Star Wars: Guardians of the Whills

by Greg Rucka

“No,” Baze said. The word was, in so many ways, the perfect embodiment of who Baze Malbus had become, as blunt and as hard as the man himself. No was the word that seemed to define Baze Malbus these days, all the more so since the Imperial occupation had begun. No, and in that word Baze Malbus was saying many things; no, he would not accept this, whatever this might be, from Imperial rule to the existence of a Jedi in the Holy City to the suffering the Empire had inflicted upon all those around them. No, ultimately—and to Chirrut’s profound sadness—to a faith in the Force.

Sometimes it was as effortless as breathing. Sometimes it was as hard as living.

Amid everything, children could still play. Surrounded by suffering, in the shadow—literally—of the Empire, breathing air that hurt their lungs, yet they could still play.

“I don’t mean to offend, but you’re blind.” Chirrut put a hand up in front of his face, waved it back and forth, gasped. “Baze Malbus,” he said. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

We thought, they have come to crush belief, because belief leads to hope, and hope can topple monsters. They will stay long enough to crush hope, but they do not understand that hope can be a very small thing. It doesn’t need much to survive. An occasional breath of air. A flicker of warmth. Hope can live in a vacuum.”

We are awash in emotion, every day, every moment. We are buffeted, we are confused, and sometimes, yes, we are consumed. When the pond is disturbed, we cannot see within. When the pond is still, we can see with clarity. In both instances, the water is still there. So too is the Force like the water, whether you see it clearly or not. —Dejammy Shallon, teacher and priestess of D’janis IV From Collected Poems, Prayers, and Meditations on the Force, Edited by Kozem Pel, Disciple of the Whills