Chapter Text
Over the next few weeks, Baze works harder than he has in years. And it is for the benefit of a reckless acolyte who can barely stay still.
Baze wakes in the morning to find Chirrut sitting outside. Say one thing for the man, he’s an early riser. He will come in for breakfast, and Chirrut will ask questions. If they’re about the Force, the temple, the order, Baze will answer. When the questions are about Baze himself, he firmly pushes them away.
They spend an hour in prayer. Chirrut settles into it more as time goes on. The key was definitely giving him a mantra. He cannot keep up with Baze, and usually must stop after a half an hour to rest his voice, take a drink of water. When he is ready, though, he continues, keeping pace with Baze’s fast murmured prayers.
After that, Baze tells Chirrut stories from the temple. Heem is a good teacher, but he’s two hundred years old and doesn’t suffer fools. Baze does not admit to Chirrut, but he once fell asleep in Heem’s class, and woke up to a staff being dashed across his head. Baze always responded more to T’kal, who wouldn’t sing him songs, but tell stories.
Chirrut prefers that as well. He needs to be able to ask questions. Sometimes, Baze has left out some important detail, and a question does need to be asked. But more often, Baze will say, “I’m getting to that part.” So long as he says it patiently, Chirrut will nod, and he will listen, avid.
After that, Baze sends him off to classes with the other acolytes. Chirrut always looks slightly pained as he goes—they start with silent prayer, after all—but he has done as Baze says, and sits by himself, and says his prayer. Every few days, Baze will check in. So far, he has not found Chirrut fooling around. Squirming a bit, occasionally. One day, he lets out a sneeze so resounding that the acolytes, on the other side of the courtyard, turn to glare at him. Chirrut grimaces, then puts his head down and prays furiously under his breath.
Baze, meanwhile, is reading every text that he never had to before. Every Guardian save the Protector is trained over the course of years on how to mentor an acolyte. He thought that in about five years, he would get to the book T’kal left him, on training an apprentice Protector. Now he has another person’s education that he’s responsible for, and so far he’s acted solely on instinct. He has tried to do what he has observed from the other Guardians over the years.
But he didn’t train like the other Guardians. On his very first day in classes, hair all the way down to his shoulders, wearing the rags he’d travelled to Jedha in, T’kal had hobbled out to see them. With a glance around, he’d pointed with his cane at Baze. “You. Come with me.” Guardian Gi had looked beyond shocked, and Baze hadn’t a clue what was going on. He did as he was told. T’kal chose him without ever having heard him speak.
Baze is certain that it will be like that for him someday. He will see his apprentice, and he will know.
In the meantime, he has to educate a man his own age who might want this life, but doesn’t understand what it means. Baze has to flip through endless screens about shifting mentalities from acolyte to Guardian, how to prepare the body physically, the right foods to eat. He is a Guardian, yes, but he has done things very differently as a Protector.
He is also preparing to go below again. Once a month is when he communes with the creature. He has eaten well, getting his weight up, and he exercises while listening to audio transcripts. He goes for runs, trying to keep his legs strong, and he’s back to doing a hundred push ups without losing his breath.
Then Chirrut will come back to him. Baze has asked, does he not want to spend dinner with his friends? Chirrut will reply that he wants to learn. So they go over the lessons of the day, and talk about what Chirrut can do better the next.
They return to prayer for two hours, and then Baze sends him away.
Some nights he falls asleep reading mentoring manuals. Others he falls asleep doing as he ought to, which is murmuring his prayer.
I am one with the Force and the Force is with me.
Baze stands at the doorway to the courtyard, watching with approval. The acolytes are practicing their capradi. All of them are upside down in green lily pose. It is peaceful, to see so many bodies in the same position all at once, to see how they take in breath at the same time.
Abruptly, though, Q’qik falls over. They hit Wallene, who bowls over with a shout.
It’s like a ripple is sent through the group, and the others begin to come out of pose.
Rolling her eyes, Guardian Xero says, “And what do you think you did incorrectly, Acolyte Q’qik?”
“Fell over,” Q’qik mutters, and there’s laughter. Chirrut’s is the loudest, which is unsurprising.
“You miss the subtleties. The breath—it’s always the breath. Remember—count of four for green lily. One two three four, breathe. One two three four, release.”
Q’qik does not look convinced, but they nod. “Yes, Guardian.”
Xero sees Baze, and holds an arm out to him. “Guardian Malbus. You know something about green lily.”
Nodding, he comes down the steps. “I do.”
He stands beside her with his arms inside his sleeves. With a pleased nod, Xero tells the others, “Guardian Malbus once held green lily for eight hours.”
“Seven and a half,” he murmurs.
“It was seven forty-five, don’t sell yourself short. How did you accomplish such a feat, Guardian Malbus?”
“I remembered my breathing.”
“How long did it take you to recover?” comes a voice from the back. Chirrut, of course.
Raising a brow, Baze replies, “Recover from what?”
No missing the little grin on Chirrut’s face. He is strangely proud of his mentor. Baze has noticed that. He is unsure why.
“You’re early,” Xero says.
“It’s sixth day. I thought you could use the break.”
With a look, Xero concedes that. “My lazy students can’t hold green lily for more than five minutes.”
“Maybe you should beat them with a stick. Heem might loan you his.”
“Tempting.” Inhaling, Xero says, “Acolytes. Silent prayer is cancelled for afternoon session.” No missing the happiness there. “Instead, you’ll return here, and Protector Malbus is going to tell you about the Whills.”
They look amongst each other, excited.
Xero glances at him, and says, “Thank the Force for that. Your acolyte won’t stop pestering people about it.”
“Won’t he?” Baze asks, looking at Chirrut. His acolyte tries to step behind Wallene.
Kine’nik raises their hand, and Xero says, “Yes.”
They hold up a speaking pad. “We heard that you and Baze can do climbing vine formation.”
Baze raises his eyes to the sky, as Xero replies, “I think we’ll leave Protector Malbus to better things than satisfying your endless curiosity.”
“But can you?” Chirrut asks, peeking out from behind Wallene.
“Of course we can,” Xero says, exasperated. She waves a hand at them. “Go. Eat. Meet back here after training.”
As they disperse, Baze hears Chirrut say to Wallene, “I’d pay money to see that.”
Baze lowers his voice, and asks Xero, “How’s he doing?”
Equally quiet, Xero replies, “Of them all, he’s the most talented. His form is flawless.” She looks at Baze. “But he has no connection. Not even to himself.”
Baze nods. He thought as much.
Baze silences them by saying, “Good afternoon, acolytes.”
They face him, all sitting on the ground. “Good afternoon, Protector.”
“I hope the Force finds you well this day.” He sits before them, folding his hands in his lap. He wears wrappings all the way to the base of his fingers today. He intends to spar with Ula later. Chirrut will have to eat with his classmates.
He takes a deep breath.
“You’ve been here for a month. This is, of course, only the very beginning of your journey within the order. I’m sure that you have very many questions. Some of you ask when the time is appropriate, some ask without considering such a thing, and there are those of you who do not ask. You wait for the Force to reveal itself to you.” He looks at Streisa, who sits at the front, watching him respectfully but with barely veiled eagerness. She is the youngest of them, at only sixteen. “I have been watching. You listen instead of speaking. This is wise.”
She blushes, deeply, then gives a quick bow. “Thank you, Protector.”
“You come to us from Eriadu, yes?”
“I do, sir.”
“That’s a long way to come. Why did you choose this place?”
“I….” She glances around, looking slightly embarrassed, but she tells the truth. “I hoped that someday I could commune with the Crystal Guardian.”
Nodding, Baze says, “That is a lofty goal. But it is not unattainable. Particularly for one so young.” He smoothes his fingers over the wrappings on his left arm. “I have only been here for ten years, and yet I’m Protector of the Crystal Guardian. My predecessor, he apprenticed for much longer before he took on the mantle. I am not his equal, in any way, but I will endeavour to impart what lessons I can to you.”
He looks at the group of seven. “Besides Streisa, I have been told that each of you have asked a question. A question that is my responsibility to answer. Does one of you want to repeat it, or would you prefer that the Force reveal it to you in its own time?”
Three seconds pass.
Then Chirrut says, “What are the Whills?”
Baze gestures to him with his hand. “What are the Whills,” he repeats quietly. “Here is the answer that is entrusted to me to give to you. The answer that you will keep to yourselves, as Guardians of this order, of this temple, of this sacred place. The answer is….”
They all lean forward, even incrementally. Chirrut looks almost hungry for it. Even Streisa wants to know, though she appears slightly nauseous.
Baze looks at them, and finishes, “I don’t know.” He smiles faintly. “That is the answer to your question.”
They stare at him, expressions ranging from dumbfounded to terrified.
Chirrut says sharply, “You don’t know.”
His face has gone hard in a way that he’s never demonstrated before. All deference has fallen away, and he’s looking at Baze as an equal, not an acolyte to his mentor. This is man to man. Baze shakes his head. “No. No one knows.”
Chirrut’s mouth falls open about an inch. He snaps, “Then what the hell are we Guardians of?”
His classmates all take a collective breath. Zemall actually puts a hand to her tall forehead, closing her eyes.
Seconds after he speaks, Chirrut remembers himself. He pales. “Protector—forgive me, I—spoke without thinking—“
“At least I finally got to see what you’re like when you’re honest,” Baze replies. Now colour flushes into Chirrut’s cheeks. He looks at Baze, frustrated and trapped. Lifting a hand, Baze snaps his fingers. “A split second reply. Strange, how words can so quickly reveal a thing.”
“Protector—“
Baze puts up his palm, and Chirrut silences, bowing his head.
“Words,” Baze continues, “also fail. This is the lesson of the Whills. This order is three thousand years old. Before us, there were others. All you need to do is go beyond this mesa to see that. When you came in on your ships, I’m sure they told you to look at the statues that have fallen in the sand. How many millennia they have been there—I cannot say. But long have they lain in the desert. Before that they stood. If you look at scans of the planet, you can see that there were once cities in the desert. Those lie beneath the sand. There were people here before us, and there were people here before them, and so on. There is one thing that remains constant.” Baze holds up his index finger. “The Force.”
Everyone but Chirrut is listening intently. The acolyte sits with his head down, embarrassed. Baze can’t tell if he’s even paying attention.
“The Force resides in all of us. In everything. It connects me—“ He puts his hand to his chest. “To you.” He holds his hand out to them. “It connects you to your loved ones. It connects you to the people you have lost. The truth is—nothing is ever actually lost. Things change. People grow older. They die. They rejoin the Force. People are born. They grow older. They rejoin the Force. We are atoms, in the great scheme, but we are part of something extraordinary. We are part of the Force.”
Resting his hands in his lap, Baze explains, “Whills is a word that comes down to us through history. There are many different ideas about what it is. Some think that the Whills were immortal beings. Observers, who watched the turn of the universe. The great chroniclers. Others believe that the Whills is simply another word for the Force. There are even those who believe that the Crystal Guardian is a Whill. But whatever the Whills may or may not have been, that knowledge is lost to us. For now. As I said—not everything is ever truly lost. It could be that some day a junker is travelling through the desert, and comes upon a scroll that tells us exactly what we need to know. Or—more likely—we might never know. And this is the lesson of the Whills.
“Faith. This is what we guard. To each of you, the Whills may mean a different thing. To me, the Whills means faith. Just because I cannot see a thing, it doesn’t mean I can’t believe it. Just because a thing seems improbable, it doesn’t mean it’s impossible. I know the Force resides in all things, but I can’t see it with my eyes. So I have to trust that it’s there. I have to take the step from this plane to one that I cannot comprehend. We do that through prayer, we do it by training our bodies, our minds. We each of us connect to the Force in our own way. There is no one right way. We teach you the same things here at first so that you have a grounding in the life that the order leads. But one particular way will not lead you to the Force. It will not lead you to the Whills. You must each determine your path to belief.”
“How did you?”
Baze looks to the back. In this moment, Chirrut—strong as he is, defiant as he is—looks somehow vulnerable. Like the wrong thing could send him tumbling.
“Each Guardian is different, as I’ve said. When I came to this place—“ Baze looks around, with affection for his home. “It was nothing more than a place to stay. I didn’t come here because I was devout. I was tired. Guardian T’kal sensed something in me, and took me in. I did as he told me. I trained, as you’re training. I did as I was told. I did not ask questions. That’s not why I was here. I was here simply to live. So I followed orders. I did not learn, as you’re learning now, what the Whills were, for two full years. I was here for a year before my mentor decided I was prepared for my first duan. Not once, in all those months, did I ever feel the presence of the Force.
“But when I went into the cave—I understood that there was something far greater than myself here. Something older, something inexplicable. I did not feel the Force then either. I sat through my duan, I did as I was told, and then I continued my training.
“I was here a year and a half, and then one day, I was sparring with Master Thom Saelthroe—a very brave man, a Jedi, who lost his life in the war that’s being fought now—and I was winning. I became calm in a way that T’kal had described to me many times before, but that I had never experienced. In that moment, I was removed from time. I could anticipate what my opponent was about to do, but not because I had studied him, or because he was not a worthy foe. I could anticipate what he was going to do because I felt the connection between us. For a few seconds, I wasn’t myself. I was me, and him, and the ground, and the people around us, and—the sky, even. I was part of everything. Then he knocked me unconscious, because I was too busy staring at the interconnectedness of it all.”
There is some laughter. Most of the students have bent forward. They look more relaxed than before.
“Some of you will come to the Force through meditation. You will have mastered your mind to the extent that you are free of self, and in that moment you will connect to a higher power. There are those of you who will find the Force through capradi. Your body so strained that your mind disconnects, and you will be with the Force. Then there will be those of you who are like me. Fighters. Instead of moments of reflection, the Force will come to you when you aren’t even thinking about it.
“And yes. There are those of you who will never feel the Force.”
Chirrut’s face has gone perfectly blank. If he is listening, he does not show it.
“But,” Baze encourages, “this does not mean that the Force is not with you. When the wind doesn’t blow, I can’t feel air. But I still breathe it, it still exists. Just because a thing is intangible doesn’t mean it’s not real. There are those that the Force comes to, whether they want it or not. However, it is more likely to come to those who welcome it with an open mind and open heart. Those who have chosen to believe. Belief is a choice. That is why we are the Guardians of the Whills. We guard the kyber, we guard the temple, we guard the faith.” He puts his hands in front of himself. “Body.” He holds them up to the sky. “Spirit.”
Folding his fingers together, Baze looks among them. “We travel in these vessels, but we are connected by a thing we cannot see. If you accept that, you become less beholden to these bodies we walk in while we are mortal. Faith creates miracles. Miracles should not create faith.”
From within his robe, Baze withdraws a small knife. He uses it to cut through the wrappings on his left hand. He will redo them later. From his peripheral vision, he sees Chirrut start to sit up again.
“When I came to this place, I believed in nothing. Now I have belief. With that—I can do anything. And so can anyone of you.”
He takes a breath through his nose.
His pulse slows. Murmuring under his breath, “I am one with the Force and the Force is with me,” Baze simply inhales and exhales for a moment, feeling his body slipping completely under his control.
Taking the knife firmly in his right hand, he pushes the blade steadily through the flesh that connects his thumb to his hand. He feels no pain. Just a tugging sensation as the metal cuts through. It does not bleed.
Once he has pushed it all the way to the hilt, Baze lets go. He holds out his left hand, turning it one way, then the other. The students watch, wide eyed.
Baze takes the handle, and draws the knife from his flesh. There is no blood on the blade. Flipping it in his fingers, he slips it inside his robe. He takes the wrapping, pulling it around the clean wound, tucking it under the other fabric.
“All things are possible with the Force,” Baze tells them.
He believes it.
He is about to leave the courtyard when Chirrut calls out, “Guardian!”
Of course. Turning back, Baze says, “I told you—“
Catching up, Chirrut nods, giving him an almost dismissive wave. “Spend the evening with the others, I know. I have a question.”
“All right. What’s your question?”
“It really took you a year and a half to feel the Force?”
“Yes.”
Chirrut suddenly grins. “I’ll do it in a year.” He turns and jogs away to rejoin the others.
Baze is left exasperated. “It’s not a race,” he says, but Chirrut is already gone.