Disclaimer: No beard, no ranch, no huge bank account... yep. Definitely not George Lucas. Star Wars is his, I'm just playing with his toys.

Note: Thanks to Rilla for beta services!

Severing the Past

Wendynat

Prologue
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A fire crackled in the quiet room. Glows of orange and red lit the rich wood floor, shone in the eyes of the two children sitting before him. But he saw none of it, lost in his story even as the children were.

"She knew something was happening – she paused, looked around, but didn't see behind her. Didn't see her own army attack. They said the Jedi should have sensed it, sensed the betrayal, but maybe those clones didn't think of it as a betrayal. I don't think we'll ever know, not really."

"But, Uncle, how-"

"No more questions." Blinking rapidly, he stood. His friend wouldn't forgive him if he frightened her children. "Off to bed with you now." The children scampered off and he smiled wryly. Brienna was annoyed that they listened to him so readily; had it been she who ordered them to their rooms, a hundred excuses and reasons to stall the inevitable would be spilling from their lips. But when he said bed, they jumped. It was his privilege, he supposed. He had no family of his own, even the title by which the children called him was honorary. He was not their blood uncle, just a close friend of their mother. Very close.

He shivered.

The room felt colder without them there. Brienna wouldn't be back for hours yet, business was doing well and she had to get the shop in order for the week ahead. Left to his own thoughts, he sat for long minutes and stared into the fire. Finally he stood, limbs creaking, and listened. The children were asleep.

No more questions.

Walking quietly to his room, he shut the door and tried to push the memories back, tried to stop his feet from taking him to where his subconscious commanded. He couldn't. He moved to his bed but didn't pull back the covers as was his normal routine. Instead he sank to the floor, knees protesting, and quietly pulled up a floorboard just underneath the edge. His hands shaking, he lifted the small box. Opened it.

A single lightsaber lay within, its hilt scratched from far too frequent use, the durasteel smudged from the sweat of a young man as he watched his comrades fall. Too many. Too many.

No more questions.

A tear fell.