"Step on your right leg, kick out with your left!" called Master Vada over the noise of twenty-odd Padawans grunting and muttering to themselves, a few of whom hastily changed their weight. In the enormous training room, there were only themselves, the teacher, and a few Knights gathered around the walls to watch. Anakin was among them, watching Drin thrust his way through several katas.

He would have liked to say that he had come to encourage his pupil, or to help give instruction, but the truth was that he was just bored. There was no denying, though, the aptitude with which Drin took to this part of his training.

"Very good, very good," said Master Vada. "All right, everyone, take out your lightsabers and choose a partner for the Tast combats."

Anakin watched with mild interest as Drin immediately reached for his nearest friend, a gangly kid with red hair and freckles. The Padawan probably would have chosen Aviva if he'd had the chance, but she was older and taking more advanced classes.

"As you know, or ought to, " added Master Vada dryly, "the Tast combats are choreographed battles between two people, both of whom armed with a lightsaber. The word 'Tast' in Iklang—am I boring you, Padawan Audris?"

Drin looked up from a low conversation with Red-Haired Boy, hastily arranging his face into a penitent expression. "No, Master," he answered. "Forgive me."

"Very well, then. As I was saying," the Knight continued, "the word 'Tast' in Iklang literally means 'dance'. Every step you take, every move you make, is already plotted out for you, as in a dance. You and your partner must complete the exercise as a team, and that is the reason that this is an exercise of trust. A misstep will cause your partner to falter, possibly injuring themselves. It is up to you to protect them by fulfilling your part of the combat."

He looked around the room for a moment, ensuring that he had everyone's attention, then waved a hand. "Decide with your partner which part you will take in your chosen combat, then prepare yourselves and wait for my signal."

There was a moment of whispering—there were several combats to choose from, and most Padawans generally coveted the offensive part—and then, one by one, the apprentices settled into basic starting positions, facing their partners.

"And…begin!"

The Tast combats, when performed by experienced Jedi, were a treat to watch. Being choreographed, they were made to require more grace than an ordinary fight, and were indeed quite reminiscent of a dance. Of course, when performed by a group of Padawans, the combats tended to lose some of their innate elegance.

Anakin's eyes found Drin again. He knew every step, but he was overcompensating, anticipating his partner's move before he made it. It was a physical version of interrupting someone in the middle of a sentence, and disrespectful.

But even as the disapproving thought crossed Anakin's mind, Drin's speed increased. Red-Haired Boy was obviously struggling, but Drin seemed lost in his own battle. Increasingly hard-pressed to keep up, his partner's swings grew wilder and larger with every pass they made, and Drin only grew more controlling. The situation was becoming dangerous—Anakin opened his mouth to utter a warning, and then a cry of pain caused the other Padawans to falter and look around, and Drin fell backwards onto the floor, clutching his shoulder.

Red-Haired Boy looked petrified, as though he had killed instead of wounded. Anakin, without thinking, ran forward to reassure him, saying, "It's not your fault, don't worry." The kid, seeing that Drin appeared to be very much alive and angry, nodded and backed away.

"Is he all right?" asked Master Vada, coming up behind Anakin. Gently, Anakin pried Drin's fingers away from the injury.

"It's just a burn," he replied. "Nothing life-threatening, but I'd better take him down to the med ward."

"Fine," Master Vada nodded. "It doesn't look like he'll be able to fight any longer; he doesn't need to come back."

Anakin helped Drin to his feet, careful not to hurt the boy further, and led him out of the training room. As soon as they stepped into the hallway, Drin spoke through teeth gritted in pain.

"Did you see what he did to me?"

"It wasn't his fault," Anakin said slowly. Drin's eyes flashed as he fiddled with the torn pieces of his tunic.

"He had no idea what he was doing. He shouldn't have been fighting the Tast combats if he didn't—"

"Look," snapped Anakin. His tone dipped suddenly into sincere anger. "You got hurt because you didn't do the combat properly. The point of the combats is to work with your partner, and you obviously failed at that."

Startled, Drin said nothing, only looking up uncertainly at Anakin, who did not return the glance. They continued walking in silence until they reached the med ward. Once Drin was safely in the hands of a Mon Calamari healer, Anakin left abruptly. He was more concerned than he let on, and needed distance to keep his thoughts clear.

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Since Anakin had first taken Drin under his wing, their relationship had changed greatly. While officially Drin still went to Anakin's rooms every morning to be tutored, it was no longer desperately necessary that he get his grades up. It was more by force of habit—on both sides—than any real need that they still met regularly, and they did less homework than talking.

There had developed between the two of them an easy camaraderie, but despite this Drin still instinctively looked up to Anakin. Though, with teenage stubbornness, he would hate to admit it, he very much wanted Anakin's approval. To have otherwise was crushing.

The problem was that during the months since Orest 6, though Anakin had no intention of doing so, he had always looked askance at Drin. Reason told him that Drin was the same person he had always known, and that was all there was to it—and then a tiny, treacherous voice always whispered, what if?, and then nothing was really answered at all.

And now there was no denying that something was wrong: Drin was gone from the Temple more often these days, and Force knew where he went. It took very little to rouse him to fury, and woe betide the person responsible.

Something crept into his manner when he was around Drin, the tiniest bit of guardedness, as he wanted to trust yet feared to do so—and the Padawan could not fail to miss this. The very next morning, before Anakin generally expected him, Drin came into his room without knocking.

Anakin swallowed. "I'm still eating," he mumbled. "You're going to have to wait."

Without preamble, Drin asked, "Are you mad at me?"

The question went deeper than the previous day, and they both knew it. There was a short, pregnant pause, and then Anakin sat up in his chair.

"I'm not angry with you," he said finally. "But…Drin, you're walking a dangerous line. I don't understand what you're doing."

Drin's gaze fell to the floor. "I'm sorry," he said quietly. "I just…get mad."

Oh, Force. How often had Anakin mumbled that same excuse to Obi-Wan? Dozens of times—perhaps a hundred. And he had always meant it from the bottom of his heart, yearning for his Master to understand.

With a sigh, Anakin stood. "Let me see your shoulder," he said, without answering. Drin hesitated a moment, then held out his arm.

"I know how you feel," said Anakin, rolling up Drin's sleeve, "but the path of anger only leads to the Dark Side. Give it an opening and it will destroy you. You must be careful."

He stopped a moment, hands frozen in midair. The words coming from his mouth were words that had been repeated for centuries by Jedi before him, spoken oh-so-often from Obi-Wan's lips. In youthful arrogance Anakin had always ignored them, trusting that he knew better than the wisdom of thousands of Masters. And here he was, reciting them, and only now did he realize that they really were true.

"I'm not on the Dark Side," Drin protested. As he spoke, Anakin pushed his sleeve up the rest of the way, and gingerly peeled off the bandage.

To see burned, peeling skin on any other person would hardly have been surprising—after all, a lightsaber, even on training mode, was still an powerful weapon. Natural healers like Drin, however, could repair minor wounds with just a few hours in a healing trance.

Anakin looked up at the Padawan with obvious, wordless surprise. Drin's face was that of one who has been caught in the act of doing something strictly forbidden. He pulled back and hastily rolled his sleeve down, mumbling, "I didn't have time…"

"Drin—" Anakin had no idea how he should feel about this, but the immediate reaction was extreme concern. "Don't lie to me."

Drin opened his mouth to speak, closed it, then opened it again.

"I can't heal anymore," he admitted miserably.

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"Have you ever heard of a person losing a Force-ability?"

Ferus blinked. "Hello to you, too."

Completely ignoring this, Anakin sat down on his friend's sofa. "Seriously, have you ever—?"

"Where were you all morning? The Council was—"

"—heard of that happening? Don't interrupt, this is important."

Knowing that he would get nothing said until Anakin was satisfied, Ferus swallowed his annoyance and answered patiently, "No, I've never heard of that. Why?"

"Because it's happened to Drin," Anakin answered. "He was a natural healer, I know I told you that. But he's not anymore. I didn't know that was possible!"

Ferus's brow furrowed. "I don't think it is," he replied slowly. "Do you mean he can't heal at all?"

"Of course he can heal," Anakin snapped irritably. "He's human, after all."

"All right, if you don't stop yelling at me, I'm leaving," threatened Ferus. "And for Force sake, it's my apartment."

The absurdity of the conversation struck Anakin for the first time, fortunately with some humor. He made a noise that seemed caught between a moan and a laugh.

"I'm sorry," he said. "I just—I'm worried about him. Probably more than I should be, considering that I'm not even his Master. But I am worried, and apparently with good reason."

"Ok, granted, we've never heard of this happening before," Ferus admitted, sitting down beside his friend. "But that doesn't mean that it's the end of the universe. Maybe it's just a phase."

Anakin looked at his friend in disbelief. "A phase?" he repeated blankly. "This is the living Force we're talking about, not growing pains!"

"You don't know for certain that it's anything worth getting upset about," Ferus pointed out, the voice of reason. "And you trust Drin, don't you?"

There was a pause. "I want to," Anakin said at last, faintly. "I don't want to think that he would lie to me."

"I'm sure he wouldn't," said Ferus. "Give him time. If there's something he wants to tell you, he will."

"I hope so."

A rather awkward break in the conversation occurred, then Ferus cleared his throat. "If I'm allowed to speak now," he said, "the Council was looking for you earlier."

Anakin took his head out of his hands to ask, "What for?"

"Well, they wanted to brief the both of us on our mission," said Ferus sanctimoniously, "but since no one could find you, they told me to relay said briefing to you."

"We have a mission?" Anakin repeated.

Ferus nodded. "To Chalacta."

The slightest grimace crossed Anakin's features. "An Alliance planet."

"Yes, and…?"

"Never mind. What kind of mission?"

"Undercover. We're supposed to investigate a disappearance."

Anakin's eyebrows went up. "I haven't done an undercover mission in years," he said. Ferus only shrugged.

"It'll be good practice," he replied. "To continue, a professor of engineering from a college on Chalacta vanished about a week ago. We haven't had the opportunity to respond until now because the Council only just heard about it. Chalacta's not very fond of Jedi, which is why we have to go without them knowing who we are. As students."

This last bit caught Anakin completely off-guard. "Students?" he repeated incredulously. "At the college?"

"That's what I said. Supposedly the professor was working on some—" Ferus stopped. "It's not funny."

"No, of course not," said Anakin, the corners of his mouth twitching furiously. "It's very serious. We'd better be certain to get all our homework done in-between looking for this guy."

Ferus stared at him. "It is beyond me," he said finally, "how you managed to convince the Council that you were mature enough to become a Knight."