Chapter Text
Ciaran awoke in much the same way he had these past six years; a cold sweat across burning skin. They say time heals all trauma, but it only seemed to intensify this particular wound. This pain cut deeper than any blade. It seemed to be psychically imprinted on his mind. One night of endless screams, echoed across the Force, followed by thunderous silence. That silence, more than the screams, carved deep scars across his mind, as nails across slate. The Force wasn’t silent. There was a nearly constant presence of consciousness. The collective Jedi and force sensitive beings filled the vastness with ambient white noise. If you’ve ever been in true silence–not the mere absence of noticeable sound, but the terrifying magnitude of a space without any worldly noise–then maybe you can understand.
Standing up, he wiped the sweat from his forehead before taking a long drink of water. Every night for three years. It had become predictable, but nonetheless horrifying. Each night was awful as the first. He reached out with the force. There was life, yes. There were plants, fauna, and even people. But those bright flames, those beings who drew the Force around themselves like a cloak–they were so few as to be nearly invisible; a candle viewed from looking down the precipice of the deepest chasm.
Ciaran Set-Khullain pulled on his robe and moved to his living room. It was more of an office at this point. The only furniture was a desk in the corner piled high with papers. Other stacks of papers were piled neatly against the walls. The only chair was neatly pushed into the desk. One day, Ciaran wanted his writing to get out there. They were his analyses of the events leading up to the Clone Wars. What could the Jedi Order learn from his writing? Of course, there was no order anymore. But maybe someone would find it useful. There were also instructional texts, written recently in the hopes of future force sensitive people finding them and learning. He was no great powerful Jedi, but he liked to think his ways allowed him a deeper insight into the Force than most Jedi Masters on the council, aside from maybe Master Yoda. And Ciaran knew he was a better writer than Master Yoda. Yes, he was the right person for the job. There were better writers than him and there were Masters stronger with the force. But there weren’t any Masters stronger than him who were also better writers.
Making a mental note to find materials suitable for binding while he was out today, Ciaran stepped into the pre-dawn morning. The third moon had almost touched the horizon on its endless descent, meaning there was little point in attempting to get back to sleep. Soon, the sun would emerge from behind the moon and he would need to begin his day. Ciaran mindlessly twisted and pulled at his mustache as he walked from the porch into the calm blue-green sea of grass. He began moving through the familiar motion, shooing away the cobwebs built up over many years of disuse.
He felt the Force respond to his movement. A thrum washed through his body with every movement, every kata, every conscious effort to reconnect. By the time the sun had fully emerged from the diminishing moon, a steady stream of sweat watered the grass, newly flattened into a neat circle where his foot had traced overlapping patterns of concentric circles. The aging Jedi shielded his eyes from the glare before heading inside to change clothes.
The Forests near his small cabin were the one luxury Ciaran had afforded himself after taking self-imposed exile. There were nameless scattered ruins, hundreds of plants he knew nothing about, save what he recorded in his logbook. There were cave systems which came in rather useful when you wanted to hide a small starship from prying eyes–well, the larger ones did. The smaller ones were interesting for reasons other than storage. And above all else, the forests contained some of the most diverse animal life Ciaran had ever seen. Over the past several years, they had come to accept him as one of their own, often trailing him as he stalked the forest. And none had been the least bit territorial in his presence.
Ciaran spent his day calmly exploring the rich turquoise of the forests, collecting mushrooms, herbs, berries and anything else he could use in his tinctures, teas, and other products of his wildcrafting. He found a thick red sap that he thought might reduce into a glue nicely and set a tap and bottle to collect the sticky substance. His rucksack full, and his hands red from the combined minor tortures of sap, thorns and gravel, Ciaran approached his modest cabin, seeing the first moon just starting to reach above his roof to meet the sun. But something wasn’t right. It took him a few heartbeats to narrow down exactly what it was–the simple curtains he kept drawn across his front window were pulled back, revealing his bare living space. He hadn’t ever opened them since making his home in this lush valley. But there they were, open to the eyes of the world.
He set his rucksack to the ground, and he moved to his front door, his feet subconsciously falling into an old stance, familiar as an old friend. He opened it and stalked inside. Aside from the curtains being opened, there wasn’t anything else out of place. Ciaran headed for his small kitchen when he reacted without thought. As he had done countless times before in another lifetime, his hips dropped low while he spun into a stable defensive stance.
He reached out and the Force responded, an extension of his mind and body. The Force gripped the figure standing in the doorway to his bedroom. A young woman of no more than nineteen or twenty was held in place, eyes wide with fear. Her mouth began to move as his mind processed the scene in front of him. A motley assortment of well worn clothes adorned the girl, who had short cropped auburn hair. Her face was covered in road dust, and was accented with two black stripes which slashed through either eye and met under her chin. Her skin was a dusky blue underneath the grime. At her hip was–unmistakingly–a lightsaber.
“Only a matter of time, I suppose.” Ciaran’s voice sounded strange to his ears. When was the last time he had spoken? He couldn’t recall. “Who are you?”
The young woman had been noiselessly mouthing in surprise, but seemed to finally find her voice as she exclaimed, “Master!” The Force holding her in place released at that word, but the lightsaber at her hip ripped free and soared into Ciaran’s outstretched hand. He ignited the blade, and a cerulean light engulfed the room.
“Not a puppet of the Sith, then.” Had his voice always sounded so raspy?
“Master, no. It’s me, Mari.” She fell to the ground, having relied on the Force hold to stay upright during her moment of terror. “I… I finally found you, Master.” Tears began to stream down her face, weathering canyons through the dust. Ciaran stood there, lightsaber all but forgotten as his eyes left the present, taking refuge in the deep corners of his mind. Searching the past as suddenly there was something there, something he shouldn’t have forgotten. Slowly, his eyes focused on her, bringing with them tears. Hot with the guilt he had carried from planet to planet across the galaxy; his greatest belonging, both weightless and infinitely dense. The lightsaber extinguished and fell to the floor as Ciaran lunged forward and pulled his one-time Padawan into a tight embrace.
“Marikiva… you’re alive .”
Mari sat at the small table while Ciaran fiddled with the steaming kettle. A swarm of dried herbs, berries, and little crystal bottles flitted around his head, each one eventually nesting in his outstretched hand before falling into his mortar. With a practiced hand, he made concentric circles with his pestle. It started out slowly but with a firm, unyielding strength. His speed built up as the pulverized material became a homogenous emulsification with some of the pungent liquids he had added in almost miniscule amounts. The final paste looked glossy and dark. Almost black in this light, but sometimes it seemed to give off reddish sheen. This was separated into two–obviously handmade–clay mugs. Ciaran then added a small amount of room temperature water to each mug before using a small whisk that was really just a needle branch to incorporate the thick paste with the water. He slowly added more water, this time from the steaming–not boiling–kettle.
Mari remembered this kind of ritual from when she was his Padawan. A blanket of calm falls over the kitchen. The scent of sweet herbaceous tea filled the senses. She could almost taste the delicate balance of tannins and acids; soon it wouldn't be just an almost . She knew he was tempering the tea, slowly increasing its temperature so as not to scorch the flavors. He was waking them up. Finally, the kettle boiled and sang its happy tune. Ciaran filled the remaining space in the cups and gave the tea a final stir.
And there they sat. Neither drinking. Both afraid. Silence began to replace calm. The loud kind of silence. The kind that falls not like a blanket, but an ill fitting sweater. Too tight in some places and itchy all around. The kind of sweater that begged to be ripped away and torn to shreds. As the booming silence reached its crescendo, Ciaran raised his mug to his mouth and drank–the sweater exploded.
"I don't know where to begin, Marikiva." His voice, softened by the tea, wasn't as rough this time, but there was a strange formality about him. The way he was using her full name–something he hadn’t done since she was a youngling. "But I suppose pragmatism dictates that I ask how the hell you found me. Well, how did you find me?" He didn't sound angry, not exactly, but rather… pained.
"Master Jocasta Nu helped me, Well…” she paused, drawing her eyebrows together as she looked away, her eyes growing distant. “Master, when you left the temple…" Hurt began to creep into her voice. "When you left, I know you had your reasons, but you abandoned me. Your teachings can't just be replicated." Hurt gained steam, becoming outrage. "Do you know who became my Master after you abandoned me? Master Windu . He requested it. He made me fight. I think he actually liked teaching me how to be a Jedi ‘the right way,’” she was yelling now, unable to hold back the years of resentment. “WHEN ORDER 66 CAME THROUGH I WAS ALONE IN THE TEMPLE. I BARELY ESCAPED; BODIES LITTERED THE MAIN HALL…. That… that was when I used the coordinates Master Nu had given me three years earlier. I got on a jump ship and came here. To this abandoned rock home to little more than a few dozen small villages. I spent the last three years looking for you. I didn’t have any other leads. And this morning, when I was tearing down my campsite, I sensed it–I sensed you, ” there was a slight tremor in her voice. “Finally, you reconnected with the force. And you kept touching it. Throughout the day you turned the needle of my compass in your direction,” the tremor became mild exhilaration.” I don’t know what changed, but I'm glad it did.” Her voice faded to soft and quiet. Any rage still present in her had retreated for now. She raised her mug to her lips and drank. It was warm and lightly sweet. The tannins and acids were perfectly balanced alongside the mild spice of whatever was in that concoction. Warmth spread through her chest. For the first time in over six years she felt like she was in the right place. No, not just the right place–she was wrapped in the warmth of a place where you really belong; a place where all your worries can bubble up and escape, without fear of retaliation–a place she had long forgotten existed.
Ciaran sat in a numb silence, his eyes fixed nowhere but the direction of his tea. There was an excruciating pause before his eyes rose to meet her's.
"Mari… you're right,” a growing fire simmered beneath the surface of his words. “In my selfish and idealistic quest I left you, and the rest of the temple, abandoned,” his eyes had become limitless pools of grief threatening to overflow. “I'll not waste your time with excuses–I failed. As a Jedi, as a Master, and as a comrade," tears were freely streaming down his face, but his voice was firm, like it had been when he was lecturing her about the rhetoric of negotiation. "I walked away. I walked away from the Temple, I walked away from the Force, and, my most heinous action, I walked away from you–because of my pride–my arrogance ,” Ciaran bit the last word with venomous fangs, as if he hoped it would die on the table. But the word held true, sowing a dissonant and inescapable lattice.
Anything Mari wanted to say was withheld. Perhaps out of kindness; perhaps out of spite. The two of them sat, in sorrowful silence together. Perhaps you can feel the silence–because silence is, by nature, a feeling–perhaps you understand the longing to see someone for years, only to find that you have no words once you are at last united. This settled upon them, daring them to break the crystalline structure suspended in the grief and regrets of those who think themselves broken. No longer were they Master and Apprentice. They were just a drifter and a hermit; one trying to find the road back, the other hiding from that path.