Archive of Our Own ^beta

***A small clarification***
The Force does not take.
For that, it has me.
I am not malicious,
I am a result.

I first saw Cassian Andor during the uprising. A bloody affair, but so was that entire conflict. And the one after that. And after that. For all the talk in the galaxy about restoring peace, they sure weren't great at making it last.

But I digress. 

Cassian Andor, six years old, all limbs and big brown eyes that weren't yet as haunted as they would become. My presence on Fest that afternoon would be the first lash in that innocence.

(As if there was such a thing as childhood innocence on a world plagued with poverty and strife)

Yes, I saw Cassian although he never returned my gaze. His eyes fixated on his father's body hitting the pavement, last words lingering in the air. "Run, Cassian, run!" The sky was deep orange, like a flame of eternal struggle. His father's soul kicked and fought when I picked it up.

Cassian waited a moment more, as if he just gave it more time his father would leap and up and grab his hand. The only thing that changed was the pool of blood on the pavement.

He ran, disappearing into the crowd. His father's soul stopped fighting.

***

Jyn Erso saw me before I saw her.

Lyra Erso's was already waiting for me before her body hit the cold ground of Lah'mu, chin raised and defiant. The sky was slate grey. She didn't fight as I gathered her in my arms.

I was distracted by such an active soul-- too often those I gathered were just so tired-- that I didn't immediately notice the two sets of green eyes watched me across the field. The first-- filled with shock and grief-- was quickly shuffled away onto a waiting shuffle.

The second, terrified and confused, watched me bend down and collect her mother. The eyes shifted, anger washing away and replacing the terror and confusion. 

I always wondered how I appeared to her to cause such a reaction. My job is dreadful but I try to be polite, understanding even. I've gathered so many souls from every corner of the galaxy and never found a straight answer on my appearance, though I've discovered I have many names. 

Did she see the dark black uniform of the death-troopers who killed her mother? The white of the man who ordered it? In the dark grey of the clouds overhead that morning? In the muted green of the grasses flattened by wind?

In my arms, Lyra sighed. Two hastily plaited braids smacked against her pack as Jyn scrambled over the rough landscape and ran. 

***A confession***
I don't remember every soul I gather.
I understand that makes me seem heartless.
There's just so many, you have to understand.
But some stand out, bright like a dying star.

Cassian had a particular talent for ignoring my presence. 

The sixth time I saw him was in dark alley on Ord Mantell. The soul of rebel turned Imperial double-agent was heavy in my arms. The sky was the color of ash. 

We were the only two people in the alley-- although I am not a person, it helps on the job to relate to those you serve. Humans have an expression they're fond of-- you don't know someone until you walk a mile in their shoes. Well, I've walked light-years in those of every species in the galaxy.

On the upside, it keeps me fit. On the downside, I'm exhausted.

The Clone Wars were bad enough. But the Empire brought death with the everywhere, far away from the battlefields.

***A failed premonition***
If I had known what they were building, I would have retired early.
And reconsidered my metaphors on supernovas.

But back to Cassian Andor, who studiously avoided me. He was still all limbs as a young man like he was as a child but he looked more and more like his father. That wouldn't have meant much to him-- the memory of Fest fading more quickly with each passing year. 

His back was turned to me as he dragged the body of the woman out of sight. When I bent to gather her soul I was close enough to brush against him.

He shivered slightly, shoulders rounding as he hustled off down the alley.

He didn't turn back.

As he reached the end of the ally I could hear a mechanical voice-- a droid, likely. I never could understand droids, they didn't have souls like sentients, I was never there when they met their ends. But just the same, many seemed to be just as alive and have the capacity to care as any soul I carried. 

It's a damn shame.

"Cassian, there is a twenty percent likelihood you've encountered someone you recognize."

"Let it go Kay, there was no one"

"But--"

"I said let it go Kay!"

***

The third time Jyn Erso saw me the sky was the color of mud. The ash and smoke of the prison mixed against the rising sun leaked through the single slat that was called a window.

I tried to sneak in quietly, in the early hours whn most beings were sleeping.

Jyn was not most beings. She sat, legs crossed on the hard plank they called a bed here and clutched a pendant around her neck. The pendant felt familiar although I couldn't narrow it down at the time.

Her cellmate's body had long gone cold beneath the thin, rough blanket when I gathered her soul, tucking it securely beneath my arm. I was embarrassed to be so late but prisons always took me time to find and navigate. Imperial prisons like Wobani were a maze of despair.

Green eyes watched me and I felt myself hurry, eager to get away. Most sentients who saw me would look away just as quickly, alarmed. Yet if I myself had a soul her gaze would have pierced it.

She rose, taking a small stick next the to gate and slamming it forcefully between the bars. A white helmeted trooper came running, blaster raised. Jyn didn't so much as flinch, point to the lifeless body.

I slid along the wall with the soul in hand and out the open door. 

"Kriff off," I heard from the cell, followed by the sound of metal hitting flesh and a low grunt. I paused, briefly, fearing I was going to make a quick return. But I could feel the Force signature of two sentients still beating and hurried down the corridor. There were still plenty of souls to gather.

*** Perhaps, fate***
The fifteenth time I saw Cassian and the fifth time Jyn saw me they were together.
I never encountered them alone again. 

"Jyn!"

The sky was streaked with icy blue as the storm raged over the platform where Galen Erso's soul waited. His was hunched over, defeated, so different than his wife all those years ago.

"Jyn!" 

The voice caught me off guard as I gathered Galen away from where his daughter had thrown herself over his prone body. I thought I'd seen her anger when she'd seen me on Lah'mu but now those green eyes had hardened, the anger turned to fury.

"Jyn!"

I nearly didn't recognize Cassian, who turned his back to me as he knelt next to Jyn, tugging at her arm. Every trace of the boy on Fest had disappeared, his jaw sharp, eyes ringed by deep circles and lips turned down severely. 

Jyn tried to shake him but he only held on tighter. Lightning flashed overhead, illuminating their faces. I backed away, to where souls of Galen's fellow scientists waited, overcome by the sensation I was intruding on something private. 

***The final act***
I though the shared moment on platform on Eadu was private.
It was nothing compared to Scarif.
But on Scarif, I couldn't back away.

I hitched a ride on the Death Star, is that crass of me? To take advantage of a weapon named for me? Perhaps, but after Jedha I saw wherever it went I would soon follow-- it seemed prudent to be there the moment I was needed.

The sky ahead was a pale blue when I saw them on the beach. 

I had already made my rounds through the base. It had been a mess of loyalties all mixed together, and all waiting for me no matter the uniform they wore. I almost hoped I was done, that I wouldn't see them again after gathering the man in white from the tower. 

I know it's oxymoronic to think of Death as hopeful. But just because I don't have a soul doesn't mean I don't have a heart.

I took my time along the water. Sentimental, but I thought if I was already there I could at least lend a moment's more peace. I admired the trees swaying in the breeze, the waves lapping along the shore. Such a shame I had to see such beautiful place. 

I know Jyn saw me, she always did. I could see it in the way her arms tightened around her rebel spy, as electric green split the horizon and pale blue rapid gave way to fiery orange 

When the wave of churning ocean and earth hurtled toward the beach I couldn't avoid the task any more. Jyn's grip got tighter and tighter as she watched me approach and I expected to see familiar anger and fury in her eyes. Instead, I saw acceptance. Somehow, that was worse. 

Jyn's grip slackened and the release of pressure caused the man in her arms to turn his head at the devastation racing toward them.

And me.

Hello, Cassian.

After our first few encounters, I wondered what I would see if he looked up. On Scarif, his eyes matched Jyn-- acceptance.

The wave passed by me and crested over the rebels on the beach. Before it had a chance to crash, their souls stood waiting, expectant. 

I extended a hand and together they reached out and took it.

Padmé Amidala deserved much more than betrayal and sadness at the end of her life. She certainly deserved to witness much more than just the beginnings of her children's lives

It's a damn shame.

Death in childbirth always breaks my heart. I tire of my job, I know I complain frequently, but I have no desire to dampen what should be a joyous moment.

There is no sky, just the infinite black of space and her soul fights me, defiant to the end, and I let her. The twins squirm, staring at us. 

Neither of them will remember me, infants never do-- they have no concept of my job, and remain blissfully unware of what my prescence means.

They're so small and similar at birth, when I meet them each again its shocking how different they've become.

I meet Luke five times.

I meet Leia only once. She's not quite ready to forgive me for that.

***A Note on the Force***
With most beings, my job is simple. I collect their souls and pass them on. Some souls are striking, some bland, but it's always routine.
But the Jedi complicate things, as they're wont to do.

The sky outside is black and Obi-Wan is at peace when I find him on the That Weapon Named For Me (it feels crude, using my own name for a device that complicates my job so much more).

"You're late," his soul notes. His corporeal body has already disappeared beneath where his soul stands and I know his decision before I ask.

"Coming or going?"

In lieu of an answer, he turns instead to where a sandy haired boy is watching us with panicked eyes, stuck in place, ignoring the taller man and a woman in white on the ship's ramp, neither of whom glance in our direction.

Obi Wan gives him one last look, as he shoots his way up the ramp after his companions.

"Luke will be alright."

I do not startle easily. But in this case, I jump. Kenobi laughs. "And his sister too." I look to where the ship has taken off.

I have more work to do around That Weapon but I find myself curious, itching to ask more about Padmé's children. But before I have the chance, I'm finally given an answer to my first question.

"Going." he says, walking away until his soul fades.

I'm left in a blood soaked hallway, feeling quite silly.

Damn Jedi.

***Damn Jedi becomes a running theme in my encounters with one Luke Skywalker***

Luke's eyes are more resigned, upsurprised when he sees me under a grey-green sky on Dagaobah to collect Yoda. 

Who, for all his eccentricities during his extremely long life, is quite decisive in death.

"Go, I must. And thank you, I do."

He's gone to the Force quickler than he'd moved in his most recent decades, and so am I, ignoring the curious looks from Skywalker as I go.

***As if one of That Weapon Named for Me weren't enough, it's followed by That Weapon 2***

Space is its typical black hue when I'm called for the soul of the man formerly known as Darth Vader. Skywalker eyes me warily as I approach. His father has been redeemed in his eyes, but he is anxious as to whether I agree.

I want to explain to him the decision is not up to me, I'm simply here to ask a question. One day, I'll have the opportunity.

Anakin Skywalker has the decency to be ashamed in death. I can't quite help the words that escape me.

"You've made my job horrendously difficult."

"Yes," he says. The tone isn't quite apologetic-- he seems to understand the underlying implication of my complaint, the destruction he's wrought that has had far greater effects than a few busy years on my end and 'sorry' doesn't make up for that. 

I sigh. "Coming or going?"

His soul pauses, hesitant. "Going."

***The last time I meet Luke Skywalker, he is alone***

The sky is bathed in gold and Ahch-To is serene.

"I was wondering if you'd make it all the way out here," Luke's soul jokes as I arrive on the rocky outcropping. 

I almost begin to explain myself, for this, for all the years we'd met before, but he stops me. 

"It's okay, I understand."

And then mostly to himself, "Leia's going to hate me."

***Leia Organa in fact, does not hate her brother. She is however, very unhappy with me***

The sky above Ajan Kloss is clear blue when I'm called to collect her soul.

"I looked for you so often."

While her brother was serene, her soul burns with defiance and righteous anger, even when her death was one of loving sacrifice.

"After Alderaan, throughout all those years of war. After Hosnian Prime and my husband's death. I wanted to see who was taking all these things away from me."

Her voice is calm but lined with steel. Her life's legacy, her accomplishments, communicated in the cool intent of her voice.  Princess of Alderaan, Hero of the Rebellion, Senator of the Republic, Leader of the Resistance.

Friend. Mentor. Sister. Mother. Wife.

Leia Organa is not a Jedi, but the Force vibrates in the air around her soul, like wind, pulling her in both directions, offering her whatever peace she chooses.

"Coming or going?" I ask her softly. She hesitates, only briefly. Her soul straightens, resolved.

"There's still work to be done, I'll be going."

And one day, I look forward to meeting them proper.

Just not yet.

***Poe Dameron is a lucky man***

“Sweet, kind, with a bit of temper but that’s all me,” Shara Bey said with a soft laugh.

“Hot-headed, cocksure, but a heart of gold,” said Leia Organa, who was not his mother but loved him as her own anyway.

To be loved by two mothers surely is a lucky thing indeed. I wouldn’t know, of course, and I don’t mean it to sound as a plea for pity, but rather a statement of curiosity. There are of course bad mothers and absent mothers but on the whole most sentients seem to hold them in high esteem. I wish I could fully understand. 

And although Leia had plenty to say about her chosen son (despite being cross with me, she apparently decided it was useful to vent her emotions— something about serene irritating Jedi waiting for her beyond— and I figured it was the least I could do) the only time I meet Poe Dameron is at the bedside the mother of the biological variety. 

Shara Bey’s soul waits flanked by the two men who loved her most. 

“It’s a shame,” she sighs when she sees me. 

Resigned isn’t the word to describe it, but perhaps expectant. Shara’s been waiting for me a long time, her disease both a blessing and curse. On one hand, she had more time. But on the other, the knowledge of my untimely arrival.

I know, I don’t like it either.

Poe Dameron is more mop than boy when I meet him, all narrow limbs and a flop of curly hair on top. He climbs onto his father’s lap and watches me, face dry but eyes brimming.

He’s eight years old and not surprised by me. It unsettles me.

I take extra care as I gather Shara’s soul gently in my arms, careful of ceilings and door frames as I exit the small home on Yavin under Poe’s watchful eye.

Light breaks through the slate of the afternoon rain scattering purple across the sky and Shara Bey’s soul sings her son a lullaby about sunshine and grey skies.

I’m not ashamed to admit I cried. Even death has a heart.

***I met Poe Dameron in soft sorrow, I meet the man who will save his life in rage and terror***

Leia Organa, who informs me of many things the day I meet her soul, tells me his name.

When I meet him on Jakku, he’s only a number. 

I’m not so naive to think the galaxy is always a pleasant place, or if we’re being honest, even a mostly pleasant place. But I’ve always been unnerved by the numbers. I’ve collected their souls in the hundreds over decades and wished for something more to tell their story.

So yes, under the starless burning night sky, I met a man known as number. But in my recollections, I can know give him his name. 

Finn.

He's distinguished from his comrades in arms by the blood streaked across his armor as I stoop to gather the soul of the fallen soldier before me. 

He does not raise his head at the gunfire, he does not fall back at the shouting. He removes his bulky helmet and stares from the body to me in horror.

Horror.

Terror.

Realization.

I'm embarrassed to say I didn't stick around. Battlefields and killing fields are busy places in my line of work, I find them monotonous despite their depravity. Always too many souls, so entrenched against one another in life yet sharing space in my arms in death. I wish I could warn them of the futility ahead of time.

So yes, I left Finn in that bloody village, helmetless and shocked, another nameless face in my travels.

He proved me wrong. One day I hope to apologize.

***As a rule, I despise the term 'Death Defying'***
I stress again, I'm not something that can be defied.
I simply am.

That being said, there's an exception to every rule.

Rey is that exception.

I meet her at her end that turns out to be only the beginning.

The sky on Exogal is velvet navy streaked by white, red and green when I descend to the caves for her soul.

She's more corporeal that I expect, tired and confused. Around us there's a deafening noise of voices. I recognize although Rey mostly does not.

The situation is off-putting and I'm slightly unsure how to proceed.

"Coming or going?" I ask, because that's part of my script and she ripples with the Force like Jedi before her.

She considers, opens her mouth to answer, and is gone.

Or rather, her soul is gone and her body stirs and I for one, am quite at a loss for words.

Death defying, near-death experiences are often bandied about with no basis in fact-- I never meet those who claim it, their soul never breaches the wall to call my attention.

But yet-- Rey was there. And then she wasn't.

Death defied.

"Do I get a question as well?"

The soul of the dark lanky man who had stood next to the Jedi girl now stands before me and some things are becoming clear.

The man formerly known as Kylo Ren ripples with the Force, like his grandfather had. He lacks the same degree of shame in his actions, looks even pleased at his final victory, watching as the young Jedi scrambles to her feet.

"Your mother is waiting," I tell him. The first ripples of shame cascade across his face. 

He looks so young. I try to connect it with the hundreds of souls strewn across the galaxy in his wake.

"And my father?" he asks, voice small. 

"Not in the same direction," I say. "Coming or going?"

A pause. "Going."

By the time Ben Solo's soul has moved on, Rey is gone for the cold throne room. 

I hear later she goes by Skywalker now.

The cycle continues on.

And on.

And on.

Among them, two men I’ve met once before. 

One led.

The other followed.

There’s love to be found in both things.

**I met them first in a city lost to history and hate**

They were both still monks then. The large man in austere robes, behind a blind man who clearly saw me well enough. 

“Chirrut, we must go.”

“Let’s not be rude to our guest.”

It took a moment, to realize he meant me, stooped to gather the soul of a fellow monk, fallen in protest at the foot of his temple.

**There were no white armored bodies at the temple’s base**

  Just the unlucky souls of those who’d stood in protest. 

To bear witness.

The gruff man did not turn to look at me, had no desire to inquire whom his companion was referring to.

Baze Malbus already knew. And he did not care.

I respected him immensely for it. It wasn't the brash, stupid gallantry of the young men and women who think they can fight me to the end.

It's an acknowledgement, without malice, of my role. And his.

We will meet one day, I'm always there. 

A result.

The blind man tsked and waved him off with a wry comment on his faith, before kneeling near the body the same as me. 

We were face to face, his milky eyes facing me but looking for something beyond.

He ignored the destruction around him, of stone and flesh. Ignored the agitated mutterings of stormtroopers guarding the Temple's entrance while their comrades pillaged the crystal inside. Ignored the Baze's justified wariness as he stood guard above him.

Instead, he focused on an incantation-- an affirmation, really.

“You are one with the Force, the Force is with you. We are one with the Force, the Force is with us. I am one with the Force, the Force is with me.”

The soul in my hand had worn the same robes, served the same temple, was just as devout but I had no question to ask him-- he was indeed one with the Force now, but not of the Force.

Chirrut Îmwe, however, vibrated with it.

Stormtroopers formed a column, pushing towards the remaining monks to drive them out. Baze roiled with anger.

"Chirrut."

The shorter man sighed, gracefully drawing himself to his feet. A placating hand in Baze's direction and an inclined head in mine.

"I expect we will meet again, my friend."

**He wasn't wrong** 

Entropy will have it's day

On Scarif, I bent before the fallen man to collect his soul. Another stood over his body, robes gone but a prayer on his lips.

"I am one with the Force, the Force is with me."

The soul stood before me tsked. 

"Years of asking and it's not until my death that he listens."

Chirrut did not seemed perturbed in the slightest by his death. He was in no rush, even as the Force vibrated around him, caressing and whispering promises in whichever direction he chose.

I suspected it when we first met on Jedha, and I asked him then:

"Coming or going?"

He smiled, slow and wide, like he knew the answer to a joke I hadn't yet asked. He didn't answer the question.

"You're not what I expected."

The battle raged around us, my work piling up. And I couldn't help but be distracted and intriguied by the odd Guardian before me. 

"Coming or going?" I ask again, because really, there was a script and I needed to know. 

Small talk has never been my forte.

Chirrut looked past me, to the open stretch of beach where Baze strode, heavily armed. 

(Though he did not know it, Baze was not alone in defiantly carrying on. He strode, she climbed. Both fueled by love tinged pain, to finish the task the devout left behind.)

It took several moments for the man to be felled. 

Chirrut closed his eyes, breathing deep despite no longer having a need to.

"Coming."

I was surprised, and touched. I'd seen many a Force sensitive being given a choice-- and nearly none had given up the option to go.

"You idiot."

Baze's soul was gruff when I collected him and he saw Chirrut there, waiting.

"Yes, but unfortunately for you, I'm your idiot."

**About The Dropoff**

I leave souls on it's vast plain,

A bright white I've never seen once in the sky. 

When I next return, they've gone. 

The Force works in mysterious ways, even to me.

When I left them, they waited, hands clasped, heads bent but unbowed, murmering softly to one another. 

I could hear it faintly as I walked away.

"We are one with the Force, the Force is with us."

The scared boy in the corner of the dingy attic  room didn’t know it yet, but he became a man the day I saw him. 

All of ten years old, scrawny in an unnatural way that spoke of missed meals, Bodhi Rook became a man at the foot of his father’s corpse.

*** This galaxy made men two ways***
Through war
Or through poverty

The third way, through stability and nurturing, was so rare as to be statistically insignificant.

Bodhi didn’t mind me, instead watching his ashen faced mother draped over his father’s body. The words the doctor— not much more than local vet, in truth— said flew over his head. His only reality was his sister’s small hand clutched in his own, and the sound of her quiet sniffles.

It breaks my heart.

Children didn’t cry much on Jedha, no one did. Not anymore. Not since the Star Destroyer planted itself squarely over the desecrated temple.

***I was there that day***
All I could hear were the screams of NiJedhans and the incantations of a particularly odd monk.

Bodhi paid me no mind as I made my way out. I doubt when I picked him up on Jedha he realized I'd crossed his paths many, many times before.

Because the way that galaxy made men also made a hell of a lot of souls as well.

And I had the dismal pleasure of getting to know those planets unfortunate enough to be at the crossroads of war and destitution.

Young Bodhi Rook was in his parents bedroom.

Two years later, outside the mouth of the sole remaining kyber crystal mine, cupping water for the survivors of the collapse. He paid no heed to the stormtroopers with nightsticks leering over him.

Two more years, covered in speeder grease when the mechanic cleared the workbench for the injured racer, dimming the lights so no one would investigate why the young woman was bleeding out in his shop.

Eight years to the day I met him, in his stiff starched collar, lurking the corners of the nani's funeral. The old woman had given him sweets as a child, shooing away any meager form of payment he offered. Now, her grandchildren glared at his shiny black boots, shot daggers at his insignia. 

I've seen those looks before. Traitor, they scream while the shiny new credits burn a hole in the accused's pocket and they close their eyes and bite their nose and think about their families, full and clothed and sheltered.

It was the last I saw of him, for 5 years and 365 days.

When the shaken exhausted soul of Imperial scientist landed in my arms.

He was looking forward to finally seeing his wife. He was surprised to learn his beloved daughter was alive and had received the message he sent in a slapdash, hope beyond hope plan.

But that last fact meant something else too— he was incredible proud of an Imperial cargo pilot, who’d grown up too fast and overcome the galaxy’s brutal cycle of picking up promising young men and spitting them back out, defeated.

The messenger. 

The pilot.

After meeting Galen Erso, I am not shocked to see Bodhi on Scarif. When I gather his soul out the sandy carcass of the ship, he’s scrambled to stand and meet me.

He’s so far from the distraught boy in his parent’s bedroom. So far from the ashamed new ensign at the community funeral.

The sky above him glows orange and yellow, for just a moment breaking up the clear blue expanse and casting Bodhi in a warm, enveloping light.

“I did it,” he says, looking at the gory scene at his feet.

I nearly lose my nerve then. Millennia of moving souls and it’s Bodhi Rook who almost convinces me to throw in the towel.

***He does something to me, that boy.***
He steps on my heart, he makes me cry.

I pull myself together and meet his standing soul.

"You did it."