Author Note 7/26/2023:
Hello there,
It's been quite a while since I last wrote for this story, and I must admit, time has flown by as the popularity of this tale soared. I find myself compelled to make an important announcement. At present, I am on hiatus for the story, focusing instead on completing the first season of another fic. Afterward, I plan to return and finish this one. However, I must admit that writer's block and various responsibilities have made progress challenging. Nevertheless, I want to express my heartfelt gratitude to all the readers. Your support means the world to me. For those currently reading Avatar Exile: Jedi Outcast and its sequels, be aware that they are undergoing a thorough and extensive edit. I'm working on refining the writing style, prose, and clarity, while also addressing any grammatical issues and tweaking aspects I felt needed improvement. In the edited chapters, you will find an attached 'Edit' sign.
This editing process is taking longer than expected, and I intend to take my time with it. My plan is to edit chapters until we reach the end of season one for Last Airbendor. Subsequently, I will focus on editing 'The Meetra Chronicles' and 'Legacy of The New Jedi Order,' both sequels to this fic. I hope this announcement piques your interest, and now, I'd like to provide a brief author's note. Thank you all sincerely for your readership, and I won't take up too much of your time. This story holds a special place in my heart, and I truly hope you enjoy the revisions, which aim to address any issues with the prior edits.
I drew considerable inspiration from 'Bend Fore,' another fantastic fic on this site. I encourage you all to check it out as it is an essential piece when exploring Star Wars x Avatar fanfictions. While my story may have some rough edges, I'm committed to honing it into something special, just like the Shaninerverse and Jarik Shan, which have been significant sources of inspiration for me.
For those interested, here's the reading order of my trilogy of stories:
1) The Last Airbendor: Jedi Outcast - Follows Benjamin, an exiled Jedi, as he tries to forge a new life in a new world and becomes entangled with the Avatar crew while battling the darkness within himself.
2) The Meetra Chronicles - Focuses on Meetra Wilum, the daughter of Benjamin and Ty Lee. As the firstborn of the Wilum family, she carries the Meetra name and is a talented Jedi apprentice in training.
3) Legend of Korra: Legacies of The New Jedi Order - A spinoff linked to Legend of Korra, centered around Isaac Wilum, the second son, and a powerful Jedi who aids Avatar Korra in her journey as sinister forces oppose the light.
Your support in the form of follows, favorites, and reviews means the world to me. It truly motivates me to continue working on this project. I wish you all a wonderful and awesome day!
Chapter 1 - Edited
The resounding clang of metal reverberated through the valley, its desolate hum echoing into the depths of Ben's soul. His eyes, fixated solely on his task, followed the rhythmic motion as he drew the axe back, anticipation coiling within him like a serpent ready to strike. With a couple more resounding chops, the mighty oak succumbed, its towering form splintering from the earth, collapsing with the grace of a fallen domino.
Drenched in sweat, the boy wore a thick brown coat that clung to his body, as if an extension of his very being. Protective goggles shielded his eyes, yet they too bore witness to the baptism of wood chips and the metallic tang of perspiration. Tossing the axe over his shoulder, he gripped it at the very end with his left hand, while his right traversed the fallen tree.
His gloved hand, encrusted with sap and dirt, conveyed the raw essence of his toil. The tactile sensation of the gloves, like a second skin, fused with the fabric of his clothing, merging the forest's sweat and scent into every pore. Crouching down, he traced his free hand along the wooden carcass, a grin carving indents upon his face. With a deliberate motion, he pushed his goggles off his forehead, allowing his eyes to bask in the aftermath. "Good," he whispered, a testament to his meticulous inspection.
The war between the Fire Nation and the rest of the world raged on, a relentless tempest surging across the lands. Unyielding and without respite, the Fire Nation claimed dominion over all in its path. Yet, to fuel their war machines, they hungered for a steady supply of coal and wood.
And thus, people like Ben became indispensable—a cog in the vast machinery of war. As he hoisted himself upright, his eyes scanned the surroundings, absorbing the panoramic vista. In this moment, he glimpsed the valley's latent beauty, imagining the life that once flourished before the Fire Nation's devastating arrival.
Such places possessed a vitality, an unspoken pulse that resonated deep within Ben's being. It was this essence that allowed him to endure the arduous labor, to linger in these woods longer than his fellow lumberjacks and machine workers. Even as splinters of oak clouded his vision and the charred remnants of burnt wood scratched at his eyes, the allure of this place persisted, its essence entwined with his very soul.
Taking a step back, Ben's colossal boots reverberated against the earth, mirroring the impact of the felled tree. Steadfast and unwavering, he tightened his grip on the axe, preparing to unleash another mighty swing. This was the way of young men like him, toiling for their livelihood. In the town of Azon, a Fire Nation island colony, opportunities for work were scarce. Once a mere paradise for affluent Earth Nation nobles, the island's fate was irrevocably altered when the Fire Nation discovered its bountiful reservoirs of coal and wood.
The influx of Earth Nation refugees seeking a stable income for themselves and their families didn't take long after the boats arrived on the island. But Ben, well, he didn't arrive on those boats.
"Back to work... don't think about it," Ben muttered, his grip on the axe tightening, knuckles turning white as the gloves left indents along the handle. The blade struck the wood with a resounding chop, splitting it in half. He didn't want to dwell on it, preferring to lose himself in his labor rather than lose himself in the haunting memories of the past.
On the island, coal mining and wood chopping were the only two viable paths to financial success. There were, of course, healers, the occasional merchant, and a bartender, but for people like Ben, manual labor was the only real option.
Working in the coal mines offered more money and a semblance of stability, but it wasn't without its dangers. Cave-ins were frequent, and the fire nation recruiters conveniently left out certain hazards. The men and women who toiled there had an increased risk of falling ill, with some even losing their hair due to the chemicals or lack of oxygen within the mines. Ben had heard tales of fire nation soldiers accidentally triggering gas vents with their bending abilities, transforming the entire cave system into a fiery pit.
Ben had no purpose, and a part of him didn't really care. But being burned alive didn't sound like a desirable fate.
Lumberjack work wasn't much better. During the colony's establishment, an intoxicated fire nation soldier caused a disturbance at the local saloon. The details were hazy, but the aftermath was undeniable.
An island-wide forest fire consumed the lush trees that served as raw materials for the fire nation's war machines. Many were destroyed or charred beyond use as stable fuel. However, some trees, like the ones Ben cut down, defied the flames, proving surprisingly resilient. Making money on the island required either an abundance of coal ore or healthy wood that could be exchanged for coins.
Ben felt the bite of the axe, the satisfying thud as yet another tree surrendered to his efforts. He followed the same routine, working tirelessly. Unlike the other colonists, he was a refugee, a survivor of a different war.
Narrowing his eyes, Ben navigated around the bitter memories that persistently plagued him in this place. They always managed to find a way to distract him from his goals. Yet, his goals were simple enough.
Wake up, work, and cash in on the day's earnings. Head to the bar, drown his sorrows, and repeat. It was a wretched existence, but for people like Ben, who sought refuge from their haunted pasts, it offered solace and the blissful absence of responsibility. It became their sanctuary.
In this place, nobody knew who you used to be or the crimes you had committed—the monster you had allowed yourself to become. As he struck the axe into the third tree he encountered, it dawned on him that he wasn't the only one who had fought in a war that felt this way. And he doubted he would be the last.
As the third and final tree yielded to Ben's power and strength, he began the process of bringing them together, stacking them like a child playing with blocks. His weathered gloves deftly unraveled the twine looped around his belt. The thin but sturdy string was capable of bearing the weight of the logs. With a few deft maneuvers, Ben circled the wood several times, expertly securing the structure with his skilled hands.
The goggles, once shielding his eyes, now hung loosely around his neck as Ben rose from his crouched position. The day's work was complete, and all that remained was to transport the trees to the factory. The wood cutter there would process the timber on his behalf. Ben wouldn't need to stick around for that part. Having a haul of three healthy and stable trees was quite the stroke of luck. He possessed an uncanny knack for locating such resilient specimens, trees that could withstand the ravages of fire.
When Ben wasn't present, the other men at the bar would jest about his special talent, the ability to find lost things. It was a gift, according to them.
Suddenly, Ben's ears pricked up, sensing a presence nearby. He detected the scent of watered-down beer, followed by a trail of muttered curses. Ben gripped the axe toward the end, the blade resting lightly on the ground, preparing himself to confront the intruder. A sigh escaped his lips as he laid eyes on the person who had decided to disturb him.
"Oi... Ben!"
The drunken voice reverberated through the valley, causing Ben to instinctively cover his ears. He didn't respond or offer a wave in return. Instead, he simply threaded his right hand between the twine and began to pull.
He didn't wish to waste time or draw further attention to his haul. So, with the twine attached to the logs, he lifted the weight and began dragging the wood towards the factory.
It was Rin—a weathered old man who had been on the island for as long as Ben could remember. According to rumors, Rin had arrived with his family at the onset of the war, hoping to establish a career and provide for his children's education. Nearly thirty years had passed, and he was still here. A familiar face at the bar, but Ben couldn't say much in that regard either. At fifteen years old, just a month away from turning sixteen, he himself had a tab to settle at the establishment.
Smoking and drinking helped Ben forget. They dulled the senses that allowed him to find things lost in this world. He didn't mind relinquishing that ability; it hadn't brought anything positive into his life. War, suffering, and a fall from grace had left him shattered. Cutting himself off from it all had been the best decision he had ever made. However, on days like today, those unwelcome reminders would pester him like an annoying kath hound.
Lin rushed over to Ben, offering to help him drag the scattered pile of logs. "Let me help with that," Rin said, a crooked grin stretching across his face as he addressed the boy. Ben snarled in disgust, abruptly dropping the logs to the ground. The sudden motion nearly sent Rin tumbling backward.
Rin's snarl echoed in the air, a menacing response to Ben's abrupt action. "What the hell was that for?"
Ben shook his head, refusing to be fooled by Rin's ploy. He knew exactly what the old man was up to. If they both carried the logs to the factory, Ben's hard-earned work would be divided, an undeserved reward for a freeloader who had just arrived.
"Damn kids these days have no manners. I'll help you carry the logs. Can't you spare a simple favor?" Rin's frustration was palpable, his fists beginning to clench.
Ben sneered, his head shaking with a hint of saltiness. "Ran out of whiskey, did you? So now you come looking for trouble instead, old man?" Rin's throat tightened as he swallowed hard. "I'm not running a charity here... go bother someone else."
"I have a family to feed. You don't have anyone."
Ben sarcastically shook his head, a grin playing on his lips. "Ah, yes, the same family that must love how dear old dad wastes their money on his Friday night binges, right?" He punctuated his words with a fresh wave of sarcasm. The old man's face reddened as Rin's fists clenched even tighter.
Ben knew what he was doing. Standing at a towering two meters tall, his time as a soldier during the wars and his work as a lumberjack had transformed him into a nearly invincible wall of muscle. He hoped to intimidate the old man into backing down.
Once again, Ben lifted the logs, hoping his display had scared off the old lumberjack. But to his dismay, Rin appeared in front of him, halting his progress. "Listen, kid." Rin pointed a finger directly at Ben's chest, and a searing pain shot through him, piercing his core like a blade. The touch sliced through him, invoking a familiar sensation that had been etched into his mind.
Ben's hand reacted instinctively, slapping Rin's finger away. The pile of wood collapsed to the ground as both men locked eyes.
Ben's gaze narrowed, his teeth sinking deep into his lower lip as he grunted out a command, his eyes ablaze with ferocity. "Don't touch me. Don't you ever touch me."
Rin's gaze dropped, fixated on Ben's clenched fist. A repugnant sneer spread across his face. Rin may have been old, but the years spent toiling in the mines and working with wood had forged him into a resilient and sturdy man. Even in his alcohol-induced haze after his nightly binge, he remained a formidable presence.
Ben could read Rin's thoughts. He knew the old man intended to pummel the kid and make off with the supplies. The Fire Nation foreman didn't care about who delivered the wood; all that mattered was meeting their quota.
But there was a significant difference between the two—Ben had been laboring in the woods for hours, while Rin was inebriated. Ben dropped the axe next to the fallen pile of wood, the blade settling to the side.
He raised his fist, poised in front of him, and without a moment's hesitation, Rin made his move. Ben evaded the first assault, a clumsy swing aimed at his face. He pivoted on his feet, taking a step back, and positioned his fist defensively in front of him.
Rin braced himself, launching his fist through the air, aiming squarely for Ben. The boy once again evaded the blow, but something had changed. Ben's fingers clenched tightly, and his gloves were stained with crimson as he struck out with his left hand.
His fist sliced through the air like a blade, the impact reverberating through both men. Rin collapsed to the ground, the force of the blow sending him sprawling into the dirt.
But before Ben could revel in his victory, the old drunk surged back up with an unexpected vigor. A sharp pain shot through Ben's nose, his face flushing with heat as blood trickled from his nostrils.
Rin was seething with anger now, his drunken rage fueling his actions. He grabbed the axe blade that Ben had carelessly left aside, slashing through the air in a near-fatal arc. Any ordinary person would have been cleaved in two, but Ben possessed something extraordinary, an ability that gave him a fighting chance.
"Hey... what the fuck!"
Ben's cry pierced the valley as he stomped his foot down, connecting with Rin's stomach. But the old man, fueled by fury, quickly recovered from the blow to his abdomen. Sure, Rin may have been drunk and foolish, but Ben had been toiling out here for hours. Sweat still clung to his brow from the long, relentless labor. Rin had crossed a line, attempting to snatch another worker's claim, but now he had gone too far by picking up the axe and attempting to take Ben's life.
Ben's gaze fixated on the axe, its deadly blade hurtling toward him. He managed to evade the blow, the movement unfolding in slow motion. Rin himself was astonished at how swiftly the boy recovered. Unexpectedly, Ben's heel twisted on the freshly packed ashen dirt, sending him hurtling toward the ground with a grunt of pain.
Rin was about to finish it, to extinguish the wretched existence of a life. What was truly terrifying was that Ben seemed indifferent at this point, even willing to let the axe slice through him. A part of him longed for eternal rest, a desire for everything to simply be over.
Memories of the Mandalorian wars flooded Ben's mind—the scars of Revan and his teachings, his descent into the dark side. Nightmares haunted him relentlessly, rendering sleep impossible. The allure of drinking and smoking his life away proved too enticing. What had his life amounted to? Battle after battle, war after war. Was this truly the way one should live?
Yet, Ben felt it—something stirring within him. A hunger, or rather, a surge of anger welled up, a part of him that refused to die here, in some wretched forest at the hands of an old drunk. He thrust his good hand forward, the power coursing through him like vibrant threads of emotion.
Rin dropped the axe, his body slowly levitating in the air as he clawed desperately at his throat. His nails resembled talons, leaving ghastly marks on his flesh as he gasped for air. Ben felt the power surging within him, the dark side of the Force.
It felt... strangely warm! A smile curled on Ben's lips as his narrowed eyes fixated on the old drunk. "He was arrogant, thinking that because I was alone, I was weak. The Fire Nation may have beaten you fools into submission, but I stand far beyond a mere bender!"
Ben's fingers contorted, his breath caught in his throat as Rin's vocal cords choked under the tightening grip. He squeezed his fist harder, the power coursing through him like a tempestuous wind, believing that victory was within his grasp.
But...
This wasn't victory. There was a distinction between defeating an enemy and killing them. Ben's countenance, once sinister, softened, morphing into one of sorrow as the allure of the dark side began to wane. Slowly, his hand unclenched, shame welling up within his soul. Another testament to his failures, another reminder of the boy he once was—a Jedi.
Rin's body crashed against the ashen ground, Ben's towering form closing in until the old drunk could see only the boy's boots. Ben kneeled, his voice still tinged with malice, yet his words were crystal clear. The proximity allowed Rin to catch a whiff of the beer that clung to Ben's breath.
"Tell no one about this... or I'll fucking end you," Ben spat, his words laden with bile. He had been reckless, fully aware of what the Fire Nation was capable of. He had no inkling of the horrors they might inflict on Force users like himself. They could easily mistake him for the Avatar, whose presence had recently resurfaced.
But those concerns were not what plagued Ben's mind. It was the thoughts that raced through his head as he choked the life out of Rin. The guilt that now festered within him, a repugnant and diseased hound that refused to relent.
He watched Rin flee, stirring up the soot as he sighed, his gloved hands tightly gripping the twine as he began dragging the pile of wood toward the Fire Nation factory. But with every step Ben took, his boots digging into the well-worn dirt, he couldn't escape it—the suffocating weight of guilt.
Another sin added to the growing pile. He knew that people like Rin had become this way due to the influence of the Fire Nation. He knew of their evil, almost as malevolent as the Mandalorians on the Outer Rim.
Ben's eyes narrowed, his teeth sinking into his lower lip, blood trickling from the bite. Memories surged through his mind like a relentless tide. "Malachor V... they got what they fucking deserved there, on that desolate planet. I'm glad... that we slaughtered them all there."
The weight of his thoughts pressed upon him, and he violently shook his head once more. That was no way for a Jedi to think...
He scoffed at the notion. Calling himself a Jedi once again was sheer foolishness. He had abandoned that title long ago when he followed Revan and the Jedi Crusaders. He discarded it again when he embraced the dark side, and ultimately... he left it all behind in the end.
"Maybe a quick drink... and a couple of smokes... just to forget a little," he murmured softly, his words barely audible as the sound of logs being dragged reverberated through the ravaged forest. He knew well that alcohol and smoking would dampen his connection to the Force, but they would also provide respite from the nightmares and wounds of his past that haunted him.
But... he didn't care. Jedi and Sith... light and dark... in this place, none of it mattered anymore. All he yearned for was to vanish, to forget. Yet, as the Force would have it, such things were easier said than done.