The Agony

Jedi Temple, Coruscant

A memorial bier for Mara had been erected in the Morning Court, a place for people to pay their respects and honor her memory, eventually to be replaced by her funeral pyre. It had become a place of constant vigil, attended by mourners who came and went in silence while others took it upon themselves in turns to offer subdued musical tribute.

The bier was crowded with flowers, notes, artwork, and other tokens of remembrance, but it had begun very simply with just a holo-portrait, her folded Jedi robes, her lightsaber, and a pair of her boots beside it on the floor. A warrior's memorial. Both flattering and commanding, Luke remembered when that holo had been taken. Mara had always questioned the need to take official portraits for the archives, and had cooperated only under protest. She had struck that pose just to tease him, but it was so widely considered the best of the run that it had made the final cut.

He was sitting cross-legged on the sturdimoss floor, just letting the misery saturate him as a drizzling rain drummed on the roof and a choir sang a quiet lament. Luke wasn't the only one there, but no one dared challenge his solitude. It was the first time he had left his room in days, partly because he suspected it was unseemly to go more than seventy-two hours without being seen at least once by the beings ostensibly under his authority, and partly because it seemed like a disservice to Mara to be so conspicuously absent. It required every bit of fortitude he had left.

Every moment he was condemned to live in a world without Mara was an agony he could not escape. Luke had spoken to a grief counselor once at Leia's insistence, years ago. She had described the phenomenon as similar to being forced to hold one's hand to a heating element. Luke hadn't ventured any criticism at the time, but now he would have suggested it was more like standing in the wake of a sublight drive and letting it melt the meat off his bones. He couldn't move, and he couldn't die, condemned to stand in the fire until he could learn to accept it.

Don't be mad at me, farmboy.

Don't be mad . . .

He was mad, damn it. Mara should have known better, especially after lecturing him so many times about learning to rely on other people, about not trying to solve all his problems alone. After twenty-one years, Luke thought he deserved more consideration than that. She had deliberately shut him out, left him frantic with no means to find her except that desperate instinct at the very limit of his spectrum of perception. A few hours in hyperspace might have made all the difference. She might have still been with them.

What was the point of being so immensely powerful in the Force if no one ever told him what was going on?

Luke didn't want to be angry. He couldn't change any of it by being angry, and the last thing he wanted was to end their marriage with a posthumous argument. So, he made the effort to compress all that negative emotion until it collapsed into just another crushing wave of sorrow.

He hated that he knew how their story ended. They had always known the end would come eventually, always in some distant and unknowable future, never an immediate concern, never today, never now. Suddenly it was yesterday, and Luke found himself alone in that trackless void he had never planned for.

There was a dismal symmetry to it. He had admittedly stolen their first kiss as Mara lay unconscious in a healing trance in the wilds of Nirauan, young and strong, filthy and absolutely beautiful. Their last had been in Cilghal's morgue, her body unnaturally pale and sterile, motionless and cold. Luke could still feel that chill on his lips. He couldn't remember the last they had shared while she was still alive. There had been so many that it was hard to differentiate them. Maybe that should have been some comfort, but it just made him desperately lonely.

He didn't feel like himself anymore, just an amalgamation of broken parts that were no use to anyone. He and Mara had been so closely interwoven that Luke still wasn't sure vital parts of himself hadn't been torn away with her. Her portrait on the bier didn't offer any answers, but just stared back at him, a frozen shadow of happier times.

Jedi really weren't supposed to engage in all this performative grief, the wakes, the rites, and the laments. Jedi funerals were brief, perfunctory, a simple pyre when one was required at all. But Mara Jade Skywalker loomed large in the annals of the New Jedi Order, and she would not be easily forgotten. As usual, they were adapting and amending the code as they went, deriving it from and applying it to the realities of life as they experienced it. The future of the Order depended on that effort, but Luke didn't feel up to the task anymore. He felt shattered, wrung out, spent.

It was going to be a while before he could learn to stop thinking of everything in reference to her. There was still a second after he woke up every morning when he had to remember that she wasn't just out of bed before him or away on mission. He saw Mara everywhere, sometimes thought he could hear her voice or the sound of her breathing, the way she used to huff to herself when she was struggling to contain a particularly virulent opinion. That had been one of the many nonverbal cues they had developed between them, but now Luke knew it was just his brain struggling to find patterns in the ambient noise. It still made him stop and listen every time.

I wouldn't be myself without Mara, he had confessed to his father's ghost at Varykino. How are we supposed to be effective if we're only allowed to be half alive? This, he supposed, was what half alive felt like. Anakin had essentially told him he would have to answer that question himself, that he was duty-bound to set the example.

Luke also heard Yoda echoing in his mind, as he often did when he felt he was somehow falling short of the ideal. Death was a natural part of life, Yoda had insisted, attempting to distance Luke from his emotions all those years ago. He wasn't supposed to dwell on the loss of loved ones, wasn't supposed to mourn or miss them. It would be quite simple if he had only trained himself to be detached from anything he might otherwise fear to lose.

To a certain extent, Luke could see the wisdom in that. He had dabbled in some very deep attachments, eyes wide open, and now he was paying the price. He had been reasonably prepared for the worst more than a decade ago when Mara had languished in her coomb spore disease, but he had given up the exercise when she had recovered. The end had caught him unprepared, a sucker punch in the dark, but Luke would still defy every Master who had ever lived rather than regret any of it. Those years together had been a revelation, and their love, their bond, and their son were worth any pain that may be required of him. They were priceless.

Acceptance was there, inevitable, waiting just outside the cloud of wretchedness that smothered him now. He would find it eventually, but he had to mourn first. He had to.

I'm sorry, Yoda, he thought. I don't work that way.

If he didn't mourn, he could never heal. And he would miss her until the day he died.

Ben came and sat beside him on the moss, boldly breaking the illusion of isolation. Luke was glad he did. Whatever had caused the strain on their relationship over the past year, it seemed to be on the mend, and that was enough to keep at least a small spark of hope burning.

"Hey," Ben whispered after sitting with him for several minutes. "It's good to see you out again. Are you sure you're up for it?"

"Seemed like I should probably make an effort," Luke said, "before people start assuming I'm dead."

Ben pressed his lips into a firm line and lifted an eyebrow. "Some were starting to wonder," he admitted. "But don't put yourself out, Dad. Take all the time you need. We're handling it."

Ben shouldn't have to handle anything, but Luke knew by now that his son was extremely strong willed when he put his mind to something, and he didn't have the energy or the conviction to argue with him. The boy's resemblance to his mother was particularly pronounced at times like that. "That's very grown-up of you, Ben," he said instead. "Just don't forget to take some time for yourself, too."

"I'll take my time when the job's done," Ben said grimly. "They're not going to get away with this. I'm going to find whoever did this to Mom, I promise."

Again, it was no good arguing with him. Another time, Luke would have been eager to go with him. They would have run the guilty to ground together, exacting harsh but justified satisfaction for Mara. But all that was far beyond him now. Justice wouldn't bring Mara back. Justice would be served by others, and he wasn't in any fit state to decide what was just or not. If it had been Lumiya's intention to effectively sideline him with her death, she had been wildly successful. It wasn't much different than her first attempt to take him with the suicide vest, but in the end she found more subtle weapons than baradium. Now his lethargy was crippling the whole Jedi Order from the top down. Something would have to be done about that.

A head of red hair caught Luke's eye in one of the mirrored wall panels, and he looked up before he could stop himself.

"It's just Seha, Dad," Ben murmured, identifying the young apprentice, and apparently recognizing what had just happened. "She's a friend of mine."

Luke closed his eyes and shook his head to clear it. He had to get a hold of himself. This wasn't healthy.

"Everyone's been calling for you," Ben told him. "The comm center has been collecting messages for you to play back whenever you're ready. Malinza actually managed to bluster her way past the lockdown with Petra a few days ago."

Luke frowned, sorry he had missed them. Of course, he would have been lousy company, so maybe it was for the best. "I'll have to make it up to them somehow."

"Don't worry about it," Ben insisted. "She understood. We spent some time catching up. Petra's a little dynamo these days."

"She is," Luke agreed, the thought of her almost bringing a smile out of him. Mara had adored Petra. They were supposed to be attending her school's awards ceremony next week . . .

Luke's chrono buzzed, postponing another slide into heartache and regret.

"What's that?" Ben asked.

"I have something I need to do," Luke said, purposefully vague as he gathered his feet beneath him and stood. His rough hip was starting to give him trouble again. Mara had always known how to sort it out, but now he supposed he should finally get a professional to look at it. Before he went, he pulled his son into a one-armed hug. "Thanks, Ben. I've missed you. But I mean it, don't forget to take care of yourself."

Ben looked at him with a kind of numb helplessness that said he was sorry he couldn't do more. He didn't protest, bargain, or argue like he would have done in the past, but just nodded. "Okay, Dad. This thing you need to do . . . Can I help?"

Luke shook his head. "I need to talk to the Council. We'll discuss it afterwards."

As he rode the lift to the Council chamber, Luke reflected that the reason he didn't want to tell Ben what he was doing was that he didn't have the energy to present his case twice, and Ben could absolutely be expected to offer stiff resistance to the idea. Luke didn't want to waste time deflecting emotional arguments. He was too emotional himself. He needed some cold logic, and if he couldn't count on his fellow Masters for that, then the whole Council was a farce.

Everyone was already assembled when he arrived. Almost everyone. They hadn't replaced Master Lobi yet, and now Mara's post was also vacant. Cilghal seemed ready to temporarily assume the duties of secretary.

As they often did, the Council Masters had all remained standing in anticipation of his arrival. It was a gesture of deference Luke had never insisted on, and he still hadn't decided whether it would be more self-absorbed to insist that they stop or to just accept it without protest. It felt like a reverential salute this time, as though they were according him a hero's honors just because he'd managed to get himself dressed and show up to work that day, which made him feel more than a little pathetic. All the more reason to say what he intended to say and leave the matter in their hands.

Luke sat down, and just let the Grand Master's seat swallow him for a few seconds. The rest of the Council sat and waited patiently to hear the reason he had called them. But that could keep for another minute.

"If there's anything anyone thinks I need to know," he said, "now's the time."

Glances were exchanged, and finally Corran cleared his throat. "The funeral has officially been set for the end of this week," he said. "We're expecting a fairly large turnout, but nothing the Morning Court can't accommodate. Chief Niathal called to offer her condolences, and to indefinitely postpone that meeting you two were supposed to have. Jaina checked in yesterday to report that they think they've found a likely trajectory for Alema. All's quiet on Ossus, although some of the kids are a little shaken up. Other than routine updates from the GA's war room, that's about it."

Luke nodded. He knew it was a bad sign when the threat of "routine updates" sounded like a hell he wanted no part of.

"Luke?" Strangely enough, it was Kyp who spoke up first. But Kyp had always been one to speak his mind, so maybe that shouldn't have been a surprise. Now he just looked concerned. "Luke, are you sure you're ready to be back? You don't seem quite yourself."

"I'm not back," Luke clarified. "Not officially. Something's been weighing on me that we need to address right now. I talked to Corran about it, and because there was no expectation that the conversation was confidential, I assume he's talked to all of you."

More glances.

"Not to put too fine a point on it," Luke continued, "we need to address the staggering failure of this council to respond appropriately after what just happened. Lumiya was guilty of many things, but killing Mara apparently wasn't one of them, and we let ourselves be baited. It was my own fault, and I'm not casting blame at anyone individually, but my wife . . ." It was still hard to say it, and he had to try again. "My wife had just been murdered. I was clearly not competent to be making judgment calls, let alone taking sole responsibility for our response. The only ones who gave me pushback were trying to spare my feelings, not my integrity, and they wanted vengeance as badly as I did."

"Justice," Kenth Hamner suggested.

Luke turned on him. "No, vengeance," he insisted. "You all tacitly agreed that it was my kill, and you let me have it. We all wanted it, and we got it, and now we have no standing, no credibility, and no conviction, just the way she planned it. I made this mess, but not one of you tried to stop me. If we can't do better than that, then there's really no point to any of this."

It silenced the room, not that anyone had been in a great hurry to speak before. Live and learn, they always said. No one liked to mention how painful and destructive the process could be.

"With all that in mind," Luke concluded, "I have serious doubts about my ability to continue in office, and I'm asking for your opinions. The real ones, the things you say behind my back. Let's have it."

No one wanted to be the first to step out, but finally Kyle took the initiative. "All right, Luke," he said, standing and striding toward the center of the chamber. "You're right. This came up last night, as a matter of fact, and I'm happy to repeat exactly what I said." He took a rhetorical look around the room and frowned. "Hypothetically, let's forget your name for a minute," he said, "and your lineage, and your obvious destiny. Which one of us is supposed to take your place? We're all equally guilty, so I don't see how anyone is better qualified. You built this, you've lived and breathed this for forty years, and we're all here because of you. We still trust you, even if you don't, not least of all because you're forcing this issue. Anyone with backbone enough to indict himself in open council has to be worth a shot at redemption."

"I'm not trying to stand on my reputation," Luke insisted. "My only concern is the here and now, and under the circumstances, I'm convinced the Order would be better served if I got out of the way."

"Hey, now," Corran protested, "that's what everyone said when we made you ostracize me all those years ago, and you say you've always regretted it. Is the Order better served by cutting off troubled members, or aren't we all here to support each other through the low times, to heal together? It's one of your foundational lessons, for cripes' sake. A Jedi can't get so caught up in matters of galactic importance that it interferes with his concern for individuals."

Luke scowled, feeling that there was something not quite fair about using his own words against him. This wasn't easy for him, and wasn't a decision he took lightly. "You're just coming up with reasons to make me stay," he complained.

"Guilty as charged," Corran owned, going to stand with Kyle. "We don't forget our people or let them disappear when they fall out of ranks, Luke, and we're certainly not going to forget about you. You taught us that. What were you planning to do, anyway?"

Luke sighed. "Disappear and be forgotten for a while," he confessed.

Saba hissed and shook her head. "A hunter that givez up the hunt doez not long survive," she protested. "One cannot live if he behavez as one dead. Lost mates must be honored. Fight. Live. That is what Mara would have wanted."

"She has a point, Master," Kyp agreed, still slouched pensively in his chair. "Not to compare atrocities, but you didn't let me disappear after I committed an actual genocide. You kept making me get up, and showed me how to be better. I mean, so long as we're fighting, we're not dying, right?"

That last comment caught Luke like a blast of cold water, although it was obvious Kyp hadn't intended it that way. Kyp didn't even realize it was significant. Mara had said that to him fifteen years ago when she had been struggling to live . . . and Luke remembered it like it was yesterday.

"I would argue that you're still not competent to be making judgment calls," Kenth put in. "At least, not about anything so permanent as a resignation. It's only been three days, Luke. No one expects you to function at full capacity right now. Take the week, take four if you need to. We'll keep the seat warm for you, and be ready to launch when you give the word."

Their loyalty was touching, but still Luke couldn't help pining for that elusive fantasy of peace and silence along some nameless coastline where no crisis or catastrophe could find him. It was growing less and less likely by the minute, all of it dampened by the memories Kyp had unwittingly churned up. It felt uncannily like Mara was still trying to reach him, just as she had been reaching for him when she died. Why else would she have left her body behind? Why did he see her around every corner? Maybe he was just going crazy. Luke imagined he could feel her standing behind him, just out of reach, but he refused to turn around.

Snap out of it.

"It seems to me," Octa said in her turn, "that if we agree that Lumiya's purpose in perpetuating the deception was to neutralize Master Skywalker and derange the Council, then we should do everything in our power to prevent that outcome."

"I agree," Cilghal said, quietly extinguishing Luke's last hope of escape. "Whatever villainy may be afoot here, we'll do ourselves a great disservice if we leave the Order decapitated and disorganized. Let's regroup and fight another day. In the meantime, let the illusion of vulnerability stand while Master Skywalker recovers. It may bring some scavengers into the open."

"Yesss," Saba agreed, baring her reptilian teeth. "There iz already blood in the air. We must not give them the outcome they expect."

They were all looking at him, a bulwark of trust, expectation, and support. Luke still felt unequal to those expectations, but once again he would somehow have to find the strength to perform. It never got easier. "You aren't going to let me just bow out quietly, are you?" he asked, already knowing the answer.

Corran smiled. "Come on, Luke, when have we made anything easy for you?"

That was one coincidence too many, and Luke couldn't follow the rest of the discussion over the ringing in his ears. He eventually excused himself and left, convinced he wasn't entirely in his right mind. It was a common enough phrase, he told himself. There was no reason to attribute any significance to anyone repeating exactly what Mara had said as he had clumsily tried to propose to her on Nirauan. He was just being hypersensitive.

Right?

Luke retreated into his quarters and locked the door behind him. He had to get a grip, especially now that there was no professional reprieve in his future. Apparently he couldn't quit that job even when he tried. There was still a war on, and they would be calling for him sooner rather than later.

It just reminded Luke of something one of his Naberrie cousins had said, observing that he would never have any choice but to fight. It was just a consequence of who he was, of what he was.

Sometimes Luke thought he would be grateful to be someone else. Not always, but there were days when the grind seemed unbearable. Destiny had not turned out to be a benevolent force of fairytale, but a brutal reality that only punished him harder the more he embraced it. Happiness, he realized, didn't enter into the equation. He had a purpose whether he liked it or not. He had an order to lead, an example to set, battles to win.

He had a son to raise. In all the upheaval, Luke hadn't forgotten that during the height of the Vong war Mara had drawn a solemn promise out of him to take care of Ben if anything happened to her, not that he had ever considered doing otherwise. No matter how broken he felt, he had to be there for Ben.

Standing in the middle of the room, Luke closed his eyes, surrounded by pieces of his shattered life. There wasn't enough time to mourn Mara properly. Considering how much their extraordinary union had meant to him, he doubted there would ever be enough time. He would also have to mourn who he used to be, the whole and happy man who had been Mara's husband, someone he would never be again. If he could muster the will, Luke supposed he could learn to mask the broken places, to adapt as any disfigured veteran learned to adapt, to accept that those wounds were just a part of who he was now.

In a matter of days, the ugly side of life would kick in that door and expect the Grand Master Commander to walk out. That meant he didn't have the luxury of continuing to drown at his own pace. He would have to find and touch the absolute bottom of that well of despair while he still had the chance.

To that end, Luke forced himself to face the implications of what had happened. It wasn't enough to accept that Mara was dead. He had to accept exactly what that meant, the emptiness he would have to endure from day to day. He had to understand what it cost him, and then sit in that pain until he owned it.

They wouldn't be able to make good on that whole-family birthday party Mara had promised Ben next year.

They would never share that quiet vacation Luke had angrily resolved to plan as he had climbed into that StealthX to follow her.

She wouldn't be there to play with Ben's children.

They would never retire together to some idyllic lakeside on Naboo.

He would never fly with her again, would never spar with her again, would never feel that transcendent harmony as their minds performed as one.

He would never hold her again, feel her breath on his neck as he slept, or her warmth against his back.

Luke recalled those first days after Nirauan when they were first bonded, when they had dropped out of thought and time for two stolen weeks just to savor the new and breathless intimacy they had fallen into together. Then, just to torture himself, he remembered how it ended, the sudden horror as her life and her light were torn out of him, the way she had reached for him in her final agony knowing he couldn't catch her. The cold silence.

Mara was gone, and it was over. There was no recourse and no appeal.

Luke sank to his knees in his own agony of pain and protest as he struggled to accept any of it. But he had to accept it. He would drive himself insane if he didn't accept it.

He would never feel like that again,

would never love like that again,

would never be complete like that again,

and he would have to live every waking moment

of every day

for the rest of his life

alone.

The story continues in the next chapter, The Process (Chapter 9).