X.
Rali stumbled out of bed and into his Jedi uniform. He shook his head of shades-of-green tentacles to wake himself up, washing sensation through them the way a human would take a deep breath. Any time was too early for Galactic Politics, even if the class was held in the Room of a Thousand Fountains. The garden and expanses of water kept him awake better than classroom walls.
When he reached the place where the class met, other Padawans were there already, sitting with legs folded on the flagstones. Their postures would slacken and vary as time went on and they began to wish they had chairs. Ciaràn arrived at nearly the same time Rali did, with one of the thick, brown traveling cloaks thrown over his shoulders as if he were leaving on a mission for a cold world. Rali said hello in passing, but the Zabrak did not react, only walking by so close that Rali had to step aside or be clipped by his shoulder. The Zabrak sat down unseeing. Rali followed with a similar disregard for the teaching Master's words.
Both of them, not helped by the other's distance, were more conscious of the slow passage of time than of the day's lesson. When the Master dismissed the class, Ciaràn left without looking back.
After he told the Council the location of the Sith training ground, Qui-Gon felt empty of facts. He was left with something like shame, the sense that Obi-Wan would never have wanted him to feel vengeful…but also with a peace, like now that Ciaràn had done what the Council wanted, both he and Qui-Gon could move on with their lives.
He could not keep from being attached to Obi-Wan, if mourning signified attachment. But he could replace some of that mourning with taking care of his new Padawan.
New Padawan, who needed his Sith memories no longer, who Qui-Gon had seen sit serenely in class or doing his studies in their apartment, who Qui-Gon had seen embrace Cin Drallig after they fought until their hands shook with exhaustion. Qui-Gon liked Ciaràn…enough that he wanted to spare him what he had once been.
The Council would not want it. But Qui-Gon could see a dark future in which Ciaràn's memory was tripped by an argument or a fight, and he had no time to think, and simply turned.
And so, Qui-Gon would try to hurt Ciaràn a little less, and take the responsibility for the result himself.
Rali could not know what sensations and questions weighed on Ciaràn as he walked toward the courtyard where Master Jinn often waited to meet him, ignoring the overhanging trees with their dappled shadows that usually gave him a sense of peace. The identity and characteristics of the assassin whose identity he had so easily assumed during the meditation filled his thoughts. Why had he become the assassin—slipped him on like second skin—instead of simply seeing him? Why had he had the vision at all, instead of one of the much wiser Jedi Masters or Council members? It was Masters who were searching for the Sith, not him—he had enough to think about; classes, working with Master Drallig to hone his fighting skills, preparing to build a lightsaber. It was if he had overheard someone speak of the hunt, then forgotten he had heard it until it appeared in his dreams days later. But the dream had been redolent with the Force.
There had been much to admire about the assassin. Skill and technique, but also intensity and focus. Killing had lit sparks of pleasure in his brain that did not fog up thought, but rather sharpened it, became a fiery catalyst for power. Inasmuch he was no match for Master Yoda or Mace Windu, with their deeper grasp of the Force, Ciaràn would have been hard pressed to decide whether the Sith would best a practiced Jedi like Qui-Gon. But he fit perfectly into the mold of quiet, quick slaughter—and he hated the Jedi with an uncomplicated hate that translated into action without any hesitation. Asking him to reconsider would be like asking a speeder to slow down as the accelerator was pressed.
This made Ciaràn dip his head and rue the demon that seemed to lurk behind his eyes, but a mind like that would also make life, would make feeling, so much easier—
He found Qui-Gon kneeling on a lawn made cool by overhanging leaves. Ciaràn mimicked his pose beside him, trying not to focus on the talk of other apprentices who passed by on their way out of class. Although he understood their language perfectly, it was beneath his interest to pay attention to the words. They were like static…like bubbles sent out by the fish that circled the hook.
Qui-Gon spoke casually, matter-of-factly. "Something is disturbing you, Padawan."
"Yes, Master. The Sith…linger with me." He felt that these words were enough, that Qui-Gon must feel how the other personality was spilling out of him, infecting the world, as immediate as a groundquake beneath his feet.
"I have met many beings in my lifetime," Qui-Gon said. "Some have bodies which we could closely compare to an animal's. But the Verpine or Kushiban or Wookiees whom I meet prove, over and over, that sentient beings are all separated from animals by something, whether it be their generosity, or pursuit of knowledge, or their search for meaning in life. I tell you this so that you remember that we all, whether we are Sith or Jedi or those without the Force, choose to be like sentients or like animals."
Ciaràn waited for the words to help.
When they did not, Qui-Gon continued. "I was not instructed to tell you this." He met Ciaràn's eyes. "In a way, you saw true. Before the Jedi brought you to the Temple, you served as the Sith Lord's apprentice."
"Before?" There was no before.
"A little over two months ago."
The memories—the feelings—of the Sith felt as strong as any of the Jedi (except the sacking of the Temple was false, a daydream, a future—that was not how he had been captured.) But memories did not come rushing back. Revelation sank over him like a shroud and smothered words.
"We…the Council…needed your help."
Anger wormed its way into Qui-Gon's thoughts now, and Ciaràn tried to remember his real name, hoping somewhere that he knew it already—he could not seem to blink; his expression had taken on the surprise that his mind could not quite contain. But then, was he really surprised? He had suspected…but he had never truly thought about having once been that person. That construct of thought had also wielded his hands—it was when he began to wonder whether that was more or less frightening than it—and the Council—wielding his mind that he truly felt how luxurious was simplicity.
And simplest of all was anger.
"What did they want? They sacrificed me to it. And what do I do now, with no identity-- with two identies?" What had he done? He couldn't remember—no names, no places with names, just another Master and the sense of a call that he had felt after he fought the two bounty hunters and rode the speederbike back toward the Temple…a call that came from a different direction.
Qui-Gon said, "Answers will not come easily. I…do not know."
Ciaràn passed a hand over his face, struck suddenly with the sense that his bones would shift and he would no longer recognize the shape of himself.
"I thought it would be best to tell you now instead of at a time when it would come as a greater shock. The Council will frown on this."
And Qui-Gon looked at Ciaràn and did not know what he would do, and Ciaràn wondered whether he would be acting predictably if he just hit the Jedi right now, for keeping this from him, from doing this to him…
But he would, instead of feeling sorry for himself, shake himself off and see the world anew and decide who he was—
He would. "I need time to think." The I was swallowed up by the whispery tenor of a breathless voice.
"Of course." Qui-Gon also rose, but by the time he could look down on Ciaràn the Zabrak was away, calculating the quickest way out of the labyrinth of fountains. He passed into the hall, saw Rali waiting there.
The Ho'Din tried "What's wrong?" but Ciaràn swept past. He knew his own Force emanations, confusion and frustration and a pure desire to lash out, and so, knowing how, he shut them off. If Jedi turned their heads as he passed it was because of his flaring cloak and hurried footfalls, or because one did not usually see a Padawan venturing into the hangars alone.
He scanned the ships, fighters and passenger craft, and realized that he was about to steal one (a realization that a moment later slipped back into the flood of thoughts that, rushing through him like water, became one seething whitecap of must get out of the smell/sense/influence of this place.) The high doors to the landing/launching platform were closed. Only as he looked around—flick-flick, his lips jumping back from his teeth-- for their controls did he discover Rali standing behind him.
Other presences floated to his awareness. Must go somewhere alone, influence-less, away from all these Jedi minds-targets-friends. Qui-Gon was hurrying toward him, and a weak-in-the-Force dockmaster manned a computer near the ships.
Ciaràn headed for the weak point. Thoughts badgered him, floating up from meditative afternoons. I killed Jedi—that female fencing on the girders, and another…(he felt sand-grit and suns-glare and no recognizable presence)That's terrible. But what a glory it would be—how can impulses be so polar yet occur at the same moment? They are all so right. Can't choose—why think?—
And so, like his Force presence, he shuts thinking off. Awareness of time goes with it.
He is upon the human dock-attendant before either of them could react. His fingers strain around the man's neck, the black tattoos running down along the sinews of his hand like armor. The human's shoulders smack against the computer console.
Rali, close behind him—and the dock-minder's fingers scrabbling for his own lightsaber. Ciaràn grips, spins, whips the human around into Rali's path and snags his lightsaber in the process. The two slam into each other and strike the floor with a thud, careening back on the dockworker's momentum and fetching up against a ship's hull. For a moment Ciaràn stumbles, standing out of balance, over the tangled forms of the two. The Jedi have been keeping him in classes--!
Suddenly Qui-Gon is in front of him. His lightsaber snaps to life, his voice louder still, reminding Ciaràn of what he is fighting against, restoring him to time. "Padawan, relax."
Ciaràn felt he must be nearer to his true name now. He activated the stolen lightsaber—pale orange. Qui-Gon just toyed with the idea of fighting him, orange and green fields barely touching. Ciaràn leaned in and struck.
And Qui-Gon's blade shorted through his own, sending a jolt of electricity into Ciaràn's hands. The orange saber winked out. A training saber!—In place of a curse Ciaràn threw its hilt onto the floor, seeing for a moment himself dashing it into Qui-Gon's face and breaking his nose, red human blood coating that face—but this is not a desirable outcome—
Qui-Gon looked over the Zabrak's shoulder to the computer, and to the apprentice's surprise, speaks. "He was preparing one to take off. If you wish, find it and go before anyone from the Council arrives."
Taking clear orders was a relief even as Qui-Gon's words stirred up another storm of questions. The Jedi moved to tend the fallen; Ciaràn examined the computer.
With a few clicks the ship that was primed to go was also permitted. A craft fit for five and hyperspace capable, it would fit his purpose well but still take him valuable time starting the engines. Jedi were massing.
But Qui-Gon looked up from Rali's unconscious form (the dockworker was awake, sitting slumped next to one of the ships he had failed to protect—Qui-Gon's hand was on his shoulder), staring, still. Giving him a choice. The lightsaber buzz droned outside the door.
Ciaràn sprinted for the ship.
Lights glowed on the console. The silver walls exuded the sharp tang of the engine. Ciaràn set relaxed hands to the controls and lost himself in familiarization and final preparations. He kept most of the prearranged flight plan.
The ship lifted off and angled upward, slipping out of the shadows of the hanger. Ciaràn stepped back from the controls, breathing in what he had done, as Coruscant fell away.
What now? Whatnowwhatnownownow—
His name fell away from him then. The Force rushed in the breach where the words had been, filling him with awareness of the Jedi Temple below. The concentration of the Force pulled him like a gravity well—he rushed to the ship's hold, dark and filled with supply crates. No light was needed to know that this was the part of the ship farthest down, closer to the nexus. He beat his fists against the walls, wanting to go back and take his revenge-- Why had he sabotaged himself? Must go back, fight the Jedi with all the power with which he was rocketing away now—
He sunk down, tired. Named in namelessness.