Chapter Text
It starts with a small crystal, born of a planet that carries frigid wind and bears a labyrinth of crystalline caves. The crystal, a shard of kyber, is found by a young Kiffar Jedi initiate who uses it to build his lightsaber. He grins as he assembles all the pieces, and proudly shows it off to his friends. They travel far together, this lightsaber and the Jedi.
In his hands, the weapon is taken on secret missions to the darkest corners of the galaxy, tucked away until more…aggressive negotiations are necessary. In his hands, it is used defending the innocent when galactic war spreads like wildfire.
When the Jedi has been seduced to the dark side, it is used against him, held by the one he loves most. And when he has been brought back to the light, in his hands, the saber is once again risen in protection of those who need it most.
Tragedy falls, and now, it is a mark of death: those treasonous Jedi, deemed traitors and relentlessly pursued from the Core worlds to the wild Outer Rim. The lightsaber, once revered and sacred, now hidden from sight. It marks the symbols of a hidden path that guide the lost to safety.
It continues with another Jedi initiate, this one a small, young human with fiery hair and a smattering of freckles. He too finds his kyber, but loses his beloved lightsaber to a Star Destroyer’s depths when a blaster bolt strikes it from his hands. His second trip to the icy Ilum leaves him with not one, but two kyber fragments. The red-haired Jedi cobbles together the hilts given to him by different Masters into a strikingly versatile weapon - a lightsaber made of conjoined pasts and newfound possibilities.
The amber glow from the blade instills fear upon the unlucky Imperial forces who find themselves facing down the notorious Jedi terrorist, and its hum, in contrast, is a reassuring reminder to the Jedi that failure is not the end.
Deep underwater, in the murky shadows and pain-filled hallways of a grim fortress, the lightsaber is turned against its master - plunged into the young Jedi’s chest by a fearsome Sith Lord. This blow, mercifully, miraculously, does not mark the warrior's death.
In this same fortress, another lightsaber reigns, this one a screaming, bleeding red. Its owner was broken, shattered, lost in the darkness. At the very end, she turns toward the light, but her chance of redemption is cut short. Struck down by the dark Lord she both feared and served, her former Master instead continues her legacy. The Master uses the bleeding saber to rescue a holocron and save a certain red-haired Jedi from a Sith Lord’s fury, and the dark, haloed weapon is finally used for good.
But we must also not forget this: a plain white vambrace, simple in its utilitarian design and purpose. It has no grand history or noble quest, merely a piece of armour that is one of millions. It is worn by a clone, desperate to tell the horrible truth he has learned to his beloved brother and general.
This clone is shot down, his drugged, rambling thoughts preventing him from explaining his full story. The ugly truth dies with him, and the galaxy pays dearly for the injustice - an ancient Order, nearly wiped from existence as their genocide takes place.
Millions of the clone’s brothers serve a new regime, the one they were born and bred for made extinct with a single uttered sentence. Millions of soldiers, turned into slaves, and eventually replaced by a far inferior militia.
Perhaps it is a good thing the armour's owner never sees what becomes of his brothers. Most do not have a happy fate.
There are more to consider, too. Items that hold infinite potential, items of comfort and luck, or items that exist just for the sake of existing.
Like a data capsule, plunged into a terminal and its contents broadcasted high above a tropical paradise to a waiting fleet of rogue Rebels - it gives them the plans, transferred to a small data disc, preventing the reign of a weapon so terrible the galaxy would never recover.
Or a golden necklace, worn by a woman of cunning and beauty, marking her a servant of the criminal underworld’s master: a sharp warrior cloaked in shadows and shrouded in mystery.
A small metal ball, clutched by tiny, mischievous green fingers.
A pair of aurodium-plated dice dangling from a chain, watching hyperspace streak by as their daring pilots smuggle their fares across the stars.
Recorded in a box, a rebel’s manifesto that plants the seeds of revolution far and wide.
An ancient, tarnished sphere, holding the star-map to another galaxy.
A hairpin worn by a fashionable politician, whose powerful voice fought for peace.
A crossbow wielded by a Wookie warrior.
A thermal detonator, held aloft by a princess disguised as a deadly bounty hunter, desperately hoping her bluff is not called by the crowd of criminals and gangsters.
A worn brown robe, edges frayed from its owner’s consistent efforts to ditch it during battles and duels. The cloth protects its owner from the worst of Tatooine’s hostile twin suns, whenever he feels homesick enough to drag it out from the box he normally keeps it buried in. Sometimes, on the worst nights, it is clutched tight in his fingers as he tries to sleep through the nightmares.
Not all the items have a grand meaning, this is true. But the people who used them left their marks on the galaxy, for good or for bad.
Another lightsaber buzzing bright green, built by a young Jedi who is believed to be the last.
A final pair of lightsabers: their color is pure and white, and they clash against red, red, boiling red. They split open the mask of a monster – and the Sith Lord, once hidden behind this terrible helm, faces his devastated apprentice who now knows the truth.
And it is this mask that could be argued most important of all the items. One who’s wearer suffers remarkable agony, day after day, reliving the hot and hazy memories of Mustafar every time the ebony prison is placed upon his scarred shoulders. It is the face of the Empire’s most feared creature, tales of the Sith Lord’s power whispered throughout the Empire’s ranks, keeping soldiers in line and officers answering with unwavering loyalty.
How many souls have gazed back at their reflections, knowing they would die at the hands of this Sith? How many would live, and see this mask haunting their dreams?
How many times did the Sith Lord wish he could kill his master who had turned him into this hideous thing? The mask is an unyielding, unforgiving and unrelenting torture.
An era begins with the mask. An era ends with it.
Now it burns, melting into the pyre’s hungry flames.
Luke Skywalker watches his father’s corpse crumble into ashes and blow across the night sky. The stars above twinkle merrily, for the galaxy is finally at peace.
In the end, Anakin Skywalker is the hero. His love for his son is what conquers the overwhelming evil – an evil that has ruled the galaxy with a cruel fist and hungry appetite, draining the hope and light from untold billions. Darth Vader had killed Anakin Skywalker. Anakin Skywalker’s son brings him back into the Light. The Chosen one fulfills the prophecy, killing the villainous Emperor.
A cycle of anger and hate and suffering and mercy and redemption and love. A beautiful cycle, but one with a heavy cost. Too heavy.
What if…what if the cycle had never spun? Nerved turned or even started?
Sending people, lifeforms, backwards in time… too risky. It would be arduous, getting it just right. Sentient, living beings were so finicky, with all their glorious complexity. A living being, ripped from their place in the universe and moved through time and space – the sheer violence of this act could potentially undo them, despite how resilient most are.
Atoms, rearranged perfectly, DNA reconstructed, and not to mention their consciousness making it back intact with all their memories if they are to make any difference at all….
No small feat, that’s for sure.
The Force’s chosen heroes are durable, yet delicate. This is the unfortunate paradox.
Items, on the other hand…inanimate objects are much easier to rearrange, to put in place. Objects can hold memories, without the trouble of someone’s living consciousness getting in the way. With objects holding memories…echoes of things to come, placed in the right hands…
Now that just might do it.
Twelve-year old Cal Kestis awakens abruptly from a nightmare. Vague impressions of terror leave him trembling and panting, and he sits upright in his berth, clutching his thin yellow blankets around him.
The Venators are cold during the night-cycle, and the clones of his battalion had gifted him a few extra after finding out their general’s tiny padawan didn’t quite have the same ability to stay warm as they did.
Cal scrunches up underneath the fabric. The blankets don’t carry strong echoes, but the lingering feelings of joy bring him some ease. He remembers the pride he felt receiving the gift – the clones had accepted him as one of their own. One of the boys. Even if it was, in his opinion, a pretty juvenile gift.
But right now, after that horrifying and all-to-real nightmare, he doesn’t care.
After a few minutes of trying to calm his nerves, with limited success, Cal just sighs. No way would he be going back to sleep now.
With a sleepy yawn, he stretches his arms out and hops down from his berth. Might as well practice some katas and lightsaber forms or get ahead on assignments from the Temple. Ha, imagine that. Who assigns homework during a galactic war, anyways?
The Jedi, apparently.
He grabs his datapad from the shelf behind him along with his lightsaber, checking the time and grimacing when he sees just how early it is. So much for those “minimum nine-to-twelve hours of sleep for a growing human adolescent” Kidney is always rambling about. Medics are hilarious.
Cal begins making his way towards the light switch when without warning, his foot meets a round metal object instead of the floor. He flails his arms and backpedals, just barely regaining his balance. Which clearly is not yet online, because that was so not graceful or Jedi-like in any way. Glaring at the offending item he can barely see, Cal crouches down to investigate.
Well. This just got…weird. Cal knows he didn’t leave his lightsaber on the ground; he always keeps it right next to him when he’s sleeping. And anyways, his is currently in his hand. So…whose lightsaber did he just trip on?
Cal eyes the mysterious item and looks back at his own. Then back to the floor saber. What an interesting design… it was longer than normal, almost like a saber-staff, and looked like two different hilts somehow welded together – wait.
Half of it is very, very, very familiar.
Cal slowly kneels down. He places his own saber beside him and peers closer at the strange new one.
Half looks exactly like Master Tapal’s, though different, almost more battle worn and weathered but still clearly well-kept, both polished and clean. Cal doesn’t recognize the other half. Why would Master Tapal leave this for Cal to find on the floor? Why would he even weld it to another saber? This made no sense. The more he looks at it, the more confused he gets.
Did something happen to his Master? Worried, Cal reaches out with the Force. Through the bond, Cal senses his Master alive and quietly sleeping. The Force sings of calm and peace. There is no immediate danger onboard the Albedo Brave, no Separatists invading or assassins hunting in the night.
So why can’t the warning sirens in Cal’s head stop screaming?
He takes a deep breath. Although his psychometry is sometimes a curse more than a gift, it is most helpful in learning history. Cal, reluctant but determined, is going to learn the history of this bizarre weapon.
This is probably a bad idea because lightsabers always had powerful echoes attached to them.
No, scratch that. This is most definitely a bad idea.
But he has to know.
He reaches out to grasp the hilt, and his mind is instantly flooded with a maelstrom of memories.
Shooting – clones – betrayal? – Master! – escape pod – Trust only in the force.
Bracca. Prauf. No common anarchist. Inquisitor – murderer.
Holocron – rebuild the Jedi Order. Zeffo, Kashyyk, Dathomir, Ilum.
BD-1. Cere. Greez. Merrin. Trilla.
Nur. Inquisitorious. Sith Lord - monster. Fighting, burning, drowning.
Running from the Empire. Fighting the Empire. Making them pay.
On the other side of the Galaxy, in the safety of his room in the Jedi Temple on Coruscant, another Jedi awakens. This one gracelessly rolls off the bed, hardly even conscious. The loud thunk that results from his bones hitting the stone floor make him wince.
Quinlan Vos rubs his tired, bleary eyes, and blinks in surprise when he notices the weirdest thing sitting beside him on the floor.
“What the hell?” he says, reaching out to grab the melted amalgamation of a human skull and dark dursasteel metal.
In hindsight, he really should have waited to wake up more before touching that thing.