Saga - PT Saga - Legends "And Dances With the Lilliadils"| Spring Bingo Challenge | Song!verse AU; Jesse & Guest OC; vignette

Title: “And Dances with the Lilliadils”
Author: Mira_Jade

Genre: Drama, Friendship
Time Frame: Song!verse/Ἀνάγκη!verse AU; TCW, between the Mortis and Citadel arcs
Characters: Jesse/Amily Gabrees (OC) & Nazmat Koch (OC, created by Chyntuck)

Summary: During springtime on Coruscant, more than just the flowers are in bloom.

Author’s Notes: Hello, dear readers! Where do I even begin introducing this piece? Perhaps I should start by saying that this story was written for the Spring Bingo Challenge, using the row Breeze, Swallows, Bees, Buds, and Leavening. What's more than that, this story is very special to me - not only because I am writing about a subject near and dear to my heart, but because @Chyntuck graciously gave me permission to use her OC Nazmat Koch to tell this story! What can I say? We had the best art in RL and the GFFA conversations back in the day, and after I posted Theirs to Live and Thrive in the Kessel Run - which started this whole ball rolling - we started chatting again and one thing lead to another. (And I do mean another! )

Towards that end, for those of you who may be unfamiliar with Jesse and his artistic leanings in my Song!verse, I humbly present Theirs to Live and Thrive, part two of As You Are (As We Are), and the drabble sets Enter, Life and Night Will Come, But Not to Stay for your reading pleasure.

Then, of Chyntuck's incredible array of OCs, Nazmat Koch is one of the best! This classy dame is Ayesha Eskari's professor at the Imperial Academy of Fine Arts in the Ἀνάγκη!verse, though Nazmat is an inspiration and mentor to a multitude. You can read more about Nazmat in A Tree-Dweller in Imperial City, Ἀνάγκη - Necessity Beyond Sway (where she first appears in Chapter 16), and the bittersweet vignette Nana.

To keep these notes from getting impossibly long, links to all the stories in the Song!verse and Ἀνάγκη!verse can be found underneath the spoiler tag below.

Spoiler: Further Reading

The Song!verse

• “An Old Song, Re-Sung” | The one that started it all! A complete RoTS AU short story where, and I quote: Anakin is not dumb and Sithy. From a certain point of view, at least.
  
  
• “Her Still, Small Voice” | The sequel to AOSRS. A Mara Jade origins story that is, unfortunately, on hiatus.
  
  
• "Even Without a Voice" | My answer to the 2018 DDC. Ahsoka's companion story to Anakin's, picking up right from her leaving the Jedi Order through just after the subverted events of RoTS.
  
  
• "In That There That Isn't Here" | This is something a little different for me. A Sintas Vel diary I started for the 2020 DDC. This is, as of now, another incomplete WIP, but one that I hope to start up again someday.
  
  
• "All That's Unsung" | A complete short story, set 3 years post-RoTS. Featuring Anakin and Padmé trying to have a date night, and Rex and Ahsoka babysitting the toddler twins.
  
  
• "So Few Things" | A WIP novel, set five years post-RoTS, focusing on Bly/Aayla Secura after the subverted events of Order 66.
  
  
• "Color Me Pink" | A complete, goofy short story written for the 2020 April Fools Challenge, featuring the preteen twins and Mara Jade building their lightsabers, set about 13 years post-RoTS. It mainly focuses on one of my OCs, Rhysa, and her relationship with Ezra Bridger. With bonus married and happy Aayla Secura/Bly on the side.
  
  
• "Your Heart Will Catch Its Breath Again" | A WIP short story, set 16 years post-RoTS, featuring Zaed (Darth Maul) and Mara Jade
  
  
• "We Claim Our Own Landscape" | A short story set about 20 years post-RoTS, where Han meets the parents.
  
  
• "Antigravity" | A collection of stories written for the 2023 Kessel Run.

Then, various odds and ends can be found in “The Rest is Silence”, "Our Love of Constellations", "She Says in Parentheses", "The Look of Love", "Cut Into Little Stars", "The Courage of Stars", and "From Such Infinite Space".


The Ἀνάγκη!verse

• Outcast – Kid!Ayesha during the Clone Wars
• The Family Holos – Kid!Ayesha and her Wookiee family
• La Bohème – Ayesha and her friends as students of the Academy of Fine Arts
• Ἀνάγκη – Necessity beyond Sway – The main story
• Awakenings – The happy-end sequel to the main story
• The Lost Artist – The next generation, or, how Ayesha and Thrawn’s daughter met the galaxy
• Intermezzi I – Misc. bits and pieces from the Ἀνάγκη!verse
• Intermezzi II – Continued bits and pieces from the Ἀνάγκη!verse

Disclaimer: Nothing is mine, but for the words! My title is a Wordsworth nick, and, once again, Nazmat Koch and all references to the Ἀνάγκη!verse are borrowed with respect and affection from Chyntuck. (And this is the perfect place to thank @Mr Chyntuckopoulos, too, for his feedback and encouragement! )


With that, I thank you for reading and hope that you enjoy!

---

“And Dances with the Lilliadils”
by Mira_Jade​

Springtime on Coruscant wasn't much different from any other season on Coruscant. A slight warming in the air, frost disappearing from the stratoscrapers, and the faint note of . . . something other than the perpetually metal and ozone tang of the artificially regulated atmosphere – those were the only clues citizens of the ecumenopolis had to note the changing of the seasons.

That may have been true for almost the entirety of the northern hemisphere, but with exception of the An’alpheias Memorial Gardens – a bright spot that existed in memory of the natural world amongst the planet’s current reign of durasteel and chrome.

Jesse would have never known that the gardens even existed if not for General Kenobi. Both the 501st and the 212th had been recalled to Couruscant for their commanding officers to report on their findings in the Chrelythiumn system – what they’d found, at least. Besides a brief blip in communications before their rendezvous, everything had been situation normal as far as their battalions were concerned. For their Jedi, however . . .

“It’s above our clearance,” Rex had cut off the chatter in the mess hall with a stern glare. “If and when we need to know, we’ll know.”

More privately, Kix had looked over both Tano and Skywalker and reported that though they had no physical injuries to show from their detour . . .

. . . well, there was a reason Kenobi had insisted on this outing, Jesse thought, with the sole intention of meditation in mind for the Jedi to tend to their spiritual and mental health.

“But we’re on leave,” perhaps somewhat predictably, Commander Tano had rather dramatically protested. “I thought that meant we’d be able to take a break from all the boring Jedi stuff, too.”

“To the contrary,” was General Kenobi's mild rebuke, “such a leave provides a unique opportunity to turn our minds to all the boring Jedi stuff I'm sure Anakin doesn't have time to teach you properly on the frontlines.”

“Yeah, it’s just that, Master – there’s never enough time,” General Skywalker agreed – pointedly waving a hand in the universal gesture of knock it off when Tano stuck her tongue out in mock umbrage for his betrayal. Kenobi, Jesse suspected, was perfectly aware of the antics of both younger Jedi, but chose to ignore them.

“And now we have nothing but time with the Council granting our leave, so let us depart.”

Though the Jedi were on leave, that was a bit of a trickier concept for their troops. The nat-born officers had shore leave to match their COs, and while they were not forbidden from leaving GAR HQ as clones, they were nevertheless . . . encouraged to remain in battle readiness. For those who did venture out, there were few options available to them when they were required to wear full armor and had a list of civilian spaces they were not permitted to encroach upon when thus attired. Without credits of their own and all too easily identifiable as the face of the war – and different and other, besides – most didn’t bother leaving base. It wasn’t worth the trouble, even for a moment's relative freedom.

As such, Jesse had been happy to volunteer to accompany the Jedi on their excursion. While their COs hardly needed an escort, the vod’e had a code of their own, and that included watching their Jedi's sixes whenever and however they could. A Jedi in meditation was both hyper-aware and internally focused all at once, and another set of eyes was never a bad idea.

Rex, predictably, chose to stand guard right beside their Jedi – and he’d sternly directed Fives and Echo to perimeter duty when the former let his mouth get him into trouble yet again. Echo had sighed and bristled for Fives' antics – he was still quoting regs at his batcher when Jesse silenced their channel in his helmet – but Jesse knew as well as Rex did that the younger clones would enjoy walking the gardens more than they would strictly standing sentry otherwise.

If the same was true for Jesse, Rex was another matter entirely, and he showed no inclination to move from his self-assigned post. With a salute, Jesse left his captain to wander the gardens, intent on taking some time for himself while still keeping an eye out for his Jedi.

Towards that end, he’d brought his sketchbook along – such as it was, anyway. Shortly after Christophsis, he’d managed to sew together blank pages of flimsi between two scraps of plastoid with a bit of field wire and a welder. He had an old stylus that he used – a defunct bit of nominal tech that couldn’t communicate with a proper datapad and had thus been consigned to the bin – and together, stylus and flimsi suited his purposes well enough. While owning such an item wasn’t quite regulation, it was one of those things that Command tended to turn a blind eye to – or at least, they did in the 501st. General Skywalker permitted his men to express their individuality in what small ways they could, but those small freedoms were hardly universal.

Kix had a batcher who was the CMO in General Krell’s 606th, and he whispered that they weren’t permitted to use their chosen names, even with a Jedi in command – which was a practice that some of the nat-born generals carried, in those battalions that didn’t have a Jedi assigned.

But that wasn’t a thought for the bright sweetness of the day. Instead, Jesse cleared his mind and started off through the gardens.

All the while keeping his Jedi in range, he choose a path that led towards a bubbling fountain somewhere in the distance; he could hear the water, even if he couldn’t see it yet. The gardens spanned the top of an entire troposblock, and the possible paths seemed endless. After a minute or so, he even went so far as to take off his bucket and clip it to his belt in order to better appreciate the gardens with his own senses, rather than through the artificial filter of his HUD. He didn’t need to know that it was a bed of Chandrillan silver drops – argenti agrifolius, a herbaceous perennial, according to the information streaming in his peripherals – to marvel at its beauty, nor did he need to know that it was a pair of aether swallows – passerine songbirds who usually roosted high in the artificial eaves of the infinite city – who were chirping brightly enough to be heard over the perpetual whine of the skylanes to appreciate their song.

Eventually, his eye was drawn to a flower that even he knew by name – lilliadils, and hundreds of them. (He’d once seen General Skywalker pick them from where they grew wild on Pantora, and then gift the bouquet to Senator Amidala with a bow.) The eastern perimeter of the gardens was dominated by a massive raised bed of lilliadils, and they spilled over the drop-off of the troposblock in a cascade of hearty vines crowned by the vibrant blossoms. Though each flower was the same in shape – a trumpeting bell framed by six broad petals – they each varied slightly in color. Shade-plum purples, sanguine reds, sunburst oranges, clarion yellows, and buttery creams were all intermingled to give the impression of a roiling sea of flame, dancing in the breeze that swept down from between the stratoscrapers flanking the gardens on all sides.

He approached a line of stone benches set up to encircle the fountain he'd first heard – depicting a non-human woman of some aquatic species Jesse couldn’t identify without his HUD, bursting forth from the pool as if she was the spout itself. Her arms were raised as if in supplication, and from her billowing robes and splayed fins, water sprayed and danced and sang behind her.

At first, her face caught his attention – the mingled relief and fear and joy that the sculptor had so vividly conveyed. Jesse had half a mind to see if he could capture the original artist’s vision with his own hand – and drawing the water droplets would certainly test his abilities, even if flimsi didn’t lend itself well to such detailed work due to the limitations of the medium.

Ah well; he was as hard-headed as Fett himself, and he welcomed the challenge.

Yet when he came to the far side of the fountain, searching for the best angle to capture the early morning sunlight glinting off the water, he discovered that he wasn’t the only one who'd found inspiration in the gardens.

Standing before a portable easel, a Human woman was painting, not the fountain, but rather the view of the flowers before the skyline. He paused, taken by the sight. Almost immediately, he appreciated her composition. She had clearly been there since sunrise, and her painting captured the soft pastels of the lightening atmosphere while juxtaposing the cool, clean lines of the cityscape with the organic chaos of the lilliadils ablaze with warmth in the foreground. Even in a small study – an impression of a moment, captured in time – the painting was striking, and he was drawn to it.

Making a decision, he tapped a command on his wrist-comm to ping Rex with his exact location, and then sat on the bench closest to where the woman painted. He turned away from the fountain, but needed look no further for a subject than the artist herself.

She was an older woman – perhaps not quite elderly, but nearly so. (It was admittedly still difficult for him to judge the ages of most sentients, even Humans, with age being such a nebulous concept for himself.) She had wispy silver-grey hair, cut close to her head but left slightly longer on top, framing a face that reminded Jesse of the classic blue-and-white holo-actresses. (Of which he and Kix may have enjoyed watching even more than some of the more modern contraband the vod’e liked to download from the ‘net.) She was dressed in breezy, flowing robes, printed with a floral pattern on a black background, while beaded hoop earrings dangled from her ears and chimed in bangles on her wrists as she painted with loose, elegant strokes.

Turning to a blank page, he started sketching in an attempt to capture his impression of the woman – confidence and poise and a certain sense of . . . something – as much as he focused on achieving a likeness: her eyes, comparatively narrow compared to most standard humanoid proportions; the naturally high arch of her brows; the slight roundness to the tip of her nose; the way her cheeks seemed to smile even when her mouth was at rest, further emphasizing the slightness of her eyes. The combination of features – which were at once somehow proud and inviting – arrested his eye, and he tried his best to convey his perception on flimsi in the short amount of time he had.

. . . the morning light she stared into, and the faint impression of flowers just beyond . . .

He was so focused on adding his last details that he missed when his subject moved entirely. Thus, he was completely taken by surprise when she said to him: “That is an exceptional portrait.”

Jesse would never admit that he jumped – thankfully, Fives wasn't there to notice his lapse of situational awareness, as he'd never hear the end of it otherwise – before he flushed, torn between hiding his sketchbook away and immediately standing and presenting himself at attention when directly addressed by a nat-born citizen.

My helmet, he thought as he awkwardly reached for his bucket, I need my helmet. He wasn’t supposed to be without it in civilian spaces, for the comfort of those same civilians – though whether that reg was for the sentients who were unnerved by the identical faces of the vod'e or those who preferred not to put a living face to the mass-produced soldiers fighting and dying in their name was anyone’s guess. But he was unusually clumsy then, and he almost dropped his helmet entirely as he scrambled to his feet.

“Please, what is it you soldiers say – at ease?” Though she spoke softly, the ease of command in her voice was inherent, and, well . . . orders were orders, weren’t they?

“Thank you, ma’am,” Jesse finally managed, stumbling over his words – he couldn’t bring himself to sit when a nat-born was standing, even so. “Um . . . my apologies, ma’am,” he added. Should he salute? he inwardly debated with himself. Yes, he should salute – but no, she'd said at ease, right? That meant . . .

“There’s no need to apologize,” she assured him. “It’s an excellent sketch, and I only wish to commend you. You captured my likeness entirely – and something more than that, which is the true trick of portraiture. I can see myself in the picture, just as I think I can see a bit of you, as well.”

For her words, he felt the urge to look down and stare at his boots; protocol, however, dictated that he square his shoulders and keep his chin up to respectfully look her in the eye. He managed to comport himself as his training demanded, but only just.

“It’s just a sketch,” his voice was small with diffidence. “It’s nothing like . . .” he made an awkward gesture at her own painting.

“Oh, that little study?” But she well knew the value of her own work and continued, “I am most pleased with my efforts this morning, I must confess. Plein-air can be a tricky beast at times – you never know what you’ll walk away with – but I look forward to taking this pochade back to the studio and turning it into a proper painting. It has the potential to be a true statement piece, I feel.”

“That it does, ma’am,” Jesse agreed whole-heartedly.

“You like it, then?” rather unexpectedly, she sought his opinion as easily as his general would issue an order on the field. “You're the first to see it, and I would be grateful if you shared your impression.”

His impression . . . his? He almost wanted to glance to the left and right to see if she was addressing someone else, for she couldn’t possibly be speaking to him. Yet he knew she was, and he . . . he didn’t quite know what to make of that.

“It . . . well, it’s . . .” yet Jesse struggled to find the right words to express what he felt inside. Anything he could think to say seemed much too small to properly convey the painting's impact. Beautiful? Sure, that was true; but how did he express that the painting not only looked beautiful but felt beautiful. Did such a word even exist? He couldn’t find it, no matter the extensive vocabulary inured in him by his flash training. Even in its nascent form, the painting was already hope and spring and harmony between the natural world and sentient accomplishments, and that . . .

. . . well, that was beautiful.

“It’s beautiful,” Jesse finally resorted to that one too-small word, and hoped that she understood that it meant so much more.

All the while, he felt that she observed him as closely as he observed the painting. Her silvery brows furrowed over eyes the color of cold steel, and Jesse was briefly reminded of his Cuy’val Dar instructors for the singular intensity of her gaze. She hardly needed to arm herself with beskar to command a presence, however, and there was no underlying sense of threat or danger in her bearing, no matter how proudly she carried herself – instead, Jesse got the oddest feeling that she was just as curious about him as he was about her.

After a moment, she asked, “Do you have an interest in art?”

At first, he hardly knew how to respond to that simplest of questions. He wasn't used to anyone asking for his opinion, let alone his likes and dislikes. How should he answer? There was no SOP for him to fall back on, and he faltered.

. . . no, not really. A lie.

. . . I’m not supposed to. A truth.

. . . yes, in the small way I'm allowed. Another truth.

“I . . . I’m a clone trooper,” Jesse finally said; for, in the end, that was the only truth that mattered.

“Indeed,” the woman agreed dryly, “your armor rather gave you away.”

It was another novelty to be teased by a nat-born without any animosity, and he smiled only somewhat uncertainly in reply.

“Any yet,” she continued, “you are a sentient being, are you not?”

I’m a clone trooper, he almost deferred again out of reflex – he was a living being with thoughts and feelings of his own, yes, but he was also bought; he was built; he was owned; and now, he was expected to fight and die as had been conditional on his creation. Many would call he and his brothers nothing more than wet-droids, and as for himself, Jesse hardly knew if they were right or wrong. And yet, deep down inside . . .

“Yes,” he whispered – there in that moment of spring to the woman who brought life to paint on canvas. “Yes, I am.”

“Then you can be a clone trooper and an artist, both,” she stated – softly, but firmly – holding his eyes all the while. “That is what it means to be sentient, after all.”

He didn’t know what to say to that . . . but he suddenly knew exactly what to say about her own painting. “It looks alive already – your painting, ma’am,” he clarified. “It feels new.”

“That,” her eyes sparkled with delight – and not, something whispered deep inside, just for his kind words about her art, “is the highest compliment you may give any artist. Please, come closer and take a better look. As for myself, I would consider it a privilege if you showed me more of your own work.”

“My work?” He held up his makeshift sketchbook, uncomfortably aware of how humble it appeared next to her fine easel with its richly lacquered frame and the true linen – or at least, he suspected it was linen – panel she'd painted on. “It’s nothing compared to,” and he nodded at her own efforts that morning.

“Is it not?” she returned, an arched brow raising even higher. With a gesture, she welcomed him closer a second time. “And of course, if you’d like to try,” she extended that same hand even further in invitation and smiled as his eyes flew wide.

“Oh no, ma’am, I couldn’t possibly - ”

“ - Nazmat,” she interrupted. “My name is Nazmat Koch – or Mistress Koch if you are more comfortable with formality. I am a professor at the Galactic Academy of Fine Arts just as much as I am considered one of the foremost masters in my field.” Yet there was no hauteur in her voice, Jesse noted; she merely stated a fact. “However, truth be told, there are days when I consider myself a teacher first and foremost, and as such, I forever remain a student in my own right.”

Jesse felt his mouth tug for that. “I had a mentor once say that only green meilooruns grow; ripe meilooruns have nothing left to do but rot.” Sergeant Oya’la, a razor-sharp Twi’lek, had been one of the more colorful Mandalorians amongst the Cur’val Dar, but her sayings had a way of sticking with them.

“Quite right,” the woman – Nazmat Koch – approved with a surprised sort of laugh. “And my students keep me fresh and green in the best of ways.”

It was then that Jesse found his feet carrying him towards the easel, almost without his conscious command. He was able to get a closer look of the painting then, and he studied it – evaluating the gradation of values and chroma that gave the painting depth and presence. He felt like he could walk through the fields of flowers, even if they were then but impressionistic indications of the brush.

“The finished piece is going to be something special,” he finally said aloud.

“I show in the Academy’s annual gala at the end of the year,” she said. “I intend for this piece to be the focal point of my collection. If . . .” yet she hesitated before continuing, “if you happen to be on-world at that time . . .”

But even her bold words tapered off, clearly uncomfortable. She knew as well as he did that there was no guarantee that he’d even be alive by the end of the year – and attending a gala, living as most sentients didn’t think twice to live, was just as out of reach in its own way.

Even so, he said, “I’ll keep that in mind, ma’am – Mistress Koch,” he corrected himself almost immediately at a pointed look from her.

Gracefully, she spared them from saying anything further on the subject. “And may I know how you prefer to be addressed?” she asked. She phrased her words carefully, he felt – clearly unsure if he even had a name to give, but not wanting to assume that he was only known by a number.

He’d never had a nat-born ask for his name before, besides his Jedi. A part of him felt like he was giving up a secret and wanted to keep his name close, but that was only a very small part of him, and it instead felt more natural than anything to say, “My brothers call me Jesse,” in answer.

“Jesse,” she approved. “It’s a pleasure to meet you.”

“And you likewise, Mistress Koch,” he tipped his head. Then, with that, he finally felt ready to hand his sketchbook over.

She accepted with the same care that Jesse would show for handling live ordnance – yet not out of an awareness of danger, but rather a true respect for the personal value of what she held. He watched as she first turned the book itself over in her hands, curiously examining the cut scraps of plastoid – he’d caused quite the stink in the barracks, melting the slagged plates of armor until he could force them flat, and Rex had assigned him o’dark-hundred shifts for the entirety of their next campaign after verbally flambéing him in front of the entire company – and the hand-sewn flimsi. When she finally opened the book, he watched her eyes as she slowly and gently thumbed from one page from the next.

Typically, especially in the beginning, he drew his brothers: Rex with his morning caf, bent over a stack of datacards; Hardcase, posing next to a pile of twisted droid limbs; various sketches of Kix, mostly in his medward, but also treating a variety of nat-borns in the impromptu clinics that tended to follow their campaigns in the Outer Rim. From there, he had a study of Cody as he drolly reported on General Kenobi’s negotiation tactics, and more than one sketch of Wolffe with his trademark scowl – he’d even caught Bly in a candid moment when he’d been watching General Secura, meditating as the sun rose. (The sketch he’d done of that particular Jedi, he’d folded and left in his brother's bucket without a word.)

From there, he had pages and pages of Fives making one face after another – with each more ridiculous than the last as his vod'ika challenged his skill in capturing the expressions. He’d jotted a sketch of Echo sternly reprimanding his batcher for his antics, only to at last join in himself when Commander Tano – and then General Skwalker – joined them in doing the same. He had plenty of sketches of Commander Tano, at that – their alor'ika was growing faster than a rain-weed, and her crest and lekku, especially when she was in motion, provided him with no small amount of inspiration.

Nazmat paused in particular on a sketch he’d done of his general just following the Massacre at Makujuuk. Skywalker was staring at the mass pyres the surviving Majuu had lit, and the flames created a stark, divisive contrast in the darks and lights on his face. Even in black and white, Jesse had been proud of his ability to capture the burning in General Skywalker’s eyes – it was an anger and frustrated impotence they’d all felt, and Nazmat clearly felt and echo of that emotion just by looking at the drawing.

On the next page, he had the clones of Torrent Company all eating breakfast at Dex’s Diner at Skywalker and Kenobi’s behest. That had been one of the best days of his life – them all piling Corellian waffles high with all sorts of toppings while their Jedi and the proprietor urged them to try one thing on the menu after another. He’d drawn a full figure study of Dex at the Besalisk's approval – soiled shirt and bulging belly and parsec-wide grin, all – and he was particularly proud of the massive personality he'd managed to depict in the finished drawing.

In between the faces he knew best, there were those he didn’t know at all – those that he'd sketched while watching other sentients live from afar: an elderly Lasat shaman exiting the Jedi Temple, flanked by her attendant shamans; a family of Askajian with laughing, round-faced children playing in a park on Ord Mantell; a boisterous Dug harking his wares in an open-air market on Malastare; a trio of Ithorians playing dejarik under the awning of a bistro, with the sunlight falling in fractured patterns through the leaves of a tree above; a tiny Er’Kit engaged in a heated discussion with an irked Trandoshan, and not at all afraid to go toe-to-toe with the formidable predator; a Whiphid with ornate braids in her hair and dozens of colorful medallions hanging from the end of each plait; and entire pages of the strange Feluccians going about their daily lives on their equally strange planet.

One of his recent-most pages was an all too young Kiffar girl he'd seen dancing for coins on the streets in Coruscant's Zygerrian neighborhood. (While, officially, the Zygerrian immigrants on Coruscant were those who'd renounced the ways of their people in favor of a better life in the Republic, there were still more than a few who maintained connections to the Slave Empire that yet flourished beyond their borders. Inside the Republic, however, they could act – and those were missions General Skywalker tended to volunteer for whenever possible.) She'd been a graceful little thing, taking advantage of the music streaming out of one of the shops on Kadavo Alley to earn what a small sum she could from the passersby, but with hollow cheeks and hungry eyes.

Jesse had thought to recognize a spark of . . . something in her eyes, something that he recognized from every single sketch he'd ever done of his brothers – and he'd wished that he had credits to his name to share. In the end, a ration's bar and a kind word were all he had to give.

Nazmat paused on the sketch, her fingers reaching out for the half-Qukuuf marking he'd swiped a bit of 337th gold to emphasize in a rare bit of color, coming close enough to touch without actually doing so, sorrow clear in her eyes.

It was a long moment before she turned the page again.

From there, he’d sketched anything and everything he could: places and people and things that intrigued him, landscapes and cityscapes and flora and fauna. The galaxy was just so full, and had amazed him – still amazed him – at every turn with the variety of life it had to offer.

Nazmat Koch wandered slowly through them all, giving him the impression that she accompanied him on the voyage he left behind, rather than seeing without truly seeing as she turned from one page to the next. Mostly, she was lost in his work, and she didn’t comment aloud except to ask when there was something she didn’t recognize.

“Thank you,” she finally said as she came to the first blank page. He looked, and was surprised to see a wet gleam of tears in her eyes. Yet, while her voice was thick with a feeling he couldn’t wholly identify, it remained steady as she said, “It's a privilege to experience your work – you have a remarkable gift.”

"I'm nothing special, ma'am." Jesse shrugged, feeling the weight of the armor on his shoulders. “I’m literally one of millions.”

“Aren’t we all, though?” Nazmat queried thoughtfully, for a moment looking out over the skyline again. “That doesn’t mean that we don’t each have something unique to share with the multitude in our turn.”

Yet, rather than pausing to dwell on her words, Nazmat nodded as if coming to a decision. “Have you ever painted before?”

"In a sense, yes." He paused, and then added, “I’m my battalion’s go-to for applying the more intricate armor designs, and I’ve aero-painted the hull of a gunship or two – the General even let me modify his Aethersprite. I design and ink tattoos for my brothers, as well.” He gestured to his own shaved scalp and the rather impressive symbol of the Republic that dominated his skin to match the paint on his bucket. “But that . . . it’s nothing like what you do.” He realized only too late, the note of longing in his voice as he looked at her painting again.

Nazmat heard it too. “Well, that settles it.” She went and plucked her own painting off the easel and put it aside. Then, she moved to the case at her feet and took out a fresh panel – already primed and stained with an umber imprimatura and just waiting to hold whatever the artist felt inspired to express.

“Please,” she entreated him. “I would welcome having something to remember this meeting by.”

He hesitated, even as everything inside him itched and wanted and yearned. “Ma–Mistress Koch, I . . . I wouldn’t even know where to begin.”

“Personally,” she arched a brow over glittering eyes, “I like to start with a sketch, even in paint – a thin underpainting, so to speak, where I block in my shadows and build my composition.”

“That’s not quite what I meant,” he felt comfortable enough to huff by then, even as he smiled for her words. “I know what to do in theory, but I’ve never actually . . .”

She merely hummed, and stepped forward to clean off her palette with a rag steeped in white spirits. He looked, and saw how she had arranged her earth tones and synthetic pigments, each row branching out from two whites – one opaque and one transparent, if he had to guess. She had a stand of brushes in various sizes and textures hanging on the easel, and a small cup of medium to extend the paints.

“Experience,” she said a moment later, handing him the palette without allowing him to refuse, “is often the best teacher, I find.”

Jesse snorted for that. “My captain likes to say the same.”

“He must be a wise man, then.”

“I can’t imagine serving under any other brother,” Jesse agreed with no small amount of affection in his voice, and at last, he accepted her offer. He took the palette, and found that holding it felt as natural as holding his sketchbook.

At that thought, he had an idea. “Please, though,” he welcomed, “if I’m going to paint, I'd like it if you left a sketch in my book, too.”

“It would be my pleasure,” she softly acquiesced to his request.

With that, she sat down on the bench he had vacated and turned her attention to the first blank page, leaving Jesse free to approach the easel. After taking a deep breath – calming his nerves the same way he would before marching on a legion of tinnies – he reached for a brush, an idea teasing at the edge of his mind as he returned his attention to his surroundings.

He loaded the bristles with a thin, dark color, and, with a steadily growing confidence, he began to paint.



.

.

Coda

9 years later​

As the inaugural recipient of the Chancellor Organa Fellowship for the Arts, Jesse Gabrees walked into the Grand Exhibition Hall of the Galactic Academy of Fine Arts with a bated breath.

It was the day before the Art Across the Galaxy collection was set to open to the public. That night, there would be a private gala to celebrate both the featured artists and the patrons who sponsored them – which he was invited to attend as a guest of honor, a privileged that still left him rather dumbstruck in awe for his unbelievable good fortune.

He was blessed in more ways that one, he thought as he walked through the massive atrium that held the exhibition with Amily – hand in hand with his wife of four years now.

That early in the day, only the featured artists and the crew setting up for that night's gala were present. It was already a cheerful space, buzzing with expectation, and Jesse waved to many artists that he knew and sought introductions to those he did not. All the while, he and Amily marveled over the amazing pieces on display. The annual show contained creations from a hundred specially selected artists across the Republic and beyond – and that was complemented by selections from that year's graduating class, which was just as vast and varied. He could spend days here, he felt, and yet never fully appreciate the value of every piece within.

From there, a wing of galleries attached to the Exhibition Hall contained the Academy’s permanent collection, where he was eager to show Amily one particularly massive cityscape – the canvas was twice as tall as he was, and easily four times in length. This was the painting that he’d seen at its inception all those years ago, and it still left him breathless with each subsequent viewing. Leavening, the masterpiece had since been titled. Just as predicted, the cityscape had gone on to become a cornerstone in modern galactic art, where it was viewed as a symbol of their post-war era. Chancellor Organa had even asked for the painting to be on display at the ceremony where he took his oath of office out of appreciation for the sense of renewal and rebirth it captured – a time that the entire Republic now endeavored to embrace as a whole.

That feeling was one that Jesse could well understand for himself.

From a distance, the painting was incredibly lifelike, but up close it dissolved into a myriad of bold brushstrokes, placing color and light with unerring precision. His favorite part was where, amongst the sea of fiery lilliadils, a trio of sweetbees fluttered, languidly sipping nectar as they ambled from flower to flower. The bees were slight, impasto marks almost lost amongst the massive canvas – details impossible to see from afar – but for those who ventured further into the painting to search beyond the obvious . . .

Well, where else on Coruscant would the tiny creatures thrive, all in a whispered population compared to what they had once known back in the planet’s youth?

Next to the painting – dwarfed by the finished piece, perhaps, yet no less important in its own right, as this was still a school for the arts, first and foremost – the original study was framed. And there, underneath the study, was his first painting – the one that he had created that day. Unlike Nazmat Koch, who had focused on the whole, he’d picked a single bud amongst the lilliadils – a tightly coiled young flower that had yet to bloom with its brethren. A sweetbee fluttered just above the bud as if waiting for it to open, and the seamless brush strokes and vivid colors shone against the faint impression of the city beyond in a receding haze of blue. He’d been honored when Nazmat first asked to keep the painting then, and that sense of appreciation had yet to fade over the years.

Alongside the paintings, there were two more pieces to make a complete square of work. One was his original sketch of Nazmat – a sketch that he'd since gone on to paint even larger at the request of her granddaughter to hang in their family home – and next to it was the small portrait that Nazmat had painted from the sketch she’d done of him, in turn.

The Artist, she’d titled the painting – focusing on him in profile before the easel, his palette held perpendicular to both in order to balance the composition. His armor was nothing more than strokes of muted white and hazy blue blocked in with the flat of a large brush – so that none were in doubt that he was a clone trooper – but his face, a sentient man’s face, was the focus in tight, realistic detail. The painting had humbled him when he’d first seen it, and now . . .

“I must ask Mistress Koch for a print,” Amily teased, squeezing his hand with affection. He still felt himself blush for her words, no matter the years they'd been together. Privately, he hoped that he’d never get used to that feeling – at least, not entirely.

“I would happily paint you one anew, rather than give you a mere copy," came a familiar voice from behind them. "I’d offer you the original outright, but the Academy is much too attached to the piece for the message it conveys.”

Jesse turned as Amily did, grinning in welcome at the elderly Human woman who approached them. Even with a cane – which she’d finally been persuaded by her granddaughter to use regularly – Nazmat still seemed to glide, and her presence filled the gallery around her as if she was a work of art to match. Which, Jesse privately thought, she was.

“I wouldn’t ask, just for that reason,” Amily beamed to enthuse. “You – and the Academy – are gems in that regard. You saw what was clear to see long before the Republic did as a whole.”

For that, a bit of an edge crept into the Alderaanian’s usually cheerful voice – and wasn’t that still a novelty all it’s own? To have someone protect and defend him after he'd so long protected and defended others in his turn?

Nazmat’s eyes flashed as she gave a pointed nod to match. “I did not have to look very hard to see,” yet her voice was warm rather than heated to agree – they were there to celebrate, after all, and so, celebrate they would.

By then, Jesse knew better than to stand on ceremony with Nazmat. Even so, he snapped to attention and exaggeratedly saluted, just to have her roll her eyes and say, “At ease, you silly boy.” From there, he closed the distance between them and embraced her outright. After years of unlearning his conditioning, it was even second nature for him to kiss her cheeks in greeting, and allow her to do the same. Amily greeted her just as affectionately, and Nazmat stepped back to smile tenderly at them both.

“I know that I have said this many times now,” she said, “but I am proud of how far you have come. You have more than earned your fellowship, and I look forward to seeing what you are inspired to create during your residency.”

No matter how far he’d come, he still had farther to go – and he ducked his head for her commendation. “Don’t think that I don’t know who to thank for that privilege,” he told her. “I know that it was your recommendation that swayed the board’s decision.”

Nazmat waved a hand in dismissal. “Oh, but hardly,” she scoffed. “You’ve made quite the splash since leaving the GAR behind, and I only cinched the decision that the board was already poised to make – all based on your own merits.”

“Still,” Jesse held fast to insist, “I thank you.”

Deeply, she sighed. And yet: “Fine, then,” she capitulated gracefully, “you are most welcome – yet only if I may thank you in my own turn. You’ve been an inspiration to more than you know – to the point of reminding an old woman of what art truly means, all over again.”

He knew better than to demure. Instead, he said, “you honor me,” and meant his words true.

Nazmat chuffed for the formality of his words, but decided to let that battle rest for the time being. Instead, she invited, “Would you like to take a turn of the exhibition with me? It’s going to be much too crowded at the gala later to truly appreciate the pieces on display. Then, it would be my pleasure to take you and your wife to lunch, and we may catch up properly – which is something I hope to make a habit of while you remain in the capital.”

“Affirmative, ma’am,” he agreed with another playful salute – just to see her smile. “It would be a pleasure.”

Then, with Amily on one arm and Nazmat on the other, they turned for the bounty of art awaiting them.

Spoiler: End Notes

Amily Gabrees: She's my OC! An Alderaanian artist - and barista, at the time - who met Jesse when he and Kix chose Alderaan as their Planet of Welcome following their release from the GAR. One thing has since led to another, and Jesse is now happily established as Mr. Gabrees.

Chancellor Organa Fellowship for the Arts: Is a direct inversion of Chyntuck's fanon of the Emperor Palpatine Fellowship for the Arts, which Ayesha Eskari was a receiver of in the "prime" universe. The Galactic Academy of Fine Arts on Coruscant is also Chyntuck's creation.

Speaking of Ayesha: She is indeed the little Kiffar girl that Jesse sketched - but more about that in a Chyntuck story coming soon to a forum near you! If you're interested for now, though, you can read more about this stage of her life in The Dancer and the Thief.

Jesse's Sketchbook: Is the same one he gives to Ahsoka when she leaves the Jedi Order in Even Without a Voice.

Lilliadils: My fanon. Just imagine a lily and a daffodil put together.

The Saying about Meilooruns: Is an SW-ification of "if you're green you grow, if you're ripe you rot", which is something one of my favorite modern masters and art instructor Andrew Tischler likes to say. I'm not sure if he coined that saying or not, but I just love it, and it has since stuck with me. (He's my goal as a painter myself - my Nazmat Koch, so to speak; as such, this felt like a fitting homage to include. )

An’alpheias Memorial Gardens: In Greek mythology, Alpheias (or Arethusa, as she's more commonly known) was a river nymph who flowed as water through many different rivers to escape a persistent, unwelcome suitor until Artemis opened the ground for her and she emerged as the fountain of the same name in Syracuse. During her journeys through the subterranean waterways, she glimpsed Persephone in the Underworld, and she told Demeter - who was cursing the Earth with famine and winter at the time - that her daughter wasn't a captive, but rather a Queen, and begged Demeter to end her scourge. For her connection to Spring, in a sense, the reference all but wrote itself.

A Note on Echo: This is a very small side point, but remember when he was still just a shiny who earned his name by constantly "echoing" the regs? He was more like Tech than anyone else, and his and Fives' relationship as batchers was just the best. (Clearly, being a POW and then a part of the Bad Batch changed him more than a bit.) To make this piece hit a little harder, this is only days before the Citadel arc, too . . . so, yeah, there's that.


All that said, I think that I am finally done with my notes for this story. But if there's anything I missed, I always welcome a good chat!

~ MJ

 

Please don’t mind my being so late to the party once again! I was reminded of this story by one of the links attached to one of your recent stories, Mira, and realized, to my great chagrin, that I hadn’t read or reviewed it yet. Well, I have now, and enjoyed it VERY MUCH—and I see why it is so near and dear to both of you, @Mira_Jade and @Chyntuck!

There’s this beautiful sort of gradual transformation that takes place across the whole story that very much reflects the shift that’s ongoing in Jesse’s life, from clone trooper to civilian and artist—and sentient being. He originally went on the outing to the botanic garden (and I LOVE that the setting was a botanic garden—some of my favorite places ever) originally as an adjunct and bodyguard to His Jedi (TM). But thanks to his wonderfully pivotal encounter (plus art exchange!) with the one and only Nazmat Koch (YESSS!), the outing became an experience just for him, all his own. Arguably it even starts before that, as we see in the fact that he brought his sketchbook along to begin with—he wants to make something about this outing his own. And boy oh boy, does he!

I loved every word of the conversation between these two artists. Nazmat is a true lady, so gracious, so supportive—she could have just ignored Jesse completely in the interest of finishing Her Piece for Her Big Exhibition, but she sees the value, talent, and grace (yes, grace) in him from the get-go and talks to him as a fellow artist and a sentient being. And Jesse gets credit too, for his sincerity, his candor, his eagerness to learn, the sensitivity and variety of his work as shown in the sketches he shows her. (The Lasat shaman gave me an especial smile, of course!) All against the perfectly fitting backdrop of that gorgeous Wordsworthesque field of lilliadils, whose colors undergo a gradual transformation of their own over the course of the story. Just like in the poem, the memory of that incredible setting lingers on, as we see in JESSE GABREES’S own Big Exhibition later on. That was a beautiful epilogue, by the way—with the paintings and their sketches all together memorializing that unforgettable day. And of course Nazmat was there too, and hasn’t forgotten that moment either! It all comes full circle, just as those lilliadils do each spring.

Incredible, wonderful work by both of you on this very special story! Bravissime!