Planets ripped mercilessly apart. Billions screaming—and more who never got the chance. Moments… Seconds was all it took for an entire system to be destroyed.
Luke woke up on the edge of the precipice. He had been staring at the waves, observing how their ebb and flow followed the movements of the Force, when the water had suddenly receded and pain had hit him like a thousand blaster bolts. He'd tried to shut out the screams as he felt himself lose consciousness, but they'd followed him into the protective darkness—destroying his vain hope for peace.
He didn't know how long it had been when he finally pushed himself into a seated position and ran his good hand down his face. It quickly became covered in sweat, which he wiped on the grass. His heart raced, his chest heaved, and he had to take a moment to center himself as he desperately tried to prevent his quivering stomach from expelling his breakfast.
The old man's concentration broke and he walked calmly to a chair, taking a deep breath as he sat. "Millions of voice… suddenly silenced," he said.
Amazing to think he'd felt nothing at the time. Alderaan's destruction left little impact on someone so new to the Force. He almost found himself praying for the same naivety now.
He knew, of course. He could feel the location of the gaping hole that the weapon had left behind. The Republic was gone. But worse—through the pain of galactic-scale mass murder—he had detected a faint whiff of sternly concealed insecurity, painted around the edges with regret. He would know his former apprentice anywhere. The memory of the brief contact pushed his stomach over the edge, and he turned his head away to avoid expelling the vomit on his robes.
Plucking a few blades of long grass, he began to chew slowly as he let his body relax into the rigid state of Jedi meditation. After a cleansing breath, he closed his eyes, willing the Force to tell him what to do next.
It was silent.
The water continued to recede.
xXx
A faint, frightened presence brushed over his. It smelled like sand. He had the sudden image of a helmet—like the one he had worn on Hoth. It was ancient, but seemed to belong to someone young. A woman. She stood before him, her face obscured, holding a lightsaber uncertainly.
As soon as the moment had come, it faded away. He struggled to regain the image, but a roiling sandstorm replaced it.
Waves began to crash against the base of the island once again.
xXx
Hours later, he was still meditating when he saw it. A high, metal walkway, bathed in the light of a dying sun. His best friend was there. As was his nephew. He knew what was going to happen, but he was powerless to stop it—or to stop watching. The Force had held back the vision until it was too late. Or perhaps he had shut it out until his friend's fate was sealed. Luke tried desperately to emerge from the vision, but it held him fast—fueling his guilt even more than he thought possible.
Billions had just died. But one death was all it took to make the Jedi cry. When the body fell, Luke's spirit followed, finally finding its way back to the island.
He vomited again, but it was only the thin, green stalks of grass.
Once he could stand, he peered over the edge of the cliff. The ocean was battering the base of the island with the most frenzied pattern Luke had ever seen. Something was happening. The island was changing. He knew it wouldn't be long.
xXx
He felt her land. In the intervening years, she had become an excellent pilot. It surprised him. He tried to read her feelings as she agilely climbed the many stairs. Grief. Determination. All to be expected. There was fear as well. Worry about what was to come. Understandable, given recent events. When he could hear her boots dusting the tops of the grass, he turned around.
It wasn't Leia.
It was the woman from his vision. The one who had been wearing the helmet. He pulled back the hood of his robe to look at her more clearly, and at the sight of his face, pain mingled with the hope in her features. Without a word, she pulled something from her bag, holding it out to him.
It was a lightsaber.
His father's.
That had been lost with his hand on Bespin.
The memory sent his emotions spiraling. He had not felt this much fear since the cave on Dagobah. The thought of taking the lightsaber both revolted and invigorated him. Anticipation and trepidation cancelled each other out, and he found himself unable to move as he stared at her haunted face. He was sure his expression matched hers—each person's emotions feeding off and being multiplied by the other.
And the waves crashed below them.