#after re-running chapter xii of kotfe recently

[greyias]

Fictober -- Day 12: History

Fandom: SWTOR Pairing: Gen/Pre-Canon Prompt: “You shouldn’t have come here.” Warnings: none

The glimmering towers of her youth are gone now. They used to stand tall, visible for miles upon miles on the ecumenopolis. Now reduced to nothing but rubble. The Jedi Temple had always been Satele’s home, and now it is nothing but ruins.

In some ways, it feels like the Jedi Order itself is in ruins.

Their children and elders, Padawans and Masters and Knights alike, all lie together under and amongst wreckage. The Senate, maybe even the whole Republic, now without faith that their sworn protectors can be taken at their word. Considering the events that unfolded here on Coruscant, and everything that came to light on Dantooine with Master Dar’Nala, perhaps that is fair. Just.

It doesn’t feel it though. None of this feels just or right. It just makes her feel empty and lost. Set adrift and forced to forge a new path. The Republic will not rebuild the temple as there is only so much funding to go around, and the Jedi are at the bottom of the list. It is amongst their principals to not wont, for the Force will provide. One cannot be homeless, for if you are one with the Force then you are always at home.

Nice words, a nice ideal. Not as easy a practice as it should be. There is a difference between materialism and realism, and at the end of the day even Jedi need somewhere to rest their head. And it has been made abundantly clear that Coruscant is no longer that place.

The rubble hovering in the air around her settles on the ground gently as she releases it through the Force. She wishes to focus on the physical, hoping to find some calm in it instead of letting her mind wander to all that has been lost. She finds what she’s looking for beneath it, and, to her shame and relief, nothing else. No bodies of a friend or brother or sister in the Force to bring reality back into sharp focus.

“Satele.” The voice behind her doesn’t startle her so much, as she had sensed his approach. “You shouldn’t have come here — this area is condemned. What are you doing?”

She turns around to see Gnost-Dural regarding her. Between the respirators they wear in oxygen-rich atmospheres and their unusual facial structure, many find Kel Dor expressions inscrutable. For Satele, though, she can read the concern plain on his face.

“I could ask the same to you, my friend,” she replies simply.

“I am here hoping to preserve history,” he said after a moment. “The thought of all of the knowledge collected here being destroyed is… troubling.”

There are Jedi libraries and archives on many other worlds. All of their knowledge is not lost — but the temple on Coruscant was their hub, and it contained so much of their past and history. Now lost like their brethren. Jedi are not meant to horde knowledge, not supposed to covet what has been lost. Another ideal that is difficult to achieve.

“I can sympathize,” Satele says. “I am also searching for remnants.”

She is also trying to preserve history, in a sense. If her own past could be considered that. The chest she had uncovered in the rubble is covered with a fine layer of soot, ash, and crumbled duracrete. It is a miracle it is intact at all, much less only dented and bent at a few odd angles. Her quarters had been stationed near the exterior walls, so at least there had been a chance something had survived. Jedi are not supposed to cling to material possessions. They should shun attachments. More ideals. Some times it’s too many.

And maybe more than just some of the time. It is difficult to maintain that image of perfection, to always strive to be more. Never falter. Never misstep. For one mistake is all it takes bring down condemnation. For them to whisper, to wonder, if there’s “another Revan” about to show herself. She knows where that road leads when the whispers grow too loud, and so she keeps walking the tightrope of everyone’s expectations.

It is exhausting.

“Have you found anything?” Gnost-Dural asks, a paragon of politeness. He saw her pull the chest from the rubble, but he’s allowing her an out. She almost takes it, but then decides, if this is her future and path that she must forge, she will do so on her own terms.

“Yes,” she says, a hint of defiance leaking through her calm veneer. “These were my quarters. Once.”

Understanding dawns on the Kel Dor’s face, and his gaze briefly flickers to the chest. “I did not mean to intrude.”

The defiance flickers, and then dies away. Her time under Master Dar’Nala’s tutelage had been meant to help Satele understand and control her temper. In a way, it had succeeded. Thanks to Dar’Nala, she has seen firsthand the dangers of becoming too attached to one person, to an ideal, to a cause. It means she should leave that crate in the rubble and walk away, to follow the Force’s insistent tug out to the dark of space. To find a new home for herself and the Order.

The Force is Satele’s guide, it is her true master. As it is of any Jedi. But she is also human, and maybe it is a failing of her lineage, of her teachings, or just something deep within herself, but wants to hold what’s in that chest just one more time. Just a brief, small touch before she steps back into the role that everyone expects of her.

“I do not wish to pull you from your search,” she says after a long moment, “but a second set of hands might be of use.”

Gnost-Dural dips his head in agreement, and the furrow in his expression eases. He has always been a scholar first, a warrior second. More than that, he is a good friend, and in times like these, Satele can appreciate that the most.

With his assistance, they are both able to get the crate righted and carefully remove the damaged lid. The contents inside have been covered with soot but seem to be intact. Gnost-Dural gently lifts out the leather bound journals, long fingers brushing away the ash to reveal the Aurabesh lettering carefully dug into the cover. She almost says something, perhaps an excuse for why she has such a strong need to find her mother’s journals, the only remnants of the woman who fought and was exiled for the right to raise her daughter. Except she is distracted when her hands brush over the sharp edges of the other objects she had been searching for -- had been dreading finding crushed into irreparable pieces.

The toy droids she’d carefully stowed at the bottom of the chest are whole. As she pulls both of them out an emotion wells up in her. It starts in her gut, climbs through her chest, until it gets stuck in the back of her throat like a hard lump she can’t swallow. There’s a stinging in her eyes that she could blame on the smoke, but it would be a lie. A grown woman should not be reduced to this at the mere sight of a child’s toys, and a Jedi definitely shouldn’t.

But a mother can. Especially when it is all she has of her son’s childhood. Even if that had happened as a result of her own decisions.

To be a Jedi is to always reach for the stars. Sometimes their fingers might even brush against them, but it is folly to think any of them can succeed and grasp them one-hundred percent of the time. All peoples in the galaxy are luminous beings, but they are also confined in the crude trappings of mortality with all of the limitations and burdens that come with it. To deny that reality is just as dangerous an idea as to throw their guiding principals away entirely.

Yet it is the burden Jedi must bear.

She feels a strong hand on her shoulder and looks up. She expects to see some sort of censure behind Gnost-Dural’s respirator. A reminder to throw all attachments away, to keep reaching for that pure perfection no one will ever attain. All she sees is compassion and understanding.

“All history is worth preserving, Satele,” he says gently. “Even yours.”

She can only nod, and with her mother’s journals and her sons’s old toys in hand, they continue to search through the rubble for more history.