A/N: Welcome to a new arc of The Silent Song, everyone! Life and more updates at the end of the chapter

Song for this chapter: Greetings (Haikyuu) Yuki Hayashi


"Heyy, look what the loth-cat dragged in!" a gravelly voice bellows out over the chime of the opening entryway. "If it isn't the most eligible young Jedi in all of Coruscant!"

Obi-Wan smiles broadly as he lowers his hood and strides to the gaudily decorated diner, confident steps with his long shadow cast out beside him from the last rays of Coruscant's setting sun.

"Hello, Dex," he greets, barely managing to finish the last sign before his hands are crushed between his tunic and the questionably-clean front of the Besalisk's apron. He laughs silently and returns the hug as he is lifted off his feet and placed gently down again. There is a simultaneous array of flashes as a dozen paparazzi droids outside the diner take holos in unison, but Obi-Wan does not deign to turn his head; after a year and a half of this since the fall of Nal Hutta, he has grown used to it.

"Sit, sit!" Dex waves him to a barstool. "What do ya feel like havin' today? Any of ya friends comin'?"

Obi-Wan lifts his hands to answer, but the same moment a flurry of activity runs through the droids outside, and the door slides open with a cheerful chime to reveal two tall, russet-cloaked individuals that lower their hoods as one.

Obi-Wan raises a hand – partially in greeting, and partially to shade his eyes from the explosion of holo-flashes again as the late afternoon light catches Huei Tori's padawan braid among his navy blue headtresses and makes the string of silka-beads shimmer like pearls caught in shifting sea. A Mon Cala female patron sat a table in the corner actually sighs audibly as Huei walks past her without a care to take a seat next to Obi-Wan at the bar.

"What do they see in you two?" Garen Muln grouses as he seats himself beside Huei. "–Oh, hey, Dex. Huei, you should be grateful you can't read the holo-tabloids," he adds, reaching for the bowl of moss chips Dex sets before them. "The former Crown Prince of Stewjon and the rising young Jedi aide of the Senate. They ran an entire two-page spread comparing you and Obi-Wan's jawlines just last week."

Obi-Wan had been halfway through a sip of Jawa juice. He spits it out across the bar.

This prompts yet another flurry of flashing lights behind them. None of them bother to turn around.

Huei blinks slowly, eyelids sliding closed and open once over his opaque, silvery eyes like an asharl panther, then shrugs and darts out a hand for a moss chip with unerring accuracy. "As always, I am astonished media of that calibre sells," he murmurs.

Slightly pink in the face, Obi-Wan steers the conversation in another direction by mopping up the mess and shoving a menu in Garen's direction. He then quite determinedly begins touch-signing the menu choices into Huei's hand.

"Shut up and choose something," Obi-Wan says with his free hand when Garen flashes a teasing grin over at him.

They are on their second round of jawa juice and munching contentedly on Fern-potato fritters by the time the door chime rings out again and a lithe black-uniformed figure throws himself onto the barstool beside Obi-Wan.

"Y'got summat stronger than jawa juice 'ere, Dex? Blasted knackered, I am."

Obi-Wan grins as an orange-skinned hand lands on his shoulder. "Ezhno," he says, the name-sign flicking across his fingers. "Long day?"

Ezhno grins right back, fearsome, full-grown Togruta hunting fangs gleaming in the last rays of Coruscant's sun. "Systemic anatomy's difficult 'nuff , lil' Obi," he groans. "An' thanks, Dex," he adds as the proprietor slides over a serving of Corellian brandy. "A proper mind reader, you are."

"Hm. Good idea," Huei murmurs as his headtresses scent the air. "One more for me, if you would, Dex."

"And me!" Garen adds happily.

Dex lumbers over with two more frosted transparisteel cups in his huge hands. "You sure you don't want any?" he says conspiratorially to Obi-Wan as Garen and Ezhno clink their glasses against Huei's. "Qui-Gon won't hear nothing from me."

Obi-Wan takes another sip of his jawa juice and lowers his ceramplast cup. "These two idiots are eighteen standard. Ezhno is twenty. I'm not quite there yet." he replies, hands easy and unaffected. "I'm not one for breaking the law."

"When you're not on mission, you mean." Dex chortles.

Obi-Wan smiles slyly.

Outside, the last rays of Coruscant's sun slips below the horizon. Neon signs flicker to life amongst the undying glow of Coco town's ever-present lights, and within the diner there is laughter, and greasy food, and good company. In the morning there will be a splash of holos across the society tabloids depicting four very different-looking heads bent close to each other in mirth; gold-white head-stripes, russet hair, navy blue head-tresses, and brown nerf-tail.

But presently there is a sharp trill from Obi-Wan's utility belt, and he hastily wipes his greasy hands on a napkin to detach his comm.

He reads the short lines of Aurebesh letters with curiosity.

"Whuzzat?" Ezhno interjects by his ear, leaning over Obi-Wan's shoulder to peer at the green-tinted words.

"Mission?" Huei says, sipping moderately on his second drink with practiced patience – and keeping it out of Garen's reach with ease.

Obi-Wan nods, and taps Huei's hand affirmative.

"Gotta be somethin' serious," Ezhno says, brown eyes flicking down the message. "Master Windu hates meetin' this late. He hides it, but he does."

"Same time tomorrow, then?" Garen says, leaning into their field of vision so Ezhno can see him.

"Can't," Ezhno says, straightening the slate grey buttons of his sleeve cuff. "Promised Fyrn I'd see that new holo-picture with 'er."

"That's going well, then?" Huei says non-committally.

Ezhno looks confusedly at him. "Whaddaya mean? 'Aven't gone to see it yet. She said she didn't 'ave anyone to go with 'er."

Obi-Wan hides his grin by turning to wave at Dex for the bill. Behind him he hears Garen say with interest, "Your friend from back in the Cruorven? The one who shielded you during the Senate incursion?"

"Yeah. We're still workin' in the Youth Empowerment Centre together."

Garen's grin is literally audible. "Hey, Ezhno, you'd probably ask her real name this time. I can't believe Fyrnock was the name she was born with."

The soft thud of fist meeting cloth. "'Ey, if she wants to keep that private, she can. I've only ever known 'er as Fyrn."

The four of them scrounge in their pockets for credits, leave Dex a generous tip, and waltz out to the bustling night-streets of Coco Town, shoulder-to-shoulder, uncaring of the blaze of holo-flashes as the paparrazi droids follow. Down to the inter-district hover-train and across the planetary sector to Temple district, up the Processional Way, and between the towering statues that guard the Temple entranceway to the soft carpeted corridors of the Jedi Temple proper.

The warm weight of good food in his stomach and the lightness of his heart stays with Obi-Wan after he bids his friends goodnight and ascends the highest spire alone; and he is smiling gently even as the doors to the Council chamber open and he steps within.

The first thing he sees is Master Dooku's head of sleek silver hair as he turns mid-conversation with Mace Windu to stare critically at Obi-Wan. Qui-Gon stands a little off to the left, one hand over his beard and brows furrowed in thought. The rest of the chamber is empty, and beyond, the cold lights of Coruscant's air-traffic trail crimson and stark white against the night sky.

Obi-Wan is suddenly aware of the wind-whipped state of his nerf-tail and the faint scent of processed grease that still clings to him; the unguardedness of his smile and the open ease that must be so easy to read on his face.

He schools his features into a more solemn expression and steps forward to bow as is proper.

"Good. You are here, Padawan Kenobi." Master Windu says, the deep baritone of his voice ringing about the circle of empty seats. "We can begin."

As Mace leads the way into a side chamber, Dooku following, Qui-Gon slows his pace a little to fall in step with Obi-Wan.

Obi-Wan raises an eyebrow in question at his mentor.

Qui-Gon shakes his head once. There is a grim set to his mouth that Obi-Wan decidedly does not like.

"I assume this pertains to a mission," Obi-Wan indicates without preamble once Dooku and Mace halt opposite a circular holo-table.

Mace nods, but a faint line appears between Dooku's brows.

At this, Obi-Wan suppresses a silent sigh and reaches into his belt for a square of worn flimsi. It has seen less use in the past year and a half since his return from Nal Hutta, but not every Council Member has made the effort to learn Galactic sign language since it was made known to them.

Obi-Wan's grandmaster evidently has not.

Dooku nods, hawk-like, as he reads the line of Aurebesh letters. "Yes," he says. "Recent events have come to my attention which pertains to the interests of the order." The holo-table springs to life under his fingers, glowing green as he brings a map of a galaxy to focus. "With trade to the outer regions increasing after the Republic reclamation of Hutt Space, inter-system trade conglomerations such as the Commerce Guild have been increasingly looking for footholds in the outer rim. The Guild, as always, has attempted to find an option that requires the least number of credits.

"In this case," Dooku says, eyes glinting green-tinted by the hologram as he selects on a far-flung sector and focuses on a singular, barren planet, "They have elected to build their latest outer rim centre on Korriban."

Obi-Wan stares.

A beat.

"Korriban," Qui-Gon says behind him, an echo of his padawan's disbelief in his voice. "The ancient Sith homeworld?"

Mace's features are a picture of restrained distaste. "It is not illogical if one realises the Guild has few Force-sensitives among them," he murmurs. "Korriban has been a barren world since the New Sith Wars. With no planetary government in situ there are no taxation laws for the Guild to adhere to."

"Precisely," Dooku continues. "Construction on their newest centre began four months previous. A contact of mine posted to that sector has recently informed me that the process has unearthed something…unnatural."

"Something Sith in origin," Mace confirms. "After Master Dooku informed the Council, we have made our own enquiries. Reports coming out of Korriban are unclear. The Commerce guild is evidently hiding something – something that would tarnish their reputation should it come to light. The injury or death of workers under their purview, for example."

"I cannot imagine something of ancient Sith origin being anything other than extremely dangerous," Qui-Gon murmurs as he steps closer to refocus the hologram onto a blurred contruction site on the planet's northern hemisphere. "To approach as non-Force-sensitive would be…suicide." He pauses. Glances up at his former master. "But what does this have to do with Obi-Wan?"

The question is deceptively light.

Obi-Wan tugs once on the training bond in the back of his mind. Hard.

Qui-Gon's fingers spasm where they are tucked into his belt. He does not move.

Mace holds Qui-Gon's gaze with steel in his own. "Master Dooku has asked for the Council's permission to investigate the discovery on Korriban. As he is the Order's most senior Sentinel, we have no cause to deny him. Padawan Kenobi is perhaps the only Jedi alive who has seen a Sith Temple and held a Sith Holocron and survived to tell the tale. Given this, Master Dooku asked for his assignment to this mission. Master Yoda and the Council is inclined to agree to his request."

Dooku speaks, sharp and commanding, before Qui-Gon can interject. "And it would prove…educational."

Obi-Wan exhales slowly. None of them speak of it, but kilometres below their feet are the collapsed remains of what used to be a Sith Temple; Obi-Wan vividly remembers even now the sawing breath in his lungs as he raced through the collapsing ruin, horrible crooked Sith-born things leaping out of the shadows to attempt to devour him.

It is not something he would voluntarily like to repeat.

But there is duty, and the Force.

A thunderous frown creases Qui-Gon's forehead, but the next moment Obi-Wan has moved forward and is moving quick hands to speak.

"Please translate for me, Master," he says.

Qui-Gon's fists clench at his belt. He acquiesces after a long moment with a sharp jerk of his head.

"Thank you," Obi-Wan says. Then, to Dooku: "I understand your request, Master Dooku. But I would ask what purpose we would serve on Korriband?"

Dooku listens to his former apprentice's grudging verbal repetition with his glittering gaze never wavering from Obi-Wan's face. "We would investigate the source of this danger."

A pause.

"And put it to rest so none will encounter it again?" Obi-Wan continues.

"We will see if it may further our understanding of the Sith," Dooku says sharply, one long finger tapping at the hilt of his lightsaber. "For the good of the Order."

At this, Mace steps into the conversation and holds Dooku's gaze for a long moment. The two most senior Masters of the Order stare at each other, a silent conversation that Qui-Gon and Obi-Wan are excluded from; then Dooku nods almost imperceptibly and takes a step back.

"Within boundaries, of course," he says calmly. "The Sith were sly in their methods. We will be careful."

"I see," Obi-Wan says. "Then I will agree to this arrangement – I will agree to this arrangement," he signs more forcefully when Qui-Gon halts mid-repetition to stare at him – "But I have one request."

"Of course," Dooku says, once Qui-Gon has grinded out the sentence.

Obi-Wan unhooks a small datareader from his belt, and holds it out to Dooku. "Learn Galactic sign language, Master Dooku. At least enough for mission-related communications."

For the first time ever, a crack in Dooku's inscrutable mask. There is something of surprise in his gaze. Qui-Gon's expression is reserved now, but there had a been a moment in his spoken interpretation of Obi-Wan's signing where Qui-Gon's disbelief had leaked through to his tone.

From behind Dooku's shoulder, Mace's expression slowly opens in a rare smile.

Something a little like respect enters Dooku's gaze as he accepts the datareader. "I will make an effort, Padawan Kenobi."

Obi-Wan nods once.

"Dismissed," Mace says. "You leave at seventh hour antemeridian from the Southern hangar."

Obi-Wan swivels on a heel and marches out to the Council chamber and the antechamber beyond. He activates the controls to call the turbolift, and waits placidly for what he knows will come.

"Obi-Wan," Qui-Gon begins.

Obi-wan closes his eyes briefly. Part of him wants to interject and cut this conversation short before it can begin. The other part of him – the part that lived a year in unwilling servitude and learned to wait, and listen, and move with sharp opportunity, decides to hold his peace. Whatever objections Qui-Gon has, he will address. Patiently.

The turbolift doors hiss open. Master and apprentice enter, and are sealed into a small bubble of compressed space, with the glittering lights of the Coruscant night beyond moving over their faces in pale, shifting columns.

A beat of silence.

"This is one of those moments," Qui-Gon says with an odd note in his voice, "where I find myself absurdly proud of how far you have come, while simultaneously somewhat…" He trails off. Looks away. Inhales audibly. His hands tighten where they are clasped into opposite sleeves.

Obi-Wan blinks a little. Looks across to his master, whose face he cannot see; reads the line of his shoulders, on which he used to rest his injured head when Qui-Gon bore him out of conflicts as a tiny, fresh-faced padawan prone to battle injury.

There is more grey at Qui-Gon's temples than there used to be.

The turbolift opens to the main concourse, almost empty at this time of night. Qui-Gon moves quickly through the doors and down the concourse proper, so Obi-Wan almost has to jog to keep up with Qui-Gon's longer stride; across the concourse and into another turbolift, and up to the familiar warmth of their shared quarters.

Qui-Gon shucks his boots and strides out to the balcony without another word.

Obi-Wan pauses at the door, rearranges his master's boots and his own, and decides to make tea.

With the Noorian blossom Sapir steeped to perfection, Obi-Wan fills two ceramplast cups and brings them out to the exhaust-tinged Coruscant night air.

Qui-Gon is staring at the chem-trails of the air traffic beyond, his face a granite mask save for the restrained glimmer in his eyes. He glances down when Obi-Wan nudges his elbow with Qui-Gon's serving of tea, and the mask softens into something resembling a smile.

They stand side-by-side at the balcony and watch the people thronging the Processional way and Temple district beyond for a long while, silhouetted against the glow of the city-planet; Qui-Gon taller, broader of shoulder, the light flickering among his greying hair, and Obi-Wan leaning against the rail with the easy confidence of a young man growing out of the gangly-limbed form of adolescence.

"I'll be careful," Obi-Wan says eventually, tapping Qui-Gon's elbow so Qui-Gon turns to him before he signs.

"I know you will," Qui-Gon says, and there is an uncharacteristic catch in his voice, so different to the steadiness that Obi-Wan thought insurmountable when he was a junior padawan. "If there are any among the order that I know can stand shoulder-to-shoulder with my former master and presume to teach him, it is you. I only wish–" He catches himself.

The praise sits warm in Obi-Wan's stomach. This is one of those moments where he almost marvels at how they have changed, Qui-Gon and he; how they can speak almost as equals, now, face to face where Obi-Wan had waited to be spoken to before, the dutiful padawan.

"You have grown so very wise," Qui-Gon says. "And yet I wish I could go with you."

"I know," Obi-Wan says. "But we go where the Force wills and live in the present moment, do we not?" He smiles mischievously as Qui-Gon catches his own words thrown back at him.

"Why, I was mistaken," Qui-Gon says shortly, though he is smiling, now. "You haven't changed at all, little scamp."

Obi-Wan smiles, and continues to do so as Qui-Gon's broad hand finds his shoulder.

"May the Force be with you, padawan," Qui-Gon says, his fingers tightening and conveying everything that his words do not. "Always."

Obi-Wan inclines his head once, a token of his training. "Thank you, master."

(:~:)

The first thing Huei Tori notices upon stepping into Bail Organa's office is the hum of excited expectation in the Force.

"Bail," Huei says slowly, "Is there…?"

"Huei!" A shout and a rustle of expensive cloth and suddenly Huei finds himself caught up in a hug and released just as quickly. The shout echoes in the small chamber and reverberates up his ankles.

"Sorry, sorry," Bail says as Huei slowly straightens. "I know this isn't like me, but I've got wonderful news."

"Yes, you're usually more…" Huei pauses, as he looks for the best word to describe his friend. "Restrained." He moves forward, feels for the back of the chair he knows is there, and sits. "What's happened?"

The slap of two hands against a desk. "Breha agreed to marry me!" Bail's smile is a flash in the Force that smashes through Huei's shields, an infectious delight.

"Congratulations," Huei says, deadpan. "I thought you'd take forever to ask her." But he cannot quite stop the grin that tugs at his cheeks afterward.

A light punch against his shoulder. "Thank you." The sound of Bail's boot steps move away then return, and Huei finds a tumbler pushed between his fingers.

Huei sniffs at it and raises an eyebrow.

Bail laughs. "I know, terribly expensive vintage. But you're the first of my friends to find out."

"Well," Huei says, after the first sip, "I assume this means you're returning to Alderaan."

A pause. Bail's Force-presence loses a little of its shimmer. "Well, yes," he says, after a moment. "I can't be a senior senate aide forever – I've learnt all I can here. I was raised to become senator one day. I'll go home, marry Breha – she's first in line to the throne and it looks as though she might have to ascend soon – and start building the support I need to run for Senator in a few years' time."

"Imagine that," Huei says contemplatively. "Senator Organa."

"Hm. Quite."

"That's depending if you win the election, of course," Huei says, an edge of humour in his tone. "It would be a pity if your primary election base discovered your manifold failings. I, for example, know you once crashed for forty-eight hours after weaning yourself off sixteen cups of caf a day-"

"Huei," Bail laughs, "You wouldn't."

"I wouldn't," Huei concedes. "Congratulations, Bail. I'll have to find someone else's office to invade every noon meal, it seems."

"You're a permanent fixture of the Senate now, Huei," Bail says. "Half the newly elected Senators are practically begging for you to become one of their aides."

"They're welcome to try if they can make it past Senator Mothma. Garen's off piloting full-time now, so I'm her only part-time aide left."

"Oh, they wouldn't dare. But Huei, before I go, there's something you need to be aware of."

"Oh?" Huei takes another sip.

"There's been…murmurings among some systems after the Battle of Nal Hutta, as you know. Stirrings of discontent regarding the Chancellor and his handling of that incident." The mirth is gone from Bail's voice now.

Huei nods once. The liquor in his mouth turns a little sour. He had been Chancellor Valorum's most prized aide for close to a year – and walked away when the Chancellor had chosen political safety over definitively sending aid to Obi-Wan and thousands of Republic civilians trapped in bondage. To this day the memory sends a dull ache across his fingers where they had clenched around the banister of the Chancellor's hover-pod when Valorum made his declaration.

He forces down the memory. "Stirrings, yes," he says, calmly. "Nothing beyond that."

"I'm afraid there is," Bail sighs. The clink of his glass meeting table. "There are rumours of systems speaking to one another about…breaking away."

Huei frowns. "Breaking away from what?"

"The Republic," Bail says. "Separating themselves from Republic governance."

A pause.

"Is that…constitutionally possible?" Huei ventures. "Declaring independence?"

"No," Bail says. There is a note of grave expectation in his voice. "It would involve nothing short of a civil war."

"That bad?"

"Yes. No Senators are obviously complicit yet, however. Everyone heard it from someone else, and so on and so forth. And on the opposite end of the spectrum there are those Senators that obviously serve Republic interests but have lost faith in the Chancellor all the same. Senator Palpatine of Naboo, for one. He's got a solid political base gunning for him to become the next Chancellor, now."

"Hmm." Huei lowers his glass. "Something the Jedi Council should know?"

"Possibly."

"I'll pass it on."

"Thank you." A pause. "Wait. I know that look. What are you going to do?"

"Oh," Huei says, standing, "I'm going off to do a little investigating of my own."

(:~:)

One of the things about being blind that Huei discovered very soon after he lost his sight is that people tend to forget about his presence. He is at the Senate four days of every week now, training to eventually join the Order's diplomatic corps, and his face is well known enough around the Senate rotunda that he effectively fades into the background of the Senate building itself. But, for some absurd reason, people forget he can hear just as well as (or perhaps even better than) they do, and take the fact he cannot look at them to mean he is not listening.

He takes a longer noon meal than usual today, taking time to scent the air with his headtresses as Knight Fisto taught him. He deliberately chooses a table at the Senate cafeteria closer to a knot of Force-signatures that radiate furled anxiety, the scent of worried adrenaline wafting minutely through the air. There he sinks into half-meditation, extending his Force-senses to hear far better than any non-Force-sensitive sentient could hope to.

"But does the senator actually intend to–"

"Shh!"

"But I'm not comfortable with this. I should know, I don't have a degree in Inter-system Law for nothing. This is sliding much to close to treas–"

A flurry of rustling cloth. It would seem other members of the group have hurriedly hushed the speaker.

"Speak softer, do you want to get arrested?"

"Right, right. Point being, I'm not going to be a junior aide to the senator for the rest of my life. I don't have enough of a stake in this to risk my liberty on it."

"Oh, for– finish eating, will you? We can talk about this later."

Huei chews slowly, and waits until he hears the scrape of three chairs against the floor before standing and following the group. He trails after the soft tread of their shoes on the corridor carpet, the sound of their Force-signatures a low hum ahead.

A whoosh of compressed air as a door opens and closes, and Huei crosses the last few steps before his outstretched hand finds cool durasteel.

A small, tinny voice sounds over his head – an overhead speaker of some sort. "Office of the Senator of Raxus. Do you have an appointment?"

"Ah, no," Huei replies politely. "I was a little turned around. I'll be on my way. Thank you."

He makes his way unerringly back to Senator Mothma's office by feel and sound alone, and settles behind his desk thoughtfully.

"Raxus, then," he murmurs.

A starting point.

(:~:)

Ezhno is wrist-deep in the guts of a Rodian cadaver when he looks across the dissecting lab and lip-reads something unexpected.

Two of his course-mates are working on a deceased Twi'lek on the last table in the corner, a bit removed from the others. Their hands are shifting methodically, following the session instructions as they should be – but their lips are moving quickly, and their heads bowed together in speech.

"What, like a bloody revolution?"

"No, no. That's like what that group – what were they called – Cruorven did. This is more like a new wave of ideas, yeah? Whole systems rallying together to change the very constitution of the Republic."

"That's separatism, mate. Not just ideas."

"Call it what you will. I think there's value in it."

Then Ezhno's dissecting partner moves into his field of vision and blocks his view of the conversation, and Ezhno refocuses on the instruments in his hands.

The accidentally lip-read conversation stays on his mind as he finishes up; as he washes the instruments, disposes of his dirty dissection gown and changes back into the smart high-collared uniform of a Ward of the Order.

The Jedi Starbird stares back at him from his sleeve as he straightens a button.

He read the conversation without any context; it could be nothing.

Or it could be something.

Two years ago he had chased a question into the depths of Coruscant's underbelly and ended up on the Senate Boulevard with a kilogram on condensed tibanna strapped to his waist.

Ezhno does the smart thing this time and sends Mace Windu a quick text-based comm message before heading out into the late afternoon air. He is already running late on meeting Fyrnock, but as he hurries down the campus steps, his mind trips down each one, an unsettled rhythm where his steps are sure.

A misunderstood conversation?

Or a bloody revolution.

(:~:)

Tahl finds Qui-Gon in a cloistered garden two levels from the Temple roof, glaring balefully at a muja tree dotted with ripe fruit ready for picking. The late afternoon night is just beginning to dim through the high transparisteel roof above.

"Why, hello, my grumpy friend," she says by way of greeting, plucking a plump muja off a branch and plopping down next to Qui-Gon.

Qui-Gon is silent. He stares up into the leaves of the Muja tree Obi-Wan has tended to since it was a sapling as though his padawan might materialize from behind its branches.

Tahl bites into the fruit. "Mm."

A long silence.

"You know," Tahl says, polishing off the fruit and flicking the stone at Qui-Gon's ear to get his attention, "This happens every time Obi-Wan's off on a mission without you."

Qui-Gon winces. "I know – and ow, by the way."

"Does this have to do with who he's on the mission with?"

"Perhaps. But that isn't what troubles me."

"Hmm?" Tahl hums. She takes his hand. Qui-Gon's fingers tighten over hers immediately.

"I actually have a nagging suspicion that they'll work very well together," Qui-Gon says, carefully detached. His thumb moves in lazy, half-conscious circles over the back of her hand. "They're so very different, Obi-Wan and my former master. But there too are similarities that I can't deny exist. I…" he pauses. "I never used to be one for sentiment," he half-growls.

Tahl trills a laugh. "Someday, Qui, you'll learn to let go of things that you care too much about."

His thumb halts on the back of her hand.

Tahl stills. Stares across at him as he works his fingers loose from hers and stands, quite deliberately.

"Qui–"

"Later."

Tahl stares after her oldest friend as he strides away, pace quickening, through the grass the garden entranceway and beyond.

He does not look back.

(:~:)

Huei steps into he and Feemor's shared quarters and is immediately greeted with the fragrant aroma of simmering topato stew. He smiles, removes his boots, and folds his cloak over his arm. It takes three steps into the apartment for warmth to run over his left side; where he can feel waning sunlight but not see it. Roughly sixth hour postmeridian, then.

"Ah, my dear padawan has returned from his daily sojourn into political hells!"

"If only to be faced by your infernal prattling, Master," Huei deadpans, and grins as Feemor's warm Force-presence moves closer and gathers him in a quick, light hug. The rough natural weave of a plant-fibre apron presses into his cheek as he returns the embrace.

"Now sit," Feemor says, as a timer beeps and he rushes away with a rustle of tunic sleeves. "I've been experimenting with some of the recipes you taught me."

"Topato stew?" Huei says blithely, forcing his headtresses to stay still; his stomach chooses that moment to rumble in betrayal, though, and his cheeks warm.

"Ha!" Feemor barks a laugh. The sound of ceramplast sliding across wood. "I'll take it that means I succeeded."

As always, evening meal with just the two of them is a masterclass in gently needling humour. Bone-dry insults on Huei's part, feigned injury on Feemor's, and an open warmth that almost fills Huei's stomach more than meal itself.

"Seperatism?" Feemor says through the sound of him chewing heartily on his next mouthful. "I do hope it really is just talk, Huei. I can't say what the Senate at large would decide if any systems decided to declare independence. You saw the economic sanctions they placed on Stewjon, and that was for the rescue of Republic citizens from unwilling bondage."

Huei scrapes his bowl clean with a bit of bread, feeling the curve of the edge under his fingers. "Bail Organa says it might be war – if any systems actually declare dependence," he says quietly.

Feemor stops chewing. "It might," he says. "Perhaps you should bring this to the Council. Or at least Master Windu. I'll comm him."

"I thought I'd discuss this with Obi-Wan, as well," Huei says, standing and feeling for the rim of his plate and bowl. A change in Feemor's Force-signature stops him. "What?" he says, a trifle tense.

"Obi-Wan's off-planet," Feemor says, a careful note to his voice. "Urgent mission. He left this morning."

Huei shoulders relax. "Oh. How long will he and Master Jinn be gone, then?"

"Ah. Qui-Gon's not on this mission." Feemor's end of the bond is half-shuttered, as though mist covers the end of the mental bridge that connects them both.

Huei pauses, both hands in the sink. "You're not telling me something," he says slowly. "If Obi-Wan's on this mission alone as a senior padawan, that wouldn't be anything special, either."

"Huei," Feemor begins, placatingly.

"So Master Jinn's not with him. But he's not going alone." The words come faster, now. Tripping over themselves. Huei's hip hits the edge of the sink.

"Huei," Feemor repeats. The scrape of his chair against the floor. Hands at Huei's shoulders.

"So," – Huei twists out of Feemor's grasp – "Who has been assigned on this mission with Obi-Wan, Master? And whyare you afraid to tell me?"

A deep, long sigh. The srape of saber-calluses across skin; Feemor's hand across his face. "It's Master Dooku's mission. He specifically requested Obi-Wan."

Huei stands there, blank.

"Oh," he murmurs. "Why?"

"I don't know," Feemor sighs again, a susurration of air. "Qui-Gon was very tight-lipped about it. Dooku requested Obi-Wan for this mission, Obi-Wan agreed. That's all I know."

Huei processes this for a long while. Feemor's Force-presence is an arm's length away – outside Huei's space but there should Huei wish to reach out for him. It is something Huei has always appreciated – the quiet, non-intrusive support that Feemor offers as a mentor, so unlike the harsh rebukes and non-acceptance of anything other that perfection that Master Dooku had favoured.

He breathes.

Dooku is harsh in his methods, and he…he would not have chosen Obi-Wan unless he had very specific reasons in mind.

Huei's former master is not one to do things without intention.

"Right," he says, quietly. "Right." Then: "Could you comm Master Windu for me, Master? I'd like to discuss what's happening in the Senate with him."

"Of course." Feemor moves away, but not before his presence washes over Huei's in the Force – a quick, assessing touch.

Huei nods once. He is fine – surprisingly so, but fine.

Obi-Wan is the strongest person Huei knows. If there is anyone who can look at the cold fire that is Huei's former master and face it, it is Obi-Wan.

(:~:)

"Pure Sabacc, Padawan Kenobi," Dooku says, laying a perfect fan of cards across the table before him. "An unfortunate misstep on your part."

Obi-Wan had expected cold silence from Dooku for the entire length of their journey to Korriban.

He had not expected…this.

Dooku is surprisingly easy to converse with. There is the slight hiccup involved with Dooku's unfamiliarity with Galactic sign language, but true to his word, Obi-Wan's grandmaster has already begun to learn. And in a shift of perspective that has Obi-Wan stunned, the elder Jedi is receptive to teaching – Obi-Wan had cause to correct him on several first mistakes and to Obi-Wan's surprise, Dooku had welcomed it. And never made the same mistakes again.

It is almost bewildering.

And now, as Obi-Wan lays his losing hand of cards across the table and lowers his head to examine them, Dooku's elegant, long-fingered hand enters his field of vision and taps at a card.

"You could have achieved victory if you had relinquished this card. You could not look through my shields, I presume?"

Obi-Wan shakes his head, brows furrowed in thought.

"Naturally," Dooku continues. "Now, I'm aware you were attempting to sense the next few cards in the deck when you drew. A fair attempt – as I recall, Qui-Gon's preferred playing method involves using Force-senses to predict the next hand." He straightens, smile sharp. "Effective against most opponents. Not against me."

Obi-Wan sits back. The hum of the hyperspace drive thrums through his back where it is pressed into the back of the recessed seat. "Then what is your preferred method, Master Dooku?"

Dooku's eyes track Obi-Wan's signs with intense scrutiny. "My method?"

Obi-Wan nods.

"This." The soft tap of an elegant fencer's hand against the sabaac shift array. "The sabaac shift is the most unpredictable element of the game, where any card out of the interference field is randomly re-shuffled in the player's hand. Many a player has possessed most of a Pure Sabacc hand or even an Idiot's Array only to have it abruptly snatched away by the sabaac shift."

A moment, where Obi-Wan looks at the sabaac shift array; an encrypted box of solid durasteel with a mess of wiring within, designed to foil the most experienced thieves at gambling dens across the galaxy. Dooku couldn't possibly…

"I took a moment to familiarise myself with the coding of this particular array before the game," Dooku says smoothly. "A little judicious application of the Force, and the once most unpredictable element of the game was mine to control. Definitively."

A beat.

They share a look, grandmaster and grandpadawan, across the no-man's land between them.

Dooku speaks first, a quiet, cool voice, like silk on ice. "If we are to ensure victory on this mission, Padawan Kenobi, you will have to change the way you think. The way you perceive the Force, even."

Obi-Wan does not move.

Dooku's smile is sharp. Perceptive. "Start thinking like a sentinel, Padawan Kenobi. The Sith do not leave room for kindness."

The thrum of the hyperspace drive rises under their feet as the ship hurtles on towards Korriban.


Next chapter: Our three intrepid heroes each find their roles in the galaxy have changed; they are no longer children, and the threats they face have similarly grown.

I hope this chapter finds all of you hale and healthy. Long term readers of mine will know I'm a junior doctor in Hong Kong, and the usual busy schedule has been made even busier with the novel coronavirus situation. I'm going in next week to the dirty wards to take care of suspected and confirmed cases, but until then I have a very rare week of leave. I hope to get at least another chapter out before I go in!

I felt a little strange as I wrote this chapter - like someone watching their children growing up too quickly. But then again I started this story as a seventeen year old secondary school graduate, and I'm a junior doctor now. Time passes faster than we think. I welcome any and all feedback, and thanks as always for reading!

(Oh and if any of you are fans of the movie 1917 - an amazing picture - check out my twin Wafflesrisa on ao3. Her story Pick a Man. Bring Your Kit. is a briliant interpretation.)