Control The Uncontrollable // The Acolyte

102. Farewell Holocrons

"This is taking too long," Qimir growled, the sound torn from his chest as he brought the tool down against the mountain again.

The impact rang sharp through the valley.

You stood several meters away, balanced on a jut of stone overlooking the worksite, mist curling around your ankles like low breath. Fragments of rock scattered with every strike, clattering down the slope, and you kept your distance—not out of fear, but respect for the force of him when he lost patience with stone.

He swung again. And again.

Each motion was fueled less by precision now and more by frustration. His arm cut through the fog in brutal arcs, muscles flexing hard beneath sweat-darkened fabric, veins standing stark against his skin. You could feel it from where you stood—the way his breathing had grown uneven, the way his heart had tipped from focus into something heavier. Anger, tight and sharp, coiling just beneath his ribs.

He swore under his breath—then louder.

The word cracked against the mountain face and came back hollow, useless.

"Qimir," you called, carefully at first, hoping to ease him back from the edge.

He didn't slow.

You had been here for hours now. The hole was deeper—yes—but his patience had thinned to nothing. Each strike landed harder than the last, precision giving way to force. You'd thought, briefly, that the anger might help him push through the stone. Now you weren't so sure.

"Qimir, let's rest," you said again, louder this time, leaning forward on the rock where you stood.

"I've got it," he snapped without turning. "I promise. Stay back."

His hand lifted behind him, and the Force pressed gently against your chest—firm but careful—nudging you farther from the edge. Protective. Instinctive. And still, it stung.

You were on a remote planet, miles from any settlement, the land untouched and indifferent. You were here to finish one of your last duties before the next chapter of your life began. To bury the holocrons.

For six years, you had carried them—on your body, in your mind, inside places no one else could reach. They had become part of you. Even when you hadn't chosen to listen, they whispered. Even when you hadn't reached for them, they saw through you.

You didn't need them anymore. The knowledge lived in you now. But you wanted to say goodbye to the voices. To end that chapter cleanly.

Qimir hadn't questioned it. Not once. He understood better than anyone what those relics had cost you. What they had cost both of you. He wanted them buried just as deeply as you did.

So you'd come here together—far away, hidden, where no one would ever think to look. Where the truth could rest, sealed by stone and time.