Darian's personal life mirrored his public persona. He lived a simple and austere existence, dedicating himself to serving others and deepening his connection to the Force.
Like the many seasoned Jedi of old, and like most deep thinkers, he required little sleep. What rest he took was deep and undisturbed. Each morning, before the temple awoke, he meditated for an hour, letting the Force flow through him, listening to its currents. Then, he would take his simple meal—nutrient bars and recycled water, sometimes a mushroom he found in an abandoned tunnel.
A Jedi Master, even in hiding, is a very busy being: he must every day receive reports from the sanctuary's overseers, who were often former aid workers, and nearly every day his volunteers. He has squabbles to resolve, aid to distribute, a whole collection of salvaged datapads to examine – technical manuals, historical records, philosophical treatises, etc. – reports to write, pleas to authorize, refugees and merchants to reconcile, secret correspondence with newly sprouting rebel pockets, and a thousand matters of business within the undercity.
In his rare moments of leisure, Darian would tend to a small hydroponic garden he had cultivated in a forgotten corner of the medical facility. He found solace in nurturing the plants, watching them grow and thrive in the artificial light. Sometimes he tinkered with broken droids in the old repair shop; again, he read or wrote. He had but one word for both these kinds of toil; he called them _cultivating_. "The Force is a garden," said he.
Towards midday, when the air filtration systems were functioning smoothly, Master Darian would leave the sanctuary and take a stroll through the undercity, often entering the dimly lit dwellings of the inhabitants. He was seen walking alone, deep in meditation, his eyes downcast, supporting himself on his weathered staff, clad in his simple brown Jedi robes, which were surprisingly warm, with sturdy boots on his feet, and the hood of his robe drawn over his head.
It was a moment of quiet celebration wherever he appeared. One would have said that his presence had something calming and reassuring about it. The downtrodden and the weary emerged from their cramped shelters to greet Master Darian as they would a glimmer of hope. He offered words of encouragement, and they, in turn, offered him their gratitude. They would point out those in dire need to him, whispering of families struggling with illness or those who had lost loved ones to the Empire's cruelty.
Here and there he paused, offering a kind word to the younglings and a comforting touch to their parents. He visited the sick and injured, providing what little healing he could with the Force and the medcenter's meager supplies. When those ran low, he would seek out the more fortunate merchants and traders, requesting their aid.
As he made his robes last a long while, he mended them himself, careful that they endure. Yet he never went among the people without his outer cloak, its deep brown folds draped over his shoulders like the warmth of the Force itself. This sometimes proved uncomfortable in the warmer sectors of the undercity, where malfunctioning ventilation systems caused the air to grow heavy and stifling.
On his return to the sanctuary, Darian would partake in a simple midday meal. This meal closely resembled his breakfast, consisting of nutrient bars and recycled water.
At half-past eight in the evening, he would share a modest supper with Anya, while M-4G, ever diligent, would assist in serving and tidying. Nothing could be more frugal than this evening repast. If, however, Darian hosted a representative from a neighboring enclave, M-4G would take the opportunity to prepare a more substantial meal, perhaps some preserved protein rations or a rare piece of fruit salvaged from the upper levels. Every guest provided the pretext for a slightly more elaborate meal; Darian did not interfere. With that exception, his ordinary diet consisted only of nutrient bars, salvaged vegetables, and the occasional bowl of protein gruel. Thus, it was said in the undercity, _"When Master Darian does not indulge in the hospitality due a guest, he indulges in the austerity of a hermit."_
After supper, he would converse for a time with Anya and M-4G, discussing the day's events, the needs of the undercity, and any news they had received from the upper levels. Then, he would retire to his small chamber and set to work, sometimes on loose datapads, and sometimes on the margins of some ancient technical manual. He was a scholar as much as a warrior. He left behind many recorded holocrons and written manuscripts, including an analysis of the ancient prophecy: "the Force will find balance." He compared three interpretations—one from the Jedi Archives, which spoke of balance as peace; another from the texts of the Guardians of the Whills, who saw balance as understanding; and a third from an old Sith manuscript, which argued that balance could only be achieved through conflict.
Sometimes, in the midst of his reading—no matter the text—he would slip into deep meditation, his mind drifting through the currents of the Force. When he emerged, he would record a thought in the margins of whatever datapad was before him. These notes often had no connection to the subject at hand. One such note, written in an old military log from the Clone Wars, read:
"Oh, you who are...
The Jedi call you the Force.
The Sith call you Power.
The mystics of Jedha call you the Breath of the Cosmos.
The ancient Rakata called you the Will.
The Twi'leks call you the Everlasting Pulse.
The Wookiees call you the Song of the Trees.
The Voss call you Vision.
But the wisest of all simply ask for balance."
As the artificial night fell upon the undercity, Darian would often sit outside his door. Anya would retire and M-4G would power down for the night, leaving Darian alone with his thoughts until morning.
There, surrounded by the flickering glow of old holorecords and the hum of the night air, he remained—watching, learning, and listening to the Force.