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suitably_heroicFor the second time over the course of the past few days, At-- Jack woke up somewhere he hadn't expected to be. His back hurt. He wasn't cold, which was good. But the second he tried to roll over, he hit a hard floor, his arm knocking against something solid and--
He squinted.
"This is my floor," he mumbled. Wait. Wait, it was his floor? It was his floor. "Oh thank the Force."
He looked up at the piece of furniture that had just so rudely let him roll off. "Screw you, couch."
"Holy shit!" And that was Dane, stumbling out of the bedroom with eyes wide. There was a hug (he'd gotten better at them) and coffee and talking and apparently he'd just vanished out of the back of the van days ago and-- and it was good to be home, to be back in New York, in his own stupid apartment with his own stupid couch with his own stupid vinyl and his own stupid--
Anyway.
All in all, it took him half an hour to find the letter tucked in his back pocket. It was the same one that had arrived in his hotel room on Sunday, the one he hadn't wanted to open.
Reluctantly, he opened it.
Atton,
If you read this, it means my suspicions are true: you are not dead. And I am grateful for it, much as I regret that my own actions have caused you to sever yourself so completely from our galaxy.
I do hope that, some day, you will find it in yourself to return. But do not fear: I have no intention of attempting to contact you any other way. I do not have your new 'number', and I do not know where in this vast ocean of galaxies you have wound up.
I am, however, sorry. I should not have allowed you to continue to work yourself to the bone. I wish I had an excuse, but the truth is that it was simply convenient. No, worse, the truth is that I let myself be pulled into the same trap that our predecessors did: I let perceived necessity guide my actions, instead of listening to the needs of my people.
We cannot be an Order that abuses bonds of loyalty in ways that destroy the very lives of those who serve us. We have seen time and time again that this way is a dead end; that is unsustainable, and that a balance must be struck between the needs of the galaxy and the needs of individual Jedi. I will not forget this again. And for that lesson, I thank you.
Please know you will always be welcome here. I meant what I once told you: you will always be a Knight of the Republic. In whatever capacity you wish to be.
I hope you find the peace you seek,
Yours truly,
Mical, Grand Master of the Jedi Order.
Atton read it. Then he read it again. And a third time, to be sure.
He wasn't sure what he felt. He was fairly sure it was good. When he finally put the letter down, it was with a sigh.
"Fucking Christ, Mical, I know who you are."
[[ establishy, unless someone really wants to get in touch with him again ]]
He squinted.
"This is my floor," he mumbled. Wait. Wait, it was his floor? It was his floor. "Oh thank the Force."
He looked up at the piece of furniture that had just so rudely let him roll off. "Screw you, couch."
"Holy shit!" And that was Dane, stumbling out of the bedroom with eyes wide. There was a hug (he'd gotten better at them) and coffee and talking and apparently he'd just vanished out of the back of the van days ago and-- and it was good to be home, to be back in New York, in his own stupid apartment with his own stupid couch with his own stupid vinyl and his own stupid--
Anyway.
All in all, it took him half an hour to find the letter tucked in his back pocket. It was the same one that had arrived in his hotel room on Sunday, the one he hadn't wanted to open.
Reluctantly, he opened it.
Atton,
If you read this, it means my suspicions are true: you are not dead. And I am grateful for it, much as I regret that my own actions have caused you to sever yourself so completely from our galaxy.
I do hope that, some day, you will find it in yourself to return. But do not fear: I have no intention of attempting to contact you any other way. I do not have your new 'number', and I do not know where in this vast ocean of galaxies you have wound up.
I am, however, sorry. I should not have allowed you to continue to work yourself to the bone. I wish I had an excuse, but the truth is that it was simply convenient. No, worse, the truth is that I let myself be pulled into the same trap that our predecessors did: I let perceived necessity guide my actions, instead of listening to the needs of my people.
We cannot be an Order that abuses bonds of loyalty in ways that destroy the very lives of those who serve us. We have seen time and time again that this way is a dead end; that is unsustainable, and that a balance must be struck between the needs of the galaxy and the needs of individual Jedi. I will not forget this again. And for that lesson, I thank you.
Please know you will always be welcome here. I meant what I once told you: you will always be a Knight of the Republic. In whatever capacity you wish to be.
I hope you find the peace you seek,
Yours truly,
Mical, Grand Master of the Jedi Order.
Atton read it. Then he read it again. And a third time, to be sure.
He wasn't sure what he felt. He was fairly sure it was good. When he finally put the letter down, it was with a sigh.
"Fucking Christ, Mical, I know who you are."
[[ establishy, unless someone really wants to get in touch with him again ]]
no subject
Date: 2024-11-04 01:18 pm (UTC)She would probably make him regret this.
no subject
Date: 2024-11-04 03:38 pm (UTC)Or always!
Like, but he could totally stop this at literally any time.
i mean i could swing by chicago and pick up a deep dish to bring instead if you prefer?
Let's see how truly into that whole New Yorker thing you really were, Jack!
no subject
Date: 2024-11-04 03:43 pm (UTC)At least Jack still remembered how to curse like a spaceman on occasion.
just make it cool jello. not weird 50s jello