Let There Be Stars

It's on Tatooine that she was reborn. And it's on Tatooine that she's come to die.

There is a farm here, in the Jundland Wastes. A moisture farm, to be exact. On a planet that is so eager to deliver death, there are farms like these scattered around it, dedicated to retrieving the liquid that delivers life to so many species of the galaxy. Once, this place was taken by fire. Once, this place carried the smell of death, and before that, the smell of despair. Even if once it carried the scent of hope, as two carried an infant in their arms, staring at the light of twin suns.

Those times are long gone. All that is left is this moment. Her last moments, stretched out, as surely as the sand covers this world.

She's not alone. Just as two suns set on this world, one other remains in binary dance with her. The smaller sun, the younger sun, the one which came from the older. For in the end, all are stardust. That which makes her, that which makes him, were forged eons ago in the hearts of dying stars, before they bequeathed life upon the galaxy in their death throes. Some might call it the way of the universe. Some might call it the way of the Force. She, now, lips cracked, throat parched, her skin riddled with the scars of time and blade alike, calls it nothing. Eternity does not need a name. Eternity simply is.

The suns have set upon Tatooine this night. But here, looking through the skylight in this rebuilt dome, she can see the others that light the universe. 400 billion stars, all in the same dance. All with names. All coming to a number so large, that if one lived a thousand times a thousand years, they would never be able to see them all. Some are bright. Some are dim. As her sun sets, she reflects that there will come a time when the last sun fades, when the last planet dies, when the Dark wins, and death comes to this lonely universe. But for all the Dark's strength, its weakness is that even the smallest ember can hold it back. Light, here, as two gave their farewells upon these scorched sands. Light, here, as after death, one found their destiny among the stars. Light, here, even as two weapons that bear its namesake were returned to the earth. And light now, as the night sky remains bright.

When people think of Tatooine, they think of its twin suns, and of the blinding light of day. Few think of its night, able to be seen from the cooling sands, unperturbed by the flickering lights of mortals that claim planets as their own. Light may banish Dark, but Light may banish Light. For so many worlds, the light is all around them, but if one looks up, they cannot see night's sentinels.

She coughs, and feels her binary star tighten his grip on her hand. He offers her water, but she refuses. Water is eternal, but the bodies it inhabits across Creation are not. And water is not what she needs right now, nor what she desires. What she needs is the connection that not even her little star can provide right now. With one hand, she holds him. With another, she reaches out, her mind wandering. Thinking of a world with so much more water, so much more life. Waiting for something to come down upon that hand. Waiting, and never receiving. Which is just as well. Because as her sun is dying, she yearns to feel life. She reaches out, and even as her breath grows ever shallower, she smiles.

There's life here. More than anyone could imagine. There is the blood-ant in the soil. There is the bantha on the ground. There is the dragonbat in the air. There are those a thousand miles away, and those ten times that number. Through them, she feels it. Through every rock, every grain, every cloud, every speck of water below the sky, she feels it as well. A force. A force within her. A force beyond her. A force that binds her, and fills her, and connects her with everything around her. A force that shines in every living being, that if seen, would eclipse even the two suns that are set to rise. A force that burns bright in her. In her little sun. In all those she's seen, and all those she's not. A force she knows will be here, even after they've both turned to dust. In the end, the Dark may win. But the Force will never die.

She coughs, and doesn't stop. She coughs, and the sound turns to gasps. The writings of those long gone bid her not to be afraid. Rejoice, they say, for death is but the next step to rejoining the Force. In those words, there are wisdom. Rage not, they say, for fear is the path to the Dark. Regret not, and think not of death as suffering. For suffering is but one step from anger, and anger is but another from hate. One cannot hate the natural cycle of life, any more than they can hate the rising of the sun. Wisdom in those words, indeed. But ignorance, she reflects, as she accepts water from her binary. As the smaller sun feeds the larger, even as the larger dies. Death is the natural path. But fear is the natural reaction. Those who wrote those words spoke only of the fear of death. They never spoke of the fear of how those left behind would fare.

The gasps stop. The coughing stops. She returns her gaze to the skylight. She blinks, and releases some of the water which sustains her, exiting her body from that which sees the light. She stares at the night sky, and remembers another world. Another time. She remembers a planet on which she trod where the Force was at its strongest, yet most perverted. She remembers this feeling. Of seeing the stars, and hearing the voices of those come before. Of those never truly gone. She remembers, but this time, the stars are silent. This time, there is no coming back. This time, her mind goes not to the future, but to the past. Of a world like this one. Of a girl, scarce different from a boy who grew up in this place. Of one who would count the rising and setting of a single sun via marks, the world unknowing how in truth, they were scars. Of one who dreamt of breaking free of gravity's tyranny and seeing the galaxy, never imagining that in the end, she would come back to the dust. But all do, in the end, and since that moment, her body has been living on borrowed time. And she smiles, as she knows why this time, the stars are silent. Rage not against the dying of the Light. The Light is not hers. The Light is not theirs. Let it fade, so that it may shine unto the ending of all. Let the Light shine, so that when the Dark rules Creation, it will not forget the brilliance that so often banished it.

She looks away from the night sky and looks at her little sun. He's crying, and she smiles as she gently brushes away the tears. Words have been exchanged before this moment. So many words, none of which could have prepared them for this. Words that she knows now, will fail her. But words she nonetheless utters, before turning her gaze away from her binary for the last time.

"Oh please," she whispers, "let there be stars."

This is her epitaph. This is her testament.

These are the last words of Rey Skywalker, before she finally becomes one with the Force.

Neither of the suns have risen, as the boy walks out into the cold night air.

Tatooine is a cold world at night. Caught between the gravitational pull of two suns, it is just as caught between the extremes of temperature. In the day, blazing heat. In the night, the heat escapes, and cold returns to this barren world. It is cold...and it means nothing to him. The chill that gives him pause is located within. It is the chill that carries water to his eyes. It is the chill that so many fear, as they believe they walk the universe alone. It is the chill of the knowledge that what he does next will be entirely his own choice.

There are graves here, but he does not head towards them. The patch of dirt he heads to would be missed by all who didn't know what they were looking for. For a moment, he laments his knowledge. He laments that he cannot bury his mother, for having become one with the Force, there's no body to return to the earth. She told him once, that she wasn't afraid. That she was meant to have died a long time ago. That every day since that darkness was a gift, and that she had not squandered any of it. They were words he scarce believed. Words he can scarce believe now. Because as he reaches out for her, he feels...nothing. There is a chasm in the building behind him. A hole in the Force, as one so in tune with it has been removed from the physical world. The Force, he knows, will heal. The Force will flow. Perhaps as strongly as his mother, perhaps stronger still. Perhaps even as strongly as the one who called this place home before either of them. But for all this knowledge, it brings him no comfort. The Force can perform miracles. It could, if he so took a different path, perhaps kept those he loved from dying. Could sustain him until the end of time. But neither side of the Force can remove the storm within him. The Force will react to his feelings, but it cannot remove them.

And the Force cannot force his decision now. He wields its power as he bids the sand to part way. He feels its flow, he feels its ebb, he feels the emptiness that returns to him when the Light departs his touch. His eyes, not yet bereft of the liquid which is called grief, behold the sight before him. A sight that he knows none have seen bar the one who brought him into this universe. He sees the weapons of Jedi. Two hilts, unblemished by the passing of time, or the turning of worlds. He sees two lightsabers, wielded by those who have long departed. And, taking out a third from his belt, he ponders what to do with this one.

"Oh please," he murmurs, "let there be stars."

The stars are still out, but they do not answer. They provide neither warmth, nor comfort. And desiring both, he activates the blade which he carries. It shines with a golden light, ready to cut through the dark surrounding it. He holds it, and reflects, and recalls, and regrets.

The blade of this weapon is unique. Its hilt isn't. The hilt was once part of a staff, by a girl who used it to defend herself. The staff was found in a junkheap. The staff was cast aside, and this part of it used to create something new. That which is simple outside however, contains something miraculous within. And it is from its heart that the blade shines. It is from the blade that there is light in this moment - the dark before the dawn. The question is, what is to become of it? Shall he follow his mother's actions to this grave? Bury her blade, her legacy, into the cold soil? Holding the blade upwards, staring at its light, he feels that it might help him. The brightest light can bind, and the sharpest knife cuts the deepest. One day, he may forge his own blade. One day, his own light may cut through the dark, whether it be the blue of sky, the green of fields, or even the gold of brilliant suns. But it is not yet that day. And this blade was not forged for him. Looking down, towards the earth, he sees two more blades, waiting for a third. Silent. Blades of Skywalkers, cut off from the touch of their namesake. And yet...

And yet, as he wields the blade, it's as if she's still with him. It's as if he can feel his mother's hand guiding his. Perhaps it is through the Force that he feels her. Perhaps it is through the one power that is mightier still. Perhaps it's the hopes of a little sun, remembering a parent who told him that no-one is ever truly gone. Or perhaps it is but a wish, naught a whisper in the early morning breeze, doomed to be unheard by all who uttered such a desperate prayer. But even so, the blade...there is a warmth to it. One that does not come from the light that shines upon this early morn. Perhaps...perhaps...

With a motion of his hand, the earth reseals itself, as if binding an open wound. One day, perhaps the weapons below will be retrieved. But not this day. The dark is not so great that they are needed. The hole closes, and he deactivates his mother's sword, sheathing it in his belt. One day, he may use it. One day, he may suffer scars of his own. But like the earth before him, the wound that has been open for so long is finally beginning to close.

A beginning does not necessarily lead to a closing, or an ending. A story may start, and live forever. One may be born, but die a thousand times. But here, now, in this twilight between light and dark...he feels alive. He gives one last look at the homestead, the place that has seen so much life and death, before treading across the desert sands.

Walking, under the light of rising suns.