Guilt stabs through Baze, and he reaches up to wipe the tears that have escaped off her cheeks with his thumbs.

"I'm sorry," he whispers, pressing his forehead to hers and wrapping his arms around her. There's nothing more he can say, really, nothing that will take away the pain they inflicted on her. Seeing them fight like that... Baze is sorry. Sorrow and guilt needle at his heart, piercing him through.

"Chirrut... just... The wind, it makes him wild," Baze says. Words fail him. How can he explain this to an eight-year-old? "Sometimes he needs violence to cage him back into his bones."