Jyn Erso (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
kestreldawn) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
muserevival2017-01-15 03:15 pm
kestreldawn) wrote in muserevival2017-01-15 03:15 pm
Entry tags:
muserevival - 138.7 || quote
“Never forget the nine most important words of any family - I love you. You are beautiful. Please forgive me.”
- H. Jackson Brown Jr.
Jyn has another nightmare. They're not uncommon at her age. Mama says that it's from watching too many episodes of The Octave Stairway, too many holodramas before bedtime. Jyn, ever rebellious and stubborn, protests and says that it's not while crossing her arms over her chest. She even makes a show of stomping her foot while the word "not" lurches from her tongue. Her Papa scoops her up in his arms and carries her back to bed. He pulls the covers up over her head to make her laugh, pretending he's unable to find her. She tries to stay as silent as possible underneath the blanket, using a small, chubby hand to stifle the giggles gurgling in her throat.
Papa folds them back down and brushes the hair away from his Stardust's face. She reaches up and grabs his hand, presses it to her cheek. She loves the way he always smells of oil, of exhaust and work and labor. She loves the way he taps the tip of her nose when he tells her that he loves her.
"What was your nightmare about, Stardust?" Jyn darts her eyes away from the watchful, knowing eyes of her Papa. He can always tell what she's thinking, what she's feeling. But he likes to hear her words. He wants to hear it from her.
"A staircase," she admits, her voice a tiny water droplet of sound.
"Mm. And what happened with this staircase?"
"I fell down it." She's moving his fingers now, going in order - pointer, middle, ring, pinky - then back again. They watch her as she makes his hand play an imaginary instrument only she can see.
"And where do you think that came from?" There's honey in his voice, golden and sweet. It coats everything and leaves her feeling like she's glowing.
"I dunno," she replies, but she knows it's not a good one. Papa doesn't say anything in return. Instead, he turns his hand over and wraps it around her tiny palms.
"Stardust," he urges. She can feel his fingers tighten around hers, the gentle coaxing inside of his touch.
"Maybe the Octave Stairway." A breath of air escapes her father's nose, a sound of amusement and humor. He brushes the hair away from her face again, leans in, and presses a kiss to her forehead. She loves it when he does that, and the bright glow on her face is proof enough of that.
"You can apologize to your mother tomorrow," he says, but she knows that he won't make her say the words. She knows that he'll let her apologize in her own way, the way that her Mama will accept it. She nods, though, fighting with all of her might to push away the weight in her eyelids. "But for now, go back to sleep."
"I'm not sleepy," she attempts to protest, but she's out by the time she's done.
---
Jyn has another nightmare. They have become more and more frequent as time goes on. She's on the staircase again, racing to the top as fast as she can. She knows that if she can make it, she can find her way home. She has no idea why she's not there already, but she envisions her room on Coruscant and on Lah'mu simultaneously, the way dreams are wont to do. As she runs, the stairs grow larger, grow higher, until she's scrambling up the side, clutching at jutting metal and stone.
She looks up, as far as she can see. She has to be close to the top now.
There's a figure, a silhouette, waiting at the top. It says nothing. It merely watches.
She stares down what's in front of her; only one more. One more, and she'll be home. She thinks of Beeny, left behind in Coruscant, how angry he must be with her for failing to take him with her; she thinks of Papa, of Mama; she thinks of the softness of her Mama's hand, the scratch of Papa's beard. She steadies herself, hesitating only to gather her footing before she sprints towards the precipice and leaps, grappling with a hole in its side to grab onto.
She almost misses, but she feels a dull pain shoot into her fingers as the metal digs into her skin. She solidifies her feet, her hands. Up she climbs. Up and up and up. She climbs for what feels like hours or days or years, until finally - there she is. She clamors onto the surface, her muscles in agony, her lungs on fire, her fingers trembling.
But there's no time to rest.
This is it, the end.
She rolls over and up back onto her feet, like a spring. The silhouette is on the ground, now, motionless and waiting. As she runs over, there's a feeling of a stone dropping into a well at the pit of her stomach. She knows who this is. She's known since she started the ascent.
"Papa!" she cries, sliding onto her knees to the side of his body. He's in his uniform, his hair soaked and matted to his face. His body is light, ethereal. She knows he has to leave. "Papa, please," she whimpers, brushing his hair away from her face, the way he used to do when she was small.
His eyes flutter open, looking at her. Why is he soaked? When did it rain? How did this happen?
"Stardust," he groans, the pain of recognition and defeat in his eyes. She grabs his hand like she used to. She wants, she needs to feel that his hands are the same -- that nothing has changed. That he's still the man who used to make her laugh and used to let her dream.
"Papa." She thinks she's speaking, she can hear the voice in her head, but it doesn't sound the same. Can he hear her? Does he know that she's calling his name? Staring into the withered face of a broken, dying man, she can see the question he cannot give voice to: will you forgive me? She nods, she nods until it feels like her head might detach from her neck, the sound of her heart shattering, exploding in her ears.
And like that, he's gone.
She's alone.
She realizes, sitting at the top of the Octave Stairway, the conquered beast beneath her, that she has no idea where home really is.
She has nowhere to go.
- H. Jackson Brown Jr.
Jyn has another nightmare. They're not uncommon at her age. Mama says that it's from watching too many episodes of The Octave Stairway, too many holodramas before bedtime. Jyn, ever rebellious and stubborn, protests and says that it's not while crossing her arms over her chest. She even makes a show of stomping her foot while the word "not" lurches from her tongue. Her Papa scoops her up in his arms and carries her back to bed. He pulls the covers up over her head to make her laugh, pretending he's unable to find her. She tries to stay as silent as possible underneath the blanket, using a small, chubby hand to stifle the giggles gurgling in her throat.
Papa folds them back down and brushes the hair away from his Stardust's face. She reaches up and grabs his hand, presses it to her cheek. She loves the way he always smells of oil, of exhaust and work and labor. She loves the way he taps the tip of her nose when he tells her that he loves her.
"What was your nightmare about, Stardust?" Jyn darts her eyes away from the watchful, knowing eyes of her Papa. He can always tell what she's thinking, what she's feeling. But he likes to hear her words. He wants to hear it from her.
"A staircase," she admits, her voice a tiny water droplet of sound.
"Mm. And what happened with this staircase?"
"I fell down it." She's moving his fingers now, going in order - pointer, middle, ring, pinky - then back again. They watch her as she makes his hand play an imaginary instrument only she can see.
"And where do you think that came from?" There's honey in his voice, golden and sweet. It coats everything and leaves her feeling like she's glowing.
"I dunno," she replies, but she knows it's not a good one. Papa doesn't say anything in return. Instead, he turns his hand over and wraps it around her tiny palms.
"Stardust," he urges. She can feel his fingers tighten around hers, the gentle coaxing inside of his touch.
"Maybe the Octave Stairway." A breath of air escapes her father's nose, a sound of amusement and humor. He brushes the hair away from her face again, leans in, and presses a kiss to her forehead. She loves it when he does that, and the bright glow on her face is proof enough of that.
"You can apologize to your mother tomorrow," he says, but she knows that he won't make her say the words. She knows that he'll let her apologize in her own way, the way that her Mama will accept it. She nods, though, fighting with all of her might to push away the weight in her eyelids. "But for now, go back to sleep."
"I'm not sleepy," she attempts to protest, but she's out by the time she's done.
---
Jyn has another nightmare. They have become more and more frequent as time goes on. She's on the staircase again, racing to the top as fast as she can. She knows that if she can make it, she can find her way home. She has no idea why she's not there already, but she envisions her room on Coruscant and on Lah'mu simultaneously, the way dreams are wont to do. As she runs, the stairs grow larger, grow higher, until she's scrambling up the side, clutching at jutting metal and stone.
She looks up, as far as she can see. She has to be close to the top now.
There's a figure, a silhouette, waiting at the top. It says nothing. It merely watches.
She stares down what's in front of her; only one more. One more, and she'll be home. She thinks of Beeny, left behind in Coruscant, how angry he must be with her for failing to take him with her; she thinks of Papa, of Mama; she thinks of the softness of her Mama's hand, the scratch of Papa's beard. She steadies herself, hesitating only to gather her footing before she sprints towards the precipice and leaps, grappling with a hole in its side to grab onto.
She almost misses, but she feels a dull pain shoot into her fingers as the metal digs into her skin. She solidifies her feet, her hands. Up she climbs. Up and up and up. She climbs for what feels like hours or days or years, until finally - there she is. She clamors onto the surface, her muscles in agony, her lungs on fire, her fingers trembling.
But there's no time to rest.
This is it, the end.
She rolls over and up back onto her feet, like a spring. The silhouette is on the ground, now, motionless and waiting. As she runs over, there's a feeling of a stone dropping into a well at the pit of her stomach. She knows who this is. She's known since she started the ascent.
"Papa!" she cries, sliding onto her knees to the side of his body. He's in his uniform, his hair soaked and matted to his face. His body is light, ethereal. She knows he has to leave. "Papa, please," she whimpers, brushing his hair away from her face, the way he used to do when she was small.
His eyes flutter open, looking at her. Why is he soaked? When did it rain? How did this happen?
"Stardust," he groans, the pain of recognition and defeat in his eyes. She grabs his hand like she used to. She wants, she needs to feel that his hands are the same -- that nothing has changed. That he's still the man who used to make her laugh and used to let her dream.
"Papa." She thinks she's speaking, she can hear the voice in her head, but it doesn't sound the same. Can he hear her? Does he know that she's calling his name? Staring into the withered face of a broken, dying man, she can see the question he cannot give voice to: will you forgive me? She nods, she nods until it feels like her head might detach from her neck, the sound of her heart shattering, exploding in her ears.
And like that, he's gone.
She's alone.
She realizes, sitting at the top of the Octave Stairway, the conquered beast beneath her, that she has no idea where home really is.
She has nowhere to go.