Chapter Text
He’d run his little clothing stall for going on three years now, since he was just fifteen standard years, but Baze Malbus was sure he’d never enjoyed it a day in his life. Not the work itself, anyway. There was the occasional source of amusement in NiJedha, in watching lost pilgrims stare around in wonder, in the parading, chanting hoards of this faction or that faction headed into the Holy Quarter. Fights were the most interesting, until they got too close and threatened the merchandise; then, they were just more work. He had his eye on this one for just that reason: rival gangs having a little spat in the street was common enough, but judging when to get involved was a delicate art even after all these years. There were rules to live by: In case of fistfights, there was the option of being a spectator or taking bets; if firearms were a possibility, better to hunker down out of anyone’s line of sight. There were gangs one could shoo away safely enough with a stunner and those that weren’t to be toyed with. And Baze had seen just about everything, he thought, so puzzling out the way to approach this particular brawl was uncomfortably confusing.
His initial instinct had been to break it up on principle – three men ganging up on someone he’d thought to be a clueless kid was not something he’d stand for. But he had a feeling , as he sometimes did, and hesitated, watching. After a few minutes there was no doubt that the solo fighter had instigated the whole thing, and what’s more, he was holding his own with ease, as if fighting off gangsters (albeit the lowest of the low on the pay scale) was a hobby. And maybe it was; he noticed, too, that the young man – not such a kid, not much younger than himself – was unlikely to come this far into the seedier part of the city often. Perhaps this was a typical routine, new only to those here in NiJedha’s core. He wore robes, deep, night-sky blue, and his weapon was no ordinary pike. This man – who was, to his benefit, drawing a crowd that might not be bad for business – was undoubtedly a follower of the Guardians of the Whills. That explained his fighting technique, too, and his burnished wooden staff, both ancient, obscure things one would only pick up within the order. Baze’s knowledge of the Force cultists was sketchy at best despite having grown up in their holy city; here, this far from the Temple and from the luxuries of life in the Holy Quarter, philosophy did not spread so quickly. One of their order had given him a tablet with their texts once, long ago, a gleaming little screen with scrolling words that the Guardian assured him would guide him on the difficult journey of a Jedhan orphan. Of course, the blasted thing was all in the northern dialect, and intractably mystical anyway, so Baze sold the thing for parts. Maybe the Guardian had been on to something after all, though. The credits had kept him fed for a few days, strong enough to make his way into the trade district and find work. On his less cynical days Baze thought that it had been part of the plan, but for the most part considered that the plan had mainly been to keep the unsightly elements relegated to their corner of the city.
In any case, this monk – maybe the right term, maybe not, but either way it seemed odd to apply it to someone so gleefully smashing faces with a staff – had found his way into the shadows here, and he was making a show of it. Even three-against-one, the gangsters were hopelessly outmatched, and the Acolyte ducked and dodged with such ease that he seemed to be dancing rather than fighting, his grace counterbalanced with ferociously hard strikes of his staff. Bleeding, stumbling, the gangsters – the two that were still conscious, anyway – turned to hobble away, dragging the third behind, and the monk didn’t bother to continue his pursuit. The lesson had been taught, Baze supposed, though his doubts rose once more when the youth produced a coin purse from his sleeve and proceeded to collect credits from the gathered crowd. Baze may not have known much about the monk’s alleged order, but he knew a con man when he saw one, and he did not appreciate them one bit.
“Hey, little monk,” he called, scowling all the more when the man only half-turned toward him before going right back to extorting the onlookers. “Are you taking alms or prize money?”
“It all goes to the same place,” the young man retorted, and Baze was struck at the pleasantness of his voice, the sunny-warm tone and softly northern-accented edges of his words. “Those three have been snatching purses, by the way, so I chased them all the way down here.” He snorted. “You’re welcome.”
“We handle our own all the way down here,” Baze muttered defensively. “Go back to your castle. Don’t they teach you not to take from people who can’t afford it?”
“Interesting,” the monk went on, half-turning toward Baze again as he tucked away the pouch. “That you’re sure I’m the real thing. Usually I just get taken for a scammer.”
“You can be a monk and a scammer.” He rolled his eyes. “But those who are only scammers don’t have weapons like that.”
Baze had no idea what to make of the beaming smile the other flashed, but he couldn’t deny its magnetism as his eyes lingered, dropping away when the other started toward him. “What are you selling, my friend?”
“I’m not your friend. You just robbed half my potential customers. You think they’re gonna pay us both?” He snatched a cloak off the rack at his side and waved it at him derisively. “What do you think I sell?”
Baze felt his heart drop into his stomach as the monk reached over, still looking nothing but serene and curious, to feel the fabric. Baze let himself take a better look at him, finally, and at last noticed the eerie blue of his eyes was something else entirely. Blue as the early morning sky, yes, and as cloudy, too, unfocused. This boy, this monk, this expert fighter, was blind . “Well, it feels like fabric,” he answered too jovially after a moment. “Soft. Probably women’s clothes.”
Baze’s ears burned. He had no particular respect for the Guardians of the Whills, and less for a con artist like this one, but he did have the sense not to mock a man for being blind, if he’d noticed before. “Women’s clothes,” he grumbled, desperately wishing he’d had the sense not to call out to this fool. He was going to linger, Baze could feel it. It wasn’t a sense of danger; he didn’t really expect that the other would try to steal merchandise or credits, or even to make an example of him as he had those thugs. This prickle at the back of his neck was something entirely unfamiliar. Perhaps, he considered, with a faint sigh as he watched the others nimble fingers map out the embroidery on the garment, it was the sense of impending aggravation. “So you have no reason to hang around. Go.”
The monk smiled again. “Are you here every day?”
“Just the days I want to eat,” Baze snapped, prying the cloak back from him and turning to hang it again. “Not everyone gets handed their credits.”
The monk’s expression faltered, instantaneously filling Baze with a confusing feeling of regret for having caused that smile to leave him. “I know that,” he murmured, the tone of a scolded child. “Maybe I want to buy something.”
“Bantha shit. Get out of here.”
Finally, solemnly, he did. Baze rubbed his eyes. How long had it been since someone had bothered to stop and talk to him? He’d sent him away almost out of habit. Still – it was for the best. The monk might not exactly be a scammer as he’d accused him, sure, but at the very least he was an opportunist, and Baze had enough of those in his life. At least one of those opportunists would be coming by to collect from him soon enough, and thanks to the brawl and ensuing bout of charity , his sales were going to be down for the day. Scraping by might mean skipping out on the luxury of his rented room next week, instead half-sleeping on a pile of unsold clothes, trying to strike a balance between desperately needed sleep and the risk of getting robbed or worse. He wouldn’t risk being unable to settle his debt – not even once. He’d never paid late, a point of pride in a life that otherwise lacked any such self-congratulations. The last time he’d come close – he tried to shake the thought away, instead busying himself with swapping out items on display, calling out to a group of elderly women. He recognized at least one as an owner of a caf shop, the rest dressed like they had money to spare, and the whole lot standing around without a care in the world. Just the sort of potential customers he sought: credits to spare, which saved him the guilt of selling full-price for his half-quality offworld import garments; and in a gaggle , gossiping, complaining and squawking like pharples. Grouchy old birds like that would always try to one-up each other in purchasing. Baze fished out a couple of wildly overpriced blouses from a case of things he hadn’t been able to move.
The last-minute flock of biddies was enough to safely earn him his four walls and a lock for the night. With his belongings – little more than his wares and a cart to move them – and himself indoors, he counted and socked away what he could afford to save, pondering the cut his boss would take at the end of the week. Lying on the thin palette, his thoughts wandered to the last places he wanted them, as they always did before sleep came along to save him. The first and last time he’d missed paying up on time… He squeezed his eyes shut. He’d given Sitrin almost everything he’d had. It was stupid, of course, but he’d known it was even then; he’d let himself be fooled. Sitrin was the closest he’d ever come to a friend, maybe the closest he ever would, and the guy had taken him for all he was worth – which wasn’t much – and took off. There were rumors he’d landed himself back in prison, but Baze couldn’t confirm, and could no longer be bothered to care. A year or so on, he had nearly managed to train the crushing, painful affection out of thoughts of him and replace them with fury. With thoughts of how he could nearly afford his own place by now if that bastard hadn’t robbed him blind. Of course, the tears stung his eyes just the same. Sniffling, he rubbed them furiously away and pushed aside the thought just as violently.
His mind wouldn’t clear completely, but he dreamed peacefully, at least – of that little trouble-making monk, with eyes like the sky and a smile like the sun.
Some tiny part of Baze, a part he was doing his best to firmly ignore, was disappointed when the monk did not turn up the next day, nor the next. In fact, Baze had fully resigned himself to never seeing the other again – and why should that bother him? The kid was a pest – when he reappeared a week later. There was no fight this time though (well, one, but early in the day and unrelated to the monk); rather, he spied him calmly waiting among a crowd of ladies, pecking and fussing and trying to haggle him down into the depths of the dusty earth. Baze knew he was doing it on purpose, acting calm and polite while his other customers buzzed noisily. Annoying him by way of affability. He was a con man, after all.
Baze was worn to the ends of his nerves by the time the monk reached the front of the slowly-dispersing group of buyers. He fixed him with his best impression of total apathy. “Looking for something?” He asked, dimly wondering if the man would believe he’d forgotten him. It struck him that it was possible that the monk, who was blind, after all, might not realize he’d wandered to his stall again, too, however unlikely.
But the smile he received in return assured Baze he was neither forgotten nor come across by accident, and that there was no fooling this one. “Looking might not be the word,” he joked, tilting his head slightly. “But I was hoping to buy something. Perhaps you can help me.”
“Yeah?” Baze made a point to help other customers as they approached, drifting away from the monk with practiced indifference. “I thought you all just wore those robes.”
The monk chuckled. “Who says it’s for me?”
“Assumed it was for another monk,” he shot over his shoulder at him, saving smiles and greetings for those who approached the other end of the kiosk. “I only ever see cultists like you with your own.”
“I’m an Acolyte,” the monk complained, his chipper tone turning sour. “And the Temple of the Whills is not a cult.”
“You know what? It’s not my business.” He turned back to him with a sigh only once he was out of other options. “This is my business. So what do you want?”
“Something nice for my girlfriend.”
“You’re allowed to have a girlfriend?”
He seemed to be only half-listening, fingers rubbing disapprovingly over a scarf. “Are you allowed to pass this synth shit off as chersilk?”
“Quit that,” he growled, snatching it away. “Buy it or don’t.”
“What color is that one? She likes red.”
“Here – this one’s red. Fifty credits.”
The monk narrowed his ethereal blue eyes, and Baze struggled not to notice the charming crinkle at the corner of his eyelids. “Twenty.”
“Twenty? Tell that cult to stop brainwashing you, they’ve scrubbed it down to nothing.”
“Fine! Fine – thirty-five.”
“Forty -five, and leave me alone.”
He hesitated, as if it took every ounce of that trained strength he’d witnessed a week ago to hold back more words. Baze’s eyes landed squarely on his lips more times in the interim than he cared to admit. “I’ll give you fifty if you’ll let me stay a little while. And I’ll help you. I won’t bother you.”
“You’re already bothering me,” Baze sighed. “Are they going to come looking for you?” He tilted his head vaguely toward the distant, looming figure of the Temple. “Am I going to have to fight a bunch of Jedi or something?”
“I’m supposed to be patrolling the city,” he announced with a proud little grin. Baze rolled his eyes. Rebellious, indeed. “I didn’t say what part of the city.”
“Fine,” he relented, against his better judgment. Loneliness, it seemed, somewhat weakened his defenses. “Come around here. And don’t touch anything. And if you steal from me I swear I’ll kill you – are you listening?”
“Listening,” he chirped, practically vaulting over the kiosk to take a seat next to him. “I’m not here to make trouble.”
“What are you here for?” He didn’t bother to look back at him as he leaned over the stall with a disappointed frown at the relative emptiness of the streets, figuring that the blind man wouldn’t care much.
The monk fidgeted. “I’ve been wanting to talk to you again since I ran into you before.”
“Why?” Now he glanced back, brows furrowed in confusion. “If you’re shopping for a donation, you’re shit out of luck. I’ll be lucky to break even this week as it is.”
“I’ve never met someone like you.” He shrugged. “It’s nothing like that. I think it’s worthy to get to know the city before I take my next rank.”
Baze raised a brow skeptically. “I can’t say I’m interested in being studied. Besides, I’m no representative. It’s a big city, and I don’t get far from here myself. You’re probably better off with the pilgrims passing through the Holy Quarter.”
“I’ve been there my whole life.” He fidgeted. “It’s boring after seventeen years. This part of the city has a different spirit about it.”
Baze snorted. “I guess trying not to die isn’t boring , I’ll give you that.”
“I didn’t mean it like that,” he muttered. “I felt drawn here, so I came.”
“Drawn here,” Baze wondered, more to himself than to the monk. “By the Force, right?”
“Of course.” He frowned slightly, leaning forward on his staff. “You don’t believe?”
“I don’t know,” Baze answered honestly. It couldn’t hurt, he figured, and it had been so long since anyone had asked him much of anything besides for a favor. “It’s hard to believe in something with such a purpose when you don’t have one yourself.”
The monk looked oddly fascinated by this answer. “That’s reasonable,” he said simply, tranquil face tilted toward him. “Have you ever come to the Temple?”
“My father took me for the pilgrimage when I was a little kid. I don’t remember, though.”
“You live alone now?”
“You’re nosy, monk.” Baze groaned and sat back at last, resigning himself to having no one to share the day with besides this strange, inquisitive young man. “Acolyte. Whatever. What do I call you, anyway?”
The wind had picked up, sending ice cold bursts between buildings, but when the monk smiled again, Baze felt oddly warm. “Chirrut,” he answered after a moment, and Baze savored the sound of it, the way it rolled from his mouth as if he was blowing a kiss. It brought a red tinge to the tips of his ears.
“Chirrut,” he repeated, albeit without any of the pleasant softness. “I’m Baze.”
“Baze,” he echoed thoughtfully. “It’s a solid sort of name.”
“My family was from the southern region,” he explained, however unnecessary, deflecting lest his ears burn any hotter. “But – I’m on my own now, yeah. For a while, really.” He cleared his throat as if to dismiss any further travel down that line of questioning. “You’re young for a monk, aren’t you?”
“Acolyte ,” Chirrut corrected. “Seventeen standard years, which isn’t that young for my rank. I’ll be a full-fledged Guardian soon.”
“I don’t really know what any of that means.” Baze hardly realized how he was staring until a shopper startled him, approaching the kiosk and tapping his shoulder impatiently. He couldn’t remember the last time someone had held his attention that way. He heard Chirrut laugh softly as he whirled around to tend to the sale, and bartering through his wonder at how the other had known was a challenge. Chirrut was still grinning when Baze turned back to him. “Quit laughing.”
Chirrut shook his head. “I think you do know what some of it means,” he said cryptically, returning to their previous conversation as if there had been no interruption at all. “You probably just have different words for it. Maybe not about the order, but about the Force. Feeling your place in the universe.”
“You promised not to bother me, remember?”
Chirrut drew his knees to his chest and rested his chin atop them placidly, still smiling. “I remember.”
So went the rest of the day, with Chirrut at some point falling into introspective quiet instead of constant rambling. He was annoying, sure, but he did have a sense for how to walk up to the line without crossing it, at least. When he headed back to the Temple with little more than a wave later in the day, Chirrut left behind fifty credits as promised. Baze felt a bit guilty taking it – he’d overcharged him for sure, and if he were to allow himself the thought, he would have admitted that he should be the one paying for company, not the other way around. He was startled at the truth of it all the more the next day, when Chirrut was nowhere to be found. One day of companionship was all it took to leave him with the ache of missing it again, which is exactly what he knew would happen – and why he’d known it was such a bad idea to begin with. By the time two more days went by alone as ever, Baze had started to build a story in his mind as he always did: Chirrut as a spoiled Temple-dweller in the market district as a tourist. Chirrut who saw him as less than , who knowingly bought an overpriced piece of garbage from him as charity. Who gawked at him for a day then went back to a better life.
Of course, it wasn’t based on anything in reality. It was all an act of defense, a dome, a force field he could huddle beneath while he wondered if he could ever climb out of the hold he’d dug himself into. If Chirrut wasn’t coming back, and Baze had no real reason to think he would – even if he did, then for how long? How many times more before he faded away into the life of a Guardian? – it was easier to believe in this version of him, an aloof, spoiled, thoughtless creature. The thought of the real Chirrut was far more haunting. He was warm and friendly and seemed to want nothing but his time, and though their hours together had been brief, it had been a more comfortable day than any Baze could remember. Baze had always been good at reading people, but preferred his childish demonizations when they protected him. Chirrut was good , so he had to be thoroughly prepared for him to disappear.
He came the next day, all smiles. “She loved it,” he nearly cooed, a voice like warmed Corellian brandy. “The scarf.”
Baze regarded him skeptically. It would be easy to let that tone intoxicate him, to wash away the sandcastle walls he’d been building up. “Yeah? What are you back for, then?”
Chirrut was undeterred by the harshness. “To see you, of course,” he said with a shrug. “And maybe to pick out something else.”
“You better not be doing this for charity,” Baze muttered. He was fairly certain there was no girlfriend, but it seemed a moot point to butt heads over with the obstinate monk.
“I’m not.” He fidgeted. “In fact, I don’t really have any money, I just—”
Baze groaned dramatically and stepped away from him to rearrange his wares on display. “I’m not giving you charity, either.”
“I’m not looking for anything like that...”
“If you’re here to gawk at me, or anyone else trying to make a living here—” He gestured wildly to the street, forgetting for a moment that it would be lost on Chirrut. “Get it over with.”
“In general I find that gawking at anyone is a little out of my skill set...” Blind or not, it was clear he could feel the attempt at humor falling flat. “Baze, I didn’t mean to insult you by coming here.”
He sighed. “I know. Just – come on, come around if you’re going to stay.”
Chirrut appeared to genuinely consider it before stepping carefully around the kiosk to take a seat this time in contrast to his enthusiastic leap some days ago. “Thank you,” he murmured. “Really.”
Baze only shrugged, thought better of it, and added, “It’s alright.”
That was when Chirrut became a daily visitor. He was a chatterer of the highest degree, but Baze found it less aggravating than he let on; Chirrut’s voice was a pleasant soundtrack that broke up the monotony of long days alone trying to hawk whatever imports had been dropped on him that week. He wasn’t a bad salesman, either. No surprise for such a con man of a monk, he’d tease, but the help was welcome, and watching Chirrut charm customers of every age, species, and gender fathomable was as entertaining as it was profitable. When customers ran dry he’d turn his attention to Baze fully again, a phenomenon in which he could still hardly believe. Baze found himself remembering that he wasn’t private out of desire to be as much as the lack of anyone with whom to share much of anything besides bland comments on the weather or the state of local trade. Chirrut wanted to know him, and over the coming weeks, Baze found the offer impossible to turn down.
Chirrut, he came to learn, wasn’t exactly the spoiled prince he’d tried to imagine he might be. In fact, the Temple wasn’t so extravagant, he told him; they did, after all, subsist on donations, and much of that went to keeping up facilities for pilgrims, maintaining the grounds. He confessed to being at least in part the con man Baze accused him of being, but only, he insisted, on rare occasions. He’d pocketed a portion of the alms from the day they’d first met; that was how he’d bought the scarf, but he took rarely, and only in situations like that fight, where he felt he’d done a job himself. Baze would still tease him for being a scammer, but even in picking on him his tone began to reflect the regained respect, and for some reason he was certain Chirrut could hear it. He knew, too, Chirrut could hear his envy when he asked him about the Temple. He hadn’t meant to become so enamored with it. In fact he’d lived most of his life looking at the structure with a sort of vague resentment as he imagined the hoarded crystalline wealth within, monks in soft beds shielded from the wind while he spent so many nights without either. Chirrut’s tales, though, made him somehow less bitter. Perhaps, Baze mused, it was from having a face, a name to put to one of those monks, safe and warm. It irked him, still, the inequality, the symbol looming so large, but he found himself grateful, too, that Chirrut lived better than he did.
He knew full well the boy was no slouch, of course. He’d seen him fight. But he wasn’t terribly streetwise; his fascination with Baze’s life was proof enough of that. Baze was certain he’d tire of sitting with him for a few days after seeing the dullness of it in reality; streetfights were uncommon and not half as exciting as the monk wanted them to be. And then there was the realization that he had been something of a tourist as Baze had said.
“I didn’t mean to,” was his refrain often, but after a few weeks, he seemed to understand that it wasn’t the meaning that concerned Baze.