[Star Wars] In the Will of Another

[ExquisiteMuffin]

A long, very long time ago, in a galaxy far, far away…

Static broadcast sounds are heard.

Broadcast: Have YOU seen a Jedi? Cultists are prohibited from their practices in the Empire. If you suspect that anyone is harboring anyone of such description, please report them to your local authorities immediately.

Citizen 1: Same message again?

Citizen 2: I suppose so. It eludes me as to why anyone would ever wish to believe in these Jedi practices. Perhaps these Jedi do not understand how purpose works. I have read their texts, you know. Dating back to over a thousand years ago, a Jedi philosopher who is supposedly unknown

Citizen 1: Unknown?

Citizen 2: Yes, the book simply says "unknown" as the author. Though it's in a Jedi-specific dialect, reading as "nunol," which translates to "unknown." Curious.

Citizen 1: Huh.

Citizen 2: As I was saying, this supposed philosopher posited that real purpose rests in the will to obey the Force, arguing that all things in nature occur to some end or final cause. The Force, he deduced, is the aggregate of these final causes, and that everyone who supposedly can manipulate these final causes has the burden of upholding the will of the Force. There are so many issues with this thought that it makes me laugh, almost. Did he not realize that these purposes and final causes are abstractions? All done by a rational mind. There is no purpose in the Force, and there is no will it possesses that can be followed. It is merely a means to the ends of the ones with the power to use it. No more than electricity is a natural phenomenon which sufficiently rational creatures harness without any reservations about its inherent will. Sith understand this; Jedi do not. Jedi dogma is flawed from the very beginning.

Citizen 1: Here we go with your lectures again.

Citizen 2: Well, if I am to believe in something, it best be a true belief. I would never believe something that is not true.

Citizen 1: Right.

Citizen 2: Anyway, I saw a small town not too far from here. I noticed a few rocks slightly displaced.

Citizen 1: That could be a lot of things. Maybe they were building something.

Citizen 2: That cannot be true. They had no other tools. I think they were engaging in some cultist activity.

Citizen 1: You always think that.

Citizen 2: I have already made my position clear. If we can successfully eradicate these irrational ideologies from the galaxy, I assure you that the galaxy will be a better place. I do not care what you think; I am doing my duty as a proper citizen and reporting this to the Sith Authorities.

Crack. Crack. Crack.

The sand beneath my feet felt cool. It ran through my toes with calm. Night was always the best time to get water. So peaceful, peaceful. My arms shake; the buckets are heavy, and the path is long. Long indeed. Heavy indeed. The air is cool. The sand is cool. I wonder if Verit will like this. This wooden ball. Dear Tenebrat, I have no clue what infants are supposed to play with.

The scent of that dough rings memories of when I first met my love. She always made the best bread, even with our scarce ingredients. Her smile at my approval, I think, was aways far more lovely than the bread itself. The house is dimly lit when I enter.

"Good evening, sweetheart," she calls.

"I got the water," I say, "but that smells delicious, as always. I really doubt that I thank you enough."

That smile, her smile, returns. "Verit is sleeping already," she says, "but is that ball for him?"

"It is," I smile.

Her warm hands warm my hands before they remove the ball. She walks to the cradle where our son sleeps. She looks down at him, "Ha, you silly goose, you were pretending to sleep!"

"Ah bah gah." He reaches for the ball, taking it, though it is too large for his hands.

The ball falls.

Boom. Riiiinnggg.

"Sweetheart!"

Flames engulf her warm body. All I see is red around me.

I move to breathe.

Ha-.

"Do not be deceived. I can sense the Jedi that is here," says Darth Bane.

A citizen with a gaping cut down his chest cries, "Please! Help me!"

The Dark Lord raises his hand to the man.

The man reaches out.

The Dark Lord's fist closes before the man can reach.

The man is raised. Snap. His neck folds to the side, and his eyes go red with blood.

Plop. The sand feels the returning weight of the man.

"Torch the rest, troopers," orders the Dark Lord.

The fire rages across each home not already burnt. Amongst it all, the crisping toy, a small wooden ball, can be heard from the first home that was incinerated. The smoky walls are shone upon by orange and blue light.

"There you are," claims Bane. Because he claimed it, it was so.

The Jedi's saber shines light upon a creased forehead and the intricate patterns of red in his eyes. "You will never eradicate us all," says the Jedi. "You will not kill the rest of these innocent men and women," says he.

The sand shuffles violently like a series of devastating waves, followed by three flashes of purple as the crimson and blue sabers meet. Until a deep silence and a dark grin by the Dark Lord appears. The Jedi's body thuds into the sand, making one last violent wave before silence overpowers once more. With one last gasp of air, the Jedi's body shifts. Silence.

A single wail shakes the silence once again. A child. Even without the noise, the Dark Lord's hands shudder. The infant's limbs wave in unison, its eyes full of drying tears. The remains of a female, her flesh crispy and turned to ash, are stiff yet seem to be in desperate reach of the infant. The sand shuffles, and the infant is raised by the Dark Lord, brought before his dulled vision, meeting the emerald eyes of the little one.

"Such a weak presence in the Force," says Bane. "You shall suffice."

The infant's mouth opens, but no sound is heard. Nor is the thud in the sand as the child returns to the ground heard.

The engines of a Sith Empire cruiser disrupts the sand's resting place once more before its roaring engine can no longer be heard.

"Pwwaaa-aaa-mmmbaa…-"

 

[ExquisiteMuffin]

"I invite the reader to settle himself into a state of stillness and contemplation, to consider his relation to the Great Nature. Stay still, and lean in neither the "dark" nor the "light," for they are the objects of his thoughts at this moment.

First, he should doubt everything in the logical sense of the word. If he knows that all wills and all natural things are known to him by his intellectual prowess, then he knows no doubt may come of his intellectual powers. The acknowledgement, to him, that he is nothing requires only further thought by his part, and it seems only possible for this to be if his recognition were merely destined in nature. He might reject such a destiny, for he is of his own accord by his experience and by the manner in which his intellectual powers define the ideas which those experiences express. In this meditation, he might imagine the Force as but one principle of reality that exists only by virtue of his capacity to grasp it, making his cognition the true will of the world and transitively of the Great Nature. Without him, there is no such category, in fact, as "Great Nature," for it is a distinction made by a perceiving mind.

In another meditation, he might relinquish to the world his conscious thoughts, submitting himself to oneness with what he believes to be around him. It will soon become known to him that if he still exists after a moment of absolute stillness, then there ought to be something more fundamental to his existence than himself. This would naturally allow him to conclude that he is simply part of a union to which all nature's constituents belong, a Great Nature. In this Great Nature, he belongs solely because it is in his times of stillness that he persists in being. His times of slumber or impairment or death do not alter his persistence, for he never was anything but an expression of that Great Nature. Every distinction he has ever birthed within his mind was nothing more than an arbitrary expression.

The former meditation would allow him to see the world as though he were a Sith, an agent of some supposed "darkness," for he would see no meaning in anything outwardly of his own intellectual powers. The latter meditation would allow him to see the world as though he were a Jedi, an agent of some supposed "lightness," for he would see no meaning in anything inwardly of his own intellectual powers.

There are other meditations, however, that neither the "light" nor the "dark" seem to accept. Consider a different divide in contemplations as follows.

In a third meditation, a rational agent might, in the same stillness as mentioned previously, consider thought itself. He might realize his current thoughts in regard to thoughts are themselves constituents of thought itself. He might imagine placing all of these thoughts into a supposed realm. If these thoughts can contain the entire realm itself, he might conclude that such a realm is impossible, because there cannot be a realm which is bigger than itself. He would then conclude that the mind itself is scattered throughout these realms, for it has access to each and every one of them, according to his experience of thinking. To him, the Great Nature would be one thing to regard, but not the wholeness of truth or reality. Here, the Force would be an independent existence of the mind, but not the totality of existence. He would reject his total contingence on it, though he would also reject the contingence of it upon him.

In a fourth meditation, which creates the divide, he might imagine that, considering the conclusion that no realm captures all thought, his existence itself is but a discontinuous sum of arbitrary realms of thought colliding in some form or fashion, rendering him uncertain of his identity in the reality in which the Great Nature is relevant. To him, the Great Nature would be something he is uncertain of how to describe, and he could not allow himself to act with it in any way, for he knows not who he is with respect to the Great Nature. In this understanding, he is a being of unknown essence or composition. He knows not what he is or who he is. He knows only that he is chaos.

A divide other than "darkness" and "lightness" is now apparent. When one considers his identity with respect to the force, he might consider it either entirely meaningless to or impossible to discern.

Many other divides can be constructed, and I believe to the reader it is quite clear that none of these divides exist ontologically. Rather, they exist ideologically. We know this for one particular reason, that the divide defined between the first and second thoughts cannot coincide with that which is defined by the third and fourth divides, for no two can be made compatible with the other without some idea which might reinterpret their conclusions so that they do not contradict; this implies that, if both were real divides and not ideal ones, it must be a four-way divide. However, this would allow one to sit, ontologically speaking, independently of any two systems in division. That is, should one be a "grey" agent between the divide of "light" and "dark" as defined in the first and second meditations, one must simply sit in either the third or fourth meditations. This, however, would violate any claim that such distinctions exist in reality, for no two "real" objects can sit in total independence of one another.

Therefore, as beings of both rational prowess and connection to the Great Nature, we ought not conform to one side or another as something that is willed by nature itself; rather, we ought to use our powers for the discovery of truth. For truly, with every conformity comes an ideological claim, not an ontological recognition."

- Lie Skywalker, Meditations on the Force and its Many Uses

My mind fills with thoughtless thoughts. I know that I am nothing particular, as is this author.

How could a Jedi, one of our own, write such words? In a time in which one's will is seen as greater than that of the Force, permitting the slaughter of those who disagree? Yet this boy writes as though we are simply equals in a pursuit of truth.

He demonstrates an excellent understanding of our views and our ways, yet he is undipped into the waters of our ways. He was raised in this Temple, raised by a great Master, but his will is not submissive, even if not imposing. He is not yet one of the Force.

My palms now dented from the pressing of my finger nails, my legs walk through the halls of our sacred Temple, of those dull, metallic, and dimly lit walls, of that windowless, gratuitous roof, finding their way to a classroom where the author sits.

Master Urdu, the instructor of these young Jedi's classes, asks, "Ah, Grandmaster Tarrin, what brings you here?"

"I must have a word with Skywalker."

A quiet and calm set of footsteps radiate through the still air. I can sense the ripples in the air as movement comes towards me.

At the center of those ripples is a boy of pale skin and messy, long hair.

"You wanted to see me, Grandmaster?"

"Yes, I did. I wanted to discuss your published works," I say.

"Have you read them?"

My head moves through the air upwards and downwards with might, where my lips speak, "I have, yes. Impressively done, as always. Though, a bit ill-timed, would you not say?"

He leans in slightly, where his pupils align with my right hand, though he makes no contact.

"Your palms are a little creased. Have you been clenching your fists? Overly focused on something?"

"On your work, yes," my mind admits.

"Because you find them troublesome? Overly forgiving to the Sith?"

His eyes move back and forth across their range of possible motion. A smug rhythm fills the air as his fingers tap his leg.

"Young one, even if your claims were correct, you must understand that no sympathy can be given to an oppressor, not in our time at any rate," I am willed to speak.

"Why not? Like anything, should we not understand them? Their ways of thinking? Perhaps some loss of faith on our part would do some good, all in pursuit of truth."

I remind him of our Ways, "This is about the survival of our way of life, of our legacy. These are not to be dismissed as means to the end of truth."

"To uphold a way of life merely because it should avoid extinction is to halt all doubt in its validity, and that is something no one should do until after justification has been found. I am truly sorry master, but there is no other way to think for me."

The words barely escape his lips, as the thumping of his hands fill the air more clearly. His bright green eyes avert my gaze as they lower to the ground.

I know there is nothing more I can say to convince him without giving him exactly what he wants. He does not understand that sympathy to an oppressing class, even if for a neutral truth, simply affirms the current state of affairs. I believe this is something he must learn from experience. My forearm's tension vanishes, and the young boy in front of me meets my eyes.

He is only a child, after all. I should be thankful he has not had the displeasure of a war or a conflict as of yet.

My mouth moves to speak, "Truly, I admire your dedication, but do you not eat solely for your survival?"

"We all do, Grandmaster."

I implore, "So then do what is necessary to uphold your existence. If not for the Order, for the persistence of an institution that allows you your autonomy."

His eyes dash around twice before locking on me once again.

"Principles come prior to anything, regardless of my ability to attain them through my liberty. They uphold my purpose in eating to live, just as they do for everyone else. If those things which I live for did not exist, the world would be in such absurdity that such a premise as 'eat your food' would on its own lack all coherence. Practical arguments do nothing for me."

"I am most acquainted with your view, young one," the lips of my mouth speak. They continue, "I worry, however, that your graciousness towards the claws which seek you out endangers us all; I have long worried about this ever since the incident in the forest." The corners of my lips rise, and a small smack is heard as I gently strike his shoulder.

He is only a child. The Force speaks through him, perhaps. Surely, if someone could be so resistant as to say such things as he, there is no goal if not towards balance in the Force for which his entire existence is suited. Perhaps this is so. Possibly.

The creases only fill with the wetness of the moisture which leaves the skin from within these hands. "You should get back to your class," my lips finally speak.

His head lowers in unison with his torso. He remains. His head and torso align with his body. He departs.

It is indeed odd to me that the lights of these rooms and these halls never seem to illuminate him.

"Now, padawans, we will consider how the Force orders our bodies into the manner in which it functions, a rather interesting lane of thought…"

So fades that voice. So tap my feet when they move, when that voice fades, when the thought of that boy remains inside my thoughts.

 

[ExquisiteMuffin]

"The analysis of a mind is akin to the analysis of a regress of nested shells. Pull back a shell, discover an action, a motive, a will of sorts. From that revelation, you will find no answers but those contingent upon another shell waiting to be unwrapped, a shell of which perhaps not even the acting mind itself is aware. We will consider these in a far more precise manner in the latter parts of this writing."

- Lie Skywalker, Principles of the Psyche

I raise my feet up and down, slowly. Now quickly. The dim and artificial lights surround the hallways, buried beneath the ground level, a ground level upon which the Sith could walk. Each thud which grants presence to my ears is a thud made by an ambiguous man, a man whom I might not know. Every thud my feet make on such a ground renders me, too, an ambiguous man to my people. Every step my feet take on such a ground renders me a citizen, not a Jedi, and every citizen's steps upon the Temple serves their purpose to both Jedi and Sith, a thought that the Jedi might exist beneath these grounds.

We still remain, however, within these halls, these sacred yet industrial, metal walls. These walls contain us, something other than the Force, the idea of these walls, but they are of the Force, surely. Surely, then, we hide in something of the Force.

Those of us with weaker eyesight could hardly see around the corridors, but the light persists, providing us with our daily bread to pass onwards to the next rotation. My eyes interpret the light which reflects from the floor on which I walk. Black. White. Black. White. Grey. An interesting color scheme.

Vitiate's look of desperation at the incident in the forest recurred in my mind a multitude of times. That look of desperation. That look of despair. That look of desperation. Maybe, that look of determination.

I recall little of the details of his face. I only recall that he was determined, a light of hope when my mind draws me towards the worries which dwell in darkness.

My supper is ready. A supper which has never belonged to anyone in particular; it exists regardless of me, not for me. There is great warmth from the bread as I grab it and sink into my chair, which now shrieks with every move I make and deforms ever so slightly with a given force. Bread and stew. My favorite food. Yet a sensory experience which only my mouth and my tongue find appealing, not myself. While I do not quite know why, both together grant me a sense of warmth I have never felt by any other means. This warmth, too, is felt solely by this vessel, not by my accord, as it is not of myself. The warmth reaches my mouth incessantly now as I satisfy my hunger. This hunger was nothing if not a state of a stomach, which is as much mine as it is Vitiate's. To nothing else do I pay mind but the warmth and the fresh flavor, and when that stew-covered bread dissolves in my mouth, releasing the last of its warmth, the corners of my mouth rise for once, and I sigh. This breath, this sigh, too, is of my lungs, which has never belonged to my essence. Yet I feel it all still. Still, it is all felt.

I now feel warm water rushing across my body. For an uncertain amount of time, I enjoy that warmth. That steam which arrives at me with a soft, incessant kiss, a kiss which engulfed the whole of me, a kiss without which I could never be, yet I remained one amidst it, surrendering myself yet staying as the one who was kissed by it. I am not one with this steam, but in this steam I am one, for without this steam there is no warmth so that I may be an "I." Who am I to feel this warmth? I am no one but of this warmth. I am not with this steam. I am in this steam. I am an "I" for this steam which kisses my very being, for the warmth of everything which kisses my essence.

I emerge from that warmth into the embrace of the delicate linen cloth. I surrender myself to it, too, surrendering my head to the warmth of the cushion that sits between it and the cloth. One warmth, even in the absence of another, replaces another. My feet, which are constantly at odds with the floor, are now joined with the floor, with no body to uphold for now. These things are how I know warmth, while not always felt, remains everywhere. Once more, I sigh, drifting into the embrace further, further into that serene light.

But only for a moment. My eyes rest. My eyes wake. That embrace is now gone. My feet now stretch to support my body, and my posture rectifies to its upright position. I feel the silk of my robes run across my skin. I open my door. The warmth is no more. Those thuds above me return.

Yet I remain so that I may rectify myself, rectify the others, rectify the world, rectify the universe so that the universe may feel that warmth once more.