Notes --

Thanks to the fantastic job Michele did with this! You wouldn't believe the silly little mistakes that I make!


Dream Sequence

Mara was sitting on a fence, and standing beside her was her son. Nearby a river bubbled over rocks, and wind whispered across the grass plains. In the distance, she could see some kind of gazing animals, but they were too far away for her to tell what they were. She and the boy were the only sentient beings as far as she could see.

"This is pretty," she said idly. The vague part of her that was aware of the dream snorted in disgust.

"Yes, I come here to think," her son answered, seriously.

"Where are we?"

"I can't tell you that. It would be against the rules."

So it would.

"What's your name?"

"I can't tell you that, either."

The rules again, curse on the rules, but she could not break them.

"Do you remember playing treasure hunt?" he asked, surprising her with the apparent change in conversation. Again, though, it was in keeping with the rules, and it was hard to focus here.

"I never really had the chance to play children's games," she reminded him dryly, wondering if he had.

"Oh, right," he said, frowning as if he'd forgotten, or had never known at all. "Anyway, you're given an object and you've got to figure out what it means and where it's leading you. Then you go to that place and find another clue that leads you somewhere else. And when you've found that clue you move on to the next place and so on until you reach the treasure at the end."

"You're the treasure."

"Maybe."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"Everybody's looking for something."

"Is that my clue?" she asked, a little sarcastically.

"No."

"Why can't you find me?"

"Because where I am, that's beyond my capability."

"So, what's my clue?"

"To find me you have to find my father."

He was perfectly serious. Her son didn't seem to have much of a sense of humour, but then maybe that was something to do with the fact that this place didn't exactly induce laughter. For his sake, she resisted the urge to snort. What kind of clue was that? One that fit to the rules.

"Any help on that?"

"Sorry, I don't know anything about him, or about you for that matter. You know him, though."

"I don't." She looked at him for more information, but knew he couldn't give it to her.

"I wish I knew your name, so I could contact you." He sounded wistful and she wished she could comfort him, but that would be against the rules. They could not touch in this place.

"Here," he said suddenly and held out his hand. She turned her own hand to him, palm upwards and he dropped something into it. Lifting the object up, she examined it. A small stick carved with various beings and animals.

"It's beautiful, what is it?" She turned it over, admiring the fine detail, all traces of sarcasm gone.

"A dream stick. You put it under your pillow and it helps you remember and interpret your dreams. I carved it. I used to think it would lead me to you, maybe now it can help you find me."

Her eyes tingled and there was a lump in her throat as she felt something she could not identify. She nodded and the stick in her hand began to blur, until she could not see the detail; the carvings were rough beneath her fingers, letting her know the problem was with her vision, not the dream or the stick. In giving her this, even in the context of the dream, he had somehow transgressed the rules.

"Mom?" he said softly, and her whole being felt on fire and then doused in ice – no one had ever called her that. "You will find me, won't you?"

She could have reminded him that she had been searching for him for nine years and still hadn't found him, but knew it would be pointless. "Of course, I will." She had never meant anything more.

Everything was fading now, and she could no longer see him clearly. She found she couldn't remember what he looked like. She wanted to tell him she loved him, but couldn't make a sound. Then, with a rush, it was all over.


Reality came crashing back with a force Mara hadn't expected. It took her a moment to re-orientate herself to her room, and to who she was. Again her pillow was wet with tears, but unlike the previous morning she didn't feel overwhelmingly lonely. For the first time in a long while, she felt calm and rested.

With a start she sat up and thrust her hand under her pillow, not completely sure why she was doing so. When her fingers brushed against something hard, she tugged and pulled out a small piece of wood with intricate carvings. It was a beautiful warm colour and she could feel the comfort it radiated. As in her dream it blurred and she realised she was crying – she could remember her dream.

The experience had been unusual, not normal. She had dreamed about her child before. Sometimes he had been a boy, and sometimes she had been a girl. Usually, though, the dreams were filled with anger and recriminations from a nameless, faceless child. Fingers were pointed, blame laid; a blame that she had taken willingly. It was, after all, her fault. This time there was no guilt, and the boy had simply wanted to be found.

Had it been real? Was it truly her child she spoke with? Did it matter? She had never spoken with him before. The stick seemed to attest that it had been real, and she hoped so. She would like him to know she was looking for him. It could have just been a representation of her child, though that did not explain the dream stick. Nor would a figment of her imagination. So, had it been him?

He had called her Mom. Nobody had ever referred to her as such, ever. In her other dreams the word mother had been used as an insult or a taunt, but mom had never come up. She sat there clutching the dream stick, going over every detail of her dream, but to her frustration she could not remember what he looked like.

Slowly she began her day. Shower, caf, a couple of pieces of toast – she went through the routines distantly, she had other things on her mind. "To find me you have to find my father." That wasn't a clue! How could she find his father? He had been a one-night stand, memorable only because it had gotten her pregnant. The man had been singularly unimpressive, and she could not remember his name, or even the name of the bar she had met him in.

Although, the question did arise in her mind, had Palpatine known? Her former master might have done checks, and if anyone had had the ability to find out the name of the man who had gotten her in this mess, the Emperor would have. She had searched for nine years for her child, she would have assumed that any information gleaned on his or her father would be with any information on him or her. She growled in frustration. He might have thought to help her, and maybe it was the only information the rules allowed him to give, but it was completely unhelpful.

About then, she realised she had a meeting to get to. Yesterday, she would have been thrilled at the distraction, today she wanted to sit here and find out where her child was. Gathering her things together she left her apartment.

Only to walk into the chest of Luke Skywalker for the second time in two days. He'd been waiting for her. She'd been an idiot to tell him anything the day before, now he wouldn't leave her alone. Maybe if she left the planet for a while he'd give up and forget. Maybe banthas will fly.

"Do you sleep?" she asked in her best Emperor's Hand voice.

"Did you?" he said in return, apparently unperturbed by her tone.

"Actually, yes." She could tell her response surprised him, though he hid it well. It was true, though. She felt a thousand times better than she had the day before.

Luke noticed her appearance. "Where are you going?" he asked suspiciously, and she fought the urge to roll her eyes. The Jedi thought she was running away. It was tempting to avoid him, but in the long run it was impractical. He was the type to hang round like a bad smell.

Still, it never hurt to tell him to back off. By the time he'd licked his wounds, he'd have something else to bother about. "Away," she said as curtly as she could, adding as many layers of ice to her voice as she had in her.

"Where?" he asked in his soft tell me voice. The one that made you want to confess all to the oh-so-helpful Jedi Master.

"Somewhere ignorant farmboys aren't," she said and moved off, down the corridor. Let him stew on that one for a while.

"Mara!"

She didn't bother responding. A part of her was very angry with herself for telling him what she did. Her child was her secret; it was not for anyone else to know about. Palpatine had stolen a very important part of her and no doubt he was sitting somewhere in whatever passed for his afterlife laughing at the pain he caused his treacherous ex-Hand. He would have enjoyed her misery very well.


Around mid-morning Edan was upholstering a chair when Taashi appeared. She'd been awake earlier, he'd heard her in the bathroom, but she'd evidently gone back to bed.

He looked up apprehensively, but nearly sighed in relief when he saw her face. She was bruised, but she could still see. Often she ended up with one or both eyes swollen shut, which prevented her from being able to work. This time it was just a split lip, and a couple of bruises. They both knew a few healing techniques, but using them only annoyed Vestaii, so they were better to be avoided. She wouldn't be fit to see customers for a couple of days, but by the end of the week she'd be all right. Provided Vestaii doesn't start after her again…

Edan had sent the children to school, quietly. Vestaii had left for the spaceport, where he did minor engineering jobs, before any of them had risen. The older man worked long hours, and for little pay, but it was all that he had the manual skills for. Edan suspected Vestaii was jealous of Taashi and his own ability to carve wood and make furniture, but the man had never had the patience to learn. None of this explained or excused his violent temper, however.

Taashi moved a little stiffly, but not too badly. The movements could be attributed to someone who hadn't had enough sleep, and judging by what he'd heard last night, even after he'd finished fighting with his wife, Vestaii had kept her up. Edan did not understand why Taashi let Vestaii do that to her. The beatings he could almost understand, because he too had learned it was better just to let the older man get it out of his system rather than fight back. The rest though, that amounted to rape. Edan had never broached the subject with Taashi, he couldn't bring himself to, but he knew she didn't want it. Publicly, whenever Vestaii touched her, even as a caress, Taashi stiffened and Edan could feel the fear and disgust coming off her. Vestaii ignored it.

She nearly collapsed into her own workstation and met his eyes guiltily. "Edan, I'm sorry, I should have been up earlier. I didn't mean to leave all the work for you to do—"

"Don't worry about it," he cut her off. "I don't think there's much here to do, today." Then he noticed that her left wrist was strapped. There would be only a limited amount of work she could do, so it was just as well there wasn't a whole lot of it. The order would be picked up tomorrow, and it had been a big one. It was only the very last touches that needed doing.

She bent her head down to her paperwork, and he kept at his chair. The design was a complicated one, and he'd enjoyed it thoroughly. It wasn't often he got something that challenged him like this. He'd be sorry to see this go, but no doubt he'd get something else to work on within the next few days. The work he and Taashi did was well known across the planet and they got many orders.

While he carefully nailed the cloth into place, he let his mind wander – this part didn't need as much focus. Edan couldn't remember his dream from the night before, but he knew it was important, so he tried every recall technique he'd ever been taught. Yet he still could get no more information than he ever had about his mother – small insignificant detail which had no real bearing on the bigger picture.

Usually in his dreams, she was accusing and angry, or she laughed at him for hoping to find her. She was cruel and she had abandoned him. Last night, however, she'd been gentle. He knew that much. Or maybe not gentle, but certainly there had been something content about that dream; he'd woken from it comforted. It gave him hope that maybe she wanted to find him, that she might actually care about him.

He didn't know anything about his parents. Santo, who had been his first guardian, had said his mother had died giving birth to him, but Parteb, Santo's partner and later Edan's guardian, had said that she hadn't died. Parteb wouldn't say any more than that though, so Edan had never known if his mother wanted him or not. Nothing had ever been said about his father.

Edan had been born in the last years of the Empire, and until he was five – even after the New Republic had taken over – he'd lived on worlds that were under Imperial control. Then Santo had died and his partner had taken over Edan's care. Parteb had refused to train him in the ways that Santo had been doing so, saying that there was no Emperor anymore, so there was no point. It had apparently been an argument she had with Santo after the Emperor's death.

Edan still did not understand what that comment meant. Santo and Parteb had been Imperials, so they obviously hadn't been training him to fight Palpatine. But why would they be training him to fight for the Emperor? All Edan knew was that his training had something to do with Palpatine, and that just made no sense at all. What did the Emperor of a galaxy have to do with a Force-sensitive child who no one knew about?

Parteb had moved them here, to this out of the way planet, in a sector that was part of the New Republic. Here they had met Colm; his wide-eyed granddaughter with the pretty smile, Taashi; and her husband, the dark, but friendly Vestaii.

Colm's mother had taught her son in the ways of the Force and he had taught his daughter, and then later Taashi and Vestaii, the strange boy who had turned up one day. When he'd discovered that Edan was Force-sensitive he'd happily added him to his classes. Only Parteb hadn't been so happy about it.

Santo's death had released her from having to put up with the strange habits of a Force-sensitive child. She was determined to raise him to be normal. She'd died, though, less than a year after they'd arrived, and Colm had taken six-year-old Edan in. When he'd died five years later, Edan stayed with Taashi and Vestaii, and their two children, Gala and Levon.

Something trickled into Edan's thoughts and he looked over at Taashi, sharply. She had her head bowed and was concentrating on her work. Gently, he reached out and brushed her 'sense. She paid him no heed and the information he was looking for floated near the surface. He pulled back in surprise – she couldn't be, could she?

Of course not, he scoffed. If she had been, Vestaii would know and then they all would. But Taashi trusted Edan in a way she didn't trust her husband, and her shields were usually lower when Vestaii wasn't around, so maybe he hadn't picked up on it. This wasn't good news.


I love to hear your thoughts, no matter what they are, but please make them coherent. Thank you.