Chirrut had been blind since birth. He had been lucky in his parentage. His family were not wealthy at all, with barely enough means to scrape it through the week, but more importantly, they did love him. For them, young Chirrut was their son, blind or not. When he had been born they had celebrated all day, and they had thanked the Force that they had been lucky enough to be gifted with a healthy child.

But Chirrut Imwe does not remember any of this, for his parents were killed when he was two years old in a freak accident on a shuttle from Jedha to NaJedha. What Chirrut does remember is growing up around the Guardians of the Whills. It was only logical that he would become a novice with the Guardians when he was old enough, and it was only when he was older that he realised that it was not just because it was a logical path for him but because deep down he loved the Force, believed in it more than anything.

When Chirrut Imwe thinks further he realises that this probably stemmed from the only memory he does have of his family, one that barely comes out of the shadows in his mind.

"The Force is all around us," he remembers a female voice saying, one that he is almost one hundred percent certain is his mother. "It is what keeps us going, helps give us strength in the darkness and gives us a beacon of hope. It connects all of us in this world, both big and small."

"Trust in the Force, my boy," he remembers a male voice saying. It is gruff and hard, but has a streak of tenderness that Chirrut knows is parental love. "When you are lost and scared, trust in us and trust in the Force. We love you, so much."

When Chirrut would sit in the temple in those quiet moments, recalling that memory, he realises that he does not know why they would have said those things to him, and he does not know if the memory is true, but it keeps him going on the days when he trips up over his feet, when children outside the temple laugh at him when he has to see with his fingers.

But whilst a young Chirrut was never disliked he always found himself somehow set apart from the other children. Perhaps it was because he knew he was not just with the Guardians because he wanted to be a great warrior but because he truly believed, completely and unfailingly. He remembered sitting in one of the temple alcoves thinking about his faith when he was eight years old when two of the older guardians walked past him escorting a young boy Chirrut had never seen before. He had scraggly hair that hung limply over his eyes, bruises all over his face and a expression that looked like he would punch you on the face if you even gave him so much as a vague excuse. But Chirrut did not see all this: instead he felt the presence of someone else who's connection in the Force was as strong as his own, and heard - though Chirrut is never sure if he remembers this correctly - the beat of a heart that was at that moment in time with his own.

He learnt several days later that the boy's name was Baze Malbus, and Chirrut was surprised to learn that he had to listen extra hard to hear the boy's presence. But he did find him, one lunchtime, sitting on his own. Chirrut had sat down next to him and had barely said hello when the boy had got up and moved away.

But young Îmwe had not been upset. He knew that all sorts came to the temple for help and for guidance, and it just so happened that this Baze had it harder than most.

So instead he went into the archives of the temple and found his favourite book. Every day he copied out a different phrase, ones that he found particularly helped him through times when he felt he could not go on, ones that he kept close to his heart.

For a whole month Chirrut Imwe left a piece of paper outside Baze Malbus' room door every day until it came to pass that he ended up opposite Baze in the sparring ring.

Chirrut remembers that the fight had been long, that he had ended up with bruises for days afterwards and that Baze had broken his staff with a particularly vicious kick. The identity of who won the match oddly seems to slip his mind. But what he remembers most of all is that Baze Malbus sat next to him that evening for dinner, quoted back one of the phrases he had written for him (which just so happened to be Chirrut's favourite) and always sat next to him in all things thereafter.

Now, whilst sitting in their quarters on Scarif Chirrut runs his hand along his lightbow bowcaster, one that Baze had helped Chirrut make several years ago. He thinks about how different everything is now, how so much has changed, and he realises that even though he mourns for the temple, for the people that raised him, for the friends he lost, that deep down his soul is at ease since Baze, the most precious thing in his life, is still with him.

Chirrut wanders the halls outside their quarters aimlessly until he reaches the hangar. It is another unusually quiet day for the Rebellion. He is glad.

He sits down on a chair and takes a deep breath, one filled with the smells of shipfuel and the rich air of Yavin IV. For now, he is happy to stay here, surrounded by the people he loves and who love him in return.

"It is a funny thing," he says to himself. "That the greatest loves of all are always found unsought."

"That is true," a voice behind him says, one Chirrut would be able to pick out even if the rest of the world were screaming.

"Where have you been?" Chirrut asks, a smile on his lips.

"I found this for you," said Baze, pressing a flower into Chirrut's hand. "It is the flower I told you about, one of the three rare species that grow this side of Yavin IV. Smell it, it will remind you of the incense in the old temple library."

Chirrut brought it to his nose and smelled it. He was taken back, back to Jedha, back to his childhood and all the possibilities that lay ahead.

"Thank you," he said softly, placing his hand over Baze's and squeezing it.

Then suddenly he picks up two voices talking - or perhaps, not talking - in the corner of the hangar, near where the old decommissioned X-Wings are located.

He was good at picking up those two voices in a throng too: Jyn Erso's strong, clipped Basic and Cassian Andor's lilting accent. So many words unspoken between them, he thought, as he moved closer to Baze.

Yes, the greatest loves of all are always found unsought. I'm sure they will find their way too.