Before she left for lunch with her friends, Chrysa had something for Connel, a gift he had never seen before, but knew exactly what it was. It was a holocron, one his father had asked her to hold, saying “Connel would need it when he least knew it”. Always planning, always preparing that one. So he sat there on the porch, in the lotus position with the device sitting in front of him.
He started to meditate again, not for any other reason but to activate his father’s holocron. Opening his eyes as he heard the familiar “whirs” and “clacks”, Connel waited to hear his father’s voice one more time. The problem, if it was one, was that the voice was not of his father, it was one deeper, older. Of a Jedi Master from long ago, clearly.
You’re not his voice. I know every tone my father ever used.
“No. I am the echo of another — one who walked a similar road.” He spoke of his history, being born on Haruun Kal, being a Jedi in a time of war. Of those he learned from and the methods of his knowledge. Not a long explanation, but a succinct one, especially with some more of the clues, like him being a former “Master of the Order” and learning ways he could not teach many Jedi other than those who he trusted the most. Connel was beginning to understand who he might be.
Forgive me, but are you…
“Who I am is not important, Connel Vanagor. What is important is why you are summoning me.”
Then you knew him. My father, Caltin Vanagor.
“I did. He learned well.”
Connel smirked faintly — there’s something in the cadence, the edge, that feels familiar even through centuries. He might be right, he might be wrong, at this point it does not matter.
I have questions.
“Then speak them.”
You studied the Dark. Not from a distance — you looked it in the eye. How did you handle it without falling?
The Holocron’s light steadied; the voice deepened, like thunder speaking softly.
“You misunderstand what “falling” means. Falling is not anger. It is indulgence. The Dark tempts you to drown in what you feel. The Light tempts you to deny it.
Balance comes when you acknowledge both and let neither command you.”
That sounds simple.
“It is simple. That’s why it’s so difficult.” Connel chuckled quietly — the old master’s humor echoed his father’s steady wisdom and his mother’s teasing confidence. “When you fight, let the storm pass through you, not around you. When you feel fear, let it speak, then answer it. When you feel rage, remember why you fight. I used the Dark as a mirror — not as a weapon. It showed me my limits. It reminded me I had a choice. It’s our choices, not our sides.”
Connel nodded slowly, thoughtfully.
My father once said he had to be able to look at himself in the mirror. My mother said to learn what disgusts me. You’re both of them — and neither.
“Names don’t matter. Deeds do. You already know everything you need. Now go learn why you know it.”
That’s really it?
“You knew enough of the Force to activate me. Your father taught you more than you realize. So yes, that’s really “it”. You’ve already taken the first step by asking the right questions. The answers will come as you act, reflect, and grow. Trust yourself — you’re more ready than you think.”
The Holocron’s light dimmed. Connel stood there a long moment, staring into the darkened facets, then gathered his gear — the mask, the sabers, his father’s lightsaber — and turned into the house. He stopped by the cafe, and stepped out of the speeder for a moment to find his mother and give her a kiss on the cheek. Buster was still at the house, playing with Cooper, as much as Connel was going to miss his best friend, he could not bring him on this trip, not in good conscience.
He had one more stop to make, it was a little out of the way of the landing pad where his ship sat waiting, but this was important. Connel stopped before a statue of Caltin Vanagor — a towering figure carved from obsidian and lightstone, shield at rest, head slightly bowed. The air was still; even the lights seemed to hold their breath.
You were right, Father. The Light isn’t easy. It’s supposed to be hard. You carried the weight so the rest of us could breathe. But now…
He paused, fingertips brushing the carved edge of the shield.
Now it’s my turn. And I finally understand. Not to replace you. Not to outshine you. But because the galaxy still needs a Vanagor who stands between the monsters and the weak.
He straightened — the full weight of decision settling into calm certainty.
You did your job. Now I’ll do mine — better, if I can. Not for glory. Not for power. But because someone should, so no one else has to.
He lifted the mask. The reflection of the statue glimmered across the visor — father and son merged in light and shadow.
I finally get it. The Force doesn’t need sides. It just needs someone brave enough to walk between them.
He lowered the mask into place, and walked the path down to his ship. The ship’s ramp closed. Engines ignited. The ship lifted off and was heading into the stratosphere.
Fade to silence, then the whisper of a familiar voice — warm, proud, unseen.
Go. Remind them that the Light still bites back.
He started to meditate again, not for any other reason but to activate his father’s holocron. Opening his eyes as he heard the familiar “whirs” and “clacks”, Connel waited to hear his father’s voice one more time. The problem, if it was one, was that the voice was not of his father, it was one deeper, older. Of a Jedi Master from long ago, clearly.
You’re not his voice. I know every tone my father ever used.
“No. I am the echo of another — one who walked a similar road.” He spoke of his history, being born on Haruun Kal, being a Jedi in a time of war. Of those he learned from and the methods of his knowledge. Not a long explanation, but a succinct one, especially with some more of the clues, like him being a former “Master of the Order” and learning ways he could not teach many Jedi other than those who he trusted the most. Connel was beginning to understand who he might be.
Forgive me, but are you…
“Who I am is not important, Connel Vanagor. What is important is why you are summoning me.”
Then you knew him. My father, Caltin Vanagor.
“I did. He learned well.”
Connel smirked faintly — there’s something in the cadence, the edge, that feels familiar even through centuries. He might be right, he might be wrong, at this point it does not matter.
I have questions.
“Then speak them.”
You studied the Dark. Not from a distance — you looked it in the eye. How did you handle it without falling?
The Holocron’s light steadied; the voice deepened, like thunder speaking softly.
“You misunderstand what “falling” means. Falling is not anger. It is indulgence. The Dark tempts you to drown in what you feel. The Light tempts you to deny it.
Balance comes when you acknowledge both and let neither command you.”
That sounds simple.
“It is simple. That’s why it’s so difficult.” Connel chuckled quietly — the old master’s humor echoed his father’s steady wisdom and his mother’s teasing confidence. “When you fight, let the storm pass through you, not around you. When you feel fear, let it speak, then answer it. When you feel rage, remember why you fight. I used the Dark as a mirror — not as a weapon. It showed me my limits. It reminded me I had a choice. It’s our choices, not our sides.”
Connel nodded slowly, thoughtfully.
My father once said he had to be able to look at himself in the mirror. My mother said to learn what disgusts me. You’re both of them — and neither.
“Names don’t matter. Deeds do. You already know everything you need. Now go learn why you know it.”
That’s really it?
“You knew enough of the Force to activate me. Your father taught you more than you realize. So yes, that’s really “it”. You’ve already taken the first step by asking the right questions. The answers will come as you act, reflect, and grow. Trust yourself — you’re more ready than you think.”
The Holocron’s light dimmed. Connel stood there a long moment, staring into the darkened facets, then gathered his gear — the mask, the sabers, his father’s lightsaber — and turned into the house. He stopped by the cafe, and stepped out of the speeder for a moment to find his mother and give her a kiss on the cheek. Buster was still at the house, playing with Cooper, as much as Connel was going to miss his best friend, he could not bring him on this trip, not in good conscience.
He had one more stop to make, it was a little out of the way of the landing pad where his ship sat waiting, but this was important. Connel stopped before a statue of Caltin Vanagor — a towering figure carved from obsidian and lightstone, shield at rest, head slightly bowed. The air was still; even the lights seemed to hold their breath.
You were right, Father. The Light isn’t easy. It’s supposed to be hard. You carried the weight so the rest of us could breathe. But now…
He paused, fingertips brushing the carved edge of the shield.
Now it’s my turn. And I finally understand. Not to replace you. Not to outshine you. But because the galaxy still needs a Vanagor who stands between the monsters and the weak.
He straightened — the full weight of decision settling into calm certainty.
You did your job. Now I’ll do mine — better, if I can. Not for glory. Not for power. But because someone should, so no one else has to.
He lifted the mask. The reflection of the statue glimmered across the visor — father and son merged in light and shadow.
I finally get it. The Force doesn’t need sides. It just needs someone brave enough to walk between them.
He lowered the mask into place, and walked the path down to his ship. The ship’s ramp closed. Engines ignited. The ship lifted off and was heading into the stratosphere.
Fade to silence, then the whisper of a familiar voice — warm, proud, unseen.
Go. Remind them that the Light still bites back.
