Poe Dameron had been very little the day that he clambered up to the mantlepiece in his family's home. It is covered with pictures, letters, and medals, all things that he is far too young to comprehend. The one thing that his child eyes see is that he knows none of the people in the photographs except for his parents, so he can't understand why they are so proudly displayed in his home.
In his study, a frame at the very centre catches his eye. It is plain, understated, practical, but the photograph at the centre is old; the print is cut by the worn folding lines of being carried and the edges are tattered. All the others along the shelf look new, or are holophotos, but this, he thinks, is special. With clumsy, chubby fingers, Poe picks up the photograph. His parents look the same to him here but the man between them is unfamiliar. Poe thinks that he looks kind of like his father with his very serious eyes, but his smile is too different; where Kes has beams this man has a hesitant grin that seems sad. Poe wonders why he is so unhappy.
"Poe!"
Poe jumps in surprise and clenches the photo behind his back. He is ready to give his mother his brightest smile, but Shara's eyes are so mournful that Poe pauses. There are so many strange things and he is just so confused. She kneels before him and extends her hand, asking for the picture. With the guilt of being caught in the act, Poe hands it over while avoiding her eyes.
As always, his mother's voice is gentle, "Why did you take this down, Poe?"
He stares at his shoes, points his finger at the mantle, and mumbles, "Who are they, Mama?"
Shara rocks back and presses the heel of her palms against her eyes. She looks shattered for a moment and Poe is scared. He throws himself at her and between snotty tears, he babbles 'I'm sorry' over and over again. Mother and child remain caught by grief for a minute until she places down the photo and takes his face in his hand. Shara slowly cleans his face and then considers him, wondering if it's time to introduce him to the truth.
"Well, my darling," she pulls Poe into her lap parallel to the mantlepiece, "they were heroes. They saw bad things in the universe and decided they had to change things. And they did… They were so good and brave that… That they had to leave. And as s- sad as it makes us, we are also so proud."
"Where did they go?"
Shara laughs and her voice cracks. She is holding back a flood of memories and lost faces
—
Poe Dameron is very little the day that he clambers up to the mantlepiece of his family home. It is covered with pictures, letters, and medals, all things that he is far too young to comprehend. The one thing that his child eyes see is that he knows none of the people in the photographs except for his parents, so he can't understand why they are so proudly displayed in his home.
His mother's heart breaks as she listens to his questions. Shara holds back a flood of memories and lost faces as she draws Poe into her lap despite his protests. She explains that my darling, they were heroes and yes, they are gone now and no, she doesn't quite know where. She is numbly grief-stricken at how practised she is at holding back tears when she says that we miss them so much Poe, but more importantly we are so proud. The droplets do fall, seen only by her watching husband, when Poe struggles against her to point at the photo-frame at the very centre of the shrine, saying Mama, who is he?
For a moment she is voiceless, so Kes says "A brave man who we are honoured to have called our friend."
So there, on the carpet of his living room, Poe Dameron learns the story of Cassian Andor and Rogue One.
It is softened and moulded to be kinder than the truth yet Poe is taken aback, not at the story itself so much but because he's never heard of them; they are the bravest people he's ever discovered and no one else seems to know their names. To Poe this is unforgivable, and then and there, no more than five years old, he makes a promise. It is one he will keep for the rest of his life.
I will make sure they are remembered.
—
Every year, at the Vigil of Lights, candles are lit to remember and to mourn. It is a wondrous field of flickering lights and quiet that up until now Poe has never understood. When he sees something beautiful, he wants to be loud and to touch it; everyone here is distant and there are more wet cheeks than his little heart can bear. Having never lost anything, he has never needed remembrance. This time it is different.
When all the adults are wandering away to cradle their grief, Poe walks forward. He is hesitant and unsure, but he has also made a vow. So as a single, small silhouette against a sea of brilliance, Poe use another candle to ignite his own and nestles it into the grass. With the naive solemnity that only a child can bear, he says the closest thing he knows to a prayer.
"Rogue One is not forgotten."
As Poe Dameron grows taller, he learns the hard way that war is cruel. When he loses his mother and then friend after friend after friend, he truly fathoms the significance of that old mantlepiece shrine. While Poe becomes familiar with the brutality of sacrifice first hand, the old story stays with him. He tells it to anyone who will listen but for many it is just another loss, just another story to forget so they can get up in the morning. So instead he holds it close to his heart and Poe starts his own altar of memory with Cassian right at the centre, and every year he lights them a candle alongside his mother.
Poe would never have found the photograph if he had a decent pokerface. A night of celebration accompanied by bets left him with nothing but a sore ego and a mountain of paperwork. He is searching for Maker knows what when a small and incomplete file catches his eye; 'Crew: Rogue One. Mission: Successful. Team Status: Deceased. Unit: Terminated.'
Poe can't believe his luck (he does pause to consider if maybe there is something more than chance at play). He is crestfallen and frustrated to find that it is nothing more than the bare bones of the mission report. Poe is elated when he scrolls to the end and finds a photo of all of them. They are all posed on the open hatch of a U-Wing and wear serious expressions appropriate for those who can see that this will be their last mission. Somehow, Poe registers, actually seeing them is more painful than the sacrifice alone because he had never realised how young they were.
—
In a world fraught with technology, Poe has to fight to get a physical copy of the picture. He can't find it in himself to properly explain why he wants it so badly, so Poe calls in old favours and friends to get it done. Eventually he returns to his quarters a little poorer but all the happier for it. He settles it onto the shelf next to Cassian and appraises his tribute for a moment. Almost instantly Poe decides against it and tucks the print in his breast pocket. Absentmindedly, he hopes that somehow they will guide him.
Having lost his mother at a young age, Poe spends more time than he can spare in the child centre. He fondly remembers the days he spent there while his father was away; he also knows the loneliness that clings to the place. So Poe always brings BB-8 and trinkets from faraway solar systems but most importantly he brings stories.
Tales of distant stars, defeated villains, and dauntless warriors bring smiles, and Poe is not afraid to soften the truth to make sure this happens. Nevertheless, in an act of something akin to irony, he is hesitant to tell Rogue One's story to the one audience that might actually listen and give a damn; Poe is all too aware that it is cruel and that all the children, beside the orphans, have parents on active duty. (Maybe there is also a part of him that is afraid that they won't care (this thought troubles Poe more than he would like to admit.) So the day that the photo falls out of his jacket, he is divided. The demands of who are they, Poe? are wrought with young determination, and with his own memory of his mother's tale in the back of his mind, there is no room to refuse.
So there, in the centre of the room, Poe Dameron tells the story of Cassian Andor and Rogue One.
—
The telling of the story lifts a great burden from Poe's shoulders. Yes, he chose this duty but he is still thankful that it isn't his alone anymore.
"That really happened, Poe?"
For a second he wants to say no, that all the people in the photograph are still alive, but these children deserve better.
"Yes, it did."
"Then why aren't we taught about them?"
This is a question that Poe asks himself often, normally in the quiet of his sleepless nights. It is also an issue that he has never found a satisfying answer to.
"I guess when you have famous heroes like Luke Skywalker and General Organa it's easier to remember them."
"Because they got a happy ending? Because they lived?"
Poe's smile is tired, "Maybe." (He agrees with them.)
"Well that's not fair! They're alive and everyone knows their names, they don't need to be remembered!"
As always Poe is struck by the unsophisticated honesty and perception of youth, and wonders if he had ever been this compassionate.
"Can we keep this, Poe?"
A young girl missing her front teeth is holding the photograph like a treasure and there is a stab in his heart. It is dear to him beyond measure, but there is also no way Poe will refuse her. He nods. The volume of the conversation booms with thanks and excitement, and he soon finds himself forgotten in the happiness. Poe can live with this, so he gets up to leave.
He freezes at the door with an unnameable emotion running through his lungs when a voice rings out, "I don't to be a Skywalker anymore, ma'am! I want to be Cassian Andor when I grow up!"
They are remembered.
The Vigil of Lights is a tradition that Poe respects but also dreads; it intensifies grief and he already feels like he's quietly drowning in it most of the time. Poe is even ashamed at times when the names of all that he has lost blur together but by the Maker, he is one man and there are so many names.
—
The ocean of lights has significantly grown since the last observance; the hangar is threatening to spill over from the sheer mass of people and candles. Poe is a straggler, having waited for everyone else to leave because he's not sure how he will answer if someone asks him how he is. Eventually, when only a few patches of crowd are left and the older firelights are burning low, Poe walks forward.
He first lights one for his mother, next eleven more for close friends he has lost, and then a last one for everyone who has been swallowed by passing time.
Finally he lights a candle for Rogue One; for the pilot who went down with his ship, for the guardian with unshakeable faith and the soldier who would follow him to the end of the universe, for the droid that went beyond its programming, for the outsider who found a cause, and for the man who fought because it was right.
Poe covers his face for a moment, steels himself against his own turmoil and turns to leave before he can crack. He is desperate to leave as soon as he can.
"I want to light it… You get to carry the photo and talk!" The voices are hushed but passionate.
Poe ducks behind a pile of crates and watches on as the children debate. He thinks he has misunderstood until they reach an agreement and all fall silent. The girl whom Poe had given the photo months ago steps forward and turns to face the small congregation. An older boy lights the candle in his hands and looks towards her.
Impossibly small, she clears her throat and then screws up her nose as she speaks from memory, "A long time ago, a team of people left to fight and didn't come back. They helped to save everyone, but no one knows their names. In fact, they've have been forgotten by everybody except for us… Cassian, Jyn, Chirrut, Bodhi, Baze, K2-SO… We remember you and we know your names… And we say thank you… Rogue One, we remember you."
Poe spins away from them and chokes back tears because they are remembered. He had made a promise over twenty years ago and Poe had kept it. The burden of that old story had been worth it because Rogue One is remembered.
As the children walk past Poe, unaware of his presence, he knows that his torch has been passed on. As he watches them leave, he considers the fact that no one has ever flown under Rogue Leader. Lastly, when Poe is by himself in the silence of his quarters, he wonders if maybe Rogue One will fly again; not out of ignorance or disrespect, but out of tribute and celebration.