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Fire burned along the horizon. The sun bided its time, waiting for its resurrection in the morning, while the glow of Moria shimmered on the surface of the lake. As the twilight hour waned, the lilac sky turned indigo.
A poet’s heart wilted in her chest, thundering beneath the weight of the cosmos. She hummed to herself as she drifted through the house — a lullaby as old as her homeworld. Her old desk welcomed her like a friend. She brushed her fingers across the old wood, feeling for the indentations where she and her lover carved their initials long ago. She removed her journal from its draw, ink and quill too. The leather gave a groan as she turned to a new page, the cream and soft to touch. She dipped the old quill into her pot of emerald ink and spilled her soul across the paper. Heartfelt words always came easy to her. When the words were dry upon the page, one last moment frozen in time, she left the bedroom.
The rest of the cottage was still. Old floorboards creaked under her step. Outside, her lover sat on the edge of the lake. She sipped from a mug of tea, her fingers stained with the colours of her most recent project. The poet stepped through wildflowers and tall grass to sit beside her artist. The latter smiled, offering her tea to her lover and resting her head against her shoulder. The poet wrapped her arms around the artist like the sky held the sun. Tranquility settled around her shoulders, wishing they could stay here forever. (You cannot defy the stars.)
Stars burst in the poet’s veins. She was born for love and war, for the stars in the sky and the billion that worshipped them, to be the moon that oceans rose towards, a conduit for balance in the galaxy. Her artist was a being of light: the sun, the earth and all the good in the galaxy; she was the sky on a cloudless day and the Force constructed her itself. Even after all their years of lonely solitude, she still wore her lightsaber on her hip with pride — the Jedi Order left her behind, but she remained loyal. The poet dreamed of being so perfect. (Her storm-like shadow could devour the universe if she allowed it to.)
“Come home to me, my love,” the artist whispered. They found each other’s hands.
Beyond their haven, war was waiting. A final confrontation. The poet watched the artist’s sorrowful eyes. She did not know how this would end, but knew she would sacrifice her life a thousand times for her love to live. As long as her fight was not in vain, it would be worthwhile.
“I promise,” the poet answered. “Even if it is not in this lifetime, I will always find you.”
A THOUSAND LIFETIMES LATER.
Violet Uttara was seven when she met the sun.
A stillness had fallen over the peaceful planet of Naboo. The twilight air was sweet with honeysuckle. When the sky burned with orange and indigo and the stars came alive, Violet snuck out of her bedroom. Her parents had already checked in on her while she pretended to already be asleep, and they were now occupied by her two-year-old brother who refused to settle down.
