Chapter Text
20 years ago
“Is it true that Jedi are taken from their parents as babies?” the young senator asks, waving at his service droid, who’s politely hovering several paces away from its master and his companion. Its engines whirr as it makes its way through the grass, towards the two men standing on a small wooden bridge in the garden.
“It’s no secret,” Aziraphale allows, staring down at the fireworks reflected in the pond’s surface, watching the colourful lights blur against the murky water.
There’s a grand celebration at the Temple[1]. Jedi from across the galaxy have been invited, along with many esteemed politicians. The giant building and its grounds are crawling with people of all species.
Initially, Aziraphale was amazed by all those new cultures and vibrant colours, even the silent lights bursting against the night sky. But it all melted into one hazy overstimulation to his senses and a nagging feeling of unease that he’s doing his best to ignore — by hiding in the farthest corner of the Temple’s garden with one of their esteemed guests: a handsome senator named Oscar.
“Though I heard there is a common misconception that it happens without the family’s permission,” he adds, turning to watch his companion take two tall glasses of clear, pinkish fluid from what looks like a standard service droid — the model you’d probably encounter in sumptuous restaurants and hotels.
“Still, that would explain a thing or two about your social skills,” the senator comments bluntly, though his grin doesn't seem unkind.
Aziraphale smiles, accepting the offered drink with a nod. “Not to slight you with my apparent lack of social skills, but didn’t you promise you’d show me your book?”
“See, this is what I'm talking about.” Oscar sighs and takes a sip from his glass, pupils dilating almost the moment the liquid touches his tongue. Must be water or some other clear drink spiced with crystal snake venom — it’s popular in the Gordian Expanse sector, which was the senator’s last abode, and it tends to turn pinkish on contact with air. “Are you actually interested only in my writing, or are you being deliberately evasive because of the whole celibacy thing?”
The Jedi’s smile turns amused. He knows it’s all about curiosity — the senator isn’t really interested in Aziraphale as a person, but rather as a Force-wielder. “Well—aren't you forward.”
“Someone has to be, and you’re all cryptic and mysterious.” Oscar lifts one shoulder in a lazy shrug. “Didn’t you tell me that you like pretty things, Master Jedi?”
“I’m not a Jedi Master[2],” Aziraphale corrects, laughing when that earns him a truly annoyed glare. “I haven’t even been knighted yet. And yes, well, my comment did refer to the beautiful bits of prose you were reciting,” he recalls with a mild smile.
Oscar pouts, clutching at his pearl necklace dramatically. “What, I can’t be gorgeous and write well?”
“A very young senator, a skilled writer, an expert with a blaster[3]—who else do you claim to be?” Aziraphale teases gently, smiling at his glass.
Something’s wrong, his senses whisper at him, but he doesn’t get to talk to normal people much…
“Maybe I’m secretly an assassin who hunts irritating Jedi, eh?” Oscar stares at him blankly for three whole seconds before his face splits into another merry grin. “If you want to see my books and judge them yourself, you’re going to have to visit me in my apartment.”
Aziraphale’s stomach tightens, but it’s not related to the handsome man’s invitation. From the heart of the Temple, Force ripples of overwhelming anguish reach him, wave after wave.
Receiving no answer, the senator presses, “It’s the celibacy thing, isn’t it?”
“We’re not allowed to form attachments,” Aziraphale explains, distracted, reaching out with his senses, trying to understand what is happening.
Oscar frowns, having obviously noticed his companion’s unease. “What attachments? You can’t even have friends?”
“Friendship’s allowed as long as it doesn’t impair our judgement.”
Not that Aziraphale has any friends.
He doesn’t register Oscar’s next words nor the glass falling from his own hand, shattering against the wooden boards.
“Kriff[4].” The senator jumps away with a yelp, gathering his shimmering golden robes, but of course it’s too late. “What is wrong with you?” he snaps, immediately following that with, “Eh, it’s a boring party if no one spills their drink on you, so... Are you okay, Az?”
“Aziraphale,” the Jedi corrects him automatically. “Someone isn’t okay. People are suffering in there,” he voices what his feelings are telling him, hand brushing the hilt of the lightsaber[5] clipped to his belt. “You should go back to your apartment.”
“You’re having me on,” Oscar accuses.
The Jedi opens his mouth, but he’s spared the need to explain further or plead with the man, because that’s when they hear the first screams.
“Droid, take your master to his hotel,” Aziraphale orders, already walking off the bridge. The thudding of his boots against the wood is drowned out by the sounds of cheers from people gathered outside, mixed with cries of terror as partygoers start spilling out of the building. Soon after, they hear blaster fire.
The Jedi crosses the garden as quickly as possible without running, trying to stay calm as he walks against the flow of the panicked crowd. His hand hovers close to his lightsaber, all senses focused on locating the source of pain and fear spreading through the Temple.
When he enters the building, his surroundings become unrecognizable, as if he’s wandered into a different dimension. How could a night of celebration, of discussing a peaceful future, of good mood and fireworks, turn into this living nightmare?
In a shocked daze, Aziraphale walks through his home as it burns — metaphorically and literally.
Lightsabers clash all around him as the knights who were raised together in the tranquil Jedi Temple like a family — his family — battle each other to the death.
It’s chaos, a nauseating kaleidoscope of horrors assaulting all his senses at once. Dead and wounded lie discarded like paper dolls, pale and fragile. Where white marble and gold used to adorn the halls, bright red blood now stains the pristine surfaces in gruesome spatters like a direct, personal offence to what this place is meant to be: a haven of peace and safety. Viciously orange tongues of fire lick up everything flammable while colourful plasma bolts fly in all directions. The disgustingly sweet smell of burnt flesh and hair brings tears to Aziraphale’s eyes as he walks without a particular destination — legs heavy and almost dragging — but conscious enough to step over the severed limbs.
The worst are the sounds: screams of horror and cries for help, for mercy.
Who is his enemy here, he wonders as he moves past the fighting Jedi. They’re all wearing the same robes and looks of concentration, wielding the same weapons as they fight for their lives.
Through his connection to the Force, Aziraphale can feel so much pain and fear he doesn’t even know where to go next.
A bolt of red plasma flies past his left cheek. When he sees it, the realisation dawns: there are civilians all over the Temple. He stops dead in his tracks, heart beating frantically in his chest.
He thinks of his incomplete training. He thinks of other Padawans, much younger than himself — the students who have no way of defending themselves. He thinks of those younger still — not even Padawans yet. The path becomes clear in his mind.
Later, he will reflect that maybe he should have thought of saving the civilians first. Maybe he should have searched for his master and joined the battle by her side.
None of those things occur to him. He doesn’t even reach for his lightsaber.
When Aziraphale’s world — and heart — starts to fall apart, his first instinct is not to fight, but rather to protect what is left. What is most defenceless. The youngest ones.
Inside one of the wrecked rooms, Aziraphale kneels next to a pile of little bodies, staring with disbelief as he forces his shaking hands to move them as gently and quickly as his state allows. All of them have lightsaber wounds. All of them are so cold.
They started with children, is another impossible, heartbreaking realisation.
Someone gathered the bodies into a pile, like trash to be disposed of later.
Aziraphale is crying and he feels like he’ll never be able to breathe again — not until he finds someone who is breathing, too.
He should be dead beside his siblings. Or perhaps he ought to search for the one who killed them, make sure these children were their last victims.
One of them gasps softly. Aziraphale mirrors the sound, sucking in a breath that tastes of smoke and charred flesh. Fighting off a wave of nausea, he reaches for a little hand that sticks out from underneath the tangle of lifeless limbs, flapping uselessly in the air for something to hold onto.
By the Force, the hand is so small.
The little girl is the only survivor in this room. She clings to Aziraphale’s robes when he lifts her, both arms wrapped around her protectively.
Now, where to?
Aziraphale turns and twists, trying to think of a place where he could leave the child safely, but nothing comes to mind. She might have been safest under the pile of lifeless bodies, presumed dead.
A sob escapes his mouth.
“Don’t look,” he whispers to the girl, pressing her face gently against his chest so she doesn’t see any more of the massacre.
Then he walks back out into the blood-stained corridor, now dark and empty, save for more bodies strewn across the floor. This part of the Temple has become quiet.
Which is probably why he can hear someone saying, “We are losing.”
Aziraphale recognises the lowered voice — it’s Raphael. He opens his mouth to call for help, but a spike of distrust makes him hesitate. Holding the child with one arm, he unclips his lightsaber and ignites it, golden light scattering the darkness around him.
“We cannot afford to lose now. Join the ones in the east wing,” the other person orders, the sound of their voice and steps getting closer. “Once I kill Gabriel—”
They pause, having turned the corner and noticed a Jedi Padawan holding a tiny child.
“Lucifer,” Aziraphale whispers.
“And whoever you are,” the boy replies, as arrogant as ever, walking over without a trace of fear. “I see I missed one.” His beautiful blue eyes fall to the girl pressed securely to Aziraphale’s chest.
“You did this?” the Jedi asks in a weak voice, even as the child whimpers against his robe.
“I’ve been telling you all. Our ways need to change.”
It’s true — Aziraphale heard criticism of the Order among the Jedi. He knew Lucifer was the one speaking the loudest. But never in his worst nightmares did he imagine that they were planning a bloody rebellion. They must have been preparing for weeks.
“Not like this,” he pleads softly.
Lucifer, eight years his junior, but light-years his superior when it comes to mastering their training, stands in his way with his head raised high and looks down at Aziraphale, smirking at his tears.
“Stop me, then.”
*
The holocall[6] came in the middle of the night — a sudden shrill beeping made even louder by the midnight quiet.
With a groan of exasperation, Aziraphale walked over to his holo disc — a machine so ancient that it was no longer safe to move from the desk where it lived out its old age. As soon as he noticed the caller’s signature pointing to a member of the Jedi Council[7], his irritation gave way to curiosity. Well, alright, anxiety as well. After all, he wasn’t leading a proper Jedi Knight life exactly, and the apprehension that someday the Order might learn the truth about him was a constant shadow falling over his otherwise peaceful and comfortable existence.
Aziraphale checked his clothes for wrinkles and fixed what he could in the three seconds between noticing who was calling and hastening to assume a respectful stance — back ramrod straight, hands folded in front of himself. There was no time to look for his “Jedi robes,” much less change into them, so a pleasant expression and polite attitude would have to do. He pressed the answer button on the holo disc and a bluish, see-through projection of Gabriel looked down at him with his typical smile, the one he imagined to be friendly. (He was wrong about that, as well as many other things, not that Aziraphale was ever brave enough to say so out loud.)
“The Council has chosen you for our next mission,” the Jedi Master announced without preamble. He never let people gather their bearings through pleasantries and social rituals, unless he was trying to get some information out of them and he was using small talk to work out his approach.
Lacing his fingers tightly together to stop the nervous wringing, Aziraphale studied Gabriel’s distorted projection, attempting to gauge whether the “mission” might be punishment or an excuse to observe him unobtrusively for some time. The years of Jedi participating in grand quests were long gone, though some — like Met-Aat Rön — had taken on the arduous task of rebuilding the Order from its ashes after what they now called the Night of Inharmony. A rather mild and vague descriptor of what had happened, but Aziraphale didn’t complain. He had been there, and he remembered more than he wished to.
In fact, one of the (shamefully numerous) reasons he preferred to stay away from his fellow Jedi was that they reminded him, all too vividly, of those events. It was bad enough that the twentieth anniversary was nigh. “What am I needed for?” he asked, keeping his tone as neutral as possible.
The Council didn’t appreciate having its orders questioned. No matter how reasonable a Jedi might be in their surprise or arguments.
As Michael once put it, Aziraphale was best suited for his chosen field of work: collecting, translating, and safekeeping sacred texts. (And not-so-sacred ones too, but hopefully the Order still wasn’t aware of that.) They had phrased it like a compliment, and initially he did take it as the praise he always craved. Eventually, though, he realised that what they’d meant was that he was useless to the Order.
Which, to be perfectly honest, suited him just fine. Even if he sometimes felt a bit lonely or, on bad days, rejected — he had all those wonderful stories that were like portable people. With written words and a bit of imagination, he could experience anything.
“You’re good with the saber,” Gabriel said with a shrug and a smile that managed to look aggressive.
Aziraphale couldn’t help the twitching in his face muscles as he tried not to grimace.
The Jedi Master’s statement was not praise. And even if it was an acknowledgement of Aziraphale’s fighting skills, it wasn’t welcome.
Yes, combat — especially lightsaber work — had been what Aziraphale truly excelled in. Ironic, because he baulked at violence. Yes, as a Padawan he had even been relieved, for a while, to have mastered part of his training, especially since he’d been so disastrously incompetent at all the rest.
Still, his sword mastery hadn’t helped anyone that dreadful night.
“Who are y—we fighting?” he asked, barely stopping himself from adding “again.” To him, it seemed like the Order was always participating in some war or other, even now, when only a handful of Jedi remained. Guardians of peace in the galaxy who got involved in every possible conflict — wasn’t that a bit hypocritical? An excellent reminder of why Aziraphale preferred to keep to himself and the non-Force-sensitive folk. Less “righteous” bloodshed.
Gabriel drove him into stunned silence with his answer. “Ideally? No one. It’s a rescue mission.” Aziraphale blinked at him with tentative eagerness. Now, “rescue mission” sounded almost too good to be true. Those were rare and didn’t necessarily include killing off some oppressive party. “But the planet was invaded by hostile alien lifeforms and they’re… Stars, Aziraphale, they’re nasty.” A delighted grin spread on the Jedi Master’s face, contradicting the epithet. “They’re perfect killing machines and that’s all they do. Reproduce and destroy every other living thing, like a virus. But you’ll get all the details in the debriefing tomorrow.”
Ah, so there was an oppressive party involved. Gabriel didn’t make it sound like Aziraphale had any choice, though.
“Tomorrow?” Aziraphale repeated, his voice rising in panic.
“Don’t tell me you have other plans,” Gabriel said sarcastically. “You don’t need to pack, just don’t forget your saber… You didn’t lose it, did you?” he asked, squinting at the holo image he was seeing.
Instinctively, Aziraphale touched the empty loop on the left side of his belt where the lightsaber would normally be clipped — years ago. These days, he kept it in a box under his bed. “I’ll bring it,” he assured the Jedi Master.
“Great.” Gabriel grinned. “We’ll pick you up at 04:00, GST. I suggest some additional practice. And rest, too, I guess. You might not get an opportunity to rest during the hyperspace travel and definitely not once we get there.”
Without giving Aziraphale a chance to respond — and there were several questions he’d like to ask — the Jedi Master swiftly ended the holo call.
First of all, 04:00 Galactic Standard Time was in seven hours, according to his chronometer. How was he supposed to squeeze in rest, physical training, and most importantly, a trip to the local market to get food that wasn’t ration portions — which were bland at their best — in such a short time span?
Second, Gabriel seemed to think (wrongly, again) that Aziraphale practiced his forms daily, which—well, yes, he should. Same as meditation and everything else. Not even seven weeks would be enough to get back to his peak performance potential.
Deciding that food was priority, Aziraphale located his backpack and left his home/library that pretended to be a bookshop, flipping over an old Closed sign. As soon as he boarded the train, a certain Mr Brown sat down next to him on a sturdy metal seat with an overly enthusiastic, “Mr Fell!”
“Oh, hello?” The Jedi nodded, feeling his tension intensify.
“How is the hunt going?” the man asked with a little conspiratorial smile, leaning uncomfortably close.
“The hunt?”
Aziraphale wondered briefly if and how Mr Brown had learned about the mission. The Order was secretive, and the planet Aziraphale had chosen as his new home was inhabited by people — Mr Brown included — who barely believed in the Force and to whom Jedi were just some rock-lifting tricksters. (Aziraphale preferred actual magic tricks to using his abilities for making random objects float, thank you very much.)
“For my book? When we met several weeks ago, you said you’d be delighted to search for a book on the Unknown Regions trade for me.”
“I did?” Aziraphale said with a mild smile, fairly certain that no such thing had ever happened. Because he never hunted books for anyone. Not to mention the Unknown Regions had been given such a name for a reason.
“Every time I would look into your shop, you’d be closed! If I were a superstitious man, I would have taken it personally!” Mr Brown continued with a grin that indicated either obliviousness or passive aggression.
“Indeed,” Aziraphale muttered, wishing they’d met in a local cantina where he could take a sip of a preferably alcoholic beverage right about now.
“Yes. So as I told you I need it for…”
Making a discreet gesture with his hand and plucking gently at the strings of Force connected to Mr Brown’s will, he told him quietly, “You don’t need any books from me.”
The man’s back straightened, causing him to lean away from Aziraphale and his personal space. “I don’t need any books from you,” he repeated in a monotone, nodding to himself as if he’d just realised that, even as his eyes lost their focus. “In fact, I think it would be best to contact one of those shady smugglers—they go to the Unknown Regions all the time!” he continued with renewed enthusiasm. “They’ll tell me all I need to know.”
Oh bugger. “Now, Mr Brown, why don’t you ask at the local store. I’m sure they have holodiscs on every subject that might interest you—oh, I, I’m afraid this is me.” Aziraphale rushed to the opening doors, hoping that the man wasn’t serious about talking to the pirates and outlaws just to gather data on trade that took place in the part of the galaxy that was… riddled with pirates and outlaws. What did he even need it for?
Shaking his head to banish his concerns, Aziraphale stepped onto the busy town square, squinting against the bright light from colourful neons. He allowed his mind to wander as his legs carried him towards his favourite stands and his well-attuned senses kept him from walking into lifeforms and droids milling about the market.
Mostly, he was trying to guess what kind of planet awaited him at the beginning of the rescue mission. He really hoped it wasn’t one of the sandy ones. Or a frozen ball of snow. Or an endless ocean. Evading deadly creatures underwater was definitely not an ideal way to come back into action.
Yes, he would learn the details soon enough, but he’d rather know whether he should take a raincoat. The Order would undoubtedly provide all necessary equipment and rations, but the Jedi weren’t known for thinking of trifling things like comfort. One was supposed to pay no attention to wet socks and other unpleasant circumstances while fighting one’s way through legions of more weather-appropriately dressed enemies. Having eaten nothing but tasteless ration portions.
No, thank you.
Forgoing most of the usual pleasantries and browsing, Aziraphale quickly bought all the journey-suitable provisions he could think of, returned home, packed his long-serving raincoat, and went to bed, putting rest above training.
Except he wasn’t given a chance to rest tonight.
The dream began the same way it always did: as an excruciatingly accurate recreation of his memories, with Aziraphale stumbling through corridors as his fellow Jedi fought each other and died before his eyes.
He found the youngest victims, gathered into a disgraceful pile, and searched it for the one left alive, choking on the smell of fire and burnt flesh, as well as his own tears.
A little hand appeared, stretching out in a silent plea for help, and Aziraphale reached for it…
…Before their fingers made contact, however, the memory changed into something else.
A sudden burning pain pierced Aziraphale’s back, and he looked down to see a red lightsaber blade sticking out of the middle of his chest.
Shocked and terrified, he wanted to turn around to gaze upon the face of his killer, but he couldn’t move, his heart wasn’t beating anymore, and it had never happened before.
He woke up with a cry, one hand clutching at the soft material of his sleep shirt where he could still feel the phantom pain, the other stretched out in the air, ready to summon his weapon with the Force.
Pulse frantic, Aziraphale ordered the lights to ten percent, even though he already knew he was completely safe and there was no one here for him to rescue or defend from rebellious Jedi.
He was all alone, forty-three, and far away from the Temple and the planet he used to call home, he reminded himself, slowly taking control of his breathing.
In, let yourself feel the Force.
The Jedi — if one could even still call them that — who turned on their kind were either dead or imprisoned, he recalled.
Out, slower, notice your own state, physical and emotional; take stock of your surroundings.
Aziraphale’s sleepwear was drenched in sweat and he was shivering from a combination of the remains of nightmare-induced horror and cold, but he wasn’t crying. He hadn’t shed a single tear since that night twenty years ago. As if he had cried them all and there was nothing left.
Sitting up, Aziraphale examined his hands in the dim light. They were clean and soft, his fingernails recently manicured. He pressed them, curled into loose fists to prevent the trembling, to his sternum, over the still burning ache.
The dreams of the night that had taken a third of his family had grown less frequent, but Aziraphale had developed a whole ritual for those occasions. He got up, leaving his damp clothes in bed along with his feelings and unnecessary thoughts. Then, he was able to proceed on some sort of autopilot: a quick shower, fresh clothes, tea, his favourite music, meditation.
Aziraphale’s attempts at collecting his scattered thoughts and feelings through gentle self-care ceased when he remembered the red lightsaber. He had never seen a weapon of such colour before, not even in dreams, but he had heard stories of the cultists. Of the Sith and the corrupted ways of assembling the weapon of the Jedi, of making the kyber crystals powering the lightsabers bleed.
No one had wielded a red lightsaber then. No one had harmed Aziraphale, who had managed to stand his ground and who had been away from the main action, looking for survivors to get them to safety.
Was tonight’s dream something more than a nightmare?
The Jedi shuddered, torn between elation and a kind of grim, unnamed feeling lurking just beneath the surface of his consciousness. As a young boy, he had learned that some Force-sensitive individuals were capable of seeing the future, and he’d dreamed of having such visions ever since. He had a whole collection of such “prophecies” written down by accounts of varied reliability.
The more he thought about it, the more convinced he became that he had just been graced with a true Force vision.
With that realisation came clarity: what he felt was dread.
It had never occurred to him that the Force could show him his own death.