Chapter Text
Moonlight reveals Cere’s potholed path. She moves quickly through Bogano’s misty night, damp air mapping her clothes to her skin and her hair to her scalp. BD-1 presses against her back, lights hidden. Bogano is no longer a safe haven, once thriving wildlife now cowering in its burrows. Despite Trilla’s death and the subsequent destruction of the holocron, the Empire have not abandoned this empty world. Patrols continue night and day, the Zeffonian ruins now dominated by Imperial outposts. What they hope to find here remains Cere’s concern, which is why she is racing across the planet’s pockmarked surface to her old master’s hideouts, dodging stormtroopers and oggdos alike. Cere does her best not to dwell on her sadness, anger or regret. It’s too raw, too recent, and the anguish could drown her.
She has a mission here tonight, and she cannot delay. Having something to focus on distracts her from her grief. It looms over her, a constant storm, catching her when she lets her guard down. Nothing in her Jedi training prepared her for it.
From his perch on her back, BD directs her as necessary. They must be swift; to linger is to risk capture. They are in no condition for a fight against the Empire, not now, not anytime soon. The thought of being dragged once more to Nur is enough to leave Cere breathless with panic, the dark side whispering promises of power and destruction. She will not succumb, never again, but she will not pretend her recent recovery and reconnection with the Force is a sure and certain thing. She must always be wary. And there are things on Bogano she cannot bear to leave behind, things Cal noted on his explorations. Journals. Sketches. Knowledge that will be lost forever if she does not reclaim it. She will grab what she can throw in her bag and retreat to the Mantis.
When they reach a larger plateau, BD tells her this was Cordova’s main living area. Thankful he and Cal already opened the main doorway and saved her from some awkward climbing, Cere steps inside and follows a looping staircase downward. Cal once told her he liked coming here because of the sense of purpose and joy lingering in so many of the objects. It is a great comfort to know Cordova never lost his drive for knowledge, not even here on the frontier.
What a change this place must have been from the Jedi Temple when Cordova first arrived. From the necessity of water purifiers to the tiny kitchenette laden with well-used utensils, life on Bogano lacked even the simple luxuries of clean water and fully staffed eateries the Order provided. Not that Cordova ever seemed to mind self-reliance, not even during her apprenticeship. She told Cal once she taught herself a lot during her apprenticeship. Upon reflection, she can see that was the lesson itself. Although if Cordova was hoping to make Cere less reliant on others to prepare her meals he sadly failed. She grabs a few kitchen-y things that Greez might be able to use as a thank you and an apology for coming back here and risking capture. She picks up a sketch of a bogling too. BD tells her Cal will love it.
“He can hang it in the engine room.” Cere rolls it up and tucks it into her rucksack. “It will cheer the place up a bit.” And hopefully Cal too.
BD guides her to Cordova’s workshop and his piles of sketches, journals and logs. The musty air has the unpleasant tang of animal droppings. Fresh droppings. BD reminds her to watch out for bog rats.
“Don’t attack anything by yourself,” she tells him as they slip into Cordova’s old bedroom. “Cal will be very upset with me if I let you get hurt.”
BD warbles sadly.
“I know,” she says, grabbing an old datapad from beside the bed. She gathers everything she can without bothering to read through it. She doesn’t have time to be choosy. It’s grab and go. “But he’s doing better than he was a few days ago. He’ll be –”
Footsteps, coming from the upper level, followed quickly by muted conversation. Cere falls silent. BD freezes. They share a look and Cere nods to the wall of vines, stepping in and allowing the greenery to swallow her. “Dim your lights,” she whispers to BD, who immediately follows her order.
“Why do we even bother with these patrols?” The stormtrooper’s voice is distorted but it does nothing to disguise his blatant boredom. “There’s nothing here but bugs.”
“And those little fluffy guys,” his colleague says with distinct delight in his distorted voice. “What are they called? Boglings? I’d like to take one home, keep it as a pet.”
“Sure, and then it bites you and your arm falls off.”
The cheerier trooper sighs. “You really know how to ruin a good mood.”
“I’m just sick of these assignments to the ends of the galaxy. There’s no one here. That Jedi those other guys were talking about is long gone, if he even existed. More like they huffed too much acid gas and saw what they wanted to see. All I’m saying is I joined up to fight. Send me to Kashyyyk. Send me anywhere there’s a fight to be had before I die of boredom.”
Cere rests her hand on her blaster.
“I joined because I wanted to see the galaxy,” the cheerier trooper says with too much enthusiasm. “Keep me away from the fight.”
“Tch, coward.”
“I sure am, but at least I got to see a bogling.”
“Ugh. I’m gonna become a Purge Trooper just to get away from you.”
There’s a rustle and then a loud thump as a stormtrooper drops into the old bedroom. He has his back to Cere. Boredom rolls off him, frustration grating so much Cere nearly grinds her own teeth. Instead, she wraps herself and BD in the Force and projects nothingness into the minds of the two stormtroopers. Cere and BD are a null space, nothing to notice, part of the vines, always there, completely unremarkable.
The stormtrooper turns. Looks directly at Cere. A brief flicker of confusion tickles his mind before fading away. “Ooh, what a shocker, there’s nothing here,” he calls up to his colleague. “Another wasted night.”
The trooper kicks a stool across Cordova’s abandoned bedroom. It smacks against Cere’s knees. She ignores the throb of dull pain and flicker of anger at the disrespect, holding her concentration even when the trooper puts a gloved hand on a collection of sketches and sends them scattering through the air. BD bristles, a tiny shiver going through his chassis, but he follows Cere’s lead. No more movement. Stillness.
And still the stormtrooper kicks and throws and generally tantrums his way around Cordova’s former sanctuary until he cannot get through the tiny gap out to the main living area and gives up, kick the door with a vicious stream of cussing before stomping his way back to the vines he needs to climb to return to his colleague. A hand brushes Cere’s arm, but her hold on his mind is powerful enough to keep him from noticing reality.
“Waste of my time,” he hisses, climbing slow and steady until he disappears onto the upper floor once again. “Let’s finish this useless patrol.”
“Great! I need to check the boglings near that big tower thing.”
Footsteps fade. Cere releases the Force and presses a finger to her lips before BD can let out a single beep. “Come on,” she whispers. “I think we’ve pushed our luck enough.”
Nodding, BD hops onto her back. Cere scoops up all the sketches she can rescue and retreats.
They’re back on the Mantis fifteen minutes later. BD abandons her and races to the engine room. Greez wastes no time launching them off planet and into hyperspace, not even bothering to tell everyone to take a seat.
Merrin watches as Cere drops her bag on the lounge table and lets the contents spill out. “You found what you were looking for,” she says, one eyebrow raised.
“I took what I could, preserved as much as I could carry,” Cere says. “I’m sure Cordova left more, but we can’t risk another trip.”
“What is it you hope to find?” Merrin asks with genuine curiosity.
“Honestly, I’m not sure. Perhaps other places the Zeffo visited, places we can use to hide out while Cal recovers. Maybe nothing. I just –”
“Wanted to preserve the remains of your people,” Merrin says. “Yes, I understand. That is reason enough.”
Cere suspects Merrin understands it more than most. “Cordova spent time on Dathomir,” she says. “Perhaps there will be something in here that will interest you.”
Merrin peers at her, no longer the aloof Nightsister and instead a very curious teenager. “I can look?”
“Of course. It’s as much yours as it is mine.” Cere is touched by her shyness, her tenderness as she runs a gentle hand over the fragile paper. “Although I will need to recharge that datapad.” It’s an old model. Hopefully Greez will have the necessary charger. “Who knows what kind of notes Cordova left on here.”
“BD might know,” Merrin says, sitting down and making neat stacks out of Cere’s recovered items.
“Perhaps,” Cere says, glancing to the back of the ship.
“He fell asleep not long before you returned,” Merrin says. “I gave him his medicine and sat with him. He remains feverish. Greez tried to give him some more soup, but he only managed a few sips.” She rubs her palms against her thighs. “He tries to be cheerful, but he is a bad actor. Why isn’t he getting better?”
Cere does not like this undying fever Cal runs. He is persistent in all things. They did what they could for his wound, but infection has settled in. Cal needs far more than they can give. This is out of the scope of first aid or the extended training Cere received during the war. They need to seek a medic, one that will not sell them out to the Empire or the Haxion Brood. And then he will need to rest, whether he wants to or not. They all need some downtime, a chance to process everything they have been through. Now is not the time to push through. It is the time to rest, reflect, recuperate.
“Don’t worry,” Cere says. “We’re going to get him the help he needs.”
Struggling for words, Merrin settles on a nod.
Leaving Merrin to her organising and studying, Cere joins Greez in the cockpit. She checks comms, hears nothing to indicate the Empire picked up on their return to Bogano, and moves to the co-pilot’s seat.
“You find what you wanted?” Greez asks.
“Yes,” Cere says. She takes him in, how weary he is, how unkempt he is beginning to look. They’re all more than a little ragged around the edges. “How’s your knowledge of backwater medics?”
“I have a longlist, a shortlist, and a stash of credits to pay whoever we see,” Greez says. “Cal isn’t getting better. We’re going to one of them, right now.” He glances at her. “Honestly, that was my plan the moment we took off. I’m just trying to choose one.”
“Pick the most obscure and get us to them,” Cere says. “Someone who will believe whatever we want them to.”
“Obscure? Then I’ve got the perfect one,” Greez says. He starts plugging fresh coordinates into the navcomp. “It might take a while to get there. She travels between a few different space stations and it will take a few jumps to find where she is right now. She’s gotta be nearly three hundred years old, and no, don’t ask me what species she is. She has as many arms as I do, she’s a meter taller than you, and her hair is so orange it makes Cal’s look dull in comparison. She doesn’t care who comes to her or why, which was great that time I had my leg broken by a guy I owed a lotta credits to.”
“I’m sensing a but,” Cere says.
“So, uh, she doesn’t much like Jedi. Even before it all went down, she was loudly against busybody do-gooders,” Greez says.
Busybody do-gooders. An apt description.
Greez squirms. “But she doesn’t need to know Cal got stabbed by a lightsaber. So long as he doesn’t slip back into any feverish babbling, we should be good.”
“We’ll come up with a good cover story, don’t worry,” Cere says, thinking of Cal’s Guild tattoo.
“Yeah, yeah. So, did I hear you found a datapad?”
“Yes, Cordova’s. It’s old. Not sure we’ll be able to charge it.”
Greez scoffs. “Do you really have such little faith in me? Lower deck. Storage locker. That little blue bag? Every charger I have ever owned or was left aboard by someone else, including a few that belong in a museum. You’ll find what you need, or my name’s not Greezy Money.”
“Thanks.” Cere heads to the back of the ship where she finds BD watching over Cal who is, as Merrin said, sleeping. Flushed, pale, wheezing, he isn’t healing the way he needs to. She watches him for a moment, waiting for any signs of nightmares. Other than the catch in his breathing, he is quiet. Good.
Leaving him to rest under BD’s watchful gaze (and scanner), Cere climbs down to the lower deck and finds Greez’s bag of wires. It takes a while to untangle everything, but she finds what she needs and takes it to the datapad, plugging it in to one of the holotable’s outlets and letting it slowly charge.
“Anything interesting?” Cere asks Merrin.
“Your Cordova met with Mother and sought her permission to enter the ruins,” Merrin says, eyes on a journal page. “He had a great respect for my people.” She holds up it up, showing an intricate sketch Cordova made of Dathomir. “I did not know the Jedi could be like this.”
“Yes, Cordova was a man of great compassion and diplomacy. He would be delighted to know you and Cal get along so well.”
Merrin nods and returns to her reading. Cere makes herself a fresh cup of tea and returns to Cal. They’ve left a chair at his bedside to keep watch. She takes it now while reaching out, the Force telling her what she needs to know. Exhaustion. Injury. Sickness. Life. Stubborn, relentless life, struggling to hold on. Persistent to his core. Cal is beyond dreams, plunged into a deep sleep. Thank goodness for that. His fever dreams have been unkind, and there has only been so much any of them could do to soothe his writhing mind.
Staying at Cal’s side, Cere meditates lightly. He awakens a short while later, slow to come all the way around. Where it isn’t greasy, his hair battles gravity, aside from a swoop at the front falling over his eyes like the lead actor in a holomovie.
In another life, perhaps.
“Hey,” he croaks, driving the heel of his right hand into his eyes in a vague attempt to clear the sleep from them. “Back already?” He sounds like he’s spent five years sucking down fumes in Bracca’s lowest levels. “Find anything good?”
“Yes,” she says, reaching over and running a hand through his hair until it settles into something less wild. Maybe he’ll take Merrin up on her offer to wash and style it later; he has had little opportunity for being body shy lately, given how little he can do for himself. “We grabbed as much as we could.”
BD says Cere followed his directions perfectly.
Cal gives BD a pat, his movements cautious, stiff. “Good job, buddy.”
“How are you feeling?” Cere asks.
“Tired,” Cal admits. “Too hot and too cold.” He slumps further when BD tells him what his temperature currently is. “That’s not good.”
No, it isn’t. Neither is this honesty. For once, Cere resists the urge to speak blunt truth and goes for a gentler tone. “We’re going to take you to a medic. You need more treatment than we can give. How do you feel about being the victim of an unfortunate scrapping incident?”
“Took a laser cutter to the torso.” A calamitous cough rumbles in his chest. Cere helps him to sit up so he can clear his lungs. Or try to anyway, enough so that he doesn’t suffocate. By the end of the coughing fit, he is red-faced and wheezing, his pale lips tinged blue. “Fell into a water tank. Forgot to hold my breath. Bad day.” Cal pauses, catches his breath. Somehow, he finds a wry smirk. “Had worse.” Sweat rolls down his face. Cere summons a cloth to her hand to wipe it away. He leans in, swamped with weariness he cannot keep shielded. “Sorry.”
“You have nothing to be sorry for,” Cere says, taking his weight and letting him rest against her shoulder.
Cal clearly thinks differently, but he doesn’t have the energy to argue. He can’t be left to stew in his frustration.
“You did not run yourself through with a lightsaber, nor did you choose to drown.” Cere flinches, and so does he. Too close. Far too close. Neither of them are ready for that conversation. “Patience, Cal. There is no rush.” Although if they don’t find Greez’s chosen medic quickly, he will be lucky to survive without permanent damage. “The galaxy will cope without us while we focus on getting you well again. You can’t push yourself to heal faster. You’ll only hurt yourself if you try.”
“I hate it,” he murmurs, eyes glassy. That little flash of humour before has cost him greatly. “Feel useless.”
BD nuzzles closer, issuing a lengthy rebuttal.
For all his adolescent bluster, Cal tends to be the type to share how he feels. Not always, and not immediately, but one way or another it gets out there. Maybe five years of keeping everything secret broke something inside him, and what were once sturdy barriers can no longer hold back the tide.
Cere knows how he feels. How she wishes he would be kinder to himself. “You are far from useless,” she tells him. “And you are allowed to stop. You are one person, Cal, one Jedi. You cannot fight the Empire alone. A single drop of water cannot extinguish a fire.”
He tenses, says nothing. He coughs again, body shaking. This time there is blood on his sleeve.
“Breathe,” Cere says, her tone far calmer than she feels. “Slow and steady.”
When he’s finished, she gives him water to wash away the taste and eases him back against the pillows, refusing to dwell on how miserable he looks. “Now, would you like to see some of Cordova’s sketches?”
Wheezing, Cal nods.
Trusting BD to keep watch, Cere fetches a batch of sketches and some of Cordova’s older journals. Merrin is still fully engrossed in the one she chose. Cere returns and finds Cal asleep again, a harsh crackle in every breath. BD droops and reports Cal’s temperature is rising again. Reaching for the intercom, Cere asks Greez to go faster and feels the ship’s temperature drop as he coaxes a little extra speed from the engines.
They’ll find the help they need soon. Cal will be alright.
Cere takes her seat and flips through the sketches. Boglings, Zeffo, an Oggdo, even the Binog. Cere puts them down and opens an old journal. This one seems to be concerned with the High Republic era, when the Jedi were at the peak of their strength and influence, the brightest light in a glowing Republic. Cordova, as ever, remained fascinated by the Force in all its applications, and all its wielders.
Including those who left the Order during this era.
Left the Order and settled elsewhere in the galaxy.
Reading rapidly, Cordova’s familiar handwriting takes Cere on an unexpected journey.