~Rowan Antares~
38
Jedi Knight
"He who serves others, masters himself."
Have you ever felt the weight of destiny? I was born under it, thirty-seven years ago. It was a destiny not ordained by the Force but by family. My home-world, Anaxes, is a place bound by tradition, honor and service. It is a society ordered and ranked even more stringently than the Republic Military—small wonder then that many of the Republic's military leaders come from this place—status is based almost solely on military achievements. The Antarii were counted among the most prestigious of families, having an ancestral roll sheet crowded with admirals and generals; at the time of my birth, it was also a dying family. The Antarii were so dedicated in their service to the Republic that few returned to Anaxes to marry, many others died in the line of duty, or fell into disgrace and self-imposed exile over failures to the Republic. Many in the family saw my birth as portending a return to the summit of greatness. My destiny was clear to them—a brilliant military career and many children.
I began to disappoint almost immediately. My education intensive, exhaustive was designed to prepare me for the rigors of military life. But I was often sick as a child, my temperament did not suit my curriculum—it called for action and decisiveness when I was prone to caution. At thirteen, I entered the Anaxsi Military Academy, where, it was hoped, my indecision and delicacy would fade. “After all,” they said, “his father was one of the Academy's finest students.” It soon became apparent that I and my father were diametric. His assertiveness was mirrored by my reflection; his action by my contemplation; he was instinctual, I was intellectual; he lead men, I owned ideas.
Do not misunderstand, I do not see my time at the Academy as a trial. Although very different from my father, one thing I had inherited was his fierce patriotism and desire to serve. As a result, I saw the Academy as preparation for a life serving the Republic. I enjoyed it thoroughly. I read literary masterpieces from across the galaxy; studied cutting-edge astrogation; learned tactics and strategy; I was hardened by intense physical routines. By seventeen, my senior year, my faith in my destiny was cemented.
A holopic taken during my senior year at the Academy.
Then, true destiny intervened.
News of the Alsakan attack came as unexpectedly to Anaxes as anywhere. The senior class understood that graduation would be put off in favor of mobilization and that we would trade credentials for marching orders. As it happened, our orders were delivered, not by a military official, but by a Jedi Knight by the name of Yul Valkaan. After delivering the briefing, the Jedi took me aside and asked if I knew about my Force Sensitivity. It was like being dealt a sharp blow. The implications began to crash around me like waves. My head whirled and I began to panic—then, Valkaan laid a hand on my shoulder, looked me in the eye and asked if hadn't always known. I could not answer. The sudden recognition of hundreds of passing moments: insights into my friends' feelings, a sense that life had been whirling about me, and that I had been out of sync with it.
I do not know if retrospection has given me bias, but after that moment, my life grew clearer. I knew that I was meant to be a Jedi. My parents were set against it—they knew well enough that being a Jedi meant that I would have to revoke old attachments, they begged me to consider the family name. To his credit, Valkaan did not try to tempt me into following him, he merely said that I had potential. In the end, I was resolute and they conceded.
My new life on Ossus started a few days later. Master Valkaan took me as his Padawan and my training began in earnest. Here was a place I could never have imagined. The Anaxsi Academy was a thoroughly physical place that had trained my mind and my body. The Ossus Academy would train my soul. My notions of the Jedi were still bound in the culture of Anaxes—I had imagined them as powerful mystic warriors, striking fear into the hearts of their enemies—they proved to be more monks than anything else. I had difficulties with the Jedi concept of passivity and I found empathy hard to cultivate.
Little thought could be given to philosophical niceties, though. Because of the war, often our training took place on the battlefield or during missions for the council. Times were difficult; the Ospion Schism made the loyal Jedi that remained conspicuous targets for the Alsakans. Valkaan was an expert swordsman, but my skills were so novice that I endangered both of our lives on more than one occasion. Only my military training and Valkaan's wisdom enabled us to survive.
A few years after the war, I was made a knight. Partially to bolster the ranks after our losses in the war, and partially because I was eager and, If I may say so, skilled. At the time, I felt ready. I convinced myself that as a knight I could do much good for the galaxy. Now, I'm an unsure—I do not the criticize the council's decision, but rather my own impetuousness. I was unwise, hasty, perhaps even proud. Now I freely admit that it was not for the good of the galaxy, but for my own glory that I so earnestly desired knighthood. I did not take a Padawan, instead I continued to follow my old master. Valkaan was passionate about Jedi involvement in the everyday affairs of the citizenry. He believed that our power was an explicit mandate to make life better for those less fortunate. His crusades to stamp out injustice led us across the galaxy.
Ultimately, this passion would claim his life.
The mining world Piraxis VII.
We were called upon to arbitrate a dispute between the miners of a newly discovered rim colony and the inter-galactic corporation that owned the mines. The colony had been in continuous riot since the introduction of the corporation's new pay-policy. Unfortunately, neither the colony nor the corporation fell under Republic jurisdiction. Nor would the Council involve itself without a request from the Republic. Valkaan, naturally, immediately sided with the miners, much to the dismay of the corporate negotiators. Then, one day, while touring the mines, examining working conditions, Valkaan disappeared. The only hint of explanation given by the foreman was the instability of the mines and the possibility of collapse. Of course, I suspected murder and I returned to Coruscant to plead the case. I had no evidence, only suspicion—neither the council or the courts would rule.
I felt betrayed.
At that moment, I was consumed with a rushing hatred. Yul Valkaan had served the Order and the Republic for fifty years and now they denied his memory the justice it deserved. Only the lessons he had taught me kept me from fully turning my back on the Jedi. No, the Ospions held no attraction for me...my ideology was rooted too deeply in my service to the Republic.
And so I left. I signed aboard a rim-bound ship as a navigator. We set out as explorers, charting the vast unknown sections of the Outer Rim and then selling the information to any buyer. We cataloged vegetation for botanists, mammals for taxidermists, even thought-systems for epistemologists. It was more than a year before my hatred bled away. By then, I realized the extent of my foolishness. My attachment to my old master had blinded me, in the same way that his passion for justice had blinded him. I shudder now to think how close I came, how near to the precipice of the dark side I walked. A creeping realization began to form: the training I spent with Valkaan had been that of a military officer training under and superior. I had never fully forgotten my old habits and my view of Jedi life had been warped because of it.
It was remarkably freeing to discover that what I knew, what I believed most fervent, did not signify the end of knowledge, but rather the beginning of wisdom. Ignorance, yet knowledge indeed.
I did not yet return to civilization. Fear and stubbornness kept me from turning my weary feet towards home. I could not face the council, or my fellow Jedi. And so I continued to explore. In time, my journey of penance became one of discovery and growth. For the first time in my life, I felt as if I was truly living by the code. I remember coming to one planet, untouched by human hands, and spending weeks wandering through the jungles. Life, the Force, surrounded me. It was awe-inspiring, immense, a brilliant beam shone into a dark cave. I felt as if the crude vessel that was my body could not contain it. And yet, even through the enormity of the experience, I was calm, at rest. Emotion, yet peace.
And then we came to a world ravaged by plague. It was worse than any field of battle. The march of death was inexorable. I have never felt so powerless, my paltry healing skills could only ease suffering, not prevent death. Empathy was no longer difficult to find. I wept with mothers who had lost their children, children who had lost their parents, lovers who had lost each other. Yet, I knew that death was not the end—death, yet the Force—and my thoughts turned to my master. He lived on, released from his mortal coil. And if he had been killed—my certainty was gone—then justice would find the murderers one day.
I last set eyes upon the plague world.
My intransigence could not bear this final blow. I returned to Coruscant shortly thereafter. Although full of caution about my departure, the council had not given up on me. They agreed that penance had been paid and redemption achieved, if it had been necessary. I returned to the Order with their blessing. I believe the Force had a hand in my timing, for I returned just as the conflict with the Hutts began to loom. Now I struggle to find a place within the conflict. The Hutts represent a grievous corruption, and the Jedi must play a role in preventing its spread. Even more worrisome are the threads of the dark side which even now weave themselves through visions of the future.
[A note concerning the reserved post: I intend to update this pretty regularly and I imagine I'll want more images in it as well. So...you know...If I could keep it, that'd be awesome.]
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