Chapter Text
The Stinger Mantis, Merrin reflects in the stillness of the night cycle, is a very quiet place.
Oh, that isn’t to say the ship’s silent. Even now, she can hear the humming of the engines down below. But, as Greez so proudly informed her, the ship is a luxury yacht, and that, combined with how meticulously he maintains every inch of his beloved craft, makes it a very quiet yacht indeed. It’s nothing compared to Dathomir, where the nightlife preferred to make itself known even before sunset. The humming she hears is a faint one, and for the most part, the ship seems nearly still. If not for the blue streaks of hyperspace that Merrin can so clearly see from the cockpit, she might be tempted to assume that they have stopped.
But no, they are still en route to Dantooine, which is clear on the opposite side of the galaxy from the Fortress Inquisitorius that Cal and Cere infiltrated nearly a standard week ago. Dantooine, from what Cere has said, is a remote, backwater planet that has not yet suffered the cruel fate of falling under Imperial control. Their hope is to put some distance between themselves and the Empire, and lay low on the planet for a bit, until they can figure out their next move. With the holocron gone, no one seems to have any idea as to what that move might be.
But at this moment in time, none of that matters. Greez says it will be several more days before they make planetfall on Dantooine. They’re taking some of the lesser-known hyper-lanes, hoping to avoid any Imperial patrols. Prior to joining this crew, Merrin had no idea the galaxy was so large. When she thinks about it, it makes her feel rather small.
With their chances of garnering unwanted attention almost nil on these less-frequented space lanes, both Cere and Greez have declared it safe enough to allow everyone to get some rest. Greez retired to his cabin hours ago, and Cere finally took a break from her comm station and followed him not long after. Merrin knows that she, too, should be retiring to her bunk. But for some reason, she cannot bring herself to go.
Neither, it seems, can Cal. His condition has continued to improve over the last several days, to the point that he is able to get up and move around the ship for short periods of time, even going so far as to join them for each meal, and he has been relying less and less on their small supply of painkillers. But the young Jedi is still a long way from being considered fully healed. Shirts still present a challenge to him, albeit one Cal is able to conquer on his own since his crewmates’ quest for supplies had indeed yielded some garments with buttons and zippers. He still needs dressing changes every 12 hours. Moving the wrong way makes him feel like he is being stabbed all over again, and remaining awake for more than a few hours at a time leaves him absolutely exhausted.
In summary, it is late, and the young Knight needs his rest.
But, like Merrin, he is not resting. Instead, Cal is sitting at the dining table, with a cloth in one hand, his partially-dismantled lightsaber in the other, and a small toolkit before him. He’s using his restrained left hand to hold the saber while his right works the cloth into its various openings and crevices. So focused is he on his task, that he doesn’t notice Merrin coming up beside him
“Greez will be furious if he finds you have made a mess of his table with cleaning supplies and lightsaber parts.”
At the sound of her voice, Cal jumps, dropping his saber. Merrin immediately regrets her unintentionally-stealthy approach at the look of pain that steals across his face as his now-empty right hand immediately comes up to brace his left side against the sudden motion. She is glad to see that his discomfort passes quickly, though, as evidenced by the expression of embarrassment that crosses his features shortly thereafter.
“I won’t!” Cal exclaims, just a touch petulantly. He gestures to the materials spread out in front of him. “See? I put a cloth under it.”
There is, indeed, a cloth laid out before him, with all of his materials conscientiously placed atop it, to contain any mess. But Merrin doubts Greez will see it that way.
“While I am sure he will be grateful you did not spill on his table, the fact that you are using it at all to clean your lightsaber will not please him. Why are you out here?”
Cal sighs and glances back towards his sleeping area. “I’ve been back there most of the week. I just...wanted to be out here.”
‘With you,’ is what he dares not say.
Merrin shakes her head and clarifies, “No, I meant why are you still awake? You should be asleep.”
“Been sleeping all week,” the Jedi mutters. Merrin knows he is impatient with his rate of recovery, no matter how many times the rest of his crew tells him that he is healing faster than expected, given the magnitude of the injury. This period of forced inactivity is getting to him.
But Merrin isn’t swayed. “Then a little more will not hurt. We are in the ship’s night cycle, after all. Everyone else is asleep.”
“Except you,” Cal points out, gesturing to her very much awake presence. “Why are you up?”
That’s...a fair point, Merrin has to admit. Sleep has not come easily of late, not since leaving Dathomir. “Being on the ship is still strange to me,” she confesses, gesturing to the grey walls that surround them. “It is so different from Dathomir. I am still adjusting.”
Cal sits up a little straighter, and a faint look of worry crosses his features. “Is there anything I can do to help?”
Of course he would ask her that. Merrin suspects he could be gasping his last breath, and still ask the people closest to him how he could help. Cal is just that sort of person, and his sincere concern for her well-being warms her from the inside out. “No. The change of environment is something I must adjust to on my own. I am already getting used to it.”
“Good,” Cal nods, sounding relieved. He can’t stand the idea of Merrin being uncomfortable on the ship that’s now her home as much as it is his. “But if there’s anything I can do, just let me know.”
“There is something you can do now. Answer my question. Why are you not asleep?”
Cal deflates. “I was hoping you would forget about that…”
“And yet my question still stands.”
The redhead gestures down to the left side of his chest, where his shirt conceals the bacta patches Cere replaced only a few hours ago. Merrin frowns.
“You are in pain?”
Cal shakes his head. Then he grimaces. “No. Well, not really. Nothing I can’t handle. But I didn’t realize how late it was when I took a healing stim a few hours ago. Now I can’t sleep even if I wanted to.”
“How long will these effects last?”
Cal tilts his head, considering. “Since I can’t really do anything to work it off, probably another few hours. That’s why I’m cleaning my lightsaber.”
“By taking it apart?”
“Yeah.” Cal picks up his weapon again, allowing her a glimpse of its inner workings. Merrin leans forward, curious. “I’ve been so busy going after the holocron that I’ve only really done repairs. This is the first chance I’ve had to really take it apart and clean the inside.”
At least Merrin is used to it by now, so she’s not surprised when Cal places his saber, his life, an extension of his soul into her hands. It’s shinier than it was before, she realizes; much of the grit has been removed by his diligent efforts to keep the weapon in good working order. In a way, she thinks, it’s a reflection of Cal himself, as the journey to find and eventually dispose of the holocron allowed him to reach a level of healing, of self-cleansing, that he otherwise would not have reached.
Such a journey is not without its burdens, as they all well know. The lightsaber is heavier than it looks, Merrin realizes, feeling foolish for not noticing it sooner. The hilt is solid, well, steel of some kind; Merrin doesn’t know what kind, as she’s only beginning to learn about the resources available to the rest of the galaxy. But it’s well-balanced, like Cal himself, and lighter than anything that the Nightsisters or the Nightbrothers were capable of creating. And even when it is switched off, it resonates in a way that their traditional weapons never had.
It is with some reluctance that Merrin surrenders the weapon back to its owner, who begins reassembling it back to its proper form. “What is it like?” she hears herself asking, “To fight with a blade of pure energy?”
The Knight sits back, humming thoughtfully as he ponders how best to describe it to her. “The basics, the movements and the stances, aren’t that different from learning with any other type of sword.” Cal runs his hand thoughtfully over the hilt of the weapon, then looks up at the Nightsister with a crooked grin. “At least, I don’t think they are. I never learned any other type of blade, but that’s what I heard. But fighting with a lightsaber is...different. The blade is lighter, of course, since it’s made of energy and not metal.”
“And you have bonded with the crystals.”
“Yes. My thoughts, my energy merge with the blade through the crystals. The crystals act as sort of a...focus...for my own abilities. That’s why a Jedi’s lightsaber is an extension of themself.”
That makes sense. Merrin thinks back to her own combat training. “We Nightsisters were also taught how to wield blades, and to imbue them with our energies. But we had no kyber crystals such as yours, and the bond was not as strong.”
Cal looks up at her with interest. “You know how to wield a blade?” He’d suspected she might, when he’d first handed her his lightsaber back on Dathomir and she’d showed no hesitation in gripping it and turning it on, but he hadn’t known for sure.
Merrin dips her head. “All of the Nightsisters were taught the basics of physical combat, including how to wield a blade, and other weapons. They then furthered their training when they found the weapon that best suited them.”
“What was yours? Which weapons did you choose?”
Merrin shrugs. “I do not know. I never had the chance to find out.”
And that is something that Cal Kestis can completely understand. While he had demonstrated a proficiency with lightsaber combat that was far above most of his agemates, his training, too, ended when he was a child, before he even became a teenager. That isn’t to say he’s not proficient in combat; Cal grimaces internally, but the body count he’s left behind him on this quest is ample proof that his combat skills have far surpassed the level they were at even before Order 66. His Master, and the Knights who served as instructors at the Temple, had been thorough in training. Each youngling mastered the most physical forms of combat first, to better prepare them for the rigorous demands of wielding a lightsaber, and to know how to defend themselves and those around them in the event they were disarmed. Such lessons had served him well on Bracca, cesspit that it was, so Cal can understand why his skills in that area did not decline with his forced exile. He knows, too, the basics of most forms of lightsaber combat, something which the instructors had impressed upon him and Jaro Tapal had drilled into him. But that does not explain why his skills with a lightsaber, which he did not wield for five years, have suddenly grown to the point that he is able to take on multiple purge troopers at once, nor take down two inquisitors (though not at once).
Whatever the reason for his growing skill with his saber, Cal is grateful for it. But Merrin has not had that opportunity. Perhaps her skill with her magic has grown since departing Dathomir--he does not know. But Cal knows all too well the pain that can accompany the sudden loss of training that was once integral to one’s way of life.
And maybe she will allow him to rectify it.
“Explaining what it’s like to fight with a lightsaber is hard,” Cal begins. “So why don’t I teach you?”
At that, a small smile crosses Merrin’s features. She’s more surprised than she should be, given how willing Cal has been to let her hold his life in her hands, multiple times. He’s one of the last of his kind, and he’s been so willing to share whatever bits of his life that he can with her. Of course he wants to share this part, too.
“I would like that. As soon as you have recovered--”
“No,” Cal shakes his head, a grin spreading across his features. “I mean right now.”
This causes the Nightsister to stare at him as though he has suddenly sprouted horns. That stare quickly turns into a glare, however. “Cal, you cannot be serious. You have hardly begun to heal--”
But Cal won’t hear it. He complains, “Merrin, please, I’m going stir-crazy on this ship. I won’t, I can’t,” he gestures helplessly to his still-restrained left arm, “spar with you. I’ll just help you with the basics.”
Merrin’s glare doesn’t abate. “Just this morning, Cere had to help you to the table after you foolishly knelt down to pick something up. How will you be able to help with the basics?”
Cal stands, then, far more fluidly than she is expecting him to. Probably the effects of that healing stim he (also foolishly) administered earlier, the one that is still flowing through his veins despite the late hour. “You’ll be the one holding the blade,” he points out. “I’ll just walk you through the forms.”
Merrin sighs. “Cal, combat training will not help your wound heal any faster--”
He interrupts her, “It might. I just need to move around a little. It’ll help with the stiffness, at least. And maybe I can finally get the stim out of my system so I can sleep.”
At that, Merrin’s resistance to the idea wavers. Cal has finished cleaning his lightsaber and will doubtless be looking for some other physical activity to do, to help work the stim out of his system. And who knows what he will get up to if she takes one such possibility out of the equation.
Actually, she has a feeling she knows exactly what he’ll do: attempt to practice wielding the blade himself.
Merrin’s commitment to keeping him all wrapped up in the crew areas, safe but slowly going insane, is wavering, Cal can tell. But she’s not quite there yet. So he brings out his final weapon:
“I need your help with this. Please.”
It’s with Cal’s plea for assistance that Merrin’s resistance finally shatters. She relents, “Fine. But only if you do not attempt to demonstrate any techniques yourself. And we will stop the very second it becomes too much, whether or not you tell me so.” Merrin pauses, and levels one last glare at him. “But it is in your best interest that you tell me the moment it becomes so. I am sure a binding spell is more than a match for a wounded Jedi.”
Threat noted. Cal’s in no hurry to find himself tied to his cot.
(Though he wonders about what might happen after...and then has to banish the image from his mind.)
“I will, I promise.” And it’s a promise Cal intends to keep. Truth be told, he’s not sure how long he’ll last. While his condition has improved tenfold since his surgery, he hasn’t stayed on his feet for more than a few minutes at a time since then. The young Knight is quite certain that even this limited activity will wear him out enough to return to his cot.
“Why don’t you head down to the cargo hold? I’ll join you down there in a minute.”
Merrin nods, and departs for the hatch at the rear of the ship that leads to the cargo hold. Cal turns his attention back to the lightsaber in his hands. If he’s going to teach her to wield a lightsaber, there’s something he needs to do first.
When he does get down to the cargo hold, descending the ladder slowly on account of his injury, Cal is spellbound by the sight before him. Merrin is seated on the floor, facing away from him. She’s still clad in her usual attire, for the most part, but has removed the burgundy vest-style tunic and wide leather belt that normally adorn her top half, leaving her in only her slate-gray undershirt and leggings. Nothing is exposed, of course, Merrin’s clothing remains as modest as ever, and yet somehow, it leaves nothing to the imagination.
And it doesn’t help that she’s stretching, torso extended and lithe, sinewy arms reaching toward the tips of her toes in preparation for their session. Cal experiences a flash of envy, and a brief flare of irritation that his battered body won’t yet allow him to do the same, but both of these things are quickly stamped out by something far more potent: desire.
Cal isn’t a stranger to such a sensation; Bracca showed him far more than the Jedi Council ever would have approved of. But that’s just what it was back on Bracca: a sensation, a physical urge combined with the unyielding ache of loneliness, nothing more. This is...this is something far more than that. Cal’s mouth goes dry and he swallows, struggling to reach back for his ingrained training and viciously shoving down the traitorous reactions that threaten to make themselves known on all fronts.
‘Not the time, Kestis!’ he rails at himself. ‘Not the time, not the time! We’re here for lightsaber training, nothing more!’
Merrin must sense him behind her, or maybe he makes a sound, but she pauses her stretching, turning to look at him, and Cal momentarily mourns the loss of the view. Her brow furrows. “I was beginning to think you were not coming. What is it that took you so long?”
“Uh,” Cal fights to order his thoughts, which seem intent on betraying him. He forces himself to answer her question, and stammers, “My-my lightsaber. Had to change the settings on the emitter. Can’t have you cutting anything off in practice, right?”
Force, he hopes that sounded better to her than it did to him.
Thankfully, Merrin does not seem bothered by his phrasing. She stands, then, gathering her legs under her before rising gracefully to her feet and gliding towards him. Cal’s mouth goes dry again, and he inanely wonders why he hadn’t thought to bring down any water. They’re practicing, right? They need water.
At least, that’s the reason he chooses to delude himself with.
“That is a good idea,” Merrin is saying, and Cal forcibly jolts himself back to the present. “I appreciate the sentiment. And I am sure Greez will appreciate the lack of scorch marks on his floor.”
“Don’t count on it,” Cal warns her. “I set the emitters low enough that you can’t do any serious damage with them, but they can still burn--I don’t have any practice emitters. We still have to be careful.”
“Thank you for the warning.”
Merrin watches him expectantly, and Cal remembers that he is still holding the lightsaber. He gives it a deft twist, the movement made awkward by the sling, separating it into its composite hilts, and holds one hilt--the one that used to belong to Master Tapal--out to her. Merrin takes it, wrapping her hand securely around the well-worn grip and freeing his hand to lay the other half of the saber on a vacant shelf.
This is the first time Merrin has truly studied the saber in its single-blade form. It’s half the weight it usually is, as is to be expected with its other half now laying on the shelf several feet away. There’s a change in its resonance, too; with a start, Merrin realizes that the crystal within is humming along with its counterpart in the other hilt, despite the distance between them. She murmurs, “It is as if it is calling out to its twin, its other half.”
Cal nods, doubtless feeling that resonance for himself, and likely stronger than she is, given his bond with the crystals. He reminds her, “It was one crystal, once, until it broke apart in my hands. I thought that was it, I was done, until BD showed me a recording of Cordova.”
“Cordova. This was Cere’s teacher?”
“Yes. He said that failure isn’t the end, and that BD was sacrificing his own memories to store this data. I knew then that I couldn’t give up. That crystal called to me for a reason, so I figured that there had to be a reason that it split in two.”
“And thus you created your split saber.”
“Yeah. Most Jedi only wielded one blade. The Temple guards and a small number of Knights, like Master Tapal, wielded a double-blade; we call it a saberstaff. Only a very few wielded dual blades, called dual-wielding or Jar’Kai.” A touch of pride colors Cal’s voice when he says, “As far as I know, I’m the only Jedi to wield a split saber.”
Jedi are not supposed to be prideful of their accomplishments; Cal knows this. But Cal is aware enough of his own emotions to know that pride and arrogance are two different things. He can take pride in his accomplishments without becoming arrogant about his abilities, and no Jedi Order can tell him otherwise. Cal winces at the thought, feeling the flare of old trauma making itself known, but he accepts it for what it is and allows it to pass through him. It pays to know one’s strengths, after all, and Cal is well aware that being able to switch between forms gives him an edge. Especially in this galaxy.
Besides, Merrin seems to approve.
The Nightsister runs her hand down the hilt, finding the nicks and scratches from several lifetimes’ worth of fighting. Her hand slows as it passes over the chamber that houses the kyber crystal. “The hum, is it constant?”
“Sort of. It’s always in the background, resonating with me. But it’s more noticeable when they’re split up.”
“Does this make any difference?”
Cal starts to shake his head, then stops, thinking about it. He considers the question for a moment, then replies, “It doesn’t really make a difference for the individual sabers--they’re just as powerful separated as when they’re together. At least, I think they are--I’ve never tried separating them over long distances. The way they resonate with each other, though, it helps me wield them in tandem.”
Merrin considers this. It makes sense. The crystals communicate with each other and with Cal, and the connection between them allows for the synchronized use of both blades. Well, near-synchronized. She remembers watching Cal go up against Malicos and while the sight had been impressive, it hadn’t been enough. Malicos' experience with dual-wielding, or Jar’Kai as Cal called it, had far surpassed Cal’s own.
“Yet you have not mastered it. Did you train often in...Jar’Kai?”
Cal tenses briefly, before reminding himself that Merrin means no offense; she’s just that direct. Cal sighs. He, more than anyone, is aware of the gaps in his own training. “No. We all learned the very basics of it, but that was it. I think I can count on one hand the number of times I actually trained in it. I’m just...learning as I go along.”
At that, Merrin can’t help but raise an eyebrow in surprise. While Malicos certainly had more experience than Cal, she had not thought the difference in skill to be as vast as Cal seems to think it is. From what she has seen, Merrin has spent all this time assuming that Cal had spent considerably more time training in his various forms of lightsaber combat than he actually had. To reach the level he is at with little formal training…
“Then you are far more skilled than Malicos. He had years to reach the level he achieved, yet you are not so far off from it, with far fewer opportunities to train as he did. Perhaps you are not yet a master of this Jar’Kai, but you will go much farther with it than he ever did.”
Those words warm Cal far more than any pithy attempt to make his current abilities sound greater than they are. Only Merrin can take a stinging fact and turn it into encouragement.
And he intends to repay her for it.
“I’ll keep training,” Cal promises her. “But not right now. Aren’t we down here so you can see what it’s actually like to wield a lightsaber?”
Right. No more small talk, as much as Merrin enjoys it. Despite the stim, Cal’s current energy level is bound to run out, probably sooner rather than later, so Merrin must take advantage of the time they have. The lightsaber truly is a fascinating weapon, and despite her earlier protestations, the Nightsister does not want to pass up the opportunity to learn more about it...and the inner workings of the one who wields it.
Therefore, she nods decisively. “Yes. I am ready.”
“Good. This is the Form I opening stance…”
It’s awkward, at first. Cal has no experience being a teacher, and Merrin has not been a student for years. Verbal descriptions, followed by hand gestures, only go so far when instructing a person how to wield a weapon they have never wielded before. Therefore, Cal switches to a more hands-on approach.
Blushing bright red, he takes a step forward, stuttering and stammering, “Um, do you, do you mind if I--if I just show you? I promise I won’t do more than that, I just don’t want to take any, um, liberties and touch you if you don’t want it and it’s totally okay to say no!”
He’s rambling. Great.
But Merrin’s not about to say no.
“It is for the purpose of weapons training, Cal. You have proven yourself to be a dedicated Jedi. Therefore, I trust you.”
Cal blushes again, this time an even deeper scarlet. Compliments, particularly compliments from Merrin, seem to have that effect on him. But he steps forward, releasing his anxiety into the Force as his Master once taught him. His chest brushes up against Merrin’s back, and Cal immediately switches to releasing a different kind of anxiety into the Force. Master Tapal never taught me about this, he thinks, then shoves the thought away, instead reaching around the Nightsister to wrap his hand around her own.
Merrin, for her part, has to fight to avoid tensing up as they come into contact with each other. It has been years since she has had this much contact with anyone. The sensation is almost alien, but it is far from unpleasant. Sparks run up and down her arm as Cal’s hand wraps around her own. She rocks back slightly, and is immediately met with a small hiss of pain from behind her.
At that, Merrin quickly, but gently, pulls away, and turns around to look behind her. Cal’s not doubled over, and his breathing is steady, much to her relief. But he’s rubbing the spot on his chest where he was just recently impaled with his own lightsaber.
“Cal? Are you unwell?”
“Hmm?” Cal glances up, as if just realizing that she’s watching him. He pulls his hand away, looking rather chagrined and embarrassed. Ruefully, he says, “No, I’m okay. Well, mostly. I just didn’t think this through.”
The young Knight reaches up to his shoulder and before Merrin can stop him, releases one of the straps that secures his sling to his body. The Nightsister immediately steps forward, concern flaring and flashing across her features.
“Cal! What are you--”
But Cal is quick to explain his actions, and soothe her worries. “It’s fine,” he promises, releasing the other strap to remove the sling entirely and carefully stretching and rotating his left arm once it’s free. “It was just pressing against the wound. And the medic said I need to move it around every so often, so why not when I’m teaching someone instead of wielding the blade myself?”
He has a point. Gentle exercise that gradually ramps up into something more will have to be part of Cal’s recovery, both to rebuild his strength and to encourage healing through increased blood flow without his muscles or scar tissue tightening up. And Cal is right, Merrin has to admit. There is no better way to start than to do it while teaching someone who will ensure, through any means necessary, that he will not go too far.
So she relents. “Very well. But your wound is still fresh, and you cannot risk straining it. Do not forget what I have said about the binding spell.”
“Noted,” Cal says dryly. “Just refrain from elbowing me, and I think it’ll be fine.”
With Merrin’s warning delivered and acknowledged, both Jedi and Nightsister refocus on the task at hand. The removal of the sling makes things easier; Cal can’t reach very far with his left arm, but it’s enough to do what he needs to do. It’s still awkward, at first, as both have to adjust to working so closely in tandem with another person, especially a person such as the one they are currently with, but they make it work. With the forceful redirection of their focus on training, it does not take long to settle into the lesson.
They both lose track of time. Cal is careful to go slowly, correcting any issues as soon as they crop up to prevent bad habits from forming and making sure Merrin understands completely before moving on. Merrin, for her part, is an attentive student. She focuses on Cal’s words, Cal’s actions, and makes them her own as he guides her along the path. More than once, she gets so absorbed in what they’re doing that she has to remind herself not to make any sudden moves, to avoid hurting him further.
“You will be a great teacher,” she tells him at one point.
Predictably, Cal blushes. He responds, “You’re already a great student.”
Then they move on.
Eventually, the young Jedi-turned-new-teacher starts to pull back, leaning against one of the bulkheads of the cargo hold to watch the young Nightsister go through a simple kata. She executes it flawlessly, appearing wholly absorbed in her training, but in reality, Merrin is watching Cal as well. He has pulled his left arm back against his chest, which he tries to hide by crossing his arms, and the line of his shoulders, once relaxed, is now starting to tense up. She is about to suggest that they stop for the night when someone else beats her to it.
“Cal!”
It’s Cere, yelling the young Jedi’s name as she emerges from the hatch. Merrin quickly extinguishes her--his--saber and Cal instinctively straightens, whirling to face the older Jedi. It’s a bad move on both fronts, as the movement causes his lightsaber wound to flare, sending sparks of agony up and down his left side. Swallowing a grunt of pain, Cal braces a hand against the hull, hoping to disguise his stumble.
It doesn’t work. Cere gives them a scathing look, eyes lingering on his wound, then the hand he has braced against the wall, proving she has seen him falter. Then her gaze falls on the unlit lightsaber, and that scathing look morphs into a razor-sharp glare.
“What do you think you’re doing?”
“It’s...just a little light exercise,” Cal tries, giving her his most disarming smile. “I mean, the medic said I needed to start moving around, right?”
But he knows even an Initiate wouldn’t fall for his attempt, and Cere is an experienced Jedi Master, however much she denies it these days. Her glare somehow morphs to include an expression that is distinctly unimpressed as she grits out, “With a lightsaber?”
“...Yes?”
Cal winces as he hears the sound of his own voice; he sounds very much the part of a Padawan learner adopting the contrite demeanor expected of them when caught doing something wrong. But he’s not! Really! He just needed to move around a little, and Merrin was with him, so…
Cere, unsurprisingly, is not buying it. She takes a deep breath, the storm clouds over her head not abating in the slightest, and Cal cringes, knowing he’s about to get a scolding. The older Knight has just opened her mouth to start in on just that when Merrin comes to his aid.
“Cal was not doing anything strenuous,” the Nightsister interrupts, her tone and demeanor serious, forthright, and very much believable. Now that she has the older woman’s attention, her posture relaxes slightly as she reassures her, “He was only guiding me, offering instruction. He did not attempt to wield the blade himself, nor would I allow it. I will not allow harm to come to him on my watch.”
It’s a phrase Merrin has only recently learned, from a conversation several days ago wherein Cal described his experience with the GAR. And it is, he thinks as he blushes once more, the sweetest thing anyone has ever said about him.
Merrin’s words almost have the desired effect, but fall just short of their intended goal. Cere’s demeanor thaws slightly, but the younger Knight can see she’s still not entirely convinced. Cal clears his throat, redirecting her attention back to himself. Softly, and without the hesitation that plagued his earlier words, the young Jedi reassures her, “I promise, that’s all we were doing. I mistimed a stim earlier and I just needed to move around for a bit so I can work it off and sleep.” He gestures to the Nightsister, and directs a faint smile her way. “Merrin was just helping me do it without hurting myself.”
The older Knight purses her lips, staring at them both suspiciously before releasing an aggravated ‘hmph.’ “I believe you,” she finally relents, and Cal almost sighs in relief at being let off the hook. But Cere’s not done yet. Of the two teenage-adult hybrids standing before her with a lightsaber in their possession, one is already injured and the other is a novice. She may not count herself as a Jedi anymore, but nor can she leave them unsupervised under such conditions. So she continues, “If Merrin wants to learn, I’d be more than willing to help out with that. I admit, I could use a little exercise myself.”
Orphaned survivors though they may be, both Cal and Merrin have been around enough authority figures in their young lives to recognize that that is an order, not a request, if they wish to continue their training tonight. Cal glances back at his silver-haired companion. Cere has significantly more experience than he; it’s a good offer. Merrin arrives at the same conclusion, and nods her assent, replying, “I would welcome your instruction.”
Cal grins, and turns back to Cere. “Do you want my other blade?”
A small smile crosses the older woman’s face. “I would, Cal, thank you.”
“Great, I just need to get my tools to change the emitter settings--”
But Cere stops him dead in his tracks with a firm but gentle hand on his shoulder. “I’ll get them, I know where they are. Wait here.” She disappears back inside the main portion of the ship. Half a minute passes, and they can still hear her moving around various parts of the ship. Merrin shoots him a questioning look, and Cal carefully shrugs his right shoulder.
They wait in the cargo hold for another minute or two before Cere re-emerges, this time carrying a small toolset and, for some reason, a chair. She hands Cal the toolset, which he uses to quickly get to work, drawing Merrin over to him to show her the inner workings of the lightsaber. When he looks up again, lightsaber reassembled but at a significantly lower power setting, he sees that Cere has moved closer, but the chair has been placed against the hull and positioned so that it faces their impromptu practice arena.
“If you’re so set on helping,” the older woman explains, tone brooking no argument, “then you can watch from the sidelines and tell us what needs correction. Don’t think I didn’t see you stumble, you look like you’re about to fall over. You need to rest.”
Feeling more than a little chastised but unable to deny her words, Cal hands over the saber. If she’s bothered by wielding what used to be her old weapon, Cere doesn’t show it, instead glaring at him pointedly until he makes his way over to the chair. His reluctance fades the closer he gets, though, and when he sinks down, he doesn’t even bother to hide how grateful his body is for the chance to rest again.
The wound throbs angrily at the change in position. Cal takes a moment to breathe deeply before looking back up. Both women are watching him expectedly and with no small amount of concern. He’s tiring now, but he’s not ready to be done for the night, not yet. So he sits back, draws up a small but heartfelt smile, and refocuses on the task at hand.
“Okay. I’m ready.”