Chapter Text
“In 44 BBY, Ersilia and Diomedes Orrelios brought forth a litter of kits in Lapristi, the capital city of Lasan. One died early on, since infant mortality is more common in Lasats than in Humans even with a high quality of medical care. The others all lived into adulthood: Tigranes, Taweret, Peredur, Chinyere, and of course Garazeb – Zeb to his friends. Only he and Chinyere, however, would survive the Siege of Lasan.
They were not a rich family. Ersilia worked as a servant at Lasan’s Palace Tree, and Diomedes was a tree-shaper – something equivalent to a Human builder. Nevertheless, all five kits were educated to an incredibly high standard for free alongside Royal Children, dignitaries’ children, and fellow servant’s children in the Palace Tree, since their mother was employed there. Soon all five grew into very accomplished and intelligent young Lasats; at the age of eighteen, Garazeb became a cadet of the Lasan High Honour Guard.
This profession suited him so well that, by the time he became a legal Lasat adult at twenty, he was already a lieutenant. Two years later, after the dishonourable discharge of his superior officer Cpt. Zotoh Zhaan, he was promoted to Captain. There he stayed, performing his duties with aplomb, for four years – until one fateful day in 18 BBY…”
- Jacen Syndulla, “Chapter 4: Uncle Zeb and Uncle Alex” in Family Heroism: A Memoir
The system of tunnels that the Resistance is occupying reminds Zeb a little bit of the Hoth base, though not as cold; the layout is even very similar. Not that he gets to see much of it, since the little ice critters herd him insistently towards their intended destination. They haven’t come across a single other living being on their way. Somewhere in the distant, though, Zeb can hear the Resistance fighters evacuating with faint clatters and shouts.
The corridor opens up into a big, open, empty room – empty, that is, apart from the old woman seated on a discarded crate. It’s been a long time. Zeb wonders if she even remembers him.
“Princess?”
“Captain Orrelios.” She smiles sadly at him. “Luke’s not coming, is he?”
Zeb shakes his head. “Don’t think so. Sorry, Yer Highness.” And then: “My Rey’s at the back entrance. She’ll help whoever’s left as much as she can.”
“And my Ben is at the front entrance.” Leia looks up at him. “He’s… doing the opposite. There’s no way – he’s too far gone, Zeb. He killed Han.”
Zeb lays a hand on her shoulder. “I’ll do what I can, Yer Highness. There’s always a chance, take it from me. Even fer the worst of ‘em.”
She nods. “May the Force be with you, then.”
“Yeah,” he replies, with a glance down at his feet. The little ice critters, he notices, are gone. “I think it already is.”
With that, he starts off again, heading for the front gate with a confident step. The breach is in progress: there is enough of a gap that Stormtroopers will probably barge in soon enough. Zeb steps through easily, onto a broad plain covered in blood-red tracks.
There is the huge super-laser they’re using to burn through the gate; there are the armoured, heavy-knuckled AT-ATs; there are a lot of things, too much for Zeb to face alone. But no one else is going to do it. The Resistance needs someone to stand between them and certain destruction. There is no bomb this time to knock Zeb out of the action, no T-7s (that he knows of), just this. He walks forward, one step at a time, until he’s sure the attention of every First Order attacker is on him.
You are not alone, Zeb, says the voice of Kanan in his ear, as he takes his stance.
We are here beside you, agrees the voice of Jaro Tapal. Take heart.
Thunder rumbles overhead. Zeb feels the first shot before anyone so much as aims, senses the trajectories that zero in on him. He readies his bo-saber. Then -
Everything is very confusing. Zeb manages to keep up with blocking the shots, for the most part; there are so many, though, that one or two are bound to slip through. One hits his arm, just below his elbow, burning the fur and scorching the skin with intense heat; another follows shortly after, blasting through a chunk of his calf muscle so that he has to work to keep from stumbling.
Even so, the volley of fire almost intensifies. It’s a significant effort for Zeb to keep himself from further injury, to keep his bo-saber moving quickly. Plumes of red dust explode from the ground around him, filling the air until he can barely see or breathe.
Then, it stops. Zeb looks up towards the AT-ATs ahead of him, squinting as the atmosphere clears to let in a little feeble sunlight. There is the great darkness that he recognises, coming closer, and Zeb stares towards the source.
Kylo Ren stands out on the plain, glaring at Zeb.
“Garazeb Orrelios.”
“Yup. Hi. And you’re Ben Solo.” Zeb steps forward and bows, Lasat-style, fist in his palm. Kylo Ren does not return the gesture. “Sorry we had ta meet like this.”
Kylo Ren scoffs. “Have you come to forgive me or save my soul?”
“Dunno yet,” shrugs Zeb. “Maybe neither. I’m just gonna play it by ear.” He flicks one ear to demonstrate.
“Fool.” The red lightsaber ignites, screaming and jagged. Something about it sparks just the briefest moment of -
Deja vu.
The ground is white beneath Zeb’s feet, and suddenly he remembers a dream from long ago. A dream with the boy he now knows as Kylo Ren in front of him, and Rey behind him not as his Padawan but as his kriffing daughter.
Kylo charges in, and Zeb brings his bo-saber up to meet the blow.
Fighting against a lightsaber with his modified bo-rifle is familiar by now, ordinary; after years training his kits, and sparring with Alex and Ezra and Sabine, he knows the drill. Block, turn, block again, then forward, then back. It’s obvious Kylo Ren has trained to fight against a bo-rifle since his confrontation with Rey on Starkiller Base.
Zeb, of course, still has the advantage, even with his injuries. He’s older, more experienced, stronger and bigger. He has no intention of killing Kylo, unless absolutely necessary – maybe injure him, take him out of the action for a bit until he sees sense. He gets the feeling that, even though Rey failed to help him see the light just now, there’s still a chance. Just a small one, a tiny pinprick of a star glimmering in an endless expanse of black, but maybe it’s enough.
“Look,” he starts, as he parries another blow, “I dunno what happened ta ya or what ya’ve been told ta make ya feel like ya need ta do this, But ya can stop, yannow. I know it don’t mean much, comin’ from someone who don’t know ya, but this don’t have ta be who ya are.”
Kylo scoffs. “This again? You and your daughter are equally deluded. Light and dark, good and evil – it’s all a lie! There is only power and weakness, and you are weak. Both of you.”
There’s no way that wasn’t meant to goad him; Zeb grits his teeth and shifts his feet on the rough salt below. His bo-rifle swings towards Kylo, who parries with a grunt.
“Go ahead,” Kylo spits. “Try to kill me, just as my master did.”
He’s younger than the twins, poor kit. “I ain’t gonna do that. I just wanna help ya. Come inside, have a talk with yer mum. She’s worried about ya, yannow. Ain’t happy with how ya killed yer dad, but -” Zeb dodges a jab at his side - “she just wants ta help ya. Like I do.”
But Kylo’s eyes spark with a dangerous anger. “Do not pity me, you worthless half-Jedi!
With that, his strikes become harder, faster. The feel of the Dark Side in him increases, so that every movement seems powered by hate and anger. Zeb focuses again on defence, trying to adapt quickly to the sudden change, but it’s getting more and more difficult. Nevertheless, Zeb keeps going, keeps trying, while the world around them fades down to this single fight: little static sparks fluff up his fur, tempting him, but he stills his mind, keeps his focus laser-sharp.
A slip is all it takes. Just the slightest fumble from the blaster burn on Zeb’s arm -
Kylo strikes, lightning-fast.
It feels like everything, and also nothing at all. The pain sears through the centre of Zeb’s torso, all-encompassing: he can feel fur on his back singeing. What a weird little detail to notice while he’s struggling to even catch a breath, while the burning fills his entire chest cavity with incomprehensible pain, while his heart struggles erratically to cope.
The wind howls to the tune of a Loth-wolf’s cry.
…So this is it, huh. Zeb stares down into Kylo Ren’s eyes, trying desperately to breathe or speak or something. He wonders what will happen to Kylo now. He’s cementing his position on the Dark Side pretty decisively with this, but – no, maybe not. Zeb sees the uncertainty there, sees the flicker of doubt that passes almost before Zeb can register it. Will Ben regret this, later?
Maybe he can feel what Zeb is feeling, the pity and sadness. Or maybe he only feels the thoughts that are getting more and more muddled in Zeb’s head. Karabast, the Boosahn – but his arms are too weak to offer up his weapon, his hands can no longer even properly grip the handle. He wouldn’t have the breath to recite the words anyway.
Maybe Kylo feels the Light in Zeb, too. Even as Zeb’s vision darkens around the edges, the Light encompasses his very being, singing a soothing song: well done, it says. Rest now, it says. Peace. Zeb, held upright more by the very lightsaber burning its way through his heart than by his own strength, is inclined to obey. There is just one thought left in his head as his body fails him: what about Alex? Who will look after him and the kits? Will he be okay -