Warning! Major canon divergence for the Star Wars portion of this crossover will be referenced in this chapter. This ties directly into the reason why Aemon has been brought into his current circumstances, but the divergent canon will only be discussed as it pertains to the events of this story. I may one day elaborate on the altered Star Wars story beats in another fic, but certainly not now.
I do not own any of the source material for this story. Reviews and constructive criticism are greatly appreciated.
…
"Good intentions aren't enough. They're not meaningless, but that's where we have to start, not where we end."
- Leia Organa
The following morning found Aemon in the palace library, a cavernous space filled with stacks of books, scrolls, and items that mimicked holocrons. It reminded him of the Jedi archives on Tython, where he'd spent many hours studying history, science, and Force mysticism, except that this library was slightly smaller and much more lavishly decorated.
The walls and floors were made of the same marbled stonework as the rest of the palace, elegant, graceful, and warmly lit by tall windows, fires in bronze braziers, and wall sconces. The stacks were so tall that most of the books were irretrievable without telekinesis or the use of one of the interface consoles built into the base of each shelf. The centerpiece was a representation of the Yggdrasil rising from the heart of the stacks: an enormous, lifelike hologram of a tree with differently colored galaxies resting in each of the branches.
Aemon was in a privacy-shielded study alcove tucked into one of the walls, dressed in a set of brown and black Aesir-Jedi robes with his lightsabers hanging from the utility belt. He lounged upon a pleasantly squashy armchair, reading a book with actual physical pages by the daylight streaming through a window to his right. It was an odd experience; on the one hand, physical books were a rare treat back home. On the other hand, the Asgardian books were made with technology that allowed the pages to display moving, light-based images akin to a digital screen. The closest thing to it Aemon could think of was an interactive hologram display.
As much as he wanted to go over the history of his home galaxy since the time of his disappearance in exacting detail, he didn't have time. Instead, he read a series of highly generalized texts like those used to educate younglings, taking his meals as he read. Breakfast had been five local hours ago, and he'd only just finished lunch. In that time he had finished the two volumes covering the Inter-Sith Wars Period and the Draggluch Period that followed it. Now he was reading a primer on the history of the Republic Golden Age. It was only through the use of Jedi memory bolstering meditative techniques, reinforced by inwardly directed Force telepathy, that he was able to read so much so quickly. Still, they only covered the most vital details and were otherwise highly generalized.
The roughly nineteen-hundred years between the end of the Jedi Civil War (which had elapsed three-hundred years before Aemon's birth) and the fourth Great Schism of the Jedi Order had been dubbed the Inter-Sith Wars Period by historians. Despite the name, the era was one of stability for most of the galaxy. The true Sith Empire, which Aemon had spent most of his life fighting, had fractured in 3621 BBY, less than a decade after his disappearance. Its remains had coalesced into several much smaller Sith-controlled fiefdoms that warred with each other as often as the Republic and the Jedi, but failed to recreate the glories of the old Empire.
Over the centuries, the Sith had steadily declined, unable to reunite under a single leader. Aside from a few flare-ups in conflict, each triggered by particularly powerful and daring Sith Lords, such as Darths Phobos and Dessolous, the galaxy was at peace. By the final centuries of the period, the Sith were a hair's breadth away from total extinction, unable to threaten anyone outside the few scattered systems they controlled. No one had even claimed the titles of Dark Lord or Emperor in a thousand years.
Unfortunately, the Republic and the Jedi Order had allowed the ease with which they had turned back the few military challenges they'd faced in that time to make them complacent, and that complacency had allowed an egomaniacal Jedi Master to trigger the fourth Great Schism. Darth Ruin had rallied the galaxy's remaining Sith under his banner, merging their number with his Fallen Jedi followers and reorganizing the lot of them into the New Sith Empire.
Darth Ruin himself proved to be an atrocious leader even by Sith standards, but his actions ignited the first of a series of consecutive wars that lasted a thousand years. The New Sith Wars, as they were called, spanned the entire Draggluch Period of galactic history, brought the Republic to the brink of total collapse, and gradually turned the Jedi Order into a hyper-militarized caricature of itself. So much knowledge of both advanced technology and the Force was lost or destroyed that society galaxy-wide regressed to a level notably inferior to the standards of Aemon's time.
It was no wonder the final century of the Period was remembered as the Republic Dark Age; with its military stretched beyond extremely thin and the HoloNet impossible to maintain outside the Core Worlds, the Republic had functionally ceased to exist. Some of what Aemon read of the Jedi of that particular era broke his heart. Some of it made his blood boil.
Half the Order had chosen to focus entirely on the Republic and abandoned the rest of the galaxy to its fate. Forced to assume greater leadership than ever before, the Order had effectively supplanted the Senate as the true leaders of the Republic. Almost every Supreme Chancellor from 1400 BBY to 1000 BBY was a Jedi, as were a majority of high ranking officers in the armed forces. While these Jedi succeeded in saving the Republic from total collapse, they had failed to do anything proactive to bring peace to the galaxy.
The other half had ventured out into the war torn galaxy and formed their own personal militias, which they led into battle against the Sith in various systems. Over time, these intrepid Jedi heroes were given political power by the grateful citizens of the systems they liberated, becoming hereditary rulers. Most of the so-called Jedi Lords were benevolent and highly competent leaders, doing more to help their fellow sentient beings and push back the Sith than anyone had in centuries. Yet, while their territories effectively became extensions of Republic space, a rift had opened between the proactive Jedi Lords and their Temple counterparts.
In the final decade of the Dark Age, the High Council had attempted to put forth a radical, if charismatic, Master named Skere Kaan as a champion who would scourge the Sith from the galaxy, only for Kaan to abandon the Order and become Sith himself. The Council had, unsurprisingly, refused to take responsibility for their actions, instead deluding themselves into thinking that Kaan was serving them by killing the various pretenders to the title of Dark Lord right until the moment he claimed the title openly and set his followers on the Republic. Thus, the final battles of the New Sith Wars were fought by Jedi Lord Hoth's Army of Light on one side and Lord Kaan's Brotherhood of Darkness on the other.
Aemon knew from experience how war could blur the lines between good and evil and twist heroes into monsters, but the Army of Light, for all its noble aims, committed many of the same war crimes as the Sith themselves. Hypocrites, he'd thought as he glowered at a page describing the prominent role child soldiers had played on both sides of the Seventh Battle of Ruusan. Though the Sith had seemingly been wiped out at the conclusion of that battle, galactic society was in shambles. The Ruusan Reformations struck Aemon as a step in the right direction, but their instigator, Chancellor Tarsus Valorum, had far, far exceeded the distance.
The near-total demilitarization of the Republic ultimately reduced its ability to project power, allowing piracy, slavery, and other criminal enterprises to flourish with impunity in the Outer Rim. The Jedi Order had been reorganized and similarly demilitarized. That was a calculated risk, considering the role it had played in defending the Republic since its inception. It might have been a positive step, except that the Order had been made subordinate to the Senate, reducing its autonomy to the point that the Jedi became little more than martials and enforcers of the Senate's will.
The Jedi hadn't been returned to their original role; they had been defanged.
Worse, the post-Reformation Jedi had doubled down on the Order's worst practices and doctrines. They only accepted infants into their ranks and rejected all forms of attachment. Aemon had to force himself to keep going when he read that part.
The book couldn't tell him everything about the Post-Reformation Jedi, but it didn't need to. A Jedi Order that rejected attachments and refused any new recruits more than three standard years old was doomed to devolve into a rigid, uncompromising, insular cult, incapable of empathizing with anyone who didn't conform to its dogma. It had already been halfway to embodying that extreme by the time Aemon sat on the Eternal Throne, despite the efforts of moderates like Master Gnost-Dural and the Barsen'Thor.
Sure enough, only a few centuries into the so-called Golden Age of the Galactic Republic, the Jedi were executing the Republic's business as though it were the business of the Force.
When Aemon finished his current chapter, he marked his place in the book, then slammed it shut and placed it cover down on the table built into the study alcove. Suddenly tired, he leaned back into the headrest and rubbed his eyes. Once, he had dreamed of rejoining and reforming the Jedi Order, of convincing his brethren to adopt a more flexible variant of the Jedi Code, end the ban on attachments, and recognize that allegiance to the Light side did not automatically make one righteous. It had been a naïve hope, of course, but still…
He glanced at the table. He wasn't even halfway through the book on the Republic Golden Age. Once he finished that one, he had only one left covering his own galaxy. He already had a broad-strokes idea of what it contained, thanks to Odin, but he was still just a little afraid of it. That book would tell him how the Sith finally had their revenge, of the Dark Times, and of the Skywalkers. The last two books had been difficult enough to read. He was no longer sure he wanted to know what this one contained.
Of course, catching up on the history of his home was only half the work. Aemon still had to read up on the Nine Realms and Midgard in particular. He still hadn't decided whether he would actually follow Frigga's advice and attach himself to the one being who might understand his situation emotionally, but he was absolutely certain that he needed to learn everything he could about the planet that had given rise to his species. He had nothing against academics on principle, but it was all so much, and it all needed to be done so quickly, that even with the Force on his side his brain felt as if it would melt and drip out through his nose before he was done.
Deciding he had earned a break, he got up from his seat and made his way out of the library. Using the Force as his guide, he navigated the labyrinthine corridors of the Asgardian Royal Palace, which he now knew was called Valaskjalf, until he found a turbolift. The technology of the place was largely unfamiliar, but the Force-imbued nature of the implements combined with his passable capacity for Technometry (the ability to intuitively understand, operate, and modify machinery through the Force) allowed him to adapt quickly. Of course, even without those advantages, a turbolift was a turbolift.
When Aemon finally reached the ground floor, he headed outside and surreptitiously sought one of the smaller combat training arenas. It was roughly the same size as the indoor training salles in the Jedi Temple on Tython, a square space fifteen meters a side, but the similarities ended there. The arena was sunken three meters into the ground, ringed at the top by a shrubbery-lined spectator's balcony. The floor was a solid piece of cream-colored stone, while the walls were a mixture of decoratively carved bronze and a slightly paler version of the same stone. Interspersed along the walls were racks holding a variety of weapons and other equipment.
What really caught Aemon's interest was the combat simulation system. Every inch of the arena floor, along with the edges of its walls where they met the floor, the lip of the spectator's balcony, and the corners, was filled with tiny projectors that, when activated by verbal commands, worked in tandem to create projections that functioned as both obstacles and enemies to practice against. Unlike the systems available back home, the Asgardian simulations functioned without the need for any kind of supplementary equipment. The projections weren't mere holograms, but semi-solid constructs, and trainees therefore did not need to use special suits or equipment to simulate contact with them. Furthermore, the system could scan the bodies of users, measure their limits, and tune the constructs to match them, ensuring that even superhuman combatants could experience the pain of impact without suffering real injury.
Aemon instructed the system to give him a pair of medium-skill level opponents armed with both ranged and melee weapons, the latter a mix of lightsaber-resistant and vulnerable, and to ramp up the numbers and skill level each time he won. The system responded, producing a pair of translucent gold Einherjar facsimiles armed with swords and circular shields.
Aemon activated one of his lightsabers and held it above his head in a Djem So high guard position, prepped for a Falling Avalanche strike. The first Einherjar construct charged him with its sword; Aemon brought his lightsaber down with all the strength he could muster without calling on the Force, striking the translucent blade with such power and speed he tore it from the construct's grasp. His follow through took off the construct's legs, and it toppled over, dissolving into gold sparks.
The second construct caught Aemon's next attack on its shield, then thrust its blade toward his chest. Instead of breaking the thrust, he sidestepped into a spin, bringing his own blade around to strike the construct from behind and beheading it. As the remains of the two figures faded from sight, he assumed a new two handed ready position and watched three replacements materialize ten feet away, all of them armed with spears.
One of them flicked a finger against the haft of its weapon, causing the tip to fire a bolt of white energy at Aemon's chest. He intercepted it with a twitch of his blade, and it dissolved harmlessly on contact. The construct paused, then all three opened fire.
Unable to send the bolts back at the shooters, Aemon twirled his blade in a Soresu Circle of Shelter, catching them effortlessly. Maintaining the defensive pattern with one hand, he used the other to gesture at one of the foe constructs and grab it with Force. The constructs were only semi-tangible, and grasping one was akin to grasping at air. But that did the construct little good; the hand of the Force could grip air as easily as anything else. It flew toward him, flailing helplessly, and landed on Aemon's blue blade, its spear missing him wildly.
Adjusting his position, Aemon Force-hurled the construct off the tip of his blade, altering its orientation as it flew toward its compatriots so that its spear impaled one of them while its legs caught the other square in the neck with a harsh crunching sound. A moment later, all three dissolved, and six more appeared in their place.
This was more like it. Half of the constructs tried to blast him from a distance, while the others charged him with swords drawn. He took down two of them with a single sweep of his blade, only to stop short as the third's shield resisted his lightsaber. With liquid precision, he parried its slash at his head, blocked a trio of energy bolts from its compatriots, and slipped past its guard to stab it in the chest. As it collapsed, he unleashed a telekinetic blast that sent a fourth construct flying into a wall, then Force-leaped at the remaining two and cut them down in three quick moves. As the remains of these constructs dissolved, ten more appeared in a semicircle on his left flank.
Aemon pivoted casually to face them square on, lightsaber pointed almost straight up. This entire exercise could have been a form of meditation if he wished to make it so, but he didn't. If anything, this was a game to him, a game he was playing against a new kind of opponent.
He grinned.
There were times, Natasha Romanoff reflected, when she greatly respected the SHIELD chain of command, the system of clearance levels and compartmentalization. This was not one of those times.
"We literally participated in the battle here yesterday," she said, not bothering to hide her incredulity.
The agents blocking her from entering the Old Royal Naval College by the same entrance she'd used just yesterday shuffled uncomfortably. Their leader was the tallest man she'd ever seen in person, at least six and a half feet of muscle mass with a pleasant if unremarkable face. Still, it was clear from his expression that he knew as well as she did that he stood no chance of stopping her if she really wanted to get in. He had nothing to fear, of course. Natasha had only returned to examine the damage inflicted on the campus so that she could compile a more detailed report. She wasn't going to force her way past a bunch of ordinary agents who were just doing their jobs.
"Everything here has been classified as Level 7 and above eyes only," the leader said stiffly. His voice was surprisingly melodic for such a big man. "No exceptions, even for the Avengers."
Natasha gave him a look of mixed sympathy and skepticism. Clint was Level 7, but Natasha was sure he'd be denied access as well if he returned to the main battle site. There was something fishy here, and it had nothing to do with the battle itself. "That'll be a hard sell if Thor comes back before everything's cleaned up," she remarked. "He wouldn't be happy if you tried to stop him from, say, collecting something or someone his people lost in battle."
All four guards paled. The leader started to sweat, but, to his credit, held his ground. "I'm afraid that's between the Asgardians and Director Fury," he said stiffly.
Natasha nodded, not in agreement but in understanding of the difficult position the guards had been put in. They knew as well as she did how pointless this was, but they had their orders. Despite herself, she wished Rogers were here. Guards this nervous would have been eaten up alive by his charisma alone. Then again, the captain would never have taken advantage of his reputation to bully his way through the system like that, not unless lives were at stake. His integrity was stronger than his shield.
"Thank you for clarifying the situation," she said pleasantly. Then she turned around and walked away, her mind racing. By the time she reached the street and signaled for the taxi she'd used to get here, she knew what she had to do.
The driver had refused to let her pay for the ride, insisting that her work as an Avenger was payment enough for a lifetime. Natasha appreciated gratitude, but she wasn't comfortable living on the good will of others. Public opinion was fickle, unreliable.
Besides, she thought as the taxi pulled away from the curb, I'm the last person who deserves the privileges of a superhero. And yet, thanks in no small part to SHIELD's recently created yet highly competent PR department, people all over the world spoke of her with a reverence that had once been reserved for comic book characters. Little girls looked up to her, aspired to emulate her. They didn't know what had been done to her, what she had done with the skills she had been given, what her existence symbolized. And let them remain ignorant.
Pulling her phone out of a pocket in her tac gear, Natasha opened her contacts, selected the one she'd somewhat irreverently nicknamed Color Guard, and began to type with her thumbs.
Me: We need to talk
Steve Rogers replied almost immediately.
Color Guard: Trouble?
Me: Maybe
SHIELD has restricted the main battle site to level 7 and above. No exceptions for the Avengers
Color Guard: That makes no sense. We were there when it happened
Me: Thanks, Captain Obvious
I'm pretty sure they won't even let Clint in, even though he's level 7
Color Guard: If you're right, that means they're specifically trying to keep us out
Me: I thought so too
Color Guard: Why would SHIELD try to keep the Avengers from revisiting the site of one of our own battles?
Me: I don't know, but I think it's Fury trying to keep a secret
The kind that's liable to out itself if he doesn't pay special attention to it
For a long moment, Rogers didn't reply. He knew as well as she did that SHIELD was a secretive organization to say the least, but it was always for a good reason.
Fury had a tendency not to think things through when he let his paranoia dictate his actions — Project PEGASUS was proof enough of that — but he was no fool. He would not obstruct the Avengers unless he felt he had absolutely no other choice.
Color Guard: Fury knows we told our new friend with the laser swords to meet me at the campus if he came back to Earth in the next few days. It was in my report
Me: Then he probably disapproves of you trying to recruit a new Avenger without his say so
Color Guard: That's not what I was doing
Me: Could have fooled me
You had the charisma on full blast
Color Guard: Ok, fine. I want to evaluate him to see if he could join the team. You saw what he can do, and Thor respects him
Me: I saw
And you're right. He seems like a good fit
Color Guard: But?
Me: No buts. Just be prepared. Someone this powerful with no attachments, Fury's going to do everything he can to get under his thumb
Color Guard: Not if I can help it
The words filled Natasha with a mix of conflicting emotions. On the one hand, she admired Rogers's dedication to his principles. On the other hand, she had a nasty feeling he could be hurt by someone taking advantage of his idealistic determination to see the best in people. And on another hand, she feared he'd inevitably become fed up with the darker side of SHIELD and leave to become an independent agent. And if that happened, he would not sit idly by and allow injustice to advance, not even if his own country was the perpetrator.
Natasha started typing again.
Me: It shouldn't come to that, even if he does come back to Earth. Which he might not
Color Guard: He will. He only left because the Asgardians insisted they had important stuff to tell him
Me: How'd you figure that?
Color Guard: You do remember I have enhanced senses, right?
I overheard Sif talking to him while he was pulling debris out of the river. I didn't catch or even understand the whole conversation, but I got enough to know he only went to Asgard because he had to
Me: You can overhear private conversations from over a hundred feet away, but you can't get drunk
Color Guard: It's a mixed blessing
Natasha snorted quietly.
Me: I'm running out of reasons to stay in London. Let's hope he comes back before you do too
Color Guard: You're leaving?
Me: Tonight. Clint too
Color Guard: A mission?
Me: A mini vacation
Color Guard: Details?
Me: Not this time, boy scout
Color Guard: |:/
Have fun
Me: Thanks
The conversation concluded, Natasha tapped her phone closed and looked up in time to see her hotel on the roadside, the taxi slowing. When at last the ride came to a stop, she thanked the driver and tossed a thick wad of cash into his lap from behind. He spluttered in surprise, failing to return the overly large tip before she had stepped out of the taxi. She looked back inside and called, "Keep it. You've earned it," before shutting the door.
For a moment, the taxi lingered, and she feared the driver would insist upon rejecting the tip. Then, finally, the car drew away from the curb and zoomed away. Natasha watched it go for a moment, then headed inside the hotel. She had a report to finish.
Aemon cut yet another foe construct in half and stepped away just in time to avoid its torso collapsing atop him in a shower of gold particles. He had switched from a single blade to twin blades some time ago, to improve his ability to crowd control the twenty foe constructs the Asgardian simulator could sustain at a time. Breathing hard and drenched in sweat, he looked less like an experienced Jedi Master and more like a gym rat in inappropriately fancy clothes. He didn't much care, even if he had drawn an audience. The Asgardians, it seemed, loved fighting the way most beings enjoyed team sports, and the dozen or so men and women that had filled out the viewing stands around the arena cheered every time he pulled off a particularly spectacular move. He wasn't trying to put on a show, but he found the joy and excitement they radiated into the Force oddly soothing, so he hadn't chased them away.
He had been at this for over an hour, and he felt as if he could easily keep going for another hour. Still, he was more tired than he should have been. His connection to the Force was stronger than it had been yesterday, but he still had a long way to go before he was fully recovered.
It wasn't ideal, but he could handle it. No amount of lingering weakness could compare to what he'd experienced the night of his escape from Zakuul, half-dead from five years of imperfect suspended animation and the accompanying carbonite poisoning, kept on his feet only by Lana's experimental stimulant medication and massive amounts of Force energy channeled into physical augmentation. Back then, though, his weakness had been purely physical. Now, it was completely spiritual.
As Aemon sliced open the back of a foe construct, he spun through a turn and unleashed a Force wave that bloomed in all directions like an explosion, blasting all the remaining foe constructs into incoherence. The effort of doing so confirmed his suspicions. His body was exactly as strong as it needed to be, but his recent emotional upheaval had done almost as much damage to his connection to the Force as his lingering spiritual exhaustion. With gold dust eddying around him, he issued a verbal command for the simulation to end.
When the replacement foe constructs dissolved and the last of the gold dust settled, Aemon spun his lightsabers theatrically in his hands before rising to his full height and extinguishing them, a gesture which drew applause from his audience. Despite his grim mood, he forced himself to smile as he placed the hilts on his belt and exited the arena. Most of the observers appeared to be adults in their prime or younger, with a few middle-aged individuals and elders scattered here and there with children clinging to them. Several looked as if they wanted to approach him, but stayed back when he dropped his smile.
Aemon didn't like intimidating people, but his forbidding appearance tended to do just that more often than not. If he had to take advantage of that part of himself to ensure he had his space, then so be it. Even so, as he began to make his way back to the palace, two figures detached themselves from the crowd and followed. Recognizing them, he slowed his own pace just enough to allow them to come abreast of him.
"It is one thing to hear stories about Jedi battle prowess or read about them in books," said Lady Sif from his right, "but those tales do not do you justice, Master al'Cazar." The hilt of an uru sword protruded over her shoulder from a back-scabbard, and she radiated almost childlike excitement into the Force.
On his left, Fandral nodded, fingering the hilt of his own sword in eagerness. "You must spar with us some time."
What little Aemon knew of Asgardian culture indicated they were warriors by nature, hot blooded but honorable. It made sense, then, that these two sword masters would wish to test themselves against a member of an order famous for its martial prowess. That Aemon was a particularly acclaimed and accomplished Battlemaster would be an added bonus. "Someday soon," he said with a smile, honestly flattered — as tired as he was of war, he had always enjoyed physical exertion and martial arts contests. "Your combat simulators are quite impressive. The highest difficulty settings were actually challenging, even for me."
He had not meant it as a backhanded compliment or a boast. Since his abilities had plateaued during the Second Galactic War, the number of opponents he'd encountered with skill directly comparable to his own could be counted on one hand. Despite his own misgivings, Satele Shan had known what she was doing when she named him a Battlemaster.
The pleased reactions of both Asgardians indicated they understood this. "Have you decided when to depart for Midgard?" Sif asked.
Aemon shook his head. "Not exactly. The king and queen asked me to interrogate Loki. They think I have the tools to convince him to reveal who gave him the Chitauri and why."
That drew startled looks from them both. Fandral recovered first. "That would be quite the feat, even for a Jedi," he remarked as the three of them passed through the threshold of Valaskjalf and into its soaring corridors.
"What makes you so sure?" Aemon asked, sensing he was meant to.
"We have known Thor and Loki for over a millennium," Fandral explained as they began to walk down the enormous ceremonial corridor that ran from one end of the palace to the other at ground level. "If you are going to convince him to tell you what he would not divulge to his own parents, you would do well to learn as much as you can about him before you confront him."
Aemon nodded. "I'm listening."
It was Sif who began the tale. "Loki was born roughly a year after Thor, at the conclusion of the last great war between Asgard and Jotunheim," she said. "King Odin had just forced Laufey and the Frost Giants to surrender and confiscated their most powerful weapon, the Casket of Ancient Winters. As he prepared to return home, he found an undersized Jotun infant abandoned in a temple that had been destroyed in battle. That child was King Laufey's own son, but Laufey had rejected him for being too small.
"Odin had apparently planned to have the child handed over to a Jotun colony that had fled Laufey's tyranny, but he and Frigga grew very attached to him in the brief time the boy had been in their custody. They named him Loki and enchanted him such that the Aesir disguise he'd instinctively assumed upon meeting Odin's eye became his default appearance. He was introduced to the rest of Asgard as the younger brother of Thor, and that was that."
Aemon frowned. "No one found the sudden appearance of a new Asgardian prince suspicious?"
"Pregnancy interferes with an Aesir's ability to control her magic, and Asgard has enemies with no compunctions about taking advantage of such circumstances. It is therefore tradition to keep royal pregnancies secret until after the child has been born, to protect them and the Allmother when they are at their most vulnerable," Sif explained, "Queen Frigga rarely appeared in public at the time because she was busy raising the newborn Thor, which provided an excuse that made it that much easier to sell the lie that Loki was biologically hers. Outside of her and Odin, only their midwife, Thor's governess, and Heimdall's father in his capacity as gatekeeper knew the truth, and they were all sworn to secrecy. Even Thor was kept ignorant.
"A few centuries after the war, a group of Jotun mercenaries raided Asgard in an attempt to reclaim the Casket of Ancient Winters. They murdered Heimdall's father and hundreds of others, not all of them soldiers, before they were stopped by Thor. No one could definitively prove that Laufey had arranged the raid, but it was obvious he was behind it. It was a disaster, coming as it did when memories of the war and Jotun atrocities against Midgard were still fresh in the public mind and costing more lives than any one battle. Most Aesir have regarded the Jotnar as dishonorable monsters ever since, incapable of upholding their word or respecting the peace. Thor in particular held a grudge against them for centuries, as Loki nearly died in the raid."
Aemon's heart sank. He knew where this was going. "I understand that the truth became public knowledge about three years ago, when Loki found out and reacted badly. What exactly happened?"
Guilt and regret suffused the Force auras of both Fandral and Sif. Fandral took over narrating the story. "The well of power reserved for Asgard's kings must be periodically replenished by a state of deep rest. Both are named for the current monarch, such that Odin must enter the Odinsleep at least once per century to replenish the Odinforce. Odin is in the twilight of his life, and he delayed the most recent Odinsleep for years in order to focus on preparing Thor to succeed him. But Thor wasn't ready to be king, and while he is willing to admit as much now, back then he was, well…" He trailed off, clearly uncomfortable speaking ill of his friend.
"Full of himself?" Aemon offered.
"Exactly." Embarrassment joined guilt in Fandral's aura. "Not that the rest of us were willing to see it. But Loki saw it. A brother's prerogative, I suppose. Still, no one listened to him when he voiced his misgivings. Loki is formidable, but his nature as a scholarly prankster and his deceptive style of fighting have made him… unpopular compared to Thor. After the extinction of the Valkyries, our elite all-female fighting force, most Aesir came to believe that women were better off staying away from the battlefield and practicing support magics. Our dear Lady Sif is regarded as exceptional for being the best among the few who defy this convention, but Loki's pursuits were seen as unworthy of a prince. It made him bitter, more bitter than anyone realized."
"Bitter enough to sabotage Thor's coronation?"
"Just so. During the ceremony he smuggled a trio of Frost Giants into the royal vault under the palace, where the Casket of Ancient Winters and other dangerous items are kept. They were annihilated by the Destroyer before they could escape with it, but they still killed two Einherjar during the break-in. Thor, naturally, wanted answers. We all did."
"But?"
When Fandral hesitated, Sif took over once more. "Thor insisted on going to Jotunheim to confront Laufey personally. Loki, the Warriors Three, and I accompanied him."
"Excuse me," Aemon interrupted apologetically. "I've heard the phrase 'Warriors Three' a few times now, but I've only met Fandral and Volstagg. Who is the third?"
"Hogun," Sif answered. "Also known as Hogun the Grim. He is on Vanaheim spending time with his family. I know not when he will return."
Aemon nodded. "And what is the Destroyer?"
"An automaton meant to serve as a weapon of last resort. It answered only to the king of Asgard and rarely left the palace vault, which it was built to guard."
Aemon noticed how she used the past tense, but let it go, sensing that he would find out soon enough. "Thank you for clarifying," he said. "Please, continue."
She did. She described the disastrous trip to Jotunheim, how Thor's rashness and arrogance had triggered renewed hostilities between the Jotnar and Aesir, how Odin had saved their lives and punished Thor by stripping him of his powers and banishing him to Midgard. Thor's exile would end only if he proved himself worthy in the eyes of his hammer, Mjolnir, which Odin had enchanted to only allow itself to be picked up by warriors of exceptional compassion, integrity, and selflessness. Meanwhile, Loki had realized his true heritage and confronted Odin, who in his own distress had finally succumbed to the Odinsleep.
With Thor banished and Odin incapacitated while halfway through the process of relinquishing the throne, a circumstance that would have compromised Frigga's legitimacy as queen if he didn't awaken, Loki had become Asgard's regent by default. Sif and Fandral both shamefully admitted that they and the rest of Thor's friends had been all too quick to believe the worst, knowing as they did how much Loki desired to be regarded with the same adulation most of Asgard reserved for Thor.
Loki had not intended to let events snowball as they had; he simply hadn't thought his actions through. Still, he had gotten what he wanted, the throne, which he earnestly believed he was more worthy of than Thor. Unfortunately, the revelation of his true heritage combined with insufficient emotional support from those closest to him had sent him on a tragic downward spiral. In his determination to prove himself Odin's rightful heir, Loki had plotted to make Thor's banishment permanent and to destroy Jotunheim.
Thor, meanwhile, spent his exile in the company of Jane Foster and her friends in a small desert town, an experience that had rapidly deflated his ego and reminded him of the values and responsibilities he was meant to uphold as an Asgardian royal. Suspicious of Loki's intentions, Heimdall had allowed Sif and the Warriors Three to visit Thor on Midgard a few days into his regency, a meeting that revealed several of Loki's lies. In an effort to prevent them from exposing him, Loki had incapacitated Heimdall with the Casket of Ancient Winters and sent the Destroyer to kill the rest.
The self-propelled Asgardian superweapon would have succeeded in its mission and destroyed the entire town as collateral damage had Thor not willingly given himself up to its wrath, asking Loki to take his life in exchange for the lives of everyone else. Loki had accepted the deal, and the Destroyer had struck a death blow. Fortunately, Thor's actions had proven him worthy in the eyes of the enchantment on Mjolnir, and the hammer had returned to him, restoring his powers and reviving him from the brink of death. At the same time, Loki had brought Laufey to Asgard and promised to let him kill Odin in exchange for peace.
Aemon knew enough about how the crisis had ended to guess what happened next. "So Thor disabled the Destroyer, and the five of you returned to Asgard just in time to interrupt the coup de grace. Loki killed Laufey right before he could kill the sleeping Odin, thus making himself look like a hero, then used the attack as a pretext to destroy Jotunheim with the Bifrost. He managed to lock the Bifrost onto Jotunheim such that it couldn't be deactivated before the planet was destroyed, so Thor destroyed the Bifrost. Which led to Loki's attempted suicide by wormhole and eventually his alliance with the Chitauri. Meanwhile, the truth of his origins is no longer the secret it once was."
A subdued silence followed his pronouncement. In the Force, Sif and Fandral radiated such misery it might have brought an empathic youngling to tears. They clearly understood and regretted the role they had played in Loki's descent into madness, but it seemed to Aemon that the real fault lay with Odin and Loki themselves — Odin hiding the truth of Loki's origins, Loki for the manner in which he had chosen to confront the issues, from Thor's unpreparedness to rule to his own Jotun heritage.
The only silver lining, it seemed, was that Thor had taken the lessons of his brief exile to heart, for he had struck Aemon as honorable and gregarious, if somewhat hot-headed, in the short time they'd spent together. A bit too loud for Aemon's comfort, but impossible not to like, analogous to those younglings who could form lifelong bonds simply by walking up to their agemates and asking to be friends.
"You've given me a lot to think about," Aemon said at last. "Now, unless there's something else you wish to discuss, I must return to my studies."
"Just this," Sif said. "The starship left here by your forebears has been moved from the royal museum to our shipyards for refurbishment. The engineers request your presence tomorrow morning so that you can evaluate it and provide specifications for its modernization."
Aemon raised an eyebrow. "Couldn't Hugin and Munin have delivered that message?" he asked.
Embarrassment colored Sif and Fandral's Force auras. "They were going to," Fandral said, sounding like a youngling who had been caught with a hand in the candy jar, "but we volunteered."
Restraining an impulse to smile, Aemon said "And you volunteered because?"
Both Asgardians' cheeks took on color. It was Sif who finally answered. "We were hoping to, er, spar with you," she all but stammered. "But when we saw you occupied with the foe constructs, we decided it would be better to simply watch."
"You wish to test yourselves against a being with a reputation for martial prowess that transcends his homeland." He made his voice flat as he said it.
Fandral squirmed. "Well, yes," he managed.
"On Asgard we no longer court war, but it's in our blood to love a good fight," Sif added, a touch defensively.
Finally, Aemon allowed a grin to bloom on his pale face. "I've never liked taking lives," he said, "but I would never say no to a friendly contest."
It was an understatement. His efforts to learn as many different fighting disciplines as possible from across the galaxy had been motivated as much by his personal passion for martial artistry as by the practical necessities of war. Human with alien heritage he might be, but his heart was in many ways that of an Echani, a species whose entire culture was built on honorable contests of unarmed skill. Despite himself, the thought catapulted him into a moment of intense reverie.
A lifetime of war had prevented Aemon from exploring the full extent of his passions. Combat came to him even more naturally than the Force, but he had always enjoyed piloting and tinkering with starships. He had personally owned his share of personal transports and starfighters, and modifying them with his own mechanical skills had been one of his few pleasures. It would be nice to get his hands on something new to tinker with, if only to distract himself from the aching hollowness that had opened up inside him since Odin's revelation yesterday. And yet, his pursuit of both of these pleasures was tainted by the very circumstances that had pushed him to develop as much as he had in both areas. Outside of the needs of war, his skillset was relatively limited.
Yes, he could understand and empathize with other beings even without the Force. Yes, he understood politics, and yes he enjoyed sport and exploring nature, but he had no real idea how to live as a civilian. Since he'd been inducted into the Jedi Order as a two-year old, he'd spent nearly every waking moment fighting or preparing for his next fight. Which wasn't to say he'd neglected his own needs — instead of spending all of his downtime meditating and caring for plants, like many similarly workaholic Jedi, he had set aside occasional nights to spend drinking and gaming with his close ones or cruising for sex. He had allowed himself to form close bonds with those whom he'd felt he could trust and loved the members of his inner circle deeply. But much of what little fun he'd had had been more about self-care than a desire to enjoy life.
Aemon had almost nothing to contribute to society outside of his self-assigned duties as a Jedi. The only civilian occupation he might be able to transition into was that of self-defense instructor. He could play politics if he had to, but it was antithetical to his nature. His usual method for dealing with serious problems was to face them head on and cut them down if they didn't listen to reason. His connection to the Force isolated him even further, as there were very few non-Force sensitive beings who could truly accept and adapt to the idiosyncrasies of Force users.
The stronger a being was in the Force, the less their destiny truly belonged to them, and Aemon's connection to the cosmic energy field was such that in his time he had been considered the most powerful adept the Jedi Order ever produced.
He had only ever fallen in love twice, and in both instances it hadn't ended well for him. His only true relationship had been a secret, whirlwind affair that ended permanently during his years in carbonite stasis on Zakuul, and afterward had been only partially resurrected to friends with benefits. The one other being to capture Aemon's heart had fallen for another before he could make a move, and so Aemon had let go of his own feelings to let them be happy.
Aemon had given so much of himself to the universe, and he sensed that he would soon have to give more still. He understood and accepted the necessity of following the will of the Force, but just because something was necessary didn't mean it was good, or even right. It had hollowed him out, and there was no end in sight.
Distantly Aemon heard voices calling to him, and he gave a start. "Master al'Cazar?" Sif said worriedly. "Are you alright?"
He shook his head. Now was not the time for deep introspection. He took a moment to remind himself what they'd been discussing, then replied, "I will be." He could have lied and said he was fine, but that wasn't his style. "I'd like to get back to the library. I still have a lot of reading to do. Unpleasant reading."
Sif and Fandral were regarding him with concern, and he showed them a weak smile. "I really would enjoy sparring with you, but it's hard to be content when you're displaced from everything you've ever known and lost everyone you ever loved."
The concern turned to alarm. "Are you certain this is the best use of your time?" Sif asked. "Too much bad news too quickly can break anyone."
Aemon shook his head. "That's why I messed around with your simulator, to unwind. I don't know how or why I ended up here, but I can sense that it's for a tangible reason. I need to prepare myself as much as I can while I still have time."
Fandral compressed his lips, then said, "Don't let your duty consume you, Master al'Cazar. You may be a Jedi, but you are still human."
Inwardly Aemon shook his head. It really said something about the Jedi Order that a member of a long-lived warrior race from another galaxy understood the inherent problems with the Jedi lifestyle better than the Order itself.
Several hours later, Aemon looked up from the book that recounted the history of his home galaxy from the twilight of the Republic to the present day. He had chosen to finish his reading in his room rather than the library, the better to avoid contact with pushy Asgardians eager to spar, and now he sat on his bed, clad in gray underclothes meant for sleep. Outside, the shadows were lengthening, and the sky had turned from blue to gray as nightfall approached. In his mind, he replayed everything he had learned.
A secret order of Sith Lords, no more than two at a time, had masqueraded as ordinary if influential beings, working for a thousand years to manipulate and weaken the Republic until the Senate had devolved into a cesspit of corruption and political division and the Outer Rim a lawless haven for the galaxy's bottom feeders. Oblivious to the continued existence of its ancient enemy, the Jedi Order had become insufferably arrogant and complacent, refusing to work proactively to help the galaxy's downtrodden or intervene in any crisis without the approval of the Senate while simultaneously claiming to know the will of the Force by equating it with the will of the Jedi High Council.
Though Aemon had his issues with the orthodox Jedi, he had always believed that they were a positive force in the galaxy. He could not believe that the Order had become so passive, so rigid, so… hollow.
Under these conditions, the Rule of Two Sith had not only managed to infiltrate the upper echelons of galactic politics and finance, but willfully tip the balance of the Force itself toward darkness, an act that not even Vitiate had been able to accomplish. In doing so, however, they had provoked the Force into striking back by literally conceiving a being whose sole purpose would be to destroy the Sith and restore balance.
The prophecy of the Chosen One, compiled from the visions of multiple Jedi who had lived centuries before even Aemon had been born, had been realized.
The Chosen One had been born.
The Chosen One had been born.
Anakin Skywalker was his name, and he had been born into slavery over a century before the present day. Raised on Tatooine until he was discovered, freed, and inducted into the Jedi Order at nine years of age, his connection to the Force was the strongest of any being in all of galactic history, so strong that when he finally mastered it, he had seemed less like a human being and more like a living force of nature. This Anakin Skywalker was in many ways the antithesis of the close-minded, emotion-fearing Jedi of his day, but his passionate, maverick nature had ultimately proved to be his greatest strength when the Sith enacted the final act of their overarching plan.
Darth Sidious, recognized as the most powerful Sith Lord in all of galactic history, narrowly surpassing Vitiate, had orchestrated the devastating Clone Wars to weaken the Jedi and turn public opinion against them while simultaneously eroding the entire galaxy's faith in democracy and building up a military the likes of which hadn't been seen in millennia. Hiding in plain sight as Republic Supreme Chancellor Palpatine, he had controlled the war from both sides via his puppet apprentice, the fallen Jedi Dooku, dragging it on into a meaningless bloodbath.
The Jedi had been drafted to serve as generals for the Republic, a role they hadn't taken up since the end of the New Sith Wars, and they had commanded an army of clones grown in secret on the orders of Sidious's proxies. The clones were sentient beings, though few save the Jedi themselves were willing to recognize that, and had essentially served as a slave army for the Republic even as their personal loyalties shifted to place their Jedi commanders above all other concerns. Meanwhile, Chancellor Palpatine amassed more and more emergency powers until he was a dictator in all but name.
As the war neared its end, Darth Sidious had deliberately revealed his true nature to a distraught Anakin Skywalker as part of a convoluted plan to lure him to the Dark Side. Skywalker had rejected Sidious's temptations and exposed him to the Jedi, provoking an attack on the Sith by members of the High Council. Unfortunately, they had only played into Sidious's hands.
Though Skywalker rejected the Sith Lord and the Dark Side again, he was nevertheless defeated and forced to flee as the only Jedi survivor of the confrontation. Sidious had in turn used the attack to accuse the Jedi of treason against the Republic and issued an order to the clone troopers to execute every last one of them. The clones had been unable to disobey the Sith Master due to the organic inhibitor chips they had been secretly implanted with as infants, while the Jedi had been unable to foresee the betrayal due to the imbalance in the Force and their weariness from the war. Meanwhile, an entire legion of clones led by a cadre of dark acolytes had been sent to sack the Jedi Temple. In the span of two hours, ninety-five percent of all the Jedi in the galaxy had been killed, from younglings to masters to members of the service corps.
Darth Sidious had then convened the Senate in special session to announce the end of the Clone Wars, spinning an elaborate lie that the Jedi had orchestrated it to grab power and declaring that the Republic would be reorganized into the Galactic Empire.
In less than a standard day, the Order that had raised Aemon and shaped the trajectory of his life had been destroyed. The galaxy's best defenders, for all their flaws, were nothing if not selfless and self-sacrificing. They had given everything they had to preserving the Republic and saved countless lives. Yet the galaxy had turned its back on them, and even celebrated their demise.
With minimal fanfare, a galactic government that had stood as a symbol of peace and democracy, a bulwark against slavery and militant expansionism for for twenty-five millennia, had transformed into a reincarnation the very entity that it had sacrificed countless lives to defend itself against.
By sheer luck, Emperor Palpatine had over-invested in making Anakin Skywalker his apprentice. The holonet had used Skywalker and his former Master, Obi-wan Kenobi, as propaganda figureheads for the Republic's war effort, and their status as war heroes made Skywalker in particular almost as popular as Palpatine. By rejecting the Dark Side and openly denouncing the Emperor as a liar, the Chosen One had not only deprived Sidious of his ultimate victory over the Force, but also made himself a figure for resistance fighters to rally around.
With the aid of Jedi survivors, clones freed from the Emperor's control, and the few galactic senators who were willing to defy Palpatine, including Skywalker's secret wife, Padmé Amidala, Anakin had founded the Rebel Alliance and waged a two decade long war against the Empire. On top of destroying Imperial military assets and dismantling its exploitative business concerns, the rebels killed off Palpatine's order of Jedi-hunting inquisitors and amassed the evidence necessary to publicly accuse the Emperor of his role in orchestrating the Clone Wars. Skywalker even managed to convince Palpatine's replacement apprentice, Galen Marek, to reject the Dark and become a Jedi.
In the year remembered as 0 BBY, the Empire unveiled its ultimate weapon, a moonlet-sized battle station called the Death Star with a primary weapon powerful enough to instantly blast entire planets into space dust, by using it to destroy Alderaan. Not a standard day later, the station appeared in orbit of the rebel headquarters on Yavin 4, where it was destroyed by a rebel strike force before it could destroy the jungle moon. Fortuitously, Emperor Palpatine had been present in the system, watching the battle from aboard his flagship, and was assassinated by Skywalker.
Without Palpatine's control, the Empire had fragmented. In due course, the Rebel Alliance had seized Coruscant and reorganized itself into the New Republic. The New Jedi Order was officially founded at the same time, but Anakin, who by then had reached his full potential as a god-like Force wielder, had resigned from the Order out of concern that it would be inappropriate for the Force's Chosen One to be a committed member of any one Force-using group. Instead, his son, Luke Skywalker, who had inherited much of his father's potential, assumed the mantle of Jedi Grand Master and led the Order for the next fifty years.
In that time the Skywalkers, the New Republic, the New Jedi Order, and their allies faced a number of threats to the galaxy that ranged from would-be insurrectionists to Darth Sidious, who had managed to resurrect himself through a combination of essence transfer through the Force and a cache of clone bodies, to extragalactic invasions. The last and worst of these were the technophobic Yuuzhan Vong, whose sadomasochistic warrior civilization relied on bioengineered creatures and who, as a species, had been cut off from the Force, seeming to exist outside of it.
Though they were ultimately defeated during their attempted invasion of Coruscant, the Vong had destroyed or severely terraformed thousands of worlds and murdered more than 150 trillion sentient beings, driving some entire species extinct. Most had chosen to commit ritual suicide rather than surrender, while the survivors swore off violence and were exiled to the wandering, sentient planet Zonama Sekot, which took them to the Unknown Regions.
But that hadn't been the end. In one battle of the Yuuzhan Vong War, the ancient and mysterious Centerpoint Station in the Corellian System had been destroyed. That event had triggered a cascade of unexpected repercussions, much of which were unknown to the Asgardian historians. What was known was that the Lost Tribe of Sith had finally emerged from its 5000 years of isolation on the uncharted planet Kesh and attempted to conquer the galaxy, triggering a series of hot and cold wars that were still raging to this day.
Though the Lost Tribe was losing the conflicts it had triggered, it was a major battle with them that had finally cost Anakin Skywalker his life, in 44 ABY. Still, Anakin had indeed brought balance to the Force by destroying the Rule of Two Sith, kick-starting the reformation of the Jedi, and founding a line of exceptionally powerful Force sensitives who shared a passion for serving civilization. Every one of his biological descendants was strong in the Force, sometimes stronger than was naturally possible for ordinary beings, which in turn made their entire clan figures of great interest to extragalactic observers. And yet, perhaps due to the Force-influence of the Skywalkers themselves, surveillance of the galaxy by outsiders had become more difficult than ever in recent decades.
With deceptively calm, almost mechanical movements, Aemon closed the book and set it down on the bed beside him, then stood up, walked to the middle of the room, and braced his palms on the stone table meant for private meals. A storm of conflicting emotions twisted his insides into knots. It was all he could do to keep himself from summoning strength from the Force and smashing the table to pieces with his fists.
How in the universe was he supposed to react to all this? On the one hand, the Jedi Order had reformed into a much healthier and more effective institution, and the galaxy had been protected from dominion by the Yuuzhan Vong. The Sith were, despite the Lost Tribe's emergence, on the brink of permanent extinction. On the other hand, it had taken countless sacrifices to achieve that victory. The Force itself had been threatened enough to conceive the kriffing Chosen One.
His distress rippled out from him, triggering ripples in the flow of energy that permeated Asgard. Distantly, he heard thunder rumble.
Abruptly, Aemon straightened to his full height and whirled away from the table, victim of feelings he could not process. Through the open curtains, he saw dark clouds gathering outside, the energies of Asgard reacting to his turmoil. In his mind, he saw Jedi dying at the hands of their own soldiers, Alderaan exploding, a Force Storm consuming an entire fleet of warships. He saw Fideltin Rusk and Vette's face contorted in anguish as they fired blasters at him.
That nearly made Aemon fall over in shock. He hadn't experienced the horror that was Order 66. Had that been a manifestation of his own distress at the fate of his fellow Jedi Knights and Masters, or a lost memory coming to the surface? The thought turned his blood to ice. He needed to find his center again, and for that he had to meditate.
He wasn't sure that he could.
At the outermost edge of the Oort cloud, where the pull of the Midgardian sun's gravity was negligible, a starship appeared in a blur of pseudo-motion.
At just under half a kilometer in length, it was by no means small, but, by the standards of the spaceways it was designed to navigate, it wasn't large either. Its thick hull armor and batteries of powerful weapons identified it as a warship. Its mismatched jumble of salvaged armament and shields betrayed it as an outdated model that had been imperfectly modernized. The rashes of melt circles scarring its gray armor, its flickering running lights, and the smoke, solid debris, and leaked fluids trailing from its engines indicated it had come off worse from a battle.
The discombobulated journey through hyperspace that had brought the warship to this system had been the result of damage to its hyperdrive that had occurred mere seconds before it jumped, damage that had knocked it off course and into an uncharted warp of the scintillating blue void, the sort of barely detectable spatial anomalies that were normally avoided by spacers at all costs.
For several hours, the ship simply hung in the nebulous embrace of microgravity, its engines dark, as the crew struggled to repair the damage that had been inflicted on its deflector shields and navigation arrays, weapons and hyperdrive system. But no matter how hard they worked, and no matter how their leader threatened them with death or torture to motivate them, they could not recover the leaked fuel or fully repair the propulsion systems.
The hyperdrive would have failed had the ship tried to jump directly into orbit of the single habitable planet it had detected in the nearby system, but traveling by sub-light was unfeasible, since it would run out of fuel and stores long before arriving. To conserve both, as well as hyperdrive coolant, the ship's crew jury-rigged the damaged systems to create the exact balance of speed and efficient consumption of resources needed to get the ship into orbit. With the new parameters and limitations established, the navicomputer calculated that it would take a microjump and nearly a month in realspace to reach the safety of the system's capital.
Decision made, the warship pointed its flat-faced bow toward the nearest star, it reignited its engines, which spluttered and flared alarmingly but nevertheless pushed it inexorably forward.
To conserve power for the journey, several non-essential systems had been deactivated, including the transponder that would have announced its name to other ships. Had it been active, it would have broadcast a single word in Galactic Basic.
Omen.
I had always planned for this story to take place in a timeline where Darth Vader never existed, and not just because I'm convinced Anakin deserves better than what he got. The fate of the Star Wars galaxy already has tangible consequences for the Nine Realms, as you will see in the next few chapters.
Thanks for reading!