A cold, hunched over Rothel, hanging on to dear life, brings his hands to the fire. His eighteen year-old baby face drenched in a mixture of sweat and rain-water wears a perpetual grimace. Bringing his gaze to the cloudy sky, he thinks back to the days before he ran away, to the times where things were better. He would come home to a warm bed, a loving father and mother, and on occasion, he’d hang out with the prettiest girl in the world, exchanging jokes and kisses, looking up at the stars of the Naboo sky. Now, he comes home to the cold ground, a flimsy tent, and on occasion, a functional means of starting a fire. Giving in, his gaze still up at the sky, he lets out a cry of agony, of remorse, sorrow, and pain…
“Come, there is someone you will meet,” the voice in his dreams would usher him. “Come, you are not yet lost.”
A warm, relaxed Rothel, full of new life and hope, lowers his hands to his lap. His twenty-two year-old scruffy face covered by a short beard and scar wears a perpetual thoughtfulness. Opening his eyes and lifting his gaze to the clear sky, he thinks back to the days before he became a Jedi, to the times where he had lost hope. He would come home to the cold ground, a flimsy tent, and on occasion, a functional means of starting a fire. Now, he comes home to a warm bed, an experienced mentor, and on occasion, he’ll hang out with the prettiest girl in the world, exchanging ideas and theories on the Force. His gaze still up at the sky, he lets out a deep breath of peace, of duty, resolve, of serenity…
“Come, there is another you must meet,” the voice in his dreams would usher him. “Come, you still are a long way to go.”
