Anakin had taken to watching the news lately, whenever he got a spare moment. Most of the time, it was local stuff—speeder crashes, fires, the mugging of a semi-important official on Level 7 and the investigation of what exactly he was doing there in the first place—but every so often, Grievous's name would appear. It was these instances that Anakin waited for.
"General Grievous, leader of the newly-formed New Alliance, today announced the location of his capital. Several close associates of the General made this statement to the press—"
They varied on occasion, but there were always two things that one could count on about them. One was that the news always referred to him as "General"—perhaps out of habit—even though the body that had given him the title was now labeled as criminal and the troops he had once commanded were gone.
The other, more significant, was that Grievous never made any of these famous statements to the press himself. In fact, he was rarely even seen in public. This Anakin could understand—from a purely political standpoint, if your heart could be seen beating while you walked around on an average day, it probably wouldn't endear you to the public.
"Today, General Grievous's aides spoke again to the press, this time announcing the instigation of several new laws that will greatly affect the recently-formed New Alliance, as well as the establishment of the New Alliance Senate."
Essentially what Grievous had done was pirate everything that worked about the current Republic and get rid of the rest. The New Alliance Senate was not, as was the Republic's, a congregation of one representative from every planet under Republic control. While that system might have worked once upon a time, now it certainly did not, and Grievous was wise enough to see it. Instead, he created a group, made up of seven representatives from the seven most influential planets in the New Alliance, including Geonosis, and in this group Grievous made eight.
In theory, Anakin had to admit, it was a good idea, with the potential to become greater than the current Republic—but he still did not trust Grievous, nor, Anakin knew, did the Council, though they never said it in so many words. It was one thing for the senators to proclaim blandly that Grievous had turned from his old ways—it was something entirely different for those who had fought against him, and knew what he was capable of, to believe such a thing.
But after months of waiting for Grievous to do something evil and traitorous, and these expectations never being fulfilled, it grew easier for everyone to relax. There still remained a foreboding cloud of political tension—Jedi were so closely connected to the Senate, yet not involved with it in the slightest, so it was nerve-racking when they did something like this—but everyone did their best to forget about it, and after a while, the cloud seemed to clear.
Anakin's world, in the meantime, was much smaller than republics and star systems. Once he had viewed his time on missions as his life, while being at the Temple was simply 'in between'. Now missions were more of an inconvenience than they had ever been before, and although he did his utmost to fulfill them, Anakin was always glad when he could return home.
Drin, though he would never have admitted it, was glad too. His time spent with Anakin had gradually and unofficially increased over the past few months, until he was spending almost as much time with his tutor as he did with his own Master. Through Drin, Anakin had almost begun to relive his Padawan years, experiencing secondhand once again every triumph and disappointment that he remembered from long ago.
In this capacity, he couldn't help but be sympathetic to his student's plight. When Drin's fifteenth birthday came around, Anakin took the opportunity to release his pupil from all of his schoolwork for the day. Well, almost all—Drin had neglected to do his research for a paper on the culture and ecosystem of Corellia that was due the very next day, and Anakin refused to let him off. On the promise that as soon as he had finished, they could leave, Drin agreed to finish his research in the library.
The long, sweeping Temple library, richly carpeted, almost seemed to glow with a warmth of its own each day as the sun shone its thick golden rays into every corner. Busts of famed Jedi Masters stood in perfect rows, data computers lined up against the wall, dozens and dozens of shelves were filled with holo-books, standing in the middle of the room. The sensation it provided inevitably gave Anakin a sense of peace, and he enjoyed seeing the contrast played out: the cold, white, severe stone of the Temple itself against the welcoming softness of the sunlight.
They went to the first empty computer they saw, both grabbing a chair, and then Drin punched in the letters "C-o-r-e-l-l-i-a". The screen zoomed in to show a dark-colored planet, streaked with brown, and a woman's voice began reciting important facts and statistics. Corellia's capital was Na Lidada, a Huttese phrase meaning "beautiful city". Smuggling off Corellia had long been a problem for Galactic officials, but now, of course, they were cracking down on this illegal trade. (As though the computer would say anything else, Anakin thought dryly.) Some of Corellia's main exports were—
It was then Anakin noticed that, while this was all terribly useful information and exactly the sort of thing Drin needed to know for his paper, he wasn't writing down a word of it. Instead, his attention had been firmly fixed on two girls that sat at a table on the other side of the room, alternately chattering animatedly and poring over a holo-book. Anakin groaned inwardly—one of them was Aviva.
He sighed, this time out loud. "All right, Drin, we need to talk," he said. Drin looked at him warily—every young person, no matter their age or status, knew what that meant.
"What about?"
Anakin tipped his chin toward the girls. "Her."
Immediately, Drin got defensive. "What about Aviva?" he demanded, a slow flush creeping over his cheeks. A couple seconds too late, Anakin realized how difficult this was going to be.
"Look," he said finally, "There's nothing wrong with liking a girl. I've done it, I know."
"Really?"
"Yes, but that's not the point."
"Was it someone I know?"
"I said that's not the point." He blew air out of his mouth. "There's nothing wrong with it, but you're a Jedi. There's a limit to how far you can take it."
Drin scowled. "I haven't taken it anywhere," he protested sullenly. "We talk; that's all."
"But you're distracted," Anakin pointed out. "You're paying attention to her when you should be concentrating on other things."
"Just because this is boring!"
"Look," he repeated emphatically, "I know you've had this drilled into your head from day one. I know you're sick of it, and I really can't blame you, but it's true all the same. There's a reason the Council enforces it."
The noise Drin made suggested that the Council did not hold a place of high esteem on these matters in his eyes. Anakin, however, was in no mood to joke.
"I'm serious," he said. "Attachment is dangerous. If you get really involved with someone, you stand to lose everything."
"Everything?" Drin scoffed.
"Will you shut up? I'm trying to make a point here!"
It was a sign of Drin's increased respect for Anakin, despite his best efforts to hide it, that he bit his lip and muttered something that might have been, "Sorry".
Anakin sighed. "There's a reason Jedi aren't supposed to love. The more you care about someone, the more you're willing to sacrifice, even if that sacrifice doesn't make sense. There are Jedi who've actually left the Order because they let themselves fall in love. And you've heard of Thru Hakun, right?"
Drin's expression was uncertain. "A little bit. I think one of my teachers might have mentioned him once."
"He was one of the Twenty. He turned to the Dark Side," Anakin said bluntly. "He thought it would help him better protect his birth family, and he died for it."
Leaning back in his chair, Drin met Anakin's gaze. He looked faintly insolent—that was usual—but serious as well, and perhaps a bit guilty, although that might have been Anakin's imagination.
"I've got no plans for turning to the Dark Side," said Drin.
"Just don't say I didn't warn you." Wondering if the past three minutes had taught his pupil anything at all, Anakin tapped the screen of the computer, which was blithely still reciting its statistics. "For now, just listen and take notes, like you're supposed to."
Perhaps Drin hadn't taken any of it to heart, but he was at least sufficiently cowed to ignore Aviva for the remainder of the computer's narrative. For this Anakin was thankful—he didn't have the opportunity to monitor Drin every second they were in here, for a few minutes after the end of their conversation, Anakin saw a shadow fall across the monitor, and turned to see the white-haired Master Jocasta Nu standing behind him.
"I hope you don't mind, Master Skywalker," she said apologetically. "If you have the time, I'd like to ask you a couple questions for the database."
"Of course," Anakin conceded, confused. "But I can't think of anything I would know that the Jedi database wouldn't."
"I'd heard you were one of the first on Ryloth after the tragedy there," explained Master Nu. "The official reports have all been entered, of course, but our databases might also benefit from your personal experience."
"Oh—of course," Anakin said again. He stood and walked with her over to an empty table. Master Nu seated herself beside him, moving her chair away from the table to face him. With swift preciseness she took out a datapad and, pressing a button on its side, placed it on the table between them. Anakin presumed it would be recording him; Master Nu's zeal for the collection of knowledge was one that had been almost legendary in the Temple since even before he had become a Padawan.
"Now," she said matter-of-factly, "please tell me exactly what happened when you arrived on Ryloth."
Anakin had to think a moment; it had not exactly been a topic foremost in his mind. "The four of us—I mean myself, Master Tachi, Master Thren, and, err…a healer named Tanith—we landed, and the first thing I saw was smoke over the trees. They'd set the entire place on fire…"
He related the entire episode, every once in a while repeating a part in greater detail when Master Nu was not satisfied. When at last he had finished, the librarian nodded, appearing pleased.
"Thank you very much, Master Skywalker," she said, but Anakin's attention had been distracted by something over her shoulder.
"Is that—?" he began. Master Nu smiled.
"Indeed it is," she said, rising and moving toward the glass case that stood behind her. It contained the Sith lightsaber, which Anakin had not seen for quite some time. Anakin followed her, gazing at the weapon. It looked quite harmless here, sitting innocently on plush purple cloth behind spotless plastiglass.
"Did you ever find out what the hilt said?" Anakin asked. Jocasta Nu smiled again, obviously pleased to be asked.
"I did indeed," she replied. "It's quite a unique language, of course. I don't believe I've seen anything like it in a very long time. You know, this is the first example of this sort of Sith writing that I've ever seen, so there was nothing to compare it to."
Anakin frowned, intrigued. "How did you translate it, then?"
"Well," said Master Nu, "We have discovered samples of a more common brand of Sith writing in the past. I don't know if it had ever actually been used by a Sith. We've normally found it to be used by Granta Omega and his sort—those who admire the Sith, but weren't chosen to follow them. It was similar enough to the writing on the lightsaber that I was able to make a rough comparison." She paused. "Even after all that, though, I only had nonsense. You know, Master Skywalker, this language really is extremely unique. It took me a very long time to realize what kept me from translating it properly."
"And what was that?" asked Anakin. He would have asked anyway, even if the question hadn't been obviously unnecessary. Master Nu's eyes were glowing.
"The depth," she said, with a quiet triumph. "Each stroke—and it can only go as far as a half-inch, apparently—is carved with a different depth into the metal, and that is the deciding factor in pronunciation, in lettering, everything. It obviously can't have been put to everyday use, since, of course, it can't be written on flimsy or a datapad, so I assume it was a very formal language, used on objects that were intended to last for centuries."
Something about the story made Anakin uneasy, but he pushed the feeling aside. "So what did it say?" he asked.
"No doubt a Sith creed of some sort," said Master Nu. "Rather primitive, really; a Basic, idiomatic translation would be, 'The greatest strength is in Darkness and Light.'"
The casualness in her voice as she recited the words made Anakin smile. The translation in itself was useless, as she must have known it would been, but that was hardly the point. The means themselves were the ends in Master Nu's case. Again, though, he felt that sensation of unease. He was thinking hard, but before he had a chance to organize his thoughts, he heard Drin call him from the other side of the room. He excused himself from Master Nu's side, thanking her for what she had told him, and returned to his pupil.
"Done," Drin declared, shoving the flimsy into Anakin's hand. Anakin studied it—the writing was messy and sprawling, with no set margins or spaces, but it was legible, and that was good enough for him.
"Great," Anakin told him, handing the flimsy back. "Now you have to go write it. And before you complain," he added quickly, as Drin opened his mouth to do presumably just that, "I told you to get that paper finished two weeks ago, so unless you can pull an essay about Corellian economics from your back pocket, you're going to be busy tonight."
Drin shut his mouth again, apparently realizing the truth of this, and shoved the flimsy into his pocket with a half-hearted scowl. It was then, as they left the library together, that Anakin realized what bothered him so badly about Jocasta Nu's tale: the ancient Sith, and presumably the modern ones as well, had often tattooed such lettering into their skin. The idea of a scar exactly half an inch deep, carved precisely into sentient flesh, sent a shiver down his spine. Anakin almost wished he hadn't thought of it at all.
Author's Note: I'm sorry! I know I took forever to update, but I did warn you people! (points earnestly to profile warning) Anyway, "The Greatest of These" is almost done, so then I will have nothing to write but this.