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As a youngling, Caleb Dume had heard the legends of soulmate marks. Having one meant that somewhere out in the universe was a person perfectly matched for you, someone who would complete you, and they would have a mark the exact same size and shape as yours.
At first, he’d thought it was superstitious nonsense. The marks were rare, and few of his Jedi teachers had even heard the legends, let alone seen someone with such a mark. But then Master Plo Koon had told his class a story about soulmarks, a warning about letting emotions cloud one’s judgement of a situation, and Caleb accepted their existence with resignation and indifference. Perhaps they were real, but it didn’t matter to him. He didn’t want a soulmate; he wanted to be a Jedi.
Being a Jedi meant having no attachments, and having a soulmate was the exact opposite of that. Worse, having a mark meant the two of you were destined to meet in your lifetimes, and from what Caleb heard, it was incredibly difficult to resist that temptation once it was placed in front of you. It would be enough to make even a devout Jedi fall susceptible to their emotions, which everyone knew was the path to the Dark Side. Caleb heard from one of the Knights that the Council kept an eye on the padawans as they went through puberty in order to spot any new marks as soon as they appeared.
The rumour that Master Kenobi had such a mark on his inner arm was laughable to Caleb. Master Kenobi was a perfect Jedi, of course he didn’t have a soulmate. He would never be able to form such a strong attachment to anyone; he was too dedicated to the Jedi Code. The one about General Skywalker’s shoulder was a little more believable, but Caleb still didn’t think it had anything to do with soulmates. If the stories were anything to go by, Skywalker regularly flaunted the Council’s orders, and a bright orange tattoo of a Nubian starship was exactly what Caleb imagined the galaxy’s best starpilot would get himself.
No, Caleb didn’t believe he would ever develop such a mark. He’d be a great Jedi, dedicated only to the Order, just like Skywalker and Kenobi.
When the Clone Wars broke out, such gossip and rumours faded from the younglings’ grapevine, to be replaced by tales of fighting and heroics out on the battlefields. Caleb Dume didn’t give any thought to the topic again; not as he waited to be chosen for a master, nor as Depa took him for their first battle together, nor when he ran, frightened and betrayed and grieving, from the battle that brought his whole life crashing down around him.
The idea of soulmarks didn’t cross the mind of the boy who had once been a padawan until one morning several months later. Kanan Jarrus was living in some squalid corner of the galaxy barely able to keep track of his own soul, let alone its other half. He was taller than Caleb Dume had been and slightly awkward with the new height. His face had finally lost the last of its baby fat, and now his jawline was all straight lines and hard angles. There were even a few shadows of early facial hair growth - but when he caught sight of his face in the mirror, he did a double-take, because that was too dark to be hair…
He drew closer to his scratched, slightly clouded reflection, tilting his head up. There, just under his chin, was a mark that hadn’t been there yesterday. It was like a small tattoo, roughly an inch across, and a solid shade of green. Except he hadn’t got a tattoo.
There was only one thing it could be.
His eyes widened as the realisation struck him, and for a brief moment, he panicked. Then he remembered that he wasn’t a Jedi any more, something that he was getting more and more used to these days, and his panic turned to laughter. Was this the universe trying to make up for everything it had done to him? And who touched someone for the first time there ?
He laughed even harder as he figured it out - they were going to punch him in the face.
He grimly hoped he’d be able to get in a good hit in return, and then never see them again.
He did spend a lot of the next seven and a half years getting punched in the face by people he’d only just met, but he didn’t think about his mark very much. Its position made it easy to hide if he just kept his head down, and once he was able to he grew a beard to cover it. It saved him from the few stares he did get whenever he gave someone a particularly insolent look. The full beard was itchy and too much effort to maintain, so he ended up just keeping it to the front of his chin. He liked how it made his face longer, and look older, and it wasn’t long before he saw the beard as simply a personal style preference rather than a cover for something he didn’t want.
The sheer number of bar fights and street brawls he got into over the years made it easy for him to become desensitised to anyone touching his chin. As he moved from place to place, he stopped wondering if he’d left his supposed other half behind already. Even when, on Gorse, the mysterious Hera touched the fresh bruise there after their altercation with Charko’s gang, the thought of what was under the wiry hair never crossed his mind.
It wasn’t until nearly a year later, when they were safely back on the Ghost after escaping yet another squadron of stormtroopers, that Kanan remembered his mark.
Hera had guided their ship off-world almost effortlessly, dodging the haphazardly aimed anti-aircraft cannon fire and slipping them easily into hyperspace (okay, Chopper had helped too by programming the navicomputer).
Now, she was looking at him with a mixture of concern and reproach.
"Why is there blood in your beard?" She herself was unscathed, save for a few scuffs and a light dusting of smoke particles from the stolen Imperial grenades they’d set off.
"Huh?" He instinctively reached up to feel what she meant, and was rewarded with a spike of pain and sticky fingers. "Ow. Uh, I think one of the stormtroopers caught me with the butt of his blaster when we first went in."
Hera sighed. "Sit in the common area, I’ll fetch the medpack." She walked out of the cockpit, lekku bobbing behind her as she went.
Now that they were out of danger and the adrenaline had faded, he realised that the wound was actually stinging quite a bit. Kanan obediently sat where he was told and waited to be tended to.
Hera’s hands were gentle but firm as she tilted his head to better see the damage. "Ugh, I can’t see anything through all the hair ," she huffed, managing to make 'hair' sound like some alien concept. Which, to be fair, it was to her, Kanan conceded mentally. "I’m sorry, Kanan, I’m going to have to shave it off."
"What? No!" he protested, jerking his head out of her grip. "I like my beard!"
"I’ll only do the bottom!" she said quickly, trying to placate him. "It won’t look that different from the front, I promise." She’d raised her hands and was speaking to him like he was a spooked Bantha, but he knew he had good cause to be worried. This twi’lek had never cut hair in her life, of that he was sure. "I need to see this cut, and I don’t want it getting infected," she continued.
He made a grumbling noise as he realised she was right, and didn’t stop her as she pulled him into the refresher. The room wasn’t quite big enough for the two of them to fit comfortably and they ended up pressed against each other, but it had been a long time since Kanan had made any suggestive comments about his captain. Hera had made it quite clear from the start that she wasn’t interested in his advances, and even if he disagreed with her reasons - of course there was time for romance while they were fighting a rebellion, that was the best time - the last thing he wanted was to make her feel uncomfortable in her own ship. So he’d practised the old Jedi technique of releasing his feelings to the Force, and while he wasn’t perfect at it, it helped to bring the feelings down to a manageable level.
She positioned his head over the sink and used his razor to neatly shear off the hair on the underside of his chin, ignoring his winces, before rinsing the area clean. The water that Kanan saw running into the sink below him was pink, with lots of little brown hairs swirling in the stream. He tried not to think of quite how many; a beard as short as the one he kept wouldn’t take long to grow back, he told himself.
"That’s better," she said, patting his skin dry with a small bandage. "I don’t think it’s that bad after all, a bacta spray will fix you up."
"So you didn’t need to shave it after all?" he complained as she pushed him back into the common area to sit at the table.
She smirked at him. "I didn’t know that before I shaved it. Now look up, the light in the ‘fresher is terrible and I want to make sure I didn’t leave any hairs in." He did as he was told, and waited patiently for her to finish her examination. Several moments passed in silence.
"Well? Am I clear?" Staring at the ceiling for so long was making his neck uncomfortable.
"That’s an… interesting tattoo." Her voice was a little higher than it usually was. Kanan tried to avoid using the Force to read Hera’s emotions, for her own privacy, so he only read her change in tone as surprise.
He sighed. "It’s a soulmark," he said in a flat voice. "I’d actually forgotten it was there. I prefer not to think about it." And he’d succeeded, right up until she’d commented on it. It hadn’t even crossed his mind as she’d been shaving him, but now he was remembering all the reasons why he didn’t want anyone to know about it.
He tilted his head back down to look at her, and she had a strange look on her face, but it was gone in an instant, replaced by a calm mask. "Let me give you that bacta spray," she said instead, and Kanan realised that one of her hands had been halfway towards his face, tucked into a fist, before she redirected it to the pile of medical supplies on the table. "Then we don’t have to talk about it again."
As she tended to his wound - it was more of a cut, really - several separate pieces of information clicked together in his mind.
"There, all better," she finally murmured. His jaw and neck were cold from the spray, but he could already feel the bacta working.
He slowly moved his head back down so he could look at her, but she wasn’t facing him any more; she was putting the contents of the medpack neatly back into the small box. He watched her hands - her gloved hands - as they worked. She’d been wearing gloves that night on Gorse, but he didn’t know if that would have affected anything. Not long after he’d become her first crew member she’d told him that she hated getting engine grease on her hands, which was why she always wore them. He couldn’t remember ever seeing her hands without them; just like her head was never without her pilot’s cap.
"You probably should wash those gloves now," he said in what he hoped was a conversational tone.
She swallowed. "I’ll put them in with the laundry later." She avoided meeting his eyes.
"I know you don’t usually take them off," he continued, trying to keep his voice light, "but you don’t want to be smearing my blood all over the ship. Not to mention my beard hairs. Trust me, those things can go surprisingly far."
"Well, why don’t I go get another pair now." She stood up to leave, but Kanan caught her by the wrists.
"You don’t have any maintenance to do today. Why not just… Leave them off."
She cast around for a response. "My hands are cold."
"Hera."
Finally, she looked at him. Meeting her eyes, he didn’t need the Force to sense the fear in her. The apprehension, as if they were standing on the edge of a cliff and were one decision away from falling forever into the depths. It was the tension in her eyes, the tightness around her lips, the way she was breathing a little harder than usual. The knowledge in those eyes cemented his suspicions.
"Hera," he repeated, realising how much of his own apprehension he had at the hoarseness to his voice. "That night we met. Which hand…" He couldn’t get the rest out. Which hand did you use to close my gaping mouth after I first realised how absolutely incredible you are ?
She seemed to deflate a little, resigning herself to the fact that there was no way out. Or relaxing now that the choice was out of her control. With a small movement, she twisted her wrists a little and Kanan allowed his hands to fall away. She slowly peeled off her right glove, and Kanan watched, unable to do more than hold his breath.
The mark was just above her index knuckle, on the finger itself. It was the same size as Kanan knew his was, the same circular shape formed by wings in flight around a proud, feathered head. Unlike his, hers was a light blue colour, standing out against her green skin in a beautiful contrast. It was as he compared the colours that it struck him that her skin was the exact same shade as his own mark. Of course it was.
Hera broke the silence first. "I always thought it would be their eye colour." He glanced up at her as she spoke. "But your eyes are more of a teal." Her eyes were a beautiful shade of green, slightly lighter than her skin, and full of uncertainty. He’d always loved her eyes; he could look into their depths forever. But unlike many romantic tales of old, neither of their marks was related to eye colour. As he looked back down at her hand, he understood what hers represented.
"It’s not my eye colour," he agreed. Then he stood and strode purposefully to his cabin, not allowing himself time to think about what he was doing. He opened the drawer under his bunk and took out the two pieces of his old life that he kept hidden there, and returned to the common area. Hera was still standing as he had left her, one hand holding her glove while the other was bare, showing the pale blue phoenix to the world.
She watched him as he twisted the two pieces together, neither of them speaking, but something in her expression said she recognised what he was holding. What he was showing her. When he ignited his lightsaber, the blue blade adding its own light to the room, her eyes widened with understanding. Wordlessly, she held her hand up, comparing the two, though neither of them needed the confirmation.
"Kanan," she breathed, meeting his eyes once again. She moved her hand to his chin, forming the fist that had bumped it a year ago on Gorse. He didn’t need to see it to know that the two marks lined up perfectly.
Even if they never became anything more than captain and crew, Kanan would be satisfied with this. To look into her eyes, her beautiful eyes, in that perfect face; to feel her skin against his own, and the warmth coming through her touch; to share her home and her trust. This was enough. This completed him.
Then she used her thumb to gently grip his chin and pull him towards her, capturing his lips in a kiss.
For a brief moment, he was still, frozen in surprise. His eyes slid closed automatically, and then his body caught up with the fact that Hera was kissing him . He leaned into her, the blade of his lightsaber retracting as the handle slipped from his grasp. His arms snaked around her waist, pulling her in closer as her hand moved to cup his face. Though chaste at first, the kiss deepened, Hera taking the lead and Kanan letting her.
He would let her lead him anywhere.
When they broke apart, they were both breathless, and Hera pressed her forehead against his as they recovered.
"Hera, I -"
"Now’s not the time for talking, love."
And she was kissing him again, and pushing him towards her room, but all he could think was HeraHeraHera , because she was everything he’d never known he’d ever needed.
She truly was his soulmate.
***
***
Panting, Kanan turned to thank his brother-in-arms.
"This is why I don’t like Imperial bars," the enormous humanoid growled.
"On the contrary, I find this one of the perks to coming here," Kanan replied brightly, surveying the room. All around them were dazed or unconscious off-duty officers and stormtroopers, their bodies littering the floor and tables. Even the bartender was slumped over the taps. Kanan couldn’t help but feel pleased at his handiwork.
"Hmph." The hairy giant began stomping back towards the entrance, not being particularly careful of any Imperial limbs that were strewn in his path.
"Hey, friend," Kanan called after him. "I didn’t catch your name."
"I don’t like names. Call me Phoenix."
Kanan gave a start. "Phoenix?"
"Yeah. Rise from the ashes, and all that." He was out of the door before Kanan could say anything else.
Two hours later, they met again while being chased by yet more Imperials - on duty, this time - and Kanan led Phoenix to escape onto the Ghost, yelling for Hera to take off. This time, he relented and introduced himself properly.
"I’m Zeb. Thanks for saving my hide back there."
"Any time, Zeb. Someone’s got to stick it to those Imperials. Now, where can we take you? Back to your people?"
Zeb abruptly turned away. "My people are dead." His voice was curt.
Understanding dawned on Kanan. "But you’ve risen from the ashes," he said softly. Zeb simply nodded once. "Well, Zeb, we’ve got room on this ship. I’ll need to clear it with my captain, but I’m sure we can spare you a bunk."
***
"Time to go!"
Kanan grabbed the girl by the arm and dragged her away, back towards where Zeb was waiting with the Phantom.
"Wait!" She wrenched her arm free of his grip and unhooked a spray canister from her belt.
"What are you doing?" he hissed through gritted teeth.
She finished spraying the crate she had stopped next to, and stood back to admire her handiwork.
"There’s always time for art," she said with satisfaction.
Kanan was prepared to grab her again, but one glance at the shape she’d drawn stopped him. Bright orange, and not quite the same shape as the mark on Hera’s finger, the mark he knew so well, but close enough to make him stare at it.
A distant explosion reminded him of their present situation and snapped him out of it. "Come on, we have to go!" This time a touch on her shoulder was enough to get the girl to move, and they raced to the small ship. Zeb had the engines flaring and the ground falling away before the ramp was fully up, and was calling Hera on the comm.
"Phantom to Ghost, we’re coming back," the Lasat rumbled. "Meet us at the rendezvous."
"Copy that, Phantom. Spectre Four, is Spectre One with you?"
"He is, Spectre Two, and he seems to have acquired an extra friend."
"Well, tell him his intel is so terrible he’s on ‘fresher cleaning for the next month of cycles."
Zeb cackled, and Kanan decided that maybe he didn’t want to speak to Hera right now.
"So what’s your name, kid?" he asked the girl.
"I’m Sabine. Thanks for the rescue back there."
"Don’t mention it. That was an... interesting symbol you drew."
She shrugged. "It felt right, in the moment. I can’t help it when the creative muses take me."
"It felt right, huh." Kanan made a mental note to ask Hera whether they had any space for a Specter Five.