Chapter 2

Palpatine walked calmly along a corridor of his detention level, red guards fanned out both in front of him and behind him. Even hours after the event, dust particles still hung suspended in the air, and smells of burnt or melted materials hadn't yet dissipated.

The blast itself had been small, but concentrated, and only large enough to destroy the ray shielded opening of a particular cell.

"Your Majesty!" a red garbed officer exclaimed as Palpatine approached, "This area is not yet secure. It would be safer if you waited-"

"It is quite safe, captain. The damage has been done," the Emperor dismissed harshly. "Report," he then ordered. The man straightened.

"Forgive me, Majesty, I have been attempting to contact Commander Mir-"

"Commander Mir has been executed for his gross incompetence. A security breach of this magnitude is intolerable." And good riddance, Palpatine mused inwardly. The man had proved himself to be a lazy fool, all ambition lost once he had achieved the post he'd been striving for. It had been a curious day, for this weakness planted within his own palace's security had been meant to lure out a certain rebel faction, but it was possible that it had attracted... something else.

"I understand," the captain answered stiffly. "We have not been able to determine the identity of those responsible. They had access to the security recordings and instructed the cameras in this particular area to loop. However several men reported seeing an unknown officer in this sector prior to the blast. We are compiling an artist sketch based on the descriptions. It would seem that the intruders were planning to enter and exit undetected, but they had not anticipated the interior ray shield and were forced to take drastic measures in order to free the prisoner."

"There were no prisoners freed, Captain," the emperor corrected, "The prisoner in this particular cell was moved several hours before the event took place." The captain opened his mouth, puzzled and unsure how to respond, so Palpatine broke it down for him.

"The ray shield generator suffered a serious malfunction. No prisoners were freed and no one is to discover what occurred here, especially Lord Vader. Do I make myself clear?"

"Perfectly, Majesty."

.o.o.o.o.o.

Obi-Wan sat up in the dungeon that was his bedchamber. It was a simple room. A single, grated window and no furnishings aside from a bed. He would like so say it was his new prison, but that would be inaccurate. The door was unlocked, and had been since the moment he'd arrived. No one seemed to care if he were to leave or not.

Yet they made a special effort to see that he did not die.

The Sisters came in when Dathomir's hazy star broke over the horizon. The wore the garb of the red witches that Obi-Wan remembered from all those years ago, and were very young, perhaps still adolescents. Their grasp of Galactic Basic seemed limited, though Obi-Wan did not attempt to speak to them. They cleaned the healing wounds on his wrists and forced water and broth down his throat at various intervals throughout the day.

Slowly, Obi-Wan felt his strength returning, and it was cause for dismay because he could only imagine what sort of new torture it precluded.

Often the Mandalorian came and sat by his bedside, usually about three nights per standard week, ever faithful in the oversight of Obi-Wan's care. Obi-Wan had no idea why he bothered. Did he not have duties to attend to? What was his position here, even? Had Maul been attempting to revive the Shadow Collective in these lost years? What was there to gain anymore?

The man usually took out a datapad to amuse himself, reading it even with his helmet on. It seemed there was always a book downloaded onto it and one day Obi-Wan glanced at the screen as it displayed the title.

The Jedi: A History of Warmongering and Oppression

Yes, that was what he was to the galaxy now, a villain, a traitor, the enemy. A lifetime of well-intentioned deeds and a personal struggle against the dark and hedonistic desires of the common man now amounted to nothing. The galaxy had turned on him for doing what was right. What hope was there for anyone?

"None of these authors ever gets the Jedi involvement in Mandalore correct," the blonde man complained after perhaps an hour of silence. He set down the datapad. "They attempt to paint the Jedi as the terrorists, when everyone knows the Jedi were never actually involved. I suppose it fits their narrative. The more dead babies they can blame on you the better. It must drive you up a wall."

Obi-Wan did not answer. He never did. This Mandalorian never seemed bothered by the silence, however, and he would continue to talk regardless if Obi-Wan was listening. The Jedi wondered at the beginning if the man was slightly unhinged, but then again, it was just as likely that he was lonely. He did seem to be the only one of his race around.

"The Republic had no respect for war and the actions that sometimes must be taken during wartime. It was no coincidence that as soon as the Clone Wars ended and the Republic became the Empire, they immediately had to dispose of the Jedi. Violence is so very unpopular with civilizedsystems these days," the man mused, "They used you... and then they discarded you."

He spoke like a politician, intelligent enough to identify propoganda and truths hidden within lies. He saw the shades of grey in the galaxy. He must have had an expensive education somewhere. Mandalore, most likely, if the armor was anything to go by.

The next time the man came, Obi-Wan asked what it was he was reading. He barely even recognized his own voice as it left him.

"An analysis of the Tarkin doctrine," the Mandalorian answered casually, "A most fascinating study of the average Imperial's psyche. Ruling by fear does have it merits, I suppose, but I think the problem lies in forcing everyone to fear you. There will always be people insane enough to oppose such an administration so long as there remain people insane enough to put a cause above their own lives."

After that day, Obi-Wan began to ask about the books more often. Sometimes he would ask questions. Sometimes he would offer his own ideas about the text. Eventually he was offering up suggestions on what the younger man should read next and would ask that certain passages be read out loud to him during their study of the text.

He saw what was happening, he saw how he was being manipulated into caring, once again, about the happenings in the physical realm. At first he resisted, tried to shut himself away once more, but it did him little good. Gradually he was coaxed from behind the protective barriers of his mind.

"I should think, Master Kenobi, that you are now strong enough to leave that bed," the man commented one afternoon as he set aside his datapad, "I realize that Dathomir isn't considered to be the most beautiful of planets, but perhaps you might find some enjoyment in a short stroll around the Night Temple."

So he was to be paraded around the temple now? Was this a new form of humiliation? Maul had to know he was beyond such things, especially now that he was old and broken.

No, his thoughts were steeped in paranoia and darkness. Perhaps this wasn't anything to do with Maul. Perhaps this man sincerely wished for him to gain back his strength, but any possible reason he could have for wanting to do this was maddeningly elusive.

The armored man stood waiting, and Obi-Wan knew it would be impolite to decline the invitation. Slowly, bones creaking, he raised himself from the bed, placed his feet on the floor and stood stiffly. There were robes and boots set aside for him, and he pulled them on absently.

They hadn't even reached the door before Obi-Wan had to grab a wall for support. The Mandalorian was there to hook his arm through his own and force him to continue on.

"Steady there, Master Kenobi."

Dathomir's star was high overhead, and it glared through the areas of the temple that had been demolished. Towers lied in crumbled heaps, outlying buildings had been leveled completely. Evidence of war had been stamped into the very walls in the form of blaster scorches. The last the Obi-Wan had been in this temple, it had been whole and beautiful, albeit eerie and haunted by dark side ghosts and witches.

"How did this happen?" Obi-Wan found himself asking of the destruction all around him.

"Some of it was done by Grievous, some by Dooku, some merely by the forces of time and nature," the Mandalorian answered easily.

Down the crumbling corridor and through an arcade of branches bent to form a tunnel, Obi-Wan was led to the entrance of some sort of sacrament chamber. If he remembered correctly, this was where he and Anakin had once met the dark witch, Mother Talzin, during the Clone Wars.

There was a queue of people lined up outside. All of them were either Dathomiran or Zabrak. All of them were young children or hardly beyond adolescence. They were dressed in rags. Some of the older ones were missing limbs, some coughed into their sleeves. A Dathomiran girl at the front had a face covered in pox.

"They are here for a healing," Obi-Wan's guide explained, and Obi-Wan who had until this point only been viewing his surroundings through the bleak lens of man detached from the living world suddenly found himself interested.

"A healing..." the old Jedi heard himself repeat. This line of people had hope. They believed in something. They had a will to go on, even in these dark times. Life carried on no matter what. Obi-Wan closed his eyes for a moment. The Force was showing him something here, something he was not meant to ignore even if he could not yet take the lesson to heart.

Resilience in the face of adversity.

"Are there villages nearby?" Obi-Wan asked. These people were not Nightsisters, at least they were not like the ones that had been caring for him in his tower, and Obi-Wan had been under the impression that this temple had been a recluse for those practicing the dark arts of the convent.

"They've sprung up over the years," the younger man answered, "Dathomir's population was devastated during the war. The temple, after its ruin, became a storage base for the Shadow Collective. After the Collective lost its power, it was decided the supplies would be used to help rebuild Dathomir.

"Decided by who?"

"Lord Maul, of course," chuckled the Mandalorian, "Or as the locals call him 'The Witch King.' This temple has become a holy place to the outlying people now, and they make pilgrimages even outside of the need for food and medicine. What once was feared is now hailed as Dathomir's salvation. The Witch King has united what remained of Dathomir's warring tribes and ushered in an era of peace. It is a pity that he does not regard a commitment to peace as a sign of progress."

A memory spiked in Obi-Wan's mind with those last words. He'd heard them spoken before. On a rooftop garden in Sundari.

"I know you," Obi-Wan insisted, turning suddenly on his guide, Dathomir's plight forgotten in the moment. The Mandalorian took a step back, confused.

"I assure you, Master Kenobi, that we never met before I broke you out of the Imperial Palace's detention level."

"I know you! I remember you!" Obi-wan repeated. Either he was going mad, or this man was lying. "Take off your helmet!" Regardless, Obi-wan would drive himself into further madness until he knew the truth. He grasped at the white and blue armor of the Mandalorian, but the younger, healthier, and stronger man used a simple, defensive maneuver to send the old Jedi to the ground. Obi-Wan sat there for a while, panting and pulling at his thinning hair. Memories. The memories were so painful.

"You are remembering someone else."

Slowly, Obi-Wan's breathing returned to normal as the statement sunk in. You are remembering someone else. Yes, yes he was. A rooftop garden in Sundari. A musty mining control room on Concordia. A landing platform upon Coruscant. A dining room upon the Coronet.

"Forgive me, I... lost myself for a moment," Obi-Wan said after a period where he needed to collect his scattered thoughts.

"It is quite alright, Master Kenobi. Perhaps you would like to return to your chambers now?"

"Yes, I suppose that might be best," Obi-Wan answered, still holding his head as if it pained him. The young man extended his hand in order to help Obi-Wan to his feet. The Jedi accepted it, and parted ways with the Mandalorian at his door.

But the memories plagued him that night, and every night after it. Now that Obi-Wan was mobile, he took to wandering the halls, the hood of his robes pulled over his head as if to hide himself from the world. The others ignored him. Some days he felt no more substantial than a ghost.

He would watch the young Mandalorian from afar as the man carried out his duties. They most often included training the Nightsister acolytes in different forms of combat, but occasionally he would be sent away on a landspeeder piled high with supplies meant for another part of the planet, and sometimes he would board a starfighter and be gone for several days at a time.

Obi-Wan's questions were answered one morning as he stood concealed behind a statue of a red witch, one of several, carved sentinels that held up the main platform of the temple above. In the area beyond that shadows of the temple, a cargo shuttle was being unloaded, revealing various pieces of agricultural equipment. The Mandalorian was overseeing the work. He had his helmet off and his blonde hair was gleaming in the early light.

"There is just something about him, isn't there?" a low, mocking voice remarked from behind Obi-Wan. The Jedi turned abruptly to see Maul leaning against the adjacent pillar, cast partially in darkness. Obi-Wan was instantly on guard, wasted muscles taut with anticipation. It was easy to forget that this was Maul's domain when he so rarely made his presence known.

Seeing the twisted sneer upon the old Sith's face, Obi-Wan was reminded that this creature wished him nothing but pain, and always had. That they had recently coexisted in relatively close quarters did little to diminish that. Maul's movements were slow and predatory as he pushed off of his pillar and circled around Obi-Wan to stand on his other side, observing the same scene that the Jedi had previously. "A tad... familiar... wouldn't you say?" Maul continued, testing him. Obi-Wan stood stiffly, prepared for an attack, but Maul only had words for him.

"He hasn't told you his name," the Sith guessed, "A shame."

"He is called Commander Pax," Obi-Wan answered, surprising himself with his own serenity, knowing that by speaking he was entering into Maul's game, but he was finding that he just couldn't keep up the strength he would need to fight.

"Yes, that is the silly name that he gave himself, but it is not the name he was born with. Come now Kenobi, don't you see it?"

"I've no idea what you're talking about," Obi-Wan lied.

"He's begged me not to tell you," Maul carried on dramatically, "Begged just as pathetically as his dear Auntie begged while she gasped for breath." Obi-Wan felt his heart stutter even as Maul kept on speaking. "He seems to believe you'd somehow think less of him if you knew, but I think you deserve to know that truth, Kenobi."

"Stop." Obi-Wan whispered, even though he knew it would do him no good.

"No," Maul growled. He lashed out a hand and grabbed the back of Obi-Wan's neck, forcing him to look back at the Mandalorian. "That is the nephew of your beloved Duchess. He is mine to command! Everything you hold dear is mine! Even things you didn't know you held dear are mine! Do you understand, Kenobi?"

Obi-Wan's mind had gone strangely blank. He didn't know his hands had balled into fists and he didn't know he'd taken a swing at the old Zabrak until after he'd done it. Maul captured his fist easily, crushing it in his grip. Obi-Wan's mouth opened in a gasp of pain. He was kicked in the ribcage, the force of it sending him reeling several feet. He sank to the floor.

"Disgusting," Maul remarked dismissively He eyed the hand that had touched Obi-Wan as if it was now filthy, "And no longer nearly as satisfying." He then folded his arms into his sleeves and departed again into the shadows without a backward glance.

.o.o.o.o.o.