It was Anakin's first Council meeting as a member; the first time he had ever sat instead of stood during one of them. He wasn't nervous.
Not really.
Maybe a little. Who wouldn't be, sitting on an equal level with the most esteemed Jedi Masters of the universe?—and now that he was with them, he, Anakin, was considered one of them. He tried it out on his tongue: Jedi Master Anakin Skywalker, the Chosen One of the Force.
All right, really nervous.
To his great relief, none of the Masters gave any recognition that he was utterly new to this other than a few brief, encouraging smiles. They greeted each other, sat down—Anakin in Master Allie's old chair, oh how very awkward that felt—and plunged immediately into business.
There was no chairman, official or otherwise. Each Master had their own general areas of authority, and if they had something that needed discussion they would bring it up. Master Koth was the first to speak.
"I met today," he said, "with a husband and wife who brought their two-year-old daughter to be trained here as an apprentice. From what they have told me, and from what I have gathered on my own, the girl appears to have great potential—the kind that we fear to lose."
There were nods of understanding around the room, and Master Gallia asked, "So what is the problem?"
"Her parents have agreed to let her be trained and to disown her from her birthright. But they insist on being able to visit her. They say that it would only be while she is young, but that is a difficult sort of habit to break, for both the parents and the child."
"I agree," said Master Mundi. "We have seen before the dangers that present when Jedi know their birth parents. There is a reason we forbid attachment."
"Also, it would be seen as an unforgivable display of favoritism," added Master Gallia. "One child in a thousand cannot be allowed the privilege of seeing her parents on a regular basis."
Master Koth nodded. "I had already come to the same conclusion myself," he said. "But still I do not want to lose this girl."
They discussed possible solutions for a few more minutes, then returned to the other business at hand. Anakin, for his part, was content to listen rather than contribute. He should have known, though, that Windu would not allow this. When the meeting seemed to be winding down, Anakin's former Master spoke.
"We've already discussed the mission to Morav quite enough, I think," he said. "Nothing more needs to be said until Grievous responds to Chancellor Amidala's message. However, there is still one question I have, whether or not to allow the Knights involved to continue going on missions as usual during this time. Anakin, as you are a Master this no longer applies to you, but you are the most directly involved of all of us, so this decision should be yours."
Anakin was suddenly very conscious of every gaze in the room resting gently upon him. He hesitated a moment before speaking.
"As punishment, no," he said. "They did nothing wrong. But Chancellor Amidala will want all three of us here when General Grievous responds, and I don't feel it would be wise to antagonize her further. So maybe they should be suspended from missions until the General has replied."
Windu nodded. "That sounds fair," he decided. "And unless anyone else has something they'd like to bring up, I think we're done for now."
They adjourned, and Anakin felt pleased with himself; he hadn't flubbed up his first Council meeting.
That night brought feelings of a different sort, and something that Anakin had not experienced in several years.
It was pitch black in his room when Anakin awakened with a start. He was panting for breath. His legs were twisted in his sheets, which were damp and hot with sweat. They were unbearably uncomfortable; Anakin threw them off as quickly as he could and rose on shaking legs.
It wasn't a flower.
He stumbled toward the refresher, gasping from the heat that he felt. When Anakin flicked on the light, he stood there for a moment, immobilized by the sudden brightness on his dull eyes, then groped for the sink and turned on the water. It was cold and wonderful. He splashed it onto his face and neck, feeling as though he would collapse and die if he waited a second longer.
Only then, when the heat had been sated, did Anakin find within himself the strength to regain control, to turn off the water and lean back against the wall and come to terms with what he had just seen. All these things he could do—but his heart still beat so quickly that it almost hurt him.
It wasn't a flower, and those bright orange and red waves bursting out from the center were not petals. He didn't know why now, of all times that he had had this dream, he saw the object of his thoughts for what it truly was. Each time he dreamt it, it came a little more into focus, and now a tiny but critical point had been touched, and everything was painfully obvious.
Not verdant colors of life in a flower, but tongues of flame, larger than planets, reaching out to consume all in their path.
Anakin ran a hand through thick and tangled hair, struggling for breath. If he had had this vivid a dream before Obi-Wan's death, he would have been trembling furiously. Now he was still, but his thoughts remained haunted and fearful.
A Jedi shall not know fear. A Jedi shall not know fear.
"…not know…" muttered Anakin blearily, his lips unused to forming sounds after sleep. He returned to his sleep couch, but it was a long time before he fell back into unconsciousness. When he did, the thoughts in his mind were not peaceful.
It was exactly a standard week later that they heard Grievous's reply.
"He's pressing no charges," said Windu shortly. "He's made no complaints, he wants no investigation. He's ready to drop our involvement in the matter entirely."
This announcement was met with universal confusion by the members of the Council.
"This makes no sense," said Anakin slowly, bewildered. "When we spoke with him onboard the Star Protector, he was…furious. He practically insisted that we prove to him that the Jedi weren't behind the attack or else prepare for war; I would have sworn that he would hound the issue for months."
"What was Chancellor Amidala's response?" asked Master Gallia.
"Relief, I'm sure," said Windu. "What else? Well, and this…" He fumbled in his robes for a moment and pulled out a little scroll of flimsy. "She was in a Senate meeting when I went to see her about it. Her aide told me the news, and gave me this. Essentially, it asks that one of the Masters come to see her later today, so she can tell us more fully what's happened."
"Who are we—?" Anakin began, just as Windu said, "You should probably go, Anakin."
There was a pause.
"I…don't know if that would be the best course of action," Anakin said tentatively. "I think the less of me she sees, the better."
"If Chancellor Amidala chooses to hold a personal grudge against you, that is her business," said Master Windu. "But it should not appear that you are responding in kind by avoiding her."
Anakin wasn't certain how it happened, since his plan had been to solidly resist going anywhere near the Chancellor until she had forgiven him, but somehow Windu prevailed and Anakin found himself making his way, once again, to the Senate building.
Amidala's expression flickered when she saw him, but long years of practice in politics kept it calm.
"Master Skywalker," she said, without a trace of animosity. "I'm sure you've heard General Grievous's response."
"I have," Anakin replied. "I don't think it was the answer that any of us expected."
"Yes, it certainly was a surprise," said Amidala, "especially considering the injuries Grievous had to consider."
It occurred to Anakin suddenly to wonder whether the Chancellor was actually disappointed that she couldn't bring the wrath of the Alliance down upon him. She was too young for this, Anakin decided in an instant. This was not the behavior of an experienced diplomat, but of a child.
"There were, however, certain stipulations that the General included that I thought best to speak to one of the Council in private about," Amidala continued. "They are of a somewhat sensitive nature."
"Really? What are they?"
"Grievous was as distressed as the Council to hear of Master Allie's death. He has ordered a full investigation into the matter on Morav; but this is an Alliance matter, since you were in Alliance territory at the time, and he has requested specifically—and vehemently—that the Jedi not intrude on his jurisdiction in this case."
It took a moment for Anakin to translate this from politician-speak into normal Basic..
"Chancellor," he said, frowning and disbelieving, "Are you asking that the Jedi not take part in the investigation?"
"Those were Grievous's wishes," she answered blithely. Anakin's heart began to pound faster with the injustice of it.
"Chancellor, you cannot expect us to sit by doing nothing after a dear friend and an esteemed member of the Order has been brutally murdered!"
"The matter will be looked into. Grievous—"
"—has no personal stake in the case. We have!"
"I thought the Jedi believed in not being personally connected in any way to their missions."
"When one Jedi is involved, yes, but not when the matter deeply affects every person in the Order—"
Amidala cut him off. "Master Skywalker, I will hear no more of this," she said firmly. "General Grievous is offering to instigate the entire investigation out of his own pocket and with his own time. He will report all his findings to you and defer to your judgment—but the Alliance will oversee this, and not the Jedi."
Anakin was so furious with her that all logical functions in his brain broke down. Something else might have been more appropriate, but what came out of Anakin's mouth was a heated, "This isn't fair!"
"It is perfectly fair," said Amidala acidly. "And I warn you, Master Skywalker, that Grievous takes this seriously. The Jedi have no jurisdiction over Alliance territory. To investigate without his consent would be a grave insult." Their eyes locked, a battle of dark brown against blue. "If the Jedi are found anywhere near the Perlemian Cluster without specific permission from General Grievous I will be severely displeased. I want your word, as a Jedi and a member of the Council, that no one from the Order—not you, not any Jedi—will investigate on their own. I know you have the authority to give me your promise and keep it."
Anakin took a breath, still glaring hotly at her, but was ultimately helpless. "You have my word," he said finally, "that General Grievous will not find the Jedi near his investigation."
Amidala, having extracted her promise, was satisfied. Anakin was seething, but didn't show it.
"I know," Anakin admitted, "that I've been suspicious of Grievous in the past without specific cause. But this is just too much!"
"It does seem strange," Windu agreed, "especially when Grievous hasn't been at all shy about asking for Jedi assistance in the past."
"He could be hiding something," Ki-Adi-Mundi conceded, "but we must not jump to conclusions."
"It's not jumping to a conclusion if you have something to walk on to get to it." Anakin pointed out.
"You really believe that this is something serious, don't you?" said Windu, looking at Anakin, who nodded.
"Very much so. I don't trust him; I can't make myself do it. Something doesn't make sense to me."
"In any case, though I hate to say it," said Kit Fisto, "there is nothing we can do for the time being. We cannot send anyone to investigate the Perlemian Cluster, not when you told Amidala that you would not."
Anakin coughed. "Em…about that," he said, rubbing a hand over his face. "I never actually promised her we wouldn't investigate. I told her that Grievous wouldn't find us. So, if—hypothetically speaking, you know—we did do anything near there, we would just have to make certain that neither the Chancellor nor the General knew about it."
He looked up, to see eleven Jedi Masters with their eyes upon him, varying expressions upon their faces. Windu looked almost intrigued—Yoda was, as always, inscrutable—Master Gallia appeared very stern.
Anakin swallowed. If he hadn't thought this was so important, he would have retracted the unspoken idea right then and there.
"I don't like the idea of acting on technicalities," Windu said slowly, "but…"
"If Grievous is doing nothing wrong, as he very well might be," broke in Master Mundi, "and he finds out about this, there will be hell to pay."
"But look, see," Anakin said, leaning forward. "First he presses no charges, effectively getting rid of any reason for the Jedi to get near Morav again, and then as if that's enough, he specifically creates a reason for us to stay away from it. And, not only that, but the Cluster was already restricted before we even got there!"
"What do you mean by this?" asked Yoda.
"He's avoiding us, purposefully keeping the Jedi at arm's length. And the Jedi are defined as serving and protecting the Light. If Grievous is keeping us away, then it only makes sense that he's doing it because he's involved in something that the Jedi would not be happy with, so it must be something bad," Anakin finished triumphantly.
"What do you propose, then?"
Anakin hesitated. "Nothing more than surveillance," he decided. "Not until further notice."
After only a bit more discussion, it was put to a vote. Three were against—Master Gallia one of them—and an overwhelming nine were for the idea. It only proved, Anakin thought, that behind its stolid mask, the Council was truly ill at ease.
There would be two watch points, close but not dangerously so to the Perlemian Cluster. Each of these would be manned by anywhere from three to five Jedi at any given time, each of whom would be stationed for only about a month before returning to the Temple for regular duty and being replaced.
One of the stations would be on Dagobah, the other on Tatooine. They were ideal vantage points; the only problem with them, Anakin thought, was that both were such wastes of galactic space that it was difficult to come up with any reason for so many Jedi to be there constantly.
Dagobah, it was decided, was the hiding place of a recently-invented and extremely dangerous criminal named Garas Olan (Ferus had been standing nearby when Anakin came up with the name). Meanwhile, there had been so many recent outbreaks of Sand People attacks upon the populace of Tatooine that the Jedi were sent there for safety reasons.
Anakin was in charge of getting the Tatooine station up and running. This task involved finding adequate long-term quarters, finding willing Jedi, setting up a rotation, ensuring that Grievous was not suspicious, keeping close tabs on what went on near the area—to name a few.
An onlooker might have called it a nightmare. Anakin would have disagreed, for two reasons. The first was that he thrived under pressure, even while already eager to impress the Council. He was looking forward to the chance to prove himself to them, and to know finally what Grievous was up to. The second reason would be more serious.
This was not a nightmare, Anakin would say, his eyes dark with sleeplessness. For Anakin Skywalker knew the true definition of a nightmare: a thought more horrible than anything your waking mind could conceive, hiding during the daylight and preying upon your helpless mind when you sleep, like a vicious lion on a slumbering lamb.
At the time when Anakin suggested this proposal to the Council, he had not slept in three days, afraid of what he would see when he closed his eyes.
The flames were growing bigger.