As he watches the ashes of his beloved drift onto the rocks below, Luke remembers. He does not want to remember. A sob catches in his throat, and he falls to the grass.
"Luke?" whispers the girl. She is clueless, so clueless. He envies her.
Luke Skywalker long ago consigned himself to the shores of Ahch-To.
He has walked here for what seemed like eons,
enough for his hair to turn grey and the soles of his feet to toughen; he can barely remember the days when he frantically searched the threads of the Force for traces of light.
Still, he sometimes catches himself hoping, and he admonishes himself when he does. Hope is a cruel master. He would spit in its face if he could.
Now, he stares out at the vast blue expanse of the sea, a grim kind of peace in his heart. But he is bored. He is really fucking bored.
He has learned the hard way that using the Force, even for trivial things like making seagulls fly backwards, attracts those sensitive enough to the dark side. He spits on the rocks.
He throws a pebble into the waves. He fiddles with a finely woven bracelet he made earlier (there are a lot of things you can make with grass) and sighs.
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