A couple weeks later, Ahsoka went in search of her grandmaster, whom she eventually found meditating by the jungle pool that had become a favorite retreat for their little clan. Settling beside him on a sun-warmed rock, she waited, and watched wavelets dance around the foot of the waterfall. After a while, she closed her eyes, falling into a lazy sort of half-meditation, half-daydream. Gentle sounds of leaves fluttering in a light breeze. Water splashing. She could imagine—

Younglings laughing, padawan chatter, the murmurs of the knights and masters—light and determination and safety, and hope…. They were strength for the weak, voices for the voiceless—compassion for the galaxy.

This felt right, but was that because she was really making the right choice, or was it just because of the familiarity and the feeling of almost being home?

All the time I've known you, you've always kept moving forward, never one to become caught up in the past.

Padmé's words came back to her like a strong breeze to blow away gnatlike fears. She trusted Padmé. Sometimes, other people gave one a better, a truer view of oneself and one's patterns. They saw one through the lens of one's actions; their view was unobscured by the myriad uncertainties and illusions that might cloud one's own perception of self.

This didn't just feel right. It was right. The question was not whether she should do it, but whether she could—as was fitting and proper for a padawan facing the prospect of knighthood.

Eventually, when she judged that her grandmaster had finished his meditation and was now waiting for her to say something, Ahsoka ventured, "Master Obi-Wan?"

"That's an unusually formal address. Please don't tell me you've adopted some ferocious creature and want me to take care of it."

She laughed. "Don't worry, no pathetic lifeforms today." A pause, and then, "I know it's untraditional of me to ask this, but—Master Obi-Wan, would you be willing to continue my padawan training?"

"Continue your training?" Perplexity was replaced by disbelief, and he met her eyes with a look of astonishment.

She wasn't sure how to interpret that. It didn't quite make sense. He had asked for her help with a new Order, he had admitted he would be a hypocrite to prohibit attachments, he seemed to think she had comported herself well on Daiyu, even—or, as well as anyone could—so why was this such a shocking question? In what way was she unfit to continue training?

But disbelief faded, leaving behind bemused wonder as he said, "Ahsoka, I don't need to continue your training. You've passed your Trials at least twenty times by now—probably far more than that. You've lived through times that would test the fortitude of a full master." And have.

"Are you sure? I was really only a padawan for two years, and during the war, at that. I know the Council was willing to knight me, but—"

"Asajj has finished your saber training, and you've shown yourself again and again to be more than worthy of knighthood, in your command both of the Force and of yourself. I'll always be here for guidance if you need, but there's little enough I could teach which you won't learn with time and experience."

She dipped her head in a slight bow. "Thank you, Master."

Quiet pride shone in her eyes, and a blush rusted her cheeks, tinted the white and blue of her lekku ever so slightly toward pink and purple.

Obi-Wan returned the bow. "My pleasure, Padawan. But I don't want to hasten you into knighthood before you're ready. Are you certain you want this?"

"Yes," she said. "But I don't want to be… you know… knighted," and wasn't that a strange thing to picture, "until next time everyone is on-world."

"Aunt 'Soka's gonna be a knight?"

"I wanna be her padawan!"

"No, me!"

"I said it first! 'Sides, you said you wanted to be Uncle Obi's padawan."

"Well, I guess I got a right to change my mind, don't I?"

"Lu-uuke!"

"Lei-a-ah!"

"Okay, fine. We can take turns being both their padawans."

Luke wasn't convinced. "I dunno if that's how it works…."

Mama looked over from where she was trying to fit a new fuse into Threepio. "I think you're both a little young to be padawans, just yet."

"Aww, we're too young for all the fun stuff. What's the point of being a kid anyway? You can't do anything! Grownups get all the fun."

"Like sitting around in meetings, listening to other grownups argue," Mama observed.

"And," she added irritably, "failing to replace parts inside droids modified by people with nine-year-old hands, the Force, and no foresight. I've already torn a fingernail, bent one tool, and broken another. Do you think one of you two would be able to get the new fuse in?"

Luke hopped over. Within minutes, the fuse had been installed, and Threepio emerged from his involuntary hibernation.

"Why, Master Luke, Mistress Leia—I do believe you've grown!"

The twins proceeded to stand on tiptoe and stretch upward as far as they could.

"Who's grown most, Threepio?" asked Luke.

Leia jostled him so he had to go flat-footed again to keep his balance. "Say it's me, Threepio! I want to be as tall as Aunt 'Soka someday!"

"No, me! Leia cheated!"

Threepio was saved from inciting a two-child riot by Artoo, who warbled, [Glad you're finally awake, lazybones.]

"Well, that is just rude, Artoo, I must say—particularly when you are, after all, the sole reason for my unfortunate circumstances."

[Not sole reason. You wouldn't have blown a fuse if you weren't such a fusspot.]

Threepio harrumphed emphatically, but the twins interrupted the spat before it could devolve into a full-blown quarrel.

"Threepio, guess what! Aunt 'Soka's knighted!"

"Knighted? Mistress Ahsoka? Oh, my—whatever have I missed?"

"She's gonna be a Jedi and everything," explained Luke, and Leia chimed in, "Next time everybody's here."

"But Mistress Ahsoka does not have her beads," fussed Threepio. "How is she supposed to be properly knighted without them?"

The twins shrugged. "Mama says the beads are just a formality."

"Just a formality? Just a formality! The idea of it! This is what wars and rebellions do to one—completely degrade all sense of symbolism and ceremony."

[Says the one who was made on Tatooine,] commented Artoo.

"One must never be limited by one's humble origins, Artoo, which appears to be a lesson that you never learned. But that is quite beside the point. Whatever are we to do about Mistress Ahsoka's beads? She must have them!"

[You volunteering to find them in a Coruscant trash heap?]

"Certainly not. What a ridiculous suggestion. I think your wires grow more crossed with every passing year."

Lei, Luke sent along their Force bond, what if we got some clay, and some string and—

… made some beads?

Yeah!

Let's.

Okay, now go ask.

It's your idea, you ask.

No, you!

You're older.

But you're better at Senating.

Then you should practice.

Aww, Lei-a-a….

Leia surreptitiously poked her brother in the side, but she undertook the role of emissary. "Hey, Mama?"

"Yes?"

"We wanna play with clay, can we? Please?"

Mama's amusement giggled in the Force, but her face remained neutral as she looked up from scrubbing a grease mark off the floor. "I suppose so, if you promise to be good and not make a mess with it."

But padawan beads could not be made with clay alone, for there were different colors of beads. This would require paint, good paint, paint that would be bright and wouldn't come off easily. Mama wouldn't like that. So, Luke and Leia set off to find another relative who would be more amenable to the request. They found Uncle Rex in a storeroom, checking over crate of secondhand blaster rifles which the Alliance had recently received.

"Uncle Rex, we need some good paint."

Rex, Commander of the 501st, was immediately suspicious. "What for?"

"It's a secret!"

"I don't give out paint for secrets."

"Okay, okay, fine. It's a thing for Aunt 'Soka."

"Sorry, cadet, but you're gonna have to be a little more specific."

The twins held another Force conference, and then Leia said, "Okay. But only if you help us with the colors."

"Sounds like a fair bargain."

"Okay. We're making padawan beads, and we need the paint so we can make 'em different colors, like Aunt 'Soka's old ones. But you're not allowed to tell her about it!"

Rex grinned. "Don't you worry about that. I won't say a word. Now, let's get you that paint."

He found a few cans on a shelf near a stash of armor and picked out the right colors for Ahsoka's padawan beads. "This is good stuff. Shouldn't come off too easy—it's what the vod'e used to use for painting armor."

Padmé had shut herself in her room by the time they returned to the apartment, so Rex stayed to keep an eye on the twins as they rolled plasticlay into beads in the kitchen, chattering the while. After a considerable period without hearing any suggestion of replacing the milk with paint, painting interesting facial hair designs onto sleeping guardians, or any other of the nonsense that had been Torrent Company's specialty, he relaxed his guard and moved out to the common room, where he began to write up a status report on the latest batch of recruits.

He was later to wonder why this had seemed like a good idea at the time.

In the kitchen, Luke finished his last bead with a couple dabs of green paint. "What d'ya think?"

"I think they're done!" Leia set down her last bead, too, and that was that. The clay shapes just had to be baked for a while, and then they would be ready to be strung. They were very fine beads, mostly green-grey and boring, but mostly even (except for a few lumpish ones from the beginning of the manufacturing process). There was also a yellow bead for fighting, a red one for piloting, a blue one for mechanical stuff, and a black one for sneaking and spying and all that—and true, Aunt 'Soka hadn't ever actually had anything other than yellow, but she had done a lot of things after she stopped being a padawan. She was a good pilot, no one could deny she was good at fixing ships, and she was a spy besides! Perhaps four achievement beads was a little excessive—but Aunt 'Soka deserved them all, and she was going to have them, even if it meant her bead string would be long enough to trail down over her shoulder. The twins gazed proudly at their handiwork. Anticipation fizzed quietly between them as they looked forward to presenting the string of beads.

Then, Luke's eye fell on the plate they had used as a palette. There was still plenty of paint left. "Leia..."

"It'd be bad to waste it," Leia mused. "Mama always says not to waste stuff."

"Must be something good to do with it."

Struck by a flash of inspiration, Luke went to retrieve their Nubian fairytale datapad, which had been left on a picture of a long-ago queen.

Leia's eyes sparkled. After all, Mama had only said they had to be good and not make a mess with the clay. She hadn't said anything about paint. And, besides, this wouldn't be a mess—it would be art!

"Want me to do yours?" Leia asked.

Her brother nodded. "Then I'll do yours second."

She picked up a brush and dabbed it in the blob of white paint. "Okay, better shut your eyes."

Vader contemplated attempting to call the rebel. Revenant. The ISB had had little luck in finding her. There had been mentions here and there on the holonet, but no one knew who she was, beyond her handle and the idea that she was some sort of coordinator. There was no mention of anything to suggest a connection with the Separatists, the Republic, the Handmaidens, or the Jedi. Nothing to link her to a particular world.

A codename, an accent, a son's first name, and an acquaintanceship with two Sith was not much information to go off of. Vader had also tried to have her commlink traced, but the unfortunate technician in charge of the task had reported that the device's encryption coding included a program to show numerous, conflicting signal origination points, as well as a hearty Kriff off! in several languages, including binary. (Which had sent several affronted mouse droids scuttling from the room in high dudgeon.) Impudent rebel scum. Beyond that, they had had little enough luck. He had sent the ISB to search Kashyyyk, on the chance that Revenant's opinionated stance on that world indicated some connection to it, but to no avail.

Thus he considered attempting to call the rebel, though it would be a matter of chance whether he was able to reach her or not. She had let information slip before when caught off guard, and might do so again—or else she might grow more cautious. At any rate, it was worth a try. Vader haphazardly entered Tarkin's code into his comm. The method was beneath the dignity of a Sith Lord, but what else was one to do? After accidentally connecting with an irritated socialite ("This is not the Green Manak Tatooine Takeaway!"), a panicked teenager (Corellian of accent, and up to no good, to judge by his harried and guilty manner—probably a petty smuggler or something of that ilk), and the Moff himself (unfortunately)—Vader's efforts were finally rewarded by the sound of a now-familiar voice.

"What do you want this time?" Revenant asked.

"I wanted to speak with Governor Tarkin." Complete and utter lie. The earful he had just received anent the progress on Tarkin's pet planet-killer had been quite enough. The man fancied himself so great, when in truth his mind could not begin to comprehend his utter insignificance against the vastitude of the Force. A mere thought from either Vader or his master would wipe the officious insect from existence.

"Is that so?" the rebel inquired, skeptically. "Hm. Really, I'm beginning to think you just call to antagonize me when you're bored."

Padmé didn't believe for an instant that Vader possessed the least wish for a conversation with the Moff. He'd spoken the man's name with too much ire. There was some resentment there—perhaps a power struggle, the Moff and the apprentice vying for the place at Palpatine's right hand? To all accounts, the place was occupied by Vader, but Tarkin came a close second. The situation could make a convenient tool, if confirmed.

"You don't like Tarkin," she observed.

"There is little which a Sith may be said to like."

"Such as?"

"Privacy."

"That's a short list. I think you need to add unlimited power, acts of terror, and impedance of justice."

"We do not seek to impede justice. If anyone seeks to do so, it is your rebellion."

Sometimes, Padmé wondered what it was like inside her opponent's head. Whether Vader really believed the nonsense he spouted—whether he was a sycophant or a true fanatic.

"Oh?" she challenged. "What makes you think we have anything against justice?"

"You intend to replace an efficient empire with a lumbering bureaucracy."

"I suppose it sounds strange when you put it that way, but—"

"And yet you accuse me of insanity."

"When you prioritize brutal efficiency over fair and representative government? When you impede justice by casting a blind eye toward the crime syndicates? Yes. I do."

"How fair was your Republic?" the Sith demanded. "How just?"

"It wasn't perfect, it had corruption, but that's not the point! The point is that we have the opportunity to make a new government, to correct the flaws of the old! We know at least part of what was wrong, and we can fix it. We can—" Padmé stopped. She was falling into the role of Amidala before the Senate. To an audience of one Sith. "I will not defend our plan to you, because I know you will not listen to me. Suffice it to say, no government will ever be perfect, but we can do better than this Empire."

"That will require you first to bring about the fall of the Empire, without losing enough of your own ragtag band to prevent you from maintaining a grip on your prize."

"Disdain our efforts to your heart's content, if you have a heart, which I rather doubt, but I would ask just one question: Why does the Empire have such a vested interest in Ryloth and Kessel, if it doesn't recognise that our 'ragtag band' might one day pose a serious threat?"

"Spice is a valuable commodity and a source of revenue."

"Yes, but the availability of medicinal spice to the common buyer hasn't changed much since the Republic. That means no additional profit being generated. I think you're stockpiling spice against the possibility that the Alliance will become enough of a threat to wage a full-scale war. Either that, or you're actually selling spice to the crime syndicates. Or perhaps bo—"

"Mama?"

Luke's call was accompanied by a rapid knocking at her door, which began to slide open. Padmé scrambled to place herself in the doorway, hiding her commlink and its accompanying holo behind the wall.

"Luke, what have I told you about—what have you done to yourself?!"

Her son's entire face was shiny with half-dried white paint. His upper lip had been painted a brilliant scarlet, while the lower was mostly as white as the rest of his face, but for a scarlet streak. Matching scarlet dots adorned his cheeks. His hair, meanwhile, was crusted with brown… oh Shiraya, was that more paint?—and there was a shaky black line-drawing of a starfighter and a lightsaber on the left side of his forehead.

Padmé struggled for words. Eventually, she managed to produce a strangled, "Why."

Why have you done this.

Why do you have paint.

Why have you apparently been left unattended. With paint.

And why, when left unattended with paint, why, why, why did you choose to smear it all over yourself.

Why.

Luke shrugged. "I dunno."

"Luke…."

"We just thought it seemed like fun, that's all!" he blurted.

"Both of you?"

The initial shock passing, Padmé was beginning to have a difficult time holding back laughter behind a stern façade. And when she pictured both Luke and Leia together, in their bizarre combination of Amidala's makeup and clone tattoos— Oh, stars, she needed a holo of them to send to Rabé.

Holo!

Shavit. She'd forgotten about the Sith, who was probably long gone by this time, ending the current window of opportunity to glean information. Sneaking a look at her hand, however, she saw the holo still present. Unamused, and impatient, but present. Interesting, that. It gave the impression that Vader was desirous of continuing the conversation. Argument? Feud? Whatever this strange interaction of theirs was called.

"Go to the 'fresher, both of you, and scrub that off!" she ordered Luke, and hastily withdrew once more, closing the door. Rabé would just have to settle for a vivid description.

"You should see what my son and his friend have done to themselves," she remarked conversationally to Vader.

"I have no interest in asinine juvenile antics." (She was sure Vader was scowling behind his helmet.)

"Then how do you think you're going to survive training an apprentice someday? The Jedi are gone, so it's not like you can just steal a nice, pre-trained adult Force user, and let me tell you—asinine antics, as you call them, are an integral aspect of all children."

"You are mistaken. My present apprentice never engages in such folly."

Present apprentice? Did that mean Vader was plotting to overthrow Sidious, flouting the Rule of Two as Dooku had with Asajj?

"Then all I can say is condolences," she said. "Mudfights, painting all over their faces the minute your back is turned, shooting water blasters at generals, reprogramming mouse droids to hoard ration bars—you really don't know what you're missing."

The Sith's temper erupted with a savage, "I am missing nothing!"

Padmé begged to differ. She could think of a great many things which he was missing, foremost being a basic sense of sentient decency. But before she could express this view, he barreled on.

"I require nothing, save the dark side and the power which it confers!"

Was it just Padmé, or did it almost sound as if Vader was trying more to convince himself than to convince her?

"You're wrong," she said. "Dominion is no replacement for companionship, and power no substitute for connection."

"Companionship and connection are but enfeebling niceties, for which Sith have no need."

"Enfeebling niceties? They're necessary social interactions, and everyone has need of them, to some extent. People aren't made for isolation."

"Such considerations do not apply to me," Vader retorted coldly.

"Are you saying you're not a person?"

When he didn't reply, she continued, "Are you telling me you're a droid? Even if you are, it can't be true; droids can't use the Force. Besides, most droids I've known have been people, albeit not by the strictly legal definition."

"And how many droids have you met?"

"More than I care to, like most people of my generation."

Vader almost dismissed that as completely unhelpful—after all, there were several generations, nay many, if one accounted for the longevity of some species, which could make such a statement on the basis of having lived through the Clone Wars—but something else caught his notice. If Revenant was referring to the war, then she was probably referring to battle droids, in which case—

"So. You were not a Separatist."

"I never said I was. But you're trying to distract me. You claim that you're 'not a droid,' but also 'not a person.' Is that supposed to be some kind of riddle?"

Or could it be a clue? Some cultures believed their leaders to be gods—perhaps Vader belonged to one of those, or to a culture which similarly identified some individuals as something other than people. It didn't necessarily invalidate the former Jedi theory, either, as nothing had prevented Jedi from learning about and carrying on some the ways of their cultures of origination. If true, it could possibly pin down the precise candidate.

"I am not in the habit of issuing riddles," the Sith said.

"No, you're in the habit of issuing other things, like orders for the wanton destruction of any person, city, or government that dares to suggest the Empire might not be in their best interest. As if Ryloth and Kessel could possibly benefit from mass enslavement and overmining of their resources."

Vader began to reply, but his words ceased to register when a small voice from beyond the door piped, "Mama? It won't come off!"

"It's been a lovely argument," Padmé interrupted the Sith, "reminds me of the old—" oops, better not say that, "—Anyway, I have to go find a way to remove what I suspect to be starship paint from children's skin."

Vader was conflicted—torn between irritation at being hung up on by some impudent rebel; wrath at her daring to throw his own—Skywalker's failures in his face, you don't know what you're missing; and petty satisfaction because she now had to deal with what sounded for all the worlds like an extremely annoying situation. He would have preferred asphyxiation, but given that it was not an option, this would do.

Painting all over their faces the minute your back is turned…. An image sprang to mind, of the boy from his dreams—colors spattered across his face like he had just been in a paint battle with Torrent Company—and somewhere in the distance, she would be there, hands over her face in half-laughing exasperation, while a Coruscanti voice off to one side drawled, "Now perhaps you begin to have a bit of sympathy for what I went through, all those years," and a girl's laugh melded with the chorus of her brothers'.

Every call with Revenant was like heaping salt over a wound. She had an uncanny ability to speak in just such a way, to mention such topics, as would remind Vader of all that had been and all that ought to be, but never could. He almost began to wonder whether she was not a rebel at all, but a decoy set by his master as some sort of test or training. But she spoke too passionately of justice for that. No, she believed, however erroneously, in her cause. Just like…. Anyhow, she was not a decoy placed by Sidious, but a fluke of fate, or perhaps a whim of the Force.

The entire matter was irrelevant. She was a possible path to Kenobi. That was all that mattered. Vader turned his thoughts determinedly upon the new information which this call had yielded.

Ryloth and Kessel. Two more worlds for the ISB to search. She had been not only vehement, but also knowledgeable on the matter of spice, which suggested some degree of involvement. Even if she was not directly involved with either world, it was possible that the ISB might be able to trace an information trail leading to her. And then this absurd, agonizing cycle of comm calls would be over, and he would enact justice upon the one who had betrayed him.

Padmé found her children in the 'fresher, along with a sheepish and apologetic Rex. Ah. That would be where the paint had come from, then. What had the man been thinking, leaving the twins to their own devices with a plateful of paint? She couldn't be terribly upset, however. There wasn't much harm done, and if nothing else, it would serve as a comical story and a reminder to the children to consider the consequences of their decisions.

Leia, it turned out, had paint on her face and nails—none in her hair, though, for which Padmé would be eternally grateful—and had also ornamented one forearm with a large, if highly stylized, war wound.

"This's where an evil Sith tried to cut my arm off, but she didn't because I got hers first," she informed her mother, who was less than impressed. The paint clung tenaciously and refused to be coaxed off with scrubbing, water, or soap.

Padmé took each child firmly by the hand and hustled them off to the infirmary. "Kix! We need some assistance."

Kix hurried over. "Who's done what now? If General Kenobi has a concussion again, I'll—"

His eye fell on the two brightly painted children. "Senator?"

"Is there a way to remove paint without taking their skin along with it?"

Luke's eyes widened, and she worried that the question had been too graphic. But then he said, "I wanna know what we'd look like without skin!"

Padmé looked down at him in horror. "No, you don't!"

"But if we didn't have skin then we could see how all the muscles and stuff work," explained Luke.

"No skin removal, ever!" She turned to Kix in despair. "Help."

"Next time we have a cadaver, I can show—"

"That's not what I meant."

"What's a cadaver?" Leia asked.

"A dead body," said Kix.

"So I'll be a cadaver someday?"

"Unless you get vaporized, yeah."

"Wizard! What's vaporized?"

Padmé cast her eyes starsward. The twins, however, listened with rapt attention as the medic explained various modes of expiration. So absorbed were they that they hardly complained a bit as he and Padmé wiped the paint from their skin with an astringent-smelling solvent.