Star Wars Episode 3.5.8: Echoes
A long time ago, in a galaxy far, far away . . .
For Grendo'al, those last few moments in the Temple are a prelude: the soft whine of blasters charging, the sudden stab of understanding, the rush of air and the weightless feeling of having been flung. Then, the Juyo, the battle-song: the endless second of dancing light and the reek of ozone and burnt plastic. Then, abruptly: darkness.
Out of the darkness, eventually, there are dreams . . .
Like most Jedi, Grendo'al received his first lightsaber on his fourth name day. After their hour of playtime under Master Yoda's smiling eye, fifteen young Padawans grouped dutifully behind a transit guide at the entrance to the Room of a Thousand Fountains.
The little blue remote bobbed patiently while they collected, and led them into a well lit room on the first floor, where they met one of Coruscant's three resident Blade Masters: Master Cin Drallig, a Lavisarian humanoid; Master Sora Bulq, a Weequay; or Master Lucius Kai, a human. Each instructor had their own style, their own specialties and methods; each clan was certain that their instructor was "the best".
There were neither chairs nor desks in the room; the only object on the padded floor was a large, three section case, such as a mechanic might use to carry tools. Inside were fifteen cylinders surrounded with light blue padding, each unique in their details but uniform in their function:
Lightsabers.
The children eyed their weapons eagerly as they formed orderly ranks in front of the Master, but none rushed over to touch them. They would be Jedi. They showed control.
But they were still young, and they had looked forward to this day with all the enthusiasm of their years. Discipline stilled their bodies, and even – mostly – quelled their voices; but their hearts and their presence in the Force soared, crackling with the energy of meeting new friends, making new bonds. Although none had spoken since the Clan had been formed, each was instinctively feeling out the Force presence of the others, weaving themselves into the fabric of the collective without the need for mere speech. To the eyes of a Jedi Master, the air in the room glowed with possibility.
Lucius watched them a moment, smiling, and then introduced himself as he always did:
"Greetings, Hawkbats. You may call me Lucius." He said, and gestured to the case. "Those are yours. You may take whichever calls to you."
It was a test, of course. If one of the Padawans dropped their control and ran to the case, the rest would follow suit. Not this time, he was pleased to note; Clan Hawkbat moved at a pace that was almost reverent. It wasn't until they reached the case and laid their hands on its contents that the chatter finally started:
"This one has three buttons, I wonder what --?"
"What color is –"
"Do they really –"
The voices were cut off by an unmistakable snap-hiss. A young bothan squealed in surprise as the human girl behind him sent her blade into his back, giving him the mildest of electric shocks. She dropped the weapon, startled, and the blade disappeared when the hilt left her hand.
So, one question answered. Gren inspected the hilt his hand had found; caressed it, tasted the polished grip with his palms. Its weight and shape felt as if his hand had grown around it. His finger found the activating stud and knew immediately that it slid upward, rather than depressing or sliding laterally. He looked up, ensuring that the emitter was pointed into empty air, and noticed a human boy with green eyes looking at him.
The two smiled; their agreement was too fast and complete for words. Their blades lit in perfect tandem, a split second before they came together with a satisfying crash; blue for the human, green for Gren. They locked for a second, and soon began to bat clumsily at one another; kittens trying out their claws.
Though Gren thinks that he has forgotten this, his dreaming eye sees his Master's face as he turns, alerted by the sound. It is the face of a man glimpsing a nightmare; pale and slack. For the briefest moment, there is terror on Lucius Kai's face.
Why, Master? Gren, floating in the freedom of unconsciousness, feels the question at his Master's memory. What did you see that day?
There is no intellect to remind him that Kai is dead, no rationality to hide in; the answer appears untainted in his heart: The future.
He saw the future in our crossed blades.
Images assault him: Fountains, gone silent and dry.
His Master, warding off a horde of enemies and waiting for help that would not come.
His home, burning.
His friends, slain.
Over all, a prophecy: He would face Crirac Jeth, his brother, with intent to kill. It had been foretold; it was as good as done. In the dark, there was no appeal, no defense; there was only acceptance, or denial. Time wore away at denial.
As acceptance grew, Time began to blur. His body entered the nearly static rhythms of the deepest Jedi trances. Until, after a time that could have been minutes or millennia, Grendo'al saw a ray of Light.
To be continued . . .