Rinse and Repeat

Arctus Friers

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Forsythe Crowholde
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He had never been quiet his whole life, never without company whether friend or not, and yet quiet was what he remained for quite sometime now.

The galaxy was currently plunged into an even messier affair. The Sith activity growing ever higher (just thinking of Kashyyyk and two of his fellow Jedi being removed from the Order made him sick), the New Republic booting out Jedi from their territories, and seeing an unforseeable end to all the fighting. He tried not to spiral down to his old, cynical self but he saw everything that was happening as a cycle nowadays. Or maybe that was how he should be looking at things from now on. A cycle. No clean-cut corners, no ends. Just a circle rolling round and round and round...

At least he'd made friends, made a found family. Had a gaggle of children who weren't even his own yet adored them the way he wished his father did with him. More people he pledged to protect, even at the cost of his own life. And so as a Padawan he trained harder, and ignored the Darkness that whispered at him. There were times when he could easily ignore It. More times than he could count, it astounded him.

If he had the mental capacity to disregard whatever the Dark Side of the Force seduced him with, then why couldn't the grief of losing a couple of Jedi younglings – children that were not even his own blood –remain as painful as the day he'd found out?

Why couldn't he bear the pain and move forward like his peers, his superiors, his friends? Why was he cycling back to old habits of wallowing in his negative emotions, so much so he resembled the way he was when he first felt the Dark Side's sway?

Ah, but of course. Just like what was happening outside these temple walls–

Everything's just a cycle, innit?

It sure is.

Jedi life just constantly giving you heartache, huh?

Life in general does. Joining the Order never gave me grief.

But you doubted.

I didn't.

You lost your precious children and you doubted.

It's the pain I felt that did!

It is all I need, boy.

Thus the cycle began anew.
 

Arctus Friers

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Jedi Order
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Forsythe Crowholde
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In the few days that Arctus allowed himself to be surrounded by terrified younglings, nearly all of them looking for a semblance of comfort, safety, or whatever semblance of normalcy was left by the failed Sith invasion on Yavin IV, the Padawan was made all the more aware of the ever existing grief that had gnawed a steadily growing gaping hole in his heart.

It hurt to see the children's numbers dwindle in the aftermath of the attack. It hurt to spend one day after another knowing that Clove was almost killed by one of the Sith, and it hurt knowing that Ruzaan had yet again seen a darker side of the former smuggler who called both Togruta and half-Annfyn his close friends. What was more agonizing still was the way a certain group of younglings – comprised of a pair of Togruta twins, a Twi'lek, and a Nautolan – clung to him, afraid that cruel, phantom hands would take him away like they did with a human boy that had been taken from them.

He couldn't find comfort in the Jedi's victory. He couldn't even find comfort in the assurance that his dearest friends were safe. The one who brought him here, who told him that there was Light within him, who told him that she would help, had disappeared once more – and this time Arctus had no means to reach out to her. He couldn't find comfort within the halls of the Jedi Temple Indyana brought him into, and he couldn't find comfort without her here.

Arctus felt so alone. Abandoned. Hurt.

Alone was all he had before, and alone was what protected him. The moment he sought a Jedi's help, accepted Indy's compassion, embraced younglings as if they were his children, and counted Ruzaan and Clove as family...

A moment. A single moment from when he joined the Jedi Order, from when he rediscovered his old self before he became the smuggler, was all it took for him to shed the armor he once wore to protect himself from the galaxy's cruelty. And a single moment was all it took from that same cruelty to cut him open, a multitude of colors and emotions spilling from where grief struck the hardest.

Black and murky red bordered his vision these past few weeks. They remained in every waking moment – lessons, time he spent with what was left of the younglings he swore to look after, time he spent with his friends. And when he closed his eyes both black and red tore at him with their sharp claws and talons, devoured him with bloodstained teeth, and defeaned him with sibilant, whispery laughter. Nightmares of losing his friends, his Master, his family, and the children he jokingly called his own plagued him night after night and when he opened his eyes he found no comfort in these sacred temple walls.

One day he found himself reading Clove's message, wondering what the Barash Vow was but didn't bother researching about it. He knew where to find her, knew where to go to pay her a visit and maybe talk about why she left.

Arctus stayed in the temple instead.

One day he found himself watching Ruzaan from a distance, the Togruta caught up in one of the lessons Padawans were supposed to take. He wanted to talk to his friend, maybe catch up on stuff, and ask the latter if he wanted to visit Clove.

Arctus turned his back and walked away instead.

He just... drifted away from everyone and everything. The only other Jedi who could truly understand him had disappeared after she had given him, Felix, and Drastus her word.

So when he found himself packing a few change of clothes and marching towards his ship in the dead of the night, Arctus did not question why he wanted to take some time for himself. He did not question why it involved leaving Yavin IV, nor why he would just disappear on his friends without a word. He did not question the anger, the loneliness, the grief, and the feeling of abandonment that continued to eat at him. He did not question why the galaxy was tumbling downhill in a huge, huge mess.

The knitted plush doll, tiny, crocheted mini Arctus with his pink-hued, glowing quartz heart, sat beside the Cyar'ika's console. And at the sight of them Arctus told himself that he would return, it was just that...

He had to leave for now, away from everything that made him hurt.

——
 

Arctus Friers

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Forsythe Crowholde
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He travelled with no particular destination in mind. Home was not an option – simply because he didn't want to burden his family with his problems, much like he did with his friends. He knew all too well that they would be more than willing to listen to him, not because it was what he would do for them in return. Spilling his guts – so to speak – was one thing. Fixing him afterwards... now that was a trouble he couldn't let them shoulder.

The Dark Side had been awfully silent ever since that wretched day, ever since Arctus and Knight Eressëa discovered that many younglings, including Maikee, were taken by the Sith. It seemed to have taken some sort of pity on the Padawan, and even he could ascertain which nightmares were made by his own subconscious and the Darkness that lingered in the back of his mind. The nightmares weren't stained with It, and while the silence held up a small part of him wanted It to mock him like It always did, to taunt him and to relish in his fears, his anger, his resentment.

But It remained silent still.

The sea roared ahead of him, cup of coffee and a book lying forgotten on the grass. Arctus stared at the waves, wondering what it would feel like being tossed around by one tide after another. Or what it would feel like underwater, unbothered by the waves crashing against the cliffs. The silence would be amazing, he guessed, as he drifted ever lower until he knew no more. But then again he didn't disappear to give up. He didn't leave so the people he loved wouldn't know that he went into that good, good night.

He was just waiting for the pain to subside. Waiting for the grief to vanish. He knew they were here to stay, though. He didn't need to be a psychologist to know that. Arctus knew that he needed to grow much larger than the grief, to master and control it so it wouldn't have to shadow him all the time. He didn't want to do any growing up right now though, nor did he want to learn how to master his emotions.

The Padawan gathered the mug and book in one hand, hauled himself back up on his feet, and marched back towards one of the cottages closest to the lighthouse on the cliffside he found temporary residence in. Here, in some backwater waterworld in the Outer Rim, he found an interim safe haven away from the ongoing wars and strife. Here he was no Jedi. Here, he was just a lost man in an unforgiving galaxy looking for a place to lay his weary head to rest.

Lost.

It felt like a lifetime ago when he was found, redeemed. Now he was back to being the lost, lonely man he once had been.

——

It had been three days since he'd gotten a decent night's sleep. Just like the old days, when he had been hopped up on alcohol and spice, and in the company of questionable people with equally questionable origin and motives.

There was not an ounce of spice to be found in his temporary sanctuary, however. Just alcohol... and lots of it.

Bottles of alcohol that remained untouched until one night, when the storm clouds gathered and thunder rumbled ahead, Arctus found himself dumping the contents of one bottle after another in the sink until three were left standing.

He'd downed all three, and they weren't even enough to make him drunk. Just a bit tipsy, enough to make him regret throwing the rest of the alcohol away.

He fled from Yavin IV, so why did it still hurt? Why did losing those children still hurt? Why did Indy's disappearance still felt like a savage twist of the knife to his already grieving heart?

The distraught Padawan stood at the lighthouse's catwalk, overlooking the raging seas before him. The Dark Side remained as quiet as ever, not even mocking him to jump or some other suicidal shit It threw at him before just for the giggles. Silent as It was, Arctus could still feel It lurking within, as if assessing what he would do next. It just sat there, watching, night after night as he was startled awake by his nightmares. It just sat there, seemingly waiting for him to do the unthinkable – so It could what? Egg him on? Or stop him?

"Why are you so fuckin' quiet?" he asked out loud, voice tinged with growing anger. "Isn't this what you wanted? Push me away from being a Jedi? I'm not in the fucking temple anymore, away from my friends you keep calling a liability or some other shit."

He gripped the railings until his hands hurt, his knuckles turning white. Arctus closed his eyes, tight, white-hot pain searing through his eyelids.

"Why are you so quiet now? I'm all alone! There's no Mum, no little brothers, no Clove nor Ruzaan. No Indy, for fuck's sake! Speak up, godsdamn it!"

Only the howling wind replied to his angry words. Lightning flashed ahead, and thunder rumbled. The typical dark and stormy night in a cliched horror holomovie, but here he stood without an active adversary.

In the thought-room, deep inside Arctus's psyche, the Darkness sat. In any other moment It would've gladly accepted the Padawan's offer and would demean him without fail. It would've told him, time and again, that involving himself with the Jedi would only weaken him further. It would've fed his anger, his hatred. It would've laughed at his grief and tormented him.

However It just sat there. Watching. Listening.

Contemplating.

Outside, Arctus cursed and goaded, wanting to distract himself from feelings other than grief.

——

He found another stash of alcohol in the Cyar'ika's galley. Naturally, Arctus drank as much as he could, just enough to make him drunk.

Enough to put him into a daze.

The Padawan laid on the bed, staring at the ceiling as the storm raged outside, the rain hammering against the cottage roof. He tilted his head to the side, gazing at the window just as a fork of lightning crawled across dark clouds. The flash of light hit a familiar figure, momentarily bathing her armored form.

"Oh, fuck it," Arctus breathed, hazel grey gaze following her as she moved away from the window and on to his bedside. He watched as she sat down, the bed unsurprisingly not dipping, T-visor tilting to stare down at him. "I swear to every deity out there, I'm clean. There's no spice, I'm just drunk–"

"I know," she cut him off, and he could swear he heard a smile in her voice.

Arctus closed his eyes, counted one to ten, counted backwards, then opened his eyes. Reiel still sat on the bed, helmeted head tilted to the side in amusement. With a heavy sigh, the Padawan begrudgingly sat up and reached out a hand to touch her pauldroned shoulder. The gloved hand that settled on top of his was a confirmation that she felt as real as the last time, and with a heavy heart Arctus looked at her longingly.

"I'm dreaming again, ain't I?" he asked her, tone defeated. Her hand left his and found his clothed chest instead, the gentle pat she gave him a silent 'yes'. Another sigh slipped past the Padawan's lips, earning a sympathetic chuckle from the Mandalorian.

"You're missing me less and yet here I am. Again," she told him, drawing her hand back. Reiel shifted on her seat so she was now facing Arctus, gloved hands clasped on her lap. The Padawan couldn't gauge her emotions through the Force nor could he see the mix of softest pink and boldest purple, her signature intertwined with that of her lover's. Perhaps it was a small mercy that he couldn't see her presence in the Force, if only to save him from looking with a hint of jealousy at that second color that clung– no, wrapped around her protectively.

"Yep, totally dreaming. I'm not drunk right now. I fell asleep drunk, see. And I'm not feeling hungover. Definitely, definitely a dream."

He heard Reiel let out another soft, quiet chuckle.

"Of course, you are," said the Mandalorian, replacing one gloved hand on his chest and gently pushing him downward until his back hit the sheets.

Just like that last dream, minus the animosity.

Arctus relaxed.

He waited for her to lay down next to him but she remained upright. Her hand, however, remained atop his sternum. That wouldn't do. This was a dream, couldn't he at least control it to his heart's desire?

Reiel drew her hand away.

"Not this time, Arctus," she told him, voice filled with understanding. "You have no one to talk to right now. No one but me. I have faith that you wouldn't cross that line."

So he didn't, because he respected her. Because there was a part of him that still loved her even if it was unrequited.

And so they talked, even if Arctus would forget most of their conversation come morning light.

——
 

Arctus Friers

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Forsythe Crowholde
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"So, why are you all alone here? I thought you joined the Jedi Order?"

"I did, but... I-I had to get away. Not forever, just– just for a bit. I can't be there, not yet, not now..."

"Why?"

"It hurts, bein' there. I don't want it to hurt, but it does anyway and I can't stand it."

"Did you tell anyone why you left?"

Silence, save for a strangled sob drowned out by the lashing, weeping skies.

"You should have at least told someone, Arctus. Your friends–"

"What is there to say? What, t-that I– that I can't stay there because Maikee and the other kids were taken, that I couldn't stand being reminded that they're gone, taken by the Sith to gods know where? Tell them I blame whoever the fuck was responsible for keeping my kids safe but fucked up in the end and got my kids snatched away? That it hurt seeing Clove bound to her wheelchair when she still needed it? That it hurt because Ruzaan looks up to me and I can't live up to that image? What should I say? That I keep waking up to nightmares which Jedi would fall next, which of the younglings were going to be ripped away from me? Oh, yeah, what about the Dark Side? Maybe I should start with that!"

"Well, any of that is a good start–"

"No! I can't! I don't want to burden them with–"

If the T-visored helm could express an emotion, it would have already gazed at hin with incredulity.

"Kad preserve you, Arctus. Are they your friends or not? Clove told you and Ruzaan that she would be leaving for a while. Can't you give them a heads up that you're going to take some time off yourself? At least they'd know you're leaving, not just vanishing without a word."

"They'd ask questions. I don't–"

"You're an idiot."

It stung, and the look of betrayal he threw her way was only received with a sternness he felt through the Force. He looked away, feeling hurt that she had chosen to insult him, though it hurt more because she was right.

"Of course they'd ask questions. They care for you, you big dumbass."

"I'm scared because they'll do just that. You hafta understand–"

When he turned to face her again Reiel was gone. Arctus rose from his bed, hurriedly shuffling to where she sat just a moment ago.

"Reiel?"

The crack of lightning, followed by an angry rumble of thunder, was the only response he received.






——
 

Arctus Friers

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Forsythe Crowholde
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Another sleepless night found Arctus sitting on the lighthouse's catwalk, legs dangling underneath him and reminding him of the distance between him and solid, grassy ground. His forehead was pressed against the cool metal railing, hazel grey eyes staring listlessly at the sea.

The storm had finally abated, leaving the islanders at peace and without worry for the first time in weeks. One of the settlers told Arctus when he first set foot on the island to expect wet monsoons and storms persisting for weeks. Such was the weather in this planet, they reminded him, but at least the cottage he was renting still stood with little to no damage. The islanders were acclimated to their homeworld's cruel storms and as such have millenia of experience passed down from one generation to the next.

It had been a week since he last dreamt of her, and she had not returned since. Arctus supposed that his subconscious was finally getting tired of summoning her image, her voice, for him to seek comfort from. Perhaps her disappearance was a sign for him to actually seek help rather than surrender his troubles to a mere shadow of his savior.

A bitter breeze swept by, the cold biting at his skin but he paid it no heed. The Padawan's gaze remained seabound. There was no comfort to be found in the now gentle waves, only a sense of emptiness that gave him an odd sense of calm. The storms have left, and even the one raging inside his mind had quieted. For now it was just him in there, sitting consciously across the Darkness that haunted him but had kept quiet for weeks.

Outward his eyes were fixed on the sea, and the horizon.

Inside he stared at the vaguely humanoid form of the Dark Side, all ephemeral shadows and hard, haywire solid black lines.

It didn't have a mouth, but Arctus saw it scowling, the corners of imaginary lips turned down in what seemed to be a mix of discontent and deliberation.

He did not speak. He had nothing to say to It, not when It ignores his calls and taunts. It simply stared back in response, knowing full well what It did and taking no responsibility for them.

Unsurprisingly it was Arctus who looked away first. The man hoisted himself back up on the catwalk. If the Dark Side was not going to speak to him, then he wouldn't find any means to make It talk. It had remained quiet and had chosen to ignore Arctus when he actively sought it. He would leave it hanging, just like It did him.

He turned his back from the sea, going back inside the building.

Arctus.

Violently he turned around, almost giving himself a whiplash upon hearing that familiar soft voice that now dripped with barely concealed corruption. Her voice clung to him like viscous, poisoned honey. Wide eyed, he hurriedly stepped back out on the catwalk, his gaze alighting once more on the sea.

Come now, let us talk. I won't disappear this time.

His breathing became rapid, heart thumping wildly in his throat. Arctus stepped forward until he bumped against the railing – the only thing that kept him from plummeting to the ground below. His hands found purchase on the cold metal, knuckles turning white. The Corellian's gaze briefly flicked to the land that separated him from the sea, before returning to the waves ahead.

I'm so, so sorry for disappearing. I will stay with you from this day henceforth.

Fury crossed the man's bearded visage.

Outside he stood glaring at the peaceful waves.

Inside his hands gripped the neck of the Mandalorian he once owed his life to, his face menacingly hovering over the now helmetless woman. Instead of a face he had not yet seen a mass of colorful static grinned up at him.

——
 
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Arctus Friers

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Forsythe Crowholde
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What do you call the land that meets the sea?

The following moments where supposed to be the most crucial ones, laid out for him in these exact moments:

He gasps, horrified, as realization sunk in – Reiel was without her helmet, and he had never seen her face before. The image of her visage should have been, for all intents and purposes, a blank mask. The static, glitching colors shouldn't be meeting his wrathful gaze.

His hands, wrapped tight around her neck, quickly let go. Here, in his thought-room, he had nowhere to run. He was trapped in these white walls with the Dark Side as It took the form of the one he hopelessly loved his friend. It played on his secret desire to see her face as freely as her own lover did, while at the same time shattering any hope he felt that his wish would be granted. Arctus hurriedly removed himself away from her– from It, now seeing the armored figure for what it truly was.

Through the flickering colors, Its maw opened like a tear on a fragment of the universe in a horrible parody of a smile too wide.

What do you call the land that meets the sea?

Arctus was too caught up in the events that were occurring within his own mind that he failed to notice the actions his body made in the real world. Only when he felt the cold rush of water engulfing him did he realize that, somehow, he had fled from the lighthouse and flung himself off the cliff. Maybe it was luck that saved him from hitting the water instead of rocks, hells, maybe it was the will of the Force itself that he was still alive and unharmed from the impact.

What do you call the land that meets the sea?

The man soon broke the water's surface, gaze drifting to the shore to his far right. He was lucky to not have pulled this stunt during the storm or else he would've been claimed by the raging seas. Arctus began to swim towards the shore. It was a long way ahead, but he persevered and let the waves push him forward.

What do you call the land that meets the sea?

If only he had the courage and the cowardice to end his life, he would've swam until he couldn't see land. He knew he wouldn't be able to forgive himself for even contemplating suicide, however. As much as he felt alone and heartbroken by terrible events, abandoned by his Master when he needed her the most, he knew there were people who would hate to see him gone. Nevertheless he allowed himself to be swallowed by grief and pain and so here he was, fighting to stay afloat and swimming his way towards–

What do you call the land that meets the sea?

Rough hands found wet sand, his equally wet clothes sticking to his skin uncomfortably and weighing him down. Arctus fell to his knees, greedily gulping in air amid his gasps and coughs.

In front of him the Dark Side, still wearing Reiel's form far too comfortably for his liking, crouched down and peered at him through Its face of glitching colors.

"What do you call the land that meets the sea, cyar'ika?" It asked him, amusement dripping from It's soft, honeyed voicr. One gloved hand settled on his cheek, tilting his head so he could meet It's gaze.

With a strangled, defiant shout Arctus pounced upon the armored figure, mustering ever ounce of strength he still had as he pinned It below him. Trembling hands gripped the tops of Its chestplate, pulling the laughing figure close to his face. With tears and fire in his eyes the man glared at the myriad of colors flickering wildly that served as It's face.

"Don't–!" he pleaded, fury injecting venom in his quaking voice. "Out of anyone– don't... Not her form, not her voice, not her face that I don't know..."

The Dark Side laughed even more beneath him.

"I don't choose what I'd look like, Arctus," It replied in between laughter. "It's you who gives me form, truth, and reason. It's you– always you!

"Now... what do you call the land that meets the sea?"


Arctus only managed to let out a choked sob, once again coming to the realization that his Force-sensitivity was both a gift and a curse.



——
 

Arctus Friers

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Forsythe Crowholde
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——

The strange man sits up on the lighthouse's catwalk, gaze captivated by the sea.

His arrival sparked a flash of pain through the Force, and as much as his presence piqued the interest of the islanders, Nathanael restricts his own curiosity to a minimum. The young man knows when someone is hiding their pain, and the strange individual hid it all too well from others. But Nathanael is Force-sensitive, trained albeit not completely – just enough for him to know that the man seeking shelter in the cottage by the cliff is just like him.

It is early morning, and a weak sunlight filters past what is left of the storm clouds, light grey against white skies. Booted feet carry him towards the docks, decked in dark blue flannel, a white shirt underneath, and a pair of simple work jeans. He spots his father boarding their small fishing boat, the older man already prepared for the fishing trip they have planned weeks before the storm came.

Eyes as blue as the sea gaze back at the lighthouse, spotting the figure that sits on the catwalk. Nathanael watches for a moment, eyes trailing after the strange man as the latter stands up and disappears into the building. He wonders what brought the stranger to their island, why his pain radiates so viscerally despite the smiles he offers the townsfolk. Has the man experienced loss? Is he running away from the pain that tightly clings to him? It is easy to read the emotions of others unlike him, but the strange man is touched by the Force much like Nathanael. It makes reading him difficult and easy at the same time, the man's sadness screaming loudly through the Force but at the same time belied by his easy smiles and warm personality.

The man is strange in the sense that he is the first Force-sensitive Nathanael has come across with. But even then he is much like a few tortured souls, hiding their pain behind a happy and outgoing facade.

His father's voice breaks through his thoughts, and the young man tears his gaze off the lighthouse, boards the boat, and doesn't look back.

At least not for now.

——

Noon has come and gone. Nathanael doesn't have much luck catching fish and so is his father, and they laugh and joke at their poor attempts.

"Can't expect too much now, can we?" his father says with a smile as he puts away their fishing gear. "Storm's just come an' gone, and the fish probably won't return in the next few days."

Standing at the boat's helm, the young man lets out another amused laugh as he glances at his father over his shoulder. "So, we woke up early for nothing, Da," he replies mirthfully. He snickers when the older man ruffles his hair with a rough hand before taking over the boat's wheel.

"But you're having fun right now. That's what matters."

Both of them do, and it puts Nathanael's heart at ease. His father oddly reminds him of the strange man on the lighthouse, both men carrying the weight of the lives they lived. While Nathanael doesn't know what kind of burden the stranger carried, the way he moves and carries himself around others resemble the way his father once acted. It is a strange sight – seeing someone bear a resemblance to his father in the ways that are not physical.

The young man falls silent, once again becoming lost in his own thoughts. Maybe there is a reason why the Force led the strange man to their island. Maybe the Force wants Nathanael to meet him, to help him in any way the young man can. He's wary of anyone who comes to their island, to their town, and there is nothing inherently wrong with it. Admittedly he's felt this the first time the stranger set foot in town, but after feeling the latter's hidden pain the Force begins to nudge at him.

Pain, it whispered. Sadness, grief. Alone, he feels alone, and guilty.

Please, child.

Help him.


"Da," he begins, unhesitant but steady. "Have you met the offworlder who's renting old Al's cottage by the cliff?"

"Can't say I have." The older man glances briefly at Nathanael, a light frown crossing the former's face. "Why? He givin' you trouble or summat?"

He smiles, lifting one hand in peace to ease his father's worry.

"No, not at all. I've seen him, but never interacted with him. At least not yet."

His father's gaze turns quizzical. "'Not yet?'"

"Yes. He's the only other Force-sensitive in this island other than myself, so...?"

The way his father's expression quickly shifts into another emotion – this time curiosity – makes the youth chuckle. Nathanael shrugs when the older man asks if he thinks the stranger is either a Jedi or a Sith. He doesn't know, he says, maybe just another Force-sensitive who doesn't choose between Light or Dark. Maybe he is floating somewhere in the middle, vaguely sauntering whichever side that calls to him the most. The stranger hides it well, and only his feelings are being uncontrollably broadcasted through the Force. Maybe he is unaligned like Nathanael? Who knows, only the strange man himself does.

The boat, under his father's adroit guidance, returns them to the dock. Nathanael gazes back at the lighthouse–

–and feels himself being pulled underwater, blue eyes widening as he falls to his knees on the wooden dock. There is a wild, urgent cry in the Force, and Darkness washes over him like a tidal wave. His father's worried shout is muffled in the background, drowned by the waves and the laughter in the Dark. The Force has never called out to him like this, both afraid and tormenting at the same time, the cries and the laughter simultaneously getting siphoned into the void as a pair of warm, rough hands found his cheeks.

Nathanael stares back at the same blue eyes, anchoring himself in his father's presence – the gentle calm after the storm, a warm home, bright smiles that hides regret and guilt, and rare but sincere "I love you, son" – and telling himself that he's on dry land, he isn't drowning, he is safe, Dad's here, they keep each other safe. Slowly, Nathanael realizes that the Force is not tormenting him, it is showing him what has transpired in someone else's eyes and pleading for him to act and help whoever is in the receiving end of the anguish that isn't his own.

He picks himself up shakily, leaning gratefully against his father's solid and steady presence.

What do you call the land that meets the sea?

"The shore," answers Nathanael, wide eyes looking to his father. With a firm but understanding nod the pair hurry away from the dock, past their humble abode, and onto the beach leading up to the lighthouse by the cliff. The young man searches, opening himself up fully to the Force, until it brings him and his father towards the source of anger, of sadness, of fear, with the strange man kneeling on the sand as its center.

Nathanael flits over to the man, hears the latter sobbing. Tentative he reaches out until his hand sits atop the wet clothes on the man's shoulder. Behind him he feels his father's uncertainty, until it transforms into bewilderment, and finally dawning into recognition and deeply entrenched remorse.

Behind him, Raguel Friers stares at his eldest son in shock.

"Arctus...?"

——
 

Arctus Friers

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Forsythe Crowholde
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"M-Mum? Why does Dad hate me?"

The question played on repeat in Arctus' head the moment he heard his voice spoken so hesitantly by that heartbreakingly familiar voice. The former smuggler didn't need to look up, didn't need to visually confirm, to see that the person who spoke his name was that one man who truly let him down the most. He refused to lift his gaze, refused to meet Raguel Friers' cold, unflinching blue eyes. He didn't need the kind of heartbreak his own father had afflicted upon him – and continued to do so, now that fate had made their paths inevitably cross after two decades and four years. Not when he was dealing with another.

Out of all the places and circumstances, fate had brought them together in Arctus' time of brokenness.

Whereas his own fucking Dad didn't bat an eye upon leaving him and Mum and the triplets, Arctus knelt here on the wet sand, his heart broken for having children – they weren't even his own flesh and blood, gods-kriffing-damn it – he loved and cared for taken ruthlessly from him.

All Arctus ever felt whenever he was in his father's presence were fear and apprehension, always anticipating when the next verbal or physical blow would hit. That fear, unspoken and strengthened by doubts, had festered and transformed into anger. He had a choice not to be like his Dad when he grew up, but he still allowed himself to saunter towards a rebellious and treacherous path. It was both Arctus' and his father's fault why the former became a renegade, until the threat of being overwhelmed by the Dark Side prompted Arctus into leaving that path.

And now there Dad stood, the root of all Arctus' trust and loyalty issues. The root of all the former smuggler's insecurities and vulnerabilities. He refused to look at the older Friers, instead lifting his watery gaze to look at the young man whose hand rested tentatively over one shaking shoulder.

Blue eyes, the same as Dad's, met hazel grey. The young man had a kind face, filled with sympathy. With his own feelings going haywire, Arctus barely recognized that the man was a Force-sensitive like himself. Not bothering to assume why a stranger accompanied his father on this lonely beach ('gods above, please don't make this turn out like those holonovelas,' he thought, panicked), Arctus allowed himself to be supported as the young man helped the former smuggler up on his feet.

"Arctus–"

"Don't," snarled the Padawan, cutting his father's words. He would have spared the older man a glance but he was afraid to see that same glacial glare he always received from his Dad when he was a kid. "Don't say my name. Don't fucking say it. Don't, don't, don't–"

Arctus peeled himself blindly from the young man's grasp and began to walk away, his legs shaking as hard as his hands. He wished that this was all just a weird trip, wished that he would snap out of this hallucination. Denial and pain gripped him, yet a quick glare ocer his shoulder to meet the man he called father's gaze only drove reality deeper into his mind like a drill to the skull. And instead of anger, all Arctus saw on Dad's face was a sad, broken look, one hand reaching out for him.

The Padawan's face crumpled, tears streaming anew down his face in great rivulets. He choked on his sobs, loud and ugly, as he tore his gaze off of his father's heartbroken expression, wanting nothing more than to put an even greater distance between them. Arctus quickened his pace, one arm lifting to angrily wipe his tears.

Why now, he angrily asked fate. Why stumble upon a planet, an island, where his bastard of a father had chosen to hole up in?

Why now, after twenty-four years?

Why now, when he was abandoned and heartbroken and grief-stricken?

Why now? mocked the Dark Side in poisoned, honeyed words, floating gracefully behind him to wrap her arms around his shoulder. But you can always stop walking, turn around, and ssssssnap his neeeeeeeeck.

He stopped on his tracks, frozen, at the thought of killing his own father. As much as he feared and hated Dad, Arctus–

We can make it happen, cyare.

He broke into a run in a bid to distance himself from Dad and the young man who accompanied the latter. As much as he feared and hated Dad, Arctus–

No, no, no, I won't I won't hurt him I can't hurt him I have to get away run run run run run

I won't hurt Dad

I can't

I won't

I love him–


In his haste, and blinded as he was by his tears and the ever growing blackness at the edges of his vision, Arctus failed to notice a rock protruding from the ground. He fell face first on the patch of pebbled ground that separated the grassland and sandy beach, forehead cracking against rock.

He could barely hear Dad's panicked voice shouting his name and the hurried footsteps that approached his prone form. All he could hear was Reiel's voice, dripping with disdain as she scoffed at him,

What an unlucky sod.
 

Arctus Friers

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Jedi Order
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Forsythe Crowholde
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He woke up to the sound of hushed conversations, his head feeling heavy and full of lead. Stiff fingers grazed against the smooth, waxy surface of a band-aid. With a groan, Arctus pulled himself up in a sitting position and ignored the dull but steady ringing in his head.

Across the room stood the image of Reiel, unhelmeted and face of glitching colors bare for him to see. The man huffed irritably knowing the image for what It truly was now, the comfort he'd exhausted from the likeness of one of his friends already depleted. The Dark Side had exploited yet another weakness now revealed for him to see. It would continue to use Reiel Crowholde's appearance but It would no longer find it effective. Arctus was a fool but he was not a hopeless fool – at least not anymore.

"The fuck are you doin' here?" he hissed at the image, hazel grey eyes narrowed and fixed balefully upon her– It, he corrected himself. That wasn't the woman he admired and loved. The image across the room was an abomination, yet one created by his own yearning.

He hated himself for it, for corrupting the form of the person who gave him a second shot at life.

Reiel– It looked at him, one booted foot padding forward followed by another. Once It had crossed the distance between them It held out a gauntleted hand, the tips of gloved fingers settling beneath his chin. The Dark Side loomed ever closer until the colors dancing upon Its face were reflected vividly in Arctus' eyes.

"I told you already. I will always be with you."

The Padawan held It's gaze, jaw tight, as he spat, "And I don't want you to. Go away."

Laughter, beautiful and grating all at once, slipped past lipless face as It sat on the bed with him. Arctus moved to distance himself but It had already trapped him in Its grasp, chestplate pressed tightly against him. "You know I can't. Unless you cut yourself off from the Force, you'll never be free of me."

"Oh yeah? How about I do that right here and now so that I may finally be rid of you?" the Padawan snarled defiantly, struggling to extricate himself from her– It's hold. The Darkness wound Itself around him tighter, however, laughing softly against his ear.

"Do it, then. Rid yourself of my curse, but at the expense of losing your bonds and connections to the pieces of your heart. Go on, then, Arctus. Banish me and the Light forever."

The man closed his eyes, a pained expression crossing his face. Was that the only way to break free from the Dark Side's grasp? Because as much as he viewed this poison that festered in his psyche as a curse, Arctus very well knew that his connection to the Force was also a gift. If it weren't for his discovery of his Force-sensitivity he wouldn't have met people who helped changed his life; wouldn't have met people he cherished and wanted to be a better person for.

It was not just sentimentality that held him back. Arctus didn't even have a single inkling as to how to severe his connection to the Force. So as much as the Dark Side taunted him with a new fear, the Padawan literally had no idea how to act upon it. And besides, was this what he really wanted? There were other ways to take control and even banish the Dark Side's influence to him, right? There had to be. Indy told him the day they met that she–

"She left you, though."

The room shook as anger threatened to overwhelm the Corellian, flecks of yellow glimmering in his eyes. With a strangled groan he pushed the image of Reiel away with the Force. Intangible as It was in the physical plane, the Dark Side simply fizzled out of sight for a brief moment before It's form solidified once again. With a condescending laugh, It flicked Arctus on the forehead with a finger before pressing the lower half of Its face of glitching colors there in an eerie imitation of a kiss.

"Wake up and face your reality, Arctus. Your children, taken from you. Your Master abandoned you when you need her the most. You, disappearing on your family and friends without a word. I'm your only constant, cyare. You would do well to remember that."

——

He woke up to the sound of hushed conversations, his head feeling heavy and full of lead. Stiff fingers grazed against the smooth, waxy surface of a band-aid. With a groan, Arctus pulled himself up in a sitting position and ignored the dull but steady ringing in his head.

Another dream, but it felt so real that he doubted for a second if he was truly awake this time. The man rubbed his eyes for a moment before taking in the sight of his room.

Except this wasn't his room.

The bedroom was a far cry from his own spartan one in the cottage he rented. It looked kriffin' lavish with a huge ass window that offered a perfect view of the sea past the treetops. The duvet and beddings seemed freshly laundered, the soft smell of fabric conditioner sticking on the fabric still. He looked up at the ceiling and was greeted by the sight of antlers fashioned into a rather gaudy chandelier-type of ornament. Bare feet met cold marbled– nah, tiled floors as he got up. The Padawan had to lightly slap himself to make sure that he was actually awake this time, and that the rather stylish room he found himself into was real.

Tearing his focus off of the room, Arctus instead followed the voices that awoke him. Stepping out of the room, the man padded down a hallway and stairs that led to the living room. The area was rustic compared to the bedroom he'd woken up into. Outside the viewdeck stood the young man from earlier (yesterday? How much time had passed since he got himself knocked out?).

A sudden feeling of trepidation made the Padawan's chest feel tight when his Dad finally came into view, the older Friers' expression stern as he and the young man spoke. Arctus hovered by the staircase and out of sight as he listened to the pair.

"–I hate him," he heard his father say, sounding distressed to Arctus' surprise. Though the word 'hate' sent a jolt of pain in his heart, the Padawan steeled himself and continued to eavesdrop, intent to figure out why his old man sounded so rattled. Perhaps the bastard never expected to see Arctus again, only for fate to cross their paths once more. Maybe old man Friers disliked having his estranged eldest son within his line of sight. The former smuggler gritted his teeth at the thought.

As if he even wanted to be in the a-hole's house, let alone in his presence, in the first place.

"All the more reason for you to talk to him," replied the young man, cutting off Arctus' hateful train of thought. "Avoiding him will only make him think that you really hated him. You said this is the first time you've seen him in more than twenty years, Dad. Don't you think it's about time to finally tell him how you really feel?"

Raguel Friers sighed, weary and ridden with guilt. He ran a hand over his face, lips pressed in a taut line as he looked down with what seemed to be shame.

"I let him down, Nate. Out of all five of you, I let Arctus down the most. He didn't– he never deserved the anger I felt, nor the doubts I had wrongly felt for Dahlia." The older Corellian looked away and for a moment the pair was silent. "It was foolish of me to accuse my wife of having an affair where there was none, even more so to doubt if I was really his father. I left even after finding out that I was wrong. How could I justify the abuse I had wrongfully wrought upon your brother? I was so ashamed – and I still am. I walked out on them even after Dahlia had forgiven me. How could I face your brothers, more so Arctus, after all that? I fucked up, Nate, I can't... I don't know if Arctus will ever forgive me."

 
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Arctus Friers

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Forsythe Crowholde
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He didn't know what was worse the longer he listened to the pair speak. The last time he was home, he had asked Mum if he really was his father's son. Hearing Raguel Friers corroborate her words made much, much worse. And even as Mum expressed forgiveness and accepted him with open arms despite what he had done – more so because he would be able to fix his mistakes – Dad chose to run away with his tail tucked between his legs.

A coward, that was what Raguel Friers was. A coward and a fucking joke.

The initial response to the older Friers' words was to lash out, to call him out for his cowardice and for choosing to run instead of being a man and try to fix his mistakes. Being ashamed and afraid weren't tickets for the easy way out, gods damn him! What the fuck kind of a father was he for abandoning his family, for abusing his eldest son physically, mentally, and emotionally just because of unfounded doubts and jealousy? And where did his abandonment left his wife and sons? The triplets grew up without a father figure, Mum had to work thrice as hard to support all five of them, and Arctus?

Messed up in both heart and mind because his own Dad had broken him.

Nails bit the skin of his palms from how hard his fists were clenched, jaw tight to the point of hurting. Arctus wanted to explode in utter fury and vitriol, the grief he felt momentarily forgotten as sickly yellow tainted his hazel grey eyes. He wanted to march towards Raguel and grab the latter by the shoulders to shake him violently, to spit out hurtful words he had drilled inside Arctus' psyche.

You're not my own.

Why should I love you?

I'm not your father.

I don't know who you are.


He was just a kid back then. Stars, he was all grown up now and still he felt like that same kid now that Dad was just within his reach.

His vision blurred with unshed tears, black and red creeping on the edges as his anger and hate faded into nothing but pain. Wrongfully hated as he was, Arctus couldn't deny to himself that a huge part of him still loved his father despite his mistakes. He might have chosen to be a rebel to spite his father and his career in the military, but he knew that was heartache speaking. Even as Dad hurt and demeaned him, even as Dad walked out on them and never looked back, the fact remained pure and simple – Arctus loved his father, and no amount of fury nor hate would eclipse that. Even now, faced with the reality that his father chose the path of a coward, Arctus still loved him.

Was there something wrong with him? Dad was the reason why Arctus had trouble trusting other adults. Dad was the reason why Arctus had issues with loyalty. Dad was the root cause of his anxiety, depression, and self-doubt. Dad hurt him, and yet–

"Arctus Ramiel. That's your grandpa's name, buddy."

Dad had showered him with love before doubts and abuse rose. When it was still just him, Mum, and Dad. Maybe... Maybe it would've been much easier to hate the man if he hadn't loved Arctus then. Dad had caused so many negative issues and emotions, things Arctus didn't need nor deserve, and yet Arctus loved him still.

He was so messed up, it hurt. Torn between wanting to hate the man he called his father and needing to forgive him simply because Arctus loved him.

The Padawan lowered himself, sitting by the staircase as sadness and confusion began to eat at him. Why couldn't his father man up and make amends? Why did he have to run away and hide? Why didn't he stay for his other sons and his wife, if not for Arctus?

"You dumbass. I would've accepted you back then had you returned. You didn't– you didn't have to run," whispered Arctus in a strangled voice, hot tears flowing freely down his cheeks. The poor man covered his face with shaking hands, body wracked with sobs as he tried his damnedest not to make a sound. He cried as quietly as he could, fighting against the sobs that threatened to spill.

He'd lost track of time how long he'd been sitting by the stairs, until something wet nuzzled against his right foot. Arctus paused mid sob, lowering his hands to see what had touched his foot. A pair of huge dark eyes met his watery gaze, attached to a small dog that stared up at him, tongue lolling merrily as it panted.

"I see Shadwell's found you," came the young man– Nate's voice, kind and without judgement as he gazed at Arctus with sympathy. The Padawan discreetly looked to see if Dad was here, but the old man was nowhere in sight. Nate seemed to notice because he assured Arctus, "I sent him out to sort himself. Both of you won't be able to make any progress if storm clouds remain hanging over your heads."

Embarrassed to be caught eavesdropping and crying, the former smuggler struggled to wipe away his tears. He hadn't even noticed that his clothes have been changed into something more comfortable until now. With a shaky sigh he rose to his feet, careful not to accidentally hit the dog or something. Nate bent down to scoop the tiny creature into his arms, offering the dog a scratch behind its little ears.

"I'm Nathanael, by the way," the young man introduced himself. "You have probably guessed based from what you've heard. I'm your half-brother. I wish we could have met under better circumstances."

Arctus sniffed, trying to smile but it came out as a wince instead. His tears were yet to stop from falling, and try as he might to stop them they just kept on coming. "Let's–" he swallowed in between tiny sobs, wiping his tears away with little success. "L-Let's just make– make d-do with w-what we have, y-yeah?"

Nathanael's resounding smile was kind and warm. Lifting one hand to gently grasp at his shoulder, Arctus allowed himself to be steered towards the living room and to be directed at one of the couches. The young man sat beside him with Shadwell the dog still in his arms. The pug stared at Arctus, the lopsided lolling tongue eliciting a small chuckle from the Padawan.

"You can touch him," Nathanael offered in a bid to calm Arctus down. He shifted so he faced his silently weeping half-brother and placed the small dog between them. "He's a good boy, aren't you, Shadwell. That's a good man right there."

He didn't know if the mention of a good man was directed to him or the dog, but Arctus was keen to take up on the offer of petting the goofy-looking creature. He drew one hand out, letting Shadwell take a couple of sniffs of the back of his hand and only patting the top of the dog's head when it gazed expectantly up at the Padawan. When the dog began to pad over to him and make itself feel at home in his lap, Arctus began to gradually feel a little better, his sobs receding into quiet breaths. He glanced at Nathanael, expecting the young man's gaze to be trained directly on him but his half-brother was looking out the window. Following the latter's gaze he saw Dad from a distance, pacing along the sand with his hands shoved in his pockets. Arctus looked down when Dad turned around, refusing to meet the older Friers' gaze.

Not now. At least not yet.

They could fix their relationship and finally become a proper father and son, but not today. Not yet. They could try tomorrow, but for now Arctus wanted to clear his head. He had not expected to encounter Dad, let alone find out that he and the triplets have a younger brother after undergoing a breakdown himself. He left the Temple and sought a place where no one knew him and yet there Dad was, and a half-brother Arctus wished to have known sooner.

Tomorrow, he told himself. Tomorrow, we'll talk.

Beside him, the corners of Nathanael's lips tugged upwards in a hopeful smile.

——
 
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