(OOC- Takes place After “The Reality of the Force”)
There wasn’t a large collection of items that he gathered and put in the chamber. Mostly trinkets, Connel never cared about those unless they could help him in the field. Though there was this holocron that he took from Yavin IV. It was time to address it, so he entered the chamber, and the chamber didn’t greet him.
It waited.
Slowly the look of the room changed, a simple trick imbued into the glowing repository that is the holocron of an ancient Fallen Jedi turned Sith Lord. Stone ribs arch overhead, blackened with age and Force-scarring, as if the place itself learned to recoil inward centuries ago. Whatever trials guarded this holocron were already behind him. His breathing was steady now, but not calm. There’s a difference.
The repository rested in a cradle of obsidian and bone-white crystal. Not ornate. Functional. Preserved like a weapon sealed after use. A desperate attempt at control? Or simply a security device?
Connel didn’t kneel.
He didn’t announce himself.
He reached out and activated it.
The Force tightened. Old gravity. A pressure that once passed for certainty.
A voice manifested, not booming, not whispering. Measured. Controlled. Practiced.
“You come seeking truth.”
Connel tilted his head slightly, shaking “no”, not instinctive but dismissive. He was studying the glow like a technician evaluating a malfunctioning instrument.
No, he says. I came to see when it broke.
There was a pause, as if almost of uncertainty. The presence adjusted, tone and attitude.
Connel circled the pedestal slowly, hands clasped behind his back. His voice was even, almost academic.
You were trained. You knew restraint. You understood consequence. He exhaled. Tell me. What happened? Tell me where that stopped.
The presence spoke of disillusionment. Of blindness. Of an Order paralyzed by fear of emotion, fear of action, fear of doing what had to be done. All masked under potential consequences, a desire to maintain control over others for fear of losing it themselves.
Connel listened.
Not passively. Precisely.
“You didn’t fall,” the presence insisted. “You evolve when you stop apologizing for strength.”
Connel stopped walking.
This isn’t about “Strength”. He replied. Strength is relative. You were just impatient.
The glow flickered. Just slightly.
The presence shifted tactics, by the level of glow. It reframed. Repackaged.
Control becomes clarity.
Domination becomes freedom.
Fear becomes focus.
It is eloquent in doing so. It always was.
Connel then realized something vital, the truth.
The language hasn’t changed.
Not in centuries.
Not in empires.
Not in bodies.
The same rot dressed in different banners. Always the same thrashing, like a fish on a hook, mistaking struggle for escape.
Connel exhaled through his nose, almost a quiet laugh. Not amused. Tired.
That’s it, isn’t it? he said. That’s all you ever had.
The presence bristled.
“You wear a mask,” it countered. “You walk the edge. You kill without hesitation.”
Connel turned back toward the pedestal, eyes hard now.
If you were making a point… he said. ... it failed to cut.
Silence stretched.
Connel stepped closer. Not threatening. Final.
When, he asks, was the last moment you could have stopped?
The presence did not answer immediately. Yet in doing so, that was the answer. That hesitation is the confession. When it finally spoke, the answer it gave was indirect. Vague. Defensive.
A rationalization, not remorse.
And Connel understood.
The Dark was never brave enough to turn back. It wasn’t fearless. It was afraid of accountability, and of what the Jedi live every day: compassion.
He straightened.
The Light fears feeling, he says quietly.
But the Dark fears everything.
The glow dimmed, then flared, as if offended.
“You are wrong,” the presence insisted. “You stand between worlds.”
Connel nodded once.
That’s why I see you for what you are.
There was no declaration. No ceremony.
Connel draws his blade just long enough. He went to strike, one that would be clean.
Then stopped. No. You get what you give. He said in finality, reaching out through the Force with an open hand, slowly balling it into a fist. As if the Force created a hand much larger, wrapping it around the holocron itself…
The ancient cradle fractured. The glow collapses inward, not screaming, not resisting. Just… failing. Like a belief deprived of witnesses.
The Force pressure vanished, leaving the chamber cold and empty, and slowly the surroundings changed back to appear as they are, like the vault of his ship.
Connel stood alone.
Still a Jedi.
Still deliberate.
But now certain of something new.
The problem was never Light versus Dark.
It was fear masquerading as doctrine on both sides. One side may be naive, the other is pathetic. Both missing the point of choice. He turned and left without looking back. Some knowledge deserved preservation. This did not. This got what it deserved.
