Chirrut’s face is blank when he’s told the news. Baze can’t detect any hint of emotion on his usually mobile features. Irreversible. Permanent blindness within six months. No known cure. The healer trails awkwardly to a stop and hesitates, glancing at Baze for his cue.
Baze shifts his weight. “Chirrut?”
“All is as the Force wills it,” Chirrut says, and rises. “Thank you, Master T’ron.”
He turns and is gone before the healer can reply, robes swishing in finality.
Baze gives the healer an awkward nod and scrambles to catch up. “Chirrut, wait.”
Chirrut glances at him when Baze falls in step beside him. His eyes are cloudier these days, the cataracts advancing ever more rapidly, it seems, but Chirrut’s feet are still quick and unhesitating, his stride as confident as ever.
“We have lessons,” he says when Baze can’t think of anything to fill the silence.
“But—don’t you want to—” Baze hesitates. Grieve? Mourn your loss? You’re going blind, Chirrut!
Chirrut’s face shutters. “I want to go to class.”
He quickens his steps and Baze gets the message.
True North
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My Tasteful Adult Art Collection 