He failed. He failed Ben, and he failed Han and Leia, and now he's failing Rey—
But not for much longer.
"No one's ever truly gone," he tells Leia, or he told Leia, or maybe he will tell Leia. He doesn't know; he's so entrenched in the Force that time has no meaning, and the world fractures into brilliant beams of light, each precious future laid out before him like the pieces of a puzzle.
He can feel the sweat running down his brow, he can feel the strain the projection is taking on his physical body, but he can also feel the course grains of salt under his feet, the familiar hilt of his father's lightsaber in his hand. Lost, once upon a time, along with his father's Jedi legacy, but no more.
And that lightsaber, too calls back to his training. He can't call them memories; as connected to Force as he is they seem more like visions, knowledge of what had happened and what might have happened and what could still happen.
Do or do not, there is no try, Yoda's voice says into his mind, and again he isn't sure if it's recollection or the Force allowing Yoda to speak to him again so soon after he burned the tree, but it doesn't matter either way because now the age-old adage feels wrong. It feels incomplete.
"I'll try to teach him," a man said to his sister once upon a time, looking down at his nephew. And, later, "I'll try to save him," before his Jedi academy had burned before his eyes.
And therein lay the problem: in calling the act trying, he had set himself up for failure.
I don't believe it.
And that is why you fail.
So he doesn't try to save the Resistance. He saves the Resistance, or dies in his failure.
Or perhaps both, he thinks, deeply aware of the exhaustion in his body. Yes. It will be both.
Already has with her, that which she needs. Rey doesn't need him, he knows. But Leia does.
Just like she did all those years ago.
I'm Luke Skywalker, I'm here to rescue you!
He takes a deep breath, watching the clouds move over the suns, as the Force moves through him. This is what it means to be a Jedi. This is what he was searching for, in all his years of travelling the galaxy. Not the ancient artefacts he uncovered, not the Jedi texts, or even the island. This, this unity with the Force, an understanding that he instinctively knows is so deep he would never be able to teach it.
It's like Death: once you know its secrets, you can never return and share them.
"See you around, kid," he tells (told, will tell. . .) Ben before he drops the projection. For Han, the friend he never got to say goodbye to.
For Leia. For Rey. For the person he used to be.
And it's too late for him.
It's too late, because despite what Yoda says about failure, some failures are deadly. Some failures you cannot survive, so you can only hope that others remain to learn from your mistakes and ensure you don't repeat them.
Rey won't repeat them, he hopes.
Because that's all he can do, all he's ever been able to and will ever be able to do, from the young, naive farm boy who gazed into the twin sunset to the old, jaded Jedi Master who does the same: hope.
And Yoda's adage no longer feels incomplete.
Because trying is the same as hoping. Trying is doing something and knowing you might fail, but being willing to accept that failure, the failure that is not doing.
He releases the Force very suddenly, collapsing onto the rock and straining to push himself up again. This is it: he's exhausted, he's spent.
All he can do is lift his head, and watch the twin suns emerge from behind the clouds, shining down on him with all the radiance that they did on Tatooine.
Let go, Luke, he hears, and he lets go, because this is the end.
And only now, at the end, does he understand: do or do not, there is no try, for failure is the best teacher.