Chapter Text
Since the age of eight to eighteen, there was no point in time where the two of them had lived farther than a five minute walk from one another, though from the very beginning the trajectories of their lives were always destined to run, for the most part, like lines in parallel, rarely intersecting as per the wishes of their owners.
Dedra had never known her parents, for they had died when she was young, and it was mere chance that she had been adopted by a particular Lio Partagaz when she was two years old. As a result, her childhood was mostly spent in and around the fine houses in Chelsea, amongst her father's political and banker friends, and, from the age of three, a young Hartford 'Heert': a baby boy brought into the fold after being given up at birth by his single mother.
At the age of seven, her father found happiness with architectural mogul Orson Krennic, and when, a year later, her father was appointed to the cabinet of Prime Minister Palpatine as the Minister for Health, the little family of four moved from the expensive neighbourhood of Chelsea to the equally expensive area of Belgravia, and that was that.
Syril's early life had been somewhat less charmed, though perhaps no less fortunate. His biological father had been a small-time businessman - although he considered himself a mogul - and his mother, Eedy, had come from a perfectly ordinary East London family. They had been sweethearts since Sixth Form, though his father was not quite as faithful as he ought to have been in order to be thought of as sweet in any manner whatsoever. For several years the two continued to push and pull with one another before finally having Syril, at which point his father had owned a smattering of businesses across London that never sat comfortably enough in the category of 'legal'. By the time Syril was three his father's multiple indiscretions had caught up with him, and when he had seemingly disappeared off the face of the Earth, his mother had taken up cleaning work in order to make ends meet.
As luck would have it, one fateful week when Syril was seven, she was booked to clean the Kensington house of political stalwart Sheev Palpatine, and during one afternoon when the then Minister of Finance returned home unexpectedly early, the eternally single man took one look at her and fell in love. Despite already having a four year-old daughter from a past relationship, and a six year-old son from another, he was fond of Syril in his own, mildly detached manner. The boy was quiet, respectful, and fairly studious: all qualities Sheev found most tolerable, perhaps even likeable, in a child.
Within a year of meeting Syril's mother Sheev married her, ensured her now eight-year-old boy also took his name, and two months later he became Prime Minister. Ignoring the press furore around the whole endeavour with the same gusto he had always done throughout his life, he swiftly moved the family out of their miserable North London flat and into both the formal residence at 10 Downing Street, as well as a clean, perfect house in Belgravia that served as a quiet escape for when British politics became a little too overbearing.
And that was that.
It was, therefore, inevitable that Dedra and Syril should cross paths, and on a rainy Thursday evening, they finally did.
The Palpatine house in Belgravia had been opened up to celebrate the ascension of Palpatine into the highest political office in the United Kingdom, and Dedra and her brother had been dragged a five minute walk around the corner to the party.
"There'll be plenty of other kids there," Orson had said, though Dedra and Heert had long since called him Dad in contrast to Partagaz' eternal position as Father.
"But we both wanted to stay home and bake cookies," huffed Dedra, only prevented from crossing her arms angrily by the sticky paw of her younger brother, which was currently gripping her fingers.
"It's good to make friends sometimes," explained her dad gently. "Even if it's only to come good later. One of my friends has a daughter your age, I will introduce you."
"We don't need other friends!" stomped Heert sulkily by Dedra's side, and their dad had been about to reply when the front swung open, and there was no more delaying the inevitable.
Eedy had adjusted to her life as the wife of the Prime Minister like a duck taking to water. Sheev hadn't expected nor required her to work at all, and his delight in indulging her every whim meant that she had thus thrown herself into decorating their new home with every piece of art and expensive furniture that she had once only been able to dream of.
"Let this be a lesson, Dedra," her dad had said to her, as they walked through the explosion of haphazardly placed artworks and mildly mismatched pieces of furniture, disgust on his face. "This is why order is important, even for art. Creativity and experimentation are necessary for growth and development, but freedom without limitations becomes chaos. Art is meant to have meaning. Chaos does not. Do you see that couch there?"
"Do you mean the bright yellow one, dad?" Dedra asked, her eyes widening as she looked at the garish, blob shaped item.
"Yes," he hissed. "Tell me: what is wrong with it?"
"Erm..." Dedra looked around her at the splash of colours and shapes: all of them different, all of them offensive. It was hard to register what vision the Prime Minister's wife had - if at all - for the room. "It's the only neon item in the room?"
"I'll accept that. What else?"
"Hmm... It takes up too much space? The other seats are pushed into the corner? She should have gotten a smaller main couch to balance every thing out in the room better."
"The right word is got. Not gotten. Or you could have said bought. But yes, I'll accept that as well. Anything else?"
Dedra scrunched her face as she continued to look, mildly overwhelmed at the mass of art and enthusiams in front of her. It was all far too overstimulating.
“Dad,” she said apologetically, tapping his arm. “I don't think I know what else. I’m sorry. It’s a lot to take in.”
“And that my dear,” replied her dad kindly as he knelt down to pat his daughter’s shoulders. “Is the entire problem. Any kind of art - from the architecture I do, to the pop music we heard on the radio - must engage the viewer, not overwhelm them. When you overwhelm them, you've lost them. You’re getting more observant. Well done, Dedra.”
“Orson!” shouted a voice from across the room. “Is that you? What a pleasant surprise!”
Dedra gripped her brother’s hand as she followed her dad towards the tall man striding towards them, the kind looking woman next to him narrowing her eyes as Dedra’s father approached. Dedra clocked the movement: so the man liked her dad, but the woman he was with did not. Interesting.
“Galen!” her father returned the greeting. “Good to see you my friend, how was your time over in Wales? Missing it already?”
“I miss the quiet and the fresh air,” nodded Galen sagely, before gesturing to the woman next to him. “You remember my wife, Lyra.”
“Of course,” replied her dad, and Dedra turned to him curiously upon hearing the strain in his voice. Well, it seemed like her dislike was returned. ”And what about your little girl, Jane? Gina?”
“Jyn,” Lyra interjected quickly, allowing no more than a flash of a smile to grace her lips, not letting it touch her eyes. “Her name is Jyn. And she’s doing well, she starts her new school next week.”
“Oh, how fantastic!” Dedra's dad replied, before placing a hand on her shoulder. "This is" daughter, Dedra, and my son, Hartford. I don't believe you've met them.”
“Heert,” said Dedra at once, as she looked up at the tall couple. “He prefers the nickname Heert.”
“That he does,” nodded her dad fondly. “I do believe Dedra is around Jyn’s age. It’d be lovely for them to meet.”
“Hello Dedra,” said the man named Galen, leaning down to speak to her. “It’s lovely to meet you.”
Dedra stuck out her hand quickly in the manner her father had taught her since she was young. Lock eyes, look at them firmly. It doesn’t matter who crosses your path. Shake with confidence. She saw the older man’s eyes widen for a second, before he took her hand and shook it properly, before turning to Heert, who promptly hid behind Dedra’s back.
“He can be shy,” she explained quietly. “He’s very friendly when he gets to know you. What do you do?”
“I’m a scientist,” replied Galen. “Do you like science?”
“Yes,” nodded Dedra. “I’m studying frogs at school.”
“She’s top of her class at St. Paul’s Girls School,” she heard her dad say proudly. “She prefers the arts, really, but she’s very good at science too.”
“Well, perhaps you might become a scientist someday,” Galen said to her, but Dedra shook her head vehemently.
“No, I don’t think so,” she replied firmly. “My friend Bix might. She’s likes that stuff. Her mum works in Formula 1. I think she’ll work on those cars when she grows up.”
“Jyn will be starting at St. Paul’s next week,” added Lyra. “Jyn was also top of her class at her old school in Aberystwyth.”
“London is a more challenging place,” shot back her dad.
“I find that cream rises to the top no matter -“
“And I think that it’s lovely letting kids be kids while they can, no?” interrupted Galen loudly. “I think Jyn’s running around with the other children somewhere, but it would be lovely to have her go to school with a friend. We must introduce them/”
“I’m just surprised that Orson was more than happy to treat Lio’s children as his own,” said Lyra disapprovingly. “I remember how insistent you were at Cambridge that you would never, ever have children and you thought they were all a waste of time. Now suddenly here you are, a father of two.”
“Do you criticise the Prime Minister for adopting his stepson with the same fervour, Lyra?” her father shot back.
“He hasn’t asked my opinion in order for me to give my thoughts,” Lyra sneered in reply. “And if he did I'd still speak my mind. He treats the boy like a pet and his mother doesn’t seem to care.”
In another part of the house, Syril watched avidly as the limited edition marble in front of him rolled down the tube of toilet roll, dropped down onto a small spring and shot up into the air, curving a graceful arc before smacking into the pillow than he had positioned at the end of the corridor.
“Cool!” said the girl next to him, pumping her hands in the air. “That’s so wicked, you really made all this yourself?”
“Yeah,” replied Syril bashfully. “Mum says I can use the entire top floor however I like and my marble collection is pretty big now, so… just passing the time… d'you really think it’s cool?”
“Yeah!” grinned the girl. “Yeah, it’s so good! I bet we could make some tweaks to get it to launch ever further.”
“We could try in the garden?” suggested Syril cautiously, thrown to have made a friend so quickly at his stepfather‘s - no, father… Sheev wanted Syril to call him father - new house.
“Cool!”
“I’ll take the marbles!” he smiled, scooping up the marbles on the floor and putting them back in their pouch. “Can you get the ones at the end of the corridor there, Jyn?”
“Yeah, I got ‘em,” the girl named Jyn replied, gathering them quickly and running over to Syril. “Come on, let’s go! I bet the parents won’t even notice we’ve gone outside!”
Dedra sat on the horrendous yellow couch in the living room as she helped Heert with the Duplo set that had been put out for the children to play with. She wasn’t quite sure what he was trying to create - was it a duck, or a van, or a printer? - but their parents were busy doing whatever it was that politicians and rich architects did, and that meant that if she didn’t look after Heert, no one would.
“Dedra, I’m thirsty,” he declared, as he held out the Duplo figure for her to see. She still couldn’t tell what on Earth it was meant to be.
“That looks great!” she said kindly, before grabbing his hand. “Shall we go to the kitchen to find some juice? You can take your... sculpture with you.”
“I want milk.”
“Okay then,” nodded Dedra, always determined to be the best big sister possible. “We’ll get some milk.”
In the end, one of the waiters had been kind enough to fetch them both some milk from the kitchen, and the two of them had stood out of the way of the adults by the glass patio doors, Dedra checking that Heert didn’t drink his milk too fast as he dangled his feet excitedly from the plush red stool upon which he was perched.
“There!” she heard a voice shout. A young voice, one that sounded about her age. “I can prop the chair up and reach the door handle!”
“That sounds awesome -“
“Dedra,” mumbled Heert sleepily, sliding off the stool and looking down drowsily at the half-cup of milk left in his tiny hand. “I’m tired. Can we go home now? Can we ask father?”
“We can try,” sighed Dedra, and was but a moment away from grasping her younger brother’s hand for the umpteenth time that even when something - or someone - made it their business to crash into her.
For a few seconds the world slowed down: dozens of marbles flew high above them, the sound of a girl shouting ‘watch out!’ rang across the air and Heert’s glass of milk sprayed everywhere in sight as he fell over backwards, landing hard on his bottom.
At sound of Heert’s bloodcurdling, despairing wail, time sped back up. She was covered in milk but she didn’t care; Dedra was already patting him reassuringly as somewhere in the distance she heard adults calling out. She turned and rounded furiously on the culprit, only to come face to face with an embarrassed, cowering boy that looked around the same age as she was. Then she realised she’d seen him on the news with his father when they’d entered Downing Street. He was the eldest of the Prime Minister’s sons.
Well, that made her even angrier.
“Look where you’re going!” she shouted at him. “You hurt my brother!”
“I’m sorry,” said the boy in anguish, which only irritated Dedra further. “I didn’t mean to! The wooden floors are slippery - “
“Then you should been even more careful!” Dedra snapped. “You could have really hurt him. Look at him! And you got milk everywhere too!”
The adults had finally arrived; Dedra’s father was by Heert’s side, gently cradling him to calm him down, the man called Galen was talking sternly to a girl Dedra realised was probably the daughter he had mentioned, while a woman Dedra had also seen on the news had hobbled over to the boy, and was looking at Dedra's father somewhat nervously out of the corner of her eye as she did so.
"I'm so sorry," Syril was muttering to both Dedra and his mother, his cheeks turning red out of embarrassment and shame. "I really didn't see - I didn't know - I'm sorry. I’m really, really sorry.”
“Good boy,” cooed the Prime Minister’s wife, still looking anxiously at Dedra’s father, though Dedra couldn’t understand what on earth her nice, gentle father might have done to make such an important lady so out of sorts. “I know you didn’t mean to, did you Syril? Let’s put it in the past now, hm? I’ll get some sweets out of the pantry for everyone and we can all become fast friends, forget this even happened.”
"No!" the eight-year-old Dedra declared at once, staring at Syril with complete and utter fury in her eyes. "I don’t want your sweets, and we'll never, ever be friends."
It was precisely twenty-seven years later, as Syril stood on Dedra's doorstep at midnight, the rain thundering down about him, soaking through the lion onesie he had borrowed from her over a year ago, that Syril remembered that very first encounter once more.
He pressed the speed dial on his phone - he didn’t even need to look to know he was pressing the correct picture - and listened in agony as the phone started to ring.
Rey had told him there was no guarantee she’d pick up, let alone forgive him… but for once he had to believe that his younger sister wouldn’t be right.
“Hello?”
Syril swallowed upon hearing her voice. How funny it was that hearing it made him so nervous when he’d known it for most of his life. For a select period during childhood they had hated each other, then there had been this bizarre point in time when they’d danced around liking each other, then they’d been career rivals, and then for a blissful period Syril had believed that he loved and adored her more than any human in existence before somehow, they hated each other again… and now he had no idea what they were.
“Hi,” he managed to reply, clutching the portfolio of her old prints to his chest. They’d been a gift to him from her, once upon a time. “It’s Syril.”
“I know it’s you,” she replied quietly. “It’s not like I deleted your number.”
“I’m… I’m outside your apartment building,” he attempted to explain, before letting out a dramatic sneeze, an indicator that he’d probably have a cold within the week. “Not in a creepy way, I promise. Rey gave me your new address. She got it from Bix. And from Heert. Though apparently he said you’d be mad if you found out he’d given it to her, and Rey told him not to worry as Japanese customs clearance is pretty strict, so you wouldn’t be able to send anything too threatening to him anyway unless it was a lifetime’s supply of black liquorice. This is… it’s a really nice place you’ve got here. You were right, Canary Wharf suits you.“
“Oh,” the phone went silent for a moment. “You remembered I said that?”
“Of course.”
“Right. You… you know it’s raining outside? They described it as ‘positively torrential’ on the news today. Have you lost your mind? You’ll get sick. We both know how easily you get sick in the rain.”
“I know,” stuttered Syril, unable to ignore the way his heart thumped again his ribcage. He gripped her portfolio to him all the tighter in response and a puff of air aspired from between the pages. Syril unwittingly breathed it in. He was caught unawares, not expecting that any whiff of her would still be there after the long year that had passed. He knew the scent like it was imprinted on his heart: the smell of chalk and paint, a hint of the Spanish oranges they both liked so much, and her perfume.
“But I had to come and see you," he finally managed to say. "Listen, Dedra, I don’t expect us to be friends again, but will you at least let me in?”