FIC: Four Times Jacen Knew He Was Doing The Right Thing
Prompt from prix-etoile.
Don't know how.
His uncle's lightsaber is almost as long as his arm and just as thick; he barely manages to switch it on without dropping it.
But he does it. He's got to help. Uncle Luke is in trouble, and he can't defend himself, so Jacen has to do it. It's simple.
Everything's a little bit green in the light of the blade. Jacen holds it over his head, in something he can hear Uncle Luke say is a "defensive posture", and watches the dark creatures flying above him. They're going to attack again. He doesn't have to guess; he can hear them thinking it. (They don't think like humans, but it would be silly if they did. He understands anyway.)
When one finally dives down, Jacen swings and turns (it's a pih-roo-et), not quite in control of his own body. Uncle Luke's helping, showing him how to move and how to fight and how to
(sorry sorry sorry)
kill the creatures the dark man sent.
One. Two. Three, with Jaina and Cilghal.
Uncle Luke tells him he didn't really kill them. The dark man did it first, made them dead as soon as he spoke to them. Used them and made them dead.
It's okay. Uncle Luke's okay, so it's okay.
It's okay.
He's eleven and he's supposed to be getting ready for a party, some important function hosted by his mother with maybe fifty people he doesn't want to talk to and who don't want to talk to him. He's half-dressed, smart black pants and a plain white shirt buttoned nearly to the top. The clothes -- cleaned just that morning -- are already dusty; he'll be scolded when he returns to the others.
He told Winter he was just going to find his tie and his shoes. He can hear (in his mind more than with his ears) Jaina covering for him, keeping their mother's friend from realising that his things are already in the living room, kicked hastily under Anakin's chair before she saw them.
He's got more important things to take care of.
Like the shadowmoth under his bed.
He'd found the insect on the ledge outside Anakin's window, a small worm being eyed hungrily by a hawk-bat on the opposite building. It was the hawk-bat he'd felt first, a niggling hunger in the back of his mind even though he'd just eaten dinner. He'd squinted at the flying creature, sent a few discouraging thoughts its way, and rescued the little worm from any future hawk-bats by letting it crawl up his arm. Jaina had provided one of her best cages for him, and he'd kept the shadowmoth larva hidden under his bed for the past month. Partly because the warm darkness had been the best environment for it, and partly because insects always seem to freak out his dad.
He'd fed the creature on scraps from Jaina's projects, and had spent the past week frowning whenever he thought about it -- ever since it had spun its cocoon. And now it's awake again, struggling, panicking. He can feel it, hear it, screaming through the Force: it wants out.
"I can't," he whispers, biting his lip. "You gotta do it yourself."
He's half-under the bed, hence the dusty clothes. He can barely see the cocoon in the shadows, but he doesn't need to see with his eyes. He closes them.
"I can't," he repeats, still whispering. "But I'm here, 'kay? I'll be right in the next room, and I promise I'll be here when you come out. I wanna hear you sing. You gotta be nice and strong so you can sing for me."
The shadowmoth doesn't understand, of course, and isn't soothed by his projection of calm. He wants to help it so much, let it out so it'll stop hurting -- but he can't. It needs the struggle to build up its strength, otherwise it won't be able to fly -- won't even be able to sing.
Jacen knows this like he knows his own name. He knows that the best thing he can do is wait it out.
That doesn't make it hurt less.
He hasn't been certain about anything in this war so far. He's been plagued by doubts since he graduated, since he and Anakin started accompanying Uncle Luke on missions, and each encounter with the Vong has been a chisel digging at the tiny pebble of confidence that remained in his heart.
Is he doing the right thing? Does he know enough about the Force? Should he even be using the Force if he doesn't know? And he'd decided, no. No, he shouldn't. No, because it's one thing for a teenage boy to make a mistake, but a Jedi Knight who makes one because he just doesn't know? That's how galaxies fall.
And then Duro--
--and Tsavong Lah--
--and his mom.
Stand firm, a feeling, a message, and he still isn't sure what it means. Stay on the path he's chosen? Avoid the Force no matter what? Or does it simply mean he needs to be confident, needs to be certain, needs to know?
Or maybe that's not even the important thing here.
Maybe the important thing is that his mother is being tortured.
And suddenly it doesn't matter -- gods, how could it matter? He's a teenage boy whose mother is about to die -- but he's also a Jedi, he is a Jedi and he can use the Force and ... it's right. It feels right. Absolutely, inarguably right.
When the decision comes down to don't use the Force and let Mom die or use the Force and save her, well, it's not hard to choose and act.
(Stand firm, goes the prophecy, or fall utterly.)
All that Jacen knows, all that he feels, all that is right: Luke Skywalker must live.
There doesn't need to be a why. The why is unnecessary, unstated -- it's Luke Skywalker. He can't die. He can't.
(Jacen can't kill him.)
And sometimes, for people to live, other people do have to die. This is nothing new. A look at history proves this. People sacrifice themselves so that others may go on, may survive, may live their lives and raise families and pass on what they know. Old news, for Jedi. Obi-Wan Kenobi sacrificed himself on the Death Star; Dorsk 81 on Yavin 4.
Anakin Solo at Myrkr.
And now it's Nelani Dinn's turn.
Jacen's sorry; he is. But in every future that he can see, Nelani does something, tips some balance ... and Luke dies. At Jacen's own hand. It's Jacen's responsibility not to let that happen, isn't it? His duty as -- Jedi? Sith? -- Jacen Solo.
It hurts, as it always hurts to kill, but it's a simple choice. Do, or do not.
Jacen does.
Don't know how.
His uncle's lightsaber is almost as long as his arm and just as thick; he barely manages to switch it on without dropping it.
But he does it. He's got to help. Uncle Luke is in trouble, and he can't defend himself, so Jacen has to do it. It's simple.
Everything's a little bit green in the light of the blade. Jacen holds it over his head, in something he can hear Uncle Luke say is a "defensive posture", and watches the dark creatures flying above him. They're going to attack again. He doesn't have to guess; he can hear them thinking it. (They don't think like humans, but it would be silly if they did. He understands anyway.)
When one finally dives down, Jacen swings and turns (it's a pih-roo-et), not quite in control of his own body. Uncle Luke's helping, showing him how to move and how to fight and how to
(sorry sorry sorry)
kill the creatures the dark man sent.
One. Two. Three, with Jaina and Cilghal.
Uncle Luke tells him he didn't really kill them. The dark man did it first, made them dead as soon as he spoke to them. Used them and made them dead.
It's okay. Uncle Luke's okay, so it's okay.
It's okay.
He's eleven and he's supposed to be getting ready for a party, some important function hosted by his mother with maybe fifty people he doesn't want to talk to and who don't want to talk to him. He's half-dressed, smart black pants and a plain white shirt buttoned nearly to the top. The clothes -- cleaned just that morning -- are already dusty; he'll be scolded when he returns to the others.
He told Winter he was just going to find his tie and his shoes. He can hear (in his mind more than with his ears) Jaina covering for him, keeping their mother's friend from realising that his things are already in the living room, kicked hastily under Anakin's chair before she saw them.
He's got more important things to take care of.
Like the shadowmoth under his bed.
He'd found the insect on the ledge outside Anakin's window, a small worm being eyed hungrily by a hawk-bat on the opposite building. It was the hawk-bat he'd felt first, a niggling hunger in the back of his mind even though he'd just eaten dinner. He'd squinted at the flying creature, sent a few discouraging thoughts its way, and rescued the little worm from any future hawk-bats by letting it crawl up his arm. Jaina had provided one of her best cages for him, and he'd kept the shadowmoth larva hidden under his bed for the past month. Partly because the warm darkness had been the best environment for it, and partly because insects always seem to freak out his dad.
He'd fed the creature on scraps from Jaina's projects, and had spent the past week frowning whenever he thought about it -- ever since it had spun its cocoon. And now it's awake again, struggling, panicking. He can feel it, hear it, screaming through the Force: it wants out.
"I can't," he whispers, biting his lip. "You gotta do it yourself."
He's half-under the bed, hence the dusty clothes. He can barely see the cocoon in the shadows, but he doesn't need to see with his eyes. He closes them.
"I can't," he repeats, still whispering. "But I'm here, 'kay? I'll be right in the next room, and I promise I'll be here when you come out. I wanna hear you sing. You gotta be nice and strong so you can sing for me."
The shadowmoth doesn't understand, of course, and isn't soothed by his projection of calm. He wants to help it so much, let it out so it'll stop hurting -- but he can't. It needs the struggle to build up its strength, otherwise it won't be able to fly -- won't even be able to sing.
Jacen knows this like he knows his own name. He knows that the best thing he can do is wait it out.
That doesn't make it hurt less.
He hasn't been certain about anything in this war so far. He's been plagued by doubts since he graduated, since he and Anakin started accompanying Uncle Luke on missions, and each encounter with the Vong has been a chisel digging at the tiny pebble of confidence that remained in his heart.
Is he doing the right thing? Does he know enough about the Force? Should he even be using the Force if he doesn't know? And he'd decided, no. No, he shouldn't. No, because it's one thing for a teenage boy to make a mistake, but a Jedi Knight who makes one because he just doesn't know? That's how galaxies fall.
And then Duro--
--and Tsavong Lah--
--and his mom.
Stand firm, a feeling, a message, and he still isn't sure what it means. Stay on the path he's chosen? Avoid the Force no matter what? Or does it simply mean he needs to be confident, needs to be certain, needs to know?
Or maybe that's not even the important thing here.
Maybe the important thing is that his mother is being tortured.
And suddenly it doesn't matter -- gods, how could it matter? He's a teenage boy whose mother is about to die -- but he's also a Jedi, he is a Jedi and he can use the Force and ... it's right. It feels right. Absolutely, inarguably right.
When the decision comes down to don't use the Force and let Mom die or use the Force and save her, well, it's not hard to choose and act.
(Stand firm, goes the prophecy, or fall utterly.)
All that Jacen knows, all that he feels, all that is right: Luke Skywalker must live.
There doesn't need to be a why. The why is unnecessary, unstated -- it's Luke Skywalker. He can't die. He can't.
(Jacen can't kill him.)
And sometimes, for people to live, other people do have to die. This is nothing new. A look at history proves this. People sacrifice themselves so that others may go on, may survive, may live their lives and raise families and pass on what they know. Old news, for Jedi. Obi-Wan Kenobi sacrificed himself on the Death Star; Dorsk 81 on Yavin 4.
Anakin Solo at Myrkr.
And now it's Nelani Dinn's turn.
Jacen's sorry; he is. But in every future that he can see, Nelani does something, tips some balance ... and Luke dies. At Jacen's own hand. It's Jacen's responsibility not to let that happen, isn't it? His duty as -- Jedi? Sith? -- Jacen Solo.
It hurts, as it always hurts to kill, but it's a simple choice. Do, or do not.
Jacen does.