1000 and 1 reasons..

[Yena]

((Parents' stories. Take it away!))

On a desolate mining asteroid owned by the Hutts a once beautiful woman is kneeling in the corner of a room, her fingers stroking a threadbare piece of cloth that might have been red sometime in the distant past. She touches a rattle made of an old stirring spoon, small, crude carvings decorate the handle.

The apartment door closes and footsteps walk over to the door; her partner stands shuffling at the doorway tentatively. He calls out softly, “Mara?” and the woman’s fist clutches at the fabric. She rounds on him, features made ugly by pain, “You sold my baby to that Jedi!” she wails.

“Mara, Mara, he gave us the money so we can leave! We’re no longer indentured to the Hutts!” the man says earnestly, reaching to cup the woman’s face in his hands, leaning towards her. She balls her hands into fists and hits his chest, resting her forehead against him as huge, gasping sobs shudder out of her. He looks up at the stained low slung ceiling, his features twisting as he allows himself a brief moment of fatherly grief.

His voice is harsh as he removes her hands from his chest. “At least she’ll have a better life with the Jedi than she ever could have with us. Now pack. We’re leaving.”

The woman falls to the floor as he moves away, her hand still clutching the baby blanket.

[Esk]

The pale child slept soundly in the small hospital cot, white covers pulled over her; her sleek brown hair fell in a cascade over her face, drifting with every breath.

The mother leaned in and gently moved the hair aside, concern in her eyes as she studied her daughter's complexion. Across the room, the father had fallen asleep on an armchair, several days of stubble covering his lower face; he snored gently.

There was the sound of shuffling at the door. The mother looked up.

A jedi healer had walked into the room. "Good evening, Maeri." With a gentle smile on her face, she stepped over to the child and touched her lightly on the forehead.

"Good evening," the mother answered tiredly.

The healer knelt before the seated mother, speaking to her at the same level. "Maeri, I have news for you and Sonai. Perhaps you should wake him, so you can both hear."

Sluggishly, Maeri stood and walked over to her husband. She shook him slightly, "Sonai, wake up, wake up."

The man groaned, rubbed his eyes, then suddenly sat up, remembering where he was. "The healer has news for us," Maeri said. The man and woman gazed at the Jedi expectantly.

Still kneeling, the healer began with a smile, "Your daughter Soori's fever has broken. The infection is receding. Her blood samples have not grown illness for two days now."

Delight crossed Maeri's face. She sat for a few moments, silent, then with a sob, rushed forward to hug the healer. "Really, truly?"

The Jedi allowed the unkempt woman to embrace her. "Yes, truly. Her aura is strengthening. The Force has seen to her recovery."

Overcome with emotion, Sonai stood, bowing deeply and gruffly. "Thank you, Master Jedi, for saving Soori's life. How could we ever repay you?"

The healer disengaged from Maeri and returned her own bow, palms placed together and bending deeply at the waist. "There is more news, if you could both sit."

Perplexed, Sonai obeyed. Maeri sat beside him, tears of joy glistening still on her face.

"In the same blood samples in which we monitored the infection, we also found higher than normal levels of midi-chlorians." The healer paused, then seeing incomprehension on the parents' faces, she broke into a smile. "Your daughter will be trained as a Jedi."

Maeri's face changed, her peace broken. "A Jedi...? You mean--I've heard of this--you'll be taking her from us?" Sonai shifted, knitting his eyebrows.

The Jedi healer nodded, "Yes. It is a great honor! And a sign that the Force has chosen her." Even as the healer spoke, two other Jedi came into the room, standing expectantly beside the young girl's cot.

"No!" Maeri cried, "Not again!" She stood and ran to Soori, wrapping her arms protectively around the sleeping child. "She's only three! You won't take my baby, not again!" Tears streamed down her face as her speech turned into incoherent babbling. Sonai stood, a frown darkening his face. "What is the meaning of this?"

The healer bent to touch Maeri on the shoulder gently, "She will grow under Jedi care. This is the best for her. I know it will be hard for you. But just think, perhaps she lived for this very purpose." She turned to Sonai. "The Jedi order will be taking Soori into our keeping, to train and to grow in the Force. As protocol allows, you and your wife will have half an hour to say your goodbyes. Then, she should be recovered enough to go."

"Go whereeeee?" Maeri wailed, rocking the sleeping child in her arms. "Oh my 'Laira! Oh my Soori! Why again? Oh it would have been better if she had just dieeeed..."

Sonai was in a whirl of emotion. He knelt to comfort his wife. "You don't mean to say that, my love. It is better that she lives than if she dies..." Then, glaring angrily at the healer, "Our first daughter 'Laira was taken by the slavers. Tis cruel of you, Master Jedi, to bring our second daughter back from death's door, only take her from us again!"

Gently, the Jedi healer bowed once more, her face a mask of serenity. "Maeri. Sonai. I truly apologize for your loss. But this is the will of the Force." She gestured toward the other two Jedi. "We will allow you your half hour of privacy." The three walked out of the room, feet shuffling softly.

Maeri wept, holding her child, who had just awoken from the commotion. "Mama? Papa?" Soori asked.

Sonai paced, stopping to ram a fist into the sandstone wall.

There's nothing we can do.

[Hawking]

The thundering of the invasion was deafening.  Aircraft swept overhead like birds of prey, dropping bombs on civilian and military targets alike. The royal palace burned, plasma coating it, the smoke of makeshift funeral pyres clouding the sky. Blasterfire seemed to be coming from everywhere, the statico sound of the shots cracking from all over the place, bolts slamming into walls, objects and people seemingly at random. Iziz was on fire, it's inhabitants being butchered, all methods of communication destroyed. There was no way to tell whether it was rioting or anarchy, but any semblance of  order had long since been thrown out of the window.

Hell had come to Onderon, the Empire it's herald and executioner.

Tarrolan Shatari ran through the streets, clutching his newborn daughters, his son Hawking trailing behind him. To the boy's credit, he didn't weep, maybe he was too young to know what was going on. It had been a surprise attack, one minute Tarrolan had been sending a security report to SIS, the next an Imperial battlegroup had entered orbit and began bombing the planet mercilessly, reminiscent of Darth Malak's destruction of Taris nearly 300 years past. But where Malak only had one ship, this force had at least 10. The planetary bombardment cannonfire streaked down from orbit like a fell crimson rain. Tarrolan could see the smoke rising in the distance.

The air was thick with smoke, the smell of burning infrastructure and bodies covered the city like a blanket, people cooking as they fell. The spaceport... The man thought through his clouded mind, already working overtime through exertion and pain. The spaceport came into sight, the grand pillars of the approach in rubble, smoke rising from the top of the building. They've hit it. Of course they did. His jaw dropped in dismay, and his heart sank. We're going to be buried here. His brown eyes drifted down to the babes in his arms, little Ryalees and Cassidy, only a few months old. Tears welled in his eyes as their large infant eyes met his. One set of eyes as jade green as his wife's, the other the same oak brown as his own. He felt a tug on his sleeve as he stood, quietly weeping.

The agent looked down, his son looking up at him, frowning and obviously confused. Tarrolan saw so much of himself in the boy already. He had inherited his father's hair, his nose and his jaw. His courage, the boy had developed on his own. "Why have we stopped, father? The spaceport is right there..." Tarrolan shook his head lightly, tears still seeping out of his eyes. "It's gone...Hawk. We won't be leaving home." He finally managed to say softly. Hawking frowned again. "No, father. I can see Uncle Sarreth in there with his ship." Tarrolan froze, meeting his boy's gaze. There's a dozen walls and at least 200 meters between us and the nearest hangar. How can he...? It wasn't the first time Hawking had done something unusual with his senses. "How can you see Uncle Sarreth, Hawking?" He inquired, somewhat desperately. Hawking shrugged. "I just can. I can feel him."

Before he could respond, Tarrolan saw something in the corner of his eye, an unmistakable shadow. He turned back to Hawking suddenly, the boy suddenly looking much older than his six years. "Hawking...take your sisters, run for the spaceport, find Uncle Sarreth. Tell him to run, I'll find you." He said through teary eyes. Hawking nodded dutifully. "I'll see you soon, father." The boy spoke with a tone that indicated he wasn't quite sure what was happening or why. Tarrolan felt the shadow creep closer. He carefully gave his daughters to Hawking. The young boy only just managed to hold both of them, but somehow began an awkward but quick run towards the spaceport. Tarrolan slide the DL-13 Heavy Blaster Rifle off the holster on his back, and turned, to see what could only be described as a rolling mass of shadows. He fired into the cloud, the blaster rifle kicking back with a reassuring thump. His sudden resolve seemed to drain as the bolts passed through the semi-solid shadow, leaving it untouched. And then, it was on him. It had seemed farther away, but it moved with an unnatural speed and grace. The form of a man appeared in the center of it, a Pureblood.

The Agent raised his rifle, snapping off another burst to no avail as the Sith ignited a double-bladed lightsaber and deflected the bolts, rapidly closing the distance. Tarrolan went to fire again, now having the Pureblood directly in front of him, but wasn't fast enough. The shimmering purple blade cut the barrel of the rifle in half, before spinning and delivering a slash across his arm. White pain seared through Tarrolan's mind, and he dropped the rifle reflexively . The Pureblood seemed to wait, standing, watching the Agent, daring him to move. Tarrolan went for his vibroknife, affectionately nicknamed "Edge", his good arm darting quickly to his sheath...

The Sith was faster, unloading an absolute torrent of lightning at the man. Tarrolan screamed and fell to his knees, managing to glance backwards towards the space port. He was greeted with the sight of an XS Freighter taking off just as another shot from one of the Imperial destroyers obliterated the structure. Tarrolan would've dived to the side, had the Sith been disrtracted by the explosion. He smelt cooking flesh, and realized it was his own. After what seemed like an eternity, the Pureblood cut off the lightning, letting Tarrolan fall flat on his face, barely alive. Everything seemed quieter from down there, he no longer heard the screams, the blasters, the crackling fire. The Sith crouched down and turned Tarrolan's head to look up at him. A pair of piercing amber eyes met him, looking strangely calm yet at the same time viciously hungry. "You have promise." He probed, voice as smooth as silk. Tarrolan blinked, his seared flesh now very numb, the sun looking a strange blood red colour in the sky behind the Sith. Before he knew it, he had been raised to his feet by two Imperial soldiers, and was being dragged away. Or was he? It was hard to tell, nothing seemed real, suddenly. Or had it always been like this? He struggled to think, the pain overwhelming. The Agent raised his head long enough to see Lexicanus standing in front of the spaceport, illuminated by the flames, his shadows curling around him. And then suddenly, he was gone. The world would burn for another two weeks, before finally falling, all the while Tarrolan lay recovering in an Imperial hospital, crying for his people, but most importantly, his children.

It wouldn't be until years later that Tarrolan learnt of their fates, of both the paths they chose and the paths that chose them. Even when he realized that they survived, he never truly let go. For years he served Imperial Intelligence, loyal to a fault. However, the keyword Shatari always seemed to miss their filters and reports. A prisoner in all but name, he still yet protected his children the only way he could. When he finally escaped and faked his death, nearly 20 years later with the galaxy on the brink of war, did he finally catch up to Cass, now fully grown and a fighter in her own right. It was always going to be Hawking's final nod that drove him onwards to continue his work, to find an end to the conflict that was to consume the galaxy, a goal that only a man who had felt the devastation of such a conflict could concoct. Never again.

Hawking believes his father dead to this day, just another body amongst the ruin, ash and glass on Onderon.

[Seraphie]

An unnamed small town on an unimportant planet, far from the center of Republic civilisation....

"I hate school." The six-year old stomped into the small house, slamming the door hard enough to send up a cloud of dust in the nearby window sills. His mother frowned, "Dori, you know better than that!" She kneeled before him as he stopped, less scolding, her voice gentler, "You know school is important. We want you learn so that you can have a better life here than what your dad and I can give you for now. It can't be that bad."

She runs her hands through his hair and frowns suddenly, feeling shorter, rough bits at the back. She looks at him, frowning in concern, "Dori, what happened?" He looks at her defiantly, "They cut my hair. The teacher stopped them, but they had already cut the back when she came upon us." Her frown deepens, "Why would they do such a thing?" She pulls him to her, hugging him, though he remains stiff, not seeming to take the usual comfort in his mother's touch.

She pulls back a little, looking at him, searching his face for something more. "I'll come to the school tomorrow morning and talk to the teacher and the principal. This has to stop." He looks at her, his face set in the stuborn determination of a child who wants. "I want to be a Jedi." Her eyes go wide, fear and pain twisting her consoling look into one of horor. "No! Jori! No!" He stomps again, a motion more fitting of a three-year-old in his anger. "Yes. It's why they're making fun of me, and picking on me, and now that everyone knows, they won't stop and the teachers won't be able to stop them. You can't stop them!" His last words are almost yelled out.

She looks at him, having recovered from the initial shock, her face set into that of the parent who knows better, her voice firm, "Jori, we will make it stop. When you're older, if you want to be a Jedi then, then you can follow that path. But you're not leaving home at six years old. Now go to your room and do your homework. I'll talk to the school in the morning and we'll get things worked out." Her voice leaves no room for discussion and the young boy stomps defiantly to the room in question, slamming yet another door.

Continued in this post six months later /threads/2061-0.html

[Auryn]

Her pale, slender hands smoothed slowly over her round bulging belly. It had been a difficult day for the tiny unborn one - restless, all elbows and feet - though as the day slipped gracefully into its last light, she had settled. Niresha leaned back with a quiet, contented sigh, swaying gently as the hammock chair was caught in a warm departing breeze.

“She senses her mother's discomfort, I think.” Londil rested one of his larger, wrapped hands over hers,  gripping warmly at his wife's fingers. “Perhaps we should linger here, wait for the birth.”

“No, I have seen it. Aolanni will be born on Edan Prime. The trip will be long and uncomfortable, but we will be fine.”

“Aolanni? A beautiful name. Though do I get no say?”

“We discussed this. If It was a boy, you would choose a name. A girl, and I would.”

“See how your mother tricks me?” He tapped a fingertip against a tiny nose.

“Daaa,” Ayen smushed his hand ungracefully against Londil's nose in return, then wriggled and fussed and made a great clamour to get into his mother's lap. Once achieved, he curled up against her side, between arm and tummy, leaning his little head against the mound of warmth. Lulled by the motion of the hammock, he closed his eyes and cooed some whimsical baby chatter, conversationally, as though talking to his unborn sister.

Niresha smiled down at the boy, running her nails through his thin brown tufts. “I think he likes to be close to her. I wonder if she understands how loved she is, yet.”

“Still... that small snow-world is a harsh place to raise a family.”

“The team that has gone ahead has already gotten quite far with their preliminary build, I have heard. By the time we head off next turn, the research will already be under-way, and the colony established.” The young woman tilted her head, silky tresses of loose and braided brown slipping over her shoulders, as the tiny silver bells woven into her veil tinkled lightly. “But... that is not what really concerns you, is it, my love?”

Her husband lowered his head, shifting in his seat. Tension slid through the air.

“I do wonder.. if it is shame that makes you want to leave in such haste.”

“I have no shame.”

"Then we are not fleeing from the Luka Sene? From accusation and rumor?"

"No. We are leaving because this is our dream."

“Do you have any guilt, at least? Any regret?”

“The fact that I hurt you is a great ache in my soul, Londil... but whilst I will not excuse my actions, I will also defend them.”

“Did you... desire him?” He breathed the question near a whisper, uttered with his teeth only vaguely parted, jealously and hurt thick within them.

“I desired him only for what I needed of him.” Niresha remained confident in her words. Her arm slid around Ayen's now-snoozing form, as though to huddle him closer and protect him.

“Only for...what the Force asked of me.”

[blingdenston]

The young Jedi sat in his rough-spun tunic, his graven face serious beyond his years, amongst the elegant finery of the Kuati receiving chamber.  "Needless to say, I would likely have been overwhelmed by the saboteurs if not for the young man's intervention...which would have meant terrible consequences for the planet entire."  Hyse nodded towards the pre-teen nobleman, squirming in his vine-silk and brocade, his mother's lacquered hand clenched around his wrist like a porcelain manacle.

Kiola, Lady Riddlesby, smiled at the Jedi with hooded eyes, her honor at the hero-of-the-hour's company only mildly tinged with disbelief and fury.  "Master Jedi...I greatly appreciate your company, and your thwarting of the terrorist plot that nearly destroyed the Drive Yards, of course...but I was unaware that Jedi Knights were given to telling tall tales."

Hyse smiled, the beatific expression casting his face in a far softer light than his businesslike demeanor allowed.  "Oh, we DO have our cock-and-bull sessions, Lady Kiola...but I must assure you this is not one of them.  I encountered the youth at your side days ago, and he aided me in my quest on the Drive Yards.  We all owe him a great deal, indeed."

The lady turned to her son, her pendulum-earrings rustling slightly as she leveled her blue eyes at the youth, who turned away and glared at Hyse with as much reproach as he could summon.  "That is impossible, is it not, Ran-del?  That would indicate that you were shirking your studies and skulking around an industrial complex in orbit 'round the planet...which seems extremely out of character for a loyal son of Kuat and Riddlesby."

Ran-del twitched with the accusation, and felt his eyes drawn like filings to a lodestone to his mother's.  Their eyes, equally blue, clashed...but Lady Kiola's gaze did not waver, and Ran-del felt his defiance wither and his pride as nobility toll an imprecation against deception and intrigue in the face of his House and Lineage.  "It...it is true, Mater."

The Lady nodded once, imperiously, he headdress tinkling as she loosed her grip on the youth's wrist, knowing he would not escape.  "Forgive me, Knight Hyse.  I have been forced to shame myself by accusing a hero of deception.  I am diminished."

Hyse waved it off, still smiling.  "Not at all, Lady Kiola...did I not tell you that the boy showed courage and skill?  He faced a deadly saboteur...dangerously corrupted droids...he showed great technical skill in freeing me from imprisonment and disabling a horde of fatal mechanisms that would have destroyed the Orbital Ring entirely."

"Perhaps," ceded the lady offhandedly, "But he did so by countermanding the orders of Mater and House, and has dishonored a sacred trust imbued in his blood..."

Hyse shook his head again.  "Not at all, Lady Kiola...indeed, he was honoring a trust far older and more universal.  The Force was with him."

Ran-del and the Lady both started a moment, staring at the smiling Jedi, who, shabby garb aside, suddenly seemed more in tune with the scene than either of them.  Ran-del struggled to keep from piping up, and was saved by his mother: "Forgive me, Master Jedi...what?"

"Ran-del's actions, though irresponsible and, I gather, somewhat scandalous, were guided by the Force...the mystical energy field that provides a Jedi with his power and responsibility.  The boy has a strong connection to it...it sings in him, as much as your own grace and fortitude," the Jedi demurred, bowing his head to the elegant lady.

"I...I know what he means!  I kept feeling something moving me forward on the Yards...I ALWAYS have!  I've dreamed of the place for months!" Ran-del blurted excitedly, his breeding discarded momentarily in the thrill of understanding.

The Lady turned to her son, then back to Hyse.  "I fail to see how your power ensnared my son, or how his deception and betrayal are 'mystical forces'."

Hyse shook his head.  "You misunderstand...it was not my power that did it.  The Force belongs to all who live...it is generated by our bodies, it enlightens our minds.  But some of us...myself, your son, others...are especially sensitive to it, easily guided by its will, and capable of harnessing it to perform great deeds.  The Force acts through the boy..."

Ran-del bolted forward, grinning.  "You mean...I could be a Jedi Knight?"

Hyse nodded, soberly.  "The Force is strong with you...it may be your destiny."

"Absolutely not!" Lady Kiola breathed, slamming her elegant hand down on the armrest of her chair.  Ran-del and Hyse both turned to her...Ran-del crestfallen, Hyse's sober expression seemingly in anticipation.  "I appreciate your actions, and your interest, Master Jedi, but this simply will not stand.  The Riddlesbys do not hold to the tradition of Jedi service...we are children of Kuat, and our place is service here, safeguarding the Core and promulgating the business that makes this Galaxy habitable."

The Jedi shifted slightly.  "A noble endeavor, my lady, and one well worth prosecuting.  But this is about far more than business or ships..."

"Oh, I am quite familiar with what it is about, Master Jedi..." the Lady said, raising her hand and sitting tall in her thronelike chair.  "It is about leaving your family, learning tumbling and sorcerous tricks, and being slain by Sith Lords.  You could not even keep your Temple on Coruscant safe...your decades of war with the Sith have done nothing but left them infesting the Rim...while here, we provide the machines that keep the Navy poised to thwart another Sacking.  I appreciate your actions," she slackened slightly, her icy face somehow revealing a momentary regret at her vehemence, "But I will not send a son of Kuat to play hero while his skills can be put to use protecting his homeworld."

Hyse shrugged, nodding to the lad.  "Then, perhaps I have said all that I can.  I am grateful for your time, Lady Kiola...and my appreciation for your son's aid remains, in spite of all."  Hyse made to rise, his trousers making a queer 'vreeeep' noise against the silk-topped pouf he was sitting on.

Ran-del suddenly piped up, panic suffusing his young heart.  "Wait!  Does it matter what I want?"

Hyse and Lady Kiola turned to him in turn, both giving him a level gaze.  The Jedi spoke: "Of course...but you are a boy.  Your guardian, whoever they be, must be the one who decides your place and education."

Ran-del nodded furiously, then stepped to the center of the room, turning to his mother, whose blue eyes followed him across the reception area.  "Mater...honored mother...I am sorry for my offense.  I have no excuse, Force or no Force...I just wanted to see the Drive Yards, and meet the industrials and their children."  Ran-del swallowed, bowing tightly from the waist.  "I HAVE brought shame on you, whatever my actions have wrought.  But...I have never, once, been asked what I wanted to do with my life.  It has always been a given that I would be, like you, a servant of Kuat...that I would work for the Corporation and the Ten and keep this planet safe.  And I have never spoken up, because I am loyal and I am filled with love and I know my place...but I have WANTED to."

The boy quashed the urge to jump up and down as the Jedi stood impassive and his mother steepled her fingers beneath her eyes.  "I have WANTED to, for so long!  But I did not think it my place...I know how important loyalty is.  But this..." Ran-del gestured to Hyse, "...this is so much more!  This is...something I KNOW, without having to learn, that I DO want!  That I can do, that I can do better than anyone!  And...and forgive me, Mater, I cannot provide the evidence but from my heart...I FEEL that this is where I am meant to be.  Where I am meant to go...where I'll be happy!"

Lady Kiola sat unmoved, her plucked eyebrows growing more and more tight as the display continued...until Ran-del's final statement, about being happiness.  Her mind flashed back to her own youth...the years spent in training and service to Kuat, the drive to overcome the decayed circumstances that had rendered House Riddlesby a joke amongst the Kuati, had steeped them in debt and shame.  Her youth had been the opposite of her son's...she had had to fight for the prestige that other nobles gained at birth.  Her goal, her only goal, had ever been to give her son what she had snatched from the jaws of iniquity and shame...the skills needed to possess freedom, and happiness.

She suddenly dropped her steepled fingers, reaching for the shawl over her lap and, with uncharacteristic nervousness, plucking at the beaded fringe.  Her masque fell, and she looked at her son, puffed up with adolescent passion and fear, and felt a curious blend of loss and motherly pride.  "Are you...are you certain this will make you happy?"

Ran-del nodded furiously, his pageboy haircut flashing around his head.  "I am!" he declared with the absolute surety only granted by youth.

Kiola's eyes welled.  She blinked, then turned her eyes, again imperious ice, to Hyse.  "And he will be...accorded a place of respect amongst your Order, Master Jedi?"

Hyse sketched a bow, arms stiff at his side.  "He will stand in service to the Republic.  He will walk in a wider world."

Kiola drew herself up.  "Then...let it be done.  I grant...I permit this."  She gestured towards the Jedi, then turned to Ran-del and was only barely able to open her arms as the boy charged into her and hugged her joyously.

[Orell]

((Note: This gets a little dark. Don't expect an uplifting tale here...))

Eighteen years ago...

"Bel? Bel, come to bed, honey..."

She made no effort to move, ignoring her husband's movement behind her in the hovel. Her eyes were focused on the empty bed, a bed where a child should be. Her child.

Her husband sighed. "Bel..."

"...not yet, Hul," she croaked, fighting off the tears. "...I... I'll be-"

Hul sighed, leaning awkwardly against the wall. "It's been a week, Bel."

Her eyes clasped shut. "I know, Hul. I just need-"

"-more time," he finshed, shaking his head. "How much longer? A month? Two? We should just... get rid of it. All of it"

She turned away from the bed, glaring at her husband. "I will take as long as I like, and if you so much as touch anything in this room..."

Bel's glare drove Hul back a step. He knew he was kicking himself inside just as much as Bel was... she just needed to accept what happened. "...I won't, Bel. This just... isn't healthy."

"Healthy?!" she barked a laugh, turning away from her husband. "...nothing about any of this is healthy. Our child... our child is gone!"

"It was for the best, Bel."

There was silence from Bel, as though the woman... couldn't quiet believe what she had heard. Or that she had so recently believed it herself. "...how can you say that?"

Hul sighed again, sitting down next to Bel. "Because it was. We were starving. Gisead the Hutt's collecters were hounding us. We... we couldn't afford it. All three of us would have been out of our home if... if we didn't agree."

"...I could have found more work."

Hul shook his head. "...you were trying. I was trying. Please, Bel, you know all this. We went over it. They'll take care of her, better than we can. She'll have food, clothing, heat... a future. Weren't you always going on about how you wanted her to get out of this pit, live somewhere better than this? They'll do it, they'll take care of her, she won't have to live like this."

Bel listened to her husband. She wanted to believe it. She yearned for it to be true... "...and we'll never see her again."

"...no, we won't. It's for the best, Bel." He gave a sad smile to his wife, sliding his arm under Bel's lek, rubbing her back. "...our heads are above water for the first time since you were pregnant. We just... let people think something terrible happened to her-"

"...it did."

Hul looked away, his own lekku twitching at the memory. "-and no one will think twice. We save up some, maybe one of us gets promoted... and we can try again." He laughed bitterly. "...we have enough credits to last us a year now, Bel. And she'll be fine, she's... probably happier out there right now."

"...do you think so?" Bel asked, her voice weak.

Hul smiled, kissing her cheek. "Of course! You know how smart she was, quick and charming, cute as a button... she'll have a great life, they'll make sure of it."

Bel froze, Hul's words echoing in her head, and her stomach turning at the implications. "...he called her cute..."

Hul blinked, and quickly shook his head. "Only because she is, Bel. They wouldn't do that."

"Wouldn't what, Hul? Use a pretty young Twi'lek girl... Force, what have we-"

"No! Bel, no, they don't do that," Hul interrupted, his own denial betrayed by a terrible feeling. "You remember? The man said-"

"The slaver, Hul!" she shouted, standing and turning on him, her hands clenched into fists. "You... you think that a slaver-"

"Keep your voice down, Bel! The neighbors-"

She lashed out, the slap ringing in the little girl's bedrooom. "Is that all you care about?! The credits and what other people think?! We sold our daugh-"

Hul stood and clamped his hand over his wife's mouth, his eyes wide with panic. "Shut up! If... if people find out, it could ruin everything! All this for nothing! Please, Bel, we can't let anyone know!" There was fury in his wife's eyes, a cold, searing hatred that he knew, without a doubt, that he would never be able to forget. After a few moments, after she seemed to calm some, he removed his hand.

Her voice was quiet, thick with disgust, at herself, at her husband, at the slavers... "...say her name, Hul."

He blinked. "...Bel..."

"Her name, Hul. Or did you forget it so quickly?"

He shook his head. "...of course not."

"Then say it. Say your lovely daughter's name, the one you sold. Say it."

He opened his mouth and tried, but the name died in his throat, his own grief finally coming forth, that which he had spent the last week fighting against, telling himself it was all for the best, that she... would be better off.

She sunk down to the small bed, and he to the chair, staring at the rusted floorplates. "...I hope she forgets all about us. What we deserve..." Bel began, but couldn't finish.

"...she-" he shook his head, stopping himself, before finally forcing the name out. "Quarasha... she should hate us. That's what we deserve."

Bel nodded, tears trickling down her cheeks. "...what have we done?"

[Alumar]

"If I do this... there is no turning back. I'll need a place to go to ground... I haven't the connections..." The middle-aged Chiss woman with pale teal skin fiddled nervously with her hair, red eyes wary and pulse thumping at every passing waiter in the dim lit corner of the mid level Nar Shaddaa bar. "I shouldn't even be here...."

"And yet you are." The poised likewise middle-aged redhead sipped her spiced-tea, not making eye contact, leaning back in her seat to appear more relaxed than the conversation merited. "I need not remind you again the many lives at stake. You have already made your decision or you would not have come." The woman calmly slid a compact across the table.

The Chiss opened it, and quickly palmed the data chit within as she used the mirror to adjust her bangs. "You're certain? You know I can only do so much without my employers noticing their missing 'guest'. I have the transports lined up & timed just right, if she stow's on the right vessels. How do I know you won't betray me if this fails?"

"You do not know. However, I am no sith. Nor would I willfully betray one who is risking what you do in this maneuver. If it fails, if my sister falls in this extraction and you survive, I will hold to our deal, on my honor."

"And my child?.... She..." The Chiss woman choked up a moment, and decided to cough to cover it, taking a quick deep breath to recover. "I know I cannot possibly keep her on this path, on the run. I have seen... I have helped at times to do what these 'keepers' are wont to do to defectors. But she is everything I have worked my last decade for.. and my only love. You swear? You swear you can keep her safe..? From these monsters?"

"It is perhaps late to be questioning that." The redhead leaned forward, frowning, though gently gripped the woman's hand across the table. "Point her out to me. Silently."

The Chiss woman gripped the other's hand tightly, as if taking assurance from a dear friend, her eyes tracking across the room to a young pale teal Chiss with lovely teal, curly, child-whisps framing what seems a four year old's face, in human comparison. The toddler gripped a small cloth dolly, and sat in a corner.. idly weaving the doll's hair with half a flicker of force between her fingers. Subtle, so subtle even the redhead nearly missed it.

It struck her however. And stuck with her, to her dying day. The singular, effortless, beautiful focus of this child. For the first time since her sister's re-assignment to deep cover, the redhead felt something other than dread. Something awkward, and deep. Some strange sense of recognition... duty... warmth.

"Eohlwyn?" The Chiss woman tugged her hand, brow fretted and eyes fleeting for any signs they might be watched.

"Forgive me..." the redhead blinked, returning her attention to the Chiss, her senses processing. Then her eyes shifted to meet the other woman's wholly, earnest and direct, without metaphor for once. "I swear to you, I will give my life to protect hers. She will live under my care and tutelage for as long as I exist."

The Chiss blinked, her lips ajar slightly, taken aback by the altruism and vehemence so untypical of her short time friend. But her eyes could see truth in the woman across from her. For a moment her gut sank in fear.. but it was quickly replaced with a sense of ease. Her daughter would not be an orphan. "What will you tell her? ..Can I say goodbye?"

"She will not remember." The redhead squeezed the woman's hand. "Hold her memory in your own heart. I sense... you will meet again one day. Be at peace, Naina'ila'orai. My ally."

The Chiss frowned and faltered, eyes returning in a last sorrow to her child. "A clan-less Chiss at birth, an exile with her foolish, career-blinded mother..." She sighed and closed her eyes tightly, retracting her hand neatly, walling off. "For what I have done in this employ.. it is a just penance. Exile and separation. I pray one day she can forgive me, and know that she is loved." The Chiss woman stood and turned, unable to bear lingering more. "I will see to your sister, and com as soon as we hit the local ports. Be prepared. I pray for your sister's sake this plan of yours holds." Without another glance or word, the heartbroken Chiss slipped out the bar.

Eohlwyn frowned, her gut already telling her of distant ills to come.

And then she heard the immediate cry. In the corner, some boys had tried to take away the young Chiss girl's doll, and found themselves tripping on the floor.

The redhead smirked, one eyebrow raised, and approached the girl.
"Where is your mother child? Do you not know? .... Would you like to come with me?" The redhead gently waved her hand, her eyebrow flinching at a momentary distaste for what she knew was essential.. lest the girl scream and alert anyone, and blow it all. "I could be your mother, girl. Would you like that, child? What is your name?"

"Aiula." The little girl squeaked, tear stained teal cheeks reflecting glints of neon bar lights. Clearly scared, but somehow content to let the strange redheaded woman pick her up, and cart her off into the Nar Shaddaa night.

[Lolermelon]

The two Purebloods were crafty, at least.  A makeshift alcohol refinery dug into an alcove in Korriban's cliff face.

At least they had something to hide their shame, dull their pain...

That night, in the rain- things would never be the same.

The young one would be their legacy, a way off this cursed rock. The rock that cursed them with the absence of their race's affliction.

The Force was a sickness when it was missing, and the cure when it manifested.

A deep drink of their freshly refined, clear intoxicant. A push. A scream.

Stifled laughter. A bite of carefully cultivated fruit...

Stifled laughter. A bite of carefully cultivated fruit...

Open laughter, the carefully cultivated fruit discarded.

A boy.

[Darak]

Maleira looked out from the balcony of her quarters on Coruscant. It had been nine months since they had fled from their homes in the night, and still the Senate left them in 'temporary housing.' As far as Javen Threll, the refugees' legal advisor, could tell, the 'Darthonian debate' had been shelved indefinitely. Meanwhile, the senate had been more than willing to send what was left of the royal guard to help in the war. The royal advisors (the ones who hadn't betrayed them, anyway) were bickering inside.

Maleira glanced back inside and saw that her daughter was tugging at the pant leg of one of the advisors. Maleira hurried to his rescue, picking up the precocious nine year old and carrying her back out to the balcony. She distracted her by pointing out some of the features of the nearby Jedi Temple. They were looking right at it when the attack began.

Maleira ran back into the apartment. everything was a mass of confusion as the refugees ran for the turbolift. An imperial fighter fired on the building, reducing many of the rooms, as well as their occupants, to slag. Maleira held tightly to her crying child as she ran down the stairs to the dark substructure. Those who had, like her, survived the assault were huddled within. She saw the Queen, talking to a young Zabrak girl, who looked to be just entering puberty. The girl nodded solemnly and  turned toward Maleira.

Looking at the girl, the teen said "hello, Daunia. Don't cry now, it's going to be alright, you'll see." The young one looked up into the Zabrak's eyes and stopped crying. Maleira recognized the girl as Leesabel, one of the royal wards.

"Thank you." she said, her eyes filling with tears. Suddenly, she heard the soldiers in the distance. Frightened, she looked around for some way out. All she could see was a small crate, not quite large enough for an adult. Looking around desperately, she finally handed her daughter to the young Zabrak. "please, hide with her. you can keep her quiet."

"but I..."

"Please!" she shouted, tears streaming down her cheeks. The girl gave in, taking Daunia by the hand and crawling into the box. Maleira's last words to her daughter were "stay quiet, little one. you must stay quiet. Don't come out for anything. I love you." and then she shut the lid.

[Sidrel]

The bespectacled man sat in his study, pouring over his datapad, sorting through volume after volume of reports. It was a day like any other... It almost seemed calming. A serenity overtook him as he resigned himself to his fate. Such was life. There was nothing to be done about it now. Footsteps were heard, then a knock at his door. He turned in his chair to regard the door, the light from behind it betraying the shadow of a pair of legs on the other side. He took in a deep breath, shutting his eyes a moment. He turned back to his desk, hitting a button on a panel embedded in the surface as the door slid open. He turned once more to see a robed figure standing before him, the door shutting as the figure entered the room.

"You came to see me off, did you?"

The figure nodded "I wanted to see you off myself."

"That's good. I was beginning to think you'd forgotten about me."

"No one could forget a man as remarkable as you."

The man removed his spectacles, looking to the figure with his bare eyes "I'm thankful for that much... You're certain there's no other way?"

The figure shook its head "None."

"I thought not... Do you want to keep chatting for a while longer? Reminisce? Say our goodbyes?"

The formerly-bespectacled man stood up from his chair as the figure approached, embracing him tightly "No... It's best not to linger."

"Perhaps you're right. You know that I'll always love you, no matter what you do." the man patted the figure on the back, tears flooding his eyes

"I know, father." the lightsaber ignited, the red blade piercing clean through the man as the figure held him in its embrace a while longer. The lightsaber deactivated shortly afterwards as the figure allowed the man to drop to the floor. The figure turned and made its way out. It didn't look back.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=TodWxuUTGew&feature=player_detailpage#t=245

[Auryn]

He hated that boy.

That small, lanky, weak child, no better than the vermin that scuttled across the dry, dusty surface of Korriban. He was the pure example of pathetic – barely spoke, or ate, or drank, for the fear and dread that constantly gripped him; had forgotten himself almost completely, even his own name lost with the methods his mind used to cope, to survive – the irony, of how crucial his continued survival was.

Phrixos stared down at the near-human boy, watched him squint his feebled eyes in the sharp sunlight of the red planet. It had been two years, though he'd barely grown an inch, whilst most of the students at the Academy his age towered above him. He would not last a single day, in those halls – Korriban was swift with its eradication of the weak.

What had he done so wrong? What had he not given the child? How was it that his lessons had gone unheeded, that the boy repelled and deflected anything the Sith tried to force upon him? How was he helpless to mental suggestion, yet still not following the path laid out so plainly before him? With a surge of anger, Phrixos grabbed him by the front of his tunic, lurching him forward and off his feet, his massive red face leaning in with a snarl.

“You will not embarrass me and mine this day. The Navras name is old, and for us to tolerate weakness is to be weak. For your own sake, strive to be less witless... otherwise, the acolytes will tear you to shreds, and they will do so slowly.” He traced a nail along pale skin, feeling goosebumps rise beneath his touch. “Strip... by strip. With less grace than I.”

The white eyes met his furious yellow gaze blandly, before slowly sliding away to examine the ground. “Is this where I will train...?” he asked softly.

He asked stupid questions. He knew his fate, already. As well, the lord was not beyond hearing the touch of hopefulness in the enquiry. His lips curled, coldly. The boy hoped to be rid of him.

“You already know the answer to that. I have business here; whilst I am occupied you will attend classes to define your better uses. Then, we shall return to Ziost.”

He released the boy, who then nodded, lowering his head to continue his stare at the ground. Waited a few moments – just enough for the child to assume their exchange was done, to lure him into that false sense of relief that he, for now, had escaped any form of punishment for entertaining the thoughts and desire to get away from the one who had given him so much. Just long enough, Phrixos waited, before pulling the metal cord from his utility belt. The boy's head snapped around, his eyes already widening with dread, for he knew that sound all too well, that sneee-click! the winding mechanism on his master's belt made. One hand rushed to his neck where deep, angry-red lines were already cut into his flesh, countless times, some still healing and some old and already scarring over.

Their eyes met again. Phrixos held the cord out, extended about a metre from his belt, but the punishment never came. This time it was merely a warning – to drink in the fear, and allow the boy to know that whatever the acolytes did to him here, there would be worse for him back on Ziost if he proved to be a humiliation. Then, the message recieved and understood, he nodded towards the towering academy, and they continued on their way.

*

[Later]

The day had stretched on, meeting through meeting, dull and political and practised. Phrixos cared not, had never cared, for the play of words and niceties built over threats that his fellow Sith insisted on consecutively going through. Dull motions, easily seen through, and unbecoming. The wheels and cogs of the great machine turned, and they planned and they planned, and they threatened, and they spoke in large, long words of overthrowing the Republic, and wiping the Jedi venomously out of existence once and for all, and at the end of the day, words and threats were still only puffs of hot   air and promises yet to be fulfilled. When action was ready to be taken, Lord Phrixos would be there, ready to crush Jedi neck underfoot. Until then, as always, he would allow the others to talk, and weave their elaborate plans, and fancy themselves powerful... whilst he played to the tune of that which he believed held the true power.

Frowning, sick to death of the scent of the place already, he checked the chrono. The boy was twenty minutes late to their meeting spot. Not dead, for they were bonded, and he would have felt the passing of that tiny life like sand through his fingers. No, not dead, simply.. useless and errant, as was usual. At the very least, tardy. Phrixos hissed out air through his teeth.

Then the dark side moved, and heaved, and whispered to him of something he would like to see, retching with anger and bloodlust. The dark lord lifted his head, tilting it curiously towards the direction the sensations rippled from, and moved swiftly. Round the crumpling corner of the tomb entrance, with the late afternoon shadow bathing them in darkness, two students were in a scuffle on the rocky ground – kicking up the reddish dust as though encircled with a mist of blood.

A flash of white eyes and gritted teeth – the boy, his boy. And he appeared to be winning.

The other – an acolyte given by his age, and a pureblood at that – grabbed at the boy by his hair and neck in an attempt to thrown him down and get on top of him, and the near-human's response was to swiftly, delightfully, thrust the Force upon him and throw them apart. Smaller and lighter on his feet, the boy pushed up from his hand and tossed a glance towards a discarded vibroblade on the ground. He summoned it to his hands, and whilst the pureblood child was still trying to rise, brought it down on his back. The sword's power sung to life, flesh sizzled, a yelp of pain. It was a cruel thing, to hold it there, and let the blade sting and burn.

Phrixos did not approach, though it was frowned upon to allow acolytes to destroy each other when the Sith were trying to grow their numbers... no he hung back, in the shadows of the ruin, and watched with an odd sort of curiosity, and something close to excitement.

The boy stood over the acolyte, his body trembling with pure rage that rolled off his aura like a bittersweet, beautiful scent. There was blood, Phrixos could now see – on his knuckles, smeared across his chin and clothes, assumingly from when the two had been grappling.

“Don't touch me again.” the boy warned, quietly, discarding the vibroblade with a toss to the side. “If you touch me again, you'll pay.”

“A... A-acolytes aren't allowed... to kill one another...” the pureblood teen gasped, fingernails grinding against the red soil towards the boy's feet, “you wouldn't... dare...”

“I'm not an acolyte here. And I won't kill you,” his near-white eyes flared in the afternoon sun, “I'll just hurt you.”

He took a slow, deliberate step forward with one foot, rolling the toe of his boot over the acolyte's advancing hand, causing him to wince. “I know how to hurt people.”

“Boy,” Phrixos called to him, not moving from his position. As much as he wanted to see what could possibly follow, there was no possible political or intimidating manoeuvre that would save a near-human bought as a slave, from a brutal death for beating on the child of a prominent pureblood family.

He looked up, eyes widening slightly at the sight of his master's form standing casually to the side, a brief flicker of fear passing through the gaze, his previous zeal and cold cruelty melting away as though they never were, leaving him young and innocent to the eye once more. Clearly expecting to be punished for his boldness.

The lord raised his hand, slowly, enjoying the dreading anticipation on the child's face, before he simply made a gesture.

“Come. We are leaving.”

He turned, hearing the boy step quickly over the acolyte and scamper to his side, struggling to keep up with his master's long stride. Phrixos smiled absently to himself. Watched him out of the corner of his eye.

He was learning, after all.