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Porter Engle has heard many epic tales in his long lifetime.
Fables told of large undersea beasts upending ships in the seas of Kattada, told in hushed voices and huddled circles back at the crèche as a youngling. Tales of phantoms and beings that exist only in shadow creeping alongside Vectors and Freighters alike in the solitude of hyperspace, told around the fire to scare he and his fellow padawans. All the various stories of daring and exploits, epic romance and decimating heartache and swashbuckling bravado that were shared by all on the frontier.
He’s watched as through the years, those around him have started to spin an intricate and increasingly inflated sense of grandeur surrounding his very own exploits as a servant of the Order.
The tale of Porter Engle. Jedi, Blade of Bardotta, master of both saber and skillet….
Brother.
Memories of Barash have a way of creeping up on him in moments like this, the tranquil sounds of the lake and valley below the Rishi outpost a gentle chorus in his ears.
There was a time when such memories would cast a dark fog within Porter’s heart. Thinking of Barash and every other soul that have come and gone in the many years he’s been performing the will of the force out in the galaxy would darken his mood and dampen his spirit.
Their loss clung to him and dared not let go.
He’s come to realize that the hurt is, if not good, at the very least important. It’s a reminder. A reminder of the indelible ways each of those presences have shaped the Jedi he has become.
Used to be, thinking about Barash would feel like free falling into an open chasm in his soul.
Now, thinking of her only serves to make him smile.
So, with the soft sounds of waves rolling into shore and Tilna Swans flying overhead, he does just that; he lets himself be transported to some of his favorite memories of his sister.
“This is impossible.”
With a huff and what is sure to be the perfect amount of dramatic flair, Porter falls to the ground in the soft sweetgrass that sits behind the quaint temple on Makem Liva.
A few feet away, another huff echoes into the quiet meadows around him, this one with a decided air of indifference to his suffering.
As part of the preparation for his eventual trials, Porter was tasked with forming a connection with an incredibly stubborn Xilta, a large herd animal that resides all throughout the Makem system.
Four hours.
That’s how long it’s been.
Four hours since Master Delphinn had left him to his frustration, the massive and stoic Herglic offering not a single word of encouragement.
The Xilta huffs again, surely mocking Porter as she turns her rear-end to face him, loudly chewing on her meal of sweetgrass.
Maybe it’s not too late to ditch this whole Jedi shtick. There’s an ancient passenger shuttle that makes daily stops in the spaceport down in the valley below the temple. He’ll sneak down tonight while everyone is fast asleep and board that ticket away from this madness; Travel to Florrum and make a name for himself amongst the scum and villainy that resides there.
The sound of soft footfalls alerts him to another presence.
Barash has a way of finding him when he’s having petty crises such as this one. He almost smiles before remembering himself. He’s forlorn. He’s melancholic. His entire future as a Jedi is in jeopardy because of some cud-chewing beast.
“You’re sulking.”
It takes everything within Porter not to huff in defiance to his sister’s statement. If it weren’t for the playful smile on her lips, he’d surely be giving her an award-worthy death glare.
“Maybe I am. This is torture. That awful beast doesn’t even care that it’s got my fate right there on it’s stinking hind end.”
The Xilta does nothing but continue to chew and chew and chew. And maybe fart. The air definitely wasn’t so foul a moment ago.
Barash just giggles at the whole display. From anyone else, it would seem condescending. Pitying. Barash isn’t that way. She’s so smart and brave and good.
It can’t be long now that she realizes she’s a fine Jedi of her own merit. She doesn’t need Porter. She never has.
“You have to believe in yourself, or the Xilta never will.”
Porter doesn’t acknowledge the advice. He just sets his focus on picking at long strands of grass, first rolling them between the milky white skin of his fingers, before tossing them off into the distance.
Petulant, he knows. Given the circumstances, a little petulance is warranted, thank you very much.
Barash isn’t deterred. She sits next to him with a serenity and grace that are far beyond her years, and though he stubbornly wants to hold onto his frustrations, Porter can already feel himself start to relax.
He and Barash seem to always be exactly what one another need when they least expect it. They’ve always been this way.
The Jedi have their own preoccupations about attachment, and some of it Porter knows to be absolutely warranted.
He also knows that he’s a better Jedi because of his sister. This agonizing display with the Xilta is evidence to that very fact. He’s already feeling serene just sitting in silence with her; had she been here during the test of his abilities he’s no doubt it would have been over in an instant.
Perhaps he should be worried that he is developing too much of a reliance on the bond he shares with Barash, but when their exploits together are always so successful, it’s hard to hold onto that trepidation.
The Order could no more have stopped their connection from forming than the great wide wonders of the galaxy around them could stop massive stars from collapsing into supernovas or black holes from ripping titanic tears in the fabric of space itself.
“You’re waxing poetic in your head again. I can tell. That’s your waxing poetic face.”
Barash’s soft chuckle and the slight teasing bump of her shoulder against his own pull Porter back into the here and now.
That’s definitely the smell of a Xilta fart lingering in the air.
He sighs before answering, “I’m just frustrated is all. I feel like I’m letting Master Delphinn down.”
He kicks a small pebble in front of him, watching as it bounces out of sight under a small shrub.
Then he adds in a much softer voice, “I feel like I’m letting myself down.”
That statement hangs in the air for a moment, Porter feeling that he’s overshared with each silent second that passes by.
Then Barash stands, and positions herself directly in front of her brother, offering her open palms to him.
She’s smiling as she says, “Come on Porter, up. You’re reign of angst ends now.”
Knowing that argument is futile, Porter clings to Barash’s hands as he is hoisted off the ground. Once he’s standing face to face with his sister, he’s surprised to find that she doesn’t let go of his hands.
She’s still smiling as she offers another gentle command.
“Close your eyes.”
He does so without thought.
“Take a deep breath. Reach out and feel all of the life around us, all of it right here in this meadow.”
Breathing in deep, Porter makes an effort to quiet his racing mind. As he does, he focuses on what Barash instructed. He can sense their three heartbeats in the small meadow, the way the tips of the blades of sweetgrass catch the wind just so, singing a quiet melody that carries upward to the small temple at the top of the hill. He can hear birds chittering somewhere up above and if he listens close enough, can hear a gentle stream forging its way through the valley. All of it is alive, alive and alight in warmth, radiating through the force, settling that warmth deep within him.
Barash doesn’t speak again for several moments, both of them pleased to sit in the quiescent comfort of the afternoon sun.
“Keep your eyes closed. Just focus on my voice. Remember our trip to the outpost on Hypori?”
Porter smiles at the mention of the assignment. At the time, he’d have told anyone willing to listen that it was the most boring three days of his life. Now, he is able to appreciate it for all of the lessons it imparted him with.
Barash’s words accompany the vivid memories that overtake his mind.
“Finally, our first big assignment. We were so excited to help Master Fohl take down that smuggling ring. Then that dust storm blew in out of nowhere and we got tasked with locking down the outpost and staying with the younglings.”
It’s an experience the pair can look back on now in humor, but at the time they were both truly devastated to be placed on babysitting duty while their first big assignment slipped away, carried off by the fierce winds of the dust storm raging outside the walls of the outpost.
Barash continues, “It may not have been the task we’d hoped for, but we were needed in that moment. The force placed us there. The younglings were so scared at first. You taught me a great lesson that day, Porter. The younglings were looking to us for guidance. Because you were calm in the face of the storm, they were able to be calm as well.”
Porter smiles as the memories continue to dance in his mind, the younglings all gathered around as Barash told them stories about Coruscant or cheering and applauding while he juggled some fruit he’d found in the commissary.
“We are beacons, brother. We act in service of the force. If you believe you can connect with this Xilta, then so shall it be.”
Porter’s eyes remain closed as Barash walks him over to where the Xilta is still standing.
“Make it so, Porter.”
For one terrifying moment, Porter is sure that the beast will turn away or spit at his feet.
Instead, it rests its head ever so gently in the open palms of his hands.
He can feel content singing through the force around them.
He opens his eyes, hoping to turn and thank his sister for her help, but she is nowhere to be seen. He is instead met with the kind smile of Master Delphinn, clearly pleased with his work.
“Congratulations, padawan. Seems your perseverance has paid off.”
Porter’s smile doesn’t falter. One day he will find a way to repay his sister for all she has done. One day he will make her proud.
Their time on Togoria has been…. Interesting. Definitely interesting.
Porter isn’t quite sure how else to quantify this experience.
They had not been called here on any official assignment. Togoria does not yet have a Jedi presence, and their relationship with the greater Republic is still in its infancy.
He and Barash were asked to accompany Senator Caiye of Duros while she visits with a delegation of other Republic officials keen on securing Togoria’s entrance into the Galactic Senate; having something to do with trade lanes and refueling posts and hyperspace beacons and all sorts of other deliriously boring jargon Porter had ignored during their long trek through hyperspace.
He and Barash, while unofficially here at the behest of the council who are hoping to someday have a temple or outpost on world, are really only serving as ornamentation.
If the Council wants him to put on a show, then Porter will put on a show.
In fact, he’s been here, in front of a grand fountain in a bustling bazaar in the heart of Fyynh City since the early morning. He’s spent his time chatting with locals and aiding vendors with restocking or small maintenance, being a good servant of the force for the better part of six hours.
Of course, Barash missed all that.
She’d finally broke away from the Senators posse sometime in mid-afternoon.
Now, she’s standing here, one neatly trimmed eyebrow raised at his antics.
Antics that had started when he’d caught the eye of two local students, likely studying at the small conservatory in the city, both very near in age to Porter.
What had started innocently enough, Porter removing his tunic so that all the various muscles of his upper body would be on display while he helped an elderly Klatooinian vendor secure a new awning over their cooking station, had…… pretty quickly gotten out of hand.
It had all begun with dashing smiles and coy winks tossed in their direction, enjoying the way the Theelin’s tight braids would fall around her horns each time she’d run her fingers through her hair as her eyes darted away from his gaze and the way the Togorian’s broad shoulders would shake, and his nose would wrinkle with his giggles.
Somehow that turned into him performing a very intricate and rhythmic lightsaber display, smiling for all the adoring public loudly cheering at his performance.
Well, all cheering except for Barash. She’s still looking at him as if he’s the jester in the court of some pompous king.
He tosses a wink her way, delighting in the playful roll of her eyes and the way her mouth raises in a semi-smile. Barash likes to play the stoic, no nonsense type, but she’s as full of mischief as Porter himself. It’s part of the reason they work so well together.
Porter moves into a daring display with both blades, a sort of grand arc that they take around one another that requires perfect timing and very precise footing.
His smile grows impossibly wide as the awed faces and shocked gasps echo around him, the crowd clearly impressed with his swordsmanship.
It all happens in an instant.
One moment, he’s turning and twisting and diving while his sabers sing in the open air around his body. He casts his eyes about the crowd, searching for his sister, hoping to see her wry smile at his grandiose display.
The next moment, he loses his footing, and his heart immediately falls into the pit of his stomach.
The stunned faces of the beautiful pair of bystanders he was trying to impress are the last things he sees before tumbling backward into the fountain behind him, his head connecting with the concrete foundation before his vision goes completely black.
He awakes some hours later, finding himself in a makeshift care station set up in the resort that they’d been placed in with Caiye and the rest of her entourage.
For a moment, he foolishly thinks that he’s alone; able to agonize in his own embarrassment away from the prying eyes of others.
He knows his sister too well.
Barash is seated next to him, focused on a very melodramatic holodrama.
Porter just lays stock still, not daring move a muscle. If he can convince his sister he is still asleep, maybe she will eventually leave, and he can avoid the inevitable conversation about his antics in the bazaar earlier. Perhaps he can fall back on his old plan of sneaking aboard one of the shuttles in the city and escaping to some far-off planet where he —
“Glad to see you are awake, brother.”
Damn.
Barash’s eyes are still affixed to the sappy romance playing out in front of her, the passionate embrace between two Keshiri women casting an icy blue shadow across his sister’s face.
He doesn’t, however, miss the intention in her gaze. She could care less what is happening in the holodrama. She’s here because that’s her way. She’s here because he made an ass of himself in front of a crowded city square full of witnesses. She’s here because she cares.
Porter keeps that in mind as he brings an open palm up to rub sheepishly at the hairs at the bottom of his skull.
“Seems I made a right fool of myself, huh?”
Though she doesn’t say a word, amusement does dance within Barash’s eyes. It helps to settle the storm raging in Porter’s mind. He’s got her. He’ll always have her.
“I’d say you don’t necessarily have to do anything extra to make a fool of yourself, but I have more tact than that. You made a mistake. You are embarrassed. It happens, Porter.”
With that, she closes out of the story she was not watching to begin with, turning to Porter and raising that famous pointed brow, clearly her attempt at goading him into talking about his feelings …. Gross.
He stays silent.
Of course, his sister means well, but he doesn’t need a bedside therapy session right now. He messed up. He’s already suffered the consequences for that mess up. The shocked faces of his audience are still alight in his mind at this very moment, a constant and mocking reminder of his blunder.
Of course he has noticed how strikingly different he is to other Jedi in the order. How different he is from even Barash herself. Where other Jedi are always so poised and carry themselves with a sense of authority and serenity, Porter has been stumbling his way through his career as a Jedi from the time he arrived at the temple on Coruscant.
Nothing comes naturally to him.
It has taken him years to become as masterful with his sabers as he is now. Years of painstaking practice that left his hands calloused and bruised; his perpetual need to prove that he belongs. That he is worthy of carrying the mantle of Jedi knight and being a representative of the order out in the galaxy.
Barash turns in her seat, taking a hold of one of Porter’s hands as she does so, whispering, “Talk to me, Porter.”
His eyes remain downcast, though he does finally surrender, “You make it all seem so easy, sister. I have such a terrible time of all this Jedi business.”
Barash doesn’t answer right away. Its enough for Porter to think that she hadn’t heard his quiet confession.
Then, she squeezes his hand and begins to laugh.
She laughs and laughs and laughs and Porter can’t help but to laugh along. Its cathartic. It feels like letting go of a weight that has been clinging to him for an eternity.
When they finally catch their breath, Barash wipes at her eyes. Then, she turns to Porter and settles him with a serious gaze.
“Porter, I need you to listen closely to what I am about to say. You are an exceptional Jedi.”
Porter tries to pull his hand away from his sister’s, he tries to avoid her gaze and the intent that he knows he will find within it. She means well, but even she cannot change what he knows to be true.
“Barash, I...”
“No, Porter. Listen. You are an exceptional Jedi.”
There’s a fire in her words, and it startles Porter. He looks to his sister, and sees that fire also reflected in her eyes.
He is stunned silent.
Barash speaks with an authority; a sort of wisdom that is far beyond her years and a comfort to Porter. Even now, with the thoughts of his blunder still dancing on his mind’s stage.
She continues, “You say that I make it look easy, Porter, my goodness, I have no idea what I am doing most of the time.”
The notion is so absurd, Porter immediately makes to argue with his sister until she holds up her hand, stopping his train of thought before it passes his lips.
“I’m serious. I hold so much doubt. I don’t know why, but I do. You though, Porter… You just go out and do. You set your mind to becoming a master with a lightsaber and then did just that. Here, today, you were bold enough to depart from the senator’s posse and announce your intentions to perform the will of the force in the city. I had to sneak away while they were occupied with a defense report.”
The words wash over Porter, filling him with warmth while at the same time helping to push his embarrassment from earlier away.
“You find new ways to inspire me all the time, Porter.”
It is a rare thing for Porter to be left speechless, but here he is, mouth agape like some large and simple beast, that sly smile slowly returning to his sister’s lips.
The silence sits between them for a moment before she reaches over and gently closes Porter’s mouth for him, prompting a fit of laughter from them both once again.
Nothing more is said for some time after that. Barash resumes the holodrama she was watching, this time resting her head on Porter’s shoulder while they sit together and watch the sappy account of secrets, lies, murder, adultery, and all sorts of other nonsense.
Barash’s words nestle softly into a secure spot in Porter’s heart. A small smile finds its way to his lips and doesn’t leave for the rest of the day; it’s a product of knowing that he has begun to pay the colossal debt he owes his sister. He is in some small way proving to her and himself that he is every bit the Jedi that she sees in him.
Gansevor.
Gansevor, and its bloody aftermath.
Barash, with that stubborn resolve and indispensable intuition, sitting with Porter like so many times before, only this time, there would be no after.
Porter, near clawing at his chest, foolishly believing he can tear out the words that Barash needs to hear to reconsider severing this tether that has been the only constant he has had to hold onto in a galaxy as unforgiving as theirs.
It was not enough.
Porter made the trek back to Coruscant alone. He stood in solemn acceptance of his sister’s decision and gave a report on her behalf to the high council. He fielded questions and stifled assumptions and then…
He wandered.
He wandered, lost and alone for a good long while.
Barash’s absence was like a wound that would not heal. He carried it in everything that he did. It weighed on him and ate at him, slowly chipping away at what was already a fractured demeanor.
Assignments came and went like ships passing through the Coruscant skyline in the night, Porter accepting each with the same detached and passionless manner that had become the norm after Gansevor.
The force, once so alive with rhythm and harmony, was near silent in those dark years.
Bardotta was another existential nexus - a violent and life-altering series of events that finally awakened Porter to the darkness that had been seeping into his heart from the moment Barash had announced her intention to fight the darkness that had been seeping into hers.
Slowly, Porter began to recognize that Barash’s words that day were true. He was not alone. His sister followed him in every step he took as a servant of the order, guiding his hand and soothing his fear, her influence abating that dark shroud that had settled in his soul with her departure.
The weight lessened, the wounds healed, and Porter felt a sense of purpose in his actions as a Jedi once more.
He simply shed a final tear the day he felt Barash slip into the cosmic force, the warmth of the Chandrilan sun feeling like the touch of her hand against his cheek, the waves gently rolling in off the Silver Sea her soft voice reminding him that he is never alone.
Finally, years later, surrounded by lively barks from a friendly and energetic Charhound and the laughter of young Bell Zettifar, he once again recognized a soft melody in the force around him.
The sun continues to sink low over the horizon as Porter opens his misty eyes.
He smiles at the comfort the memories of his sister have brought him, here in this moment.
He’s at peace.
He has aged, but he doesn’t feel old. His years are reflected in the lives he’s touched, and the impact that he has left upon the galaxy.
He is tired, but he doesn’t feel weary. The ache in his bones is the product of the work he’s done to defend life whenever the force willed it so.
He is by himself, but he has never been alone. Barash and every other soul who have shaped the Jedi he’s become have their place nestled deep within his heart. He’s carried them all these years.
He’s lived a long and storied life, and more than once, he’d imagined what death would be like. How it would feel.
Many times, he’d imagined going out in a triumphant final stand against some evildoer, carrying a torch for the weak and downtrodden until his final breath.
So much of his life has been an epic tale on the tongues of strangers, or whispered gossip in the halls of temples and outposts across the galaxy, shared between his fellow Jedi.
Here, now, he finally has an answer to those elusive questions.
He’s content to have this; an incredibly un-profound and quiet end on the balcony of an old stone outpost overlooking a small coastal town on Rishi, far from the chaos of the rest of the galaxy.
As the fading sun continues to warm the soft smile adorning his face, the grand saga of Porter Engle comes to an end.
He slips into the cosmic force without so much as a whisper.
The tale of Porter Engle is one of bravery, of selflessness, of a life so full of triumph and defeat and pain and growth and sadness and hope and love.
The tale of Porter Engle is also the tale of Barash Silvain.
Naturally, she’d find him here, beyond the seams of the physical bounds he’d left behind.
Barash, sitting calmly in a room that looks suspiciously like the many temples they’d occupied in life, smiling at him.
And so once again, with the force humming its content, Porter takes a seat beside his sister.