"Okay," Kanan said. He looked at Ezra expectantly. "Tell me."
Ezra sat down on the edge of Kanan's bunk, slumped forward and rested his elbows on his knees.
Kanan had caught up to him in the hall and half-dragged him into his quarters before Ezra could get away. He was grateful, in a way. At least he would be spared the awkwardness of trying to hide in his own room only to have Zeb crash the pity party, or the completely different kind of awkwardness of trying to squeeze his larger-than-it-used-to-be frame into the ventilation ducts to avoid everyone for a while.
Of course, Kanan hadn't brought him here because it was a better place to hide; he wanted answers, and if Ezra wanted to stay, he was probably going to have to provide them. He supposed that at least answering questions from just Kanan was preferable to answering them from four or five directions at once.
"What is it?" Kanan asked. "What's causing… Why… How…" he stopped, giving up, and obviously hoping that Ezra would take pity on him and give him an answer before he had worked out how to form a question.
Ezra didn't reply. He wanted to, he just didn't know what to say.
Finally, Kanan sat down next to Ezra on the edge of the bunk. "I can't help you if you won't tell me," he said.
He couldn't help anyway. It wouldn't make any difference what Ezra did, or didn't, say. But the secret was already out, there would be no point in withholding information now. He drew in a deep breath, held it in his lungs for a count of ten, then exhaled slowly through pursed lips, trying to release his feelings into the Force as he did.
"It's called Sacul Syndrome," he began. "It's genetic. It's… My family…" He felt his breath hitch. and he blinked rapidly hoping to banish the tears that were starting to burn his eyes. He refused to cry. "It's a long story," he said. It wasn't. Not really. But for him, right now, the act of telling it would be impossible.
"How long have you known?" Kanan asked. "When did you find out? How did you find out? We haven't been anywhere near a medical facility in months."
Ezra raised a hand to his cheek and felt the two scars there with the tips of his fingers. The last time they had been anywhere near a medical facility, if had been aboard a Rebellion ship, and he had been having the wounds checked by a medic. He hadn't known then. It had started, but he hadn't known.
Ezra shook his head. "I just know," he said. "Trust me, I've tried to think of another explanation. Nothing else fits."
The syndrome ran in his family, he knew that already. And while it usually didn't cause any symptoms until middle age, it turned out there was an early onset version. Rare enough that it had been nothing but a footnote in the information he had read, but it worked more quickly than the adult version. While it had probably taken his aunt twenty years or more to lose her sight, he would be blind in less than five. And that was the optimistic estimate.
Kanan didn't say anything. Ezra could tell that he wanted to argue, to tell him that if he didn't know for sure then he could be wrong, but he thankfully resisted the urge. Ezra doubted that this would be the last he heard on the subject, but for now he was simply glad not to be being quizzed.
There was one other thing that he needed to say. He didn't want to say it, but it would grow more difficult the longer he left it. He took another deep breath. "I understand if you don't want to train me anymore," he said. He was pleased to hear that his voice sounded almost calm.
Kanan turned and looked at him with a shocked expression on his face. "Why would you say that?"
Ezra tried to reply, but couldn't. He shook his head wordlessly. The answer to Kanan's question was obvious. What use was he going to be as a Jedi a few years from now? Why waste the time and effort?
Kanan's arm wrapped around his shoulders and pulled him closer. "Hey," he said. "I'm not going to stop training you. Do you really think I'm going to let you get out of it that easily?"
"But…" Ezra began."
"We're going to figure this out," Kanan told him. "There must be some way to fix it, and even if there isn't…"
"There isn't," Ezra told him. It was the first thing he had tried to find out when he had learned about the syndrome. There was no treatment, no cure. It didn't exist.
Kanan nodded like he had expected that. He probably had. Ezra would have mentioned it before now if it had been a possibility. He fell into thoughtful silence for a moment.
"If there isn't, it's still going to be alright," he said.
Ezra shook his head. "How?"
"Because there were Jedi at the Temple who were blind."
Ezra sucked in another breath, then tore his gaze away from his feet and looked at Kanan, searching his expression.
"Not just at the Temple," Kanan clarified. "They were a part of the war effort. They were warriors and teachers, and they were among the most powerful Jedi Masters. I don't know how they did it, but I know that they did. Not being able to see didn't slow them down. In fact, I think it may even have made their connection to the Force stronger."
Ezra brushed away the tears that had filled his eyes. He tried to rearrange his expression into a smile that he didn't feel. "Wait, so, you're trying to tell me this is a good thing?"
Kanan wasn't saying that of course, and Ezra knew it. But maybe, just maybe, he was telling him that it wasn't hopeless.