The ship touched down on the cliffs of Ahch-To as the sky wept salt and sea.
Aaron stood at the edge of the landing ramp, robes torn and body aching. The wind howled across the rocky spires. Seabirds screeched above the mist. He had come to the place where it all began—where the Jedi were born from the chaos of a broken galaxy.
He was five years old.
And utterly alone.
He took his first step onto the ancient stones.
This is exile, he told himself. This is penance. And this is where I begin again.
Year One
He lived off rainwater, roots, and fish. The first few weeks broke his body—Ahch-To was wild, unforgiving. The island offered no warmth, no comfort. But it offered time.
Time to train. Time to grieve.
Every morning he meditated, still seeing Nira's face. Still feeling the scream of Order 66. He carried guilt like a lightsaber across his back—heavy, always present.
He began with the basics.
Hours of Shii-Cho forms in the rain. Footwork drills on the cliff edge. Force meditation beneath the roaring sky. He built a schedule around survival—morning training, midday gathering, evening sparring. His body adapted fast—his Gift sharpening every day.
He didn't speak aloud for weeks.
When he finally did, it was only two words:
"I'm sorry."
Years Two Through Five
The holocrons became his teachers.
He activated one each year, afraid of exhausting their knowledge too quickly. The first was a record of ancient saber forms—Makashi, Ataru, Soresu. He drilled them endlessly, using sticks, staffs, his broken training saber. He built dummies from driftwood. Battled his reflection in the water.
By year three, he could switch between styles in mid-combat. He was faster, stronger, more fluid than any Initiate ever should've been.
But it wasn't enough.
The second holocron revealed something deeper—Force philosophy. Teachings of balance. Emotion. The line between light and dark.
"The dark side is not evil," said the holographic Master inside. "But it is dangerous. It is hunger. And hunger grows if fed without restraint."
Aaron listened every day.
Sometimes, he argued with the ghost.
Other times, he listened in silence.
Year Six
He constructed his first real lightsaber.
It wasn't elegant. It wasn't clean. But it worked.
He found a kyber crystal buried beneath the Temple ruins—singing to him from a shattered pedestal. When he held it in his palm, it pulsed with warmth... then flared with searing heat. He bled for it. Fainted for it. But when he woke, it was still there.
It had chosen him.
He built the hilt from scrap and stone, with wiring cannibalized from his crashed shuttle.
The blade ignited with a deep, clear white—tinged faintly blue.
Hope.
That was what it felt like.
He wept when he first activated it.
Years Seven Through Ten
He stopped marking time.
The days blended. Training became ritual.
Pain became companion.
He began Force-projection exercises, reaching into the currents of the world around him. He meditated for hours, days even, entering deep trances to slow his heartbeat, to see beyond the veil. He found he could feel the tremors of the galaxy—skirmishes, death, sorrow. From across the stars, he knew that darkness still reigned.
Sometimes he would scream at the sea.
Sometimes, he would collapse beside the Temple ruins and whisper Nira's name.
The dark side never left him—not completely. It whispered still. Especially in moments of anger. Especially when he remembered Windu's indifference. The clones' blasters.
The blood in the halls.
But he never gave in again.
He learned to feel the dark... and let it pass.
Year Eleven
He began speaking to the ghosts.
Not real ones. Not spirits.
Just names he remembered. Jedi who had fallen. Masters whose teachings he studied. Nira. He would sit by the fire and talk to them like they were still there.
"Soresu still gives me trouble in crosswinds."
"I can catch fish with the Force now, Nira. You'd laugh."
"I'm not done yet."
The silence was his answer. But it comforted him.
One night, he saw a vision—a girl standing at the edge of the Temple cliffs. Younger than him. Pale robes, wide eyes.
"Are you going to go back?" she asked.
He didn't answer.
She vanished like mist.
Years Twelve Through Fifteen
He began to build again.
A vault. A library. Carved into the rock with his own hands. He transferred the holocrons inside, inscribing walls with everything he learned—Force diagrams, saber stances, meditative rituals. He taught himself languages from the holocrons—ancient tongues spoken by Jedi long dead.
He recorded his own teachings too.
Not for ego. For someone, someday.
"If you find this, you're not alone. The Order fell. But the Force endures."
He practiced daily still—his saber style now a fusion of all seven classical forms. Pure, brutal elegance. His Force abilities expanded too: telekinesis, healing, sense, even glimpses of precognition.
But he never sought power.
Only purpose.
At Age 20
He stood atop the cliffs, robes billowing in the wind.
Fifteen years alone. Fifteen years of training, bleeding, rebuilding. He no longer looked like a child—he was lean, strong, eyes deep with knowledge far beyond his years. But he still bore the face of youth, the scars of loss, and the fire of purpose.
He ignited his lightsaber—white and steady.
Not angry. Not afraid.
Just ready.
"I'm not done."
The Force pulsed around him, as if the island itself exhaled.
He looked up at the stars. Somewhere out there, the Empire ruled. Inquisitors hunted.
Hope flickered.
And I've waited long enough.
Aaron turned from the cliff.
And began the walk to his ship.