At fifteen, the stars in the sky are at once both infinite and untouchable to Lana Viszka Ruhr.

"Lana," Risse Keera calls through the door to her room. "Have you finished reviewing for MATF yet?"

"No, Master," Lana calls back, a tad grudging. A scheduling mishap on account of the brief sector-wide power outage resulted in Lana taking the basic-level metaphysics course twice (it is rather charmingly titled Metaphysics and the Force, or, as one of her fellow Padawans prefers to say, Enlightened Snoozing for Dummies), and Risse had been the one to judge the computer error as Force-sent. Let humility grow in you, my young Padawan, whatever life's circumstances, or something of the like. Lana looks down at the criss-cross pattern that the artificial moon shining through the window paints on her tunic and wonders when the Force will send her a break.

Risse pokes her head through Lana's door, her lekku drawn up in her sleep headwear, a frown on her face that falters when she takes a look at her Padawan. Lana feels the poke at her shields and drops eye contact; Risse pauses, then steps fully into the room. "You're troubled, Padawan mine."

"Hiram's not here," Lana mumbles, shifting her datapad under her robes as casually as she can. He's out there in the stars, somewhere in the galaxy, exploring abandoned Jedi temples with Master Bar'qo.

"We must let go of our attachments." A challenge.

Lana looks up, temper flaring. "I'm not attached. Master. With all due respect."

"Oh, clearly," Risse says blandly. She settles gracefully in front of Lana and observes her young apprentice with the maddeningly impassive mask she'd started adopting around the time Lana had hit puberty. With her lekku bound loosely behind her back, Lana can't see if they're twitching or not. Blast, she thinks, fifteen and petulant. "What concerns me is this lack of trust you seem to have in me. When did the galaxy begin to rely upon your shoulders, hmm?"

"It doesn't," Lana says, too quick. Her lips thin at Risse's blatant snort. "No, truly, Master, I know it doesn't. My concerns were foolish, and I knew you were attempting to sleep. It was my last wish to bother you."

Risse tilts her head. "And yet here we are. Your shields are not your strongest point, Padawan—save the grandstanding for a day when you can back it up. For now, as your Master, I'd like to know what has you so spun up that you haven't begun to study at... ah, yes, twenty-one hundred hours standard time."

Lana is silent for a long time, but Risse knows by now that it is not defiance that keeps her from speaking. Eventually, she speaks. "Master... have you ever heard of the concept of fixed points in time?"

"Is that what you've been reading up on?" Risse asks, unable to quite hide her amusement.

It earns her a plaintive, wounded look. "Master!"

"Continue, Padawan," is the suspiciously serene reply. Risse Keera is many things, but a skilled liar among friends is not one of them.

"It doesn't matter, anyways," Lana mutters. "It's all theoretical. Hardly practical. Master Jhevak's text only has a sentence about it."

Risse sighs. Lana jumps when Risse's hand enters her field of vision and tugs on her braid. "I trust you will remember that we made a deal to research your visions after your Metaphysics final, Padawan. As long as you have duties to attend to in the present, there you must remain. The Force will guide you from there."

"Yes, Master," Lana replies, young and too disturbed to hide it well.

Risse surveys her for a long moment. "We're going out," she announces suddenly, standing. "Come, Padawan. A task awaits us."

Datapad and its contents forgotten, Lana hurries to her feet and follows Risse into the sitting room, the prospect of some new adventure for the moment exciting enough to wipe her worries from her mind.

Some things never quite change.

In the vastness of space, there is... life.

There are his men, with him in a metal box, every signature unique, a life bound to every other through the Force. He looks at them and sees a future, dark and clouded, echoing with the screams of dead men in valleys built of black stone and whalebones. But the future is constant, and so he passes on.

There are ancient creatures, sleeping in asteroids, lurking by hyperlanes. They await unwary spacers and inhabit graveyards of dry bones. These, too, are bound, because a life is a life regardless of the shape it takes. A life is sacred by the very fact of its existence.

Lives are sacred. The chaos in the galaxy seeping into space and waking things long since put to rest is not.

Yoda hums. Reaches deeper.

The grand vista of infinity sprawls out before him, the Force in it all and through it all, the tangled, gnarled roots of that-which-was lying under, the discord brewing on every possible horizon, and he—

—remains unmoved. As a Jedi should, yes, a Jedi who sees the Force as a tool, but he is not old for nothing, he has not seen better Jedi than he be reduced to tears by the diaphanous beauty of this view for no reason, and Yoda observes the darkness carving fault lines into the universe and thinks—

—children we once were, yes, children we remain—

—and something demands his attention.

It is not the ghosts of the old Sith stirring from their graves, no. They remember him. They loathe him. They would not seek to weave their subtle webs around him, around the Grand Master of the Jedi Order, old before they were young.

No. It is another.

My old Master, the voice of Qui-Gon Jinn says warmly. How long it has been.

Late, you are, Yoda harrumphs, glad in spite of himself. But the Force does not waver because of this lapse; neither does his concentration. Neglected, I feel.

My apologies—I had some pressing business. It has the ring of a joke to it, some untold story that Yoda is not privy to, and he is reminded of how the world inside Qui-Gon's mind had only ever been fully accessible to the man himself, a model Jedi in every respect save one.

Time for apologies, it is not. Speak to me, you wish to, he says to Qui-Gon, because the Force murmurs with purpose, with intent, but hesitation also. Far more characteristic of his Padawan than of Qui-Gon himself. Obi-Wan always was given to doubt, to questioning, to seeking the best way to walk the path before starting upon it. Perhaps a decade in the Force has taught Qui-Gon what all the meditation and lectures on temperance in the galaxy could not.

There is silence, and then the sense of Qui-Gon drawing himself up. For a moment, Yoda can again see the young man under Dooku's tutelage lifting his chin, tucking his hands into his sleeves, determined to follow the will of the Force regardless of what anyone else thought. To the point, as ever. I ask only that you listen until the end, Master.

"Look who's back," Quinlan Vos says, something wry in the twist of his lips when Obi-Wan walks back into his room in the medbay. In contrast to the last time he saw him—all of a standard hour ago—he is now propped up against the bedframe, one arm in a sling, the other wrapped with bandages. There are more wounds beneath the loose shirt—how they got the bloodstained shirt off him is beyond Obi-Wan, but the fact that Quinlan visibly grimaces when he shifts speaks volumes. "Couldn't stay away, huh?"

"Oh, indeed," Obi-Wan shoots back with a sardonic lift of the brow, taking up a place against the wall. "The sight of your face was so hideous I had to make sure I wasn't having a nightmare."

From the doorway, Lana snorts despite herself. Both men look at her; she stares back blankly, then—"Oh. My apologies, Masters. It won't happen again."

"I'm glad to see that you're in fine form, Padawan Ruhr," Quinlan says before Obi-Wan can reprimand her.

He's grinning. With Quinlan, that's never a good sign.

She raises an eyebrow at him, a kind of daring determination flashing across her face. It's a look that's started to give Obi-Wan a headache. Sure enough: "You flatter me, Master Vos. I could never hope to live up to you."

"I'm glad to see that you two already know each other and treat each other with all due respect," Obi-Wan mutters, sotto voce, and the two of them look at him in one synchronized motion.

"Master Vos was the one who found me," Lana offers by way of explanation.

Quinlan nods. "And it looks like time has evened that temper out—my right arm thanks the Force for that. She bit me when we first met, did you know?"

"I did not bite you, Master," she interrupts stiffly. "I was—"

"—staging an attack to rescue my Padawan from the perceived injustice of leaving her outside to guard the entrance," he says, looking at Obi-Wan mournfully. There's a glint of amusement in his eyes that Obi-Wan has been on the receiving end of far too often. "I felt teeth, Obi. In fact, there might still be a scar. Would you like to see?"

Lana's scowl is thunderous, but her signature in the Force sparks with thinly-concealed entertainment. "Many of the truths we cling to greatly depend upon our point of view," she says, like she's quoting someone, but despite the familiarity of it, Obi-Wan can hardly think of who could have possibly originated it. A great deal of the Jedi texts talk about points of view, after all, and he's read most of them. Remembering the specifics is beginning to be beyond him at his age.

"And that's why you're headed to Naboo," Quinlan says, awfully satisfied with himself.

Obi-Wan nods. "As soon as her lightsaber skills are up to par, yes. Thank you for the tip. If Maul is still on-planet, I would prefer to take every precaution."

"So that was his name," Lana muses. "The Archives only record his presence as the Darksider with the double-bladed lightsaber."

"Suffice it to say, one is rather forced to learn their enemy's name when he pursues them for a decade and a half," he says, dark and dry, and ignores the feeling of surprise Quinlan tosses his way at his openness.

Lana nods in agreement, as if she's familiar with the situation. "That'll happen."

"In any case..." Obi-Wan eases away from the wall and digs out a datachip. He hands it to Lana. "This has the details of the particular mission we'll be undertaking. Familiarize yourself with the contents and head down to the salles to warm up—I should be along shortly."

"As you wish, Master." Lana bows to them both and makes to leave, but she pauses in the doorway, her braid jangling against her shoulder. Under the harsh light of the medbay overheads, her eyes are nearly a pale blue as she glances back at Quinlan. "Master Vos, I'm glad to see you safe. May the Force be with you."

Then she is gone, leaving silence in her wake. Quinlan glances at Obi-Wan with an uncharacteristic caution. "Obi..."

"I know," Obi-Wan says wearily, folding his arms against his chest. A grumpy refrain that was a constant in his younger years—Master, why do I sense that we've picked up another pathetic lifeform?—plays on repeat in the back of his mind, harder to banish because of the vaguely unsettled feelings coming from Anakin's direction.

Quinlan tilts his head and studies him. "You do," he says finally.

"I'm not completely blind, contrary to popular belief," he snips, tossing his friend the fearsome Kenobi classic—an icy glare complete with furrowed brows and what Anakin likes to call the 'Anakin-you're-giving-me-a-coronary' look when he's not in earshot.

"You don't know what I was going to say," Quinlan points out, leaning back in the bed, resting his bandaged arm at his side. He's never been fazed by Obi-Wan's irritability—not as a youngling, not as a Padawan, and never as Knights and Masters, working side-by-side. It can be galling, sometimes. "War has made you even more disagreeable, my friend. I remember Padawan Kenobi. That's quite a feat."

"Yes, well, I'm surprised more don't remember him," Obi-Wan grumbles. Looking back at him across the years, he thinks that the young man he had once been would perhaps get along better with Anakin than the man he has become. Padawan Kenobi was possessed of an energy that was not unlike Anakin's daring tenacity, after all. Obi-Wan isn't sure whether he lost that energy when Anakin began to habitually shorten Obi-Wan's life expectancy by ten years with every foolhardy stunt or when Maul had nearly killed Satine on Mandalore, but the fact is that his endurance is now less of a fire and more embers and ashes. Still glowing, but on the verge of being extinguished.

Quinlan looks at him then, and Obi-Wan waits, because the thin line of Quinlan's lips is as serious as he ever gets. "They don't need to," he says finally. "His spirit lives on in Padawans like her. And besides, I remember. So do Bant and Garen—"

"Quinlan."

The testy warning makes him sigh. "Oh, come on. They're out on the field, but that doesn't mean they've forgotten. Anyways, just—be patient with her, Obi. There hasn't been a Padawan more fitting to inherit the title of Supreme Brooder since, well, you."

"Anakin is currently the defending champion of that title," Obi-Wan informs him. "I suspect it is a defect in the teaching line, passed down from teacher to student, and it shall be thus forevermore."

Quinlan snorts. "Right, sure. Be careful out there. I'd hate to see you get lost in your own personal cloud of gloom and doom, Master Kenobi."

"Let us make a deal, Master Vos. You stop getting yourself abducted by various Force-abusing cults, and I shall stop—how did you put it? Ah, yes. I shall stop finding trouble in a broom closet." Obi-Wan's smile is more than a little snarky.

"I don't know how you found out about that, but I stand by it," Quinlan says, knocking his undamaged fist against his chest. "I can't believe your Padawan only enabled your skulduggery. Well, no, I can, but most of us expected you to take on someone like Ferus Olin, you know?"

Obi-Wan turns around. Only then does he let himself roll his eyes. "Goodbye, Quinlan."

"May the Force be with you," is the cheery reply.

Obi-Wan sighs. "And also with you," he replies, if not a little grudgingly.

Whatever Dooku is doing, he's brought backup.

Anakin breathes out through his nose, drawing the scarf around his mouth again to prevent the sand from getting in when he takes a deep breath. The Carbon Ridge isn't nearly as extensive as the Jundland Wastes back on Tatooine had been, but what it lacks in geographical width it more than makes up for in sheer verticality. He casts a wary glance up at the peaks above, then at the sands below. The mountain itself looks sturdy enough—but there would be nowhere to take shelter in if a sandstorm came through, and the locals had warned one of his scouts that it might.

R'iia's breath, they'd called it. Attributed its power to the fury of a desert goddess.

He eyes the droid sentries milling about the path up ahead. "Rust buckets," he mutters, glaring at their scraped hulls. Whoever made them certainly did it cheaply—their guns look like they're made of scrap metal, their builds are even more skeletal and bare-bones than even the lowest-level T-0921 series compactible durasteel droids, and Anakin's willing to bet that whatever metal they're made out of, it's not a pure alloy. It's practically criminal, as Obi-Wan would think very loudly whenever Anakin tried to prepare tea as a Padawan. "When was the last time they went in for servicing?"

"Well, sir, it does make getting over there easier," Rex says, nodding to the outcropping further beyond the droids. It's their next point of investigation, mostly thanks to what looks like a man-made platform glinting black under the desert sun.

"It's a crime to droidkind, but we have to," Anakin murmurs. Briefly, he wonders how many times he has thought along those lines these past two years; wonders what Padmé would think. Of his words. Of him. He is no longer nineteen and desperate to catch his one shooting star. War has changed what the Jedi could not, and he swallows the brightness of the sky and tries to push the thought away. "Right, men. On my command."

The world falls silent and buzzes with the nervous energy of a squad of soldiers, with the life force of men who have been preordained for a purpose they have no say in.

Anakin draws in a breath and sets his jaw. If he concentrates very hard, he can feel a presence very near to them. It is fuzzy and indistinct at the edges, but it lingers like an old friend and settles into the back of his mind as if it has always been there.

Visiskuma, his mind tells him, like he has always known it. And perhaps he has. Perhaps he was always meant to feel the heat of the sun on his head, his chest, his arms and legs, until everything around him and in him is molten with the glowing golden currents of the Force spiraling out into the galaxy. Ja'ak, ja'ak. In power I am set free.

"Now," he barks out, putting thoughts of destiny out of his mind. He is starting a battle here in the present, and he will not fail his men.

Jakku's sun burns on as blaster fire fills the air.

visiskuma - "absolution". Sith language.

ja'ak - "I am free". Phrase. Sith language.

Sourced from Codex Ulgo.

Thanks to tomockingbird for being a wonderful beta reader.