Not How Your Stories End

Chapter 1

Hera Syndulla was always the first one awake on her ship.

It was nearly a law of nature. No matter how crazy things got, no matter what dire situation the Ghost crew had found themselves in, to see anyone on board awake and about before their mighty Captain was highly unusual. Short and simple.

So when Hera had traveled to the ship's common room that particular morning to be greeted by the sight of their youngest member sitting quietly by himself, to say that she felt concerned was most definitely an understatement.

"What's wrong?" she spat slightly, already mentally scanning the teenager over, searching for any signs of immediate danger, letting herself relax only slightly when she came away with nothing.

The disgruntled teen sputtered back, plastering on his most winning smile as he straightened in his seat, feigning alertion. "W-what do you mean?"

In all honesty, however, Ezra knew that something wasn't quite right. The previous night, he hadn't been able to sleep for more than an hour at a time without being awoken by a series of vividly horrific nightmares, and after trying and failing to get a good night sleep for the fourth time, he had decided to break the vicious cycle and wait out the rest of the night in the comfort of the common area. However, that ended up causing more problems for him than staying in bed would have. As soon as Ezra had swung his feet to the floor, he was plagued with a relentless pounding in his skull, accompanied by stiff and protesting muscles in his neck and alternating hot and cold flashes that hadn't let up since. Not to mention that at that particular moment the mere thought of food was sending pangs of nausea through his entire abdomen. It was more than evident to him that he was coming down with something, but the last thing he wanted was to be doted over and sent to bed like a child, especially during such a crucial time for the Rebellion. Their resources were all but depleted and, with no opportunity to replenish in the near future, there was no way he'd allow the precious little they had to be wasted on a case of the sniffles, so he had - quite pragmatically, in his own opinion - chosen to remain silent on the matter of his current state of health.

Alas, his facade of health was quickly destroyed when a large yawn escaped that quickly turned into a series of shaking, dry coughs. Recovering from the small fit, he scrubbed over his face with the palm of his hand in a feeble attempt to ward off fatigue as well as hide the flushing of his cheeks from his captain.

Hera, however, took the moment of weakness as an opportunity to move even closer to their youngest specter, making sure to carefully observe his every feature. Her concern only grew as a result. Ezra's face was eerily pale, highlighted by brightly flushed and fevered cheeks. There was a slight shiver about him, despite the entirely average temperature aboard the Ghost, and his eyes were rung with a deep indigo. She had come rather quickly to the conclusion that the boy was ill, and from the looks of it, badly so.

"I mean," she explained, moving in on him like prey, "that you, Ezra Bridger, are awake before 1200 hours when you don't have to be, and truth be told, look like death warmed over."

Ezra continually avoided eye contact, but responded nevertheless. "What? No, I'm fine, Hera. Just had some trouble sleeping..." he insisted, his slightly slurring voice betraying his intentions.

"I don't believe you," the captain stated plainly, her lips pulled taught in a pointed line as she firmly gripped Ezra's chin and turned his face to meet the gaze of her own. Concerned emerald eyes met weary sapphire as Hera peered into his inky blue irises with merciless calculation. Even through their tired glaze, flashes of fear and confusion shone across those crystal orbs, being stuck in a place somewhere between guilt and embarrassment from the scrutiny.