In the deep shadows of the night, destiny lurked.

Amidst the sleeping city of Mandalore, Jedi Knight Obi-wan Kenobi was restless. There was conflict on the horizon. The movement that called itself Separatist was becoming increasingly hostile. Any day now, it would push the long suffering Republic over the edge and into the fog of war.

The Jedi grumbled in his bed, tossing and turning. He felt woefully unprepared for the trials ahead. Would he fight? Would he remain neutral, a pacifist? Although the latter was the Jedi way, he could sense his Masters leaning in favor of the Republic. The terror that the Separatists instilled was not lost on them.

In the turmoil, Obi-wan longed for a respite. He needed to gather himself, prepare for the inevitable. He told his Masters that he wanted to make a pilgrimage, to find a desolate hole somewhere to meditate. It was an odd time to leave, but they did not stop him. After his own Master's, Qui-Gon Jinn's, death, he threw himself into advancing to Knighthood, determined to never be caught off-guard, helpless, again.

In doing so, he had neglected the spiritual aspects of being a Jedi. Many times, the Masters of the Temple would urge him to slow down, to pause, and to reflect. He had ignored them all until this point. It was not, strictly speaking, a meditative expedition, coming here, but he knew of nowhere else to go.

He had been alone too long.

So, seeking a piece of his old self, he had stolen away to Mandalore to visit Duchess Satine Kryze. The two had a history together.

When he was a padawan, Obi-wan had assisted his Master in protecting the then adolescent Duchess. Bounty hunters, funded by Mandalorian rebels, threatened her life and, thus, threatened the stability of the new regime. The Jedi had been called in to keep the peace. At first, Obi-wan was annoyed with the prospect of having to protect some stuck-up, haughty queen, but he soon recanted that feeling.

She certainly looked like a Duchess. With traditional Mandalorian coloring, she was blonde, pale, and graceful. She was always dressed to the nines in elegant, flowy, ocean-colored gowns and ostentatious accessories weaving through her hair, decorating her willowy arms and slender neck.

Of course he thought her beautiful, but it would be impossible to not consider her as such. There was no avoiding it, he told himself. Yet, what had really cemented his high opinion of her was her cleverness. Obi-wan had always been a smart, witty lad, and he was well aware of that fact. Qui-Gon had censured him constantly about being reckless and arrogant.

Foolishly, Obi-wan had assumed that he could make a joke out of the Duchess like he did everyone else, simply based off of his first impression of her. Anyone who looked that lovely had to be lacking a brain, he reasoned; however, he soon learned his lesson. Whenever he thought he had her dead to rights, whenever he believed he gained the high ground in their conversations, she would find a way to dismantle and confound him.

She had a knack for finding a hole in his judgments—something that both infuriated and intrigued him. By the end of his time with her, when the threat had been resolved, the young Duchess and the padawan had become quite close. So close, that Obi-wan did not want to return back to the Jedi Temple. He begged Qui-Gon for an extended stay, using all of his negotiating tactics on the wizened Master who would not bend.

Unable to persuade Qui-Gon, the Jedi left, but Obi-wan vowed to return one day. Determined to keep in touch, he contacted her as often as he could.

Their bond continued blooming despite their separation. Over the months, she became his best and closest friend. The other padawans would stare, dumbfounded, as the young Obi-wan sprinted, obsessed, to his room right after training and stayed up until the early hours of the day, speaking furiously into a stolen holographic communicator.

More than a few times, he was caught red-handed and assigned kitchen duty or some other punishment. Master Windu had once snatched his ear and forced him to balance on one hand for a whole day without stopping. If he toppled, he had to start over.

Yet, the wily Obi-wan didn't give up. He was determined to keep his friendship with the Duchess alive.

Then came the day when Qui-Gon and him had gone to Naboo and then, before he knew it, he had aged a century. Qui-Gon had been murdered and Obi-wan, still so young, slayed the Sith who had struck his Master, his oldest friend, down. Then there was the new responsibility of a prophesized child, Anakin Skywalker.

It was too much, too quickly. All had been a grand adventure, a puzzle to solve. Obi-wan came back to the Temple broken with the weight of the world on his fledgling shoulders. His seemingly solid relationship with Satine fell to the back of his thoughts, faded away, crumbled. He could not recover his old, silly self. That part of him had died on Naboo.

So, he shut himself away from everyone and everything. For a decade, he did not speak to her. Every time she tried to contact him, he ignored her religiously, pretended not to see, to care.

Therefore, it came as a great surprise to her now that he had returned to her lonely planet after so many years away, after so many years of radio silence, but she did not refuse him.

Even he was bewildered by his decision to fly here, of all places, after all this time. He came under the cover of night, cloaked and quiet, showing up on her front door—literally.

A servant had rushed into her quarters, alerting her to a stranger at the gates.

"I think it's a Jedi, miss!" the alarmed handmaiden squeaked. "He wants to see you!"

That grabbed the sleep-deprived Duchess's attention. She threw on a nightgown and practically sprinted to the gateway, surrounded by her guard.

Then the panels swooshed open and she saw a figure cloaked in brown, face hidden. When she came on the scene, his hood was yanked back, revealing the familiar sparkle of his azure eyes, like sapphires against the backdrop of his tanned, leathered face. Even with the new addition of a beard, Satine instantly knew it was Obi-wan, returned from the dead.

Upon seeing her, he smirked—his usual cocky grin. A strand of his cropped golden hair crept into his face.

He was shackled and frisked in her presence for safety, despite her mystified protest. One of her sentries handed her his lightsaber. Flicking it away, she quickly ordered the Jedi free and returned his weapon. Unfettered, he returned his saber to his belt under his cloak.

"Much obliged," he said in the same shrewd tone, with the same cool expression she remembered.

He then asked for a place to stay for the night and she, stunned into silence, found him a room in her palace, away from the prying, curious eyes of her gossipy servants. She did not even say "good night" as she left him at the doorway.

Now, Obi-wan lay awake, unable to quiet his waspish thoughts.

His young padawan, Anakin Skywalker, was back on Coruscant. Obi-wan had left him there. He did not need to see his Master like this, unhinged and unsure of himself. Being on Mandalore was like stepping back in time.

Pieces of memories, of him and Qui-Gon, came back to him all the time. He had long since put his grief and heartache to rest, but there was still a pang of sadness and guilt whenever Obi-wan thought of his former Master. If only he had been quicker, stronger, faster...he could have saved him.

Groaning in frustration, Obi-wan flipped over once more. He started to regret his decision in coming here—it reopened too many old wounds.

But it had happened so spontaneously. He was flying, aimlessly wandering, not a plan in his head, and then, suddenly, he found himself speeding toward Mandalore like his life depended on it.

He still couldn't believe she had let him in. He was sure she would spit in his face at the sight of him—she had looked astonished enough to do just about anything. Yet, she hadn't. She even gave him a place to stay. He couldn't leave now, not without saying goodbye—not this time, at least.

So, knowing sleep was impossible at this juncture, Obi-wan threw back the covers, put on his discarded cloak, and decided to explore. They hadn't locked the doors, the panels swooshed open obediently as he approached.

Stepping through, he folded his arms into his sleeves and walked quietly though the corridors. The palace had changed.

When he was last here, it was still recovering and suffering from civil war. The place had been a mess, chaotic. Burn marks from blasters decorated the walls, trash and scraps of paper littered the halls, soldiers swarmed around like angry hornets.

At first, he had to speak to Satine through an armed guard, but then a series ambushes left her shorthanded. Soon, the Jedi became her predominant protectors. They stayed by her side twenty-four-seven, even slept in the same room, usually with her on the bed and the Jedi on the floor or in a chair.

Nighttime raids were not uncommon. Obi-wan lost count of the times he caught assassins trying to sneak in when the moon was high and the stars were out. He smiled at the memories, the look of astonishment on some bounty hunter's face as a boy, who had just hit puberty, sliced the hitman's weapon in two and kicked him to the curb.

Now, however, the palace was pristine and silent. He sensed no lurking spy, not even the rumble of a snoozing guard. The walls were covered in artwork. He passed portrait after portrait of Satine—each a different artistic interpretation. The floor was practically sparkling, and somewhere he heard the tinkling of a fountain. Following the sound, he came to the threshold of a cobbled archway that led to a small garden.

The fountain he had heard stood in the center, with ornate statues spitting out water into a bubbling pool. The elliptic perimeter was covered with plants—flowers, vegetables, miniscule saplings. Three massive, implanted trees shaded the area, blocking the view and forming an organic roof. The moonlight splintered through the branches, making the ground look like a reflection of the constellations that shimmered above.

Marble benches were placed precisely next to the fountain and he made his way toward them. As he approached, he heard sniffling. Someone was here already and, by the sound of it, they were crying.

Unsure what to do, he continued forward cautiously. Maybe this stranger needed help? Rounding the corner of the ostentatious fountain, he saw a flash of pale blonde hair and a sparkle of blue.

"Satine?" he found himself wondering aloud.

Instantly, the Duchess was on her feet, wiping her face and flushing red. The shade of her blush gave her pale, luminous cheeks a touch of rosy color. Obi-wan found himself entranced by the effect, even though she began glaring furiously at him.

"What do you want?" she snapped at him.

Still dressed in her midnight, indigo nightgown, it appeared he wasn't the only one struggling to sleep.

"Couldn't sleep," he replied lightly, taking a seat on the bench.

A frown pulling at her lips, her sanctuary was now compromised. She had half a mind to throw him out, but the evening was already spoiled.

"Well, I leave you to that," she retorted icily.

She began to leave.

"Wait, Satine—"

"Duchess, if you please, master Jedi," she cut in over her shoulder, stopping just before the archway. "Only friends and family call me by first name."

A punch to the gut, Obi-wan nonetheless persisted.

"My apologies, Duchess," he relented, standing and bowing. "It was my belief that we were friends, but I suppose I was mistaken."

"You assume correctly," she answered, her back to him.

"May I ask why that is?" he asked, tightening his crossed arms.

This time, she turned to face him. Her fingers trembled, her knees shook behind the gown, but she was determined to remain as still as possible, to not show any weakness. His brow was furrowed in the same stubborn way. For a moment, she saw the boy behind the man; saw his mischievous grin and carefree expression. Then, he passed away, and faded back into a stranger.

Bitterness surged through her.

"Why indeed?" she finally responded, clenching her fists. "I could ask you the very same question."

"I can expla—"

"Better yet," she cut him off again, anger building. "I could ask you why, after ten years, you're on my doorstep in the middle of the night, without warning, like some lost puppy! Did you really think that just by showing up you could make me forget the last decade? I thought you had died!"

"Please, let me—"

"But, oh no! Silly me!" she continued with a mangled laugh, far too enraged to stop, her entire form quivering. "You were fine! You just decided that I wasn't worth your time any longer. Well, now I'm deciding that you're not worth my time, either!"

Now she was determined to leave him and she whisked back around, stepping through the arch. Her thin nightgown fluttered behind her like wings as she stomped into the hall.

"Sat—Duchess !" Obi-wan called after her, hastening to catch up. "Don't leave! Won't you at least let me explain myself?"

Huffing, Satine quickened her steps.

"You had a decade to do just that," she declared regally. "Why should I listen to you now?"

Dogged, he would not let her have the last word on this. If only she would just let him speak, she would understand. Trailing behind, he kept his distance but would not let her disappear until he pleaded his case.

"But you don't know the whole story," he expounded in a whisper, aware of the early hour. "There was a reason I didn't—"

"There's always a reason, master Kenobi," she sighed tiredly. "Let me guess, some other damsel in distress caught the Jedi's attention and you, always the white knight, ran off to save her? Is that it?"

Despite himself, he smirked at her veiled jealousy.

"You think too highly of me, my dear."

Again, Satine scoffed. He was still just as arrogant. Like a dog, he followed, yapping in her ear—a rustle of brown in her peripheral.

"Fine," she consented sarcastically, clasping her hands in front of her. "Not a damsel, but a floozy. You always had a soft spot for blondes, as I recall."

"Well I can't deny that," Obi-wan quipped with a lopsided grin and she glanced over her shoulder warningly. "But I'm afraid you're wrong about the rest, Duchess. There were no damsels to be rescued and, I assure you, no women of questionable character to be courted. Nor were there any ruffians or smugglers or cross-dressers—"

"Get to the point," she said, rolling her eyes, lips twitching upward.

"—but there was a devil," Obi-wan finished mysteriously. "A dragon."

Satine's tiny smile faded. She stopped walking and so did he. She turned around reluctantly, fascinated. She peered at him, waiting for him to continue the story. Her pale eyes looked him up and down, suspicious.

Pleased that he had managed to snag her attention, he nonetheless found it difficult still to speak of his haunted past. His grin slipped slightly. It became plastic, a semblance.

"It was a few months after our business here, actually," he told her, holding his cloak close to himself. "During the Trade Federation's occupation of Naboo... do you remember that?"

Satine nodded.

"It was a massacre."

Obi-wan grimaced, his eyes shimmered.

"Yes, I suppose," he conceded as memories flooded through him. "It wasn't all bad, really. At least not until…" he took a breath. "Duchess, do you know what a Sith is?"

She furrowed her brow, trying to remember. It was familiar.

"Not to worry," Obi-wan said obligingly, sensing her struggle. "I think I may have told you, but that was...a long time ago."

"Doesn't it have something to do with the Jedi?" she attempted.

"Yes," he confirmed and his tongue smacked with distaste for the subject. "But it's not a Jedi. It is just the opposite. A Sith is a follower of the Dark Side, whereas a Jedi is a follower of the Light. We are ancient enemies, but the Sith Order fell long ago after a bitter war. Their ranks scattered throughout the galaxy and they have not shown themselves in many years. But on Naboo…there was one there that day. His name was Darth Maul."

Out of his brain, the image of the Sith came to the forefront of Obi-wan's thoughts. With jagged, zig-zagged, black stripes raining down his bright red face, gnarled antlers jutted out of his devilish head. His eyes were a ferocious yellow, with the whites bloodshot and cruel. Over and over again, Obi-wan recollected as the beast struck down Qui-Gon, felt his own rage and fear bubble up inside him as he witnessed it.

Those eyes…eyes which watched Obi-wan hungrily, waiting for the ray shield to drop, bloodthirsty.

"He killed Qui-Gon," Obi-wan said with a faraway face.

Satine gasped quietly and pressed a heavy hand to her chest. Her resentment vanished.

The sound brought Obi-wan back to himself, but he still couldn't shake the image of Maul's eyes from his mind. They had troubled his dreams for years afterward. Even now, he still would wake up occasionally in a cold sweat, only remembering the violence of Maul's yellow glare as it seared through him.

"After that, I, uh, couldn't…" he continued, trailing off profoundly. "Well, it was a difficult time."

Feeling as if a great weight had lifted from his shoulders, he straightened his back and molded his features back into their calm, nonchalant demeanor. Satine, on the other hand, felt rather imprudent and silly for her attitude. Even after nursing the wound of his absence for years, it was hard to stay mad when Obi-wan was surrendering painful memories to her.

"It still doesn't excuse my behavior," he finished seriously. "I was selfish and cowardly. Will you forgive me?"

Throat tight, Satine preferred to answer that question with a rib-cracking hug. She rushed forward before he could react and, suddenly, her arms were wrapped around him. It lasted only a moment, she pulled away almost as soon as she made contact with him, but he found he was quite dumbfounded.

"Er, I'll take that as a yes?" he yelped an octave higher than his usual voice, flustered.

For the first time, Satine laughed, whole and pure. It was always fun to see him taken off-guard. He put on a mask, but she knew the boyish soul lurking beneath it. He was still just the same and that fact gave her a burst of happiness. She had missed him terribly.

Shaking his head, he crossed his arms tightly and began to scowl, hating that he was being made fun of.

"Didn't anyone ever warn you not to go around…hugging people? It's dangerous," he grumbled with a smirk. "Especially for you, Duchess."

"Yes, I believe you're right, Obi-wan. I recall that many of the bloodiest wars have been caused by rogue hugs," she joked in a mockingly serious tone, chuckling to herself.

At the sound of his name, his spirits lifted all the more.

"I defer to your knowledge on the matter, Duchess," Obi-wan retorted, pleased.

"Please," she stated, beaming. "Call me Satine."