Work Text:
This was the way of things:
There would be a princess. Some places didn’t use such terms as that—they had no kings, queens, or monarchical society at all. But the titles mattered not to the way of things. The sociological niche of a princess could be filled by an heiress, a duchess, or a tribe leader. The point was that her power was promised as her birthright, and was hers regardless of anything else that would come to pass.
The way of things also demanded there be a knight.
Knights are those devoted to the oaths they swear. They don’t have to be in shining armor or carry a long sword of mythic provenance. In fact, most don’t. But the one thing about this knight was that his devotion to the princess would overrule all else.
The details of their relationship prior to the ceremony were… unimportant. They could loathe or love one another. They could covet one another’s company, or hold one another in mild regard. This didn’t change the knight’s loyalty to the princess. (But the ones where they were in love were definite favorites.)
The final piece of the way of things was the ceremony. (There was always a ceremony.) Most often, it was a wedding—a royal wedding, binding the princess to anybody else but the knight. The ceremony always involved another person.
For weddings, this usually meant the groom. The groom’s identity did not matter in the scheme of things. (It never did, especially with what came next.)
The way of things dictated that this ceremony would never actually be completed. (For example: weddings were acceptable, but marriage was not.)
Details never mattered to the ones who set the way of things, so long as the choreography remained the same. Adaptations and interpretations were the ephemeral dressings on an ageless altar—these were the things of myth and story, where truth sinks to the bottom while meaning rises above all.
And the last thing that the way of things foretold:
It was the knight’s job to ruin absolutely everything.
When making a pattern, the very beginning of it doesn’t matter. In the grand design, infinity stretched on forever and nowhere at once, finding no edge and no end.
A rhythm, once heard, never ceases. It beats on in the hearts of those who heard it. By comparison, a story, once told, doesn’t become untold once it’s finished. One only has to wait a while longer for it to be told again, and again, and again…
But, for example’s sake, this most recent time was one of the highlights.
“Running away again?” asked the knight. His name was unimportant. So was hers. Both were lost to history, anyway.
“Again implies I’ve been at all successful,” the princess huffed, remaining crouched in her hiding place behind a fountain.
“Give yourself some credit. You’ve been successful before, just not with me.” The knight dropped off the bough he’d been resting on, his feet landing cat-light on the garden path. He wore all black, and hardly any armor—strange for a knight, but the princess suspected he’d been recruited from one of the far-off mountain kingdoms. Her parents had long exhausted their reserve of noble-hearted fools who dared to serve as her bodyguard, and now a major import was the princess’s private security.
“You’re insufferable,” the princess said, folding her arms and rolling her eyes. Such impertinence was never to be tolerated by a princess in a royal court, but she figured: the knight wasn’t from a royal court, and therefore she didn’t have to be well-mannered around him.
Also, she loathed him. (Though it was not an essential component, the princess always loathed the knight. At least, at first.)
“If you wanted to take a walk, you could have just asked.”
The knight’s voice was smooth and deep, but tinged with enough solemnity that it made her turn to look at him. His face was serious, but that was nothing new. He took his job seriously, and his expression reflected it. However, she caught the twitch at the corner of his lips. It was enough of a tell that she groaned and threw her hands in the air. Like an arrow from a bow, her dramatics loosed a smile across his face, broad and toothy and affectionate, though she dared not consider such a thing—the princess was betrothed, after all.
To whom, she had no idea. (It also did not matter.)
“You can take a walk whenever you like. I was born with a tether.” A tether to the throne, to the palace, to the land they stood on. (A tether to the soul standing before her.)
The humor on his face fell, but he did not give up on trying to lighten the mood. “Some tethers are more pleasant than others, princess.” I am tethered to you, he said without words. (The knight, in these things, always seemed to catch on a little faster than the princess.)
“Would you be up for the idea of some light treason?” the princess said mildly, her demeanor shifting from defeated and frustrated to saccharine and innocent.
Her knight did not even flinch. “It would have to be very light,” he said dryly. At the same time, he knew he’d go to unfathomable lengths just to make her happy. The coming nuptials had the palace on tenterhooks, and none more so than the princess. He’d not seen her smile in weeks, even when she didn’t know he was watching.
“I just need to get out of here for a little bit,” she said, shaking her head and looking up at the moon.
He didn’t look away from her as he said, “I know a place.”
It was a bad idea. (It was always a bad idea.) But he did it anyway. (Always.)
In the way of things, there was always an island he took her to. On the island were a pool and a cave. The events that occurred between them while on the island were unimportant. (But this story was a favorite.)
The princess, this time, had never been to a beach at night. It had always been too much of a risk for her to go anywhere after dark. But this time, the knight guided her on the rough, rocky sand, her hand held in his. They were illuminated by nothing but the light of the thin crescent moon overhead, casting everything into strange, glowing shadows.
“I didn’t know you could sail,” the princess said, trying her best not to get flustered over their closeness. They’d been alone hundreds of times before—usually when she was trying to be by herself. Something now felt different. This aloneness with him felt much more familiar than that—like she’d known him much longer than his tenure as her bodyguard. There was now an electric sweetness between them, brought about by the moonlight, she suspected.
“It’s not so hard once you get the hang of it.”
“I thought you were from the mountains.”
“Who told you that?” he chuckled, squeezing her hand and trying not to pay attention to the way his heart squeezed when she returned the gesture.
“I don’t know. You’re strange. You don’t seem like you’re from here.”
“I was adopted by a monastery. They don’t know where I was born. I was raised in the foothills until I was old enough to train. Then, training took me everywhere. Can’t be from nowhere if you’re from everywhere.”
“If you had to choose one place,” the princess said, forcing herself not to marvel over the ease with which they spoke.
“Probably here.”
She made a face. “Why?”
“The ocean. It excites something in my soul.”
“Most people say the ocean calms them.”
“I’m not most people. Neither are you.”
It fouled the easygoing mood she’d been clinging to by her fingernails. “I always found this place to feel unspeakably cruel. The ocean is a symbol of freedom: sailing, swimming, no borders, no lands to fight for or against. But I can only watch it from windows and towers.”
“I didn’t mean to—careful—!” The warning came too late to be of any service to the princess, whose foot caught on a wayward piece of driftwood. Warm hands came up to grab at her waist, holding her off the ground and keeping her safe from harm. The motion brought the knight’s hair into his eyes, just a few inky black locks that hung in front of equally dark eyes. Those eyes were wide now, with an intense focus bordering on worry.
Slowly, he righted both of them until they were standing upright again. He could feel her soft breaths against his chin, a little hitched from the excitement. Something in his soul burned with this proximity. Perhaps it was the moonlight. Perhaps it was the familiarity of the conversation preceding. Perhaps it was—oh.
Belatedly, he removed his hands from her person, and his skin felt scorched where it had touched her. The feeling did not fade as he took her hand again, only morphed the flame into an aching heat behind his heart.
They said nothing of the moment, that shared, quiet tension in the moonlight. “I’ve wanted to show you something,” he said quietly, reverting to his function as her guide.
“Yes,” she acknowledged, but clearly her mind was elsewhere. They took it slow, lest there be any more trip-ups ahead.
She’d been well-educated as the heir to the throne, in all subjects. She had learned all these things with a passive kind of resistance—she chafed against being told to do anything. But one thing she appreciated was when her studies focused on the night.
Poetry about the sky, astronomy, glittering star-scapes, and all manner of nocturnal creatures. The princess loved the night. The things that hummed and sang, that prowled and stalked, that didn’t deign to even open their eyes until the sun was a distant memory.
The princess recalled that the knight had once reminded her of a particular nocturnal bird in the mountain regions. His manner of dress was similar to the bird’s coloring, all black save for the brightness of his face and hands. Only the face and shoulders of the great bird were white, the rest a glossy black. It only ever woke when the moon was darkest, the time when its face would not give it away among the pitch-black hunting grounds it thrived in.
The bird was almost legendary, for it was also the size of an average child, and exceptionally deadly. Few who had gotten close enough to see it had survived long enough to tell about it.
Perhaps that was why she thought he was from the mountains. He was some mythical, legendary predator, distant and dangerous at once. She’d made some off-hand remark about it, soon after meeting him. He’d made no comment—her words could have been construed as insult. Those days, he hardly said anything to her. But a short time later, she returned to her rooms one days to find a glossy black feather, long as her forearm, resting on her pillow.
After that, something had sparked between them, the stirring opening notes to an ancient dance made for them.
The memory only occurred to her now because of what they were looking at. When they got to the pool (because there was always a pool, but the details weren’t important), the princess gasped.
She’d mentioned the existence of star algae, perhaps once. Once, but for this princess, that meant she’d given one several-hour monologue about the ocean plant. It was an essential flora to her kingdom, as star algae were a vital ingredient in most healing salves they exported to other kingdoms.
(These details weren’t important, generally. But importance is matter of perspective.)
What mattered was her lament to the knight about having never seen it glow. One could only farm star algae at night, beneath a crescent moon. The conditions had to be perfect, otherwise there’d be no hope of finding it when it decided to shine. But the princess was not permitted on the beach at night—nor anywhere else.
She needed lament no longer.
Her gasp was punctuated by the reckless charge she took at the edge of the pool. Nothing could stop her curiosity, save the knight by her side. “Careful,” he said again. This time, his voice was wrapped around a fond chuckle—as comfortably as his arms were wrapped her.
She did not struggle in his hold or squirm about. No, this time she settled. Her head came back to rest on his shoulder, and he fought the urge to rest his head atop hers. Something about the gesture just felt right, an instinct borne from deep inside himself.
“I didn’t know it’d be this beautiful,” the princess whispered, her voice tight. Tears welled in her eyes, reflecting a million small stars that didn’t fall. The knight couldn’t look away if he tried.
“Yes, you did,” he said softly. “You believed it would be.”
It made her laugh, a flash of moon-white teeth between her lips. “Some would say seeing is believing.”
“Then I’d say some lack faith.”
“Do they teach philosophy, in the many places you come from?” the princess asked.
“Everyone teaches philosophy.”
“You’re insuf—”
She heard the grin in his voice as he interrupted her. “But it’s not required for the warriors. Oftentimes it’s discouraged.”
“Why?”
“Following orders becomes more difficult when one has a mind of their own.” He raised an eyebrow at her, sharing in her rebellion, if only a little. “It takes a strong heart to follow one’s head.”
“You mean… going against what your heart tells you?” the princess asked.
“In a sense,” the knight murmured. “Sometimes, the head and the heart are in agreement. That’s when duty is easy. It’s when they differ that I damn myself for listening to my heart at all.”
She turned in his arms, the soft blue glow of the pool reflecting the smooth planes of her face. “And what does your heart say?”
In the way of things, there is a cave. The details within don’t matter much.
An unimportant amount of time passed for the princess and the knight, and they left the island. (They always leave the island.) Things had changed for them after that night, and manifested in looks and touches, brief kisses and embraces where time could allow them.
But there must be a ritual, in the way of things. (Or, really, there must never be.) In this case, a wedding. And no matter the kisses given or the tears shed, it must happen. The princess must become a bride. And the knight must watch her take four, five steps toward her groom—
Cosmic determination filled his breast as the knight stepped into the aisle. He drew his weapon and stepped to her side. “I think that’s far enough,” he said, voice just as soft as ever but practically booming in the sudden silence of the hall.
Outrage boiled on the groom’s face, but relief and happiness only bloomed on the bride’s. When they were close enough to touch, she took the knight’s hand, wrapping hers around the one he held the weapon with.
Fate held its breath in tandem with the wedding guests. Only one part left for the way of things: the words.
But you don’t need to know those just yet.
The way of things went a slightly different route the next time around.
(Oh, don’t be disappointed in not hearing the end of that story—in the grand design, infinity stretches on forever and nowhere at once. The end is all endings. The beginning is all beginnings.)
(Except this time.)
By traditional standards, the whole thing should have been branded a massive coincidence. Technically, the same moving parts were there. Technically, the choreography of fate was being danced. Technically, there was a princess. Technically, there was a knight, one who would ruin everything.
But this time, fate seemed to have double-booked.
As it was said, there must be a ritual, and must always be two (the princess and the ambiguous other), and said ritual must always be ruined by the knight.
Technically, there was, and there were, and it was.
Mother Aniseya was no queen by any official standard—but she conducted herself as one, and commanded the same respect and authority as one. Her children were not princesses—they were hardly considered people in certain lights. But Osha and Mae, two halves of a cleaved soul already bound by destiny, grew old enough to stand for the Ascension ceremony, and the ritual was set.
But the tether that connected the right princess to the right knight had been crossed somewhere—a result of the meddling done by Mother Aniseya and her coven, no doubt. Instead of the knight and the princess needing to walk the way of things, they had princesses, and they had Sol. Unfortunately, Sol really ruined things for the ritual and its participants. Fortunately, he did not ruin everything, as the prophecy foretold.
Somewhere across the wild winds of fate, there was a beleaguered sigh.
But something told those winds, even now, to wait and see.
Time passed, as it always did, until something more interesting happened. For the first time, the details became as important as the dance. There were more moving parts, here. There were assassins, and conspiracies, and shadows, and even more knights than before—Yord Fandar, namely.
Yord, like Sol, had a chance to ruin everything—but by fate, did not. In the depths of a dark jungle, the right knight appeared in a blaze of vivid, crimson light. The stars seemed to shiver in anticipation of this moment.
He was not a knight, by traditional standards—but what, if anything, was?
The point was that he ruined everything. Fate checked a box and waited for the next.
Soon after, there was an island with a pool and a cave. For the first time in a long time, what happened in the cave was important.
When Osha first put on that monstrous helmet (because, of course, a knight has a helmet), all she could hear was her breathing. Then, as things started to fade out, they started to fade in as well.
Memories—impossible memories. They seemed to be of her and Qimir, if that was really his name. (It wasn’t. It didn’t matter.) But they weren’t her memories. They had to be someone else’s.
Osha had never gotten the hang of plumbing the depths of the Living Force for visions and guidance, relying primarily on her quick instincts and wisdom to survive her training at the Jedi Temple. She’d heard the comparison of visions feeling to watching someone else’s memories—but these all felt like… hers. Hers and his.
They were nearly always in the same aspect. The set pieces would change, as would the costumes and background characters. But the lines and directions were the same. There was a ritual of some kind. (Most often, it was a wedding.) Then, the ritual would be stopped, and then her knight would come out, and say he’d crossed—
The vision changed.
They were on an island, much like this one, only plunged into darkness in each other’s arms. Snippets of voice—their voices—reached her. I’m not most people. Neither are you. Hands, on waists. And what does your heart say? The darkness of a cave. Those hands, on more than just waists. Mouths on mouths and mouths on—
The vision changed again.
It showed blue, contorting to red, Mae’s face twisted in fury, Sol’s corpse, earthy dust swirling in the air, and yellow leaves blooming from black branches. Familiarity—real familiarity, not whatever she’d been experiencing before—bloomed. That was her sister. That was her master. That was the bunta tree.
The helmet was torn off her head with great effort. The cave was icy cold, her breath coming out in white puffs of air as she heaved for breath. Qimir was there, too: kneeling before her, and hunched over the helmet as if it weighed fifty times what it did.
The image was superimposed on many others—the sight of him kneeling before her, half a thousand times before. The intense, dark look in his eyes that bordered on worry. She knew that face. Osha flailed a little, looking for something to ground her. There was only him, pulling her deeper into a sea of stars.
“Who are you?” she said shakily. Osha hadn’t touched the Force in a very long time, so to plunge in as she had felt a little like drowning. Looking at him only doubled the feeling.
Qimir’s expression shuttered, but he didn’t look away. “What do you mean?”
“You said you’re old,” Osha said bluntly. “Exactly how old?”
“That’s complicated,” he said roughly. “And requires a more specific question to give a less-complicated answer.” He grunted and got up from the ground, planting the helmet back on the workstation. It grinned unhelpfully at the two of them.
“You can’t just tell me?”
“I could tell you lots of things,” he said. His flippant attitude was driving her up the wall. “What did you see?” he asked, before she could screech at him.
Osha pouted and only told him the details of what she called the real vision. She kept that overwhelming montage of him and her to herself. When she was done, Qimir frowned, clearly expecting a different answer. He made a quick decision to see the vision through on Brendok, but said nothing else about Osha’s shiftiness. Since the vision took a lot of the wind from her sails (and what a thought that was, sailing), she decided not to push it.
She was distracted for almost the entire flight to Brendok, still running her thoughts over those strange memories postmarked to herself like one would run a tongue over a cut on their lip. The ship’s architecture allowed her to look over at Qimir while they were in hyperspace, and though stars passed between them at incalculable speeds, Osha felt like there was no distance there at all.
He seemed to sense her looking at him, each time. She knew things like that could be sensed through the Force, and perhaps it was that. But she would have been able to feel that if it were true. His awareness of her was deeper than just the Force. There was another thing at work, between them. She looked away before he could ask her what was wrong.
“You said something,” he said, when they’d landed not far from the fortress. They were supposed to be alone on this planet, and yet, he kept his voice down. Smooth and deep, whispered something on the wind. It wasn’t her own mind, to be sure.
Osha straightened up, making a questioning noise.
“Last night, when you had the helmet on,” he clarified.
“What do you mean?”
“You said the spares are in the way.”
Osha’s blood ran cold. She had no idea what that meant, only that her mind’s eye was suddenly filled with images of Mae and Sol. The spares, whispered that same wind.
“What?” she whispered, joining him at his lowered volume.
“I was hoping you’d know,” he said, some humor coloring his tone.
Osha shook her head.
“Guess we’ll just have to find out ourselves, then,” he said. He shouldered his knapsack and set on up the trail, like he’d taken it a thousand times before.
Of course, the vision and her predictions both came to pass. The spare knight, slain by her own hand. The spare princess, wiped kindly and gently from the board by his. It seemed… poetic. Romantic. A fitting end to an irregular beginning.
But the ends of Sol and Mae were not the end of Osha and Qimir.
Back on the island, in view of the cave and the pool beyond, the knight held out the saber hilt, and she wrapped her hand around his.
Fate held its breath.
And finally, he said the words.
“I have crossed oceans of time to find you,” he said, the refrain coming out breathless in response to the power surging through them—the memories.
Half a thousand lifetimes, stretching back as far as the stars shone. A princess and her knight. A knight and his princess. When she’d be promised to another, it was his duty to end all promises—for none were more important than the one he’d made to her, when fate was still young enough to be changed.
I will find you again.
And he had. They’d found each other in every lifetime. Past that moment when the way of things had been fulfilled, things varied—it wasn’t important how long they lived after the words, or how long they were together. It was getting there that mattered, for the story must be told. The rhythm must go on. The dance must be done. Only they could keep tempo.
Osha (if that was her name, truly) turned to him. She was every princess that’d ever come before, and every princess who would ever be. With Mae’s memories taken, she did not have to share fate with another. She looked up at him with a smile that would stop his heart no matter who he was.
“It’s been a long time,” she said quietly. She spoke with the conviction of a soul much older than the body holding it. It nearly brought him to his knees before her. (He nearly went anyway, for old time’s sake.)
With Sol dead, Qimir no longer had to share his title or his duty to his princess. “And an uncertain road to get here,” he said, regaining his composure somewhat. Before his memories had been returned to him, he often radiated malice and the Dark Side of the Force. Now, that darkness was still there—but it was shrouded more in the tsunami of the lives he’d lived until now. His voice was still smooth and deep, the bottom of the ocean he’d traversed to find her.
“But the way always leads you to me, in the end,” Osha said, bringing a hand up to his shoulder and pulling him closer. His hands found her waist and brought her into an easy, graceful kiss, because they’d done this a thousand times before.
(Perhaps there was a place for beginnings in the pattern.)