A/N: No, I've not abandoned this, though I understand why some of you have asked. Happy seven-year anniversary to this series, and happy new year to you all.
The knocks infiltrated Obi-Wan dreams before he realized they were real. He was deep in sleep, and by the time his consciousness swam back up to his body, the knocking had grown louder, more frantic. He blinked his eyes open, confused by the unfamiliar shadows of his new room—Qui-Gon's old one. As he came to his senses, his confusion whirled into alarm. The Force was sharp and panicked around him, jolting like a shot of adrenaline with every knock on his front door. He threw off his bedcovers and rushed into the main space of his apartment, not bothering to put on a robe.
Ahsoka was already awake and seemed equally as drowsy and confused, hovering in the middle space between her bedroom and the front door.
"Master, I wasn't sure what—do you know who…?"
"No," he preempted, and hit the door switch. It slid open with a hiss, and it was still so early that the hallway was dim, lit only by the safety lamps along the floor.
"Master Gard?" Ahsoka exclaimed. It was indeed Feemor who'd been knocking, but her old clanmaster didn't seem to see her. It took Obi-Wan several heartbeats to see that it was Feemor, because the man looked so panicked that in the dark, he was momentarily unfamiliar.
"Aola, where is she?" the master demanded frantically.
"What?" Obi-Wan said. Something must've been terribly wrong, but he was still struggling to process what was happening.
"Do you know where she is? Do you—" Feemor's voice wasn't meant to crack like that, and the Force wasn't supposed to feel like this so early in the morning, brittle and rattling like glass, "I figured you—she always forgets to tell me when the council sends her—I thought you'd—Metellos, Aola, where is she?"
"Metellos, Aola…" Obi-Wan repeated, trying to kickstart his brain. Independently the two words held meaning, but he struggled to remember how they related to one another.
"The mission to Metellos, was Aola there? On Metellos?"
"I…" Obi-Wan remembered speaking to Mace Windu about the mission, but he hadn't been involved in appointing the team. "I don't know," he said. Feemor looked like he might choke on the Force itself.
"I—She's not at home. I have to…" Feemor looked up and down the hallway like a lost man. "I'm sorry I woke you," he said, already marching away.
"Did something happen to Master Tarkona?" Ahsoka asked behind him, and Obi-Wan was surprised by how worried she sounded. He wouldn't remember until later that Ahsoka had grown up knowing Master Tarkona as a well-loved member of the clawmouse clan. "Is she okay?"
Obi-Wan's mind was racing through what little Dooku had told him of the plans for Metellos. He'd been too busy taking on an apprentice to be in the room for every conversation.
"I don't know," he said again, brow drawing into a frown as the worried timbre of the Force worked its way into his own soul. Was she on Metellos, Feemor had said. Was the mission already over? They'd only been dispatched in the afternoon… he felt as though his throat was swelling, and it took him several attempts before he could swallow. Dread overcame him. He rushed back to his room and came back pulling on his boots and belt.
"Stay here, Padawan," he said, more to shield her from his own panic than anything else.
"But I-"
"Please, Ahsoka."
The young togruta stayed in the doorway, crossed her arms, and watched her new master jog down the hall.
Obi-Wan was not sure if he was chasing after Feemor or searching for Aola herself. Disoriented, he rushed through the darkened halls of the dormitory wing, turning his head this way and that in a futile search for the older master.
"Feemor," Obi-Wan hissed into the long corridors as he passed. He did not trust his vision in the dim light, but even through the Force the hallways felt empty, too-still given the flood of blind panic they'd witnessed only moments ago. Focusing on the quiet, Obi-Wan couldn't even hear the lifts running, and realized that Feemor must've already left the dormitory altogether. The knight gravitated towards the lifts anyway, unsure of what else to do. Aola's apartments were three floors down, and while he knew she wouldn't be there, he could not think of where else to start.
Where is she? Feemor's words echoed through his mind, cracking in a timbre Obi-Wan hadn't ever heard from the man. The sound of it pulled on some buried tripwire in his memory, setting his heart racing, hands sweating. Where is she? He focused on his footsteps as he marched toward the lifts. Before Obi-Wan could press the control panel, the door hissed open, startling him.
Fully dressed but visibly rattled, Mace Windu looked equally as surprised to see Obi-Wan as Obi-Wan was to see him.
"You're already awake," Mace said, sounding surprised. Obi-Wan could see that Mace's robes were wrinkled and askew, a bad harbinger. Before Mace could say anything more, Obi-Wan asked,
"What happened?"
"Come on," Mace said, waving him into the car, robbed of his usual decorum and poise. "They're already gathering in the spire. You ought to be there as well."
Obi-Wan had meant to interrogate him once inside, but as the doors hissed shut and the pod lurched down, all words evaporated as it suddenly occurred to him: Feemor's voice had sounded just like Qui-Gon's had on Kamino, when the Sith had brought his saber down across Obi-Wan's skull.
"Luna, help me," Vokara said as she pushed a medical bed down the hall while towing another one behind her. "The door."
The nautolan rushed to set down the boxes she was carrying and jog back out into the hall. She wove through the chaos formerly known as the Halls of Healing, careful of the droids underfoot and the medical supplies stashed all around—boxes of gloves, needles, lines, bacta, tape, bandages—a lot of bandages. She raised her hand and the two doors in front of her master slid open, allowing her to direct the beds into their respective rooms.
"Well need another bed in room 6," Vokara told the facilities droid that hovered nearby even as she maneuvered the beds into place, "all the bells and whistles. Room 2 is still waiting on a second set of monitors." The healer looked toward the front desk above the mayhem. "Time?"
"0255, master," reported the senior apprentice, not sitting down as he frantically tapped out commands into two datapads at once.
"Chssk on a kriffing pike," Vokara cursed, rubbing sweat from her forehead. "Where's master Kofar? Pellos?"
"Setting up in OR 1," reported the droid.
"Master Raalta is here," reported Garen Muln, who was hardly a healer but was a warm body with working hands. He sounded breathless as he wheeled monitors to their respective rooms. "Her apprentice is on the way."
"Good, tell her to start warming up the bacta."
"Which tank?" Garen asked, even as she walked away.
"All of them!" Vokara shouted back. "Here," she handed an armful of supplies to someone else's padawan whose name she couldn't remember. "Room 3." Whoever they were, the apprentice scurried off with a purpose and Vokara was grateful. Only the senior padawans were here tonight, and while dazed by the early hour, all of them were behaving admirably. Vokara hoped they'd hold their nerve in the coming hours. There was a reason they'd not roused any of the junior apprentices. The list she'd received contained some well-loved names, and even in these dark times, there were some things young eyes should not have to see.
"Room 4," Vokara directed the nearest person she saw, "check to see if it has a monitor for every bed, if not, get one of the old ones from—" Her voice and her feet sputtered to a halt at the same time. "Master Gard," she said, utterly bemused. "What are you doing here, are you alright?" When he did not respond, her blue eyebrows twitched in concern. "Are you ill?"
"Aola," Feemor managed, clearly upset, "she was—what's happened to—Metellos,"
"Yes, I've been told about Metellos, hence the—" Vokara jutted her head at the Halls. "Master Gard if you do not need immediate medical attention I'm going to have to ask you to get out of the way."
"Where's Aola?" he demanded, bald-faced panic bleeding through every pore.
"She's in room 8, but she—" Feemor did not stay to hear whatever else Vokara said. He flew through the halls like a juggernaut, not moving for droids, boxes, or apprentices until he found Aola's room. "Master Gard," Vokara was calling after him, "Feemor!" He was not listening. He punched the door open to room 8 and was momentarily stunned by the sight of not one, but two beds squished into one room. Both of them were empty.
"Room 8, this is—you said she was—" a Feemor turned his head, he met eyes with a familiar face.
"Master?" Aola said, tangled up with wires as she fiddled with one of the bed's monitors. "What the hell are you doing here?"
Feemor was frozen. It took four pouding, deafening heartbeats for him to accept what he was seeing. He heard an undignified whimper come out of his mouth and the edges of his vision went dim. Suddenly, he was leaning heavily against the door frame and Aola was there, helping him ease to the ground, hand tight around his arm.
"Easy, Master—Master? Are you alright?" Feemor missed the first several words she said, only seeing her, healthy, alive, alive. "Master, you're scaring me, what's wrong?" She was kneeling beside him and her voice was wavering. Feemor didn't know whether it ought to make him laugh or cry, because how could she ask him that?
"I thought you were—the mission, you helped plan—" he was about to cry and she was looking him over for injuries, finding none but the fear in his voice. "I thought—you never told me if you were—sweet Force, child," Feemor at last broke, bringing a shaking hand up to his face, voice wobbling as precariously as the tears that beginning to fall, "I thought you were there," he said, "on Metellos. I've been comming you, but you didn't—I couldn't find you." Feemor heaved a shuddering breath and heaved it back out, doing all he could not to sob. For a moment his struggle was the only sound between them, but then Aola shuffled forward on her knees and wrapped her arms around his much larger frame.
"I wasn't there, never was, I should have told you," she said, "I'm so sorry, master, I'm alright, I'm right here." Feemor was slowly regaining his composure, feeling the life radiate off of her and promise himself he'd never forget what a gift it was. "But there's a lot of people who aren't alright," Aola said, voice taught with fatigue, "and we need to be ready for when they get here."
"Right," Feemor said. "Right." The rumors he'd heard had been bleak enough, but as he came back to himself, the gravity of the situation began to dawn in full color. Two beds to a room, the head healer up with a full staff at 3 am. They were turning the Halls into a trauma ward. He wiped his face, rubbing off the tears and the panic, giving Aola's arm a squeeze. "What can I do?"
"Go back to the younglings," Aola said seriously, helping her master to his feet. "The whole temple is going to sense it when they land. The little ones will be frightened."
"How bad was it?" Feemor asked. Aola gave him a look that sent his heart careening down through his toes. "How many?" he asked instead.
"How many died, or how many are coming back?" she asked, fetching the wad of wires from the floor and frantically detangling them so she could resume hooking up the monitors.
"How many do they expect for the Halls?"
"The list they sent had twenty-four names," Aola said, "and we've as many beds, but Master Che expects the number to—" Aola choked, face stoic but eyes shining, "she doesn't expect all the beds to be full." Aola brushed by her master to pull machines into place alongside the beds.
"How many Jedi were sent out?" Feemor asked, horrified. She glanced at him and he could feel the weight of her guilt and grief threatening to break her focus—perhaps outweighing his own.
"Too many," she said. "Please, master, go be with the younglings."
In the close quarters of the lift, the tension was too much to bear.
"What happened?" Obi-Wan asked for a second time, dreading the answer.
"It was a massacre," Mace answered, glaring at the lift doors as floors whirred past. "A colossal rout. The latest I've heard was eleven of ours dead, but half an hour before that, I was told four. I'm still waiting on a final count—they only made it off the planet twenty minutes ago."
"What?" Obi-Wan breathed. They'd reached their stop, and Mace stepped out just as soon as the doors were clear. Obi-Wan lingered for a moment, stunned. "Nine?" he echoed, and darted out to follow the Master. "We only sent twelve!"
"At first," came a new voice, and Obi-Wan was surprised to see his Grandmaster, Yan Dooku, falling into step beside them. "A dozen, and then a dozen more in reinforcements, and still nine more who charged in on their own when they heard the distress call." Upon hearing this, Obi-Wan actually choked on his own breath.
"Thirty-three?" the word came out at a high, panicked pitch. "Thirty-three Jedi on a single mission? There's no way Palpatine won't see our hand now," he worried.
"Oh, that's the least of our problems," Mace snapped, marching toward the councilroom with uncharacteristic alarm. Between Mace and Dooku, whose legs were much longer than Obi-Wan's, the younger knight had to jog momentarily to keep up.
"The Sith knew we were coming," Dooku said. "For all we know, they may have known this entire time."
"What?"
"Inside," Mace hissed at them, "and don't talk so loudly."
Inside the councilroom, Obi-Wan was surprised to find that, contrary to what he'd expected, the High Council was nowhere to be found. Only Master Yoda was waiting to join the other three. Faced away from the newcomers and gazing out at the glittering nightscape of Coruscant, the diminutive Jedi turned toward them, wrinkled face tense with deeper, seldom-seen lines of worry. The doors hissed shut. Immediately, Obi-Wan asked,
"What do you mean the Sith already know?"
"Know of our scheme, Palpatine does," Yoda answered before Dooku could explain, and all eyes turned to him. He leaned heavily on his cane as he addressed Obi-Wan. "How, impossible to say. The conspiracy of our intelligence he knows as well."
"Adan," Obi-Wan looked to Dooku. The old man inhaled deeply, training his expression in Jedi stoicism.
"Senator Chancius of Serreno has been ejected from the Galactic Senate under suspicion of conspiracy and espionage," the tall Jedi reported, and Obi-Wan's expression went slack in surprise. "The Count has been barred from Coruscant altogether." Obi-Wan could feel the blood draining from his face.
"Bail Organa too," Mace told him, watching him carefully. "And Garm Bel Iblis."
"No," Obi-Wan's mind was reeling. "They can't do that, surely."
"Mas Amedda has made it quite clear that they can," Dooku replied, dark and rueful. "Palpatine's allies in the Senate have smuggled such provisionary language into Senate resolutions for months now. In our preoccupation with the Sith, we allowed them to slip past our notice. Nearly all the senators who've worked with us over the past year have been ousted. They may be able to return, pending investigations, but I suspect those 'investigations' will be conveniently ongoing for a long time."
"Nearly all?" Obi-Wan asked, glancing between the three of them. "Can we trust no one in the Senate?"
"Trust? Yes. Contact, no," Mace explained. "Senators Amidala, Mothma, and a few others have managed to hold their seats, but they know as well as we do that their presence on Coruscant is held on by a thread. They've cut off all contact, as have we." It was a relief to hear that Padme had remained, but the relief was stolen away by the powerlessness that came with their new and terrifying situation.
"So we're flying blind?" Obi-Wan surmised.
"We have been for some time without knowing it," Mace corrected, crossing his arms with a huff. "We have no way of knowing how much Palpatine does or doesn't know beyond our mission to Metellos, or any of those before."
"If he knew what we were doing, why not stop us earlier?" Obi-Wan demanded, "why now? Why wait and let us wreak havoc?"
"Why did we choose to lose as often as we did?" Dooku countered. Obi-Wan was a talented strategist, and Dooku know that once he saw past his own surprise and horror, he'd see the pieces on the board and the players behind them. "A knight is worth more than a pawn, and a rook more than a knight. But Metellos is a queen. He was never going to let us take it."
"So he worked us up," Obi-Wan's shoulders were falling as he began to understand. "To cost us all the pawns we had left."
Dooku glanced at Mace, who was looking out at some indistinct point, brows heavy, tired lines flashing under his eyes every time a speeder's headlights passed through the Spire's windows. The machine of Coruscant churned along at its usual merciless pace.
"Jedi knights are not pawns," Mace said, tired in his soul. "But I'm afraid we've begun to treat them just as well." All four Jedi were silent a moment, each to his own thoughts.
"What now?" Obi-Wan asked at length.
"If you have any contact with anyone in the Senate, or near the senate, delete your messages," Mace instructed. "Destroy any exclusive channels. Do not reach out, do not explain. We cannot afford any leaks that might further endanger our allies in the Senate, nor ourselves, when it comes down to it. The only thing to be done is to lie low."
"We were lying low," Obi-Wan lamented, "for years we've been lying low."
"Like vipers buried under the sand," Dooku had used it to describe Obi-Wan's fighting style for years now, and the phrase gave the young knight pause. "We must strike as true as we are able before burying ourselves once more."
"Careful, we must be," Master Yoda emphasized.
"Careful," Obi-Wan repeated, a swirling, dreadful feeling growing in his gut. He pinched the bridge of his nose and bit his tongue, arranging his hands into opposite sleeves. "Yes of course, masters." Outside the councilroom, one of the lifts began to whir, traveling downwards to fetch a passenger.
"Arrive soon the Council will," Yoda said, glancing at the night sky, which had grown a hazy, deep blue in preparation for dawn. "Anticipate Palpatine's rebuke, we must." Obi-Wan took this as his cue to leave, but as he turned to the door, Mace said:
"Master Kenobi, walk with me?"
Obi-Wan spared a glance at Master Yoda and Dooku, giving the duo a quick bow before leaving with Master Windu, who waited for him to come closer before he began walking, very slowly, toward the lifts.
"We have to lie low for now," the Master of the Order told him quietly, eyeing the halls in case anyone might be listening. "That does not mean we will lie low for long. It is not only Amidala and Mothma who support us in the Senate. Palpatine knows he's taken us by surprise, but he's also revealed that he doesn't know everything. He's cleansed the Senate, but he clearly doesn't know how deep that network runs."
"How deeply?" Obi-Wan probed. Mace shot him a look.
"It extends far beyond the Senate building, that I can say. Palpatine can oust as many senators as he pleases, but he cannot keep track of what they believe. He cannot keep track of everything all of them say all the time—to say nothing of their networks outside of Coruscant."
"You're suggesting we collude with these disgraced senators? Behind Palpatine's back?" Obi-Wan slowed to a stop. Mace slowed with him, and paused before he turned back to look at Obi-Wan, weighing his words carefully.
"I'm suggesting that if anti-Sith sentiment is as widespread throughout the galaxy as Adan's doomed coalition leads me to believe, we can find new channels through which to gather intelligence." Obi-Wan watched the Master's face, which bore no evidence of deceit. A shadow passed over them as a large cargo ship flew overhead.
"And what of the reports?" Obi-Wan asked. "If we start going after Sith outposts again, how will we explain it to the Council of Reconciliation, let alone to the Chancellor?"
"We won't go after them, not like we have been," Mace said, and glanced away, wincing. "I can't sign off on any more of these sieges, not after today. But we can gather intelligence. Spy. Infiltrate. They still have their claws in former Jedi trainees, and the Senate may be about to claim jurisdiction over matters of the Sith, but they cannot tell the Jedi how to take care of our own." He glanced back at the council chambers. None of the other councilors had arrived yet, but they would be there any moment. "I'm putting forward a resolution today that will set aside time and resources to find former Jedi, those who have fallen through the cracks. Over half the dead we dig out of these Sith prisons are students who fell away. Their blood may be on Palpatine's hands, but ours are not clean. We have to try and keep them from falling further into the dark."
"And in the process," Obi-Wan was a step ahead, "Find out where else he's hiding."
"Precisely."
"And how do we keep him from finding out? From leading us into a massacre again?"
"Simple. We don't tell him," Mace said, beginning to walk again. Obi-Wan rushed to follow him.
"You're suggesting that the Jedi Order operate secretly, without knowledge or oversight from the Senate or the Chancellor's office." It was a statement, not a question.
"Not in so many words, but yes. From this day on, it is a Jedi Matter, not a Senate matter."
"Is that even legal?" Obi-Wan asked, feeling absurd but needing to know.
"The Jedi predates the Republic by a thousand years," Mace said with authority, "although both parties seem to have forgotten it was the Republic who allied with the Jedi, not the other way around. We've always taken care of our own. If the chancellor doesn't like how we do it, he can take it up with me personally." Obi-Wan raised his eyebrows.
"It's a bold move," the younger man said, trying to block out the intrusive image of Mace fighting Palpatine alone. "Pitting the Jedi against the Chancellor and his entire Senate. It sounds likerebellion."
"Not quite," Mace corrected. "But should it come to that, rebelling against the Sith is not a fight the Jedi will face alone." A door hissed open, and both Jedi turned to see Ki-Adi Mundi hurrying towards the council chambers. Mace heaved a sigh and turned back to Obi-Wan.
"Find your apprentice, and take care, Master Kenobi. Dark times are getting darker."
Ben Kenobi woke up just before dawn to an empty apartment. He'd opened his datapad to see if Anakin had left a message, but before he could, he saw the news alert hovering in the corner of his screen.
"Oh Force," Ben breathed, collapsing into a nearby chair.
News traveled fast. If asked later, Ben would not be able to recall which he'd read about first: that the Chancellor had ousted a cadre of senators who were, apparently colluding with the Jedi, that the mission to Metellos had failed, or that sixteen Jedi—so far—had died as a result of the subsequent massacre.
He left immediately for the Halls of Healing, to offer whatever help he could, but found it already swarming with similar volunteers, most more qualified than him. He wandered around the temple, needing something to occupy himself. Everywhere, there was tension rippling across the force in hair-raising discordance. He needed to find his apprentice. He went to the archives, the gardens, the planetarium, the commissary. He returned to the residential wing to seek out the solace of friends, but Obi-Wan, Feemor, Aola, and even Dooku were not at their rooms. In the gardens, Qui-Gon was nowhere to be found.
Not knowing how else to occupy himself through the omnipresent anxiety, he went down to the creche. There, he found a hall of unsettled younglings, their masters trying desperately to project calm into the Force. Near the end of the long hall of dormitories, he found Feemor Gard, cradling his smallest clawmouse. She was a Korun, probably only months old, crying for reasons she did not understand. Feemor was not a small man by any means, and his arms seemed to engulf the baby. He looked up and Ben saw fatigue and latent fear etched into his face.
"Ben," Feemor was surprised but relieved to see a familiar face. "You've heard?"
"As much as anyone," the master replied, looking around at the bleak faces around him, heart aching with the wrongness of seeing such young faces entrenched in such adult anxiety. "Was Aola…?"
"No, thank the Force," Ben hadn't known how worried he was until he let his shoulders relax.
"Good. I would ask how things are here, but…" It didn't need to be said aloud. "Have you seen Anakin, by any chance?"
"No," Feemor looked down at the baby briefly to readjust her against his chest and rub her back. "Don't tell me he was wrapped up in this?"
"No, no, nothing like that. I just… he wasn't at home this morning. And he can be… well. He's very sensitive to the movements of the Force," Ben said, "I'm worried about him. While Feemor hardly knew what Anakin was, he was well aware that the boy was… different.
"I'm worried too, though I hardly even know what I'm worried about. The halls… Feemor sighed, briefly making eye contact with a ten year old who was doing his level best to hide the fact that he was eavesdropping. "A lot is going on," the master couched his language, eyebrows communicating an apology. "I'm afraid this is the wrong place to speak of such things, Master Kenobi."
"Of course," Ben nodded, not realizing he'd been picking at his beard until he had to bring his hand back down in order to bid the other Jedi farewell. "May the Force be with you, Master Gard." It was an unusual farewell, given that they were both in the temple, and were bound to see each other soon. Still, it was an ancient sort of comfort.
"And with us all," Feemor bid. "I'll let you know if I spot your apprentice."
"Thank you."
By evening, eighteen of the thirty-three Jedi who fought on Metellos were dead. Republic holonews stations were broadcasting details of the disaster for all to see, and the Senate had been called to an emergency session, some of them flown overnight back to Coruscant, one reversing course halfway home to follow the summons. The exact agenda of their meeting was a mystery, but given that every major news station featured headlines on Metellos, no one in the Order was under any allusions.
Ben was deep in thought over the matter when he returned to his apartments. That Palapatine had ejected so many senators from Coruscant was scandal enough, but to have ejected senators known for their affinity with the Jedi just as soon as the Jedi were making headlines in all the wrong ways was truly alarming. Public opinion was not territory that Ben understood well; in the Clone Wars, no amount of Republican discord over the war would change the Senate's support of the war effort or of their Jedi-led armies. But here and now, Ben found the galaxy in a moat of uncertainty, a limbo space between war and negotiated peace. War had been an indistinct threat for years now, but after Metellos it felt more real. Whispers of authoritarianism creeped across a horizon he could not see.
Thoughts of the senate quickly faded when his front door slid open and revealed a darkened apartment with tall windows cracked open. A seated figure was silhouetted against the Coruscanti night, thin padawan braid flickering in and out of sight in the light of passing speeders.
"Anakin," Ben said, relieved, "there you are. I looked for you everywhere." As he approached, Anakin did not bother to move, not even to look up. He was staring down out of the window, the thin opening letting a breeze in to tussle his hair gently. "I wasn't sure if you'd—" Ben's voice was suddenly snatched away, for around his apprentice there was a wall of grief and anger so raw that, for a moment, it was hard to breathe.
"Anakin?" He asked softly, pressing forward until he was carefully, quietly kneeling by his padawan's side. A tense, thick minute passed before Anakin sniffed, and said:
"Sarsan was there," he sounded like he'd been crying. A familiar Zygarrian face flashed in Ben's memory, a good friend of Anakin's and kindred spirit. "He was gone before they got back." The younger man's voice trembled like Ben hadn't heard in many, many years, and the master felt his heart shattering. "We were supposed to have a spar when he got back, up on the temple roof, it was a stupid bet we made with Mira. I don't… she's off-planet, I don't even know if she got caught up in all the—they told me they'll hold a funeral tomorrow, but Mira won't answer my messages, and I don't know if she'll be here when they—" Anakin's voice was catching in his throat as the apprentice fought against sobs, though it sounded like he'd been fighting them for some time. "He was smiling when he left," Anakin told his master, unable to look at him. "Said it was going to be easy as flying," a half sob broke through, and Anakin hiccuped, head bowing lower to the floor as he rubbed his eyes, desperate to hide his tears. "He said he'd be right back."
Ben listened to the news in silence, thousands of faces and names flashing across his mind's eye, all lives lost during the war. Classmates, crechemates, old rivals, friends. As a wartime General, he'd been offered no time to grieve, not even for the Jedi alongside whom he'd learned to walk.
Heart aching, he reached out for his apprentice as no one had done for him, and wordlessly pulled him into an embrace so he would not have to grieve alone.
Anakin held on to him and wept, feeling like nothing would ever be the same again.
The following weeks were a blur of grief, anxiety, and tension. Not all Jedi were privy to the inner machinations of the Senate, or the growing rift between the High Council and the Council of Reconciliation. While many Jedi on Coruscant were friendly with a senator or two, very few were as intimately networked as those in the High Council or those in the orbit of Ben Kenobi. Of course, most of those in Ben's orbit knew senators as politicians only. Anakin was an exception.
There's a lot to talk about, Anakin had written to Padme eight days ago: I know you must be swamped, but if you have a minute, call me.
Seven days ago: I've heard the Senate is meeting on the Metellos disaster. Any word?
Six days ago: I hope you're taking care of yourself, so much has happened.
Five: I miss you.
Four: I know this is a selfish thing to ask, all things considered, but, have I done something wrong? I have a lot to talk to you about, if you have a few minutes.
Three: Are you doing alright? I heard about Bail, I know you are close.
Two: Please call me.
Today, he could think of nothing else to say. Heaving a massive sigh, he rubbed at his eyes and pocketed the small datapad. He was sweaty and exhausted, fresh from the dojos where he'd been spending most of his energy after the fallout from Metellos. It was difficult to exist with himself if he wasn't moving or too exhausted to think. He hadn't bothered to shower in the dojos, preferring to come back to his apartments, where he could shower in solitude without having to train his features into the stoic Jedi mold that was expected of him.
Unfortunately, solitude was the last thing he found when he opened the front door.
"What—" he began to ask, before his master shushed him. The large holo in their main room was on, and crowded around it, sitting, standing, and leaning as they found room, was every member of his lineage—plus some—save for Master Yoda himself. Ben, Qui-Gon, Dooku, Feemor, Aola, Obi-Wan, and even Obi-Wan's new apprentice, whose name Anakin could not remember, were there.
"What's happened?" He asked, dread rising.
"Shhh," Ben said again, eyes not leaving the holo, "it's the Senate."
Desperate for news after Padme's silence, Anakin quickly went round to see the holo for himself, standing next to Qui-Gon behind the sofa to watch the broadcast from GSPAN.
"—willful misuse of Republic funds to pursue avenues of violence against an ancient, religious rival," Mas Amedda was saying, glancing at his notes. "In so doing, the Jedi High Council has demonstrated their willingness to put the lives of Republic citizens on the line in the name of their religious war, prioritizing their schism with the Sith over the safety and peace within the Galactic Republic."
"What?" Anakin said, glancing around. "He can't be serious."
"I'm afraid he is," said Aola nearby, looking more solemn than Anakin could remember seeing her.
"If anyone's been put on the line, it's us," Anakin insisted.
"Shh," Ben waved for silence.
"For these reasons, the Committee has resolved that the Jedi High Council shall hereafter refer all matters pertaining to, adjacent with, and/or in connection to the Sith, to the Jedi Council of Reconciliation, which shall regularly audit the resolutions put forward by the High Council and shall only condone actions on such matters that are agreed upon with the Senate body and the Office of the Supreme Chancellor, as outlined in the—"
Groans and gasps momentarily drowned out the speech.
"No," Aola said.
"They can't do that, can they?" Feemor asked Obi-Wan, who was shrugging helplessly.
"They're going to get us all killed," declared Dooku, from the back of the group. Anakin met eyes with Obi-Wan's apprentice as they both looked back towards Dooku.
"Now, hang on," Anakin tried to cut the tension, "It sounds bad, but under the legislative-ese, I'm sure the Chancellor means well, surely it's not a bad thing to have checks and balances, is it?"
"With that Council?" Dooku practically spat.
"Grandmaster," Obi-Wan said, a warning tone in his voice.
"—henceforth the Jedi-Sith schism shall be considered by this Senate body as a Religious War, and that all actions taken by the Jedi against the Sith in this War must have demonstrated interest to the Galactic Republic's pursuit of peace and justice in our Galaxy, as approved by an appointed joint committee between the Senate body and the Jedi Council of Reconciliation."
"But the Sith kill people," Obi-Wan's apprentice piped up. She was addressing her master, but spoke loudly enough for the group to hear, "that's their whole…" she wasn't yet experienced enough to know the right words. "Thing," she sufficed.
"The Sith kill Jedi with special prejudice," Ben commented dully. "But the Jedi constitute only a miniscule fraction of a percent of the Republic population."
"So now what, we let the Senate tell us how to fight Sith? Have we not already seen how well that goes?" Feemor spoke up, gesturing at the holo.
"The Chancellor means well," Anakin insisted, drawing a few surprised looks from his lineage. "If we give him a chance to sort this all out realistically, I'm sure it will work to all our benefit." Anakin was surprised at the number of frowns he received for such a sentiment, and looked to Ben for assurance. His master looked very tired.
"Whatever the Chancellor means is immaterial," he said, not meeting eyes with his apprentice, "What he's doing is going to make our lives, and the lives of our knights, immeasurably more dangerous."
Anakin bit his lip, the wound of Sarsan's death still too fresh to ignore. "I have to go," He said suddenly, needing to be away from so many people, from the prying eyes of his lineage and the disapproval of his master. "I need to study." He marched out of the apartments, as sweaty and in need of rest as he had been when he arrived. The door hissed shut behind him, leaving the rest of his lineage to watch Mas Amedda recite the rest of his speech.
"You've left him in the dark," Dooku said in an aside to Ben, accusatory. "No good can come of that now."
"He took sides long before I could tell him the truth," Ben whispered back. "What was I to do?" Unbeknownst to both masters, Obi-Wan's young apprentice was watching and listening, growing more confused and frustrated with every word.
Anakin was not the only Jedi who escaped the news through physical exertion. The temple dojos were filled dawn till dusk with masters, knights, and apprentices all, trading the tension of recent days for the distraction of soothing katas and challenging spars.
Obi-Wan himself, normally the philosopher, was not immune to the need for diversion, especially with a new apprentice underfoot. Knowing Anakin could use the distraction as much as Ahsoka, he'd asked the older padawan if he wouldn't mind facing off against Ahsoka in the dojo, teaching her a trick or two from his mash-up style of Ataru and Vapaad.
"I think it would suit her well," Obi-Wan had explained to him, when he'd asked. "The two of you have a similar disposition, but you're far more natural with a saber. She would benefit from your example."
Anakin had agreed, but had to ask Obi-Wan about five separate times to remind him of his apprentice's name.
"Better!" Anakin complimented, even as the young Togruta in front of him glared out from under her stiff brows, made more dramatic by the white marks that defined them.
"If it was better," she griped, holding her saber at a ready stance in tireless determination, "I would have been able to beat you."
"Jeez," Anakin laughed, swinging his saber around, not sure if he should humor her desire for a sixth round or send her back to her master for further instruction. He looked to Obi-Wan, who made no move to intervene. "You've got dedication, kid, I'll give you that."
"I'm not a kid," she grit her teeth at him, not lowering her saber,
"No need to get snippish, padawan," he goaded, well aware of the braid that still hung down his right breast. It was long—much, much longer than the silka bead strand that adorned Ahsoka's right montral.
"You talk a lot, padawan," she responded.
"Oh, is that how it is? Alright, then, Snips, look alive."
"What did you call me?" Ahsoka asked, "My name is–" but before she could finish, Anakin was on her once more, and the two fell into yet another spar. From the sidelines, Obi-Wan could tell that Anakin was going easy on her, pushing her limits but not his own. Ahsoka's spiteful determination pitted against Anakin's un-christened mastery of his artform made for a volatile mix of frustration and amusement as the fight continued, with Anakin in complete control. Ahsoka was smart enough to see how little effort her opponent was putting into the fight, but not experienced enough to push him to try harder.
Inevitably, the fight ended with Anakin's saber hovering at Ahsoka's collarbone. While the apprentice heaved for breath, Anakin looked no worse for wear, and smiled at her as he offered his hand for a handshake. She shook it only because she knew her master was watching.
Obi-Wan quickly decided it was enough sparring—and frustration—for one afternoon and bid Ahsoka to practice the Ataru katas Anakin had shown her earlier that day. As she fell into the movements, Anakin came over to sit beside Obi-Wan.
"She's a feisty one," Anakin chuckled.
"She's got a temper like yours," Obi-Wan replied easily. "You goad her too easily."
"I don't have a temper," Anakin insisted, and Obi-Wan immediately fixed him with an accusatory look. "Okay, I don't have that much of a temper. She's on another level."
"She's fourteen. Surely you remember being fourteen?"
"Force, not if I can help it," Anakin said as he took a seat beside his friend. They watched Ahsoka cycle through the first kata and into the second, falling into her concentration in a way she hadn't been able to do prior to her apprenticeship.
"She'll find her way eventually," Obi-Wan said, in his kind of nonchalantly profound way that made Anakin wonder if Obi-Wan would have any sage wisdom left by the time he was an old man, "as we all do in our own time."
"Hmm," the padawan gave a gentle nod, glancing down at his braid. It'd begun to weigh more heavily on his chest, these days. It was growing more annoying to clean and to rebraid, distracting as he worked, always in the way. He watched Ahsoka go through her training, paying closer attention to her facial expression. Beneath the attitude and the temper, even Anakin could see how dedicated she was to the Jedi Path. Ahsoka was not an ideal candidate for Jedi Knight, but she had more determination and drive than most all knights Anakin had ever met. On the other hand, Anakin was a prodigy by all counts, but the older he grew…
"How did you know you wanted to take on an apprentice?" he asked Obi-Wan. Obi-Wan huffed a laugh in reply.
"Wanted isn't exactly the word I would use. It feels very much like going through an otherwise unremarkable door and finding yourself falling off a cliff. The Force didn't give me a great deal of choice in the matter. Of course, it's a privilege to train her. But I hadn't planned on ever taking an apprentice, until I began to work with Ahsoka."
"Hmm," Anakin smiled, mind still some miles away. "And… what about knighthood? Does that feel the same, too?" Something about his tone must've given the master pause, because Obi-Wan turned to give Anakin his full attention.
"I'm afraid I'm not the best Jedi to ask," Obi-Wan admitted, and Anakin suddenly felt silly, having forgotten the traumatic circumstances behind Obi-Wan's knighting. He ducked his head. Obi-Wan still observed him carefully. "But I found myself wondering the same thing, before Kamino. Do youfeel you're ready for knighthood?"
And that was the real question, wasn't it? Anakin heaved a huge sigh without really meaning to, unwilling to meet Obi-Wan's gaze.
"I don't know. I've been having…" Anakin knew Obi-Wan had visions, and realized he was not sure where dreams ended and visions began, or how Obi-Wan experienced either. It was not a discipline he'd ever had to understand. "...dreams," he said uncertainly. "I don't usually remember my dreams, but these are always so vivid. Always similar." He could see their faces so clearly, even now in his waking hours: the old man, the tired, scarred woman, the man who looked so like Anakin it made his skin crawl. "I can't really explain it, but they make me feel like I'm… out of place, not where I ought to be, to fulfill my destiny." Having said it out loud, Anakin realized how ridiculous talk of destiny sounded in everyday conversation. "To do what I ought to be doing, I mean," he tacked on. Obi-Wan was quiet for a moment.
"And do you believe your destiny is to be knighted?" He asked.
"I… don't know," Anakin realized aloud. "That would make the most sense, wouldn't it?"
"It would, at this point in your training," Obi-Wan allowed. "You're a requisite talent and a good Jedi, and could certainly become an admirable knight. But you seem uncertain."
"These days I'm not sure if I've everbeen certain about anything," Anakin admitted with a scoff, missing how this made Obi-Wan frown. "I'm not like you, Obi-Wan."
"You never have to be," Obi-Wan insisted quickly. "Force, can you even imagine? No one would be able to stand either of us." Anakin smiled at the mental image, momentarily distracted from his introspection, but the grin faded quickly. Obi-Wan was still watching him pensively. "Have you spoken about this with Ben?" the elder man asked.
"Not in so many words. I'm afraid to," disappoint him, he wanted to say. "I'm afraid I don't know what to say," Anakin said instead. "I wouldn't know where to start. He's my master." The pair watched Ahsoka begin the fifth and final kata of her set. Eyes now closed, her entire focus was dedicated to the movements, floating through motion to motion with practiced ease and assurance.
"Whenever I was uncertain how to speak to Qui-Gon about things," Obi-Wan confided, "be it existential or embarrassing in nature, I always found it most constructive to consult those who didn't know me or my master. The Jedi who came long before us are especially useful, in that regard." It took a moment of frowning for Anakin to understand the knight's meaning.
"Talking to dead people?" He joked. Obi-Wan chuckled.
"I've never thought of it like that, but I suppose it is, from a certain point of view."
"I guess it's worth a shot," Anakin said quietly, fiddling with his sleeve. He'd long consulted the archives regarding his existence, the prophecies, the theories around his destiny. In his quest to understand himself as the Chosen One, he'd never really attempted to understand himself as Anakin Skywalker, and whatever that entailed. "Thanks," he told Obi-Wan, who gave him a small smile.
"Of course."
"Alright!" Ahsoka said from across the dojo, making both men look up. "That was the first set, should I go on to the second?" She asked, masking how she was heaving for breath. Obi-Wan saw through it.
"No, I think that's plenty for now. Come get some water." As she reached the bench and the water canteen resting to one side, Anakin looked at the time.
"I really ought to be going," He said, standing, "I have a few errands to run before evening meal."
"Thank you for joining us today," said Obi-Wan, standing from the bench to bid Anakin farewell. "I'm sure Ahsoka will benefit from what you've shown us here today."
"Thank you, Master…" Ahsoka froze mid-bow, realizing that she could not remember Anakin's surname. "Ummm," she darted her eyes up at her master for help, but Obi-Wan only raised his eyebrows at her. "...Sky…guy," she said lamely. Obi-Wan was unable to completely stifle the laugh that escaped him, and Ahsoka's montrals went bright pink.
"Skyguy?" Anakin repeated, incredulous. "How in the hels—you remembered all those katas perfectly, and you can't remember my name?" Embarrassed but prideful, Ahsoka absorbed the backhanded compliment and ignored her master's stifled grin, crossing her arms and standing tall.
"If you can call me Snips, I can call you Skyguy, padawan." This only made Obi-Wan laugh anew. Anakin glared down at the apprentice, sparing a stern look for Obi-Wan, who made no move to mask his amusement.
"We'll see about that," Anakin said, unimpressed. "Have a nice evening master Kenobi, Snips." He gave a curt bow and took his leave. As he approached the door, Anakin thought he could hear Obi-Wan say to his apprentice:
"I knew you two would get along."
Jocasta Nu was a busy woman, what with overseeing one of the largest archives in the galaxy and slapping wrists that needed to be slapped. However, before she was Master of the Archives she'd been only a dedicated apprentice who found no greater joy than in helping others find the information they needed and hearing about what they'd learned.
Sometimes, she would take an hour out of her day to wander the archives, observing the many visitors, both Jedi and Republic scholars, all caught up in their own journeys of discovery. She would greet regulars and assist those who looked lost, answer questions when she could and generally do all the things normally left to assistants and apprentices. It was still a source of immense satisfaction, to help others learn about the universe and themselves. It made her frown, therefore, when she came upon a familiar face with such a profoundly lost expression on his face.
Anakin Skywalker had been everything but a scholar as a younger boy, and Jocasta remembered one occasion when a teenaged Anakin had come to her personally to apologize for destroying her long-missing fifth volume of Laws and Regulations of the Intra-Core Trade Networks by spilling droid motor oil on it. But in recent years, the young man was mellowing out into a more thoughtful version of himself, and had become one of her favorite regulars, because he always came looking for the most unusual things.
"Padawan Skywalker," she said softly, startling Anakin out of his musings. He looked up and took a long inhale, as if he'd been holding his breath in order to think. "You've amassed quite the collection today," she smiled as she said it, glancing around at the piles of holobooks that surrounded him in his isolated alcove. "Yet something tells me you're still looking for something. Perhaps I can help?"
"I'm sorry, master," Anakin told her, trying to train his expression; he hadn't realized his confusion would've been so obvious to onlookers. "I'm just… thinking. Lots of information to make sense of, you know." This made Jocasta smile, because there was more information in this place than any one mind could possibly make sense of.
"And what information is giving you such trouble today?" Anakin had always been quite ready to ask Jocasta for help, perhaps viewing her as a shortcut to get to his desired destination as quickly as possible—mellowed or not, he was still the rambunctious mind that Ben Kenobi had brought to her years ago. So, Jocasta was surprised to see Anakin hesitate, rubbing the back of his neck and not making eye contact.
"I've been reading some works here," he gestured to his collection, "by Master, uh…" he picked up a volume and glanced at the spine. "Master Uldar-Safa, as well as Master Prandag—I understand from some of these commentaries that she's a bit esoteric."
"Esoteric to some," Jocasta stepped further into Anakin's spot amongst the shelves and sat next to him, picking up one of the volumes on top of the rest. "But these two are incredibly different from each other; what is it you hope to learn from their combined insight?"
"They both had visions," Anakin told her. "Dreams, I guess. I'm not sure what the difference is, and honestly, their descriptions don't really help. Master Uhldar-Safa writes that his visions were only ever distractions, with no bearing on reality. Master Prandag claims visions are some kind of ineffable guidance from the Force itself. Uldar-Safa recommends meditation to move past visions, Prandag suggests that true visions are clear enough that no secondary interpretation is needed." He shrugged. "And none of it helps me understand what visions even are, much less what they're for."
"Hmm," Jocasta tilted her head in thought. She'd never known Anakin to be a Jedi in touch with the Unifying Force, and wondered what could have provoked such a sudden interest in the topic. His reasons were not hers to know, although she knew she would continue to wonder.
"You've selected two of the far extremes of the topic, it's no wonder you cannot find consensus." Jocasta took up a second volume, and looked at the two together. "Very few Jedi experience visions as intensely as these two masters did, in their own times. Uldar-Safa was plagued with visions his entire life, small things, constantly, and it is true they rarely came to pass. Master Prandag, if memory serves me, only had a handful of visions in her life."
"Really?" Anakin was surprised by this.
"Yes. She writes about the fact elsewhere," Jocasta glanced around at the piled books. "I do not see the volume here. Her visions were few, but when one took hold of her, she recounts that they were intense, incredibly intense. Repetitive, too."
"Really? Repetitive?" Anakin said quickly, not masking his interest.
"Yes," Jocasta was taken aback by the sudden shift in his tone. "I can retrieve her reflections on the topic, if you would like—"
"Repetitive, like, the same one over and over again?"
"Yes, I think so, though it has been a long time since I read her notes. There may have been small variations from one repetition to the other." Anakin wasn't looking at her, eyes off and to the side, darting to and fro in focused thought, synthesizing everything he'd been reading.
"And her visions, they were of real things? Like, things that actually happened? In the real world?"
"Well," Jocasta hesitated, "Yes, her visions came to pass, certainly more often than Master Uldar-Safa's had. Some were to do with her own Jedi path; others had to do with the Jedi Order as a whole. She is esoteric, as you said, but that is mostly due to her extreme stance on interpreting visions, viewing them almost like prophecy."
"How else could she have interpreted them?" Anakin asked, and it sounded almost defensive.
"Well, there are many other masters who've written about experiences with visions, and most have chosen to interpret their visions not as prophecy, but a personal guidance from the Unifying Force, indefinite possibilities to guide their next steps as Jedi. Not glimpses of the future."
"Huh," was all Anakin said in response, brow drawn in thought as he stared off into the middle distance.
"You said you had her writings?" he asked, "and what about these other masters, do we have their writings as well?"
"Yes, of course," Jocasta answered easily, standing to her feet. "I'd be happy to help you locate them. Are you done with any of these?" She glanced around him at his piles of books.
"Oh, uh, yeah, I should be good."
"I'll have RT-5 return them for you. Come with me, I can show you where we have the volumes you're looking for."
Anakin followed Jocasta with a newfound energy. It felt jittery and restless in the Force, and something about it made Jocasta uneasy. She led him to the journals and memoirs he was seeking, and he left with an armful of books and a winning smile. Jocasta returned to her desk at the center of the archives, mind turning over what little details she could remember of Master Prandag and her many visions. She'd read her work before, and remembered bits and pieces, but much remained just beyond her recollection.
"You look troubled, old friend," said a voice, and Jocasta looked up to find Yan Dooku standing at her desk giving her a soft smile. She smiled back. It never ceased to surprise her how old Yan was these days—how old they both were. "I'm unused to seeing our Master Archivist unsettled."
"Apologies," Jocasta waved him off, "I was trying to remember details of an old scholar mentioned to me earlier in the afternoon. I'm glad age does not affect the archives as it affects my memory."
"Now I'm intrigued," said Dooku. She was sure he'd come to find new reading material—she wondered if he was still studying obscure forms of chess—but as he had since they were both very small, Yan was never one to turn down the opportunity to stick his nose in other people's business. "Who has evaded your encyclopedic memory? Perhaps I know them."
"I would expect young master Jinn to know before you," she prefaced, and Yan scoffed. "Ilenna Prandag was her name."
"Prandag, Prandag…" Yan tapped his finger on the tall counter above her desk, looking upwards in thought. "I think I may remember the name, but it was part of a larger—ah, Prandag, she was viewed as something of a prophet, wasn't she?"
"In her time, by some," Jocasta said, surprised by his recollection. "How is it that you remember her?"
"Darker reading from a darker time in my life," Yan waved dismissively. "I remember her because she was the one who predicted the fall of Revan and Korriban with him."
"Ah," Jocasta leaned back, mouth falling gently open in surprise. "Was she really?"
"Yes. Noted only in passing that she foresaw the start of the Jedi Civil War, and that none of her contemporaries believed her. It seems to be the fate of many Jedi prophets," Dooku shook his head, "if indeed such an occupation exists."
"So it seems," Jocasta echoed, expression going pensive once again as she looked aside in thought. In her experience, very few Jedi came to the archives seeking to learn about visions and, importantly, how to interpret them, unless they themselves had experienced a vision of their own.
"Really? Repetitive? Like, the same one over and over again? Of things that actually happened in the real world?" She could not help but wonder what visions had been plaguing Anakin Skywalker, and for how long.
"You're overthinking again," Yan pulled her from her thoughts. She shot up a look she'd exchanged with him since they were children.
"Master Dooku, is there something I can help you with?" she said with intentional exasperation.
"Yes, actually, I was under the impression the archives has recently acquired a very old, very beautiful Correllian pentagonal chess set, and I wondered if I might be able to see it."
"How did you hear about that?" Jocasta momentarily forgot about Anakin and his visions. "My apprentices haven't even cataloged it yet." Infuriatingly, Yan only shrugged.
"I wondered if, perhaps, you knew someone who might be a worthy opponent," he said expectantly. "I've been practicing, you see, but I find myself in sparse company in understanding the rules." She glared at him; a matured, finely aged look that could send grown masters running. Unfortunately, Yan was immune, and chose to further provoke her by raising his eyebrows in challenge.
"You're incorrigible," she said, setting aside her things. "You will wear gloves and you will not even think about taking it out of my sight." She stood to her feet and dusted off her long, embroidered tabards. "And you will prepare to lose, if you know what's good for you."