlewake had always been his responsibility and his alone. How was he supposed to help her if she wasn't there? The thought brought a dozen new complications with it. Most of them unfamiliar.

"I..." He hesitated.

Then, after a moment, he met her gaze.

"I will help you. If you'll help me."

Zesiro

 

[Zesiro]

For a moment, Zesiro simply held his gaze. The apology had clearly cost him something; she could see it in the hesitation, in the careful way he chose his words, in the uncertainty that still clung to them. It would have been easy to dismiss it, to tell him there was nothing to apologize for, but that would have felt dishonest. Instead, she offered a small smile and tightened her hand gently around his. "I accept your apology," she said softly, "and I understand why you felt the need to give it."

There was no resentment in her voice. "When we met, you saw exactly what you believed you saw. Someone who had taken lives. Someone who carried death with her." Her gaze flicked briefly to their joined hands before returning to his. "And the truth is, you weren't entirely wrong."

There was no shame in the admission anymore, only acceptance. "I can spend the rest of my life trying to do better than I did before, but there will never be enough bathing to wash all of the blood away. Those choices happened. Those people existed. Pretending otherwise doesn't honor them any more than forgetting them would."

She leaned back against the bulkhead, settling more comfortably without letting go of him. The contact felt steady now, familiar in a way it hadn't earlier. Her eyes wandered across the cluttered interior of the Candlewake, over shelves filled with memories and names that might otherwise have vanished. "I do wonder sometimes what I would have become without all of it," she murmured, the thought slipping out before she could stop it. Not bitter, not mournful, simply curious. "What kind of person might I have been if my childhood had belonged to me. If someone else hadn't decided who I was supposed to become before I was old enough to choose."

A faint, thoughtful smile touched her lips. "But I suppose that's a question without an answer. The past is full of roads that no longer exist. You can spend a lifetime staring down them and never take a single step forward."

Her eyes lifted to his. "My past cannot be changed. But my future can start again." There was a quiet certainty in her voice that hadn't been there earlier, not certainty about where that future would lead, but certainty that she no longer had to remain the person she had once been. The realization felt strangely liberating.

When he agreed to help her, something warm settled in her chest. Not relief exactly, something steadier. Hope, perhaps.

Then came the part that mattered just as much.

Her head tilted slightly as she studied him, taking in the grief he carried, the years of solitude he had already confessed to, the way he had spent so long helping others without expecting anything in return. "You've carried so much on your own for so many years," she said quietly. "If I'm asking for your help, then it seems only fair that you tell me what you need in return."

Her voice remained gentle, without pressure. "Not who helps you. I know the answer to that." Her fingers tightened around his, steady and sincere. "I'm asking what you want help with, Malach. From me."

Malach Orren

 

[Malach Orren]

"Yes, but you did those things because of what someone else shaped you into. If you hadn't been manipulated that way, I don't think that's who you would have become."

At least, it didn't feel like her.

The woman sitting beside him seemed kind. Compassionate. He had seen it in the way she spoke. In the way she had stopped to help strangers when he had tried to leave. In the way she continued to sit beside him now. People could change. The future wasn't fixed. Whatever she had been, whatever she regretted, she didn't have to remain that person forever.

"I can help you build something better," he said quietly. "For yourself and your daughter."

He realized then that he didn't even know how old her daughter was. The thought drifted away almost immediately.His eyes had settled on Zesiro.

She was beautiful.

The realization struck him with enough force that he quickly looked elsewhere, his gaze finding the displays around the Candlewake instead. Familiar things. Safe things.

They grounded him.

He wasn't entirely sure what he was feeling, and now didn't seem like the time to find out. Eventually, his gaze drifted back down to their joined hands. How long had they been sitting there like this? Was it strange that neither of them had let go?

She hadn't pulled away. Maybe she found comfort in it too.

When she asked what he needed help with—not his work, but himself—he fell silent. His jaw worked slightly. His free hand opened and closed at his side. Without thinking, his grip on hers tightened a little. Not enough to hurt. Just enough to remind himself she was there. The contact made it easier to speak.

"Help me..." he began.

The words caught briefly in his throat. Then he looked up at her.

"Help me let someone in."

His voice was barely above a whisper.

"Help me accept love."

The admission hung between them. He didn't know exactly what he meant by it. He didn't know if it meant her. Maybe it was only because they were sitting together holding hands. Maybe it was because no one had ever made him feel understood before.

Maybe.

But for the first time in a very long time, he wasn't certain that every answer needed to be found immediately.

Zesiro

 

[Zesiro]

For a moment, Zesiro forgot to breathe. His words settled between them with a weight she hadn't expected, not because they were dramatic, but because they were honest in a way nothing else he had said since Carida had been. Help me let someone in. Help me accept love. The ache that rose in her chest wasn't sadness. It was recognition.

Her gaze drifted to their joined hands, noticing how his grip had tightened as though the contact itself had become an anchor. She understood that feeling far better than she wished she did. For the briefest moment, she felt the impulse to reach for him, not his hand, but his face, to brush away the dried tears and offer comfort the way he had offered it to so many others. The urge arrived so suddenly that it startled her.

But she stayed where she was. Some things couldn't be rushed. Some things deserved patience.

A faint smile softened her expression. "I don't think that's something I can do for you," she said gently. It wasn't a refusal. It was honesty. Her fingers remained threaded with his, steady and warm. "I don't think anyone can teach another person how to accept love. I think they can only stay long enough for you to decide it's safe."

The Candlewake felt impossibly quiet around them. She thought of everything that had happened since they met, the way he had pushed her away, the way he had come back, the way he had listened, the way he had finally allowed himself to be seen. When she smiled again, it was a little more open. "If you're asking whether I'm willing to help you try…" Her hand tightened around his. "Then yes. I can do that."

She glanced down at their hands before meeting his eyes once more. "And for what it's worth, Malach, I don't think you're nearly as bad at letting people in as you believe." A hint of quiet amusement warmed her voice. "Considering where we started this afternoon, I'd say you've already made more progress than you're giving yourself credit for."

She let the words settle, her tone soft but certain. "You've carried everything alone for a very long time. You don't have to keep doing that. Not with me sitting here."

Malach Orren

 

[Malach Orren]

I don't think someone can do that for you.

The words hit harder than he expected. For a moment, unease crept in. It felt like rejection.

He felt himself beginning to retreat, instinctively drawing back toward the quiet emptiness that had protected him for so many years. His grip loosened slightly, and for a brief moment he considered letting go of her hand altogether.

Then she spoke again. And everything stopped.

She was willing to try.

Not because she had all the answers. Not because she knew it would work. Just because she was willing to try. Her fingers tightened around his hand. His breath caught. Something inside him gave way. Tears slipped down his cheeks before he could stop them.

He felt weak.

He felt exposed.

And yet, at the same time, he felt strangely whole. Not complete. Not healed. Just... less empty. As though something he had been missing for so long that he no longer noticed its absence had suddenly been returned to him.

Yet even then, doubt remained.

"But we've only just met, Zesiro."

His voice trembled slightly.

"How can you make a commitment like that to me?"

He didn't understand. Why him? Why now? The questions came easily. The answers did not.

He still couldn't sense her the way he sensed most people. Her emotions remained hidden behind something he couldn't quite see through. Present, yet frustratingly out of reach. For perhaps the first time in his life, he had to trust someone without relying on what he felt through the Force. The thought was terrifying. And strangely comforting.

"I want to try that with you."

His fingers tightened around hers.

"I want to."

The words came easier now.

"And I want to be there for your daughter too. I think I can do that."

He looked into her eyes.

"If you're patient with me."

Because despite everything she seemed to see in him, he still wasn't entirely convinced he was as capable as she believed.

Zesiro

 

[Zesiro]

For a moment, Zesiro simply held his gaze and felt something in her chest tighten. The sight of tears in his eyes didn't make her think less of him; if anything, it revealed a kind of courage he didn't seem to recognize in himself. Not the courage of surviving dying worlds or carrying the grief of strangers, but the far rarer kind, the courage to trust someone after a lifetime spent believing solitude was safer.

When his grip loosened, she felt it. When it tightened again, she felt that too. And she didn't let go.

"Malach." His name left her quietly, warm and steady, the tone one used for someone standing at the edge of something uncertain.

"We have only just met." There was no denying it, no softening it. The truth hung between them for a moment before a faint smile touched her lips. "But do you know how many people I've known for years who have never spoken to me as honestly as you have today?"

Her thumb brushed lightly across the back of his hand, a small gesture meant only to keep him anchored. "Time matters. It should matter. Trust doesn't appear overnight. But sometimes a person can spend years learning facts about someone and never truly know them. Other times…" Her smile softened. "Sometimes you sit on the floor of a freighter and tell each other the things you've spent a lifetime hiding."

The Candlewake felt smaller around them, not confined, but unexpectedly intimate, a space that had shifted without either of them meaning it to.

"You're not asking me to promise the rest of my life," she said gently. "You're asking whether I'm willing to take the next step. Whether I'm willing to keep showing up."

Her fingers remained intertwined with his. "Yes." The answer came easily, not because she knew where the road would lead, but because she wanted to see where it went.

When he spoke of Hannah, the warmth in her expression deepened. "I think she'd like you." The thought surprised her with how natural it felt, Hannah, wandering through the Candlewake, asking questions, listening to stories, seeing the kindness in him long before he saw it in himself. The image settled comfortably in her mind.

She looked back at him, her voice softening. "If I'm patient with you…" A hint of amusement warmed her tone. "Malach, I've spent most of today watching you help strangers through grief, listening to you talk me through my own, and discovering that beneath all your attempts to push people away, you're one of the gentlest men I've ever met."

Her smile widened slightly. "I don't think patience is going to be the difficult part."

For a while, she simply sat with him, their hands joined, the silence no longer something that needed to be filled. Then she gave his hand a small, steady squeeze.

"We don't have to figure everything out tonight," she said, her certainty quiet but firm. "We can just take the next step."

Not you. Not me. We. And somehow that felt like the most important word of all.

Malach Orren

 

[Malach Orren]

It would have been impossible for him to know how many people had spoken to her the way she described. Still, he understood the point. Very few. Few enough that she remembered them.

More importantly, she seemed genuinely glad that he had been honest with her. Not because he had been trying to win her over, but because he had trusted her enough to let her see who he really was.

As she continued speaking, he found himself shifting a little closer until his shoulder rested lightly against hers. It felt natural. Comforting.

She was probably right about the rest as well. People could spend years together and never truly know one another. Yet somehow, in the span of a few hours, they had shared things neither of them seemed willing to share with anyone else. That realization still felt strange.

He had never planned on telling anyone about the station. Never planned on speaking about his parents. Those memories had been locked away for so long that he had stopped thinking of them as things that could be shared.

And yet she had somehow drawn them out of him. No. Not drawn them out. Given him a reason to speak.

"I am happy you're willing to try," he said quietly. "Even if it makes me nervous."

The admission came easier than he expected. She had probably already noticed. His grip had tightened and loosened more than once throughout the conversation, while hers had remained steady. Moving closer to her now was his way of saying that, despite the uncertainty, he wasn't going to retreat from it. Not this time.

"You are right," he continued. "You've been more patient with me than I had any right to expect."

A faint laugh escaped him.

"I did everything I could to push you away, and somehow we're here anyway."

His eyes lowered briefly to their joined hands.

"I don't even know how you managed to get all of this out of me. I'd kept it buried for so long that I never expected to tell anyone.Being alone was just part of life."

A small smile touched his lips.

"But I'm glad you're here to take these steps with me."

Zesiro

 

[Zesiro]

Zesiro felt the gentle pressure of his shoulder against hers and found herself smiling, not because the contact surprised her anymore, but because it didn't. Somewhere between the ruined streets of Carida and the crowded interior of the Candlewake, being close to him had stopped feeling strange and started feeling natural. The realization should probably have concerned her more than it did. Instead, it felt peaceful.

"I am a mother," she said softly, her smile lingering. "That might have helped with my patience."

There was a quiet warmth in the admission. Hannah had taught her many things over the years, not least of which was that people rarely grew at the pace you expected. Sometimes they stumbled. Sometimes they retreated. Sometimes they needed the same reassurance a dozen times before they finally believed it. Loving a child meant learning that patience wasn't something you practiced occasionally. It became part of who you were.

Her fingers remained comfortably intertwined with his.

"I don't think I dragged any of this out of you." A faint note of amusement touched her voice. "You make it sound as though I spent hours interrogating you." Her blue eyes lifted to his. "I think you were simply ready to tell someone." The observation was gentle rather than certain. She wasn't trying to define his feelings for him, only offering the possibility.

For a moment, her gaze wandered through the ship around them. The records. The keepsakes. The memories preserved with such care that they transformed the Candlewake from a vessel into something far more meaningful.

"I can't change my past either," she said quietly. "Not what was done to me. Not the things I did afterward. Not the people I've lost." Her eyes returned to his. "But I'm glad you'll be around to help me build a new future." The words settled comfortably between them, carrying none of the weight of a declaration and none of the uncertainty that had accompanied so much of their earlier conversation. After everything they had shared, honesty seemed to be the one thing neither of them had reason to fear anymore.

A slightly wider smile touched her lips.

"Though before we start rebuilding each other's lives, I do have an important question." There was a teasing warmth in her voice now. "Where exactly were you planning to go after Carida?" Her gaze drifted toward the half-eaten meal bars she had seen tucked away among his supplies, and the amusement in her eyes deepened almost immediately. "And before you answer, I'm going to warn you that 'wherever the next tragedy happens' is not an acceptable response."

The thought of him living on rations and donations for years left her quietly dissatisfied. She found herself imagining the countless worlds he had visited, the countless people he had helped, and all the while, he had apparently been content to sustain himself on whatever was cheapest, quickest, and least likely to divert resources away from his work. It was exactly the sort of thing she suspected he would never think twice about, which only made it easier for her to decide what came next.

"And before you object, this isn't charity." A hint of determination entered her voice, though it never displaced the warmth.

"I'm making dinner, and that wasn't a suggestion." The statement carried the calm confidence of someone who had already reached a decision and saw little point in debating it further. "An actual meal. One that doesn't come out of a wrapper and isn't designed to survive three decades in a cargo hold." Her thumb brushed lightly across the back of his hand as she spoke. "You've spent years taking care of everyone else, Malach. Allow someone to take care of you for one evening." The smile that followed softened as she looked at him.

"Besides, if we're going to start taking these steps together, I would prefer the first one not involve watching you pretend a meal bar counts as proper food. That seems like a terrible foundation for whatever comes next, and I suspect even the Candlewake deserves better than that."

Malach Orren

 

[Malach Orren]

She hadn't pulled those things from him. Not really. It had simply been the way she spoke to him. The things she said. Somehow, without meaning to, she had created a space where he felt safe enough to open up. The fact that it had happened so naturally made him wonder if the Force had been guiding them both.

Strangely, the thought didn't bother him.

"When can I meet her?"

It was obvious he meant her daughter. If they were truly going to try this—whatever this was—then meeting her sooner rather than later seemed important. Children deserved stability. Honesty. Besides, he liked children.

The thought of her smile brought a smile to his own face. She would need good people in her life. He hoped he could be one of them.

When she asked about their next destination, his gaze wandered across the cluttered interior of the Candlewake. Shelves. Crates. Memorials. Mementos. There would need to be changes. Space made. Rooms repaired. The realization felt both daunting and oddly exciting.

Still, it wasn't an answer.

"I don't know yet," he admitted. "Maybe it would be best to stay here for a little while."

His eyes drifted back to hers.

"I need to make room for you and your daughter."

The words came more easily than he expected. A few hours ago, the idea would have seemed impossible. Now it felt almost natural.

A sudden rumble from his stomach interrupted the moment. Malach grimaced and placed his free hand against it as though that might somehow convince it to be quiet. It didn't.

The thought of a real meal—something warm and freshly made instead of another meal bar—was enough to make his mouth water.

"I won't say no to a meal if you're offering to make one."

A small smile appeared.

"Meal bars keep you alive. But they aren't exactly good food."

He glanced toward the galley.

"I'm fairly certain you cook better than I do, anyway."

Zesiro

 

[Zesiro]

The ease with which he spoke about making room for her and Hannah should have startled her, yet instead it settled into her chest as a quiet, steady warmth. Not because he was offering space aboard a ship, but because he was offering space in his life, and for a man who had spent so many years alone, she suspected that was the far greater gesture. A smile touched her lips.

"Okay," she said softly, the answer arriving without hesitation. "We can stay here for a little while." The decision felt surprisingly simple. Carida was still recovering, people still needed help, and Malach clearly wasn't ready to leave yet. Truthfully, she wasn't in any hurry either.

Her fingers remained comfortably intertwined with his as she continued, "And I can find a market nearby. Carida survived an attack, not the end of civilization. Someone is still selling food." Amusement warmed her eyes as she glanced toward the galley. "Though I should probably manage your expectations before we get there."

A soft laugh escaped her. "Imagine the simplest possible dinner a person can make that isn't a ration bar." Her smile widened. "That's what I'm making." She suspected he was imagining something far grander than her actual abilities warranted. "I spent years protecting politicians, managing security teams, raising a daughter, and surviving one disaster after another. Gourmet cooking was never part of my education." The warmth in her expression never faded. "Fortunately, simple food is often the best food."

She studied him for a moment, head tilting slightly. "Do you want to learn how to cook?" The question carried genuine curiosity, not because she expected him to become a chef, but because she suddenly found herself picturing what his life aboard the Candlewake actually looked like. Meal bars. Records. More meal bars. Occasional sleep. Then back to work. The image was quietly horrifying.

"You do realize surviving and living aren't the same thing," she said, her tone light enough to soften the truth beneath it.

Then his earlier question returned to her thoughts, and her expression gentled. "When the Empire moved on Commenor, I sent Hannah somewhere safe." Her gaze drifted across the Candlewake's crowded interior before returning to him. "It was the right decision, but I still hated making it." No parent enjoyed sending their child away, even when necessity demanded it.

"She's thirteen now. Clever. Stubborn. Far too good at knowing when adults are avoiding questions." Affection colored every word. "Once we leave Carida, we can go get her." The statement felt significant, not because she doubted his offer, but because she realized she genuinely wanted him there when it happened.

A slow smile returned as she studied him. "Though if you're asking when you can meet her, I should warn you that Hannah inherited all of my curiosity and absolutely none of my restraint." The amusement in her eyes brightened. "So I hope you're prepared to answer questions."

After everything that had happened today, after all the walls that had quietly fallen between them, it felt unexpectedly good to imagine a future that stretched beyond tomorrow.

And for the first time in a very long while, that future didn't feel lonely at all.

Malach Orren

 

[Malach Orren]

A soft sigh escaped him when she accepted his answer. Only then did he realize how anxious he had been about her response. Part of it stemmed from what she had said earlier. She hadn't let him retreat into old habits. No wandering from disaster to disaster without thought. No drifting.

She was asking him to be deliberate. To choose. The idea still made him nervous. But perhaps that nervousness wasn't entirely a bad thing. It could be quieted. Good food would help. Good company too.

His entire life since the station had been a blur of constant movement. One place after another. One tragedy after the next. Sleep had often been an afterthought. So had food.

"I haven't had anything that wasn't a meal bar since I was a teenager," he admitted. "At this point, even soup would feel like a gourmet meal."

A smile touched his lips.

He gave her hand one final squeeze.

"I will just be grateful that it's warm."

His smile softened.

"And that I'm sharing it with you."

When she asked if he wanted to learn to cook, he considered it seriously. Cooking had always seemed like one of those ordinary things other people did. Yet whenever he saw people preparing food after disasters, there was something unmistakable in their expressions. Joy. Comfort. Connection. Maybe there was value in learning.

"If you teach me, I'll learn."

When she mentioned picking up her daughter after they left Carida, his thoughts immediately shifted toward practical matters. A thirteen-year-old would need privacy. Her own room. Her own space. The Candlewake would need some changes.

He found himself looking forward to making them.

"I don't think I mind the questions anymore," he said quietly. "Not after telling you."

For so long, the questions had felt dangerous. Now they felt different.

He released her hand and rose to his feet before offering it back to help her stand.

"And since she's your daughter," he added, "I'm sure I can trust her."

Zesiro

 

[Zesiro]

The admission drew from Zesiro an expression that hovered somewhere between disbelief and sympathy. "You haven't had a real meal since you were a teenager?" The question slipped out before she could stop it. For a moment, she simply stared at him, trying to decide whether he was exaggerating. The look in his eyes told her he wasn't.

She shook her head quietly as she rose, accepting his offered hand without hesitation. Her fingers lingered in his for a moment after she was standing, reluctant to surrender the contact even as they eased back into the ordinary rhythm of the evening. "Malach, that might be one of the more alarming things you've told me today." Amusement softened the concern beneath her voice. "And considering some of the things you've told me today, that is really saying something."

A smile tugged at her mouth. The image of him surviving on meal bars for nearly two decades while traveling the galaxy, collecting memories, and helping strangers through grief felt so painfully, absurdly in character that she wasn't even sure how to argue with it. But when he agreed to learn, something brightened in her expression.

"Good," she said, satisfaction warming the word. "I'll teach you what cooking I do know, and once we've mastered the basics, maybe we can start looking beyond them." Her smile widened. "Learning something together sounds considerably more enjoyable than watching you slowly become one with your ration bars."

The thought lingered with her, not because of the food but because learning required time, patience, shared mistakes, and shared successes. It meant building something together rather than simply talking about doing so. For two people who had spent most of their lives carrying burdens alone, that felt unexpectedly important.

She laughed softly when he mentioned Hannah. "I admire your confidence." The amusement in her blue eyes made it clear she was only half joking. "Hannah is wonderful, but she has a remarkable ability to notice things people would prefer remain unnoticed. I suspect she will have formed three opinions about you before you finish answering her first question." The thought seemed to please her more than concern her.

Still smiling, she gave his hand one last gentle squeeze before finally letting it go. "Come on." Her gaze drifted toward the boarding ramp. "Let's find a market before I discover you've also been surviving exclusively on caf and stubbornness."

Knowing him, it was not entirely impossible.

Malach Orren

 

[Malach Orren]

"I kind of like the ration bars," he admitted when she compared him to them.

Truthfully, he had eaten so many over the years that he wasn't entirely sure where he ended and the ration bars began. If cooking proved to be as calming as he imagined, then he would learn.

The thought of preparing meals together held an appeal he hadn't expected. There was something comforting about it. Something ordinary. And ordinary was not something he had much experience with.

When she spoke further about Hannah, his gaze drifted once more toward the shelves that lined the Candlewake. Dog tags. Medals. Memories.

His cheek pressed lightly against the inside of his teeth as he thought. There was nothing left he feared being asked about. Not anymore. His darkest memories were no longer hidden away. The truths he had spent years protecting were already known.

"It will be fine," he said quietly. "I don't have anything worth hiding from either of you anymore."

A small smile appeared.

"I don't have dark secrets or skeletons in my closet."

The smile widened slightly.

"Before you ask, I don't keep skeletons."

A pause.

"Just hair for DNA profiles."

The joke came more naturally than he expected. Perhaps that alone said something about how much more comfortable he felt around her.

"I would be happy to go with you to find ingredients."

His eyes returned to hers.

"I haven't been inside a grocery store since I was a child. It will be nice to see what's available."

He motioned for her to lead the way. Then, almost absentmindedly, he offered his hand once more. The gesture felt natural now. A few hours ago, that would have surprised him. Now, it simply felt right.

Zesiro