Epilogue – 587 BBY ~563 years before the Clone Wars

He struggled to lift the training weight, the third smallest one the Temple possessed, and barely made it budge.

Centering himself in the Force, Er’izma tried again, pushing with all his might, pale green skin flushing darkly as he tried to force it to move, only getting a single, tiny jump from the small metal ball, which clattered on his desk, not even leaving its cradle.

“Damnit,” he whined, knowing it was whining, and hating himself for it. But he was fourteen, less than a year before he’d be shipped off the Agricorps, never to be a Jedi. At least I have my lightsaber, he thought glumly, having struggled to make even that, when the other Initiates in his clan had done so near effortlessly.

He wanted to blame someone else, even though it wasn’t the ‘Jedi Way’, but there was no one to blame but himself. Midichlorian counts, the way the Order had discovered to measure a Jedi’s raw power, had shown him that. To be considered for Jedi training, normally one had to have a score of at least seven thousand, but he only had six thousand. Less than that, really, five thousand eight hundred, but as low as it was, there wasn’t that much difference.

It was only after he was an Initiate for years, struggling, that they’d tested his count, but he had been delivered to the temple as an infant, and had no were else to go. All he had was his name, a set of coordinates, and the knowledge that he could never go home. So he tried, he tried so hard, but it never seemed to matter.

And the worst part? Everyone was so nice about it.

They said they understood, but, it was more than just words, if they’d been lying to him he could have been mad about that. No, it was the way they spoke to him, the way they understood his pain, his anger, his rage, and talked to him about how, while natural to feel such things, holding onto them would only hurt him. And he tried his best, tried not to let it control him, tried to move past it, but it was hard to move past something when the very circumstance that caused it was still something he lived with every day.

They still praised him, about how, given his lack of ability, the fact that he was still able to do what he did, was worthy of respect. However when the other members of his ever-shrinking clan, as more and more were taken as Padawans, could do with ease what he struggled with, that didn’t help. Nor did the interviews with prospective masters, each and every one ending with his rejection, in a way that showed they didn’t hold his weakness against him, merely that others could benefit from their training more.

But he’d gotten used to it.

He didn’t get angry, not that much, he just noted the dull ache in his chest every time he was reminded of his failure, and tried to move past it. Once more, he focused to try to lift the training weight again. You couldn’t build Force capability like you could muscles, but you could improve skill, and when he’d first started, he hadn’t been able to lift even the smallest of training weights, capable of only moving the learning tools, and only with the strongest of efforts.

This time, instead of a jump, as he tried to focus not just on trying to make the ball lift, but on how it lifted. It, ever so slowly, started to raise, even as Er’izma took in deep, gasping gulps of air, body shaking with the effort, but, inch by inch, he did it.

Then there was a knock at the door, and, his focus shattered, the ball quietly clunked down into its cradle once more.

“Kriff!” he swore, but, wiping the off his brow, he pushed himself away from the desk and headed for the door, toggling it, and seeing no one. Hearing a cleared throat, he looked down, finding Master Yoda standing there, looking up at him with wry amusement. “Oh, um, hi?” he stuttered, unsure. “I know I skipped your lesson, Master, but the schedule said it was on the Central Six, but I still remember all six lessons in the sequence you gave last year, and-”

“Not for that, am I here,” the small being told him. “Though, unless mastered it you have, instruction, you could use.”

Waving a hand, Er’izma quickly replied, “No, it’s not that! I, I just still can’t, so. . .”

“So waste my time, you did not wish?” Yoda nodded, with an understanding smile. “For that to decide, upon me, is it not? But come, Initiate Er’izma, you will. Old friend, I wish you to meet.”

“Oh, um okay,” the teen replied, falling into step alongside the small master. Even to his weak senses, the tiny alien was a mountain in the Force, an enormous presence that just seemed. . . right to be around, comforting, and dependable, even if it made him feel so incredibly small.

At five feet tall, knowing he’d only grow an inch or two, being around someone shorter than himself was always a little odd to Er’izma. Someone that wasn’t even younger then he was, he corrected. The difference between their sizes in reality, and in the Force, was almost comical, but he didn’t feel like laughing. No, he was used to that to, as he helped the younger students when he could. He helped them get started, when he was recovering from having pushed himself trying to train, and so was used to such a difference in height, and the reversal of it in Force ability, already.

With his experience, struggling for every bit of skill he had, he was able to let others take those first steps, even if they quickly surpassed him in mere days. It was the only thing he was good at, and the only way he could help, so he made sure to whenever he had free time. Master Ghrathan had suggested he could work in the educational corps, but while he wanted to help people, spending his entire life constantly being reminded of his own failings was more than he could take.

“Let yourself dwell, you must not. Cannot be changed, some things are,” Master Yoda chided, and Er’izma winced, nodding, obviously an open book to someone as skilled as a Jedi Master.

They continued to walk in silence, finally stopping at the meeting rooms, Yoda opening one with a wave of his hand, not breaking stride. “Greetings, Hawk-bat,” the Jedi Master said. “Long time, it has been, since last we have met.”

Inside, standing and looking out the window of the well-lit room, was a slim, blonde man, barely any taller than Er’izma himself. In the Force, however, he stood out starkly, a glowing monolith of strength to the young man’s senses. As powerful as Yoda, maybe a little less, the man’s presence was condensed, held tight to his form, instead of spread-out like it was for the smaller Jedi, and he seemed to shine like a beacon because of it.

Dressed in the same brown robes as all the Order wore, the Master Jedi smiled at Yoda. “Greetings, Jumping Bean. It has been far too long. I would’ve come sooner, but, when one hears the Will of the Force. . .”

“Follow, one must,” Yoda nodded. “Understand, I do. Too, must I leave, for call me, it does. Enough time, Spare, I could, to do this.”

The unnamed Jedi smiled, “And here I had hoped you would be able to spare enough time for a spar. You might even win this time.”

The small green Jedi gave the other Master a measuring gaze. “Recall, I do, winning our last confrontation. In error, my memory is?”

“After losing the last three,” the blonde man replied with mock offense, before chuckling. “But, Force Wills, it will be less than a decade before we cross paths again. Now, who is this youngling?”

Feeling the other Jedi’s attention on him, Er’izma froze, not sure what was going on. He had hopes, but he’d had hopes before, but. . .

“Initiate Er’izma, this young man is,” Master Yoda announced, waving in his direction. “Your Padawan, Master Lucian, he will become.”

He could practically feel the surprise coming from the other Jedi, rippling through the Force. “Oh, is he? It might have been a few decades since I last took an apprentice, Master Yoda, but I don’t believe that’s how these things are done.”

“Normally, correct, you would be,” the small Jedi nodded, leaving it at that.

Er’izma had to interrupt, “Master Yoda, that isn’t right. Just because I’m weak in the Force doesn’t mean you can just, just assign me a Master!”

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The diminutive Jedi snorted, “Good, it is, then, that behind this, I am not.”

“Then who?” Lucian asked, brows furrowing. “Did my cousin put you up to this?”

“Knight Fey?” Yoda asked in turn, shaking his head. “Unknowing of this, she is, though close, you are, in a certain way. Share a name with her, the architect of this does.”

The Initiate blinked, trying to figure out who that could be. There were over thirty-thousand Jedi in the Order, the chances of him knowing who it was were minimal. One came to mind, but it surely couldn’t be-

“Grandmaster Faye Coven?” Lucian asked, Yoda nodding in reply, which prompted a sigh. “Of course it is.”

Er’izma looked between the two Masters. “The Grandmaster? But, I’m just an Initiate. And barely one at that!”

“Jedi, you are, youngling. Her job, it is, to care for all of us, great and small,” Yoda reminded him, before turning to Lucian. “Refuse, you still can. Force you, she cannot. Only suggest.”

“I’m not so arrogant as to ignore a suggestion from my elders,” Lucian mused, snorting as Yoda made a doubtful sound. “Given you didn’t talk until you were nearly sixty, you don’t count, Jumping Bean.”

The small Jedi master sighed, “Content with besting you martially, suppose I must be. Consider her request, you should. Agree with it, I do, as Master Samartha does. Go, I must.”

“I will, Yoda, and may the Force be with you,” Master Lucian nodded.

It was a gesture the other Master returned, “As it is with you, Lucian.” Turning to Er’izma, he added, “Worry not, Initiate. His bite, less is, than his bark, I believe. With the Force, this Jedi walks.” With that declaration, the small being walked out the door, leaving the two of them behind in the room.

“So, youngling, come over to me,” Master Lucian beckoned, and the Initiate found himself walking without meaning to. “Er’izma, he said your name was? What species are you?”

“I, I don’t know,” the short young man admitted. “I’ve lived my entire life in the Temple, and no one I asked could tell me. I know I’m from the Unknown Regions, that’s all.”

That alone had caused one Jedi Master to decide not to take him, but Master Lucian merely nodded.

“And your command of the Force?” was asked.

“I am. . . I’m weak,” the boy admitted, having already stated it, and now waiting for what he knew was coming.

The older man nodded, “I know, I felt that when you walked in, but that isn’t what I asked. Or, perhaps, I could have phrased that better.” Taking a commlink from a belt pocket, he requested, “Please lift this.”

Holding out a hand, Er’izma focused, with all he had, and tried to use the Force to make the device rise, not just through brute effort, but, as he’d been trying not even an hour previously, to support and raise it on a thin pillar of will.

Slowly, falteringly, it rose, wobbling, but it did, and he felt a thrum of victory sing through him, able to do so. Until Lucian reached out and poked it, sending it spinning, whereupon it fell, and he only barely stopped it from hitting the ground. Breathing hard, ever so slowly, he caused it to raise again.

Suddenly, it flew up, a force far greater than he could muster lifting it and smoothly directing it back into Lucian’s pocket, as the Master merely followed it with his eyes, not moving his hand at all. “I believe you are the weakest Jedi I have ever met,” he commented, conversationally, and Er’izma felt his heart break.

“I. . . understand,” he said, slowly turning and heading for the door, only to be stopped as a bright gold wall sprung up in front of him, a construct made of the Force itself. Turning back around, he saw the Jedi had gestured outwards. “Master Lucian?”

“I do not think, you do, in fact, understand,” the Jedi mused. “While, had I decided to take another Padawan on my own, you are not what I would be looking for, I think that, is perhaps, why Grandmaster Coven directed you to me. Tell me, Youngling, do you know who I am? Who my Master was, who my previous Padawans were?”

Er’izma shook his head. “No, sir. But there are a lot of Jedi,” he added, a little defensively.

“To put it bluntly, they were Fallen Jedi, all of them,” The man commented, seeming to age slightly at the declaration, shoulders drooping for a moment, as if under great weight. “I helped guide them back to the Force, and put them to rest, but, I believe you can see why I haven’t taken another?”

The teen could, and, thinking about it, suddenly this entire thing made a bit of sense. “So, the Grandmaster wants you to train me, because if I Fall, I won’t be a threat?” It was depressing, that it was his weakness that had given him this opportunity, instead of any of his strengths. But, perhaps, it was the Jedi way, to turn weaknesses into strengths?

“Every Fallen Jedi is a threat,” the Master Jedi corrected, “But, that is likely one of the reasons why. Tell me, Initiate, what kind of Padawans do you think I took on?”

“Strong ones?” Er’izma shrugged. “You’re strong, so you took on apprentices that were like you?” It was the reason nearly a dozen Masters had rejected him.

Lucian nodded, “Indeed, whereas you and I could not be more different. They were strong, not as strong as I was, at their point in training, but close enough that I thought I could use my own experiences to guide them. However, that was never enough. They always looked for more. More strength. More control. More skill. I told them that comparing themselves to me was foolish, if only because of our differences in experience, but each and every one of them eventually embraced the Dark Side. Two as Padawans, one as a Knight, and one as a Master, dragging her own Padawan into the Dark with her. All did so to gain power they could not, or would not, grow into naturally. They could not listen to the Will of the Force, to know that their abilities were more than enough to help others.”

At this, Er’izma had to chuckle. When Lucian shot him a questioning glance, he shrugged again. “I’ve never been as powerful as the other Initiates. Students half my age have more ability in the Force than I do. I know I’ll never be as strong as you, Master Lucian,” he commented self-deprecatingly.

“And that is the second reason I believe the old rodent suggested you,” the man smiled, getting the Initiate’s confused attention. “I chose the gifted, the strong, hoping that they, like me, would learn to channel their power for the good of all, but they were. . . prideful, in a way I didn’t realize until it was far too late. You may have your flaws, young man, but I do not believe that pride is one of them.”

Er’izma wanted to argue, but he couldn’t. Not really. What did he have to be proud about? “You said the second, was there a third?” he asked, hopeful, but tempering that feeling with experience.

Lucian nodded, taking out the commlink again. “I’m not sure exactly what you did.” From his hand, the device levitated, and, when he poked it, the entire thing moved smoothly to the side. “Yours spun. Why?”

The young man blinked. “Um, because you pushed it?”

The Jedi shook his head, “Please lift this, I want to see what you’re doing.”

“Oh, um, okay?” Er’izma offered, reaching and concentrating. It was difficult, but, with focus, it wobbled up.

Lucian circled the device, examining it, gently poking and prodding it, forcing the Initiate to hurriedly change the center of balance to keep it up. Finally, it was too much, and, with a gasp, the commlink started to fall, before it froze, mid-air. “Thank you, youngling. I think I understand what you did now. Your use of the Force, it is weak, so. . . you have used only as much as needed.”

Yes? Er’izma thought, not sure where the Master was trying to say, and his confusion was apparent as, with a wave of his hand, two dozen golden Force Barriers appeared around the object, all pushing in and holding it in place.

“This is how we teach it, in a way,” the Jedi stated, and the Initiate nodded, remembering the lesson. “By pressing in every direction, we keep what we move secure, keep it in place, and doing so lets us move it exactly how we want to, but it is. . . wasteful. Each piece pressing on the opposite side cancels each other out even when not needed.” Two by two, the barriers started disappearing, until only a single pair remained, one pressing down, and one pressing up.

Then, the one pressing down disappeared.

Looking at the visual representation of the very thing Er’izma had been doing, Lucian nodded, trying to move it, only for the commlink to start to fall, another three barriers flashing into existence to catch it.

“Oh, this is far more difficult than it looks,” the Jedi Master commented to himself, removing them until only the single barrier remained, and, trying to move it again, made it further, trying to correct for the wobbles, only for it to start to fall once more, caught invisibly by telekinesis before it hit the ground.

Shaking his head, Lucian stored the commlink, and turned back to a silent teen. “And this is the third reason, young Padawan. I have been blessed by the Force with an abundance of power, but I, to put it simply, paint with too broad a brush at times. With gallons of pigment, I can do so without issue, but you only have a single vial, and so you, in your artistry, likely far surpass my skill at even twice, thrice, or even five times your age. I will have much to teach you, young Er’izma, but, if you will have me, I believe that, unlike my previous Padawans, you may have much to teach me as well.”

“You, you called me Padawan,” the young man blinked, trying to process what he was hearing. The others had praised him for what he could do, with as little as he had, but they had never, not once, said that he had been better then them, at anything. “You. . . you think I’m skilled?”

“For a Padawan, yes,” Lucian replied simply. “For a Knight, not particularly, but that, I believe, is the point of my being your Master, if you’ll have me. I warn you, youngling, the paths I walk are dangerous, and sometimes dark, but it is by doing so that I, and you, can help bring Light to the shadowed corners of the galaxy.”

The man offered an outstretched hand, and Er’izma started to take it, before hesitating. “You, you really think I could help?” he asked again. “As more than just a farmer?”

Not pulling back his limb, Lucian nodded. “The Will of the Force speaks quite loudly to me, though it is harder to hear closer to the Core, and it was what directed me here, not any call from the Grandmaster. I truly believe this is what it intended, though it rarely expresses itself plainly. I do not speak falsehoods, young Er’izma. Will you join me in my quest?”

For a moment, the young Initiate felt a sense of foreboding, as if to take the offered hand would mean his death, or far worse, but he cast his mind out to the Force, as he’d been taught, not that it’d ever spoken to him, and asked the Will of the Force itself if doing this would let him help people.

What he got back wasn’t his own thoughts, wasn’t even in words, but the sense of it was clear.

The Force said yes.

Blinking back tears, nearly overcome with emotion, not that Lucian seemed to care, Er’izma took the Master Jedi’s hand.

“I will,” he promised. “I’ll help you however I can.”

And, in doing so, young Er’izma sealed his fate.