Control The Uncontrollable // The Acolyte

98. 22 years

"Let's go," Qimir said quietly, his voice low and certain, cutting through the stillness like a breath of wind. His hand found yours without hesitation.

You didn't speak. You didn't have to. You simply let your fingers slip into his, grounding yourself in the quiet warmth of him as the two of you turned toward the mountain path. The sky above was overcast with soft, cloud-streaked light—no sun, no storm, just a kind of muted peace. The kind that settles after everything.

Each step up the incline was steady, familiar. The dirt and stone beneath your feet shifted gently, wind brushing past your robes, rustling the sparse vegetation clinging to the cliffs. The air was cool and sharp, tinged with the faint scent of sea salt and old moss. You remembered this path. You remembered every bend, every worn ridge in the stone.

And now, it was yours.

The cave came into view slowly, emerging from the mountain like a secret memory carved into the rock. It looked rougher than you remembered—weathered from time and absence. A few of the coverings were pulled loose, edges fraying, and the fire pit was long cold. But the space was still there. Still yours. Still his.

Still home.

You slowed as you stepped inside. Your fingers remained laced with his, but your eyes wandered—mapping the old contours of the cave with a kind of reverence. The scattered stones, the ledges carved with old tools, the remnants of your shared life before the storm of everything.

He watched you in silence, until he couldn't anymore.

"You're in deep thought, Master," Qimir said softly, amusement slipping into the corners of his voice.

You didn't look at him. Just tilted your head, a small puff of air leaving your nose as you stared at the hearth.

"No more titles," you whispered.

But he heard you—too well.

His smirk was instant, curling slow and dangerous at the corners of his mouth. He didn't even try to hide it. His eyes flicked away like he was pretending to let it go, but the amusement dancing in them said otherwise.

"You really expect me to stop now?" he murmured, voice dipping lower, threaded with that shameless, honeyed flirtation he wore like a second skin. "I like calling you that."

Your gaze lifted to meet his, slow and deliberate. His grin deepened when he caught the flicker of challenge behind your calm expression.

"You once dreamt of me calling you Master," you said, tone level, detached—neutral, exactly the way he liked it. And it hit him like a spark to dry kindling.

He exhaled a short laugh, nodding once. "I did," he admitted, "Why should it only be one?", Hw asked with no shame in his voice—only truth. "You'll always be my Acolyte."

He let go of your hand, but not your attention.

Turning toward the mouth of the cave, he moved with slow purpose—his movements loose, confident, every step a silent show. At the threshold, he stopped, leaning one hand against the rock. The cloak shifted as he moved, revealing his bare forearms—cut, golden, dusted with old soot and new hunger. He knew exactly what he was doing.

And he knew you were watching.

He looked back over his shoulder, his eyes dragging over you like a slow sweep of flame. The torn fabric clinging to your skin. The soot along your cheekbones. The fire in your stillness. You looked like you belonged to no one. And somehow, entirely to him.

He wasn't sure he'd earned this moment yet—but Force, he was going to spend the rest of his life trying.

"I'm going to get wood," he said, voice lazy, lips barely holding back a smirk.

You didn't follow—just turned your body in his direction, arms crossed, expression unreadable.

He tilted his head as he stepped backward into the light.

"Don't dream too much of me," he teased.

You didn't answer. Just let your arms stay crossed, your expression untouched. But your eyes followed him—tracked the confident, lazy sway of his steps as he vanished into the trees, cloak trailing behind like smoke.

A part of you was almost amused. The way he played, like he could still surprise you. The way he wore desire like it was something casual, teasing at edges he didn't fully understand. But if that amusement stirred at all, it didn't reach your face. You held still. Jedi still.

When he was out of sight, you turned your gaze back to the cave.

It was darker than you remembered. Rougher. The stone colder beneath your steps. Moss crept higher along the far wall, and the old firepit lay cold, half-buried under ash and memory. And yet... the space remembered you. Every line of it familiar. Every corner shaped by silence and heat.

You moved to the bedrolls—no longer a single one, now two folded together like an unfinished thought. You sat, knees drawn in loosely, fingertips brushing over the worn fabric.

The air shifted around you.

You could feel them again. The futures.

Thousands of them—bleeding in from every side like threads on a loom you didn't get to hold. Some were bright. Some were ash. But most were tangled, unreadable, already changing the moment you reached for them. Still... you knew the end, and each mile stone until you get there.

Your destiny was inevitable. It had been since your birth. The force had chosen, and you were at peace with it.

"22 years from now," you whispered, your hands formed into a fist before you let go.

22 years you got left to live, and you looked forward to each one.

Qimir just couldn't know.