Disclaimer: George Lucas owns Star Wars. I own this story.
The sky above was a vast shadow, stretching from horizon to horizon in darkness. Thunder rolled ahead and crashed upon the stone cliffs in the distant mist. There was naught else to see, save the lone figure of a man shrouded in black. He stood at the edge of one of the cliffs, gazing down at the gray earth below. It seemed eager to take on the dampness that held, for now, only in the silent air, warm and heavy with vapor. The man did not like it. He did not like much of this place. It was always raining, always wet. Among the green grass and forested cliffs, the only familiar presence was the flashing of electricity overhead. A storm. The man had known storms all his life, and as the next wave of thunder smashed through the bleak heavens, he smiled beneath his mask. Such a wonderful sound. He wished for a moment that his face were free, and the air could caress the skin under his eyes. He had never known moist air. And now he was a prisoner of this mask, this helmet. It was solid, covering the whole of his head in a comfortable frame, rimmed with crimson cloth. The man's fading smile could not be seen, nor could the closing of his eyes. They too were hidden, but not by the cloth. A black slit, something like a narrow obtuse triangle, spread from rim to rim of the mask. All else that could be seen of him was swathed in black, a robe that melded with the shadows in the air. Occasionally he would clench his fists at a drop of rain; they were bound in red gauntlets. No, this place was not like his home. It made him sad, like the void in place of a light once shining. It was worse than nothingness. It consumed him.
But the man did not speak. He was as silent as the long gaps in-between thunder. It seemed that at any moment he would leap from the cliff and disappear into the mists below. But he held his ground, not swaying at even the strongest gust of damp air. He was beyond such physical whims now. He commanded the Force.
I have grown strong, he thought, feeling the clouds grow in number. No being governs me. I am free, as these winds are. He once more wished he could feel them. But, after a moment of quiet longing had passed, he opened his eyes sharply. The cliff seemed closer now, though in truth he had not moved. I've forgotten. He narrowed his brow. I've grown weak and I've forgotten. This mask is my scar, and I will never be free. Never. The man folded his gut inward and lashed out at himself quietly. He was a fool to forget. There was no pure freedom. Only freedom and hatred. Nothing else. His sadness was weakness, his longing was weakness. Perhaps this is why he had come here. There must only be hate. Hatred and freedom.
The dark lord is near. I can sense him, he pondered. Would he make himself my master? I must learn, but I must never become an apprentice. Where is the line drawn? Thunder crashed again in the distance. The line...boundaries. Whatever happened to
"Freedom?" mocked Jedi Master Qei. His smile was thin and verging on comical. Light shone harshly in the windows. "Freedom is an illusion, my young padawan. An oxymoron." He waved his hand across the long oaken table, and then to the archaic windows and their colored glass. He gestured to the bright ceiling and the walls of the small room. "Do you think any of this is free? Any of this room?"
"That's not the same.."
"Of course it is." Qei rapped his knuckle lightly on the table and sat back down. He leaned back in the large, outdated chair and narrowed his eyes. "Everything has a price. These are artifacts we earned through the Republic's trust in us. If that trust did not exist, neither would our discussions at this table."
"But it's not the same...master," Varus pleaded. The young human of sixteen was growing annoyed with his learning. He brushed his deep blonde hair to a side and moved his hand down to rest on his forehead. "I mean the freedom of an individual. A living being, like you or me. We have the freedom to rule our lives without anyone to control us. Isn't that right?"
"What about the Republic? Surely we owe some allegiance to it?"
Varus sighed. "But the Republic doesn't control us. We can manage our own destinies." He looked up and made eye contact with Qei. This was something the Jedi Master could not dispute.
And he didn't. Instead, he remarked, "Then never forget the Force. We will always belong to it. It binds the universe and preserves all things." He leaned forward so that his voice could be clear amongst the ancient room's echoes. "The moment we are free of it is the moment we are free of life itself. And I'm sure that's not what you mean either."
"That's not fair," dismissed Varus. The padawan raised his arms openly in reason. "Why don't we control the Force, and not the other way around? That's freedom. True freedom."
Qei grew grim and silent for a while. He stared mournfully at Varus while a shaft of dust floated between them. "That way lies the dark side," he whispered more than spoke. "For us, there can be no 'true freedom'. We Jedi exist to serve. You must learn to accept that before your training is complete, my young padawan. Serve and obey. Retire now and read the Jedi Code again." The Jedi Master kept his lips parted and breathed quietly outward, as if expelling a deep and secret frustration. He did not look up as Varus left the room. The boy had to learn. This attitude must not continue.
The padawan in white robes swept out of the ruinous building with intensity. He hated the place. Its walls, its rules, its dust. It imprisoned him. He hated Qei too, though he soon crammed that thought into a deep pocket of himself. He mustn't let those things surface. If the Order found out, he might be expelled. All he wanted to do now was forget the room, forget the table. Just escape to the dunes out front and gaze at the setting sun. He waited there a while as his thoughts drifted. They were as lonely as the crimson sphere in the sky, burning in isolation, sinking him into the earth, the sand. In a way Varus wished he really could sink away and disappear. This training wasn't right. He could feel it. He'd lived on this dust ball of a planet all his life, and the only outworlder he had ever met was Master Qei. A pilgrim. A missionary of the Force. What else was out there? Where did the Republic come from? All he knew of it was cold facts and its donations to the technology of his world. Factories and old libraries of buildings scattered here and there in the desert. Behind him was one of them, a "school" for adept learners of the Force. So far Varus was the only student, and Qei the only teacher.
Where were the other Jedi? Did they really exist, or was Qei some cultist trying to escape the government? It mattered little what Varus thought. He never knew his parents, so the Jedi Master was the only guidance he had. And so far, Qei's religion seemed to work. Varus could move boulders like the feathers of a dune falcon. He could manipulate the minds of simple people with delighted ease. Perhaps that was the reason for his isolation. His powers even allowed him to cause small sparks from his fingertips. This seemed to distress Qei most, but Varus saw no harm in it. It was all so easy, so effortless. It made no sense why the padawan should remain in schooling on the same planet with the same mentor. He should lead his own life, among the stars. Free as the wind...
A grain of sand blew in his eye. Varus shook his head violently, and when he opened his eyes, the last rays of the sun were gone below the horizon. Night had come, and the air grew chill. I'd better go inside, Varus thought. I can at least pretend to read the code again. He turned back to the ancient building, a structure worn down to near ruins by sand and heat. With a heavy sigh, Varus vanished inside and found his room in the dusty corridors. I don't see how Qei does it. The padawan sank to his bed and sighed. He's a master, yet he's a servant. Tomorrow would be a long day.
The sky above was a vast shadow, stretching from horizon to horizon in darkness. Thunder rolled ahead and crashed upon the stone cliffs in the distant mist. There was naught else to see, save the lone figure of a man shrouded in black. He stood at the edge of one of the cliffs, gazing down at the gray earth below. It seemed eager to take on the dampness that held, for now, only in the silent air, warm and heavy with vapor. The man did not like it. He did not like much of this place. It was always raining, always wet. Among the green grass and forested cliffs, the only familiar presence was the flashing of electricity overhead. A storm. The man had known storms all his life, and as the next wave of thunder smashed through the bleak heavens, he smiled beneath his mask. Such a wonderful sound. He wished for a moment that his face were free, and the air could caress the skin under his eyes. He had never known moist air. And now he was a prisoner of this mask, this helmet. It was solid, covering the whole of his head in a comfortable frame, rimmed with crimson cloth. The man's fading smile could not be seen, nor could the closing of his eyes. They too were hidden, but not by the cloth. A black slit, something like a narrow obtuse triangle, spread from rim to rim of the mask. All else that could be seen of him was swathed in black, a robe that melded with the shadows in the air. Occasionally he would clench his fists at a drop of rain; they were bound in red gauntlets. No, this place was not like his home. It made him sad, like the void in place of a light once shining. It was worse than nothingness. It consumed him.
But the man did not speak. He was as silent as the long gaps in-between thunder. It seemed that at any moment he would leap from the cliff and disappear into the mists below. But he held his ground, not swaying at even the strongest gust of damp air. He was beyond such physical whims now. He commanded the Force.
I have grown strong, he thought, feeling the clouds grow in number. No being governs me. I am free, as these winds are. He once more wished he could feel them. But, after a moment of quiet longing had passed, he opened his eyes sharply. The cliff seemed closer now, though in truth he had not moved. I've forgotten. He narrowed his brow. I've grown weak and I've forgotten. This mask is my scar, and I will never be free. Never. The man folded his gut inward and lashed out at himself quietly. He was a fool to forget. There was no pure freedom. Only freedom and hatred. Nothing else. His sadness was weakness, his longing was weakness. Perhaps this is why he had come here. There must only be hate. Hatred and freedom.
The dark lord is near. I can sense him, he pondered. Would he make himself my master? I must learn, but I must never become an apprentice. Where is the line drawn? Thunder crashed again in the distance. The line...boundaries. Whatever happened to
"Freedom?" mocked Jedi Master Qei. His smile was thin and verging on comical. Light shone harshly in the windows. "Freedom is an illusion, my young padawan. An oxymoron." He waved his hand across the long oaken table, and then to the archaic windows and their colored glass. He gestured to the bright ceiling and the walls of the small room. "Do you think any of this is free? Any of this room?"
"That's not the same.."
"Of course it is." Qei rapped his knuckle lightly on the table and sat back down. He leaned back in the large, outdated chair and narrowed his eyes. "Everything has a price. These are artifacts we earned through the Republic's trust in us. If that trust did not exist, neither would our discussions at this table."
"But it's not the same...master," Varus pleaded. The young human of sixteen was growing annoyed with his learning. He brushed his deep blonde hair to a side and moved his hand down to rest on his forehead. "I mean the freedom of an individual. A living being, like you or me. We have the freedom to rule our lives without anyone to control us. Isn't that right?"
"What about the Republic? Surely we owe some allegiance to it?"
Varus sighed. "But the Republic doesn't control us. We can manage our own destinies." He looked up and made eye contact with Qei. This was something the Jedi Master could not dispute.
And he didn't. Instead, he remarked, "Then never forget the Force. We will always belong to it. It binds the universe and preserves all things." He leaned forward so that his voice could be clear amongst the ancient room's echoes. "The moment we are free of it is the moment we are free of life itself. And I'm sure that's not what you mean either."
"That's not fair," dismissed Varus. The padawan raised his arms openly in reason. "Why don't we control the Force, and not the other way around? That's freedom. True freedom."
Qei grew grim and silent for a while. He stared mournfully at Varus while a shaft of dust floated between them. "That way lies the dark side," he whispered more than spoke. "For us, there can be no 'true freedom'. We Jedi exist to serve. You must learn to accept that before your training is complete, my young padawan. Serve and obey. Retire now and read the Jedi Code again." The Jedi Master kept his lips parted and breathed quietly outward, as if expelling a deep and secret frustration. He did not look up as Varus left the room. The boy had to learn. This attitude must not continue.
The padawan in white robes swept out of the ruinous building with intensity. He hated the place. Its walls, its rules, its dust. It imprisoned him. He hated Qei too, though he soon crammed that thought into a deep pocket of himself. He mustn't let those things surface. If the Order found out, he might be expelled. All he wanted to do now was forget the room, forget the table. Just escape to the dunes out front and gaze at the setting sun. He waited there a while as his thoughts drifted. They were as lonely as the crimson sphere in the sky, burning in isolation, sinking him into the earth, the sand. In a way Varus wished he really could sink away and disappear. This training wasn't right. He could feel it. He'd lived on this dust ball of a planet all his life, and the only outworlder he had ever met was Master Qei. A pilgrim. A missionary of the Force. What else was out there? Where did the Republic come from? All he knew of it was cold facts and its donations to the technology of his world. Factories and old libraries of buildings scattered here and there in the desert. Behind him was one of them, a "school" for adept learners of the Force. So far Varus was the only student, and Qei the only teacher.
Where were the other Jedi? Did they really exist, or was Qei some cultist trying to escape the government? It mattered little what Varus thought. He never knew his parents, so the Jedi Master was the only guidance he had. And so far, Qei's religion seemed to work. Varus could move boulders like the feathers of a dune falcon. He could manipulate the minds of simple people with delighted ease. Perhaps that was the reason for his isolation. His powers even allowed him to cause small sparks from his fingertips. This seemed to distress Qei most, but Varus saw no harm in it. It was all so easy, so effortless. It made no sense why the padawan should remain in schooling on the same planet with the same mentor. He should lead his own life, among the stars. Free as the wind...
A grain of sand blew in his eye. Varus shook his head violently, and when he opened his eyes, the last rays of the sun were gone below the horizon. Night had come, and the air grew chill. I'd better go inside, Varus thought. I can at least pretend to read the code again. He turned back to the ancient building, a structure worn down to near ruins by sand and heat. With a heavy sigh, Varus vanished inside and found his room in the dusty corridors. I don't see how Qei does it. The padawan sank to his bed and sighed. He's a master, yet he's a servant. Tomorrow would be a long day.