"Lussidran, catch me!"

Lux snapped up from where he'd been reading an analysis of the forged Noreino crest from a slicer contact of his. He nearly dropped his datapad in his haste to find the source of the cry. He'd sent the nursemaid droids away an hour before, and if anything happened on his watch–

His eyes quickly found the intrepid child perched on the footboard of the bed, thankfully close enough to his seat on a low couch for him to scramble to the rescue. As soon as Gregorieva heard the scuffling of his feet on the thick carpet, she leapt into the air. With a burst of speed Lux made it beneath her just in time to catch her neatly in his arms – even if it made his still-healing ribs throb with pain.

Lux turned the chubby three-year-old so she sat with her legs wrapped around his midriff. It was easier said than done when she was shaking with joyous, full-bodied giggles. In the handful of seconds between her safe landing and the start of her laughter, Lux had had a dozen reprimands against her antics at the ready. But as always, as he looked down at her beaming face shaded by fluffy dark locks the same caf-brown as his own, every hint of discipline melted away.

He didn't come see his little half-siblings nearly often enough.

Gregorieva's twin brother Noxarrin scampered over from where, moments before, he'd been utterly engrossed in a group of animal figurines by his own bed on the other side of the nursery. "Carry me too, Lussidran!" he cried, reaching up.

"Didja see, Nossarin?" Gregorieva called, wriggling in Lux's arms to face her brother. "I was in a starfighter! I went woosh and landed on Dagri!"

Her brother stared blankly at her until she pointed to Lux. Lux kissed the tip of her finger and set her down beside Noxarrin, offering her a bright smile when she pouted at the change in altitude. "And now you've made a safe return trip to Onderon," he murmured. Then, louder, to get the point across, he added, "You have to remember to do your preflight checks before you take off like that, or you might get hurt, Grey. Tell your ship where you want to go, first!"

"Don't call me Grey," she huffed, averting her gaze and crossing her arms in a way that Lux knew meant that for the time being, she would refuse to be consoled. "My name's Gregoreffa."

Lux sat down beside the pair, offering the sleeve with his wrist comm to Noxarrin when he grabbed for it. (Thankfully, knowing it would be of interest to them, he'd had the foresight to shut it off before arriving.) "Why not? It's so much easier than remembering such a big long name for such a little girl!"

"Papa says long names give us character and let other people know we're in charge before they even meet us," the girl stated primly, with meter and monotony that suggested she was repeating a lecture she had heard many times before.

"My mother never called me by my whole name when I was growing up. It's silly to do that when our names are so hard to say. You know, I once had a friend who was very smart, like you. Her full name confused people, so she just went by..."

Lux held back a wince when he saw the glow of anticipation on the twins' faces. He shouldn't open this can of worms, but now he had no choice; if there was anything they loved more than their toys and games of make-believe, it was stories. And they knew full well Lux had more than a few good ones from the Rebellion against the Separatists he could dress down for their listening pleasure.

"Well. Anyways," he said, backpedalling as best he could, "she went with a shorter name and still commanded the respect of almost everyone who met her. It's not how long your name is, or how fancy your titles like commander or queen or lord that matter. It's what sort of a reputation you build yourself to go along with it ­– whether you do good things or bad things."

"What was her name?" Noxarrin pressed, looking up from the wrist comm.

Lux hadn't said the name aloud in years – at least, not when he was sober. But the only one he could talk with about this with now was Saw, and the pair of them were rarely sober at the same time. Everyone else was long gone.

"Anarysteela." That was easier. Too impersonal to hurt him.

"No, that's long! The people liked her for."

"Okay. We called her Steela," he managed after a moment, ignoring how it pulled at his heartstrings now to speak the name.

"What happened to her?" For a moment Gregorieva simply stared up at him, utterly oblivious. Then, some twinge of pain in his expression must've tipped her off. With furrowed brows and her rosebud mouth jutting up into another pout, she asked, "Is she dead?"

"That's enough questions for today, children. Your mother's here – come play with her and let Aluxsidrian alone. It will be time for bed soon."

Lux pulled himself quickly to his feet and gave a slight bow to his father, and one that was deeper still to the richly dressed and heavily pregnant redheaded woman on his arm. It was no secret that Lux preferred the company of his little siblings to that of their mother, but he would not deny the spouse of the head of a Great House the respect she was owed – especially since she bore his father's child.

Perhaps his distance was for the best, anyway – a gap of only ten years stood between him and Lady Chrysilika as opposed to her and his father's twenty-five, and the servants were vile gossips. Unambitious and reluctant to stir the pot for her own sake, she had little purpose in Noreino House but to raise her children into proper reserve successors – though it was widely speculated she yearned for more.

Lady Chrysilika flashed Lux a cordial smile as she brushed past him to the twins, one hand resting demurely over her belly. Dutifully, Lux went to take her place by his father's side and waited in silence for the lecture that, if his father had heard any of what he'd just been telling the twins, was inevitably coming.

"Why, Aluxsidrian, do you insist on undermining me at every turn?" Zakhan sounded merely exasperated, but Lux knew better – after years of hearing it hidden in every second sentence, the undercurrent of steel to the words was hard to miss.

"I don't mean to, Father. I just think the little ones shouldn't have to address everyone so formally, at least not when they're still so young," Lux offered as tactfully as he could, gesturing to where the children in question were crowding for their mother's attention. "Listen to them – they can barely say their own names, much less anyone else's."

"But will this not aid in their introduction to their culture, their history? They have both been given fine Onderonian names that tie into their heritage. Why, in your own name, you carry your mother's father Hadranin and my mother Sidria, to reach a new meaning of 'foremost seeker of future wisdom'. 'Lux', as you're so determined to call yourself, is simple, common. With it, you carry no one."

Lux's head shot up, and he stared at his father openmouthed, all pretext of maintaining a coolly engaged expression gone. Even the achingly casual mention of his departed mother barely registered. He hadn't heard Zakhan speak like this since before he was labeled missing in action on Aargonar. Before his father's tour of duty in the Clone Wars had separated them, Lux could remember countless long talks about politics and history and culture on strolls through the grounds of the family estate, or sitting holed up in some nook of the library together.

Zakhan was right, too – as he often had been back then, with his detailed research and sharp insight. Lux loved Onderon and its people, and there was no better way to pay tribute to the past than by keeping touch with it in ways like these. In his full name, his family would be with him always.

But Lux Bonteri was someone, too. Perhaps not as much of a someone as Aluxsidrian Noreino, but a valid identity – son, scholar, Senator, rebel – with its own thoughts and feelings nonetheless.

A House with one member left standing was as good as gone. As far as he knew, he was the last of House Bonteri, and here he was expected to be someone completely different, cut off from that part of his heritage. He hated the name Aluxsidrian, and he hated who he had to be to suit it in such times as the ones his father and the Empire had brought about on Onderon, but he could not deny it.

He felt weak. Everything was getting muddled. How could he be one person without forsaking the other? How could he gain any ground and development as one without losing everything the other needed to survive?

His forehead and neck prickled as they often did before a bad headache, and the half-mended bridge of his nose ached. He needed some air. "If I may take my leave, Father," he murmured numbly, searching for an excuse, "I believe Dakharen needed my help sorting some of my files this evening."

"Of course," Zakhan said kindly – almost kindly enough to obscure the keen, harsh light in his eyes that looked oddly victorious. "I bid you good evening."

"And I you."

This unexpected warmth from his father couldn't last. Lux knew it couldn't – he'd seen it all before. But was it wrong to hope and strive for it when, beyond a few children too young to understand and a stepmother nearer to his own age than his father's, Zakhan was the only real family he had left?

The hour Lux usually bade Ahsoka goodnight and called for his personal guards to escort her back to the slave quarters had long since come and gone.

While it had been a surprise to find Lux going against his usually perfectly ordered schedule, she'd used the extra time to her benefit. The first hour and a half, she'd scrolled through the newsfeeds on Lux's computer terminal for as much unbiased information as she could find on the state of the Rebellion (which hadn't been much). For the hour after that, she'd stalked through Lux's rooms to find the blind spots in his cam array (surprisingly, there were many) and chosen one empty of furniture to do some stretching. Her brief confrontation with the training droids three days before had pulled a few muscles in her thigh, as weak and inflexible as they were from a lack of use, and she wanted to make sure that didn't happen again.

Not that Ahsoka was anticipating getting any other real chance to train. Still, it served to be ready for anything.

But, as a long yawn abruptly reminded her when she was mid-stretch, being rested was equally helpful if she wanted to be ready for whatever the next day held. Even if that amounted only to more sitting around, it was already 0100 hours; Lux's informal curfew was clearly not in place tonight, but it would still do her well to get some sleep.

The last of the day's heat and humidity had long passed, and when Ahsoka left Lux's rooms the hallway beyond was cool and dry. The only noises to reach her lekku were the distant rumbling hum of the climate control units and the near-silent scuffling of her feet in their silk slippers.

Having people to call own to return to was a great comfort, especially as a Togruta, but Ahsoka had always held a love for quiet parts of the day when she could almost believe she was alone. She'd always felt so strong and capable prowling the long hallways of the Jedi Temple when sleep eluded her, or taking long patrols around Torrent Company's encampment. In those moments, she became the protector of many, keeping the balance between the unconscious masses and whatever forces lurked in the darkness beyond their bedrolls.

Ahsoka had no one to protect here beyond herself, though (save perhaps Lux, if he made good on his alleged tendency toward screw-ups). But she could manage that just fine. Even alone in the middle of enemy territory, without lightsabers, she was far from weaponless. No Jedi ever was.

The sharp scent of cheap spirits hit the roof of her mouth, and the sounds of muted conversation drawing nearer reached her montrals a heartbeat later. Ahsoka stopped short, tasting the air, and on the same current found the smells of spice and cooled sweat on humanoid forms pressed close together. Her usual route back from Lux's suite brought her much closer to one of the nooks and crannies the slave traders and gamblers and spice dealers called home than she'd originally thought.

Ahsoka sighed and continued on her way. Why the quasi-respectable Lord Imperator gave those sleemos an established and highly visible place on his estate was beyond her. He was no common gangster.

Someone was coming down the hallway with a loping, irregular stride – no, several someones. The reek of alcohol and unwashed bodies was getting stronger. Ahsoka pursed her lips and walked faster. One drunk lowlife with a broken bottle could be as much trouble to her here as a highly trained assassin.

A group of six sentients rounded the corner of the hallway, speaking amongst themselves in a splicing of Onde'er and Basic and some lower, guttural language she couldn't place. When the disheveled Twi'lek man at the head of the group caught sight of her, he staggered to a halt and forced his companions to a stop after him.

"Well, if it isn't the little queenling from the Great Hall," he rumbled, his voice rough with spice and drink. The man's eyes were already dark with lust, but beneath it was something far worse than the state of his appearance.

An instinct deeper than the connection to the Force Ahsoka had sequestered away instantly flared danger, but she gave no outward sign of it. Keep walking. Just keep walking, and you'll be fine.

The Twi'lek didn't take well to being ignored. He grabbed her arm and pulled her roughly back until she had the wall on one side and two of his friends on the other. "Hey, slave girl! I'm talking to you!"

"I was tasked me with bringing more food and drink from the kitchens. My master will come looking for me if I don't return soon," Ahsoka said softly, but not without steel. The two sentinels shrank away at the word 'master', and she exhaled a breath she hadn't known she had been holding.

"Oh, we won't keep you long." His other hand drifted down to caress her hip. Ahsoka's throat closed around itself, as it so often did in the aftermath of a dream she thought was real. But there was nothing imaginary about this.

"I want a turn with her after you, Jek," said a Human woman as she sidled up behind the Twi'lek, shooting Ahsoka a ravenous look between swigs from a flask.

She gave a throaty laugh giddy with drink that was quickly taken up by the others. Ahsoka tried to suck in a gasping breath and scream, and that was when she realized she couldn't breathe. The air had turned to ocean in her lungs, and it was beyond her biology to breathe it.

It was happening all over again, and she was going to drown. All the pain and hurt and anger were welling up in tidal waves; everything she'd cut herself off from with walls of cold indifference, and strategically placed tricks of her mind over others' to keep her last master's guests away, and–

Focus, snapped the last corner of her mind not overcome by panic. Its voice was achingly like Anakin's. Remember your training. Move beyond this.

She let her gaze fall to the floor as she contemplated her options. It would be simple to quietly bend the leader to her will, but all six? Ahsoka sent a tentative probe out around her mental walls into the Force beyond, and it instantly brushed a group of patchwork auras that made her stomach turn. No good. With an Elite patrol nearby, it would be like lighting a beacon in the Force, and attract too much notice.

She remembered how Lux had looked away from her and wet his lip to buy himself time to think. Yes, time was what she needed now: she would shift her stance in the guise of cowering closer to the wall and making herself small, and tuck her right foot behind her left. She would lift her hands in a gesture of protection that hid the way she was raising her guard, cock her right arm back ever so slightly–

"Aren't you a skittish little girl! Where's that regal bearing now?"

Ahsoka opened her mouth, ready to snarl that it was nowhere the Twi'lek or any of his friends would get their hands on, but another voice cut through the din of sneering laughs and boots pacing eagerly back and forth: "What's going on here?"

Ahsoka's life hasn't had much certainty to it for a long time, and pivotal change can come quickly. Will the knight – or Padawan – in shining armor prevail, or will even she need have to open up and allow another to help her mend her old, reopening wounds? Lux also finds himself caught in a predicament, stranded between the life he lives and all those he could make his own if he chooses to. He's more attached to Lux Bonteri, but will Aluxsidrian Noreino, the Heir-Designate his father wants him to be, gain more ground as time goes on? Only time will tell...

In retrospect, this chapter and the next one could very much have been one SUPER long chapter, but I wrote it months ago. So long as the narrative is sound, I'm trying not to question my recent past self too much beyond the odd 'why this word choice?' That leads to over-editing, and over-editing can be ick...

Me and IAm_TheSenate came up with a whole mythos of our own for Onderonian names once upon a time, so the meaning of Lux's name is a little nod to that. He's lost a lot of people and is still mourning the loss of his mother, so it's a very emotional, awkward position Lux has found himself in, caught between the past and the future. There's a beautiful episode in Star Trek: The Next Generation where Captain Picard contemplates a culture that believes an individual is made up of a collection of voices, and that the past is a strong voice in him personally. I think Lux is the same, even if Zakhan wants him to look only to the future and past he's tailor-made.