Chapter Text
When Jyn tried to recollect life before their farm on the dusty prairie, all she could find were glimpses that made little sense. Buildings of light stone that spanned into the sky – churches her papa swore were built by ancient Kings straight out of fairy tales: that was Jyn’s concept of Europe; the place they started from. Her parents prided themselves for being ‘mutts’, originating from all over the European continent. And Jyn had overheard the general store clerk mutter to his wife that the so-called ‘Jones’ family were distinctly ‘too foreign to be trusted’. Mama was shrewd enough to usher Jyn out the door before the seven year old exclaimed, “But we’re not the Jones’: we’re Ersos-”
Once again, Jyn’s parents quizzed her on the long ride home.
“Who are you,” papa prompted; smiling too tightly down at her.
“Jyn. I’m Jyn Erso and you’re –“
“I am Daniel Jones,” papa incorrectly stated. “Your mama is Martha Jones. And you are Jane – “
“No,” Jyn disputed; swinging her head away to view the approaching desert instead of either parents’ raised brows. Jyn was not ready to give in to these new identities. Not even for papa. Of the many things that she was unsure of – where she was born, why they moved houses and countries so suddenly in the dead of night– Jyn knew her name. And already took great pride in the taste it left in her mouth. Simple but fierce: JYN ERSO.
Mama clicked under her breath; flicking the reins of their wagon as she softly supplied, “She’ll learn in time – or at least learn when to stay silent.”
Jyn felt a prickling on the back of her neck. Sure enough, when she turned back her papa was still regarding her with fond curiosity.
“It’s getting dark,” he broke the silence, pulling Jyn close for a half-hug. Papa pointed to the purple horizon where faint specs of white seemed to be easing across the landscape. “Your mama’s stars will be visible soon – and what do we call that constellation?”
“Lyra,” Jyn excitedly proclaimed, grateful for one parent to be making sense again.
“You’ll confuse her,” mama cautioned in a loud whisper.
“And what is next to Lyra, “asked papa.
“The fox,” Jyn answered.
“Vulpecula the fox,” papa nodded. “But more importantly, Stardust… just above the fox is the Northern Cross –“
Jyn laughed, “the Swan!”
Papa held her close, muttering the tales Jyn knew by heart. The night sky was a vivid map and storybook stretching out further than Jyn could see – paving the way to great adventures in the far reaches of the west.
“Stardust,” murmured papa into Jyn’s ear. His pet name for Jyn– an endearment that at least hadn’t changed with their new names.
“One day,” started Jyn with a yawn. “Will I be a constellation? Like mama?”
Papa brushed his fingers through her hair, thinking for a moment before nodding, “If you are very brave, Stardust. It’s the selfless heroes we remember in the stars.”
When the ‘Jones’ family reached their homestead, mama swung out of the wagon and came round to help Jyn down, pausing to press a kiss on her daughter’s forehead.
“You memorize the stars,” mama mused. “There have been times I thought your papa and I lost forever at sea – but the stars always brought us back to shore. The sky can tell you all you need to know.”
Jyn cocked her head to the side, “Is the desert like the sea?”
“Drier,” papa teased as he led the horses towards the barn.
Mama wrinkled her noses, leaning down to Jyn with a mischievous smirk, “And even more treacherous!”
It was less than a year later that Jyn woke in her cot; pressed against the wooden boards of their one room shack. The shadows of her parents by the fireside told her she’d not slept long, for they’d not gone to bed. From the cot she could make out the single window – a sprinkling of stars visible as she strained her eyes to view them; practicing their names and placement as she attempted to fall back asleep.
Jyn’s stomach turned when she realized the stars were burning too orange; growing larger and larger as they rapidly approached the Jones’ front gate. Jyn sat up; recognizing what had woken her was an insistent pounding that shook the shack’s walls. Horse hooves. And a lot of them.
Mama crossed the room, rifle in hand, bringing a large wooden brace down across their only door.
“-It buys us time,” Mama explained over her shoulder to papa. “Burn them, Galen… what are you waiting for?”
Jyn turned her attention back to the fireplace, watching her papa clutching a stack of paper. His research. Jyn knew he still worked on those pages every night and had since before she was even born. Papa had transported most of his research all the way from Europe. Even when she’d witnessed her parents bartering and leaving behind treasures and trinkets as they’d fled place after place, papa’s research was never up for negotiation or review. It was as constant to the Ersos’ lives as… as Jyn was herself! Jyn felt a pang of loss as she watched her papa fling the papers into the fire with a choked sob. He grabbed a poker and hastened the papers demise; stoking the flames as Jyn’s mama approached and clasped something around her daughter’s neck: a simple gold cross. Another of her parents’ constants – Lyra Erso’s cross necklace. Never to be taken off or sold.
The cold cross against her skin was the final straw – Jyn fought back tears as her mama gestured under the bed, “Get your boots and breeches on – do you remember the red rocks?”
Mama is steel; cool and strong for the rest of them. Yet always patient. She waits for Jyn to nod before continuing, “You are going to do exactly what we’ve showed you. Take the tunnel to the barn – Sammy is the fastest horse. Take him and ride for the red rocks.”
“North,” papa finally speaks. “You’ll be riding north towards the rocks.”
Jyn finishes with her boots; looking at each parent before asking, “And you’ll meet me at the red rocks?”
When she’s older, Jyn would find herself capable of appreciating that neither parent lied to her. Her mama simply fixed Jyn’s collar one last time, checking to make sure her child was warm – like it would matter in all this mess, being warm or not!
The horsemen were already making quick work of their door; the wood splintering as the family hastens to action.
“… An old friend… he will find you there,” mama promises as she locks eyes with Jyn – an older Jyn would wonder if this was Lyra Erso attempting to transfer all her sterling strength to her daughter. An older Jyn would also bitterly ask herself if it had worked.
Papa open the cellar door, helping Jyn down steep steps. Mama took up her post at the lone window, shotgun ready and willing. Jyn’s last glimpse at the home they’d almost had were both her parents watching as she lowered herself into darkness; grief and guilt etched into their faces –and shame for everything that had to be left unsaid.
“Be brave, Stardust,” is papa’s farewell as he lowers the trapdoor and Jyn finds herself surrounded by sudden blackness. She sees a faint light between the floorboards – jumps out of her skin when she hears the wooden brace fracture and the floorboards creak as the enemy enters the room. Jyn attempts to calm herself. Breathing short, shallow breathes; imagining what mama would do just before pulling the trigger.
All movement stops but one set of footsteps above; the trickle of new spurs approached the center of their shack – and clapping? A single set of hands applauded from above.
“Very well played, Galen – oh, and Lyra! Gun in hand. How very quaint. I almost feel young again –“
“You are not taking my husband,” mama roars from above; the sound of a shotgun cocking – followed by several more being readied.
Jyn knows the plan. She should be moving; feeling around for the tunnel and riding far from here. North. Papa said to the north. Mama said to the red rocks. But Jyn finds herself rooted in place. A stubborn hope that maybe this man will reply, “Understood - have a happy life,” and leave them be.
A chilled laugh breaks the silence, “Now, now – whatever you may like to believe, I never choose to resort to violence. I like to fancy myself a man searching for much higher pursuits. We were friends once – striving for a common goal. Galen, we can have everything again. And think of those creature comforts: you two must miss the finery -“
The male voice fades out - he’s pacing, Jyn realizes. Walking towards the fire still glowing a deep orange from all the paperwork it consumed.
“I thought there was a child,” the man starts again. “I remember Lyra pregnant and attending some sort of baptismal ceremony – was that in Venice? Budapest? It does all seem to blur after awhile.”
“Dead,” papa says. “Our – our child died. Years ago. During a cholera outbreak.”
“Pity,” the man replied in a bored voice. “Condolences and all that… I do hope this page I’ve pulled out of the fire isn’t everything left of … of our invention, Galen!”
“We could have changed the world, Orson. We could have helped thousands of people live safer, happier lives –“
“We can still change the world, Galen – you’ll just have to write it all down again. Another – what? Took twenty years to sort out the first time? But I’m in the mood to be forgiving– I’ll give you ten.”
Mama’s voice again, “Never.”
“This isn’t about you, Lyra. Galen and I are reworking our old deal – leave the men to this sort of thing – “
“And I’m telling you that my husband isn’t going to –“
Edging towards the tunnel, Jyn knocked over a sack of flour. The dull thud was barely audible –she silently prayed it had gone unnoticed. Thinking herself in the clear, Jyn scooted farther into the depth when an accidental tug on the wall started a chain reaction of tin mugs and china scattering to the floor; pinging against each other to make a clatter Jyn knew would be heard. The spurs echoed from above as the man moved for the trap door.
“What do we have here,” the male voice teased.
Another set of feet pounded over-top. Mama shrieking from above, “NO!”
Two sets of gunshots – a third following in the aftermath. Jyn heard something heavy fall above her hiding space; felt drops of something soaking through the floorboards and landing on her face. The smell of gunpowder laced with something more sinister: iron. Blood, Jyn realized. Her papa screamed; sobbing with unearthly affliction– Jyn shook herself as if awaking from a trance. On hands and knees she crawled for the tunnel – forcing herself to not consider anything but the plan until she reached those red rocks. Steady breaths, she reminded herself. Fast feet – steady breaths. She couldn’t think of what was running down her face. But somehow she knew just what could elicit such a noise from her papa – and that her world would never be the same again.
She continued in darkness; knees sinking into the soil. Her sight useless- it was pitch black and eyes watering in any case. The smells seemed all the stronger. Soil – what papa had handed her to smell during their first planting.
“Smell that,” he’d asked; taking another whiff of the aroma. “That’s our land. A farmer has to understand their home earth and what its soil smells like.”
Dirt smelled like dirt to Jyn. She nodded when papa urged that she smelled it too: wood varnish, freshly cut grass, and rainwater. It sounded more poetic than just saying manure and sand.
Now, Jyn thought she could smell that hint of varnish in their soil – but than realized it was smoke filtering through the tunnel. Smoke. Iron -blood. And peppery gunpowder to round it all out!
By the time Jyn reached the barn, the best horses had either been claimed by new owners or released into the night – Sammy among them. Jyn watched from the shadows of the barn as giant flames engulfed their little cabin – billows of yellow and orange flickered to the sky – eclipsing the stars above. In the glow of firelight, Jyn watched as her father was tethered to the back of horses, head hanging low in defeat. She could almost hear the ringing of the man’s spurs as he took the reins, dragging her papa into the night – a sleek white hat, sparkling from lack of use, retreated in the distance with his riders; until the white blur looked like a ghost dancing alone in the prairie. Her papa gone with it.
Her mama too, Jyn thought when she glanced back at the fire. Angry tears leaked down her face; tears that Jyn roughly wiped away with a dirty sleeve… only to find them replaced with more.
All that remained was Ava – the old nag papa had pitied enough to purchase. Mama told him it was a waste of their money but papa claimed he’d known a sour mare on his childhood farm like Ava. The beast wouldn’t take the bite as Jyn saddled her; nipping at the young girl instead– and then lacked the spirit of going faster than a trot as Jyn headed north to meet her parents supposed ‘friend’.
It wasn’t every morning for the past nine years that Jyn awoke to the telling trio of smoke, iron, and gunpowder. It had become a common enough occurrence – the byproduct of her lifestyle. However, the mornings where she wasn’t being attacked by gunslingers or smoked-out of a hiding place always left her mouth dry; knowing what she’d dreamt of the night before even if she couldn’t outright recall. Superstition dictated to Jyn that the days where she awoke to phantom smells and dreams of her childhood were precursors to the most unluckiest of days.
A stiff neck hinted that this one would be particularly nasty as she uncoiled herself from sleep. Her bed last night a hayloft; stretched along the edge– eyes facing the ladder just in case an uninvited guest showed up.
The sun had yet to rise – forcing Jyn to look out on a dusting of fading stars as she surveyed the still sleeping town of Clearwater.
“Damn stars,” spat Jyn with contempt as she shrugged out of her clothes; a shirt mended thrice too often and threadbare pants she’d stolen from a morgue along the way. The shirt and pants were as much her’s as the delicate skirt and jacket Jyn had left hanging from the rafters last night; fearful of staining or wrinkling her newest disguise. In another life, Jyn might have noted the fabric. Cotton maybe? A Muslin blend? But in this life the cloth was too soft and would probably cause her to sweat something awful once the sun rose. Jyn stepped begrudgingly into the hooped skirt, reminding herself it was ‘respectable’ – a soft blue that looked demure but wouldn’t draw too much attention. The sleeves of the jacket were horrid – Jyn attempted to stretched and found her mobility limited. When she lifted her arms over head she could almost hear the stitches snapping apart.
Releasing a huff of hot air, she moved for the ladder, abandoning her castoffs where they’d fallen – she wouldn’t be needing them anymore.
The contents of a small handbag were examined again: the documents and a small knife; dull from neglect. Jyn would have felt more at ease with a firearm but none she could locate fit in the bag. She busied herself at the water pump; washing dust from her hair and hands. Jyn thought she heard commotion again on Main Street as she looked up from the quick bath- noticing a young boy had been watching her from his window. Jyn winked in return, raising an index finger to her lips in a silent request to the youth before vanishing down the side street; fixing her hair into a crude bun next to the tavern’s outhouse.
The bonnet might have been a Godsend, Jyn mused as she quickly regarded her reflection in a shop window. Hair was up and out of her face – bonnet hiding the majority of the mess. The dress unwrinkled and clean. Her face even appeared bright and healthy after she pinched her cheeks and started down Main Street in a relaxed stride. Even the hooped skirt was proving useful, forcing Jyn to take small steps instead of running to the train station like a mad woman.
A point was made to not be the first person boarding. Nor the fifth or sixth. The seventh passenger showed responsibility in their scheduling – but not over eagerness, Jyn convinced herself. If the porter noticed her hands shaking as she passed her ticket to him, he at least did not appear suspicious. Once seated, Jyn counted to ten and looked to make sure the porter was busy with other passengers before running her fingers along the ticket. Every cent she had earned in her dubious lifetime went into one single train ticket out of here.
Back straight; hands primly folded across her lap – Jyn implemented her steady breathing; practiced in battles and shootouts across the territories. She nodded when gentleman passed with a tip of their hats. Matrons even found her unthreatening – smiling gently as they made their way through the train.
Miss Eleanor J. Wilcox, Jyn told herself. You are Miss Wilcox, formally of Boston, Massachusetts. A young schoolmistress. Her fingers traced over the handbag – thinking of the letters inside. One letter of introduction dated nine months back served as proof of employment – wherever Abbottsville was. The second a letter from home; from an aunt conveying the death of a beloved grandmother.
The part of Jyn that feels anything these days does spare a moment to think of the real Miss Eleanor J. Wilcox – willing her alive and far away from here; teaching a schoolhouse of children and wondering why she’s received not a letter from home in all this time.
Closing her eyes, Jyn wills that Miss Wilcox had not ended up dead in a ditch somewhere. Or worse.
But she stays in character. Cracking open a book – the most studious looking volume she could pocket in this backwater town – and keeps her eyes focused on the pages; more sweeping across the shapes of the words than indulging in any meaning to be found. Her breath hitches when the final whistle blows – anticipating the motion of the train jerking forward; of ridding herself of the West once and for all. Maybe she really would end up in Miss Wilcox’s Boston. Or travel further to New York. Jyn wanted change. To never see sand and cacti again. She needed to see only tall buildings that blocked out the sun – and the stars. Definitely no more stars. Cloudy, busy, booming cities seemed more freedom than whatever foolishness brought ne’er do wells to the open, endless West.
“Pardon me, Miss –“ a faintly British accent knocked Jyn back to reality. Her shoulders instantly hunched in defense – a natural tendency that Jyn had to force back to neutral; smiling pleasantly as she looked up to see a priest hovering over her.
“- It would appear everywhere else is full,” the lanky priest was already walking past her for the seat by the window; knocking into Jyn’s hoop skirt in the process. When the hoop started to rise, the priest even had the gull to awkwardly pat the monstrosity back to the floor. Jyn was certain, had she an ounce of the Miss Wilcox’s modesty and integrity left, she’d have managed some sort of slap to defend her honor. Instead, Jyn went back to skimming her book; angling her body as far away from the newcomer without seeming obvious.
“Not very practical,” the priest observed; causing Jyn to meet his gaze again. She raised an eyebrow in question only to have the priest gesture down at her skirt. “Skirts,” he gave an unnatural laugh but continued. “Do you know how many women a year perish after setting their own skirts on fire?”
Jyn waited for the man to continue but after a long pause realized she might have to verbally participate.
“No,” said Jyn tartly.
The priest shrugged, glancing around the train anxiously before saying, “Well, it’s not something we have grounded research in – and I’m sure most families opt for more congenial causes of demise than ‘death by fiery hoops’ – but I feel confident in suggesting it’s fairly high.”
Jyn rolled her eyes, bringing her book prop higher to hide behind.
“I shall make a point of minding my skirts then,” noted Jyn.
“Good for you,” the priest praised sarcastically – causing Jyn to study him out of the corner of her vision. Fingers tapped against his long legs – he glanced around a bit too much. Jyn almost groaned. Of course a lifetime of rotten luck wasn’t over yet! She’d either managed to be sitting next to a pervert or a bank robber… or both.
Jyn craned her neck, searching for the porter or a respectable-looking fellow. A good girl like Eleanor Wilcox shouldn’t have to travel in such discomfort… but Jyn shook her head ‘no’. It was better to deal with the strange priest for a couple of hours than draw too much attention. Freedom rested in being forgettable; easily overlooked. Not alerting the train of her presence. She’d certainly dealt with worse than a young priest fixated on oversized skirts.
Settling back in her seat, Jyn smiled when she felt the train shifting into motion. Her body jerked forward as the screeching sound of metal scraping metal was heard. She was on her way -
A flash of movement hurled himself into the empty seat between herself and the aisle – a last minute passenger who’d only just made the train? Over her book, Jyn noticed an unshaven man with unkempt hair – struggling out of his tan jacket and leaving the smell of strong whiskey reeking through their row.
“Muchas disculpas,” a thick voice muttered when his elbow sent her book flying to the floor– scooped up quickly by the priest. The priest leafed through her pages – studying the contents like something was hidden within… and the drunk had rolled his jacket into a makeshift pillow and seemed to be ‘sleeping it off’.
“I’ll take my book back,” Jyn grunted; grabbing for the volume.
“Seemed normal enough,” the priest lamented as he released the spine.
Jyn Erso reached her ‘wit’s end’ quicker than the average young woman her age; with a frequency few other’s could boast. She felt annoyance boiling over into anger at these men who were apparently her travel companions. But mainly at how a perfectly sound plan she’d spent months on could so quickly fall to pieces if she… if she smacked either man over the head and ran…
Jyn breathed in – and out. Closed her eyes and counted to ten; resigned to playing coy just as long as she could – until she felt the hand of the drunk brushing along her leg. He squeezed above her knee – smirking for a moment too long when Jyn slammed her book down. The drunk winced; straightening his reddened hand in front of his face to test the damage.
“Cut the crap! You both clearly don’t realize who you’re dealing with here,” Jyn hissed; turning to glare at the priest as well in turn. “- If your purposes are to rob me: you’ve picked the sorriest possible target on this train. And if you’re white slavers, you have no idea the damage I can deal to a drunk and pervert if they even attempted to –“
“Wait,” the false-priest interrupted. “I’m the ‘pervert’ in this scenario? How – I was meant to be reassuring; a calming presence you could feel at ease with. I even shared a little anecdote with you. Sharing stories gains trust.”
Jyn frowned, “About women being burned alive in hoop skirts?”
The priest looked over her head; staring dejectedly at the drunk – who was now sitting taller in his seat; eyes no longer blurry but alert and intense.
“I told you to stick to the weather,” the false-drunk directed at his comrade. He cleared his throat, “And, for whatever it’s worth, I was not taking advantage but making sure you were unarmed.”
“I already signaled that she was, Cassian-“
“How wonderful that everyone is just putting everything out there now,” Jyn rasped. “But I repeat: you have no idea who you’re dealing with. I suggest you take this opportunity to find alternative seating before I’m forced to –“
Jyn watched with a strange fascination as the false-drunk’s tongue darted out to wet his lips; warm eyes studied her face – bracing to analyze her reaction.
“When did you last see your father, Miss Erso?”