Before the Saga The Butterfly Effect (Marda Ro High Republic Oneshot for the Spring Bingo Challenge)

Title: Butterfly Effect

Author: devilinthedetails

Characters: Marda Ro; Yana Ro; Kevmo Zink

Genre: General; Family; Angst; Drama; Romance.

Timeline: Before the Saga. Set during the High Republic Phase II (which is basically a prequel to High Republic Phase I era).

Canonicity: Canon. Inspired by the Path of Deceit Young Adult novel released several months ago. The Path of the Open Hand cult, their Force philosophy, and the characters of Marda Ro, Yana Ro, and Kevmo Zink are all introduced in that book.

Summary: Marda Ro and the butterfly effect she experiences with those she loves the most.

Author’s Note: Written for the 2023 Spring Bingo Challenge hosted by the lovely Chyntuck. The column I chose was Egg+Colors+Sacrifice+Buds+Butterfly.

Rotten or Hard-Boiled Egg

“These eggs smell rotten.” Yana crinkled her nose at the pungent aroma arising from the trio of Ganza eggs roosting on her plate. She and Marda were seated at the long tables and benches of the dining hall in the Path of the Open Hand’s central compound on Dalna.

The headquarters of the collective that had raised them and cared for them when nobody else would. That had embraced them as family when they would have been alone in the universe. Distrusted and despised as Evereni. Members of a species famous for their vile aptitude for every sort of deceit and treachery.

“They’re not rotten.” Marda bit back a sigh. Noting with inward exasperation that Yana could sometimes be a pickier eater than many of the Littles she taught in the generous, Force-freeing ways of the Path of the Open Hand. Often trying Marda’s patience far more than the Littles she devoted her life to serving and instructing. “They’re hard-boiled. I helped hard-boil them this morning. My Littles and I painted some of them in bright colors to celebrate the spring.”

“They smell rotten.” Yana gave another suspicious sniff before sinking her sharp teeth into a hard-boiled Ganza egg. Chewing meditatively. “Do you ever think it is strange that we eat the eggs–the young–of other species?”

“These aren’t the young of other species.” Marda recoiled from the unappetizing notion. “These are unfertilized eggs. They never would have become babies or children like my Littles even if we hadn’t eaten them.”

“Nevertheless, my point on the strangeness still stands.” Yana shrugged breezily. Unwilling to ever concede any argument even when she was wrong. One of her more frustrating traits.

Marda didn’t have such stubbornness inside her. Or at least she didn’t think she did.

Painted Colors

“Do you ever wish you could paint your face with some other color?” Yana asked as Marda applied streaks of pigment blue as the spring mountain sky on a clear, cloudless day to her slate-gray cheeks in the patterns that marked her as a member of the Path of the Open Hand. An adherent of its rules. A devotee of its philosophies as established by the all-knowing and all-loving Mother.

“No.” Marda shook her head. Shocked and scandalized. As she so often was by her blunt, irreverent cousin. “It is an honor to paint my face blue because it marks me as a member of the Path of the Open Hand. Someone who has accepted the wisdom of the Mother and committed her life to freeing the Force. To living with open hands and an open heart. To giving gifts freely.”

That was how Marda spent so much of her life. In the market of Ferdan. At a stall distributing free flowers plucked from mountain valleys to passersby. Offering a glimpse into how generously the Force could provide. How eager the Path of the Open Hand was to share their gifts–their wisdom and peace–with the galaxy.

“Oh, Marda.” Yana rolled her eyes in the lofty way that proclaimed she had seen so much of the best and the worst of the galaxy on her travels for the Mother while Marda had been stuck on provincial, backwater Dalna. Ignorant of the broader universe. “You are so naive. You know so little about how the Path or the galaxy actually works.”

“I know a good deal about the Path.” Marda’s cheeks burned with indignation. With searing shame and anger at being so casually dismissed by her cousin. “It’s my duty to instruct the Littles in the ways of the Path. I’m trusted to do that. To guide them in their first footsteps along the road of the Path and to explain the mysteries of the Path in a way they will understand.”

“You are.” Yana had a trick for making even that sound condescending. As if she were humoring an inflamed youngling rather than speaking with an equal. “Of course you are.”

Buds of Love

“Do you ever want to pick flowers for yourself?” Yana asked Marda as they sat cross-legged in a mountain valley filled with buds that would blossom into flowers for Marda and her Littles to pluck. To bring to the market and offer as gifts freely given to anyone who bustled by their stall. “Or for someone you love?”

“The flowers aren’t meant to be for myself.” Marda gazed down at a green bud. Seeing the promise of spring bursting from it. The seed of life transforming into a blooming flower. “They are meant to be for others. A gift freely given from nature, from Dalna, from the Force, and from my open hands.”

“You sound like a robot.” Yana scowled, and Marda wondered if Yana longed to pick flowers for her Nautolan girlfriend Kor Plouth. Daughter of the Herald of the Path of the Open Hand. The Herald who seemed to have very little love for Yana. Who seemed more inclined to approach her with clenched fists than open hands. “A robot incapable of love.”

“I am very capable of love.” Marda stroked the soft bud emerging from the rich, brown soil. “I love my Littles and all the members of the Path who are my brothers and sisters under the guidance of the Mother. I love the Force and all the beings it created. So, every flower I pick is plucked in love for someone I love even if that someone is a stranger in the marketplace. A stranger in the marketplace who might be converted to the wisdom of the Path of the Open Hand by my gift freely given.”

A gift, she had been taught when she was a Little herself, could not truly be a gift unless it was freely given in love. She tried to pass that truth onto the Littles in her care. Entrusted to her education.

Sacrifice for the Path

“Do you regret everything you’ve sacrificed to follow the Path?” Yana studied Marda with unblinking eyes. Asking about Kevmo. Whom Marda had loved and lost. Or perhaps only asking about Kevmo in Marda’s overactive imagination. The paranoia of her Evereni mind evolved to be distrustful. To sense when betrayal was imminent.

Marda blinked for Yana and for herself. Blinking back tears that pricked at her eyes like steely needles.

“It’s not a sacrifice.” Marda’s lips were numb. Reciting empty words that made her feel full instead of hollow. Words she had been made to memorize since she was a Little. Words that promised to save her from her grief. To imbue her with a purpose when everything seemed swallowed by sorrow. “My service to the Path and to the Force is a gift freely given. I do not regret it. Could never regret giving everything I have and everything I am to the Path that sustains me and the Force that created me.”

Her only regret, she thought with a sensation like a vibroblade to the heart, was that Kevmo hadn’t chosen to make himself a gift freely given to the Path and to the Force. He had instead remained outside the grace and wisdom of the Path as preached by the Mother.

Had been too indoctrinated by insidious Jedi propaganda to realize that he was abusing the Force–trapping it by his manipulations of it–instead of letting it be free. Allowing it to operate independently of his will. Without his well-intentioned interference that could only end in tragedy for himself and for others. Because the Force would have its freedom. Would balance the scales. Would be no Jedi’s slave.

She only wished he hadn’t learned that lesson too late. When the Force had claimed his life as payment for those he had saved.

Yes, that was her only regret, but it cut to the core of who she was. Cleaving through flesh, blood, and sinew to carve a painful path to her very soul.

Butterfly Effect

In her dreams, she could still see Kevmo. Speak with him. Seek to liberate him from the shackling philosophy of the Jedi. Convert him to the Force-freeing tenets of the Path of the Open Hand.

She could still touch him. Threading her slate-gray fingers through his blue Pantoran ones.

In the blank canvas that was her mind at rest, they met in gardens teeming with butterflies that alighted on their arms and noses. Tickling their skin. Making them sneeze and laugh.

In her dreams, she had a second chance to explain. To save him from the entangling lies of the Jedi. To make him see the deceit he had been enmeshed in all his life so that he could realize how much he was a victim of his Jedi training.

“It’s like a butterfly effect,” she told him. Drawing on the butterflies as inspiration in making him understand why using the Force was dangerous. A forbidden violation of the Force’s sovereignty. “A flap of a butterfly’s wings on one world could cause a hurricane or typhoon on another. The universe and the Force crave balance and must find it somehow. So, if a Jedi saves a life over here, the Force must claim a life over there. And if a Jedi averts catastrophe in one place, crisis must occur somewhere else. That is what balance demands. What it means. That is why the Force should not be tampered with and should be allowed to operate free of our interference. Because we don’t know the harm we will create when we try to interfere with its ways. When we seek to impose our wills upon it.”

In her dreams, she always managed to persuade him. To rescue him from the snares and lies of the Jedi before it was too late.

Then she would wake up to discover and remember anew that he was dead. Gone from her forever. Killed for his manipulation of the Force.

Each recollection would fill her with a fresh surge of grief and guilt. That she hadn’t been able to save him. To make him see the error of his ways before those errors were the death of him. To make him understand that he must abandon the Jedi and become a member of the Path of the Open Hand. That they couldn’t be together forever because she had failed him and because the Jedi had poisoned his mind with their Force-abusing, brainwashing propaganda.

She would have her revenge on the Jedi for corrupting and killing Kevmo, she thought. Grinding her sharp teeth. Honing them into a weapon to be used against the Jedi wherever and however necessary. She would serve the Path and the Mother. And the Force would be free at last of those who would abuse it. Those who called themselves Jedi.

Then Marda might finally be free of her guilt and her grief. Then she might at last be at peace within herself. Then Kevmo’s death might no longer haunt her.

 

@earlybird-obi-wan As always, thank you so much for reading and commenting on all my stories! Yes, the Path of the Open Hand is a cult that is very against the Jedi and the use of the Force, unfortunately, and Marda has been manipulated into swallowing a lot of the cult's propaganda. And I agree that the High Republic is full of interesting developments, which is why I am a huge fan of that era and love writing fanfic set in that time period

@Chyntuck The High Republic era content is wonderful, and I definitely don't want to spoiler any of it for yourself! What a treat for you to have reading all the magnificent High Republic books ahead of you! I hope that you will love them as much as I do