#it literally made cal blue screen when he touched it

[daylighteclipsed]

The way Cal’s kyber crystal breaks in half and he takes the physical scraps of his former master’s broken lightsaber and his new master’s abandoned lightsaber — both of which are (spiritually and symbolically) connected to so much pain and horror that’s kept both him and Cere trapped in the past — to forge a brand new lightsaber that’s unlike any other, able to be wielded in halves or as one staff, and is all his own.

A scrapper using the skills he was forced to learn after his whole world was upended, taking this scrap, the broken pieces of his life in front of him, and creating something new and stronger. The past can’t be changed. And once something’s broken, it’s never going to be what it was before. But you can sit with the broken pieces, forever mourning what you’ll never have back. Or you can use those broken pieces to build something new.

Creation from destruction. The past meeting the present to forge the future. Hope bursting from the ashes of despair. Cal’s lightsaber is a literal flame burning away the ice this jedi temple has been suspended in since Order 66. You need that light to cut through the ice and leave. You need it to survive. You need it to move forward.

There’s also something about BD-1 being the only reason Cal doesn’t give up here. The only reason he chooses to try to forge a new blade even with a broken kyber crystal instead of succumbing to hypothermia. BD-1 is this light from the past. It’s given this knowledge, this spark of hope, this tiny flame, by Cordova and told to keep it alive. Keep this light burning after the jedi have fallen. Find someone to help you carry it forward. BD-1 is the flame that lights the torch — Cal. And it’s shown so beautifully in this scene.

[capricornus-rex]

A Shadow of What You Used to Be (14)

Chapter 14: And So the Hunt Begins | Cal Kestis x Irele Skywalker

Requested by Anon

Summary: There is another! Years after young Anakin Skywalker departed Tatooine, his mother Shmi delivers a second child—this time, a daughter. Whilst the circumstance of the girl’s birth remains unexplained, Irele Skywalker has yet to choose the true path between those laid out for her.

Tags: Fem! OC, Irele Skywalker, Force-sensitive! OC, Anakin’s Younger Sister, Skywalker! OC, Darth Vader’s Secret Apprentice, Long-lost Sibling

A/N: I’m honestly a little worried about the story getting attention. There are times where I feel insecure and doubtful of the work I put out. A ton of questions come to me like “Has the story gotten boring?” and my answer to that is I sure hope not. If you’ve been following the story, looking forward to each chapter update, and you’re actually enjoying it, thank you so so much! That really means a lot to me. I try my best not to let the stress of work and personal life get in the way of my posting and especially my creativity. Please, guys, do me a small favor: let me know what you think of the story so far. 🙏🏻 As always, love lots 💜

Requesting to be tagged: @heavenly1927​

Also in AO3

Chapters: Prelude – 1 – 2 – 3 – 4 – 5 – 6 – 7 – 8 – 9 – 10 – 11 – 12 | Previous: Part 13 | Next: Part 15 | Masterlist

15 of ?

Irele, along with HY-L33, bolted to the elevator lobby. The door opened to the hangar bay. The young girl’s strides were poised with urgency, she commanded the nearest captain to prepare her ship and a small unit of Stormtropers to accompany her.

“Ma’am, the 65th Squadron has already been deployed to Zeffo.”

“That’s Captain Kane’s squad.”

“Indeed,” the commander’s eye rolled to the side for a bit. “What’s left of them, at least.”

“Their transmissions mentioned a Jedi who cut them down by the numbers, and you’re satisfied with what’s left of them?”

“That’s… not my implication, my lady,” the commander blushed.

The commander then held his tongue. There was no way debating through that. Complacency and settling for less were neither minor or major offenses, though it makes one’s work efficiency and ethics seem questionable. The uniformed man hung his head in shame, hoping that Irele would not say another word and leave it at that.

A hangar operator cut in their conversation—or lack thereof—indicating that Irele’s light cruiser, the Obeisance, is ready to go. He got his unspoken wish.

“Jedi can be fools. But so is one who decides to underestimate them.” Irele lectured, serving mostly as a reminder to herself than an advice to the commander.

Nothing was further said. Irele hopped into the cruiser and her droid companion followed along. The pilot was already informed of their destination, so Irele had time to do some more “light reading.”

The small computer in her quarters provided the database of all the logs transmitted from various troopers and officers originating from several, different planets. Irele narrowed down her search about the Zeffo logs and skimmed the holos until there was mention of the Jedi.

She had a strong feeling that this incident in Zeffo has got something to do with the red-haired Jedi she eyed on during the briefing with the Inquisitors. Secretly, she had feared that one or two of them might have gotten there first, though they would have most likely gone for the more notorious survivors—Jedi masters and Padawan prodigies, for instance.

“What can be said about Zeffo, Haylee?”

“A small colony of humans reside in the continent just along the planet’s equator. Albeit a large landmass, the terrain is rather hostile—as 60% of the planet is water.”

“It is also a treasure chest of sorts—for the Emperor, at least, and other like-minded hoarders,” Irele added, the droid had nothing to comment. “Stay here in the Obeisance, Haylee, understand? I can’t have you in the line of fire down there.”

Irele was the first to alight the cruiser via her personal TIE Interceptor docked in the cruiser’s hangar. Riding behind her was the transport ship carrying the 77th Squadron. The transport landed first, melding with the remnants of the 65th, while Irele demanded the last known location of where the Jedi was found.

“Lady Irele, Captain CL-5857 reporting. Sending you the last reported coordinates of the Jedi.”

“Very good, Captain. My channel’s open for you now.”

The numbers instantly appeared on Irele’s screen and followed the navicomputer after the coordinates have been encoded. The TIE Interceptor zipped past the said colony—which was now literally a ghost town sprawling with Stormtroopers, almost like ghosts. Peeking over her window, she spotted a bleach-white mound pushed to the side along the stone cottages.

Dead Stormtroopers.

“Interesting.” Irele muttered and smirked. Not the least bit fazed of just how possibly deadly her target is.

–

At the end of the Augur Pulverizers, Cal found his way on a dangerously-placed metal balcony and startled two Stormtroopers, sneaking up on them. He stayed there to catch his breath. The roar of a TIE Interceptor’s engine caught his attention and watched the ship dart through the overcast skies like a loosed arrow.

He half-dismissed the feeling he got before the TIE flew out of sight. Irele got a quick glimpse of the other end of the pulverizers, the head full of red hair was such a dead giveaway, he stood out more than the white armor dotting Zeffo’s terrain.

On his right was a plateau where more of them waited for him, but it was his only way to get to the tomb.

Irele circled her way around the mountain. She discovered her destination when she found the monument of a Zeffonian sage standing amongst the jagged pillars of rock. She remained on the high ground, docking her TIE on a plateau that overlooks this region of the planet and sensed Cal coming this way.

Trekking through Zeffo’s steep ridges and cliffsides were both exhilarating and arduous. Fresh air welcomed itself to Cal’s lungs and the wind swept off the auburn locks from his head. He emerged from the mouth of the cave at the far opposite of the grand entrance of the tomb.

Cal scanned the area and saw that the coast was clear

Too clear.

Sitting atop of one of the stone columns dotting the courtyard of the tomb was Irele, leisurely swinging her one leg over the other.

“I’m almost hoping you’re not the guy the Stormtroopers are talking about in their audio logs,”

Her entrance startled Cal, setting him on high alert and had him brandishing his saber on pure instinct. Bemused, Irele smirked while she rested her chin on her palm.

“Well, let’s see if looks really can be deceiving!”

She leaped off of her perch; lightly did her feet touch the ground at her descent. Dust plumed over the tips of her boots, and while bent, she takes her lightsaber off of the clip pf her belt to boast a pair of red blades on both ends.

Cal tried his best to remain calm. His gloves squeaked as he tightened his grip on his own saber. He activated the second frost blue blade, a statement implying that he’s just as capable as she is.

Irele smirked and cooed, “Well now.”

They battled in the second tier landing of the tomb’s courtyard. Dual-ended blades clashing against one another. Red versus blue.

If only Vader could see her now.

Irele’s training did not betray her. Those two years of strenuous training had given her a great amount of stamina, more than enough to last her two duels against a Jedi and still have more to chase them down to finish what she started.

“Come on, redhead! Don’t disappoint me!” she snarled, taunting the boy.

“Don’t worry, you’ll find I’m full of surprises!”

“Oho!” she cackled. Distanced herself for a second’s worth of a breather, she bared her teeth in a wide, mischievous grin. “I do love surprises!”

Cal wasn’t afraid to admit that his opponent was nimbler, more dexterous, and perhaps even stronger. He could feel the hate and anger flowing in her, as if it’s replaced the blood in her veins, though he thinks she’s a fool for weaponizing those emotions—ones that only a Sith would use to their advantage.

He needed to find an opening. This girl was too strong, he thought. He rammed his shoulder to her, causing her to stumble in her footing, and then—within a moment’s opportunity—he recoiled and sprung his hands to his front: sending a wave of the Force to increase the distance away from her. Then he made a run for it—there was an opening at the side of the tomb entrance, and hurriedly squeezed his way through the narrow space between two boulders.

He managed to slither his way out, but Irele caught up to him fast. Shrapnel of stones flew and clattered behind Cal, he looked over his shoulder and saw the girl appearing from the dust cloud, her crimson blades lighting up in the middle of the fog.

“Who are you!?”

No reply from the girl.

She just kept pushing forward. Greedy to land more strikes on the boy and hopefully disarm him.

Ahead of them was another way to the lift that leads to the underground level of the tomb. The only obstacle is that a ring of rocks, spinning around the lift in great speeds, is blocking Cal’s way of ever getting into that ancient elevator.

Desperately, he slows down the movement of the stones circling the lift, and bolted through while it was still safe. Irele was at his tail. They continued their exchange of strikes until either of them could notice that the influence of Cal’s Force Slow was wearing off. He had made his way closer to the lift while they fought, but Irele was too blind to be aware of her surroundings. When the stones were gradually returning to their original speed, Cal mustered up enough energy again to push Irele out of the stones’ orbit with one hand, while the other slowed the stones but they were now at his volition.

“NO!!”

Cal hopped into the lift, his one hand relaxed and the stones were orbiting the golden elevator at cyclonic speeds. As the golden lift sank, with a heavy bell-like clang to signal its descent, so did Irele’s stomach. This is unacceptable, she knew it, she needs to find another way to the tomb and catch up with the Jedi.

Meanwhile, Cal sought refuge and rest in the safety of the golden lift. He caught his breath and shook off whatever tension and adrenaline left from that fight.

“Who was that?” he asked to nobody in particular.

“Bee-woo…” BD-1 chirped.

His comlink beeped, and Cere’s voice popped through the speaker.

“Cal? Have you found the tomb?”

“Yeah, I found it. And I also found someone interesting.”

“Who?”

“She… I don’t know if she’s an Inquisitor. I’m not even sure if she is one. Though I am sure that she’s with the Empire. I saw her TIE Fighter earlier, didn’t expect to bump into her though.”

He recalled quietly what she looked like and what she wore. Normally, Inquisitors donned armor with the Empire’s insignia on it. But Irele was fashioned differently, compared to a completely armored Inquisitor: her outfit consisted of a short-sleeved top that covered her from the neck down, a long skirt complemented by ankle-length boots. The only pieces of “armor” she has are a brown leather surcoat over her top and a belt. In her defense, she preferred less is more.

“Whether or not she’s an Inquisitor, if she’s just as bad as you say she is—then you better keep an eye out. You are definitely not alone out there.” Cere warned with a graveness in her voice.

“I know.”

[rayj-drash]

Berlin Sketches pt 1

by T. Frank

My grandmother cannot fathom entering Germany. She was a child of the Great Depression and lived through the war safely from the Catskill Mountains of New York while her husband fixed radios on home turf. However, Germany represents a taboo in history for my grandparents as Jews. They would no sooner visit the Brandenberg Gate than they would try scuba diving without an oxygen tank.

 I constantly reflect on the trusted feeling of Home since I lived in Berlin for six weeks in fall of 2018. Previously, the longest trip I took was a ten-day tour of Israel through the organization Birthright: from the peak of a mountain overlooking three desert countries, to the crowded rush of the Jerusalem shuk, and my aversion to a display of American-Israeli nationalism on a military campus. The scenes and feelings form a whirlwind of hazy memories, much like any experience on new land. 

A few days after I arrived back in the Bay Area, I sat in Strawberry Creek Park watching the sun go down and the light blue sky grow faint as night approached, seeking those moments of "awe" that came so suddenly in Berlin. This bright green park reminded me of the open recreational space I loved over there, even though the grass was literally greener on this side of the pond!  I distinctly remember the moment when I scarcely had to look up at the street signs and felt like whichever path I took, I would find my way. Nevertheless, five months ago, I had sent in an application for an unusual art residency, an immersion into the study of grief. I reflected on those periods of my life that had led to some of my deepest creations. Drawings of cancer cells and lungs, struggles to breathe and heal in the midst of choking emotion, flowers and vines winding through the dark themes. I yearned to express my observations of the world through whatever moved me, again.

~~~~~

The journey to Berlin was a three-legged trip with two layovers, leaving Friday evening and arriving at 10:00PM on Saturday. A huge, crowded economy flight, cheap and minimal. I tried to rest as the crew turned off all lights on board. No sooner did I close my eyes than it seemed like the sun was creeping over the horizon, and we touched down to a windy, barren tarmac. It was 9:00AM, as all the passengers disembarked in Reykjavik, Iceland, we felt the chill burrowing through our thin layers and shivered.

On the second leg, as the plane glided to the lowlands, I appreciated the bucolic farmland. I was alone in the Copenhagen airport. The crowds in Reykjavik were more diverse, like a burgeoning metropolis.  By contrast, everyone arriving in this Danish terminal looked alike: tall, blond, and, permit me, Aryan. They traveled in clusters of family groups, chatting, gesturing, smiling. I dragged my suitcase past designer boutiques to a desolate, unfinished terminal, where passengers awaited their flights without customary notice; but learned to say, Takk, Danish for "Thank you". When I finally reached Germany, I connected to the U-bahn, the underground subway. The ride was over an hour long, and I gazed at the subterranean signage, lost once more. Until I arrived at Rathaus Neukölln, and my new roommate Shimon met me outside in the rain.

The next day, I left the mattress that our hostess Amelia had set up on the floor, staggering about with jet lag. Luckily there's oatmeal, my favorite companion. Shimon and his friend Devorah from Tel Aviv are home. We discuss the neighborhood. ‘What if I get terribly lost, not only physically, but mentally, too?’ I thought. ‘Is this a dream? Why am I so far from anyplace I know?’ Devorah suggested a walk to the canal, with a Sunday flea market. Late afternoon, I ventured outdoors and discovered a slice of paradise.

At the end of the block, a large mosaic mural adorned a staircase which I took to have the impression of a rooftop. A large concrete lot surrounded a beautiful community garden. Raised flower beds were home to a bounty of colorful flowers, tall green vegetables grew under the sunshine and painted poles flanked handmade structures. I spotted a concrete ping-pong table, and mustered up the courage to join two men playing. One of them wore a baseball cap with "Cal" emblazoned in blue and yellow; by chance, he attended law school at UC Berkeley, and lived several blocks away from me! After a few rounds of ping-pong, the Germans drank beer and suggested that I check out a nearby landmark before sunset.

Cheered, I walked along and found an "I Love SF" sweatshirt at a pop-up flea market. More surprises awaited. I heard music, and pushed aside brambles to emerge in Hasenheide Park, where a large circle of guitarists and drummers jammed for casual onlookers. I saw an ornate mosque with blue and gold trim, a wide courtyard, and an outdoor faucet for washing hands or drinking cool, crisp water. Next door was Tempelhof Field. A former airport utilized during World War Two to fly-in supplies from the West, the unused tarmac was reinvented as an open recreational wonderland. I entered the gates and was met with flocks of activity: bicyclists, joggers, even a pair doing synchronized roller-skating. Dry, dull grass covered the fields, but a victory garden shined under the setting sun, and the barista of an on-site cafe recommended finding a good perch. 

I joined two boys from Afghanistan, Hasan and Muhamed, watching the sky from tall ladder-seats. Muhamed and I grinned, struggling to hold a conversation between the lack of a common language. Google helped, but broken English got us farther. "Do you know there are still American police in my country?,” he exclaimed. My conscience bristling, I say that most people do not speak of the Afghan-American war anymore. The sun set in deep purple and vivid pink hues. Hasan saw my eyes light up at the sight of his bicycle, and offered me a ride--so, I sat sideways on the frame, clutching his black leather jacket, and answering "Ya" when asked, "Alles Gut?"until I grimaced from discomfort and Hasan laughed--"Kaput!" The two friends saw me off at a bus stop, and I stumbled on board as the passengers stared.

~~~~~

The following Monday, I walked twenty minutes from the apartment to arrive in front of a white-painted gallery, and no one around. Feeling nervous that the entire program was a hoax (just like my parents thought when they read the acceptance letter from the dubious-sounding organization),  I noticed a middle-aged man at a computer in the corner. I knocked on the window, and he let me inside. Here was a room devoid of decoration, save for a long rectangular table and six chairs, three of which were filled by women. Soon, another man entered the room and offered tea, introducing himself as our "mentor". We never referred to him by any name other than his own, even when I suggested “Alek”. He's over six feet tall, shaved head, and wore all black from his long-sleeved turtleneck to his sturdy dress shoes.

The participants introduced themselves. Sarah researched environmental grief, such as the devastation left behind from man-made disasters. Gwen studied grief theories in graduate school. Jasmine hoped to connect to refugees of war. And Sara--no error, there are two--prepared to make an installation honoring a departed friend. Linda would join us the following afternoon and plunge into an exploration of feeling othered through found objects. After we went over studio policies, we shared a bit on why we study grief, bringing several girls to tears. It felt like a group therapy session--and it wouldn't be the last. 

~~~~~

Dear Talya, Gone to synagogue. It's a short walk from the canal. I forget the street name-'Pflug'-something. Come join me for Yom Kippur services. Love, Devorah. Without consulting a map, I asked for directions from three different shopkeepers to find the synagogue. Luckily, they understood English and didn’t express unsavory reactions to my Jewish-ness. Once I found the path parallel to the Canal, the temple came into view: a large building curving around a tranquil block, with stained glass windows and a grand façade. Security officers were stationed outside, and I was screened before entering. "Are you Jewish?" they ask.. "Yes." Unmoved, they question, "Do you pray?" 

In August, I went to Washington, DC for my cousin’s wedding. Her family and friends are modern orthodox, or, religious. The day before the wedding, we were in shul for Shabbat services. During the long morning prayers, I read the English version of the Torah portion. The text alluded to the treatment of rape by virtue of marriage or the punishment of execution. By coincidence, this was the same chapter I studied for my Bat Mitzvah twelve years ago, but I must have been too young to grasp such explicit content. I left the room and spent the rest of services out in the hallway, tending to the potted plants as a distraction. 

Did I pray? Not willfully on that day in the synagogue. Internally, yes, throughout my life: the inner dialogue between my spirit and the spirit of a G-d. But in practice, only with family over Shabbat blessings. So I answered, "No. But my Israeli friend is in there, can I go in?" 

Yom Kippur services were surprisingly welcoming in Germany. Although the congregation was divided amongst the men and women, the dress code was more relaxed (jeans, white t-shirts), and several of the men held babies on their shoulders as the rabbi sang in Hebrew. I found Devorah and stood beside her. I recognized the somber prayer, "Avinu Malkeinu", and it felt no different than my family's congregation. The prayer books here were German on one side, and Hebrew on the other.

 After the ceremony, we passed by plenty of people enjoying the balmy weather at dusk. Devorah was reminded of holidays in her country, riding her bike freely while everyone took time off to relax. Shimon met us to break the fast with noodle phơ. I was lucky to connect with "my people", thousands of miles away from home. As a child, I remember feeling like my relatives’ religious differences divided us. However, my cultural upbringing is something I've retained and appreciate. Joining Israelis in Germany for Yom Kippur, the Day of Atonement, was akin to sharing a secret amongst friends.

~~~~~

  As the weeks went by, I developed a habit of visiting the community garden, mornings before heading to the studio and nights on my way home. One weekend, I felt antsy as I read a book called The Truth Will Set You Free by Alice Miller. There was a campfire at the garden as they observed summer changing to chilly Autumn. I surveyed the party scene before resting into a corner of a homemade wooden bench under the dim glow from industrial lights around the lot.  Although the setting was not condusive to reading, I was shy to join the group. But, when I repositioned myself next to the fire, it was apparent that these young, hip, multinational guests preferred to speak in English. Rosa asked what I’m doing in Berlin. When I told her I’m studying grief, her voice got excited and she invited her friends into the conversation.

Annika was vivacious and full of life. I noticed her wisps of fuzzy blonde hair, bright in the glow of the fire. She was working on a memoir, and was also the subject of a photoshoot documenting her journey with cancer. As she spoke, I folded a paper crane and gave it to her, provoking a sense of delight. My idea for the residency then was to make a handmade book for participants to share their experiences of grief, and to make origami together. Annika agreed to be interviewed the following week.

~~~~~

I took the S-bahn, the above-ground trolley, several miles northwest where the buildings  are close to the city center. Annika told her story: how, at age 26, she discovered the cancer in her breast and rushed into several months of intensive treatment including antibody therapy, anti-hormone medicine, and chemotherapy. She ultimately received a double mastectomy and chose breast implants. For a month after surgery, Annika couldn't lift her arms over her head. It was painful, but her energy was focused on how to function normally again. Now, she was in recovery, undergoing radiation and daily physical therapy. She wholeheartedly embraced her body, and I felt a mixture of awe and love for her resilience and positive attitude.

I encouraged Annika to leave her mark in a communal scrapbook of stories. She drew a breast in pastel colors with words circling the nipple, such as "soft"-, "round"-, "hope"-, and "loss".- After I left the apartment, I boarded the train and closed my eyes. In the dark, I envisioned a bare, cream-colored orb, shiny and wet, like a peeled lychee fruit. Perhaps, I reasoned, this represented Annika's true self.

Back in the studio, I was at a loss to contribute during our group discussion. I almost broke down, overcome with emotions that arose from the interview. So I took a break from the sterile white walls, and sat under the chestnut tree in the courtyard. I picked up a spiny shell, cracked it open to reveal a creamy-brown belly. I wrote a meditation on the seed of the tree. I reflected on impermanence, on patience, on Annika taking her time to heal yet reveling in every healthy moment. I like taking my time.

"Hey Aleksander," I remarked in the midst of studio time, "Since the interview with Annika, I’ve been feeling down.” My mentor was sitting at a desk, drinking tea and writing in one of his many small notebooks. "Do you feel your own grief surface?," he replied. "No, more like I put myself in her shoes, and feel compassion." He advised, "Keep a journal--one just for yourself, your thoughts and daily experiences. And one for your work in the residency; write down everything you're thinking. It'll help, trust me."

----- Talia Frank lives in the San Francisco Bay Area. She contributes to the Donut Club, an East Bay writer’s group. Visiting Berlin in 2018 inspired a love of community gardens and allowed her to re-examine Judiasm within a global context.

Reach the author: tfrank@cca.edu 

Visual art: www.cargocollective.com/taliafrank

Blog: https://wanderlustblumen.wordpress.com