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i.
you don’t watch while jedha burns. or rather, you don’t watch while jedha burns. some part of you, in the broken vestiges of your scattered brain, does.
more than anything, though, you watch the guardians; watch as one’s face turns to stone and the other’s spine straightens. watch as they reach for each other, grief coating the tepid air like the ash coating the ship.
(there is something to be said for bearing witness, a heavy necessity in any kind of catastrophe. you can’t watch but you must, you must, you must. there is no other choice, not here.)
ii.
the thing is, it’s not like there’s much of yours left there to be destroyed, is there? your mother, long gone, your sisters not long after. a few khâleh scattered across the city but–
(your mother’s ashes, out in the desert. your amoo’s stall at the night market, evaporated in an instant. your schoolroom, the steps you’d dance across with your cousins, your whole world until eighteen; all gone in a blink of an eye. you can try to reduce the impact, but the crater’s still there.)
if you distance yourself enough, you may just survive this. may being the key word.
iii.
“so you're a local boy, hmm?”
the guardian is eclipsing you, blocking out the overheads. you can't help the flinch that follows.
“i–”(you're the pilot, you're the pilot, you're the pilot. if you say it enough, it might anchor you enough to find your way back.) “–yes.”
“a traitor, then.”
his fellow guardian’s voice is sharp. “baze.”
your voice is bending, breaking, broken. “i know what i’ve done.”
the second one tilts his head. “do you?”
“more than most.”
baze scoffs.”i doubt it.”
back to the other. “perhaps you shouldn't.”
you can't help but think they should.
iv.
galen erso’s daughter sits across from you, and things start to slot into place.
(you only knew him through covert meetings in the mess hall, scattered passings here and there, but clearly he saw something in you aching to drive change. maybe it was guilt, too close to his own, or crimson coloured grief in the whites of your eyes. whatever it was, you’re here now; a scattered brain and tattered edges of hope.)
“you did good,” she says, and even looks like she means it.
you shake your head. “only what anyone would do.”
“not anyone, bodhi. only you.”
v.
the rain on eadu has always made your bones ache. still, as you follow cassian out into the cloud cover, your breath catches in your throat.
(a scared boy from the desert finds himself in a story too big to keep straight. he runs and he runs and he runs until his lungs are a vice, crushing up against his heart in a desperate try for air. what is he to do when he finds the place he’s reached just as complex?)
you’re not stupid, you both know why cassian chose you. surrender yourself to it, it’s all you can do.
vi.
everything melts away as you steer the ship, just for a second.
(the air in the cabin is tense, stifling even, as you pull away from the landing platform. this—meaning jyn and cassian, meaning whatever war is brewing in your brain—is not your fight right now. when cassian reaches for the controls, you let him.)
you linger for a second, stars blending together in the mess of hyperspace. feel the metal wall behind you, the plastic beneath your feet, and breathe.
(you're the pilot, you're the pilot, you're the pilot. if you say it enough, it'll be true again.)
vii.
“did you ever visit the temple, bodhi?” chirrut is facing you, and you feel seen in an entirely different way.
(your mother was never devout, but she wasn't agnostic to the way of the whills, either. like any good family, you went on every pass of najedha, until no one could. you say as much.)
his face remains insultingly kind. “you did what you must.”
you smart at that. it's your guilt to live with, not his to dismiss.
“i did what I shouldn't, guardian. we both know that.”
“two truths can exist, little brother, remember that.”
perhaps he’s right.
viii.
“disembark in five!”
cassian’s voice pings diagonally from the cabin, and you feel your shoulders tense just at the mention of leaving this ship.
(you didn’t think you’d make it this far, is what it is. not before bor gullet, not after; and you’re scared of what’s next. it was one thing to defect when it meant deliverance, but this is the messy aftermath of it all, and you might be dismissed all the same.)
jyn sneaks next to you, bumps your elbow. “ready to put on a show?”
you don’t think you’ll change any minds, but you have to try.
ix.
you don’t change any minds, but the two of you still try. in the end it doesn’t matter, because cassian has his ways.
you pull baze and chirrut aside as everyone filters in, bowing your head in deference. even a few hours ago, you would’ve never, but this is the penultimate moment, and you have no choice. if the three of you are all that’s left of jedha, you must honour it.
“if we make it through, will you–” you choke on the words, but baze’s eyes fill with begrudging respect.
“we’ll bring you through the rites, little brother.”
x.
in your head is a building crescendo, getting louder by the moment as you pull away from yavin iv. this—whatever this will be—can not be your penance, not yet. but you can try, and you will try, to make it worth it to your last breath.
the moment you enter scarif’s airspace, you know this’ll be it, that there’s no coming back for a ship full of rebellious rebels. what matters is jyn, and her father, and those plans. not much else.
(in less than an hour, you’ll be ash. bear witness to another fire, it’s all you can do.)