There is a shrine on Balmorra, built around a tree. There's nothing remarkable about it, save perhaps that if the lighting is good you can almost make out a woman's face in the bark. What is remarkable is the fact that it's in a jungle on a world that is dust and steel.
There are echos in the Force. Emotions and words that should have been long forgotten that instead come back and back and back.
There is no death.
There had been a woman once. A Jedi. She had been soft and kind, her robes forever stained with soil and plant juices. Her smile had been warm and bright—a flash of white teeth in a dark face. She had no talent for war, they had said.
But she could whisper to plants, tell them to grow hard and strong. She could weave her will into fungi, make it eat all blasters in its way.
When the pirates had come to a small settlement on the plains, she had pled. She had bargained. And when her words fell on deaf years, when they took people and belongings likewise, she turned to the audience that would hear her.
The pirates have never left and neither has she.
There is nothing left of Elieth Rann save an echo, but it is enough. It keeps on reverberating through every seed, every spore and repeats over and over: "Grow. Live."