Darro sat by himself aboard the shuttle back to Dantooine, his mind racing with thoughts about what he had just witnessed on Nethara. He knew that Master Fenn or his own Master, Cade, would tell him that they’d done what any Jedi should do and had accomplished something worthwhile in ensuring the safety of the delegates after the negotiations erupted into violence. Even some of his fellow Padawans had said as much.
Even so, it didn’t sit right with Darro. Not when there was so much death happening on Nethara right now.
What was eating at Darro was the feeling that he could’ve or should’ve done something to stop this result from happening. He’d been given a vision from the Force itself, warning him of the danger, after all! What good was such a forewarning if it couldn’t be acted on? Why would the Force trust him with such a thing if he wasn’t supposed to do something about it?
The visions themselves, things he’d dealt with since childhood, sometimes felt like more of a curse than a blessing. Darro never knew whether to take what he saw literally or to interpret it symbolically. He never knew if it was a warning of something that would come to pass or something that simply was a possibility. Perhaps he’d feel different if he sought the visions out, but given how little control he had, Darro wanted to believe there was a greater purpose behind them.
In any case, the reality was that his warning had come too late and now Nethara was locked in a war, the exact outcome the Jedi had hoped to avoid. It was hard to not feel like a failure in that respect but Darro knew he wouldn’t let it go at that. No, he and his fellow Jedi would return and make things right. For now, he just had to focus on his vision in the hope that there would be something useful to come from it.