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When he saw the smoke- he knew the truth of his heart. His aunt and uncle, his family whom he loved with all his strength, were dead. He was all hollowed out, a shattered gourd. All his life water spilled across the sands.
He had known they would die. That, one day... Gone. Maybe by the Hutta himself- for their bravery. For their gall- to take from the Master. Maybe he would have been beside them. Maybe he would’ve liked it better.
But the ash curled under his tongue, and he knew his family's killer. He wrapped their bodies, their skeletons, his uncle, his aunt. He didn't use gloves. He probably should have. Their sticky, gummy viscera clung to his hands as he worked. One last respect.
He sorted through the house. The walls were strong, yet most everything was unusable. On a whim, he checked the cistern.
It was untouched.
Utterly untouched.
He felt such a disgust and rage in him, it ate its way up through his bones; made a home behind his eyes. He cried terrible, screaming sobs, over the well of water- in a dark room with no light. Then he drank his fill, until his belly was like to burst- and lay there the afternoon away.
The ground-splitter was untouched in the workshop. Battery packs and all- tucked away in the closet. The lathe, his programming kiosk, the tools- all were in varying states of distress, warped and melted. His childhood was in that room, learning machining at Beru’s knee. Learning sterile surgery at Owen’s side. Now it was ended.
The Sisters set, and he lugged the ground splitter up to the family plot. He brought a siphon up from the cistern too, and gradually wet the earth intermittently. Tubing crimped idly, he waited for the silence of his thoughts to consume him. They never did- which was its own affliction.
He told himself he couldn't, wouldn't cry again. He knew he would never stop. Not beneath the moon and the stars, not sitting next to his aunt and uncle. In his quieter moments, it felt so bizarre to him. Sitting out in the cold, watering the ground, gazing onto the expanse of the sky. It felt like the hole in his chest had been filled by the stars- and he was complete in a way he had never been all his life. He was so wise it hurt, so clairvoyant he dissociated. So big. So small. So real.
Eventually he shivered his trance away, and began drilling away the dirt. It didn’t take much more than half an hour until he had dug a grave about 2 meters deep. Somewhere in his haze he found the plasma cutter, and set to work on the family stone, adding two new names. Ten names now, and not ever another. There would never be someone to cut his name.
He put up the tools then, with a care he didn’t know he had. He plugged the ground splitter into an outlet that didn’t charge; placed the plasma cutter on the shelf. He locked the door after grabbing a flagon of water, and resumed his vigil.
The wind whispered to him, the cold stars bathed him in their light. He laid his aunt and uncle in their grave, next to each other in death, as ever they had been in life. As the Elder Sister bled the sky red, he poured the water over them, one last drink, before they slept sealed evermore beneath the sands.
The wind whispered to his heart, the early morning mirage. When will the seed flower?
His lips parted. I remember. He walked to the desert.
He walked.
Walked.
Walked.
Crawled.
Crawled.
Screamed.
“Goddess! Mother Greatness! You are the breath in my lungs, the water of my blood!”
He choked, gagged on his tears.
“Why not me! Me!!!”
Whispered.
“God! Uncle Justice! You are the rage of my soul, the salt of my tears!”
He heaved, suffocated on his heart.
“Why not me? Me??”
On the parched lips of Lukka, fell the rain.
~~~
He meditated now- again- after 15 years of pain, again was he the student of his youth. He thinks about Chirrut constantly now, more than he ever did in life, it feels like. But Chirrut would not smile nor frown at his newfound faith. He must’ve known its return was inevitable; he said so years ago: ‘there is power, in surrender.’
But maybe he is not meditating. It is a grief, in a way- one that he cannot part from. Even before the ranks of soldiers rise at their sergeant's call, his sleepless feet take him down into the predawn dark. He takes his boots off- the only time he ever does. Makes the journey to the ground as gracefully as arthritis allows. There in the dirt, he must be grieving, he must be. And he is- as honestly as he ever has.
He grieves his teacher first- as is proper. He grieves his School, his home forever and never again. He grieves the Exodus, the years of cold on the streets, and the destruction of fifty thousand years of history- a city built on top of itself for generations- a culture of love and wisdom. And in it all, he grieves the love that kept him, his husband for whom Baze lived. The twitch of his smile, the callused hands he had held once.
He would never lose his love, but he had lost his beloved. So for Chirrut, he did his husband the service in separation that he never could in unity. He grieved for that boy Baze was in the Monastery, then he forgave him.
The boy who became the man. The man who startled at the whisper of leaves.
“What are you doing?”
Before him stood one of the new Flightmen, fresh and bright eyed; he stayed close with one of his friends in another Squadron.
“Talking with you, yes? Is 23-FAD breaking down again? I’ll take a look before breakfast.”
“No, no sir, I just– I’m sorry for interrupting.” He made motions to precipitate his retreat, though aborted at Baze’s gesture.
“I was meditating. Helps in battle you know- perfect, effortless action. Helps the soul, after, too.” His bearing gathered, he saw now a pink dawn breach the verdant jungle crown.
The boy sat on his haunches, heels to the black earth. “How is it done? I’ve prayed, but meditation is worlds away- isn’t it?”
“I appreciate the passion, but your sergeant will need you soon. Is there anything you need from me right now?”
“No, no, sorry. Couldn’t sleep last night, my feet wandered me here.” The both of them made to get up, Baze leaning against his cane.
“No fault, son. You have a name?”
The boy grinned a genuine thing, extending his hand eagerly. “Skywalker, Luke. I’m under Valdeiz, in Red.”
His hand was strong, his palm calloused, instead of his fingers. “Luke. I imagine you’ll be at munitions for a while after they give you your standard flyer. Drop by any time, I’ll be there. Ask for Malbus.”
“I will, maybe within the week!” He spread his arms wide. “Who can know?”
Baze felt the weight of his years, then. “Then I’ll see you soon, Flight.” Unsaid went the refrain, Walk in peace. The boy- the man- the pilot, would not appreciate it. Surely it would be a malediction for a warrior.
He slipped in the mud on the way back.
~~~
The desert was refreshing in its austerity. The sticky heat of Lotho Minor, of Dathomir- wasn’t here, for all he disliked it out of mulish principle. He knew Kenobi was here, he could sense him behind every dune, see him out of the corner of his eye. Kenobi wasn’t trying to hide- far from it. The game he played in the mazes of the dunes would’ve sent Skywalker into an incandescent rage, as nearly it did him.
There was a rhythm to it though. Doubling back meant going forward, turning to the right was walking to the left. He rested though; didn’t dare to rush to his prize just yet. The pulsating heat of the midafternoon was soothing. Once, he fell asleep beneath his tarp, strung between two giant vertebrae.
He woke in the evening, weary in the manner of old age; rested like a man who doesn’t dream. The path was opened. He could see his trail, feel a phantom itch in his feet.
Down through the draws, until the dunes became sandstone, and draws became gullies, then canyons. Finally, an ancient delta- wide and flat, complete with a Japoor crawling along the ground. Ben Kenobi stood there, beneath a pearlescent moon hung sky high.
They looked at each other for a time, unpleasantly reminded of themselves. Middle aged relics; the ghosts of memory, sent from a time of purpose.
“Why have you come, Maul?” His voice lost none of its timbre- his hair shone blue in the shadow of the moon.
“It is not obvious, Kenobi? I am here to kill you.” He percussed his statement with little vigor. The vitriol of his youth ran dry long ago.
“Certainly, it is obvious you want to die.” Neither had his mirth been blunted, it seemed.
His mouth was dry. “You overestimate yourself, Kenobi. It will be your final mistake.”
“You underestimate yourself, Maul. It will be yours.”
“Dispense of your rotten pith, I care not for ditties of inconsequential wisdom.”
He ignited his saber, its wine red glow cast long shadows around the two of them.
“I will not fight you, Maul. Why have you come?”
His strength was failing him. The shakes were coming soon. Inflectionless he rehearsed his purpose, “To battle.”
“I refuse.”
Silence stood between them. Minutes. The cold air stung his lungs.
Kenobi stepped forward hesitantly. “I devote myself to peace.” He stepped closer. “When last you met me, I was deceived.” Maul gripped his saber with everything he had. “There is no wound violence can ever soothe.” Kenobi was close enough to touch- his torso exposed; bare of armor, his grasp free of any weapon. His eyes shone in the moonlight. “You are not my enemy, Maul.”
Kenobi reached, and grasped his lightsaber. Maul released it without symphony, watched as it was thrown to the ground, plasma cutting out as it clattered on the stones.
He fell then, eyes blacking out, teeth clenched, legs aching for all their absence. He didn't know how long he was on the ground. When he woke, Kenobi was still there, no longer an apparition of the desert; a man and nothing more.
He sat there for a long while contemplating the ache in his bones, his lightsaber so very far away. Kenobi sat a pace next to him, contemplating the heavens. He felt like he was drowning, beneath every memory bound beneath his skin- those of pain, unmentionable and innumerable; those of joy- painful for their brevity; for the desire they awoke in him. His lightsaber was five meters away. I don’t want to retrieve it. It's so far away.
The Sith and the Jedi were once one- they both believed the lightsaber was the purest reflection of the soul. Looking at his plasma cutter- he couldn’t see his soul anywhere in it. I don’t want to fight Kenobi. He looked over at the Jedi suddenly. Ben distractedly glanced back; his eyebrow twitched, and he gave Maul a sad small little smile. They both looked to the stars. I don’t want to fight. The Jedi stayed, as the milky blue-black of night ended, and the piercing dawns conquered the sky. Sometime in the midmorning heat- Ben left, saying not a word.
A moan forced its way from his chest; his first taste of freedom was anguish. Then, laughter; he laughed, free from spite, free from Master, free from the dark cloud that had ever haunted his mind. It was over. It was all over! He couldn't bear it, even as he relished in it. It was done, instantly, perfectly, easily. He rose the sovereign of his spirit, and turned back to the south, saber forgotten. His hands open at his sides, he walked to the desert.
Through victory, his chains were broken. The Force had set him free.