Prologue
A snore rang to the rafters of the silent library. Not the Jedi Archives with its glowing holobooks and computer terminals, but a good old-fashioned musty smelling one, with sheets of paper in between the covers instead of a glowing holotablet.
The pages were yellowed with age, but one could faintly read the spidery handwriting beneath the gangly arms folded on the open page. The Jedi have theirs, and we have ours one could see from the top line.
Another snore, and the tawny golden mass of hair twitched slightly.
There shall be two fates awaiting the galaxy. The chosen one of ours, shall come before theirs, to prepare the way, and to stand in if he fails.
And they shall be but parallels and perpendiculars of each other.
Another snore, but this time more like a snuffle, as the dawn light reflected off the golden hair, making the sleeper seem to be surrounded by dancing fairy lights.
Both from the womb, shall be brought up to bondage. One shall be broken and scarred, One shall bend.
Both shall be brought from master by Master. One will be a Master, One shall be Knight and Lord and Master.
Both shall stay in the Temple. One shall stay below, One shall live above.
A yawn now, and the mass of hair, still in yesterday's braid, jerked up from the pages. The main braid clearly screaming to be rebraided and retied, the padawan's braid pleading to be removed from the mouth that was always chewing on it.
Both shall be tempted by the dark. One shall waver around grey, One shall fall and rise.
The tawny eyes, like an eagle's, but now which were more like a sleepy eaglet's, slowly crawled to the chrono on his left wrist, which promptly widened.
Both, shall the Force be strong in. One's count can never be measured; One's count can be estimated.
"Force!" Swore the baritone voice, which now ever wobbled between tenor and bass. "Kriffing Snowballs! I'm late!"
Both shall meet despite all odds. One shall find but not bring, One shall...
"Whoever wakes up in the morning to go on a night assignment at the far side of the planet?" grumbled the Padawan. With a flick of his wrist, the book flew back up to the shelf via the force. Then he sped out of the swinging doors.
The Prophecies of the Sithhunters, by Sithhunter Master Bac-fil Parc, said the book's silver spine in once silver embossed letters. They were now washed golden; just like the silver of the moon giving way to the gold of the sun - for it was the era of the sun.