Ryen watched Eli as night settled over Aleru, the twin suns fading behind the canyon's jagged walls. The makeshift shelter they'd claimed for the night—half buried in rust and time—hummed faintly with the low whine of life support struggling to hold equilibrium. Within its walls, silence reigned.
But silence wasn't peace.
Eli sat alone on the floor, unmoving, his back to the curved wall, legs crossed, head bowed. He hadn't said a word in hours. Not since the vision. Not since the tremor in the Force that had rippled through them both like a stone cast into a still lake.
Ryen approached quietly, sensing the tension strung through the boy like a pulled wire.
"You're not meditating," he said, voice soft.
Eli didn't look up. "I'm trying."
"Trying too hard," Ryen said, lowering himself to sit opposite him. "That's not how the Force works. It's not something you force into place."
Eli exhaled through his nose. "I know."
Ryen watched him for a long moment. "Then why are you doing it like this? Eyes closed, shoulders tense, jaw clenched—you're not reaching for balance. You're bracing for pain."
There was no answer at first. Then Eli muttered, "Because that's what comes next."
Ryen tilted his head slightly. "Eli…"
"I can feel it," Eli said, opening his eyes. "I'm unraveling. I used to think I was just changing—growing harder because I had to. But that's not it. It's deeper. Like something in me is starting to crack."
Ryen didn't speak immediately. Instead, he let the Force guide his next words. "When you've lost as much as you have, that crack isn't weakness. It's where the light gets in."
Eli gave a bitter laugh. "That sounds like something a Jedi Master would say."
"Maybe," Ryen admitted. "But I'm not a Jedi Knight. Not yet. Just a Padawan who's been running too long. Still, I remember what I was taught. And I remember that pain doesn't always mean corruption."
Eli looked down at his hands. "It feels like it. I… I did something, in the last loop. Something I never thought I would."
"You don't have to tell me," Ryen said gently.
"I hesitated," Eli whispered. "That's what scares me. Not that I failed. That I didn't care when I did. The moment felt… empty. And that emptiness hasn't left."
Ryen leaned forward slightly. "Then let's try something different."
Eli blinked. "What?"
"Close your eyes," Ryen said. "But this time, don't try to push into the Force. Let it come to you."
Eli hesitated, then obeyed.
"Now breathe. Not like a warrior preparing for battle. Just breathe. In through your nose. Out through your mouth. Slow. Like the wind moving across sand."
The boy's breathing steadied, uneven at first, but gradually more rhythmic.
Ryen continued. "You remember what Master Tallis used to say? The Force is not a fire to be stoked, but a tide to be felt. Let it carry you."
Eli's face relaxed by degrees, the tight line of his jaw easing slightly.
"Now," Ryen said, "go back. Not to your last loop. Not to the Temple. Not to the pain. Go further. Before all of it. What do you remember?"
Eli's brow furrowed. "Flashes. Not many. A room. Blue light. Something buzzing. A screen… words I couldn't read. But I could once."
Ryen stilled. "That's from… before?"
"I think so," Eli said, voice barely above a breath. "Or a dream. But I remember the feeling. Like it was real."
"What did it feel like?"
Eli hesitated. "Lonely. But not in a bad way. Just… quiet. Like I didn't have to keep looking over my shoulder. Like nothing expected anything from me."
Ryen was silent. He didn't understand what that vision meant. Not really. But he understood the emotion behind it.
"Hold onto that," he said. "That feeling. Let the Force wrap around it. Not to hold it in place—but to understand it."
Eli nodded faintly, eyes still closed. The air around him shifted slightly, like heat rising from sun-warmed stone.
The Force stirred.
Only faintly.
But real.
And steady.
Ryen reached out with his own senses. Not to interfere, but to be there. To share the space.
For a few minutes, they remained like that. Two figures in quiet harmony, letting the Force swirl through the fractures of memory and identity, through fear and exhaustion. And for the first time in days, something in Eli's posture changed.
Not everything.
But something small.
A breath released he hadn't known he was holding.
When his eyes opened, they were less clouded. The void was still there—Ryen could sense it—but it no longer seemed so vast.
"You okay?" Ryen asked.
"No," Eli said. "But I'm not falling right now. That's something."
Ryen nodded. "It is."
They sat there in silence for a while longer, watching the shifting shadows as night deepened across Aleru.
Eventually, Eli looked over. "Why are you helping me?"
Ryen blinked. "Because you're not alone."
"But I could be dangerous," Eli said. "You've seen it. You've felt it."
"Everyone has darkness," Ryen said. "Even the Jedi. What matters is what we do with it."
Eli looked back at the stone floor. "I don't know what I'm supposed to be."
"You don't have to know," Ryen said. "You only have to choose."
Eli's voice cracked slightly. "And if I keep choosing wrong?"
"Then you keep choosing again."
A silence settled again, but it was warmer this time. Less brittle.
They set up their cots in the back corner of the outpost, near what looked like an old storage chamber. The recycled air hummed faintly, and Ryen watched Eli lie back slowly, eyes already drifting toward sleep.
He looked smaller in that moment. Not fragile—but tired.
Still a boy, beneath it all.
Ryen lay down across from him, folding his hands behind his head. The stars outside the viewport blinked quietly in the dark, distant and unfeeling.
But in the room, the Force lingered. Gentle. Present.
Not whispering.
Not warning.
Just being.
And for the first time since the Temple, Ryen believed they might survive another day.
Not because they had a plan.
But because they hadn't given up.
Eli drifted into sleep, steadied by more than memory now.
And in that sleep—no visions came.
Only silence.
True silence.
And rest.