CAMPFIRE CHATS
TYTHON
AKAR KESH - COURTYARD
The air on Tython was cool, kissed by the scent of ancient pines and evening dew. Stars blinked into view overhead, scattered across the sky like the echoes of distant lives.
A low fire crackled in the center of the clearing, its glow dancing across stone and earth. Around it sat a half-circle of Jedi — some in robes, others in armor, a few still dusty from patrol. They talked in quiet tones, half-whispers at first, unsure of the rhythm, the reason. Even more were coming, he could sense it.
Caltin Vanagor stood at the firepit, sleeves rolled up, the edge of his cloak tossed over his shoulder as he stirred a heavy, battered pot suspended over the flames. Something savory simmered — old soldier’s stew, thick with herbs and root vegetables pulled from the nearby fields. Simple. Earned. He was also making his “famous nerf burgers”, but now had the interest in the little package that the young Cathar had brought.
Wow! That is pungent.
It was not something he kept open for very long, but it was the young girl’s culinary love, so why not put a couple of patties on the fire?
Showing an appreciative nod to the young Wookiee, he wondered if the boy had been evacuated from the planet Kashyyyk during the insurrection, or if he had been here the entire time. Perhaps this was the young one that Connel had spoke highly of? He didn’t speak right away. He let the fire speak first. Let the quiet settle in. Let them arrive not just in body, but in spirit.
Then, with a slow exhale, he lifted his head.
You’re probably wondering what all this is for. His voice was calm — not commanding, but steady enough to settle nerves.
No mission briefings. No council orders. No ranks. No titles. He stirred the pot once more, flipped a couple of burgers, even plating some then stepped away from it and turned to the group, the fire painting soft shadows across the lined strength of his face.
This isn’t about training forms. It’s not a war council. It’s not even about me. Tonight’s about stories. A few glances were exchanged around the circle. He caught them. Let them happen.
Not the kind the Archives care about. The kind you carry in your chest. The ones that made you. The ones you wish someone had told you. I’ll start, sure. But I won’t be the only one. Because this…
He gestured to the fire, the circle, the silence around them.
…isn’t meant to be centered on one voice. It’s about listening. And learning. Not just about what happened, but how we see it. Even if we see it differently.
He moved closer to the fire, crouching down to lift the pot gently off the hook and rest it on the warm stone edge. The smell drifted, carried by the wind.
You’re not here to impress. You’re here to understand, and maybe, if we’re lucky, to be understood.
He looked up now, tending to the food, meeting the eyes of each Jedi — young, old, confident, unsure.
Every one of you carries a galaxy inside your chest. Tonight’s your chance to open the hatch a little. Just enough to let some light through.
He grabbed a ladle, filled the first bowl, and handed it to the Knight sitting nearest the flame.
Eat. Listen. Speak when you’re ready. A faint smile — real, quiet, rare. And if you’ve got nothing to say… that’s fine too. Sometimes, listening is the story.
Caltin didn’t take the next bowl for himself. He filled another, and handed it to the next person.
And the next. And the fire crackled on, it soon softened as the circle quieted, eyes slowly turning toward the Warden as he set his bowl down. His gaze stayed on the flame for a long moment, as if what he was about to say lived inside it.
I was Knighted during the worst of the war. A month before the Battle of Coruscant. No ceremony. No celebration. Just a battlefield, and a battlefield after that.
He glanced up, scanning the gathered Jedi. Some were barely adults. Some had seen too much. All of them listened.
There was a campaign on Ord Breslin. Nothing in the history holos. No famous names. Just fire, smoke, and a city caught between us and a Separatist holdout. Intel said a small droid foundry had been buried beneath the ruins. Command wanted it destroyed. I was ordered to lead the strike team.
A beat.
When we landed, we found civilians. Thousands. Still alive. Trapped in the lower levels. The city had collapsed in on itself, but they’d tunneled into old shelters from the High Republic era.
He drew in a breath through his nose. Slow. Controlled.
Command told me the mission came first. The strike was time-sensitive. Hit the foundry. Evacuate who you can after. I knew what that meant. Silence. The fire cracked, like the city breaking beneath him again.
So I made a choice. I split the team. Half would go with me to get those people out. The rest would delay the droids.
He paused, his jaw set. Then:
I didn’t ask for permission. I didn’t wait for approval. I had to be able to look myself in the mirror, so we went in, and we lost good men.. He let that hang, heavy and honest. Then came the glare many of them would recognize from him, not directed at them, but one of resolve.
We lost good men, but we saved every civilian in that shelter. All of them. No medals. No parades. The Republic didn’t even list the op in the official record.
His gaze drifted upward, into the stars beyond the canopy.
One of the clones in my unit — CT-6184. Name was Halter. Big guy. Loud. Always humming. He stayed behind to hold a corridor by himself. When I got to him, he was down to one arm and still shooting.
Code:
Etched into the thick muscle of Caltin Vanagor’s
upper left shoulder is a powerful tribute — not flashy, not
large, but unmistakably sacred.
At its center is a stylized Phase II Clone Trooper helmet,
cracked down the middle, resting atop a jagged section of
durasteel plating — the kind found in emergency
corridor bulkheads. Faintly carved into the plate are the letters
"CT-6184", and beneath that, the callsign: "Halter."
Behind the helmet, rising like ghostly wings, are the silhouettes
of four civilians — a child, an elderly figure, a middle-aged
woman, and a younger boy — all depicted in minimalist linework,
facing outward, walking toward a brighter future.
Framing the entire piece in circular arc is a worn inscription in
High Galactic Aurebesh, reading:
“Someone had to keep the door open.”
The ink is mostly deep black and gray, but parts of the helmet and
plate shimmer faintly blue under certain light — a nod to Halter’s unit
colors.
This isn’t a showpiece. It’s not for display.
It’s memory, burned into flesh — and Caltin carries it the way he
carries all his burdens: quietly, but with pride.
Caltin blinked slowly, like the image was still vivid in front of him.
I asked him why he didn’t fall back. His voice softened, barely above the fire now.
He said, ‘You were going after people who couldn’t fight, sir. Someone had to keep the door open.’ He looked back to the Jedi around him.
That’s what we’re doing here. Not just guarding the galaxy. Not just fighting wars. We’re keeping the door open. Plating a few more Nerf Burgers, and one of those Tython frog burgers for the Cathar “Gem” then gesturing for everyone to “help themselves”.
... And sometimes, that means standing in it.
He reached for his bowl again. No more grand conclusion. Just silence. Respect. Letting the weight of it settle on the circle like a blanket of stars. Not to intimidate others
out of telling their story, but hopefully inspiring them
to do so.
Now. Someone else’s turn.
