This was written in February of this year, after I fell headfirst into the excellent video game "Jedi: Fallen Order."

The first time Cal heard of Luke Skywalker had been like a lifeline in the middle of the ocean.

The name wasn't new to him. He'd heard about Skywalker during his time as a Padawan, the reckless Knight that gave so much white hair to the Council. He had looked up to him, told and listened to his exploits like one would fairy tales.

For the longest time he had believed him dead like all the others, slaughtered by their own troops, or falling in defence of the burning Temple. The legend had turned to ashes, consumed together with the whole Order.

Hearing that name again, nearly two decades later, had felt like a rebirth.

He'd been laying low in a dingy cantina on a backwater planet, weary and exhausted, his spirits lower than they had been ever since he'd left Bracca, all these years ago. Thanks to Cere and Greez, and the comfort of having the Mantis as a home, he'd managed to go on for a while, even going on to become a full Jedi Knight.

But a disastrous adventure had separated them a few years after that, leaving him without any means to contact them. He'd had to go underground again, alone and constantly moving, his old demons coming back in full force. He'd hoped with all his heart that they were still alive, and had wondered if they were worrying about him, too.

Only Beedee's presence at his side had prevented him from sinking into despair. That night, even that was threatening not to be enough.

"I'm fine, buddy, don't worry about me," he replied to the small droid's concerned bleeping as he ordered a third drink. A foolish expense, as he should watch his credits, but tonight he really needed it.

There had been an Imperial raid, that day, on another planet in another system. Cal had tried to help the citizens flee, but the little boy whose hand he was holding during their escape had been shot by a Stormtrooper.

Such a little thing, he thought. Such an inconsequential event in the greater context of the Force. Death was omnipresent, especially where the Empire was active. He still remembered what he had been taught: rejoice for those who become one with the Force.

The more it went, the more difficult it became.

Cal ran a hand through his hair; dark brown, lately, to throw the Empire off his track. He'd grown a beard, too, made his features as little distinctive as he could, and he kept his wardrobe completely nondescript. The only concessions to that was the lightsabre he kept under his poncho but had mostly stopped using, replacing it with a blaster he'd given up and acquired despite its crudeness; and of course BD-1, whom he concealed however he could. More than once, he had been recognised solely because of the droid on his back, but he refused to leave him behind. They'd been through too much together, and he had come to love his little companion too much, to ever allow for them to be separated.

It was attachment, perhaps, one more way in which he was a less than perfect Jedi; but BD-1 was incredibly useful and had saved his life more than once. Besides, nineteen years spent fighting and running for his life had taught him that in a situation like his, comfort was so spare it became a necessity rather than a luxury, and allies were even more precious than that.

Nineteen years. He would turn thirty-two in four days, he realised distantly. He felt so much older than that.

It was a wonder he'd made it until now. Distantly, he wondered how long the Force would keep favouring him, whether he would reach his thirty-third birthday.

Not that he wished for death. To the contrary, he wanted to live with a desperation that burnt deep in his guts, filled with atrocious guilt whenever he thought of all those who had sacrificed themselves for him, with raging determination not to let the Empire have the victory of his demise as well.

But he was so tired of it all, and wondered when – if – the war would finally come to an end.

It would have to, he supposed. For him, at least. But where he had once imagined a reunion with the Council then a hidden school, a return of the Jedi Order, an organised resistance to topple their enemies, he no longer envisioned the end as anything but a more successful ambush than usual, a blaster bolt pushing past his defences, a slip in the mud causing a fatal fall.

It could come any time, any day, and he no longer had it in him to fear it. Fighting to stay alive was a primal instinct more than anything, now; what little idealism he'd once held, he had lost it long ago.

Even trusting the Force was becoming more and more of a struggle. It was hard to keep seeking calm and peace, to believe in the balance of the universe when one witnessed as many tragedies as he did.

In the darkness of his small booth, he absently took his lightsabre from under his poncho, deaf to the frantic protests of Beedee next to him, who pushed his hand and tried to make him hide it again. Cal stared at the weapon he'd made all those years ago, turned the familiar weight in his hands, wondering if he was still worthy of it.

Did one ever stop being a Jedi? For he no longer felt like one, disillusioned as he was with the galaxy, the universe, the Force itself.

Yet he knew it didn't make any difference to those who hunted him. He knew the Force, was trained in its ways. Even if he were to leave it behind, they would grant him no respite until his corpse laid unmoving at their feet.

It was in the middle of these sombre musings that Beedee's bleeping became more insistent.

"What is it?" Cal asked, a weak smile finding his lips as he looked at his long-time friend, stroking his head. He hoped the small droid wouldn't grieve too much for him, when he was inevitably gone.

Beedee put one of his feet on his arm and tilted his head, before static and a male, human voice started speaking.

"Today is a dark day for the Empire. The DS-1 Orbital Battle Station, a brand new mining and intimidation station, has been destroyed by the Rebellion, killing near to a million citizens, soldiers and civilians alike. The terrorist responsible for that merciless attack, Luke Skywalker, is wanted across the whole galaxy and shall be made to answer for his crimes..."

Skywalker. Cal's breath caught in his throat. All at once he found himself transported in the past, at a time when the Order had still been thriving, when being who he was had been an honour and a gift rather than a death sentence.

Cal had distantly heard about the Death Star, about the terrible omen it was, one more element to settle him in his hopelessness. He could imagine how significant and difficult a feat destroying it must have been.

But Skywalker had done it. It was in keeping with the near impossible stunts he had performed throughout the Clone Wars, the ones that had young Padawans whispering in awe with stars in their eyes and aspiring to be as good as he was one day.

It reminded him of his dreams, of a better time long past, and seemed to hint that perhaps better times might still await in the future.

If he had survived, Cal thought, if the Hero with no Fear still lived, then perhaps there was hope for them after all.

.

He hadn't dared believe in it too much, at first. The memory of his vain and desperate quest across the galaxy to rebuild the Order was still too fresh in his mind.

But that moment had been like destiny changing course, a tide turning in the great tapestry of the Force. Cal could feel it grow the longer it went.

The destruction of Alderaan raised a wind of indignation all across the Empire, while the loss of their superweapon proved to everyone they weren't as invincible as they had seemed until then. Everywhere in the galaxy, people rose against oppression, more and more worlds voicing their support – if more or less openly – to the Rebellion. Where there had once been apathy and resignation, protests ran once more, fanned by renewed hope.

This change echoed even in the Force. The veil of the dark side that Cal had felt heavy around him since the Purge was lifting at last. He found it easier to breathe and to stand straight, found himself once more seeking not only survival, but life.

Beedee must have felt the change in him, the spurt of energy, for he too grew even more upbeat and enthusiastic than he already was. Affection swelled in Cal's heart, his gratitude for his small companion making the days seem less bleak, the nights less cold.

He wasn't alone. He still felt lonely, from time to time, but Beedee was with him, and the galaxy was fighting.

.

Still, he hadn't truly believed he would live to see the end of the war until it happened.

He hadn't paid too much attention to the fireworks the night before. When Beedee came to him with the news, he had to sit down, overwhelmed.

The Emperor and Darth Vader – Darth Vader, the Empire's terrifying enforcer, perhaps the most frightening of all the shadows that haunted Cal's nightmares – were dead. The Empire was no more.

It felt like a dream, it felt like someone had lifted a weight from his shoulders, it felt too unreal to be true.

It was Skywalker again, of course. Skywalker; it was starting to sound less like a name and more like a miracle.

.

Only a few months later, messages were broadcast, posters were stuck up on every planet to say that the Republic was back, and the Jedi were officially pardoned.

Cal stood in front of the tree, numb, staring at the small black letters on the white paper. Part of him was convinced this must be a trap designed to lure them all out and slaughter them neatly. He'd fought the Empire for so long, he knew how devious they could be.

Twenty-three years.

After twenty-three years, it was finally over.

Beedee let out an excited squeal, climbing all over his shoulders. Cal's throat tightened, tears spilling over and down his cheeks as he let out a strangled laugh, still staring at the poster even though his vision was too blurred to read it. Please let it be true, he prayed. Please let it really be over.

He reached out, gently touched the paper. There was no history there, no duplicitous intention from the one who had hung it there, at least.

How many of them were there still? How many had bided their time like Cal had, surviving day after day for two long decades? Would they be allowed to go back to the Temple, restore it from the atrocity the Sith had made of it?

Could they find their old life again at last?

Cal ran a hand through his hair then wiped his tears, afraid someone might see him cry and guess why. Memories overwhelmed him of his routine on Coruscant, the hard, beautiful, frustrating life which he hadn't realised back then how easy and full of wonder it had been.

Could he really have it all back?

How many hours had he spent in the Archives, tearing his hair apart as he tried to understand its complex sorting system? How long had he spent in the Room of the Thousand Fountains, soothed by the sound of the water and working through his frustrations? How much had he laughed with his friends over Master Yoda's backward speech, whispered in awe in front of Master Windu's purple lightsabre, complained about the impossible exercises and the annoying puzzles given by their teachers? He'd been so excited to become a Padawan, so eager to meet his master, Jaro Tapal.

Master Tapal. Cal pressed a hand in front of his mouth, holding in another sob. Beedee looked up at him, sounding worried, and all he could give him was a shaky smile.

Master Tapal was dead. So were Master Yoda and Windu, and most if not all of his classmates; for a terrifying second, he wondered if he truly was the only one left.

Even if he returned to the Temple, even if the building could be repaired and reclaimed, there could be no going back. Too much had happened, too many ghosts haunted his past and too much blood tainted his hands for him to ever be that naive Padawan again.

The war was over, the Empire was defeated, the Jedi were no longer outlaws. Finally, Cal's very existence was a crime no more. It was something very simple, that right to live and to be free, and yet it had been denied from him for so long he barely dared to believe it, the hugeness of it tearing his breath away.

But with it came the realisation that nothing could ever be the same. The dreams that had carried him throughout his exile, the fantasies of finding back a life long past and friends long gone had no more reason to be, and he found himself mourning them, too.

.

After the announcement, Cal hadn't immediately come out of hiding. He had shaved, let his hair grow back his natural red, but that was all he had indulged in.

He had lived in fear for so long he found it had become a part of him, impossible to discard. Walking in the street without his poncho covering his lightsabre had become unthinkable. He couldn't bear to stay more than a few weeks in the same place, and using the Force made him look over his shoulder, expecting an Inquisitor to show up any moment. Openly announcing himself as a Jedi still felt like suicide, even knowing the government was no longer chasing them.

At the same time, guilt had begun to eat at him again. Now that there was no more real danger, wasn't hiding himself for his own benefit, out of irrational dread, the furthest possible from the path of a Jedi? He could do so much more good if people knew who he was...

But he could hear what some said, the mistrust and hostility that still existed towards them. During the war, he had believed it a mere result of the Empire's propaganda to turn the masses against them, but he had to realise now it ran deeper than that. Sickness gnawed at his stomach each time he heard a disparaging word against his kind, revolt against the carelessly cruel claims the galaxy was better off without them.

It wasn't much, or often. Most people spoke of the Jedi in awe, associated them with Skywalker who had freed them from the Empire. Those who complained were often old Separatists, grumpy villagers who had disliked the Republic's intervention in their daily lives. But in Cal, each of these words awakened a deeply held fear to see a blaster turned against him again, allies hunting him down without a single word of explanation.

He couldn't fathom it. Weren't they peacekeepers? Hadn't they dedicated their lives to helping and serving citizens?

Weren't they sentient beings like all the others?

The questions remained unanswered, and Cal stayed hidden.

Meanwhile, the stories about Skywalker's exploits only grew. It seemed he was taking every opportunity to flaunt his status, mediating through civil wars here and saving people from monsters there while searching, or so the story went, for young Force-sensitives and for Jedi of old.

Just like they used to do, before everything. Cal had Beedee tell him these news like bedtime stories, in the night before he went to sleep, or whenever he felt despondency take a hold of him again.

Yet it made him ashamed, this reluctance he had to show who he was to others; he wished he had as much courage as Skywalker to live his faith openly. He did his best to glean a little of it from the tales, just like he had when he'd been a student.

It made him think, an idea emerging in his mind.

He wanted to meet Skywalker. The hero-worship he'd held for him since childhood aside, he was one of them. Cal had missed such companionship.

"What do you think, buddy?" he softly asked his droid friend. "Is this real or am I just going to be disappointed?"

Beedee whistled that he didn't know, but that he'd be there to protect him, either way, and nobody would be allowed to touch him. Cal smiled.

.

Luke Skywalker wasn't anything like Cal had imagined.

He had finally taken the leap and gone after him. Skywalker wasn't hiding, but he was constantly on the move nevertheless, which made him difficult to find.

In the end, Cal had decided to travel to Coruscant – Coruscant again at last, and he could name it so, for it had never changed to Imperial Centre in his mind. He knew it would be painful to go and see everything that had changed, everything that had been lost forever, but he needed it. He needed to see it, to grasp this new reality.

In the end, it was Skywalker who found Cal, and not the other way around.

Entering the Temple had been a mistake. He should have known, should have felt the stench of the dark side even from outside it. After all, he had been aware the Empire had desecrated it and made it into a palace for their Sith Emperor. He should have prepared himself.

But this had been his home, and upon seeing the building, he had forgotten everything. The outside had remained practically unchanged, with its five spires at the top. Cal had all but run up the stairs leading to it, becoming a child again, a carefree youngling coming back to his masters after an excursion out. He easily went around the guards set in front of the entrance: a simple mind trick made them forget he ever was there.

His throat closed up as he entered the hall. There was nobody there, no Initiates hurrying to their next lesson, no Knights or Masters leisurely strolling in the halls while debating a point of philosophy. Only his footsteps echoed in the wide space.

He could barely recognise it. Dust covered the ground, remnants of the battle that had been led to reclaim the place not yet cleaned, and a whole area had collapsed where there used to be classrooms and training space, the once bright metal of the pillars blackened by soot. Many of the high windows and the glass ceilings that allowed the light entrance were broken, cold draughts blowing in the open space.

But the worst of it was the traces left by the Empire's violation. The statues of the great Jedi Masters of the past that Cal remembered standing in the corners had been destroyed or removed, some replaced by golden effigies of the Emperor. Instead of the beautiful ochre and grey paving stones, the ground was covered in black Velmstone stamped with the Empire's emblem, branding the floor they had stolen. Bright red draperies hung from the walls, assaulting Cal's eye; there too, the ruthless circular shape was staring at him with its harsh, cruel gaze.

All their symbols were gone. Every architectural piece, every little thing that was designed to create a sense of beauty and harmony had been taken away, traded for the most ostentatious and cacophonic decorations one could imagine, in too systematic and vicious a way to be anything but deliberate. All that had once evoked peace and light had been ripped, leaving only darkness, destruction, violence.

His heart heavy, he walked forward, beholding the place that had been so familiar and was now foreign, unwelcoming. Everywhere he looked was a memory crushed, a detail out of place. Beedee shifted on his back, his bleeps soft and mournful.

Too shocked to think, Cal lightly brushed his hand against a darkened blaster hole in a pillar on the main aisle.

"No! Master Drallig!"

"I'll hold them back, protect the younglings!"

"I'm hit, I can't –"

He gasped. Waves of horror overwhelmed him, the cries and pleas of all those who had died here mangled together in an endless wail. He closed his eyes and slid to the ground, deaf to Beedee's concerned enquiries.

He could hear the blast shots and the cries, feel the panic and the shock. Every Knight that had fought, every Master that had been cut down fell in front of him. He could feel all their anguish, their incomprehension, their terror at being attacked in the heart of their home.

Just like he had felt when the clones had turned on them above Bracca.

His breath hitched in his throat, he curled up around himself and heaved as his memories mixed with the echoes of this place, mindless of BD-1's attempts to bring him back.

It dawned upon him once more than nothing could ever be the same, that too much had been lost and could never be recovered.

Only when a hand landed on his shoulder, warm and grounding, was he able to tear himself out of the unimaginable torment, the devastation of this once-sacred place.

"It's okay. Stay with me," a man's voice said, soft and soothing, although not very deep. "They're all in the past now."

Cal latched onto it, focused on his breath, on the feeling of the stone beneath his knees. When he was a little calmer, he rose his eyes to meet the stranger's blue and concerned gaze. The man was kneeling in front of Cal, although in a more serene posture as he was, his hand still heavy on his shoulder.

He had to fight a blush of embarrassment as he realised the stranger must know exactly what had happened to him. Defensiveness overcame him, as well as that ugly, familiar fear: the man had to know, had to have realised Cal was a Jedi, was his lightsabre concealed well enough –

"Hey," the man said, looking down and reaching his hand towards BD-1, who had jumped protectively in front of Cal. "Hello, you. What's your name?"

Cal slightly relaxed as Beedee scanned the man and he laughed a little, opening his arms to subject himself to it. He'd always thought droids ought to be treated like people, and seeing the stranger act the same way was reassuring.

"Nice to meet you, BD-1. Hope that scan of yours gave positive results. I'm Luke Skywalker."

Cal's breath caught in his throat. Had the stranger not said it, he would never have guessed.

The first thought that came to mind was how young he seemed. When he'd thought of Skywalker, he'd imagined him as a middle-aged veteran and a seasoned warrior, someone to look up to, who could help show him his place in the galaxy again; not this lanky boy with a careless sort of charm, a small stubble on his chin, constantly hovering between awkwardness and grace, between innocence and wisdom in a way only youth could.

"Cal Kestis," he replied, holding out a hand and hoping Skywalker hadn't noticed his surprise. "I've been wanting to meet you."

The boy shook his hand, and Cal tried not to wonder too much about the black glove and the iron grip. A prosthetic, no doubt. He could feel echoes of old pain hidden under the fabric, faded enough to be ignored.

It didn't surprise him, and the story behind it was none of his business. They all had their scars.

"You're a Jedi, aren't you?" Skywalker asked, naked awe and reverence on his face.

Cal looked away, embarrassed by his admiration.

"I guess I am," he mumbled.

It should be obvious, though. He had been chosen by Master Tapal, who had taught him for as long as he could. Cere had then taken up the mantle, and she had knighted him, pronounced the sacred words and brought the sabre upon his shoulders. He was a Jedi Knight by every rite the Order possessed.

But hadn't he forsaken all of the ancient teachings? The path of a Jedi was one of compassion, of self-abandon. Hadn't his long exile gone completely against that? Fear clutched at each of his steps, sorrow clung to his bones. Survival had become his first rule, spite the fire that fuelled his constant flight from the Empire that wanted his death, his faith in the Force waning a little more each day.

It was no way to live, for a Jedi.

Skywalker didn't seem to notice his turmoil, though. He clutched Cal's hand hard in his own.

"I thought I was the last," he said, his voice rough with emotion. "Yoda told me so. I'm so glad he was wrong."

Cal's head shot towards him, hope surging so quickly in his heart it chased his surprise at hearing the same spoken so familiarly.

"Master Yoda? He's still alive?"

Skywalker's face fell, and he was the one looking away this time.

"No. He passed away shortly before the end of the war."

Cal nodded. He didn't ask how, didn't want to know. It didn't matter.

Shared grief passed between them, imbuing the Force around them, echoing even more strongly among the ghosts that lingered in this place.

"I take it you feel them, too?" Cal asked, remembering how Skywalker had torn him from his dreadful vision.

Skywalker dragged his gaze around the room.

"Not as much as you, I think," he said. "I've never lived here, but... the pain is so strong."

Cal nodded. He had half expected it, considering the man's youth. There was no way he could have been alive under the Republic. He wanted to tell him how beautiful it had once been, how warm and breathtaking, nothing at all like this petty parody of a building.

For a moment, his traitorous heart failing him once more, he wondered why this young man had been trained, deemed worthy of being called the last of the Jedi by the head of the decimated Council, while Padawans like him were left to fend for themselves alone.

"Let's get out of here," he said. He could tell the suffering around him, the darkness omnipresent here, wasn't helping his already too bitter thoughts. When was the last time he had achieved the serenity the Order praised above all things?

He jumped on his feet and held out a hand that Skywalker took to rise. Beedee leapt on his back, the familiar weight comforting on his shoulders.

They walked in silence in the ruined halls, pale remnants of what the Temple had once been that Cal tried not to let get at him too much, before stepping out into the late afternoon sun with relief.

"There was a Skywalker who fought during the Clone Wars," Cal finally let out, unable to keep in the question any longer. By now he was sure this boy wasn't the hero he'd admired in his youth, but he still wanted to know if he had any relationship to him.

The young man's face darkened in a grief Cal knew too well. "Yes. Anakin Skywalker. He was my father," he simply said.

Cal's eyebrows shot up in surprise. He had expected them to be related, but he had so many questions – his father? Skywalker had had children? Didn't that go against the Code? Or was there a loophole that allowed it? He had never taken the time to ponder that particular part of the non-attachment rule – before the Purge, he had been too young to consider these things, and after it he had been too busy running for his life to consider such philosophical details.

But he wasn't about to raise that point. Not when he could feel the grief bleeding from the young man into the Force, not when he could imagine where it came from, what end Anakin Skywalker had probably met, similar to most of them.

"So, what were you looking for in the Temple?" he asked as a way to change topics.

Skywalker ducked his head, gave a shy smile as he looked at his feet.

"Answers," he said. "Information. I don't really know myself."

There was a silence. On his shoulder, Cal could feel BD-1 looking at Skywalker, his wheels whirring.

"I... when Master Yoda died, he – he instructed me to pass on what I have learnt," the young man confessed. "But the more time goes – the more I realise how little I really know."

Cal huffed out a laugh, assaulted by memories of his life in the Temple. For once, they didn't hurt so much.

"Well, according to every teacher I've ever had, that's a very good sign," he said, fondness filling him at the thought of them. "How many times have I heard it. Keep humble, pride is a path to the dark side, those who think they know stop learning. When I became a Padawan, it changed a little, my Master often congratulated me, but the teachers of the Initiate classes, it would have torn their mouth apart to give us one complimentary word!"

Skywalker joined in the laughter.

"Yoda was a little like that," he said. "Every lesson was a puzzle with him. When he had decided the day was over, I wasn't even allowed to ask questions."

"And I bet it was already hard to understand what he wanted through that speech pattern of his," Cal snorted. "I wonder what it must have been like, as his Padawan. He never took one when I was at the temple, I think, but he gave us basic defence class when we were younglings. I liked his lessons, he was funny and never berated us for failing."

"I can assure you he berated me all right," Luke replied with a fond smile. "Faster, quicker, higher! He'd make me run for hours in the swamp and draw on the Force to keep going."

"Faster and more intense was something my Master often demanded, too," Cal said. "I learnt so much with him."

Luke nodded, his gaze far away, in a place Cal could imagine all too well. He sat down on one of the stairs of the Senate Plaza, followed by Cal, and together they stared at the swarm of the circulation in front of the declining sun.

"I know it's probably a lot to ask," Luke quietly said after a while, "and we have only just met each other, but – I need help."

Cal smiled. Oh, that was a familiar request... A pang of concern shot through his heart. He really hoped Cere, Greez and Merrin were all right, wherever they were now.

"Sure," he replied. "What for?"

"I want to rebuild the Order."

BD-1 stood taller on his shoulder and let out a small, excited whistle, but Cal's heart only tightened in his chest.

"Luke, I... I'm not sure that's a great idea."

"Why not?"

Luke's calm question was punctuated by a disappointed bleep of Beedee, and Cal pinched his lips. He remembered the decision he had made with Cere, all those years ago, the way they had destroyed the holocron despite the time and the pain it had taken them to find it.

"I don't think the galaxy is ready for the Jedi to return," he said, averting his gaze. "I'd rather avoid a second Purge."

"There won't be one," Luke replied. "The Empire is gone. We'll have the support of the Republic."

"Until the moment we don't," Cal cut him off, "and nobody will see it coming."

He rose, took a few steps away.

"I've heard people talking. They don't say it in front of you, their saviour, the golden boy of the Republic, but they're not so restrained with me. To them, we're just ancient wizards with weird powers. They don't understand us. They fear us. Nobody wants us back."

"So you'd rather let the Jedi die?" Luke quietly asked.

It was like a punch in Cal's guts. Let the Jedi die. Millennia of knowledge, of tradition, of the deepest connection to the Force, forever gone. It would happen, eventually. How many of them were left?

How many were slaughtered in a few moments, betrayed by their brothers in arms?

"I'd rather they were never killed in the first place," Cal said. "But they were. I don't want something like that to happen ever again."

You don't know what it is, he wanted to tell Luke. You were too young, you didn't live it. But one look into his eyes stopped the words from crossing his lips.

Skywalker may not remember the Purge, but he bore the terrible loss of it nevertheless, his gaze full of the unfathomable grief, the loneliness, the haunted otherness Cal knew too well. They shared a same burden, however differently they may have acquired it. For a moment, Cal wondered if that weight would now always be part of the Jedi's legacy.

"I think you're wrong," Luke quietly said, still sitting. "Maybe it's just because it's me, that they don't dare speak out, but I think many people would love to see the Jedi return. We would never have vanquished the Empire without the Force by our side. There's so much good we can do, so many we can help. What we have is a gift, no matter how difficult it may be sometimes. It should be shared and passed on."

Skywalker's words were like a pang through Cal's chest. Shame overcame him, roiling in his stomach.

He was right. Of course he was right. His words were full of a hope Cal had long forgotten, a clarity that shone untouched by the shadows of fear that had occupied Cal's mind for so many years.

He had held such hope too, long ago.

"Sounds like you'll do a great job of it," he forced a smile. "But I don't think I'm the right person to help you. I'm... frankly, I'm not sure if I'm still a Jedi."

He wondered if that was how Cere had felt when she had met him, weighed down by her mistakes, unworthy of teaching him. In her eyes, had he seemed so young and untouched by the tragedy that had already filled his life, so naive and yet full of promises for a brighter future?

Had she also felt so undeserving of him, while thinking he could bring the best out of her?

"Why?" Luke asked. "I can feel how much you care about this."

Cal huffed, ran a hand through his hair.

"Caring is not enough. A Jedi's life is so much more than that. It's the greatest commitment one can make, it's a gift of your entire life to the Force and to the service of other beings of the galaxy. It requires the strictest discipline to constantly deepen your connection to the Force, to let go of your attachments and your selfish concerns in order to reach a sense of peace, of complete communion with all living things, even at the expense of your own existence."

He sighed, his throat tightening at the thought of his teachers, of his master, of all those who had taught him these things.

"I've... strayed far from that path, in my exile."

Beedee tilted his head with a concerned bleep, his uneven visual sensors seeking his gaze; Cal gave him a small pat, comforted by his presence.

"But that doesn't mean you can't find it again," Luke said. "If you want to make that choice."

Cal smiled. That was what Cere had said, too; there's always a choice to make, always a path forward.

She had taught him so much, helped him get back on his feet after the devastation of the Purge and his master's death. He dearly hoped she was still alive, that she knew the war had been won at last.

"Listen," Luke continued, "Master Kestis, I don't want to impose, I'm not going to insist if you tell me no. But you need to understand. I can't do this alone. My masters didn't have the time to teach me anything beyond the barest use of the Force. I'm still so new to it all. I've tried researching, finding ancient texts, old holocrons, but the Empire has destroyed so much. I can't learn enough like that. Having you, a survivor of the old Order, to help me... it would be invaluable."

Master Kestis. The address filled Cal with a strange kind of warmth, even though the title was technically the correct way to call any knighted member of the Order. He could see himself as a teacher; it wasn't the first time he had thought about it.

But with these words came back his frightening visions of Bogano, of Imperial soldiers raiding their temple, killing and capturing children. Younglings crying, terrified, begging him for help...

It was why they had destroyed the holocron, why they had decided, all together, that a new Jedi Order wasn't worth risking the lives of all these children.

But Skywalker said the truth: things had changed since then. The Empire could no longer hunt them down: they could create their temple in the open, with the support of the government, even, and there would be no consequence.

A part of him was still uneasy, still wondering about the danger. But he was starting to wonder if this wasn't the will of the Force, if it hadn't kept him alive for that very purpose. Perhaps the whole Eno Cordova adventure, which had seemed like a debacle back then but had allowed him to meet Cere, Greez and Merrin and to salvage his connection to the Force, had only been preparing him for this moment.

Maybe this was the call of the Force, Cal thought, looking into the eyes of this earnest young man, whose presence more brilliantly than anyone he had ever known. Maybe now was the time for the Jedi to be reborn.

"I will think about it," he said. Emotions were raging too high in him right now to make a decision. He would have to meditate on it. "But I think I know someone else who could help. Her name is Cere Junda, I don't suppose you've heard of her...?"

To his disappointment, Skywalker shook his head.

"I haven't," he said. "But my sister or my brother-in-law might have; they are far more worldly than I am."

"Would you tell me if you hear of her?" Cal couldn't help asking. "She's a very good friend, but I lost contact with her during the war. I don't even know if she's alive."

"I will," Skywalker promised. "I'm staying on Coruscant for a few days at my sister's home. Will you come and find me when you have an answer?"

"As soon as I do." He felt Beedee's restlessness on his back, and knew his droid friend was going to do everything in his power to convince him.

Skywalker nodded.

"Well then, I won't hold you any longer," he said, looking somehow both completely confident and charmingly awkward. He hesitated for a moment, then added: "May the Force be with you."

Cal's breath caught in his throat, warmth spreading in his chest. How many times had he heard the Jedi greeting, casually uttered in this very city, among these very buildings. Never had he expected, back then, the new meaning it would take during the years of Imperial oppression: a good luck wish, a recognition, an acknowledgement of their heritage and the values they stood for, dangerous by nature. Hearing it now, so light-hearted and hesitant, echoing the hundreds who had fought and lived and died for the sake of it, filled him with emotion.

The Force surrounded them, steady and constant, as it had for thousands of years and would for thousands more, unperturbed by the living's petty wars. In this moment, Cal thought he managed to glimpse a little of its infinite peace.

"And with you," he whispered, unable to repress his smile.