14 May 2017
“I am going to be blind before the decade is out,” says Chirrut stiffly, “and one of your novices is responsible. I’m not soliciting charity, I’m demanding reparations.”
“Can we ask which novice is at fault? Do they... know what they’ve done?”
Chirrut becomes horribly aware of Baze Malbus – big, deliberate, level-voiced Novice Malbus, with his mulish brow and grim slash of a mouth and the set of his chin crumpling with an obscene tenderness that is more uncomfortably vulnerable than anything Chirrut has felt in his life – waiting out in the hallway, out of earshot. “I didn’t get a name,” he says blithely, “and I don’t care to know it. I do ask that knowledge of my condition does not leave this room.”
*How they met, and then some.