Work Text:
stolen Imperial freighter
call sign Rogue One
en route, Yavin IV - Scarif
You sink back, bone weary, and your skull collides with the wall with a dull clank. He lets out a snort mid meditation; he’s sitting cross legged, knee brushing your thigh, with his staff propped up in behind him.
Back straight, hands curled in his lap.
Chirrut Imwe does not slouch, never has. Absorbed all of the strict temple standards, straight down to posture (the same could definitely Not be said for you. All a waste of time, as you’d debated with him many times. As usual, your arguments went in one ear and out the other). He may perch on the arms of whatever junk the pair owned for furniture these days, looking like a godforsaken monkey, or lounge in an alley off the Holy City’s main throughway to sell his flawless ‘oh woe-is-me, I’m blind and helpless’ facade, but the fine details are still there. An art piece, made of coiled springs of lithe muscle framed by straight lines and right angles. Painting the Guardian’s Way in a fascinating new light, touched by strife but never tainted.
You let your eyes close, listening to the melancholic shuffling of the rebel deserters crammed into this ship with you. The girl, Jyn, was murmuring to them, discussing materials and command structure. Fierce beacon of hope, that one. Even rivaled your partner. She’d been so lost when she’d stumbled (led by the Force, your inner Chirrut says) into them. Unlit. Plodding through the motions of survival in this Imperial soon-to-be wasteland, much the same way as you. When one is faced with annihilation, not of one’s self necessarily but of everything one has known beforehand, something gets stamped out of you.
When the visiting Jedi talk more of politics and bureaucracy than youngling progress and deeper connections with new systems. When the Jedi stop visiting, and are replaced by messengers. When the Imperial banners creep closer and closer, until they’re at your doorstep. When the Whills disband, and everything you’ve ever believed in crumbles to sand.
Except for him.
He stands tall. He laughs! In the face of stormtroopers, while facing blood and fire, into the air to the left of you after you drop a deadpan reply to some of his nonsense.
The ship gives a slight shudder as you feel the sudden weight of coming out of hyperspace, like returning to reality. Your eyes crack open and catch Cassian’s as he looks towards his own beacon. The look in them has the beginning of familiarity.
You’ve been following Chirrut for a decade. One day, you’d wandered up to the Temple. A desolate orphan with nowhere to go, you’d reached your hands skyward for something, anything to grab on to, a purpose, if you will. Because if there’s one thing you’d learned by then, it was that life is sure a bitch. Child you had plunked down on the steps and contemplated, in a very adult-like way, of just kicking the bucket then and there, before a blind whirlwind suddenly barreled out of the Temple. This new child was beaming, life practically oozing out of his veins, and you were so violently jealous you couldn’t stand it. Little Baze demanded to know what was so good on this stupid desert planet to prompt all of little Chirrut’s ridiculousness, and the other took your hand and led inside. Into the light.
And light it was.
You threw yourself into your studies, fought with tooth and nail to be useful and optimistic, despite your nature, and the Guardians provided reason. They gave the answers you sought so keenly. But nothing in life has simple answers, does it.
And now the Temple was turned over in the sand, filling with dust as maggots picked the remaining flesh off its bones.
Still, you followed Chirrut. There was nothing else to do, and you’d rather bathe in the pits of Mustafar than to see his smile snuffed out. Not that you truly believed it was possible. And somehow, watching his back had led to you joining this ragtag band of miscreants off to stab the Empire in the kidney in what was surely a suicide mission.
Ah, well.
Deep down, you were still that kid reluctantly grabbing his hand. And you’d follow him into the light of the next life too.
A sigh of relief shared by the whole crew busts out of you when the code is accepted by the shield gate officials. Jyn gave her beaten down and tread upon but passionate speech, explained the plan (if you could call it that), and you couldn’t help but feel proud. She’d gained your grudging respect way back in the Holy City with her scrappiness and clear heart, and every minute since then had built on that foundation. Here was a girl with a life as desolate as yours, with a similar outlook on it and everything, and she still kept pushing forward. Striving.
Mighty heroic, that. You really were just content protecting your own. A selfishness the now former Guardians would admonish you for. Chirrut would as well, despite already knowing it, if you voiced it out loud. Sure, you wished with every fiber of your damn being that the Empire would burn, become a huge pyre to all of their sins, but these days you kept your wishes small.
Your grand dreams died with the Guardians.
You yet again wondered how you ended up on this ship, this beach, this quest, as if the answer didn’t stand next to you, teasing the other rebels and muttering prayers under his breath. Your own personal light, may he never leave your side.
-
Here lies the memorial of the last two Guardians of the Whills
lost in the Battle of Scarif
their names may be unknown but their legacy remains. always remember:
The Force is with you. You are one with the Force.