He hadn’t planned to stand there, watching the stars. But there he was anyway. Quiet. Still. Feeling small… and somehow part of something larger looking outward at the endless expanse of the night sky…
Also, Buster liked eating outside.
What he had just done, handing Conservator, the lightsaber of his father for over nine hundred years, over to Ala Quin, he wasn’t throwing away his heritage.
He was doing something very Vanagor. Right?
He was refusing to wear a title he believes he hasn’t earned.
Caltin’s philosophy ran through his mind. A grounded, almost blue-collar Jedi attitude. The kind of Jedi who would shrug off hero worship and say something like:
Kid, I’m just a guy with a glowstick trying not to mess things up.
So, why did Connel feel like he was ruining this? Connel inherited that humility… but twisted by grief, responsibility, and the brutal choices he has had to make. When he says he is no Jedi, he believes it. Not theatrics. Not martyrdom. Just honesty.
Ala tried to convince him he was a Jedi. Thus the philosophical clash. Because the two of them are looking at the same mountain from opposite sides. A Jedi is defined by her heart, her intentions, her sacrifice. To Connel, a Jedi is defined by restraint, and Connel knows something uncomfortable: He doesn’t always restrain himself.
Sometimes he goes farther than the Order ever would. Shadow work. Black operations. Omega Squad missions where survival means someone else doesn’t. In Connel’s mind, that disqualifies him. He’s accepted it.
So, why can’t he get past it?
Maybe that is what he is doing. Instead of Ala passively convincing him he is a Jedi, something else happened. He refused the title, even if only to himself. But he decided to protect the meaning of it.
Something new. A standard bearer. The galaxy forgot what Jedi were supposed to look like. Politics. War. Sith propaganda. Imperial narratives. So Connel decided: ”Fine. I won’t wear the title, but I’ll make sure the galaxy remembers what it stands for.”
He may not feel worthy of being a Jedi, but that is because to him it means something. Which only makes him wonder about those who hold the title. So he is infuriated with himself, he may not be good enough, but they have to mean something that they haven’t in a long time. So that is his weight, his responsibility. He wouldn’t be a Jedi. Fine. Then he’d be something else. Not a symbol. Not a title. Just the one who shows up when they don’t.
One who defends refugees when no Jedi are around. One who stops atrocities the Order can’t publicly interfere in. One who protects Padawans and temples without ever claiming authority. One who refuses political power. One who refuses titles… and when people ask if he is a Jedi?
He’d give the most Connel answer imaginable: “No. I’m just someone who remembers what they’re supposed to be.” This way, he could stop trying to be worthy of the Jedi. Instead try to be worthy of the idea of the Jedi. And maybe, ironically… make him more Jedi than he already was. That Jedi who will inspire padawans who will whisper about him. Imperials who will fear him. Civilians who will swear they saw a Jedi that night. Connel will hate the label
.
But Ala? Ala would probably just smile knowingly.
Because she would understand something Connel would refuse to accept.
Caltin did the exact same thing…
… yeah right.
So there he stood, smiling at his best friend chowing down. Not on a battlefield. Not in a temple council chamber. Something more personal.
The bridge leading to the statue garden on Odessen…Connel was alone. Mask off. He had just given away Conservator a few hours ago. And he is wrestling with the same storm inside him that’s been there since Coruscant. He just rationalized what he should do. Went through all the steps and it all makes sense. So is he going to follow through?
Yeah, right.
The Force shifted. Not dramatic. Not thunder. Just a presence that feels like home.
Caltin.
Ready to say something that was so him. Not as a legend. Not as a master.
As a father.
Well… you look like crap. No judgment. No sermon. Just that disarming Vanagor bluntness.
Connel just looked at him and smirked. Then addressed something that he had been wanting to for years. Not anger. Just tired truth. You were a Jedi. I’m… something else. And then the admission he rarely says out loud. The things I’ve done… the things I’m willing to do…a Jedi shouldn’t think like that. Buster was hopping around, happy to see someone else he knew and missed.
This is where Connel expected correction. Where he expected Caltin to say what Ala probably will: “You are still a Jedi.”
But that’s not what Caltin said. Caltin folded his arms, looking at him the way a Battlemaster evaluated a student who just revealed something important. Then he gave another little half-smirk. Well… yeah.
Connel blinked, because that was not the answer he expected.
Caltin shrugged. Kid… you think I didn’t know what the galaxy looked like out there? And then the truth Caltin rarely said while alive: There were missions I took so other Jedi wouldn’t have to.
That landed like a quiet hammer. Because suddenly Connel realized something. Caltin wasn’t just the shining example. He just hid the darker work better. Then Caltin stepped closer. Not stern. Just steady. Kid, if half the missions I ran ever made it into the archives, the Council would’ve had a collective heart attack.
He stepped closer.
The galaxy is messy. Always has been. His voice hardened slightly. Yeah, we had the Jedi everyone heard of. They gave the name, but sometimes monsters show up that don’t care about codes or councils or philosophy.
Caltin tapped two fingers against Connel’s chestplate. ... And someone has to stand in front of them.
Connel didn’t answer. Caltin leaned back slightly, studying him. You think being a Jedi means staying clean. He shook his head. No. It means staying true.
The word echoed through the area. Being true. True to the people you protect. True to the choices you make. True enough to look yourself in the mirror when it’s all over.
Connel froze.
That line. That creed. Caltin smirked slightly. Sound familiar?
Connel let out a quiet breath. You knew.
Of course I knew. Caltin folded his arms again. You didn’t invent that philosophy, kid. He gestured around the Alliance Base, at the Temple inside.
You inherited it. The wind stirred the banners again. Connel looked down at the stone floor.
You ever notice something? Connel muttered, voice tight.
Everyone talks about you like you were inevitable.
No answer. Of course not. So he keeps going. They say your name like it explains everything. Like you walked into every fight knowing exactly how it would end.
A bitter laugh escaped him. Must’ve been nice.
He stopped. Looked up. And me? A beat. I’m out here making it up as I go, wearing a mask so people don’t realize I don’t have the answers.
His voice dropped, sharper now. You were a legend… still are.. A step forward. I’m just a man hoping no one notices how close I am to getting it wrong.
You’ve been carrying that one for a while. Caltin’s voice. Warm. Steady. Familiar in a way that hits harder than any blade.
Connel doesn’t turn. …Don’t.
A pause.
Don’t what? Caltin asks gently.
Don’t do that thing where you make it sound simple. Now he turns. Eyes sharp. Hurt. Honest. You died.
There it is. No poetry. No Jedi phrasing. Just truth, blunt as a hammer. You died, and I wasn’t there. I could only watch from a platform.
Caltin studied him. Not judging. Never judging.
... and somehow, Connel continued, voice rising,
I’m supposed to carry on like that’s just… part of the job? He gestured vaguely—at the galaxy, the war, the expectations.
At least you had a plan.
That’s when Caltin laughed. Not a chuckle. A full, genuine, almost offended laugh. You think I had a plan? He shook his head, stepping closer. Connel… Half the time? I had no idea what I was doing.
Connel’s expression faltered—not convinced, but thrown off.
I made choices, Caltin continued. Sometimes good ones. Sometimes terrible ones dressed up in confidence. Like this one time, a couple of Van-Dervelds walked right into the Temple… I thought they wanted a fight… well… A small shrug.
The point is, I made mistakes, with no plan. The difference is… I accepted them. He stepped closer. You think I never failed?
A quiet beat. I failed more times than anyone bothered to remember.
Connel’s jaw tightened. That’s not the same.
No, Caltin agreed. It’s worse.
That stopped him.
I failed as a Jedi. A beat. I failed as a teacher. A gesture to the Temple. I failed as a father more times than I’ll ever admit out loud.
Caltin’s voice didn’t waver. But I kept going. He gestured toward Connel. You think being a Vanagor means never falling?
A small smile. It means getting up when you have no business standing.
Connel exhaled slowly. This isn’t about falling. His voice dropped. It’s about ending.
A beat. I’m the one who ends it. There it is. The real wound. The Vanagor name? Connel continued.
It peaked with you. A hollow laugh. I’m just… what comes after.
Caltin stepped right up to him now. Close enough that this isn’t a legend talking. It’s a father.
You really believe that?
Connel doesn’t answer. Which is the answer.
Caltin nodded slowly. Then let me ask you something. A pause. Who told you the story ends with me?
Silence.
You’re not the end of the Vanagor name, Caltin said, voice firm now almost as if he knew something else. You’re the part of the story that doesn’t have the luxury of hindsight.
He tapped Connel lightly on the chest. You’re the part that hurts. Another tap. The part that doubts. And one more. The part that chooses anyway.
Connel’s breathing changed. Slower. Heavier.
You gave away Conservator… why? No judgment.
Connel eventually admitted what he did. Giving away Conservator. It belongs in the hands of a real Jedi, not some fool pretending to be one. It deserved better.
Caltin actually laughed hard. Not mocking. Just warm, amused father laughter. Caltin shook his head. No. A pause. You didn’t give it away because it deserved better. You gave it away because you thought you don’t. That hit dead center.
[COLOR=ROYALBLUEYou think carrying my blade makes you me,[/COLOR] Caltin continued.
It doesn’t.
A softer tone now. It just reminds you of who you think you’re supposed to be. He stepped back slightly. Let me make this simple for you.
A small grin. [COLOR=ROYALBLUEThe galaxy doesn’t need another me.[/COLOR] A pause. It already had one. So stop trying to be another one.
He gestured to Connel’s chest. It needs you. Connel Vanagor. The Jedi willing to do things so that others don’t have to. You’re not copying me, you’re being you.
Connel finally looked up. Not fixed. Not healed. But… shifted. I’m not you, he said quietly.
Caltin smiled. Good.
A long silence. Then—Connel exhaled, something loosening in his shoulders for the first time in a long time. …I still feel like I failed you.
Caltin’s answer is immediate. You didn’t.
A beat.
But even if you had… A small, knowing smile. …you’d still be my son.
Kid… that saber belonged to a wannabe farmboy who wanted to live on Corellia who got lucky and survived long enough to become a teacher. Then the line that reframes everything. It was never the saber that made me a Jedi.
He gestured to Connel’s chest. It was the choices.
Connel just looked at the ghost of his father, gobsmacked. That’s it?
Caltin just stopped and glared at his son for a moment. Well, not ONLY… there ARE more aspects… but yeah… pretty much when it boils down to it all. That’s it.
Then he pointed to some of the statues in the distance, the faces, the bodies all resembling Jedi of history. You know what every one of them had in common? Connel waited. Caltin smiled slightly. At some point in time, they all thought they weren’t good enough. The truth hit like a quiet shockwave.
Then Caltin spoke again. Slowly. Thoughtfully. Maybe the galaxy forgot what the Jedi are supposed to be. Caltin tilted his head. Yeah. That happens. I’m sure Ala is out there, and others… but yeah.
Connel’s eyes lifted toward the stars. The wind rustled the banners like distant applause. Then he said the words that would echo hard, potentially for generations. Then I’ll remind them. He knew what he should do, Connel just needed the motivation, the reason, the spark… ,,, what the Jedi are supposed to be.
… this was it…
The Force seemed to rise with the declaration. The bridge, the base, the temple itself, it all felt different. Stronger. Alive.
Caltin studied his son.
Really studied him.
The warrior.
The guardian.
The shadow.
Then he smiled.
Not the proud smile of a legend.
The proud smile of a father.
Well, he said calmly. That ought to scare the hell out of the Sith.
Connel huffed a quiet laugh. Then a Pause. Caltin stepped back, his presence beginning to fade into the luminous quiet of the Force. But before he disappeared completely, he gave one final piece of advice.
The kind only Caltin Vanagor would give. Just try not to blow up half the galaxy doing it.
Connel shook his head, chuckling. No promises. If Azrael were here, he would definitely be saying “Boom Baby” right now.
Caltin grinned. Good. And then he was gone. The wind returned. The stars remained. Connel stood alone in the temple. Mask in hand.
Not the last Vanagor. Not the only Vanagor. Vanagor.
He looked out across the sleeping valley. Then he spoke quietly to the empty night. I may not be a Jedi. Mask on. …but I remember what they’re supposed to be.
And somewhere in the endless current of the Force…
Caltin Vanagor laughed.
Also, Buster liked eating outside.
What he had just done, handing Conservator, the lightsaber of his father for over nine hundred years, over to Ala Quin, he wasn’t throwing away his heritage.
He was doing something very Vanagor. Right?
He was refusing to wear a title he believes he hasn’t earned.
Caltin’s philosophy ran through his mind. A grounded, almost blue-collar Jedi attitude. The kind of Jedi who would shrug off hero worship and say something like:
Kid, I’m just a guy with a glowstick trying not to mess things up.
So, why did Connel feel like he was ruining this? Connel inherited that humility… but twisted by grief, responsibility, and the brutal choices he has had to make. When he says he is no Jedi, he believes it. Not theatrics. Not martyrdom. Just honesty.
Ala tried to convince him he was a Jedi. Thus the philosophical clash. Because the two of them are looking at the same mountain from opposite sides. A Jedi is defined by her heart, her intentions, her sacrifice. To Connel, a Jedi is defined by restraint, and Connel knows something uncomfortable: He doesn’t always restrain himself.
Sometimes he goes farther than the Order ever would. Shadow work. Black operations. Omega Squad missions where survival means someone else doesn’t. In Connel’s mind, that disqualifies him. He’s accepted it.
So, why can’t he get past it?
Maybe that is what he is doing. Instead of Ala passively convincing him he is a Jedi, something else happened. He refused the title, even if only to himself. But he decided to protect the meaning of it.
Something new. A standard bearer. The galaxy forgot what Jedi were supposed to look like. Politics. War. Sith propaganda. Imperial narratives. So Connel decided: ”Fine. I won’t wear the title, but I’ll make sure the galaxy remembers what it stands for.”
He may not feel worthy of being a Jedi, but that is because to him it means something. Which only makes him wonder about those who hold the title. So he is infuriated with himself, he may not be good enough, but they have to mean something that they haven’t in a long time. So that is his weight, his responsibility. He wouldn’t be a Jedi. Fine. Then he’d be something else. Not a symbol. Not a title. Just the one who shows up when they don’t.
One who defends refugees when no Jedi are around. One who stops atrocities the Order can’t publicly interfere in. One who protects Padawans and temples without ever claiming authority. One who refuses political power. One who refuses titles… and when people ask if he is a Jedi?
He’d give the most Connel answer imaginable: “No. I’m just someone who remembers what they’re supposed to be.” This way, he could stop trying to be worthy of the Jedi. Instead try to be worthy of the idea of the Jedi. And maybe, ironically… make him more Jedi than he already was. That Jedi who will inspire padawans who will whisper about him. Imperials who will fear him. Civilians who will swear they saw a Jedi that night. Connel will hate the label
.
But Ala? Ala would probably just smile knowingly.
Because she would understand something Connel would refuse to accept.
Caltin did the exact same thing…
… yeah right.
So there he stood, smiling at his best friend chowing down. Not on a battlefield. Not in a temple council chamber. Something more personal.
The bridge leading to the statue garden on Odessen…Connel was alone. Mask off. He had just given away Conservator a few hours ago. And he is wrestling with the same storm inside him that’s been there since Coruscant. He just rationalized what he should do. Went through all the steps and it all makes sense. So is he going to follow through?
Yeah, right.
The Force shifted. Not dramatic. Not thunder. Just a presence that feels like home.
Caltin.
Ready to say something that was so him. Not as a legend. Not as a master.
As a father.
Well… you look like crap. No judgment. No sermon. Just that disarming Vanagor bluntness.
Connel just looked at him and smirked. Then addressed something that he had been wanting to for years. Not anger. Just tired truth. You were a Jedi. I’m… something else. And then the admission he rarely says out loud. The things I’ve done… the things I’m willing to do…a Jedi shouldn’t think like that. Buster was hopping around, happy to see someone else he knew and missed.
This is where Connel expected correction. Where he expected Caltin to say what Ala probably will: “You are still a Jedi.”
But that’s not what Caltin said. Caltin folded his arms, looking at him the way a Battlemaster evaluated a student who just revealed something important. Then he gave another little half-smirk. Well… yeah.
Connel blinked, because that was not the answer he expected.
Caltin shrugged. Kid… you think I didn’t know what the galaxy looked like out there? And then the truth Caltin rarely said while alive: There were missions I took so other Jedi wouldn’t have to.
That landed like a quiet hammer. Because suddenly Connel realized something. Caltin wasn’t just the shining example. He just hid the darker work better. Then Caltin stepped closer. Not stern. Just steady. Kid, if half the missions I ran ever made it into the archives, the Council would’ve had a collective heart attack.
He stepped closer.
The galaxy is messy. Always has been. His voice hardened slightly. Yeah, we had the Jedi everyone heard of. They gave the name, but sometimes monsters show up that don’t care about codes or councils or philosophy.
Caltin tapped two fingers against Connel’s chestplate. ... And someone has to stand in front of them.
Connel didn’t answer. Caltin leaned back slightly, studying him. You think being a Jedi means staying clean. He shook his head. No. It means staying true.
The word echoed through the area. Being true. True to the people you protect. True to the choices you make. True enough to look yourself in the mirror when it’s all over.
Connel froze.
That line. That creed. Caltin smirked slightly. Sound familiar?
Connel let out a quiet breath. You knew.
Of course I knew. Caltin folded his arms again. You didn’t invent that philosophy, kid. He gestured around the Alliance Base, at the Temple inside.
You inherited it. The wind stirred the banners again. Connel looked down at the stone floor.
You ever notice something? Connel muttered, voice tight.
Everyone talks about you like you were inevitable.
No answer. Of course not. So he keeps going. They say your name like it explains everything. Like you walked into every fight knowing exactly how it would end.
A bitter laugh escaped him. Must’ve been nice.
He stopped. Looked up. And me? A beat. I’m out here making it up as I go, wearing a mask so people don’t realize I don’t have the answers.
His voice dropped, sharper now. You were a legend… still are.. A step forward. I’m just a man hoping no one notices how close I am to getting it wrong.
You’ve been carrying that one for a while. Caltin’s voice. Warm. Steady. Familiar in a way that hits harder than any blade.
Connel doesn’t turn. …Don’t.
A pause.
Don’t what? Caltin asks gently.
Don’t do that thing where you make it sound simple. Now he turns. Eyes sharp. Hurt. Honest. You died.
There it is. No poetry. No Jedi phrasing. Just truth, blunt as a hammer. You died, and I wasn’t there. I could only watch from a platform.
Caltin studied him. Not judging. Never judging.
... and somehow, Connel continued, voice rising,
I’m supposed to carry on like that’s just… part of the job? He gestured vaguely—at the galaxy, the war, the expectations.
At least you had a plan.
That’s when Caltin laughed. Not a chuckle. A full, genuine, almost offended laugh. You think I had a plan? He shook his head, stepping closer. Connel… Half the time? I had no idea what I was doing.
Connel’s expression faltered—not convinced, but thrown off.
I made choices, Caltin continued. Sometimes good ones. Sometimes terrible ones dressed up in confidence. Like this one time, a couple of Van-Dervelds walked right into the Temple… I thought they wanted a fight… well… A small shrug.
The point is, I made mistakes, with no plan. The difference is… I accepted them. He stepped closer. You think I never failed?
A quiet beat. I failed more times than anyone bothered to remember.
Connel’s jaw tightened. That’s not the same.
No, Caltin agreed. It’s worse.
That stopped him.
I failed as a Jedi. A beat. I failed as a teacher. A gesture to the Temple. I failed as a father more times than I’ll ever admit out loud.
Caltin’s voice didn’t waver. But I kept going. He gestured toward Connel. You think being a Vanagor means never falling?
A small smile. It means getting up when you have no business standing.
Connel exhaled slowly. This isn’t about falling. His voice dropped. It’s about ending.
A beat. I’m the one who ends it. There it is. The real wound. The Vanagor name? Connel continued.
It peaked with you. A hollow laugh. I’m just… what comes after.
Caltin stepped right up to him now. Close enough that this isn’t a legend talking. It’s a father.
You really believe that?
Connel doesn’t answer. Which is the answer.
Caltin nodded slowly. Then let me ask you something. A pause. Who told you the story ends with me?
Silence.
You’re not the end of the Vanagor name, Caltin said, voice firm now almost as if he knew something else. You’re the part of the story that doesn’t have the luxury of hindsight.
He tapped Connel lightly on the chest. You’re the part that hurts. Another tap. The part that doubts. And one more. The part that chooses anyway.
Connel’s breathing changed. Slower. Heavier.
You gave away Conservator… why? No judgment.
Connel eventually admitted what he did. Giving away Conservator. It belongs in the hands of a real Jedi, not some fool pretending to be one. It deserved better.
Caltin actually laughed hard. Not mocking. Just warm, amused father laughter. Caltin shook his head. No. A pause. You didn’t give it away because it deserved better. You gave it away because you thought you don’t. That hit dead center.
[COLOR=ROYALBLUEYou think carrying my blade makes you me,[/COLOR] Caltin continued.
It doesn’t.
A softer tone now. It just reminds you of who you think you’re supposed to be. He stepped back slightly. Let me make this simple for you.
A small grin. [COLOR=ROYALBLUEThe galaxy doesn’t need another me.[/COLOR] A pause. It already had one. So stop trying to be another one.
He gestured to Connel’s chest. It needs you. Connel Vanagor. The Jedi willing to do things so that others don’t have to. You’re not copying me, you’re being you.
Connel finally looked up. Not fixed. Not healed. But… shifted. I’m not you, he said quietly.
Caltin smiled. Good.
A long silence. Then—Connel exhaled, something loosening in his shoulders for the first time in a long time. …I still feel like I failed you.
Caltin’s answer is immediate. You didn’t.
A beat.
But even if you had… A small, knowing smile. …you’d still be my son.
Kid… that saber belonged to a wannabe farmboy who wanted to live on Corellia who got lucky and survived long enough to become a teacher. Then the line that reframes everything. It was never the saber that made me a Jedi.
He gestured to Connel’s chest. It was the choices.
Connel just looked at the ghost of his father, gobsmacked. That’s it?
Caltin just stopped and glared at his son for a moment. Well, not ONLY… there ARE more aspects… but yeah… pretty much when it boils down to it all. That’s it.
Then he pointed to some of the statues in the distance, the faces, the bodies all resembling Jedi of history. You know what every one of them had in common? Connel waited. Caltin smiled slightly. At some point in time, they all thought they weren’t good enough. The truth hit like a quiet shockwave.
Then Caltin spoke again. Slowly. Thoughtfully. Maybe the galaxy forgot what the Jedi are supposed to be. Caltin tilted his head. Yeah. That happens. I’m sure Ala is out there, and others… but yeah.
Connel’s eyes lifted toward the stars. The wind rustled the banners like distant applause. Then he said the words that would echo hard, potentially for generations. Then I’ll remind them. He knew what he should do, Connel just needed the motivation, the reason, the spark… ,,, what the Jedi are supposed to be.
… this was it…
The Force seemed to rise with the declaration. The bridge, the base, the temple itself, it all felt different. Stronger. Alive.
Caltin studied his son.
Really studied him.
The warrior.
The guardian.
The shadow.
Then he smiled.
Not the proud smile of a legend.
The proud smile of a father.
Well, he said calmly. That ought to scare the hell out of the Sith.
Connel huffed a quiet laugh. Then a Pause. Caltin stepped back, his presence beginning to fade into the luminous quiet of the Force. But before he disappeared completely, he gave one final piece of advice.
The kind only Caltin Vanagor would give. Just try not to blow up half the galaxy doing it.
Connel shook his head, chuckling. No promises. If Azrael were here, he would definitely be saying “Boom Baby” right now.
Caltin grinned. Good. And then he was gone. The wind returned. The stars remained. Connel stood alone in the temple. Mask in hand.
Not the last Vanagor. Not the only Vanagor. Vanagor.
He looked out across the sleeping valley. Then he spoke quietly to the empty night. I may not be a Jedi. Mask on. …but I remember what they’re supposed to be.
And somewhere in the endless current of the Force…
Caltin Vanagor laughed.
