Public Service Announcement: The Mando who appeared in Chapter 7 was NOT Jango Fett. Thank you for your attention; carry on.

Chapter 16: Achuta La (Hello There)

Obi-Wan had mixed feelings about Xanatos' death.

On the one hand, he was truly relieved that he never had to see his former owner again. He definitely wouldn't miss the mind games or the torture or the "training." Granted, he was still a slave, so all of those things were still on the table, but at least now no one would try to call him brother all the while they were thrashing him with a lightsaber. Maybe now he would actually get a chance to fade into the background and—who knows—perhaps even find a way to escape one day.

On the other hand, Xanatos' obsession was a kind of protection that had now been stripped from him. Yes, Xanatos would have never, ever let him go, but that also meant that he would never let him be sold to someone worse, like his dark mentor. It had taken Obi-Wan a not-inconsiderable amount of argument to persuade Xanatos' widow to sell him to anyone but that shadowy monster that haunted his nightmares.

In the end, the widow had wanted Obi-Wan off of her hands as soon as possible. The Jedi were apparently poking around the circumstances of the death of one of their erstwhile Padawans, possibly at the hand of one of their Masters, and it wouldn't do for her to be caught enslaving a former Jedi youngling. She had her own son to consider, after all. She had sold Obi-Wan to the drug dealers that had come to pick up the last shipment of spice from Offworld's black market interests and washed her hands of him. Her haste to get him out of the way had helped Obi-Wan in mind-tricking her not to mention his Force-sensitivity to the smugglers.

The spice freighter that Obi-Wan now found himself enslaved to was essentially a mobile spice refinery, making multiple stops throughout the galaxy to either take on mineral spice from mining operations or offload drugs processed onboard by slave labor. It was a rather ingenious, if dangerous, system. Being able to run to any corner of the galaxy at any moment certainly helped with avoiding the authorities, though trying to refine a dangerous drug aboard a moving ship in space was a potentially life-ending endeavor. One slip of the hand could flood the cargo bay with poisonous gas. Incidentally, this made the spice freighter a terribly convenient place to "disappear" a troublesome slave, a distinction which Obi-Wan supposed he had earned by now.

Obi-Wan, as the newest member of the crew, had spent his first few days aboard the freighter grinding mineral spice into a fine powder using a mortar and pestle, which was the job requiring the least amount of skill. If he proved adept at this and at following orders, he would be trained on more difficult tasks. He couldn't wait. Grinding away with a pestle all day was crushing his soul as much as it was crushing the rocks. It was mind-numbing labor, which unfortunately gave him no easy distraction from how much his hands and shoulders hurt from pounding rocks into dust by main strength. Not to mention that the slaves hadn't been provided with sufficient protective equipment, which meant that Obi-Wan was likely breathing in more raw mineral spice than was probably healthy. When he finally dared to ask why they didn't have a machine to grind the rock, he was told that that machinery could throw sparks, and with the amount of dust and chemicals in the space, it could cause a fire. Anyway, why bother with a machine when slaves could do the job?

Time passed slowly, monotonously. The slaves were discouraged from talking to one another while working to minimize distractions, and most were too tired and in too low of spirits to do anything resembling socializing at night. Besides, most wanted to conserve their energy. They were fed only twice each day—a reconstituted polystarch bread portion before work, and some kind of unappetizing nutrient paste or gelatinous protein cubes after work. Obi-Wan didn't really find the amount of calories provided by this diet sufficient—at least, not for a teenage boy. But there was nothing for it but resigning himself to feeling hungry more or less constantly from now on.

About a week into his new situation, upon finishing fourteen hours of grinding rock into dust with hardly a break, Obi-Wan looked up to see that the smuggler who had brought "late meal" was handing out the polystarch bread portions that were usually their first meal. Obi-Wan bit back a groan. The polystarch bread was dry as dust and not very filling, just a few empty calories. He assumed they were getting it again for late meal because they'd run out of nutrient paste, which didn't bode well for future meals unless they were close to a stop where they could take on rations.

Obi-Wan was desperately hungry, in that terrible in-between position of having gone too long without enough food, but not long enough for his body to be used to the short rations. And now, after many long hours of back-breaking labor, to be greeted with hardly anything to eat—it was demoralizing, to say the least.

Obi-Wan took a deep breath and made himself lift his gaze from the floor. He couldn't let his less-than-ideal circumstances draw him down into darkness. He had to be stronger than that. He had to keep his chin up. He would be damned if he survived Xanatos for more than a year only to let a little hunger push him over the edge.

As he looked up, he noticed the slave across from him. The human or near-human man was clearly the worse for wear—much too thin, with too-long hair and a scruffy beard, wearing clothes that were little more than threadbare rags. He must have been on this ship a long time, perhaps even years, but Obi-Wan had never seen him working any of the higher-skill jobs. He was always grinding minerals or moving heavy loads around, always doing hard labor. He was also the only slave that wore binders on his wrists at all times. Even though he must have noticed the rations were shorter than usual, his face was blank—with stoicism or apathy, Obi-Wan couldn't tell.

Seeing this, Obi-Wan felt ashamed of his moment of weakness. This man—indeed, all the other slaves aboard this ship were much worse off than Obi-Wan, and here he was feeling sorry for himself. At least he had the comfort of his connection with the Force, with the energy of all life, which was more than anyone else in his position had.

The smuggler tossed Obi-Wan his portion of grayish, lumpy bread, which he tried to accept with a grateful heart. He was about to scamper off to find some corner of the ship where he could eat his meal in peace, when something unexpected happened. It started with someone tripping over something and stumbling into the wall. The fall was not serious, but the clanging noise it made was very loud. In fact, it startled the smuggler who was doling out the food, and he turned just a little too quickly to see what had happened—and one of the bread portions rolled out of the bowl and fell to the floor.

The bread landed just a pace away from the human man that Ben had just recently been contemplating. The man's face was no longer blank, but scowling with determination. He met Obi-Wan's eye, and Obi-Wan could feel the man's intent in the Force—he was going to grab the bread and damn the consequences. But the smuggler was already turning back around, and he would surely see the slave taking food that wasn't his. The slave would certainly be punished for such temerity.

Obi-Wan didn't even stop to think—he simply acted. "Sir," he said loudly, even tugging on the back of the smuggler's shirt to be sure he had his attention. The man turned on him, scowling already at the boldness Obi-Wan had showed in touching him. "Sir, can I please have some more?"

The backhand the smuggler gave him almost knocked Obi-Wan down. Only his long experience of Xanatos' "training" allowed him to keep his feet. He stumbled away, ears ringing from the smuggler's blow and his braying laughter. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw that the other slave was gone, as was the bread from the floor.

Obi-Wan curled up in an out-of-the-way corner to eat his bread and lick his wounds. He leaned his aching head against the side of the ship's hull, hoping that the cold metal would numb the pain and keep the swelling in his face down. His bread portion was gone in a minute flat, and Obi-Wan sighed and closed his eyes to meditate. He wanted to keep up the practice if he could, as he found comfort and calm in communing with the Force, even though his waking life was somewhat less than ideal. Also, he remembered hearing something from his Temple training, something about some Knights being able to subsist on the Force if they had no food. This was definitely not something that he had learned at any point in his training, he assumed because it was too advanced for Initiate level. But in the last year and a half with Xanatos, Obi-Wan had taught himself a number of Force techniques. Perhaps he could figure out how this one worked too. He had a little time to practice before he would need to lay down on the cold, dirty, durasteel floor of the cargo bay to try his best to get some fitful sleep.

As he entered into the first stages of meditation, his fingers slipped into the hidden pocket he'd sewn into his trousers and brushed against the kyber crystal inside. He had managed to find his lightsaber in Xanatos' lab before his widow had disposed of him. There was no way he could have smuggled an entire lightsaber onboard the freighter, but the kyber was easier to hide. The kyber was the piece that mattered anyway; the kyber was his, it was still bonded to him, and even though it hurt now to touch or use it, Obi-Wan didn't want to let it go. Even after he bled Obi-Wan's crystal, Xanatos still preferred to use his own lightsaber to duel, as if he could feel that the red crystal still preferred another. Perhaps that was why he had left it behind when he went to his final battle.

Obi-Wan jumped when he felt something land softly in his lap. He opened his eyes and was surprised to see half a portion of polystarch bread. A soft scuffing noise drew his eyes up to see the same slave from before, looking down at him with dark eyes. He hadn't heard the man approach. Either the guy had excellent stealth skills or Obi-Wan needed to drastically improve his situational awareness. He hadn't even felt the Force twinge in warning.

"I saw what you did back there," he said, voice hoarse from disuse.

Obi-Wan blinked. "I wasn't expecting anything," he told the man, a little bemused by his unlooked-for generosity.

"You helped me get it," the man said. "You get a fair portion." He spoke with finality, as though fairness was the only factor that mattered.

Obi-Wan wasn't about to argue him out it. "Thank you," he told the man, and picked up the bread.

Instead of walking away, the man settled next to Obi-Wan on the floor, waiting patiently for the boy to finish—not that it took long. Once Obi-Wan had eaten the last crumb of bread and settled himself back against the wall, the man spoke again. "So how'd you end up in this hellhole?"

Obi-Wan smiled sardonically. "Just lucky, I guess."

The man did not seem to be in a joking mood though, as he continued seriously. "Your previous owner must have been rich. The clothes you're wearing are finer than most. You're young and good-looking. Rare hair color. How come they didn't sell you to a brothel?"

Obi-Wan's stomach twisted at the thought that he could have been forced into prostitution. Really, he would do well to remember that that option wasn't exactly off the table. The spice smugglers could still decide to sell him. "My previous owner was in a rush to get rid of me, so she sold to the first buyer she could find," he told the man, a little hesitant now to continue the conversation. Why would a grown man tell him that he would make a good whore? Was this some kind of twisted compliment? Or was it a threat?

The man's ever-present frown deepened a bit. "At least they would've taken better care of you in a brothel. They'd feed you enough and conditions wouldn't be so dangerous."

Obi-Wan shrugged, wrapping his arms around himself and realizing too late that he was probably showing his discomfort too obviously. His body language had never mattered around Xanatos, who always knew what Obi-Wan was feeling through the Force. He'd need to learn to hide his emotions better around other people. "I guess that's true," he conceded to the man. "But—no offence—I'd still rather be here than forced into sex work."

The man suddenly muttered an expletive in a language that wasn't Basic. He scrubbed a hand over his face and wheezed out a dry, mirthless chuckle, shaking his head. "I'm sorry, kid," he finally said. "That really didn't come out right—I shouldn't have said all that to you. Looks like my social skills have gotten pretty rusty."

Obi-Wan relaxed. The man was…evidently attempting to express genuine concern for his well-being? Weird way of doing it, but okay. "It's fine. I haven't exactly practiced my company manners lately either."

"Yeah." The man cleared his throat and looked around before speaking again. "Look, I know you got something you're hiding." Obi-Wan immediately tensed again, which the man definitely noticed because he muttered another non-Basic curse and continued quickly. "Sorry, no, that came out wrong again. I only meant—I was watching you just now and—kriff, that sounds awful too—"

Obi-Wan couldn't help it. He giggled, completely inappropriately, at this man's flustered attempts to form a sentence that didn't sound implicitly threatening. He knew he shouldn't laugh. There were more than a few reasons not to—it was mean, the man was trying his best, he probably wouldn't take kindly to a kid laughing at him—but Obi-Wan was thoroughly spent, physically and emotionally, and the laugh just bubbled up past his lips before he could control himself.

Luckily, amazingly, the man didn't knock his block off. Incredibly, Obi-Wan soon heard a rumbling laugh responding to his own. This only made Obi-Wan laugh more, and then he looked over at the man and caught his eye, and it set them both off giggling harder than before.

Finally they managed to calm themselves, and surprisingly, Obi-Wan felt better. His stomach still ached, his face still throbbed, and he was still freezing cold, but he felt more settled, calmer. He supposed this awkward moment must have been cathartic for him in some way. Force knew that he needed a little catharsis after the year he'd had.

"I couldn't help but notice that you were reaching into your pocket earlier," the man said once they'd both calmed down. "If you have something you shouldn't, you need to be careful. Those smugglers will find it eventually, and they'll make you pay for it."

"It's nothing valuable," Obi-Wan told him, words measured, hoping this wouldn't spell trouble for him later. "At least, not valuable in terms of money. It's just a small thing that I—that I have from my home."

The man nodded. "Can I see it?" When Obi-Wan hesitated, he continued, "You don't have to show me. I only want to see if we can figure out a better way to hide it from those shabuire."

Obi-Wan looked around, ostensibly to check for others nearby while he reached out with his senses in the Force, looking for life forms near them. Then he slowly put his hand into his pocket and drew out his kyber crystal, holding it in his palm so the man could see. The kyber felt cold against his palm even after being in his pocket, and touching it made a stinging sensation race across his mind. The crystal was still red and raw, and Obi-Wan had no way to heal it, but he still couldn't bear to let it go, even with the anguish it caused him.

Obi-Wan watched the man with his eyes and in the Force, looking for any sign that he recognized what the crystal was, but if he knew its origin, he didn't show it. He only nodded. "Pretty," he said offhandedly. Then, "I think I have an idea."

He and Obi-Wan gathered up as much twine as they could find scattered around from leftover packaging, and then the man proceeded to show Obi-Wan how to use it to tie an elaborate series of knots wrapped all the way around his crystal to create a pendant.

"We used to make these when we were kids, where I come from," he told Obi-Wan as he showed him how he knotted the piece of twine around a rock of spice he'd scrounged from the floor. "We used to give them to our friends or to the person we had a crush on." He felt sad in the Force as he spoke, more than just simple nostalgia for childhood—more like grief.

Both of their fingers were stiff from cold and work, but with a little patience and a lot of cursing, they managed a passable necklace that Obi-Wan could wear, the knotted pendant falling under the collar of his shirt.

"There," the man said. "Now even if they see it, those idiots will only think it's just a scrap of twine you twisted up. They won't guess there's anything else to it."

Obi-Wan brought one hand up to cover his kyber where it now hung against his chest. His heart felt warm for the first time in a long time. "Thank you. Really."

The man just shrugged a little in acknowledgement of his gratitude. "You got a name, kid?"

Obi-Wan opened his mouth to answer, but stopped abruptly. He remembered suddenly that he had to be careful. It would be best to be circumspect, even if he was starting to trust this man.

He had paused a bit too long. "You don't have to tell me, kid," the man said, a bit gruff. "Just didn't want to keep calling you 'kid' all the time."

Obi-Wan decided to tell the man the truth—from a certain point of view, anyway. "I want you to call me by name too, but…I shouldn't use my real name anymore. My previous owner had…creditors. Who might be looking for me. It would be dangerous."

The man nodded seriously, accepting his explanation, and Obi-Wan relaxed. "You thought of a new name yet?"

Obi-Wan startled a bit. Of course, he could come up with a new name. Why hadn't he thought of that? He supposed that ever since Xanatos had told him the meaning of his name that he had identified a little too strongly with it. Having no real name and no family was a part of him, a reason why he had to endure this suffering. But he didn't have to let that be his future.

"No, not yet," he told the man. Then, plucking up his courage, he asked, "Do you have any suggestions?"

The man was quiet for a while, just looking at Obi-Wan. The boy tried not to squirm. At least the man didn't seem like he was offended by Obi-Wan's boldness in asking him to name him, despite the intimate nature of the request. But perhaps he would refuse. Obi-Wan told himself that would be all right. He could handle rejection. He had before.

"What about—" The man stopped to clear his throat, but his voice was still just as hoarse when he continued, "What about Ben? It's a good name, among my people. A strong name." The grief had returned in his Force presence, heavier than before.

Obi-Wan cocked his head, thinking. Ben. It was nice and short, and even had some of the same letters as his real name. "Ben," he said out loud, hearing it ring out and echo in the belly of the freighter. "I like it."

The man smiled at him, and it transformed his entire face, lightening the harsh lines of his careworn countenance into something almost nice. "Good."

"I'm Ben," the boy said, trying out his new name. "What may I call you?"

"Well met, Ben. My name is Jango Fett."

Mace finally finds Yoda sitting on a tiny balcony overlooking a not particularly prepossessing view of the section of river that runs right under Theed's palace. He's almost certain that it took him so long to track the old Master down because Yoda didn't want to be found.

He holds in a sigh. He would be avoiding having this conversation too if he could. He tires of telling people bad news.

Mace joins Yoda on the balcony. The old Master does not look at him, but he flicks the ear nearest Mace to acknowledge his presence.

"I've just been informed by the medical staff. Qui-Gon is gone." Yoda's ears droop, but he still does not raise his eyes. "I'm sorry."

There is a pause before Yoda speaks, voice low, almost soft. "His passing I felt. One with the Force, my grand-Padawan now is."

Mace lets silence fall between them for a moment, their mutual grief filling the space between them with more than words can say. As Master of the Order, he is informed of every passing and often delivers the news to those the deceased was close to. But when he has to tell an older lineage member of a younger's death, that is always the worst. The universe seems, somehow, a bit darker for it. Master Yoda has heard many such pronouncements in his very long lifetime, but it seems to hit different now. Yoda, though of a long-lived species, is nearing the end of his life. If things had gone differently, Qui-Gon could have been the first of his lineage to outlive him.

Unfortunately, Mace cannot simply stand silent vigil next to the old Master. There is more he must convey, but it is not easy.

"Qui-Gon's body has disappeared," he says finally. Yoda's ears twitch. "Just after his death, the medic on duty left the room for just a moment to call for assistance. When she came in again, he was just…gone. Everything else was still there—the blankets, the monitors, even his robe—but the body was gone."

"Hmm. Curious," Yoda murmurs.

"I take it you don't know what happened either."

Yoda shakes his head slowly. "No. Heard of this happening before, I have not."

"Could it be the Sith? Some kind of dark art?" Mace shudders internally. He can't imagine what the Sith would want with the body of a Jedi Master, and he doesn't want to either.

Yoda continues to shake his head. "One with the Force, Qui-Gon is. Feel this, I do. The flesh matters not. Perhaps wrong my intuition is, but sense darkness in this development, I do not."

"Neither do I," Mace admits. "It's causing me some cognitive dissonance to know that a body has quite literally disappeared and yet to not be particularly concerned about that."

"A gift that is, Mace. Too many worries you have. Hmm. Take a moment to find peace, you must." The wizened old Master looks down pointedly.

For the first time, Mace realizes that they are not, precisely, alone. There are two people on the ground below the balcony, and it takes Mace no time at all to clock that incredibly bright presence in the Force.

Skywalker and Kenobi are stripped down to their smalls and splashing around in the calm, relatively shallow inlet that houses the palace's private wharf. Kenobi appears to be teaching the boy how to swim. Mace can sense the slight frisson of fear in Skywalker's Force signature that is likely from this being the first time he has ever submerged his body in water. Nerves spike with every foot he moves deeper into the water, with every inch the water rises up his chest. But Kenobi is right there beside him for each step he takes further out, his words gently encouraging and presence wholly reassuring.

Mace has to hold back a wince at the boys' conditions. Skywalker is perhaps still a shade too thin, but he is recovering well from his previous hardships. Kenobi, on the other hand, is still skinny as a rail. Mace grinds his teeth as he recalls that Kenobi looked even worse when they arrived, and that was nearly a week after the battle was over. His bruises have faded to yellow remnants now, and the dark circles under his eyes look smaller. The medics and the palace staff have banded together to try to put some healthy weight on him, but it appears that their efforts have not yet borne fruit. With rest and care though, these signs will fade from his body. The scars, however, will not.

It is one thing for Mace to know that Obi-Wan has had to fight for his life from the age of twelve, and it is quite another to be confronted with the evidence of that war etched indelibly on his body. The boy's skin bears claw marks, bite marks, the distinctive fractal pattern caused by an electroprod that has the voltage turned up too high. Numerous straight, white lines that were burned into him with a lightsaber before his fifteenth life day. And the worst of all—the livid, red slash across his chest inflicted by the Sith, for which he is still undergoing treatment to make sure that the scar tissue does not impede his range of motion. Every scar on Kenobi's skin represents a failure that Mace feels the Jedi Order must answer for one day.

Mace pushes back his righteous anger to work out later in Vaapad practice. He calms himself by focusing on observing the boys as Kenobi guides Skywalker into floating on his back, hands holding the little boy up as he stretches out and finds his balance. Kenobi talks him through the exercise, his voice low and calm and almost meditative. Anakin is clearly relaxing more and more with every word of his father's guidance.

"Are you ready?" Mace hears Kenobi ask the boy, to which he nods, eyes squeezed shut in concentration. And Kenobi lets his hands drop away, letting go of Anakin.

There is another spike of fear from Skywalker when he feels his father's hands release him, but as soon as he realizes that he is successfully floating on his own, his presence grows so bright with joy that Mace has to fight back the infectious urge to smile.

"I'm doing it!" Anakin laughs. "Dad, are you seeing this?"

"You're doing great, Ani!" Obi-Wan tells him, his own smile real and bright, without any of the self-deprecation or mischief that graced his rare grins during their interview days ago. "Tip your head back a bit, it will help."

Skywalker lowers his head so his ears are below the water, and Mace can see the moment when the water muffles the ambient noise in the way the rest of his tension falls away. Anakin goes still and calm, much calmer than Mace thought it was possible for the kid to be.

Kenobi must see this too, or sense his child's peace through their bond, because Mace catches him running a hand under his eyes, wiping away the tears glinting there. There is such powerful relief on his face and in the Force. Mace cannot imagine what this moment must mean to Obi-Wan, to see his son free, happy, and at peace, learning to swim on the first planet he has seen that has enough water for it, together at last where no one will try to part them.

Perhaps Skywalker also senses his father's moment of emotion, or perhaps he just got tired of floating, because he opens his eyes to look for Kenobi, and his gaze lands on the Jedi Masters on the balcony instead.

"Hi Masters!" he calls out. He raises a hand from the water to wave at them, but the motion upsets his balance and he goes under. Kenobi is there immediately to haul him up, coughing and flailing. "The water went up my nose!" he exclaims, but it's not a complaint. The kid actually seems kind of awed by the novel sensation of nearly half-drowning. Mace shakes his head. Kenobi clearly has his work cut out for him.

Kenobi, having ascertained that Anakin is fine, looks up and nods at them. "Hello there, Master Yoda, Master Windu." His cheeks are slightly pink out of embarrassment that the Jedi saw that. He keeps a tight grip on Skywalker's arm. Wise man.

"Good afternoon," Mace calls down. "I see you've found the best way to spend this hot day. Far be it from us to interrupt." Mace truly does not wish to intrude on their leisure time. Both boys have been working hard this past ten-day, helping out displaced citizens and assisting with rebuilding however they can. The emergency water filtration units Anakin built using parts from deactivated droids were quite ingenious—the AgriCorps members had raved over them.

"Ben is teaching me to swim!" Skywalker calls out. "Will you come swim with us? If you don't know how, Ben can teach you too! He's really good at it!" Kenobi's face has gone from pink to red at Skywalker's confidence in his abilities, maybe from the mental image of himself trying to teach a 900-year-old troll how to swim, like Mace is happily imagining. Though knowing Kenobi, it's more likely he is embarrassed at the insinuation that he could teach two erudite Jedi Masters anything. The boy is too humble. Mace is certain that there are many things that they could learn from Kenobi.

"Another time, perhaps," Yoda says, and Mace is relieved to see the other Master's ears have perked up a bit, a thread of fondness alive in his Force presence. "Leave you to your lesson, we will." They both lift a hand in farewell as they turn back inside the palace, leaving the boys to their fun.

"Skywalker's right though," Mace says offhandedly to Yoda as they walk slowly down the hall. He keeps his pace slow for his shorter companion's comfort. "Kenobi would have made an excellent Master."

"Perhaps not too late it is for that," Yoda hedges.

Mace raises an eyebrow at him. "What do you want to do? Knight him? He won't accept it. Not without formal training and trials."

"His training, the Jedi began. But completing the training, he did himself. Tested his whole life he has been. By the Code he has lived. What more needed is there?"

"I'm not arguing; in fact, I agree with you on that. His fight against the Sith alone—defeating a Sith Lord would have earned a Padawan their Knighthood in the Sith Wars. And after everything he's faced, while still remaining devoted to the light— But that's not the issue. Kenobi doesn't seem to see himself as worthy of being a Jedi at all, let alone a Knighthood. I can't see him accepting something he doesn't feel he's earned."

"What harm in offering is there? Show him our esteem and acceptance, it would."

"I don't want to put him in a position where he feels conflicted over what he wants versus what he thinks he should do. Not to mention…the Order has a lot of work to do in repairing his trust in us," Mace continues. "We can't just offer him Knighthood and make him one of us again and expect that everything has been fixed. We should show him that we understand our mistakes and that we will support him and his child before we ask this of him. Let us not forget that Knighthood isn't just a title. It comes with responsibilities."

"Hmm." Mace knows that sound from long exposure to the old Grand Master. It's a hum of concession to Mace's point, even if Yoda won't say it outright. "Perhaps, another research project Master Nu would like. Many centuries it has been since accepted adults have the Jedi. In the historical record, perhaps, a traditional way we may find to acknowledge young Obi-Wan."

"It couldn't hurt to check," Mace agrees. "I'd like to know more about the process that led to the decision to accept only small children and restrict their contact with their families, myself."

"Attachment, this is thought to prevent."

"I understand why, I just don't know how we settled on this way in particular to prevent attachment. Is there any data-driven analysis on whether it even works, and whether it's worth the trade-offs? In the meantime, there could be more cases like Kenobi and Skywalker that would benefit from a different model, but there is no room in our system for cases like theirs." Which results in Kenobi and Skywalker getting left behind. Again.

"Hmm. Kenobi and Skywalker, a unique case they are. But your point, I take."

"Unique may be an understatement. I spoke with the MediCorps healer in charge of the boys' cases. She had an…interesting report." 'Interesting' is also definitely an understatement, as far as Mace is concerned.

Yoda's ears perk up a bit, intrigued. "Oh?"

"They had no medical records to speak of from the last twelve years, so she did a full workup on both of them. It seems that she found almost nothing out of the ordinary for two recently enslaved humans, not even the transmitter they had to surgically remove from Skywalker's arm. Evidently, it's a common practice among slavers to prevent enslaved people from escaping. Truly disgusting."

"A transmitter, only Skywalker had?"

"Apparently Kenobi's was ripped out by the Sith when he kidnapped him." Along with several inches of his flesh.

"Hmmmm."

Mace moves on. "It was when she did the genetic profile that she found something…a bit odd. Skywalker had told the healers that Kenobi was his father, so they did a comparison of their genes to scan for genetic markers for hereditary diseases they may share. They found that Skywalker and Kenobi actually aren't biologically related to one another, except in one way. Their midi-chlorians are genetically identical."

Yoda's ears are quivering. "Hmm, interesting. Very interesting, this is. A theory, do the healers have?"

"The healer pulled Kenobi's medical records from his Initiate days. His midi-chlorian genes as a youngling are the same as they are now, but his count is up. Way up, actually—he's at more than fifteen thousand now, from just under thirteen thousand as a twelve-year-old."

"Unheard of it is not, for a Jedi's midi-chlorian count to increase somewhat with age and deepening connection to the Force. But to this degree, not usually. And in those outside the Order, seen but rarely, this is."

Mace nods in agreement. "As for Skywalker and Kenobi's matching midi-chlorians, the healer had never seen anything like it. The only medical explanation she could come up with is if Shmi Skywalker received in vitro fertility treatments with ova cytoplasm donated by Kenobi's birth mother, which would account for why the boys' midi-chlorians match while they don't share any other genes. But we know for a fact that didn't happen."

"One explanation, there is."

"The nexus?"

"Through the Force, possible all things are."

Mace forces himself to hold in a sigh. "If that's so, then it looks like Kenobi's theory isn't quite right. The Force didn't recreate his connection to it to match Anakin—it created Anakin from Kenobi's midi-chlorians. Somehow." Mace glares at Yoda. "Though you'll forgive me if I still want there to be an explanation that's a bit more concrete."

"Content you must be, Mace. Beyond our sentient knowledge are many things—"

"Don't say it."

"—Mysterious are the ways of the Force."

"You had to say it."

Mace looks up at the ceiling at an angle that Yoda hopefully can't see him rolling his eyes. But Yoda has infinite experience of telling when he's being mocked, so Mace still has to sidestep the gimer stick that Yoda aims at his shins.

They walk together for a while down the empty, echoing hallway, though Mace still has a question on his mind. He finally speaks up. "I didn't ask before, but…their bond. I've never heard of anything like it. You said you had, though."

Yoda glances up at him, wrinkled lips pursed. "Yes. A dyad in the Force, I believe they are. Two beings, yet one in the Force."

"I don't suppose you're going to explain that."

Yoda seems oddly hesitant. "Meditate on this I must, before more I can say," he finally says slowly. "Many generations it has been since a Force dyad there was. A prophecy there is—"

"Another prophecy?" Mace has about had it with these kriffing prophecies.

"—a prophecy of the Sith."

Mace feels a freezing cold rock fall into his stomach. "Explain." Force help him, if Yoda doesn't give him a straight answer now of all times…

But Yoda, surprisingly, does. "Among the Sith, revered is the idea of the Force dyad. Based on this is the Rule of Two of Darth Bane: always two Sith there are. No more, no less. A master, and an apprentice."

Mace thinks of the mysterious warrior that had killed one of the Order's most talented Masters. "Makes you wonder which one Kenobi destroyed—the master or the apprentice?"

Yoda gives him a look, one that means he has his own ideas about which one the dark warrior was and that Mace probably wouldn't like his hunch. However, he doesn't address it, continuing instead with his explanation. "The birth of a dyad unseen for generations, the prophecy foretells. Two beings, sharing a profound connection, with a power as strong as life itself. The future of the Sith, they believe the dyad is—the key to unlocking the full potential of the dark side of the Force."

If Mace didn't have durasteel-clad control over his reactions, he probably would have shivered. "So you're saying that Skywalker is either the Chosen One who will defeat the Sith and bring balance to the Force, or he and Kenobi are a Force dyad that will be the future of the Sith."

"Hmm, both, they could be. One does not preclude the other."

Mace glares at his shorter companion, who he swears is trying to hide a smile. "I know that you love to make me miserable, but now you're just being cruel."

"Know the true meaning of the prophecies, we will, only with time."

"I could swear Kenobi was never this much trouble as a youngling," Mace almost sighs. "I would've never guessed that that sweet boy would grow up to give me such a massive headache." Mace catches himself wishing that Jinn were still here to take the blame for his headaches. The man's antics had always been a convenient scapedray for Mace's woes. He could almost hear his old friend now, calmly assuring him that he was only following the will of the Force, all the while knowing that he was just winding Mace up more. Mace clears his throat, trying to banish the sudden tightness.

"Actually, maybe I should be blaming you," Mace says, side-eyeing the old troll. "If you had just taken Kenobi as your Padawan like everyone thought you were going to, maybe the fate of the entire galaxy wouldn't be converging on us now."

Mace regrets his words when Yoda's small smile disappears. "Too old I am, for another apprentice," he says slowly. "A good match, I thought Qui-Gon and Obi-Wan would be. Wrong, I was. Not ready, Qui-Gon was. Push him, I should not have."

Mace is surprised that Yoda clearly still feels some measure of guilt over this. He had thought the old Grand Master would have worked through it by now, but perhaps his grand-Padawan's death and seeing Kenobi again had brought it all back up. Acceptance is not a linear process, Mace knows.

"Will you tell Kenobi why you sent him to Bandomeer?" he asks, gentling his tone.

"One day, yes, told he must be. Wait, I will, to allow trust to build between him and the Jedi. Hope, I must, that estrange him from the Order, the truth will not, though trust in me again, he may not."

Mace nods. "I will leave the decision to you. But—" and he levels a sharp eye at the old Master "—you must do it eventually, or I will find a way to make you."

They continue down the hall, and Mace can feel Yoda contemplating his threat beside him. He forces down a smile.

"…Copies of my baby holos, do you truly have?"

"It's the only blackmail material I've got, just let me have this one thing."

Standing in the shadows of a narrow side corridor and a conveniently positioned bust of some long-dead king, a man waited for the two Jedi Masters to turn the corner out of sight and hearing before he moved.

"A power as strong as life itself," Sheev Palpatine murmured. He bared his teeth in what someone with no regard for the sanctity of sentient life might have called a smile.

"How fortuitous."

Aw, you didn't think I would forget our old friend Skeevy Sheev, did you? 😆

Anyway, this fic is now complete, but as you may have guessed, the story is not exactly over. What about Jango? What's up with all these prophecies? Where oh where is Shmi? I have a few ideas sketched out, but haven't written anything yet. If you liked this fic and you would like to read more, let me know by dropping me a review or favorite! I really appreciate your reactions!

There will likely be a couple more chapters added on to the end of this fic as I finish writing drabbles that people won in the betting pool. In the meantime, thank you all so much for reading! ❤️

ln(🎶)