On the planet Mustafar, in a building now abandoned, on the floor of a deep room that was large and bare, laid the sprawled form of a young man. His face was pale, with starkly dark lashes closed over the white skin, and if anyone had been there to touch his cheek, they would have found it to be waxy and cold. But he was alone, very much so. For, despite the thousands of miles that stretched out across the burning surface of Mustafar, there was not a single living being on it now—there was only him.

For hours upon hours, he lay as he had done for hours and hours before. But then, so gradually that it was impossible to say when it actually happened, the faintest spots of color appeared on his dead cheeks. His chest, which until now had been still, slowly moved up and then down again. His eyelid flickered for a fraction of a second, and then, with a sick, rasping sound, the first breath he had taken in three days was drawn.

Almost immediately it was rejected, and his newly-awakened body shook with frightening spasms as he choked on the air. But the next breath came easier, and so did the one after that, until he was gulping them in. He did not open his eyes—he felt as a newborn must, jerked from his haven of safe, warm darkness and forced into this new world of cold, harsh light that burned through his eyelids and caused him pain.

He drew his knees up to his chest as he lay on his side, wincing with the sensitivity of a child as his skin scraped against the rough stone floor. Oh, he hated it, he hated this world! More than anything he wanted to go back, but somehow he could not shake the feeling that there was something he needed to do here that was very important. Maybe if he could remember what it was, and do it, then maybe he could return…

He blinked once, twice, slowly adjusting his eyes to the light. Whatever it was that he had to do, he knew it to be supremely urgent. He tried to push himself up into a sitting position, driven by a purpose that he did not remember, but his limbs were painfully, unnaturally stiff, and he collapsed, knocking his head against the floor. He let out a pitiful moan, but repeated the action. It was difficult, made more so by the fact that he seemed to be missing one of his hands.

For the moment, however, he ignored this fact. With what felt like a superhuman effort, he used his good arm to shove himself up in one swift motion. He sucked in his breath at the pain that shot through his muscles at this movement, but ignored this as well, choosing instead to hold his aching head in his hand.

As he did so, vague memories began floating back to him. In his conscious, he did not even notice them, but if he had chosen, he could have reached for one and known that it was true. Now, though, he only groped for the ones that were necessary. Distantly he recalled the reason he was here, the reason that his…his lightsaber was on the ground clutched in a fist that was his, and yet not his. Most difficult of all was to remember why it was so difficult to remember, and he could not quite grasp that one yet, but he let it go. Right now, he knew, he had to get out of this place, and that was all that mattered.

Before anything else, he grabbed the lightsaber. No use trying to detach the hand—he left that as it was, and didn't even bother to deactivate the weapon. He just was certain, with a conviction that he could not attribute, that it would be folly of the greatest sort to leave this behind.

He knew it would be useless to stand, but he tried anyway, and immediately fell with a stifled cry of pain. No, no, he told himself fiercely. I have to get out. He said it out loud. "No." The word felt strange and clumsy on his lips.

With a mixture of crawling and stumbling half-steps—if only his legs would work properly!—he made it to the door, the one that he had not yet walked through. With groping fingers, he managed to push the button, and the door slid open.

What met his eyes was discouraging, at best. He wanted to give up when he saw the long stretch before him, of hard, broken rock that was hot to the touch and molten streams that tossed angrily in their banks. But through the thick air, he could see a ship in the distance—his ship. Tears pricked his eyes, and they were not all from the smoke.

Just go, he said sternly to himself. Go now.

"Go," he ordered out loud. Grabbing hold of the doorframe, he pulled himself to his unsteady feet, and took a first, shaking step out onto the blistered ground.

Ferus Olin sat at the table in his kitchen, absent-mindedly running a finger over the place where his braid had once been. He was worried; there was no denying it. There had been no word from Anakin since he had left for Mustafar over a week ago. Caught up in the excitement of being right, Ferus had momentarily forgotten the lesson that they had all learned during the Wars—of the danger which Grievous posed—and now he was finally remembering, with a very guilty feeling. What had he sent his best friend into?

There was a knocking at his door, very faint. Distracted, Ferus did not stand.

"Come in," he called. When the door opened, to Ferus's amazement, it was Anakin who stood before him.

"What are you doing here?" was the first thing out of Ferus's mouth as he stood. Anakin, without replying, walked into the room and sank into a chair. Ferus did not move, but watched him, stunned. "What happened on Mustafar?"

Anakin looked as worn as a human being possibly could have. His face was wan and drawn; there were little ragged cuts all across his tunic, and his expression was one Ferus had never seen before, which inspired his friend to ask, a bit timidly, "Are you ok?"

Burying his face in his hand, Anakin did not answer for a moment, then looked up. "I'm fine," he answered. "I'm just tired."

"When was the last time you slept?" Ferus asked concernedly, sitting down across from Anakin.

"A couple minutes ago," Anakin answered wryly, "for about eighteen or twenty hours. I just landed."

Ferus felt quite confused, and it must have showed on his face, for Anakin smiled, a trace of his typical cocky amusement in the look. "Look, you remember when we were really little," he said, presumably beginning to explain, "and Master Yoda told us about Jedi that could make themselves look dead?"

"Ye-es," Ferus said slowly, comprehension beginning to dawn. "You're saying that you—"

"Well, I tried, anyway," Anakin cut him off. "Dooku had me by the throat—"

"Dooku?" Ferus repeated incredulously. "You fought Dooku?"

"Yes," Anakin said, with a hint of impatience in his voice. "Fought him, lost to him, almost got myself killed by him. Do you have anything to drink?"

Caught off-guard by the sudden change of topic, Ferus stood and grabbed some juma juice from the fridge droid. Anakin gulped down the dark blue liquid gratefully, wiped his mouth with the back of his sleeve, then continued without pause.

"I thought, if I could make myself look dead, he might leave me for dead, and then I could escape later once he'd left. Only…" His voice trailed off uncertainly as he gazed at something in the distance. "I keep thinking I can't have done it right—I don't think it was supposed to happen like that—"

"But you're not dead," Ferus pointed out, "so it must have gone right."

Anakin turned his gaze onto his friend very suddenly. "No," he said, quite simply. "No, I'm not dead, but I think I was."

Ferus blinked. "Run that by me again?"

"I—think—I—died," Anakin repeated slowly. There was a long pause.

"Anakin, you're not dead," Ferus pointed out, wondering perhaps if something on Mustafar had driven his friend mad. "Trust me. You're alive, right now, right?"

"Yes, but you don't understand!" Anakin insisted. "Ferus, I swear, I didn't do it right. I was supposed to just look dead, but I was dead, and now I'm here, alive."

There was another very long pause, in which Ferus struggled between common sense and Anakin's steadily imploring gaze. Anakin played jokes, he kidded around, but he did not lie, and this was no joke. After a severe internal battle, he took a breath and said sincerely, "I believe you."

"Good," Anakin said, his voice emphatic.

"But—dead?" Ferus pressed incredulously. "Dead dead. Are you sure?"

"You just said you believed me," Anakin complained.

"I do," Ferus said, "I just don't know yet what I'm supposed to believe."

Anakin took a breath. "Look," he said, "You know how it's supposed to work. You let go of life, hold onto the Force, and fall just so far into death that everyone thinks you're dead until you pull yourself out of it. But I couldn't pull myself out—not right away, at least—because I'd gone in too far." Ferus opened his mouth to speak, but Anakin plowed on. "Don't talk, I'm not finished. I didn't have the control I needed to keep myself at a safe distance, so I went in too deep and…got lost, I guess, would be the term I'm looking for. I died, technically, but because I was still holding onto the Force, I didn't die."

Ferus's eyes shut tightly for a minute or two, then opened again. "I think I've got it," he said, a bit uncertainly. "But Anakin, that's really…" He sat back in his chair, shaking his head. "That's unbelievable."

"You said you believed me," Anakin repeated reproachfully.

"But you're ok, right?" Ferus said worriedly. "I mean…" His voice trailed off, but he didn't need to voice the words; Anakin already knew what he was thinking. It didn't seem right that one could simply stand up and walk off after such an ordeal without suffering aftereffects or symptoms or something. Anakin laughed quietly.

"That would probably depend on what you mean by 'ok'," he said dryly. "I think my head's about to explode, I've slept eighteen hours and I'm still dying to get to bed, and I can hardly move my legs. But other than that, yeah, I'm just great."

He didn't have to look up to know what expression Ferus's face bore. "Anakin, you've got to go to the med ward," he stressed urgently. "There could be something really wrong with you after—after something like that…"

"There's nothing really wrong with me," Anakin said stubbornly, realizing a bit too late what he had gotten himself into. "I'll just get some sleep, and I'll be fine."

"I think you should go see a healer," Ferus persisted.

"No."

"What about Tanith? You like her."

"No."

"You don't like Tanith?"

"Just healers in general," was Anakin's defensive excuse.

"Will you please come on?" Ferus pleaded. "Just to make sure."

Anakin shot him a very dirty look. "Fine," he grumbled. "But I won't like it."

Ferus spread his hands. "Hate it for all I care," he said. "That's your prerogative." He twitched a finger, and the door slid open. Anakin, standing, was careful to hide his missing hand in the folds of his robes. The last thing he needed was for Ferus to see that.

Four and a half minutes later, he was walking through the halls of the med ward; privately he admitted to himself that he probably did need this visit. Despite Anakin's flippant attitude, he was not as well as he might have wished. He could, at least, walk, but his steps were still shaky and his legs still stiff. Blood throbbed painfully somewhere in the back of his head, producing a very unpleasant feeling not unlike what he might have felt had someone been smacking him every few paces with a hammer.

Tanith, when at last they found her, was on her knees in the hallway, her arms filled with bottles, their contents still intact, which had been spilled onto the floor previous to their arrival. Upon their approaching, she looked up, a pleased smile on her face.

"Anakin!" she greeted him. Ferus she knew only in passing. "Where have you been?"

"Oh, you know, busy," Anakin said vaguely. Ferus, impatient, prodded him sharply through the Force, and Anakin hastily got to the point. "Anyway, I just got back from a mission, and I'm not—not feeling too well, and I was wondering if you could…maybe…"

Dusting her hands off, Tanith nodded cheerfully, anticipating his question. "Here," she said, opening the door nearest to her, stepping inside and gesturing for them to follow. "I don't think anyone needs this room for a while."

Anakin seated himself uncomfortably on one of the two chairs in the room; Ferus leaned against the wall, and Tanith went for the cupboards, pulling out a few basic instruments.

"So what did you do to yourself?" she asked.

Before Anakin could stop him Ferus said, with what sounded almost like glee, "He killed himself."

"He what now?"

Anakin scowled fiercely at his friend, hoping to make evident on his face the physical equivalent of "Shut up".

"He tried to make another Force-sensitive think he was dead," Ferus continued, ruthlessly ignoring Anakin's looks. Tanith suddenly appeared very interested.

"I've heard of that," she said thoughtfully, holding what looked like a thick strip of white cloth up to Anakin's forehead for a moment. "My Master wanted me to learn it—he thought it would be useful, I suppose—but I never could quite get the hang of it. Hold still. Did you manage it?"

Anakin, occupied with wondering what she was doing to his head, could not think of an answer that didn't make him sound arrogant. Eventually, he just settled on the simple truth. "Yes," he said reluctantly. "But I messed it up all the same," he added, as a disclaimer.

Forgetting for a moment that he had been intent on tormenting Anakin, Ferus leaned forward, obviously intrigued. "Your Master taught you about that?" he asked. "I've never heard of a Padawan learning that sort of thing."

Tanith gave a little laugh. "I didn't really learn it," she pointed out. "It requires a fantastic connection to the Force, one that I just didn't have. But it really fascinated me; my Master told me all sorts of stories about that aspect of the Force." There was a small plasti-glass box on the counter, sitting on a metal platform. Into this she placed the white cloth and pushed a button on the platform without hesitating for a word. "If you do it right—and it would be unbelievably difficult, of course—it's even possible to pause yourself in time."

"What does that mean?" asked Ferus curiously. Tanith turned to face him, her hands on the counter behind her.

"If you could manage that," she said, and her eyes were glowing, "you could actually keep yourself from dying, because of course you don't age when you're dead. You could put yourself into a sort of hibernating state, and wake up a thousand years later—if you were that skilled. I don't know if anyone alive could do something like that."

Anakin saw an odd look flicker across Ferus's face for an instant. "But wouldn't everyone think they were dead, if they did something like that?" he asked slowly, and then, quickly veiling the question, he added another. "I mean, what if someone cremated the body?"

Anakin's heart sank, and he shut his eyes. Don't, he begged his friend silently. He knew what Ferus meant, even if Tanith didn't. But it was just silly; he could not be spared pain that he had already gotten over.

Tanith was shaking her head. "No," she said, "and that's what so interesting. Another Force-user, someone completely detached from the person that did it, might only sense the lack of life. But even though there's no technical life, that person is still holding onto the Force, stronger than ever. So if you had any sort of bond with the person, you would know that they hadn't left the Force. And I'm sure that they would alert everyone to what they were doing, just in case."

The plasti-glass apparatus behind her made a soft beeping noise, and Tanith turned to look at the number that was being flashed across the platform's little screen. "Your temperature's normal," she told Anakin. "If you don't have a fever, the only thing I can suggest would be lots of rest."

Anakin shot a vicious look at Ferus, who shrugged, and then stood.

"Thanks, Tanith," he said. Ferus stood as well.

"It was nice talking to you," he said quickly as they walked out the door. Tanith only smiled, and then they had left. As they walked, Anakin took the opportunity to say what was foremost on his mind.

"I told you so."

"Well, I'm sorry that I was concerned about you," Ferus said, mock sincerity dripping from his words. "Next time, I won't take the trouble."

"Good," retorted Anakin. "Don't."

Ferus's only reply was an amused snort.

The headache had gone, for the time being. Anakin took a long, slow breath, waiting tensely for it to return, and when it didn't, he finally relaxed.

It was strange, he thought faintly; he was annoyed with Ferus, but glad as well that he was annoyed, that he could be annoyed. It was real, and normal, and after the experiences over the past few days that had been so bizarre as to be dreamed up, Anakin was glad that such normalcy still existed.

They parted ways; Ferus went presumably to his room, and Anakin went to his. Somehow he did not feel quite so tired as he had before, but all the same, no sooner did his head touch the pillow of his sleep couch than he fell instantly into sleep. It seemed to him that he had never felt such peace.

Both Tanith and Anakin had been right; he did feel much better after getting some rest. When at last he opened his eyes, he could not have said for certain what time it was, but he felt as though he had slept for days. Sitting up, Anakin raised both hands to rub at his eyes, remembered again that one was missing, and made a mental note to get that replaced.

He was about to go get that done immediately when he suddenly remembered that the Council had not yet heard how Mustafar had gone. In their position, he would have been worried, so Anakin supposed that he should probably go speak to them. He battled for a moment, wondering whether he should get his hand replaced first; then, weighing the two, decided that the former would probably take a lot less time. Without bothering to get changed, Anakin headed for the Council Chamber, assuming that at least one or two of its members would be there. It was rare that that room was entirely empty.

When he arrived at the Chamber, however, Anakin was surprised to see that a full-scale meeting had apparently just gotten out. The Jedi Masters were filing out of the room, all with very solemn looks upon their faces. Instantly changing his mind, Anakin made to walk away without being noticed.

But Windu saw him standing awkwardly by the wall, and his expression changed momentarily. He murmured something in Master Yoda's direction, and the little Jedi Master nodded, apparently giving his consent to something. With that, Windu motioned for Anakin to come forward. The other Masters, seeing this, paused where they were and waited silently.

"Master, did Ferus tell you?" Anakin asked immediately. Windu nodded, but before he could speak, Anakin kept going. "I couldn't find Grievous, I'm sorry, but Dooku was there, so Grievous must have been there! But Dooku's gone now, and I don't know where he—"

"Anakin," said Windu, looking almost amused as the rush of words, but no less serious, "There was no way you could have found Grievous on Mustafar."

Anakin blinked. "What?"

"I've just spoken with Master Yoda," Windu continued, "and he agrees with me. We think you should see this."

Windu led his former Padawan over to the doorway of the Council Chamber, which opened as they approached. Standing inside it, with Anakin beside him, Windu made the slightest gesture with his hand, and seemingly of its own accord, a hologram began to play in the projector in the center of the large room.

The recorded form that appeared was, to Anakin's surprise, Chancellor Amidala, sitting in a chair. Her robes were even less flamboyant than when she had been a senator, as Palpatine's had been; being Supreme Chancellor of the Galactic Republic was, apparently, a sobering task.

"Master Jedi," she said, "I have some news that I imagine will surprise you." Her voice was deceptively calm—Anakin could sense the tension behind it, the uneasiness that betrayed itself only in the nervous movements of her fingers. He wondered what it was that could perturb such an unusually strong woman. "I have recently—within the previous hour—received a message from General Grievous. He has requested a—a temporary armistice, of sorts. To be clearer, he has requested that we grant him a few hours time to speak with the Senate through a hologram."

Ah, so that was it. Anakin couldn't blame her; that sort of thing would have unnerved him as well. "After consulting with my advisors," Amidala continued, "I have decided to allow this. Peace is highly to be desired between our two factions, and it may be that peace is what he wishes to speak about. The Senate will assemble in an hour's time to hear what Grievous has to say; I thought it best to ask the Jedi Council to attend as well. Your wisdom and authority will certainly be of invaluable help in this matter."

Whatever she said following this was presumably of no importance, for it was here that the hologram shut off. Anakin stared at the place where it had been.

"Is she mad?" he choked out loudly, before he thought that whatever he said out loud would be heard by twelve of the most prestigious Masters in the Order. "Grievous—peace?"

"In a precarious position, the Republic is, Master Skywalker," said Yoda solemnly, coming up behind them as Anakin turned around. "Know this, you do. If another war should come, the only protection we will have, the Jedi will be. But continue making soldiers, the Separatists can."

Years of taking lessons from Yoda had trained every Jedi in the Order, Anakin included, to the Master's inverted tongue. He listened, perfectly comprehending what a civilian might have found unintelligible.

"Young, the Chancellor is," Master Yoda continued, shaking his head, "but foolish she is not. Knows, she does, the danger in which the Republic stands. If peace Grievous wants, the end of many serious problems, it will be."

Anakin wanted to say more—this seemed a very weak argument to him—but Windu looked at the chronometer up on the wall and made a gesture with his head that said, "We have to go." The rest of the Council, seeming to agree, began again to move toward the hangar.

"Are you going to the Senate meeting?" Anakin asked suddenly. Windu, who had made a move to leave, stopped and looked at Anakin, as though seeing him for the first time.

"Yes," he answered slowly, "and…I think now it would be best if you came as well."

And so it happened that Anakin found himself once again in the massive Senate Chamber, in which he had spent so many miserable hours. Unlike last time, however, he was not battling for his life, which was a small comfort.

The rest of the Senate had already mostly congregated by the time the Council arrived. The atmosphere of the room was grave and very tense, doubly so for those who had actually fought against Grievous and knew what he was capable of. Hushed murmurs echoed around the room, all wondering the same thing, and waiting for when it would happen.

Anakin, his attention fixed on the worried Chancellor, was perhaps the only one who was aware of the sudden terrified jump that her heart gave, for she betrayed no outside sign. She had seen something, or heard something…but a second later, Anakin's curiosity was satisfied. Amidala had gotten some sort of warning as to the fact that Grievous would soon contact them.

The rest of the Senate was not so lucky, for the Chancellor hardly had time to register the fact—much less warn anyone else—when Grievous's hunched form, magnified to perhaps twice its normal size for convenience, appeared holographically in the center of the room. Everyone in the room gasped, but the noises were quickly stifled—the senators were nothing if not painstakingly tactful. In their business, you could start a war if you offended someone, and the reality of that fact had never been so clearly impressed upon their minds as it was now. Only the Jedi sat calmly, their eyes turning upward the only indication that they saw Grievous at all. Yoda leaned thoughtfully forward on his stick.

"Supreme Chancellor Amidala," Grievous greeted her, in that rasping, oddly robotic voice of his. It was very strange to hear that voice speaking so rationally—whenever Anakin had heard it before, it had always been growling death threats or shouting the order for battle. "I am grateful that you agreed to speak with me."

"Greetings, General Grievous," Amidala said, cordially but with a very stiff tone. Those words were all the pleasantry she afforded him. "I must admit, I am curious as to why you have asked me to call this assembly. If it is war you want, you need hardly ask our permission."

The General chuckled, but the sound quickly morphed into a harsh cough. "No, Chancellor, it is not war I seek. Quite the opposite, in fact."

"A truce, then." Amidala almost, but not quite, succeeded in keeping the hopefulness out of her voice. The rest of her, however, betrayed nothing at all—she stood ramrod straight.

"Not a truce, either," said Grievous, "but an alliance."

This still sounded promising, but there was a wariness in Amidala's eyes. "An alliance?" she repeated. "With whom?"

Grievous spread his droid hands out before him. "Chancellor," he said, "the Republic has won the war, but you have lost many battles. Several systems—names I can give if I must—have declined to return to your fold although the Separatist leaders have disbanded. They plan to strike out on their own."

"We will win them back," Amidala said confidently.

"You will not," replied Grievous, with just as much confidence. "They believe that the Republic is dying. This is not an opinion that I myself share, but regardless, they will not be persuaded otherwise."

"What, then, are you suggesting?"

"I suggest a new government," Grievous said abruptly, adding quickly, "Not to replace the current one, but to stand beside it. There would be not one ruling body in the universe, but two, each with its own leader and laws."

The murmurs had started again, shocked and startled and a bit panicked. A new government?—that was impossible—how could he suggest—it could never work—how could he even think—

Anakin's headache had gradually begun to reappear, sneaking up on him while he wasn't paying attention, and now it was throbbing agonizingly at his temples as his forehead creased. No one could have predicted this, and obviously no one had; the murmurs grew louder.

Amidala's face had gone white, but her voice when she spoke was clear. "And—why would the Republic agree to such a thing?" she asked, just as shaken as anyone else.

"Chancellor—" Grievous broke off for a moment to cough again "—I am afraid that regardless of whether they have your consent, the group of systems formerly known as the Separatists will no longer submit to your law. This government will inevitably be formed; would it not be better that you ally yourself with it?"

There was a long, pregnant pause. Again, Anakin could not help feeling sympathetic toward Amidala as she stood there, momentarily silent. This was too great a burden to be placed upon her slender shoulders. When at last she opened her mouth to reply, the room had gone deathly silent.

"In what ways would this government differ from the Republic?" asked Amidala. And Anakin knew, as did everyone else, that it was over.

He sank back into his chair with a silent groan, massaging his temples, listening with only half an ear as Grievous and Amidala battled with a careful respect between themselves. This new government would differ only slightly from the Republic, Grievous said; more than anything, it would fool those systems that were reluctant to rejoin the Republic into thinking that here was something new and different, when in reality it was more than anything an arm of the previously existing government.

Grievous seemed unusually acquiescent—to each of Amidala's doubts, he offered as answer exactly what she wanted to hear. Useless demands, disguised as questions, he bowed to without a single protestation. No, slavery would not be permitted—yes, he had to admit that it had been the general consensus that he himself lead the budding new government—yes, he would consult with Amidala in whatever she wished—certainly he would disband the Separatist army immediately and entirely—

This last one caught everyone by surprise, especially the Jedi. Until now, the entire thing had eerily resembled a trap, but without soldiers, what sort of trap could there be? Now it was only the Jedi who were on their guard—the rest of the room had allowed themselves to relax—and Anakin doubly so. He had battled Grievous, if indirectly, for far too long to think that the idea of peace could ever be found in that twisted mind.

When Grievous finished speaking, without warning Anakin stood. They were perched close enough to the Chancellor's dais that Grievous could see the action. Anakin sensed the surprise in Windu's mind from behind him, but found no uncertainty or anxiety directed toward himself. Windu trusted him to do what was best, and for that Anakin was grateful.

"General Grievous," he said loudly, so that his voice echoed. Grievous's eyes found his missing hand faster than Anakin would have liked; he hid it under his cloak and continued bravely. "You have, I presume, broken all ties with your former masters—the Separatist leaders—in order to make this proposal?"

"I could hardly do such a thing with their consent," said Grievous, in what was almost an amused tone.

"But what about your other masters?" Anakin questioned. "The Sith?"

Another gasp went around the room. Anakin's only thought in that direction was, Oh, for Force sake, shut up

"You are mistaken, young Jedi," said Grievous softly. "I am not, nor have I ever been, a pawn of the Sith."

"Master Skywalker, do you have evidence of this accusation?" asked Amidala sharply. All feelings of sympathy departed instantly—Anakin opened his mouth to tell her about the note, but even before he felt Windu's warning in his mind, he stopped himself.

To him and Ferus, that note had been perfect proof, but the Senate worked along somewhat different lines. Unless the flimsy he had found had written on it, "I, General Grievous, am currently working for the Order of the Sith, i.e., Palpatine and Count Dooku", it would not be taken as proof. Biting back these words—and a few more choice ones that Anakin was now dying to let loose in Amidala's direction for being so naïve—he shook his head, forcing a cocky smile onto his face.

"None, Chancellor," he said, sitting back down. Amidala watched him with some consternation in her face; she did not know whether he was serious, whether he had been testing Grievous, whether it had been a wild guess or a hunch. Let it bother her, Anakin thought bitterly. Stupid politicians…

"Master Jedi," Grievous said genially, still rasping the words, "I cannot deny that there was a time when I could safely be called an enemy of the Republic. But that was a time when another had say over my actions. If I was under the control of the Sith, I did not know it, and now that I control myself, I certainly am not under their rule."

Anakin nodded, never taking his eyes from Grievous's. It was strange, how much they seemed to have changed. He had seen them only inches from his face before and filled with malice, heard that voice snarling, "Jedi scum!" But now he sensed no deceit in Grievous, and he knew that the General was not Force-sensitive, and could therefore not hide such a thing. Could they have been wrong all along about him?

No, Anakin dismissed instantly. That was impossible. Ridiculous. And yet…

"I thank you for your time, General Grievous," said Amidala, breaking into Anakin's thoughts. "The matter will be discussed."

"That is all I ask," said Grievous, breaking for the last time into a hacking cough. The hologram flickered, and died.