Certum est, quia impossibile.

Amor vincit omnia.

Dedicated to Shy Snootles, who ignited a deeper love within the childish affection for Star Wars. I wouldn't know it without you.

One night, in a forest long ago...

A young man stilled himself, and gazed up at the stars, wondering at the sorrows and pain in his own life, and accepting his fate with a calmness that defied all logic and reason. He confronted evil with a serenity that bespoke supernatural trust, and believed in Love in the darkest place in the universe. I watched him reach out in kindness and forgiveness to the man he had every right to strike down, every right to ignore, even hate. And with you, I found myself breathless, wondering if he would listen, if he would go with you. Light came down, and light restored all things. I saw the heat and chaos, the clamoring of a station doomed to fall, and arms and hands outstretched, supporting, lifting the greatest villain out of darkness, and I was glad that he did not die alone.

My soul was quiet.

And I saw Him for the first time, a little more real than I had seen Him before.

The True Son, in *you*, Luke Skywalker, in those few moments, in the forest where the trees have souls of their own, they are so ancient, and I will never forget it.

I saw the person I wanted to be someday.

Forgiving those that life, my emotions, the people around me, would scream at me to hate, tell me I had every right to hate. Approaching injustice and evil and accusation with a calm spirit, the "Peace that transcends understanding".

I can, and will, fight evil at every turn, and by grace, may I never falter.

Chaos.

Fear.

Wild hearts and hands scrambling, the clamor of panic thick in the air, alarms and the heat of human despair adding to the infernal chill that closed the doors of hope like a giant unwinding clock.

Yet in this cacophony of impending destruction, there was a silent plea. A phantom moment, unseen, unwitnessed by the wild minds.

Wait there.

Over by the far side walls of the port.

Faltering steps.

A franticness not borne of panic but urgent need.

Listen.

You can hear it in his feet.

Not one... but two.

Fingers and hands grasping, tightening.

Holding still.

Labored breath.

He is weary, this soldier.

And burdened with something... no. Someone.

Now this is a surprise. All the chaos and panic aboard this station... it's every man for himself. The life clock is ending for this metal beast. Why is he not running for his life?

Who, among this selfish, fear-fueled crowd can matter so much?

Feet drag and stumble.

Steady.

A tight arm.

A bent back.

Lifting.

Supporting.

Helping.

His burden is not an easy one.

Wounds.

Jagged and raw, unseen, and resounding.

Cramping muscles forced forward out of desperation.

Determination.

Stubborn refusal of failure.

He is bold, this little soldier.

There is a scent of fear about him, but it is not... the same...

No.

This fear is not panic. Nor of his own life lost, but of the one he carries.

Fear of failure.

Fear of loss.

Fear of more pain, the kind beyond mere cramped muscles and weary feet.

Oh! Can you feel it? Just there, in the space between.

His heart is breaking.

How much pain can a body take?

Yet there is a devoted furor to his pace, and though his steps are uneven, they move urgently forward.

Not quite in step with him is the one slung part way across his shoulders and back.

You can tell by the way he steps, not quite in tune with the little warrior.

He is a warrior himself.

There is a resignation in his step, but he tries for the sake of his savior. He must. He owes it to this little light, to the one who came so far for him. His savior is worthy. And he limits himself to that indisputable fact.

What is this?

He does not value his own life?

He does not think himself worthy of being saved.

There is fear in his step too.

Fear for the little warrior who carries him.

It is plain that he would let go if he could, and encourage his fellow runner to run on. Finish the race without him.

He has run long enough.

He doesn't want to run anymore.

Mixed in with this determination and fear... is love.

Listen!

Can you hear it?

It is between the scuffled steps, the aching muscles. Bond more than mere brotherhood carries these.

It is sure to be love.

How can it not be, with that much pain?

They have come too far to be haunted by anything else.

Yes, the fear of unsaid words is greater here than fear of death.

How strange, how comforting, to find such a thing in these cold walls, the screaming alarms, bolts of steel that have known spirits of so much darkness. So much Evil. So, so cold.

So much darkness.

It is enough.

Yet despite the clothing that matches the darkness of the walls around them there is none of it to be felt.

Only light.

The light is nearby, the light pushes them on.

The light ignites the fervor in the youth's hands, ignites the fire in his heart, keeping the flame alive in the soul beside him. And, like the twin suns that raised them, a pure reflection of their guardians now, stars orbiting one another.

He will not fail.

He can't.

He refuses.

Light stumbles and Love tries to catch him, but regret is a powerful burden.

Hands shift and haul upward, encouraging, just a few more steps, a few feet more and it will be safe...

The refusal to think of anything but the inevitable is clear on the mind of the supporting, desperate hands, sweat and tears and pain alone forcing him to salvation.

Oh, little one, can you not see?

Can you not hear it?

Salvation has already come- it was here when you arrived.

And it is here now.

Salvation is here, with the light. It is here in your hands as you uplift.

It is the striving, aching muscles beneath you.

It is the heart beating beside you.

For even as it beats its final moments, Salvation will live forever.

Love has done this.

Love alone.

Love has prevailed.

You have such a brave, courageous heart, hands that won't stop lifting, pulling, carrying. Breathing for him, if you could.

The heart that Salvation Loves is weary. It is almost finished.

It has waited so, so long for this moment.

It has lived in fear, in anger, in suffering. In total loss. It has given up, but it has renewed strength for a final moments.

It is a heart overwhelmed, a heart that has heard the Song again, and he can't wait to sing it back. Perhaps, at the beginning here, he can be taught again. He knew, once. The song that rang in his veins, stole his breath, warmed his very marrow.

Love whispers that there is a new way to sing, a new song to learn, a living, breathing song, and he will have eternity to learn how.

He can't bear it anymore.

He leans into the light, and sends his regret, the sadness that dwells in the empty unworthiness, but lives in hope.

Light cannot bear the weight and knees hit the floor.

But he is not finished yet.

He can bear...just a little more...

He must. For Love's sake, he must.

He is so weary now, he must rest. Salvation is fading beside him and he feels that if the soul leaves, he will lose the promise of Love too.

But Love does not listen to such foolish wanderings of a fearful heart.

He is forgiven, he is so tired.

He has come so far.

He has struggled far longer than any other lost soul here would have comprehended.

The heart of salvation is stammering now, held up only by sheer force of will, and stubborn machinery that won't let it die quite yet.

But love is greater than all these. Love is giving him time.

Love is giving him Hope.

And that Hope is Alive.

Salvation is singing, calling, and the veil between the steel grey, and the cool rain beyond grows very thin.

He struggles to be present.

Love speaks the first words aloud back to Light, and Light answers.

Light cannot bear to be separated from Love, but Love still speaks, and pays no mind to the broken fears.

Fear is a liar.

And Love knows the Truth, now.

Love can never be separated from light.

In fact, to do his job better, he has to leave.

He prays that Light will see, that he will keep going.

Strings break and breath fades.

Salvation sings, and glory rings forth.

Tears and empty hands, caressing, reaching, letting go of hope too soon lost.

Reconciliation, so short, so promising.

The union he's so prayed for caught short, stolen, taken.

There is no room for anger in the heart of light.

Only sorrow. A child's crying prayer, held in his hands like an ephemeral star, a moonbeam of bliss that was never his to grip.

He remains here, trapped, waiting.

For a few, frozen moments, he waits to see if his own soul will follow.

He wills it to follow.

He almost thinks it might.

He is so tired.

Beaten, bruised, heart unwound.

Oh, don't you hear it?

Salvation is pushing you onward! You cannot stay here. Don't drown in your sorrow. Can you hear it?

Light is calling you!

He had to leave, don't you see?

Love cannot remain trapped by what once held darkness.

Love will be free.

Light turns his head to hear it. Time is shortened and love urges him on, unhindered now.

Salvation's hands pull cloth, armor. Salvation's hands guide the shuttle to earth.

Salvation's hands gather wood and fold cloth.

There are no hands so tender, that have ever touched this body so carefully, with such honor.

There is no living soul to reciprocate, but Love can feel it.

Love is watching.

Love observes as the little body keeps going, never resting until his task is complete.

Love observes as he sees more honor shown than was ever bestowed in life.

Love hovers closer as the silent woods alone hear Light weep. Cracked and fragile child of a heart, a heart that mourns for years lost that never were.

Love hears the tears that only one will ever cry for him. Love holds the tears that are meant only for his own soul.

The only ones that matter to him.

This heart will mourn, and the weary hands will ache. Phantom grasps will haunt them for weeks.

They will clasp for the hands they clenched around for so long.

For so little time.

The whole of time that Light and Love were finally together, they touched.

And now no more, but Love will remain closer than before.

A heart beat away.

For Light bore Salvation.

Salvation begat Love.

Luke cannot know now, but Love watches him. Watches the Little Light that had ignited the heart of a dying star, a hammer forging an eternal soul anew from the blackened slag of the Pit. And within, a shining blade of Truth.

So Love watches and waits.

Each and every day. As it always had.

Love has a form and a name now.

I am renewed.

A promise, waiting for him since the day Shmi gave him the name the Force whispered.

Anakin finally finds that there is a cool rain awaiting for those bathed in fire.