Nearly all night, Ezra remained awake, his mind alight with revisions of his lessons.

There was so much to teach a new student.

He thought about where to begin—where Kanan began with him? or with a new, tailored program?

Which aspects of the Force to highlight—how far-reaching it was? how one’s intention could influence it?

What techniques to focus on first—mental control? environmental awareness? living connections?

And so much more.

He had taught others before. In his travels through Wild Space as Jabat, he came across more than a few Force-sensitive individuals who had never had someone able to teach them, guide them, help them understand their unique gift. More recently, he had helped Omega tap into her long-buried Force gift.

But this was something entirely new.

A padawan.

He wouldn’t be in her life for a handful of days or hours, shed some wisdom and know-how, then depart with nothing but a thin thread of hope that they might cross paths someday again. No. The course of her life from this point on would be shaped, not totally, but indelibly by his training.

Taking on an apprentice was not to be taken lightly.

You’re putting your life in my hands?

You put your training in mine.

From the highest crests of excitement and anticipation, he fell and crashed and tumbled into doubt and fear: a constant, exhausting cycle, from a mountain top to an ocean trench.

He was not without weaknesses.

No one was.

What if they reared up, overtook him? What if they cancelled out his competency, his good intentions, his ability? What if he inflicted more harm than if she had just continued on her previous course?

The Force showed him only that they would find each other. It didn’t tell him where this road would take them or how it would change them.

Nor could it.

Their story was unwritten. The future hadn’t happened. Whoever they were going to become were as good as strangers to them now.

With thoughts like these, he caught very little sleep.

The morning cycle hadn’t yet begun when he gave up, left the bunk, grabbed his comm, and put a call through to Kanan.

When his mentor appeared—his visage shrunken, transparent, and tainted ghostly blue—a feeling like finding and flinging one’s arms around a rock amid thrashing waves washed over him.

Even lightyears apart, one with their feet firmly planted on the ground, one soaring through hyperspace, their connection was undimmed. Kanan’s brow knit with concern before Ezra could even issue a greeting.

“What’s wrong?” his master asked, leaning close, half giving into the instinct to draw closer despite their current uncrossable distance.

“Nothing, nothing,” Ezra quickly assured him. “Actually, it’s—I have some good news.”

Kanan’s frown turned puzzled. “You found Jod already?”

“No. We’re still en route to the first place Pokkit suggested. But, while we were on Takobo…” Ezra chuffed and all that worry and anxiety suddenly seemed a distant, strange dream for how much his heart warmed and swelled. “I picked up a padawan,” he blurted.

Kanan’s white eyes widened as his jaw slackened. “What?!”

Ezra told the story, start to finish, maybe retreating and retreading a few parts in his excitement, maybe jumbling one or two details, but he got the important parts across.

A smile grew and stayed on Kanan. When Ezra’s story wound up, he huffed a soft laugh, shaking his head and raising his eyebrows.

“I can’t believe it. Congratulations,” he said, warmly. Then, slowly, the concern crept back in and he tilted his head, his eyes narrowing. “You’re scared.”

Ezra had expected a question, not a raw, point-blank statement. Caught by surprise, he stuttered for a moment. “I—I’m a bit… well, I’d rather term it ‘anxious.’”

“You can colour it any way you want, I know what you’re feeling. I’ve been through it—twice.”

Ezra folded his arms and let his back curl, his shoulders sliding forward as he let his breath out in a rush. “You gonna throw all that stuff I told you back in my face now?”

“Ehh… I’m sure you remember the gist of it.”

“It was easier to say when I didn’t believe I would ever be on this side of it.”

“I know,” Kanan said, his voice a hum.

No I-told-you-so’s. No let’s-see-how-you-like-it-now. Just sincerity and empathy, enfolding him in a fond embrace.

Kanan had always been like that as long as Ezra knew him, even when he still had all those rough edges and sharp corners leftover from war and a hard life. He could never strike a wound, never pour salt on a cut, never crush a bruise; when there was hurt, deep or shallow, he had to heal it, and if he couldn’t, he would at least be gentle with it.

Ezra hadn’t presented a gaping wound or a worry so great, it threatened to drown him. He was just a little nervous and unsure but he knew his old master, knew he wouldn’t brush him off.

They said nothing more for a moment.

The engines thrummed on as they carried them through hyperspace—a constant, ambient comfort. The hologram fritzed and flickered softly, the little comm emitting an almost imperceptible electronic whine. In the cabin next door, Zeb snored away.

“You know,” Kanan began again, “back when my master took me on as her apprentice, she said she was in need of a padawan to continue her journey.” He chuckled, airily. “At the time, I didn’t understand, and I was just so excited to be a part of everything going on, I didn’t really dwell on it. Now… I get it.

“I learned more when teaching you than I did as a student myself. It was like every lesson activated and came to life; everything meant so much more when I had someone else’s eyes to see it through.

“What I’m saying is: You may find you need her just as much as she needs you. She isn’t walking the path and you’re somewhere else, telling her which way to go. You need to be down on the ground beside her, every step of the way. Remember: you’re on this journey together.”

Taking a breath, Ezra straightened out of his hunch.

He felt like a child again, feeling like the great wide overwhelming world was looming less large and unmanageable with every confident word from his master.

“And anything you need…” Kanan grinned and spread his arms with a casual shrug tossed in, “I’m just a comm-call away.”

“Thanks, Kanan.”

Ezra wanted to say more but there weren’t words strong enough to hold all his gratitude, to convey his relief. Yes, he was a teacher now, but he wouldn’t have to bear this new role entirely alone.

But Kanan knew.

Kanan always knew.

Before he reached to end the call, Ezra paused. “Oh, hey. One last thing.”

“Yeah?”

“Those padawan braids.” Ezra waved his finger over the empty air where a braid would’ve hung behind his ear… had he had one (of course, Kanan couldn’t see the gesture; it was just automatic). “You put beads in them, right?”

“Yeah. To show what you were training in and what level you had reached,” Kanan supplied with an affirmative nod.

“What did you have?”

He laughed, softly, his head rocking. “Ezra. I was a padawan for less than a year.”

“So?”

“So I only had the initiate bead.”

“And what colour would that be?”

“You want Alora to have the braid?”

“Alora wants Alora to have the braid,” Ezra corrected. He told Kanan how she had had one already: loaded with beads and on the wrong side to boot.

“There’s not really a wrong or right side,” Kanan told him now.

“But you wore it on the right side, right?”

Kanan shrugged. “Well, yeah, but some had it on the left if they preferred it. Knew a few who wore it down their back and there were some who kept it pinned up out their way.”

Ezra decided not to push it… but he was also going to try not to mention that to Alora. “So, the beads?”

“A little yellow one, at the top of the braid. It shows you’ve begun your apprenticeship.”

“Door’s open; you can come in,” Omega called.

A beat later, Alora appeared in her doorway, brow folded in a puzzled frown. “I was ages away. How did you know I was coming here?”

Omega huffed a small laugh and smirked. “My brothers were soldiers,” she told the girl as she rested on her haunches and rifled through a container she had unearthed from storage. “That, and I have the Force, too. You’re never gonna be able to sneak up on me.”

“Is everyone on this ship a Jedi?”

“No, no. I said I have the Force. Doesn’t mean I’m a Jedi.”

“Then… what are you?”

Omega shrugged, absently, her attention more focussed on the container. It was full of such random things. Someone (Hera, if she had to guess) had scrawled simply “spare parts” on the side and she supposed it wasn’t a lie: half-empty boxes of screws kept shut with rubber bands, rolls of various kinds of tape, torches without battery packs, a cache of Jacen’s baby toys, some crusty towels, and assorted packets of takeaway cutlery were spare parts… of sorts.

“I’m not any one thing; I’m a lot of things,” she explained. “I’ve been a soldier, a pilot, a bounty hunter, even a pirate when the fancy’s struck. I realized a long time ago I didn’t want to be just one thing so I’ve tried being a bit of everything since.”

“So you are a bit of a Jedi,” Alora concluded, stepping into the cabin like she was sneaking into a room she wasn’t allowed in, holding the weight from her steps and hovering near the door, ready to bolt at the first clip of teeth.

Omega tilted her head, thoughtfully. “Well. If you can be, then: yes, I guess I am.”

Alora said nothing more. She just stood there, just over the threshold, her gaze flitting, scanning the cabin like it was a magnificent section of a museum, her hand idly fiddling with a string of pearls fastened to her belt.

Every cabin on the Ghost was different and unique.

Sabine’s (which Alora had spent a night in so far) was the most colourful and undoubtedly the most visually interesting. Ezra’s (previously Ezra and Zeb’s) cabin had less artwork on the walls and more faded posters and decals. Kanan’s old cabin used to be the plainest of the bunch, until it became Jacen’s and the boy’s growth could be tracked from handprint art to toddler doodles to slightly more refined but still childish depictions of his family.

Hera’s cabin was the least altered through time. She had taken time when first she acquired the ship to paint Rylothian symbols along the edge where the walls met the ceiling. To anyone who didn’t know the meaning, they appeared as random ribbon-like squiggles, but Omega knew Hera’s childhood home had held these designs just about everywhere one looked—she was one of the few people who had seen it.

Omega had put a few of her own pictures up on the wall by the bed, where they could be the last thing she saw each night: one of her brothers all together, before they met her; one of them just a few years ago, grey and weather worn and laughing loud and bright; one of her nieces and nephews gathered around a lopsided recreation of Pabu in cake-form; one of her and Hera (because it didn’t feel right not to have Hera here somehow); and one of her and Ezra, taken without their attention, sealing them in a candid moment, paint-flecked and singing when they were supposed to be working.

Alora was looking at the pictures. Omega glimpsed the line of her gaze and quickly covered her notice, sure the girl would retreat if she realized she had been seen.

She dove back into the storage box.

Not a second later, she emerged with triumph.

“Ha!” she exclaimed, unintentionally startling Alora. “Sorry,” she said, quickly, dialing her volume down. “Just got excited.”

“About what?”

Omega held up her find: a faded brown T-shirt. “It’s gonna be a few days until we reach a spaceport and can get you some proper clothes. In the meantime, you need something that can be yours.”

It took a beckoning gesture and a moment for Alora to approach and take the shirt. “Is this yours?” she asked, doubtfully, holding up the shirt.

If Omega were to put it on right then, it wouldn’t even reach her waist, and she knew she’d strain the seams, particularly across the shoulders and chest. But Alora was shorter, slighter, and there wasn’t enough between her bones and her skin. The article on her would hang somewhat like a bag.

“I think it was Ezra’s,” she said. She rifled through a clump of clothes buried beneath assorted odds and ends. “There’s also some stuff here from Sabine and Hera I think you’ll be able to use.”

“Are you sure he’d be okay with me using this?” Alora asked, apprehensively.

“You ever hear someone describe someone else as ‘such a great guy; he’d give you the shirt off his back’? Well. Ezra’s actually that guy. He wants you to have what you need,” Omega summed up. “We all do.”

Alora’s face pulled, like the words were… not sour to her, but still like the flavour was new, unfamiliar, and hard to swallow.

“I’ll run it through the wash unit while you have breakfast,” Omega suggested. “He probably gave this crate the shirt off his back after three days of wearing it.”

“Ew,” Alora muttered, flatly, suddenly switching to holding the shirt between pinched fingers. She glanced up, saw Omega’s mischievous grin and dancing eyebrows, and couldn’t stop a giggle of her own.

“It’s better than what I had,” Omega told her as she took the shirt back and put it in a pile with some other pieces for the girl. “The whole first year I was travelling with my brothers, all I had was the outfit I had on when I left Kamino. Every night, I’d put it in the wash unit and go to sleep in one of their shirts—usually Crosshair’s because he was the skinniest and he didn’t come with us, so I scored his wardrobe. To this day, I don’t think he’s forgiven me for what I did to his shirts.”

“What did you do?” Alora asked, taking the bait.

“I ‘customized’ them. Used my brothers’ armour paint and anything else I could get my hands on, and drew whatever I could think of on them—flowers, creatures, names of places we travelled to.”

The girl smiled as if the memory was her own. It lasted less than a heartbeat before she reverted to her careful, guarded neutral expression.

Still, a crack in the shell was progress.

Omega returned the lid to the box and clapped it in finality. Gathering up the unearthed clothes, she stood. “Come on. Let’s pop this in the wash and go get breakfast. Gotta fuel you up for your Jedi training.”

“So, what are you gonna teach me first?” Alora asked as she strode into the cargo bay. Swiftly, she jumped up onto a crate, balanced a moment, then dropped down to a lazy sit, one leg up, one hanging off the edge, her boot swinging idly. “Mind-reading? Fortune-telling?”

Ezra huffed a soft laugh and shook his head as he pushed and stacked crates out the way.

“We don’t have to start with the lightsaber stuff, do we?” Alora asked, sounding… apprehensive.

Ezra frowned. Most youths were all too eager to get their hands on the lightsaber—he certainly was.

“First of all,” he began, resetting his expression to neutral and taking his own seat on a crate opposite her. Clapping his hands together in a clasp, he leaned forward. “I want to learn what you know. What is the Force?”

Her nose twitched in and out of a wrinkle and he sensed a wall go up. It crumbled down quickly, but that wasn’t quite reassuring. “I know it’s something the Jedi have. It’s what gives us our powers. I was born with it, so… I guess it’s something in my blood?”

“The Force is energy. It’s… well, it’s everything, everywhere; where there’s life, there’s the Force. But you’re not wrong: there is something you and I have in our blood that allows us to connect with it more intrinsically than most. With practise, we can tap into it even more; we can influence it, use it, wield it.”

“I can already wield it,” Alora told him. As if he had forgotten her performance the day before, she repeated it. Pulling out a small sack from a pocket in her trousers, she called out the contents and held them aloft in the air: a parade of multicoloured pearls.

Ezra pointed to them as she made them swirl around in a figure 8. “What’s the story with these?” he asked. “They look genuine. You could’ve sold them on Takobo. They would’ve gotten you a hundred tickets to Coruscant.”

She looked at him in a snap. Her concentration broke and the pearls dropped. They would have hit the floor and scattered, destined to get hopelessly lost if someone didn’t catch them.

Which Ezra did.

He held them all just a few centimetres off the cargo bay floor. With a pointed look, he prompted her to gather them up.

“They’re mine,” she said, sharp and quick, like a spooked serpent, as she scooped them up into the sack. She pulled the strings tight and even tied them up in a double knot.

“I didn’t say they weren’t,” Ezra pointed out. He held his hands up, placatingly. “I’m just… curious.”

She fiddled with the string, a thunderstorm brewing within her. After a long, tense moment, the storm receded and her shoulders softened. “They’re from Chandel. I… I went there last year. I was trying to—” she severed herself from that sentence abruptly, her mouth pulling. She shook her head, her brow locked down low. “I don’t normally steal things—promise. I just… I had to have these. I couldn’t—I don’t have anything else. I never learned the language, everyone kept asking if I was from Coruscant, and I couldn’t…”

“Chandel is your home-world,” Ezra surmised.

Alora nodded, jerkily. Her grip on the little sack tightened and she lifted her head abruptly, sharpening her expression and trying to make herself appear older again. “They have plenty of pearls there—it’s the main thing they sell. They don’t miss these.”

“I’m not—” Ezra sighed. “I’m not going to take them from you. I… I understand.”

It took a while but he waited—if it took the entirety of the rest of the trip, he would’ve waited—for her to relax again. Finally, she did, though her guard remained raised.

“My family was torn away from me, too,” he shared. “Twice.”

Big blue eyes blinked at him. “Because you have the Force?”

“No. Because of the Empire. Because of people selfish, greedy, and over-inflated with power. Because of hate. The Force is not a curse, Alora.”

“Doesn’t exactly feel like a gift either.”

“The Force is life. What we do with it is our choice. I’m going to teach you all I know about it so you can make your choice. Well.” He clapped his knees and sat up straight, spreading his arms. “That’s my pitch. Whaddya say? Willing to give it a chance? Give me a chance?”

“I want to learn,” she answered, determination sparking in her eyes.

“Then,” Ezra said and, with a flick and twirl of his wrist, produced a little bead, freshly painted the brightest yellow, “let’s get started.”

Author’s Note

🎶 Welcome to the Mountains — The National Parks