Parental Duties
By Rey
Chapter summary: Familiar is dangerous, right now, but Caleb seeks it, anyway.
Warning for: heavy reference to Order-66 (Jedi purge) and its aftermath
6. Caleb: The Lifeline
All that passes through Caleb's mind until now, however many minutes or hours or even rotations after that, is, `No no no no no no no no!` And he keeps running, keeps hiding, keeps looking out for those who were his brothers all the while.
His legs burn. His lungs burn. His eyes burn. His heart, even more. But he can't stop, not even for a little bit, or they'll catch him, and what happened to Master Depa will – `NO! No no no no no no no! Don't think about that!`
The forest he's running through has grown familiar, with how many rotations they've camped there, a brief respite in the middle of a war that's gone for years. It used to be the source of food, fun explorations, funner games, handy teaching tools, handier meditation spots, good scenes for sketches, irritating sparring places, and annoying stinging bugs. But now Caleb's fully aware that it's a good ambush point, too, an ambush aimed at him, not at all done in play like they've all grown used to these few rotations.
He also knows that there are far more of them than there is of him, or even Jedi round this place, hence no reinforcement of the Jedi kind will be able to reach him in time to tip the scale.
The other Jedi are too busy dying, anyway. All the pinpricks of light in his Force-sense, throughout the galaxy, snuffed out in a burst of shock-fear-pain-confusion-betrayal-sorrow. Killed by their own men, their own brothers and children and lovers.
And still, like he's periodically done since that time, he calls out again, flinging his thought far and wide into the screaming, grieving, bleeding Force, `HELP!`
This time, though, he's answered.
By a small child.
Who somehow offers him safety and family with their guardian.
He can't respond, sadly. Not just now. Because they have just caught up to him – not obviously, never obviously, which used to be a point of pride to him and sad pride-respect-gratefulness to Master Depa.
DANGER blares in the Force, and Caleb leaps up the nearest sturdy tree, ignoring his screaming muscles, the screaming blasters, the screaming Force, also whatever his mind's babbling to the baffling youngling still connected to him without his conscious permission, everything. Because he's dead if he stops now, and he can't afford it, can't have his blood on the unwilling – it must be unwilling – hands of the blank things that used to be his brothers in addition to – `No! No no no – stop it! HELP!`
And, somewhere, perhaps also somewhen, the plea is answered. Also by the youngling.
He means to leap across the way to a neighbouring branch that looks and feels sturdy enough, and he does make the leap.
He never lands, though.
Not on the other tree branch, at any rate.
The youngling's presence yanks at his, and he goes sailing into the maelstrom that is the Force, on and on and on and on until the feel of the Force itself changes: still wounded, still dark, but old and tired and oh so hopeful.
His landing point is far too expansive, far too sturdy, far too inanimate to be a tree branch, though it's nearly unnoticeable, given how saturated everything is by the Force.
`An old temple, or a Force nexus, or both,` his mind whispers, even as his head suddenly pounds harshly in tandem with his heart.
`Children! There are children here!` it notices next, as he staggers about like a drunkard, fighting to keep himself on his feet, fighting to keep his eyes peeled, though his Force-perception is scrambled after whatever happened and thus can't be trusted for now.
Still, it's hard to miss the confusion-headache-relief-hope now blaring all round him.
From the other kids.
Which means….
`Oh, Force! They're all Force-sensitive kids!`
And the blank things hunt Force-Sensitives, from what he gathered this aweful while.
`Oh, Force, osik, kark, kriff….`
The litany of curses runs round and round and round and round in his mind.
It picks up both in tempo and fervency when starfighters suddenly scream above.
`ATTACK! They found us! Oh, kark!`
He grabs hold of a few of the kids with both his hands and his Force-sense, and off they tear across the broken courtyard to the bushes across from it, and down they hunker in the paltry protection of those scraggly plants until the fighters have veered off to some place down the hill this place seems to be perched atop.
It's just his luck that he seems to be hunkering down with Cal Kestis, of all beings, in addition to two zabraki girls not much younger than they are.
But, `Wait, Cal Kestis?`
He frowns. `But Kestis is back home! How in the Fo–. Oh. Now I agree with Grey. Force osik, indeed!`
His breath hitches when his mind parades every memorable moment involving that one, both positive and negative, including that last time. But, thankfully, the kids hiding elsewhere are coming out, now, including two that seem to know what they're doing. So, even though they seem to be running towards the last known trajectory of the fighters, apparently chasing something small and fast and… green?… he follows them, desperate for the distraction this offers, and with him go the other three.
He has to prevent Kestis from tumbling down the hill and breaking something vital several times, and ends up holding hands with that clumsy rival – former rival? – of his, of all things, but this is far better than the situation he barely escaped.
Even when he sees that the pilots of the fighters seem to be some kind of freaky Jedi-Mando hybrids, it's still far better. These aren't them, after all, and the two outright Mandos plus one no-less-scary tagalong that approach their impromptu gathering soon after don't dislodge this cold comfort he clings to.
Escaping this planet with one of the Mandos is another matter entirely, though.
But, unfortunately, Kestis still got a fast grip on his hand, and the tide of restless, worried younglings pushes them onward, following a kid shorter than him and Kestis that nonetheless totes a freaking rifle like a pro. Something has been swelling slowly but surely in the Force, besides, tied to this planet, and Caleb absolutely doesn't want to find out what it might be.
It's a relief, in any case, wen Kestis at last lets go of his hand, when they arrive at the Mando's somehow old Razor Crest, though that ungrateful jerk does it as if Caleb were the one holding on to him.
Caleb loiters outside, still, unwilling to enter the Mando's ship, and the two zabraki girls likewise. He watches with his eyes and in the Force as Kestis runs an ungloved hand along the outer hull of the ship, as if physically checking for cracks.
And, well, that prat somehow finds something, though it's not a crack on the hull.
It's… what, a tracking beacon?
`Oh! A tracking beacon!`
Caleb jolts, straightens up, thinks to what a tracking beacon might be used for, thinks what the swelling sense in the Force might signify, and decides to run into the ship.
The Mando's hand on his back – urging him on – is quite unnecessary, really. Whatever Grey and Master Depa said, his sense of self-preservation is intact, thank you very much!
But, `Oh, kriff, why did I think that? Why did I think about them?` Those names bring a new load of salt pouring on the open wound that's his all-too-fresh grief for everyone. When somebody pushes a ration bar into his numb, trembling hand, all he can do is to give them – whoever that is – a jerky nod in acknowledgement, in thanks that he doesn't feel, not right now, maybe not later either.
`Not ever,` something in his mind whispers, and his heart both hollows out and clenches on that thought, as if it's being squeezed out of everything it holds.
`Well, maybe it can squeeze me out, next. I want to join Master Depa. Maybe it's also wherever Grey's spirit's gone to. Grey'd never do that!`
He wants to laugh, he wants to scream, he wants to rail and curse the universe, but he does neither. He just clings, when a body that's not a kid comes close to him.
Strangely enough, he feels… comfortable, where he is. It's familiar, somehow, in a good way, and he needs all the good he can get, right now. It makes him greedy, maybe, and a Jedi isn't greedy, but kriff the greed, kriff the rules, he just wants this, whatever this is. Clinging to whoever-it-is, with warm bodies and warm lights in the Force surrounding him, pressing unintrusively and undemandingly against him, it's… it's… just… is. He can spend here forever, surrounded and safe but unrestrained.
Even when whoever-it-is adds a set of arms to the mix, it's fine. It's fine. He's safe. It's fine. Whoever-it-is isn't a blank void in the Force, isn't restricting him in any way, isn't demanding anything from him. It's fine. It's armour but different and it's fine. It's still familiar in a lot of ways, still means safety to his instincts, so it's fine.
And, with that, Caleb Dume slides gratefully into oblivion.