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(Anakin.)
He’s never known peace.
Born into slavery, raised in heat and wind that can melt your skin, he sees the hope of a future that someday he can leave this place. Bring his mom away from here, away from the hunger and the toil and the uncertainty. Away from whips and lashes, burns and chips implanted in their bodies.
But she can’t go with them.
And it plagues him.
He’s taught peace. They try to teach it, and for a while he thinks he understands. He thinks maybe it’ll be okay.
But he has dreams. He has visions about the unknown. About her, so many light years away, so alone and abandoned after he promised he’d try.
And then he falls in love. Against all teachings, but he can’t ignore it.
He falls in love and he knows the consequences.
He can’t find peace.
War is a good distraction. He considers it a cruel punch in the gut from the universe—a glimpse of the consequences of his actions.
He knows it’s not his fault, but he feels responsible.
So he fights. He fights and fights like he was born fighting. Like it’s all he was meant to do.
Isn’t he the chosen one, after all? Shouldn’t it be his responsibility to end this war?
He doesn’t consider his own safety.
He rushes into fights, doesn’t listen to any plans, because maybe if he fights harder than anyone ever has, maybe this war will be over sooner.
They call him the Hero with No Fear, but they don’t know that fear has never stopped plaguing him.
He worries. That much is true.
He worries for his wife. For his unborn child. For his padawan. For his master. For all the brothers who had no say in the war or whether they wanted to fight. Who were born into slavery for the Republic.
(He has more in common with them than anyone knows.)
He fights until he doesn’t recognize himself anymore. He’ll do anything to keep her safe.
And then, just like that, it’s over.
But for him, the war has only begun.
He never knows peace. It never finds him.
He burns.
Day in and day out, his skin burns like the day on the black earth when all he loved was torn from his hands.
He’s destined to live out his days in indefinite pain. A cruel mockery of the man he once was.
He’s just twenty-three.
And he’s never been more alone.
—
—
(Ahsoka.)
She remembers her family.
Flashes, that is. Glimpses of her mother’s eyes. The feel of her father’s hands in hers.
The kind, strange face of the man who came to take her to a new life.
She remembers the conversation. The stranger at their door, the knowledge that their daughter is different: gifted. A rare, strange power flows through her veins. And it’s an honor. Should they not send her, her mother says, shame would come upon their family.
So she goes.
She’s scared, it’s dark in space. She clings to the stranger’s rough robes, and he’s kind. He doesn’t tell her to let go. Instead he pulls her closer. He begins telling her about her new home and all the people there, all the things she’ll learn and all the good she’ll do in the galaxy someday.
She’s always been a fighter.
She’s assigned that day to a man she’s seen in passing and heard stories of. He’s nothing special up close—in fact he’s rather underwhelming—but she’s honored. She has to prove herself. To him, to her soldiers, to the galaxy. She has nothing to lose and everything to prove.
She remembers the deaths.
She remembers their names. Their ranks. Their favorite colors.
She calls them brother. Not just soldiers. Family.
Closer than family.
And yet they’re torn from her every day. Every day, she feels their sparks go out until she becomes numb to it.
It could never be her fault, but she feels responsible.
So she fights. She fights every day, fights until she bleeds, until she feels like her body will shut down before she’s ready. Fights as hard as her master does, never falling behind, always staying alert, protecting her family.
She can’t do this anymore.
But she won’t give up.
Not until her dying breath.
Until the very order she swore to protect fails her.
She gives it one last fight. One last chance. One last mission.
And then, just like that, it’s over.
But for her, the war doesn’t end.
She remembers her family.
The blue of their armor. She remembers their strength, their resilience, their camaraderie, their jokes, their names. Especially their names.
She remembers her master. She drops the weapon into the ground. For him.
She’s only seventeen.
And she’s never been more alone.
—
—
(Rex.)
He’s designed for war.
They all are.
He’s raised among white walls and creatures with long necks and brothers who look the same. They’re discouraged from individuality and yet they find it anyway. They differentiate each other by the tones of their voices and the lines in their smiles and the angles of their eyebrows.
But in the end, they’re still brothers. Still soldiers.
Millions of men born for the same purpose, the same end goal.
None of them know what that is, or if it will make it all worth it.
He’s shipped off, and the battle is like nothing he’s ever experienced. No amount of simulations or target practices could have prepared him. Any of them.
But the Republic needs him. He has a purpose. He has orders and brothers who rely on him and a brave general who hasn’t failed him yet.
He knows every name. Every tattoo, every marking on their armor.
But with every mission, he has to learn the names of every replacement.
Every new soldier that ships in with new markings on their armor and new tattoos on their faces. New names replacing the ones they’ll never utter again.
And all he can do is push on. Honor his fallen brothers by being the strongest and fastest and most resilient.
The deaths pile up.
He knows it’s not his fault but he feels responsible.
So he fights. He fights for his brothers, for his general, for his commander. He’s supposed to fight for the galaxy, but it’s too much. He nearly crumbles under the thought of all those people, counting on nothing but a million men with the same face, and the generals who command them.
He fights for peace.
For freedom.
For a future that’s not shrouded in darkness and uncertainty.
And then, just like that, it’s over.
But for him, the war can never end.
He’s designed for war.
He doesn’t know any other way.
He almost kills her. Almost hunts her down, almost shoots her on sight, almost, almost.
But she saves him.
He buries his brothers and his shoulders ache with the weight of the shovel but he’s glad for it.
He can be strong for them one last time. He has to be.
And then even she’s gone too.
He’s only thirteen.
And he’s never been more alone.
—
—
(Obi-Wan.)
He’s always had hope.
Hope that one day someone will take him on as a padawan. Hope that he’ll grow and change and be the best version of himself, maybe make a difference in the wide wide galaxy.
But his life has never followed the path he sees for himself.
He dreams of love. Of teaching.
He dedicates his life to the order as just a boy.
Goes through all the stages of grief before he’s even chosen by a master.
And when he loses that master, he still has hope for his own young padawan.
Hope that the child is in fact who he’s said to be. That his master’s dying words weren’t wrong.
But the child grows up. Has dreams, attachments, outbursts of anger.
And through all the teaching and coaching, war breaks out.
Threatens the galaxy with suffering and pain—something he can’t allow.
He knows it’s not his fault, but he feels responsible.
So he fights. Fights for his padawan, for his brothers and sisters of the order, for the future generations, for the galaxy. For hope.
He’s not as reckless as his padawan, but he is bold. He doesn’t consider his own safety, only the safety of those around him. He’s beaten up by the war, and every next battle is just one step closer to his unraveling.
They call him the Negotiator, but words are just a cover for his fear.
He fights alongside the thousands of men he calls brothers—who look to him for orders every day. Orders he doesn’t feel qualified to give. And yet he’s forced to give them regardless. He leans on his second in command. They develop a brotherhood, despite all warnings against it.
He worries for his padawan who is now also teaching a young one.
He fights and loves and worries and loses and watches the people he loves die, one by one, over and over, and he tears himself apart from the inside out.
And then, just like that, it’s over.
But for him, the war will never end.
All of a sudden he’s walking across black earth, two weapons in hand, away from the screaming and the burning.
He’s boarding the ship, the weight of the galaxy suddenly borne on his shoulders.
He’s always had hope.
So hope is what he clings to, in the form of the smallest baby.
He makes his home in the heat and the violent sand.
He’s only thirty-eight.
And he’s never been more alone.
—
—
(Caleb.)
He’s never had a home.
Maybe he can call the temple his home, but it doesn’t feel right.
He knows it should. He knows he grew up there. His first memory is of the feeling of the creche master’s rough brown robes against his cheek as he wakes up.
But there’s a whole galaxy out there, and maybe home is somewhere else. And how can he know if he never explores it?
So he’s almost glad to join his master and be swept into a war.
At eleven, war is an abstract concept.
He doesn’t understand the severity of what he’s getting himself into.
But his master believes in him. She says she won’t let him down.
So they ship off.
And it’s a whirlwind. He’s challenged and stretched and thrown into the role of an adult at only twelve. He gains the trust of the soldiers he fights alongside.
His master never wanted to be a general, but she’s mighty. She embraces the role. And she gains everyone’s respect.
He only wants to follow in her footsteps.
To be as great a warrior as she is.
But nowhere they go feels like home.
His friends, his brothers, his sisters. They die every day. He hears reports from the core. Another face he’ll never see again.
He knows he could never be at fault, but he feels responsible.
So he fights. He fights for his master, for the galaxy, for his brothers, for somewhere he can call home. He throws every ounce of strength in his body into the war and ending it so everything can go back to normal.
And it’s okay. The end is in sight. It’s one big mission, and he’s cold and the reinforcements are less than they called for but it’s okay.
And then, just like that, it’s over.
He’s running for his life. Running as hard as he possibly can away from everything he’s ever known, the last echoes of his master’s cry hammering at his mind.
He’s never had a home.
There’s no one he can trust.
He’s only fourteen.
And he’s never been more alone.
—
—
(Cal.)
He tries to forget.
He blocks all memories of his time before.
Before it all ended.
It’s easier not to think about it. Less painful. That way, he doesn’t miss home.
You can’t miss something you don’t remember.
Because, just like that, it’s over.
He runs through the ship with lasers at his tail, away from the only life he’s ever known. Following his master’s orders, dodging the men he used to call brothers.
Leaping across chasms, climbing walls, finding shortcuts and passages to squeeze through.
Something’s wrong, something’s wrong, something’s wrong.
Everything feels different.
He watches his master take his last breath. Braces for the crash, through the tears.
And then he hides. Blends in.
Works hard, keeps his head down, does everything he should.
He’s young, but he finds his way. The first few years are a living hell. He’s always hungry, always cold, always soaked to the bone. He works for scraps. Two days of work for one bite of rations. He searches ships as they’re dropped off, grabbing treasures before the other scrappers can get to them.
He’s found clothing that way. Waterproof clothing worth more than all the work he’s ever done.
And he grows. Somehow, through starvation and sickness, he grows. Stronger every day, more familiar with the planet, making acquaintances and always keeping the weapon close against his body.
He remembers the day he has his first real meal.
Maybe life will be okay.
Maybe there is a future for him.
And then, he meets the strangers.
He’s swept off in a whirlwind of new discoveries, fighting the woman with the red saber, and slowly, slowly, he remembers.
He remembers his time before.
He remembers his master’s teachings.
He remembers what it’s like to feel whole, to feel needed, to feel like he belongs.
To do some good for the galaxy and for the future generation.
He knows it’s not his responsibility, but he’s the only one who can.
So he fights. He fights for the children, for all the innocent lives being hunted down. For his master, for his friends, for honor, for loyalty.
He fights for freedom and to right his own wrongs. For the good of the girl he met, who’s so haunted already. Just like him. For all the damaged and shattered people who went through the same thing he did.
He fights, not because he’s forced to, but because he knows there’s some good left in the galaxy and it’s worth fighting for.
He’s only seventeen.
And he’s finally done being alone.
—
—
(Luke.)
He’s the hope of the next generation.
And he doesn’t even know it.
He’s never known war. That’s not to say he hasn’t known hardship. Growing up as a moisture farmer in the desert sands has left its mark on him—made him appreciate everything he has. Everything he’s been given.
So when he’s catapulted into the rebellion, he takes it in stride. He takes it by the reins and doesn’t let go.
He fights and fights and fights. Gives his all. Loses men, gains followers, falls down, gets back up. Learns, grows, and becomes a great commander.
But what he doesn’t know that he provides the galaxy . . . is hope.
Hope that they’ll find peace.
Hope that they’ll find family.
Hope that there will be no more war.
Hope for the future.
Hope that no one will again lose a home.
Hope that no one will have to forget.
Hope for all the brave warriors who lost friends, brothers, teachers that day the world changed. The day it all ended.
It wasn’t over.
It had only begun.
And he’s the only one who can prove that.
He provides hope for the next generation. For his father, for his master, for his sister, for his friends. For all those he loves with a ferocity that is unheard of.
He forgives. He loves.
He provides hope.
He is hope.
He holds his father’s dying body. Holds a memorial that no one will see. That no one cares about but him.
But he sees their smiling faces, and he knows. He knows. It’s all okay.
All the pain.
All the suffering.
It’s going to be alright.
He’s only twenty-three.
And he’s determined that no one will ever again be alone.