Jul 28
Oh Cal Kestis, did you cry when you covered up the last of the grave you dug for your Master? When you used the last of the gathered rain from an extending pipe to wash off the grit and stone and blood from under your fingernails, did the first shock of cold pull you from the veil of numbness that had hid you from the onslaught of grief? When the tips of your fingers went red, your lips blue, was it the cold that made the lightsaber tremble as you cut of your braid and buried it with him?
