Men of Power - AlabasterInk - Star Wars (2024)

Chapter 1: The Hand That Feeds

Chapter Text

Jedi Master Plo Koon stares at Mace Windu.

They’re alone, seated together inside Mace’s kitchen, the distant hum of Coruscant Nightly News filtering in from the neighboring room. Potted plants line the sill beneath a window, shades down to provide privacy at so late an hour, and an old kettle sits empty atop the stove. Mace holds a cup of tea between his hands; he’s raised it to his lips several times but has yet to take a sip. Plo can just make out the beginnings of scum forming along the rim. It’s been sitting for a while.

Laughter echoes in from the hallway as a group of Padawans pass by. Their joy tickles the Force pleasantly, but it's not enough to alleviate the heavy weight that's settled over the two Masters like an unwanted companion. It pulses between them, born of questions and concerns too premature to name.

Concerns with unfortunate merit, Plo thinks, adjusting his seat with a sigh. It’s loud in the stillness of the room, and his vocoder only makes it worse. Mace doesn’t so much as twitch. “I find it difficult,” Plo begins, “to believe the Chancellor would be so interested in a child as to issue threats.”

“Not threats,” Mace smiles without humor. “It was very intentionally not a threat.”

“No, of course not. The Chancellor was stating a fact.”

“Hm.”

Plo raps a talon against the hard wood of the table. It's new, the last one having met an unfortunate end after a mishap with the stove. “Have you spoken to Obi-Wan about this?”

“He’s been informed of the Chancellor’s generous offer.”

“Took it with his usual aplomb, I suspect.”

“He was curious, but agreed. He didn’t think there was any cause for alarm.”

Plo stares from behind his goggles. “And you? Do you agree with him?”

The mug lands with a soft thunk. As Plo suspected, the tea is stone cold, but Mace’s fingers stay wrapped around the ceramic as if needing something to hold. Old habits die hard, but it’s been a while since Plo has seen his friend so distracted as to revert to them.

“I have no reason not to,” the other man says after a moment. He’s pensive, eyes focused on a point just past Plo’s shoulders, the blue glow of the holo-vision shadowing his face.

“That is not an answer.”

Mace snorts. For the first time since they sat down he looks Plo in the eyes. “The Chancellor did nothing to suggest he wasn’t entirely earnest in his offer to help. Force knows Skywalker could use it.”

“Perhaps.” Padawan Skywalker is certainly an unorthodox boy. Kind and compassionate, if a little rough around the edges. He’s got a temper, Plo won’t deny that, and a lot of unresolved trauma, but the Kel Dor also knows of another young man with a raging temper who turned into an exemplary Jedi.

Mace raises a brow. “You don’t agree.”

“I was not there.”

“But you still don’t agree.”

“I do not think that if you believed the words coming out of your mouth we would be sitting here at 2200 standard with a cup of cold tea as our only indulgence.”

“Perhaps I wanted company.”

“Or perhaps you wanted someone who would reaffirm your suspicions.” Plo tilts his head as Mace lets out a low burst of air. He does nothing more for a moment, but Plo is patient, and is unsurprised when Mace eventually grants a begrudging nod.

“Perhaps.”

Plo hums. It echoes through the room, and he crosses his arms as he leans back against the soft wood of his chair. “I find it…unsettling that a man in the Supreme Chancellor’s position would offer such aid to one twelve-year-old boy.”

“A twelve-year-old boy who saved his planet.”

“Almost three years ago. That is quite a bit of time to reach out in gratitude.”

“He noticed the boy having trouble with his temper. Said he felt a connection to Skywalker after what he did for Naboo. He was quite earnest.”

“Enough to threaten you.”

“Not a threat.”

“My apologies. He ordered you. For access to a child,” and Plo’s chest tightens at the thought. It’s difficult; his species is particularly protective of their young, and it’s an open secret that Plo Koon collects younglings like most people collect sports cards.

Skywalker, with all his troubles and tribulations, is a beacon to Plo.

Mace’s shoulders fall and the mug, still full, returns to the table. “We don’t know his intentions. He could genuinely want to help. I saw no shatterpoints. No darkness or warnings. The Force was still. Calm. If Skywalker was truly in danger with the man, you'd think there’d be more warning.”

There would. The Force is always active when it comes to Skywalker. Sometimes, all Plo has to do is think of him and the Force comes rushing, like a particularly attentive parent. It’s astounding, if a little terrifying. Shadows follow wherever the light touches, and Anakin Skywalker shines like a thousand suns in one.

It’s beautiful, and sad. He’s painful to look at sometimes, and it drives people away as often as it draws them in.

“Then why did you call me?” What more reassurance could Mace want?

But his friend’s brow is furrowed, and his fingers twitter along the ceramic mug as frantically as when he was a youngling.

“I don’t know.”

“A feeling?

“A feeling.”

The Chancellor has commandeered his Padawan. Obi-Wan Kenobi is not invited. He returns to the Temple at 1930 standard with assurances to his Padawan’s safety echoing in his ears and the promise of an early return. He won’t keep Anakin long, the Chancellor says. It’s just a quick little errand, perfect for a young child just beginning to spread his wings.

Personally, if Anakin is going to be spreading his wings anywhere, Obi-Wan would really rather prefer it be in the opposite direction of the Senate. Say, the classroom, where he could make some real friends his own age, not whatever it is the Chancellor is offering.

But such thoughts are disingenuous. The Chancellor, by all accounts, is a kind man, and Obi-Wan sensed nothing suspicious or off about him. Anakin saved his planet and Palpatine’s just returning the favor by — hopefully — giving him some much needed advice.

Advice Obi-Wan apparently can’t give him. Because Obi-Wan is newly twenty-eight and his beard may make him look older, but it hasn’t granted him any sudden insights on how to deal with a troubled pre-teen. He should be grateful. If the Chancellor thinks he can help, well, Obi-Wan shouldn’t begrudge him the effort.

It doesn’t settle his stomach at all.

Most Jedi are still in the canteen or settling in for the evening by time he makes it to the residential halls so there are few people to distract him from his thoughts. He keys in the code to his quarters, exhaustion bleeding from him as he enters the familiar space and kicks off his boots. Potted plants dot every available surface, a holdover from Qui-Gon and lovingly tended to by Anakin. The boy likes to laugh and tell him he’s the only person he knows who could kill a desert flower. He may be right. But Anakin loves them, and Obi-Wan finds he’s happy to indulge this little hobby. It’s better than his other ones.

Speaking of, Obi-Wan eyes the droid-littered floor. Just walking to the kitchen is going to be a minefield. He contemplates, briefly, putting his boots back on, but doesn’t feel like dragging dirt in as well, and resigns himself to cut feet. It won’t be the first time. Anakin said he would clean it up, but Obi-Wan is pretty sure this mess is the droid he’s been making to do it for him.

They’ll have to talk about that. Again.

Two aching feet later and he’s turning on the kettle. His mug, plain white and stained, is already situated in pride of place on the countertop, and he quickly fills it with his favorite blend — a colorful mix of sapir and dulindt Qui-Gon always referred to as abominably bitter. As far as Obi-Wan is concerned, his old Master just couldn’t appreciate the earthy undertones. He preferred milk with a hint of caff. It was disgusting. Anakin would have loved it.

Anakin would have loved a lot about Qui-Gon.

And Qui-Gon…he would have known how to handle Anakin — his moods, his wanderlust, his questions, his troubles, his…everything. Everything Obi-Wan just doesn’t.

The Chancellor wouldn’t have needed to offer help if Qui-Gon—

Obi-Wan shutters the thought. No, that…that isn’t where he wants his thoughts to go. Qui-Gon…Qui-Gon is gone. He’s been gone. He’s gone and Obi-Wan is here and there’s a child in his care who needs him to be here.

Except not, because Anakin isn’t here. Anakin is with the Chancellor. At night. On an errand, and Obi-Wan wills down the way that makes his chest tighten in apprehension. He’ll be fine. Anakin is with the Chancellor, not frolicking around the lower levels searching for pit races. Obi-Wan is just paranoid.

Anakin will be fine.

The kettle screeches Obi-Wan out of his unease and he hurriedly turns it off before pouring the boiling water into his mug. Rich, floral notes waft under his nose and Obi-Wan breaths them in with a relish. His muscles relax, and he’s able to settle onto the couch of the living room with more calm than he entered with. This, this is what he needs right now. A cup of tea, an empty apartment, and time to get ahead on all the work he’s been putting off. With any luck, he’ll be able to get through a hearty chunk before Anakin returns.

He gets through all of it.

At 2100 standard, he settles in for meditation.

By 2200 standard, he’s given up on it.

By 2300 standard, Obi-Wan is pulling on his boots ready to march over to the Senate Building and demand his Padawan back, hang whatever consequences. Anakin has a curfew, one which Obi-Wan knows the Chancellor is aware of because Obi-Wan made sure to tell him before he left his twelve-year-old in Palpatine’s care. Anakin is two hours late. The only thing keeping Obi-Wan from panicking is the lack of danger over their bond.

He’s grabbing for his cloak when the door opens and said twelve-year-old walks in with a yawn on his lips. The boy looks unharmed, though he smells of smoke and the grime of the Undercity, and his brow is furrowed in thought. For a moment, all Obi-Wan can do is stare. He’s been tearing his hair out for hours, meanwhile Anakin looks like he just came in from a swoop race.

Oh, he didn’t.

Obi-Wan’s arms are crossed before he even registers what he’s doing. Heat races up his throat and he bites his lip to keep himself from shouting. Of all the irresponsible—

Force, they had talked about this.

“Anakin.”

The boy looks up, eyes wide as if he hadn’t realized his Master was in the room. What, did he think Obi-Wan was asleep? That he wouldn’t care that his Padawan missed his curfew by two hours? Obi-Wan doesn’t know whether to flinch or cry at the assumption.

“Master! Hi. Um, I didn’t…” he trails off, worrying his lip.

Obi-Wan’s frown deepens. “You didn’t what, Anakin? Think I was still up? You’re two hours past curfew, Padawan.”

Anakin’s mouth twist. “I know, but the Chancellor—”

“The Chancellor? Anakin you smell like a bar.” And not one of the high-class establishments frequented by those in the Senate. No, this is more like one of those seedy dives Quinlan likes to indulge in.

“Yeah, I know, but…”

Obi-Wan raises a brow. “But? I expect you have a perfectly reasonable explanation for this, Padawan.” He watches Anakin squirm. The boy is obviously fishing for something to say, and Obi-Wan is just so tired. Two hours past curfew. Two hours he sat here worrying while Anakin traipsed about the lower levels doing Force knows what. “I’m waiting.”

“It’s nothing,” the boy says. “Just an errand. Like the Chancellor said.”

“Do you mean to tell me the Chancellor took you to the Undercity on an errand?”

Anakin pales. The Force crests around him, a surefire sign he’s struggling to come up with a lie, and no matter how hard Obi-Wan presses, he won’t meet his Master’s eyes. “No...”

“No? Are you asking me, or telling me?”

“Telling.”

“Really? Because it sure sounds like a question. So either the Chancellor took you somewhere you were not supposed to be, or you snuck down there after you left. Considering your recent exploits I’m inclined to believe the latter.”

“T-the what?” A red flush spreads across Anakin’s cheeks, from embarrassment or anger, Obi-Wan can’t tell, and his mouth pulls into a frown. “Master, I didn’t—”

Obi-Wan is not impressed. “The swoop races. The pit races. And let’s not touch the incident with the Blood Carver.”

Anakin blanches. The Blood Carver. Obi-Wan almost feels bad bringing that mess up, but there’s a pressure behind his eyes from worry and Anakin knows better. Force, they talked about this.

“But I was with the Chancellor!” Anakin’s eyes are glossy and it’s that more than the way the Force boils with indignation that makes Obi-Wan think he may have jumped to conclusions. “I was! I promise!”

He promises. He also promised to clean the floor. And not sneak out to the races. That said, Anakin may be a lot of things, but he’s not generally a liar, and he tends to take his promises seriously. At least, he does when they warrant it.

Force, Obi-Wan feels a thousand years old.

His shoulders fall. He crouches down to be level with his apprentice, but Anakin turns away. The boy’s lips are trembling and drawn into a pout, and it would be cute if Obi-Wan didn’t suddenly feel so guilty. The Blood Carver really was taking it a step too far. That's still too fresh. He hadn’t meant to make Anakin cry. “Then why are you so late? You were supposed to be back hours ago. And if you weren’t in the Undercity, then why do I smell it on you? I want to believe you, Padawan, but you have to give me more to work with.”

“I told you. I was with the Chancellor.”

“For four hours?” He takes Anakin’s chin gently between his fingers. “Anakin, look at me. What did the Chancellor have you do that would take that long?”

Red-rimmed blues flicker everywhere but at Obi-Wan, and the child shrugs. “Nothing.”

“Anakin.”

“Nothing! We just talked.”

“Talked? The errand was talking?”

“No! Yes. I mean…” he chews his lip and the Force churns. “He-he had a speeder, and he knows I like to fix things, so…so he had me fix one. And we talked. And that’s it.”

Obi-Wan very much doubts that’s it, and he doesn’t need the Force to be sure. Anakin would have been chattering up a storm if there really was a speeder involved and the lie is written all over his face. But it’s almost midnight; Obi-Wan has been up since 0400, and he just doesn’t have the capacity right now for an interrogation. He’ll get the truth eventually.

He pulls away, and he’s pretty sure Anakin can read his disappointment, though the boy stubbornly refuses to budge. “Alright,” he says, even though it’s not. “Extra meditation tomorrow, for missing curfew.”

“But I was—”

“With the Chancellor, I know.” He places a hand on Anakin’s shoulder and forces the child to look at him. “But, Padawan, I would have appreciated a call, at the very least.”

Anakin squirms. “I’m sorry.”

“I know.” And he does know. Sincerity has never been one of Anakin’s faults. He just wishes it came along with trust. “Alright, come on, up to bed. We have an early day tomorrow."

And there’s the expression Obi-Wan has become so accustomed to. “Do we have to?”

Obi-Wan smiles. “We have to fit that extra mediation in somehow.”

Anakin groans, but trudges to his room obediently. It’s only after his door closes that Obi-Wan allows himself to frown. Whatever the Chancellor had him doing it wasn’t fixing a speeder. It also wasn’t something Anakin wanted him to know, which means it was either: A. illegal, or B. confidential. Neither of which are very reassuring for a Chancellor and a twelve-year-old boy.

He scrubs a hand down the side of his face. Force forgive him if he was ever this difficult. On the bright side, it’s over. Anakin got his talk, the Chancellor got to give his thanks, and now they can settle back into their routines without any interruptions.

With that in mind, Obi-Wan flicks off the light and retreats to his own room. He’s asleep almost before his head hits the pillow.

Anakin Skywalker does not fall asleep easily.

He twists and turns on his little pallet, mouth pinched as he struggles to quell the furious pounding of his heart. The euphoria of the evening has been replaced by a bitter lump in his throat, and the very thought of his Master only makes it worse. Obi-Wan, arms crossed and angry. Obi-Wan, disappointed and frowning. Obi-Wan, blaming him for something he didn't do. He didn't even let Anakin explain. His Master just assumed it was his fault — that he did something wrong even though he knew Anakin was with the Chancellor. And all because he was a little late? So what? Obi-Wan's come back late from meetings plenty of times. Why is it such a big deal when Anakin does it? Why is everything such a big deal when he does it?

The boy's eyes flicker to the comm unit laying innocuously atop his desk and he contemplates switching it back on, before shaking himself quickly of the thought. It's late and Anakin isn't stupid. He doesn't want to be too needy. Instead, he turns onto his side and tries to release his emotions into the Force.

As expected, it doesn't work. Anakin isn't even sure why he bothers anymore.

Because Obi-Wan wants you to, says the little voice in his head that sounds like mom. She's right, but Anakin still squashes it like worms under the sand. He doesn't need to be reminded of his failure.

It's easier to think about Obi-Wan. How he completely overreacted. How he brought up the Blood Carver — white eyes, bulbous and bleeding, face twisted beyond recognition — even though he knows Anakin doesn't like to talk about it. It hurts, a great burning in his chest, and the lump grows bigger with each accusation. It grows and it grows and it's only made worse by the knowledge that Obi-Wan isn't wrong.

Because Anakin was late. He was in the Undercity. And even though he could feel how upset Obi-Wan was through their bond, he still let him off lightly. And then Anakin lied.

His face flushes in the darkness. He doesn’t like lying to his teacher. He doesn’t like lying in general, but especially to Obi-Wan. And it's not even his fault! Palpatine made him promise to keep it a secret. What was he going to say? No? Yeah, right. Just because everyone says the Jedi aren't beholden to the Chancellor, doesn't mean it's the truth. And it's not like Palpatine was wrong. Anakin can definitely believe that the Jedi wouldn't approve of the man's errand. Obi-Wan barely lets him down to the lower levels for Dex's. If he found out about tonight he’d be furious. Then he'd tell the Council, and Anakin really doesn’t need another mark against him right now. Who knows how many more tries he has before the Council decides to cut their losses and kick him out.

It doesn't quell the hurt. If anything, it makes it worse. His stomach bubbles like he's going to be sick, but he clamps down on it like he learned when he was little. One of his mom's songs echoes in his brain and he hums the words he remembers as a distraction. On reflex, he curls tightly around his pillow, holding it as if it were her.

His room is freezing and he shivers like it’s his first night in the Temple all over again. He turns expecting to find sand, and the plumbing rings like Tuskens raiding in the darkness. His neck twinges where his chip should be and the walls are so close it’s as if he’s back inside a cage. He can almost hear the surveyors calling out lot numbers, only their voices sound more and more like the Chancellor’s with each cry.

"Your entire life decided at a young age."

"You have no troubling choices to make."

Except that’s not true. Anakin knows it isn’t true because he remembers slavery like a noose around his neck. It haunts him; the way his stomach gnawed, desperate for food, his throat itching with thirst. The desert is always trying to kill you. If not with hunger than with heat. His skin was always covered in a perpetual crust of salt as it burned under the weight of twin suns, and he hateshateshates that he misses them because everywhere else feels like the desert at triple moon. There is no choice in the desert. You either obey, or you die.

The Temple is different. It’s cool and lush and glistens with terrifying cleanliness. Food is as abundant as water, and no one thinks twice about taking it. Every step is light with the airy quality of a people secure in their freedom.

He sees it everyday with Obi-Wan.

Obi-Wan who is his Master. Obi-Wan who isn’t Lorda or Fatahn or any of the other words that burn Anakin’s tongue. He’s patient and kind and the best Jedi in the Temple, and someday Anakin’s going to be just like him. He's taught Anakin to read and write and swim, and even when he gets angry he never hits. There’s no electro-whip, no fists, no cruel words.

And he lets Anakin make choices. He lets Anakin know he can make choices.

(He still has to call him Master, though. He has to call everyone Master.)

(Yes, Master. No, Master. I’m sorry, Master.)

(But it’s not the same. It’s not. There's a word, in the old language the Jedi use for ceremonies and special occasions that Madame Nu and Obi-Wan are trying to teach him. It's special, just for teachers, and it doesn't mean the same thing. He’s free. He chose this. He wants to be a Jedi. He chose it. He did. He really did.)

He can choose what to eat.

(Protein, and carbs and vegetables and balance, Padawan. Not just sugar.)

He can choose how he looks.

(Brown, beige, uniform and humble. Shorn hair and tidy braid. The same every day. Everyone looks the same.)

He can choose where he goes.

(Class, Padawan, you’re supposed to be in class. No racing, no exploring, no sneaking out. No leaving the Temple. No traveling. No piloting.)

He chose to be a Jedi, (it was that or slavery and Qui-Gon was big and brave and powerful, and Anakin had never had power in his life) and someday he’ll free all the slaves in the galaxy.

Even the ones on Coruscant.

"Lives are bought and sold in this club every single day."

He thinks of the club — too hot, too loud — and curls deeper into his mattress.

He’s not unfamiliar with such places. Anakin’s seen everything from favors to ships to people be bought and sold over the betting pools of Tatooine. It was how Watto won them off Gardulla. It was how he settled debts. Anakin lost count of the number of times he or his mom had been loaned out due to a lost game. Watto always swore they were too useful to sell, but debts are debts and fortunes shift as frequently as the dunes.

But this is Coruscant, not Tatooine. There aren’t supposed to be slaves in the Republic.

"Colandrus is only one viper among many."

"I wish the chance cube would turn against him."

How many other people are there like Senator Colandrus? Padmé said there was no slavery in the Republic, but she was clearly wrong, and if she was wrong, then how many other lies has he taken for promises?

Will the Jedi keep him if he’s not the Chosen One?

Will Obi-Wan?

No, they won't. You know they won't. You know why they took you in. A prophesy. A promise. He's a dying wish made real. And he tries not to dwell on it, but it sits with him. Through every moment of everyday. If he's not the Chosen One — not the best — then they might just decide to be done with him and ship him back to Tatooine.

Leave you to rot on the Outer rim with all the other slaves they ignore, the dragon in his heart whispers, truthful enough that he can't drown it out. At least the Chancellor is trying.

The Chancellor went down to the Undercity to help. It was incredible and invigorating; Anakin felt like he was finally doing something good to fix even a little of the galaxy’s wrongs, not just waiting for the Council to tell him he could.

They spend so much time talking, and not enough doing.

Meanwhile, the Chancellor is able to recognize when talking just isn’t enough. Sometimes, you have to get up and start doing the work yourself. Anakin’s never met anyone like him. His presence is quiet — still as if held in place by some unseen hand. It lacks the unreachable serenity of the Jedi and the muffled chaos of the null. The only person Anakin can think of that comes anywhere close is his mother.

He wishes he had some of that quiet now.

Coruscant is a never-ending cacophony. Obi-Wan says he’ll be able to block it out once his shields improve, but Anakin isn't sure how. His shields are already some of the best in his age group, and sleep continues to elude him. Nighttime is the worst because the Force just doesn’t shut up and his mother isn’t there to sooth it away.

He turns onto his other side, gripping his blanket tightly around him as if that will help. It used to be Obi-Wan’s, but one night of nightmares and unrelenting shivering made it Anakin’s, and Obi-Wan has never asked for it back. He likes to think it’s because Obi-Wan cares and not just because he forgot. It’s soft and smells like Obi-Wan, of sapir and earth and tea, and even though Anakin is getting much too big for such childishness, he always feels untouchable when wrapped in its warmth.

It helps because Coruscant is still far too cold for a desert child, and Obi-Wan is the only other person who’s been able to come close to the quiet Palpatine and his mother subconsciously achieved.

His eyes ache, but when he closes them the Force screams. He wants, desperately, to reach out for Obi-Wan through their bond, to reach for the little light in his Master’s chest and bask in its gentle waves, but Obi-Wan’s accusations still ring in his ears and he tells himself it’s not pride or guilt that holds him back. Instead, he tightens his grip on the old brown blanket and shuts his eyes hard enough to see stars. Maybe, if he wills it enough, the Force will stop screaming.

It doesn’t. The shadows rush in before he can stop them and he tumbles downwards; through his bed, down and down until he’s far below the Temple, far below any inhabitable level. Fire and dust flash through the darkness. Cries deafen his ears and they mix in a discordant symphony with the laughter of criminals. He can smell smoke coming from the engine of a podracer though he is nowhere near a track, and it wafts under his nose as if blown from a death stick. He’s on Tatooine and the suns are burning through his skin, but the club is cold and busy and bright with the lights of Coruscant. The dream doesn’t stop; he wakes up only to fall right back into it, as if he never left. He can’t tell anymore if his bedroom is real or just another illusion.

Stars twinkle on the ceiling above him, and he wonders absently how the galaxy is able to fit inside such a small room. He thinks they’re laughing at him. That, or saying hello. Each flicker is a silent call beckoning him forward. The Force swirls around him, hateful and loving in turn, leading him up and up until he’s surrounded by starlight, and his room is nothing more than another pinprick in the darkness.

He’s calm.

It’s such a rare sensation that he never wants to leave.

There’s no ocean, no sun, just the void and the stars that live inside it. He walks amongst them, along some invisible road, and the galaxy reaches out to meet him.

Naboo twinkles like a jewel and he can feel Padmé’s water-blessed presence brushing against his hand. Tatooine is a suffocating heat, but it’s familiar and detested and home, and his mother is there at his back, steady and stalwart as the Canyons. He’s on Alderaan, Jabiim, Mandalore, and Bespin. A dead Blood Carver taunts him from Zonoma Sekot far beyond the Republic’s reaches, and Mustafar makes him burn and bleed until he’s left drowning on a world made of storms and seas.

He’s in the slave quarters of Tatooine, Nar Shaddaa, Fondor, and Zygerria. The spice mines of Kessel and Kemix and Kobola. He’s wandering the slums of Corellia and lost in the lower levels of Coruscant. The Jedi Temple rises above him, white and gleaming in the sunlight, and he knows he should run towards it, embrace Obi-Wan’s warm heartbeat, but the stars twinkle and flash and shout behind him, so loud and desperate that the Temple crumbles under the weight.

He’s in the ruins. Smoke and fire engulfs the peaceful halls and there are no Jedi to meet him. He’s in the Senate and no one cares that the sky is in flames and the air is polluted with ash. Everyone is choking and dying, and they can’t see it, and no one ever cares and no one ever does anything and the Force is screaming, screaming, screaming.

He’s in the Chancellor’s office. It’s comfortable and clean, and Palpatine stands at the window, hands outstretched ready to welcome him in. He takes a step. One, two. Flames lick his robes, but he pays them no mind. The air is still. The Force is silent; the stars flicker out.

"Are you happy in the Temple?"

"I could make extraordinary use of a young man like yourself."

Anakin wakes with the galaxy in his ears and ash on his tongue. His lightsaber rests in his hand, uncalled for but ready, and he wraps his fingers around the cool familiar metal in preparation.

The galaxy is calling, and it’s time he answered.

He hands over his lightsaber an hour later.

Chapter 2: Three Men and A Boy

Chapter Text

“To leave the Order, does Anakin wish?”

Obi-Wan stands on the balcony outside the Spire of First Knowledge and struggles not to let the older Master know just how much the shock has hit him. “Possibly, Master Yoda. He believes that his path lies elsewhere,” and if this is what Qui-Gon felt when Obi-Wan left the Order, then he would like to issue a formal apology through the Force for breaking his old Master’s heart.

He’s sure that wasn’t Anakin’s intention. The boy had been so earnest, so serious. His certainty etched over each feature as he held his lightsaber out to his Master. The warm casing now rests in Obi-Wan’s palm, dawn light shining off the metal as if to mock him. It lacks any of the scratches and dings that come with time, and now it threatens to remain flawless forever.

“I don’t know where I failed.” It hasn’t even been three years. “I have done my best to teach him. He belongs here. He’s not ready. He’s too young.”

He’s twelve. He’s a twelve-year-old boy with stars in his eyes who treats droids like people and talks to plants as if they’re listening. He thinks rain is a blessing and races bikes with all the abandon of adolescent immortality. There isn’t a food in the galaxy he won’t touch because food is food and he knows more about starvation than any Jedi Obi-Wan has ever met. He’s going to free all the slaves, and takes every injustice like a blade to his heart, and he can never bring himself to look away from those who need him. He cares; he cares so deeply that Obi-Wan can’t help but fear for him.

Someday, someone is going to look at that large, caring heart and crush it under heel just because they can.

“Your fault it is not,” Yoda says, gazing knowingly up at him. “A child Anakin remains. His path before coming to us...difficult. His questions…natural.”

Obi-Wan nods, but the words don’t help. Anakin’s questions are natural, and Obi-Wan, as his Master, should have anticipated them. So how had he not known? How long has Anakin been thinking about this? Decisions this momentous don’t just come out of nowhere. They fester. They percolate. This is the type of thing that comes from long hours in mediation and contemplation, both of which Anakin tries his damnedest to avoid.

At least, Obi-Wan thinks he does. Force knows it feels like he doesn’t know anything anymore.

“I was a slave on a world made of dust. What was I going to say? No?”

Does he really think that? That being a Jedi was his only other option? It wasn’t! He was freed. Queen Amidala even said she was willing to take him in if the Jedi didn’t.

But does Anakin know that? It wasn’t like he’d needed to be told after the Jedi had decided to admit him. Obi-Wan’s fingers curl tightly around the abandoned lightsaber. He had to know the Jedi wouldn’t have just sent him back into slavery. Anakin had to know that, right?

Master Yoda grabs his attention with a poke of his gimer stick. “A discussion for a later time, this is. A call for Jedi aid, received we have. With young Skywalker you will go. Investigate you shall. If after your return, Anakin still wishes to leave us, then released he shall be. Jailers, the Jedi are not.”

No, the Jedi are not jailers. They’re not slavers either, and Anakin is free. If Obi-Wan has to spend the rest of his life telling him this, he will.

Because he promised, and that promise is stitched together with every one of Anakin's accomplishments - every one of his questions and smiles and teasing laughter. It cries with each dejected frown as another overture of friendship is rejected, and another reminder of his past is scraped raw. It sings with the burning passion of Anakin's overwhelming power. Obi-Wan’s never seen someone who lives and breathes the Force's currents quite the way Anakin does. The Force surrounds him in ways that should be impossible and there’s still so much for him to learn.

“I know my training isn’t complete. I have more to learn, and I know I could learn some of it from you and the other Jedi. But not all of it.”

It’s almost not a matter of whether Anakin wants to halt his training, but rather if he can. A boy of Anakin’s strength out there with no one to guide him is a recipe for disaster. Obi-Wan can’t help the sudden flash of a red and black face, lips painted in a sneer and eyes the color of sulfur. He thinks of Anakin’s blue eyes burning with that same fire and breathes in a shaky gasp of air.

Qui-Gon’s killer was powerful, but he wasn’t Anakin. The idea of Anakin out there alone for the taking — it doesn’t bare thinking about.

Master Yoda’s eyes are soft with understanding, but whether it’s because he recognizes where Obi-Wan’s thoughts have gone or because he shares the same worries only the Force knows. He rests his small hands on his walking stick and glances out over the rising sun. “And if away he goes…your vow to Qui-Gon Jinn, break it will you?”

Obi-Wan doesn’t have to think before he says, “No. I will complete his training in the Force whether he is here or not. The currents that swirl around him…you’ve seen them.” It’s almost impossible to miss them, frankly. Anyone with even the slightest Force-sense can feel the abnormal eddies that surround his apprentice. It’s one of the reasons the Council initially rejected him. All that power, with his background? The risk is so high… “Qui-Gon saw them too. That’s why he asked for my vow,” and then he died and left Obi-Wan with his mess, even though he wouldn’t trade the boy for the galaxy. “Anakin must be trained. If the dark side finds him….”

Yoda hums. “Disagree, I do not. But allow this, the Council will not. For the Jedi Order only, Jedi training is.”

“I can feel the galaxy calling to me, Master. I need to answer. I don’t want to wait.”

Anakin never wants to wait. He’s always running; always jumping to the next thing without looking to see where he’ll land. Obi-Wan’s tried so many times to temper him, but every reprimand lends to a breathless laugh and caution thrown to the wind. Always on the move, Obi-Wan likes to tease, but if the galaxy really is calling out to him — if the Force really is telling him he has to leave — then who is Obi-Wan to stop him? Who is he to question the Will of the Force?

“Understand, do you? Anakin’s departure, its consequences?”

As if he hadn’t known the outcome the instant Anakin handed over his lightsaber. “Of course, Master Yoda. If Anakin leaves the Order then I must leave it as well.”

Carnelion IV isn’t as much of a disaster as it could have been — no one died — but Obi-Wan would be lying if he said it went well. There was just too much bad blood between the Open and the Closed for quick negotiations and the world was so unbelievably damaged it will take decades to get anything of worth out of it. He hopes, at least, now that the Senate knows of the situation they’ll be able to help the people get back on their feet, but Obi-Wan has dealt with enough politicians on enough war-torn worlds to feel anything more than cautious optimism.

On a happier note, at least the experience made Anakin rethink his resignation from the Order. Obi-Wan isn’t sure what exactly it was that ultimately convinced the boy to stay, but he’s not going to spend too much of his time wondering. All that matters is that Anakin isn’t going to be leaving, so Obi-Wan can kiss those worries goodbye.

Which is good because suddenly he’s much too busy worrying about the fact that the Chancellor has given Anakin his personal comm number.

“I’m sorry Padawan, can you repeat that?” Obi-Wan asks again, just for clarification. They’re back in their apartment for the first time in a week and he really just needs to make sure he didn’t lose his hearing somewhere amongst the void of space.

Anakin, all bright blue eyes and guileless, continues to smile up at him from his place on the couch as if he doesn’t see anything wrong with this picture. “Yeah! The Chancellor said if I ever needed to talk to just give him a call.”

“That’s–that’s very kind of him, Anakin, but the Chancellor is a very busy man. I’m not sure if he’ll have that much time to speak with you.”

The boy shrugs. “I know, but he said he gets real tired talking to politicians all day and that it’s a ‘breath of fresh air’ to talk to someone who isn’t trying to ‘push some agenda’ on him all the time.”

“Well, yes I can see how that might be refreshing, but Anakin—”

“And he said he really liked talking to me. He even offered me a job if I decided to leave the Order.”

What? Obi-Wan walks closer so that he’s standing beside the caff table and at a better vantage point to handle whatever this conversation is. “The Chancellor offered you a job?” He’s twelve! He’s not even legally allowed to drive a speeder yet and the Chancellor is offering—wait. “You talked to him about leaving?”

“Ah, yeah.” The boy twists his hands sheepishly in his lap. They’re covered in grease from where he’d been finagling with the comm, and Obi-Wan has to resist the urge to reach out and stop them. “Well, no, not really. I didn’t talk to him about it.”

“But he knew?”

“I mean, maybe?” The boy winces and chances a glance up at his Master. Obi-Wan can’t help noticing just how dirty his tunic is. “He said he owed me for what I did on Naboo, and that once my training was complete, he’d be happy to give me a job.”

“Anakin,” Obi-Wan’s starts with some confusion, “being a Knight will be your job. You won’t need the Chancellor to give you one.”

“I know, but…”

“But?”

“I don’t know. He was just being nice, ya know? And—and even if I was Knight I could still help him out, right? I mean he’s in charge of the Senate, so if he asks me for help, then I should give it.”

“Well, yes, but the Chancellor can’t just give you a job. He has to put in a request and speak to the Council. You’ll be very busy once you become a Knight, and Chancellor Palpatine will surely have retired by then. If he needs Jedi help, he’ll have to go through the Senate like everyone else.”

“Oh.” Anakin looks down as if ashamed. “I didn’t think of that.”

“I’m not saying it wasn’t a very kind offer, I’m just saying it might be a little harder than the Chancellor is making it sound.” Obi-Wan pauses, looking closely at his apprentice. He moves a bit closer, knee bumping the table and jostling the comm unit sitting innocuously atop the transparasteel. “Anakin, may I ask you a question?”

“Sure, what about?”

“The Chancellor’s offer, is that why you wanted to leave?” He takes in Anakin’s wide eyes and quickly adds, “You never seemed to have second thoughts before, so I was surprised when you asked.” He crouches down to be level with the boy. “I’m just trying to understand, Anakin. That’s all.”

Anakin doesn’t answer right away. His brow furrows in thought and he stares at the wall behind them as if it’s not really there. The child is replaced almost instantly with someone too old for their face and Obi-Wan’s heart shutters at the sight. Sometimes, he wants to scream for the things about Anakin he doesn’t know, even though the things he does is food enough to fuel long hours of meditation.

“He…” The lines on Anakin’s face twist, and a stone sinks in Obi-Wan’s stomach as he realizes his apprentice is trying to pick his words very carefully. “It wasn’t really about that. It’s just when I was with him, he talked about the Senate a lot. And everything he was saying, well, he was right. Like how a lot of people in the Senate don’t really want to help anyone and are just trying to get more money. And the Jedi work for the Senate, so if we have to wait for them to tell us what to do, then how can we help everyone?”

“And you thought that by leaving you could help more people?”

“Maybe. I mean, yes. No.” Little hands wring together, and Anakin’s face reddens with sudden frustration. “You brought the whole Republic to help everyone on Carnelion IV! And they came ‘cause they trust the Jedi, but you lied to them. You told the Senate there was tibanna gas and they came running, but does that mean they wouldn’t have bothered if you told them about the fighting? There were people dying and they just didn’t care. It’s just…there’s so many people that need help, Obi-Wan, and no one does anything because there’s nothing in it for them. And I know there’s not enough Jedi to fix everything, but why do we have to wait for others to tell us to help before we do?”

“Oh, Padawan, if only the rest of the galaxy thought as you do, our job would be much easier.” Obi-Wan takes a minute to gather his thoughts before maneuvering to sit beside Anakin on the couch. It’s hard, sometimes, to explain things Obi-Wan’s been taught since the cradle. Things that are common sense to him that he has to remember are not so to others, and Anakin’s had such a different life from anyone else in the Temple that learning how to put words to innate understanding has become a necessity. “I wish I could tell you I had a better answer, but the galaxy is a complex place. The Chancellor wasn’t wrong when he told you that many people in power don’t care about helping others. I’ve met enough corrupt politicians to make me wary. But you saw Carnelion IV. If we hadn’t had the backing of the Senate, how do you think that mission would have gone? Or, better yet, if you were there alone, what do you think would have happened?”

“I would’ve been crushed.”

Obi-Wan chuckles. What a very Anakin answer. “I suppose if you wanted to condense it, yes, you would have been crushed. More specifically, the Open and the Closed would have crushed each other. There’s a lot one person can do, Anakin, but change — large change the likes of which Carnelion IV needed — cannot be won by a single person alone.”

“I know. That’s why I had to ask Kolara and the others for help.”

“And that was the right thing to do. It’s what Sera had been working towards for years by sending them art. She wanted to make the children care about something other than war.”

“But they still went and fought. It wasn’t enough to make them stop.”

“No, it wasn’t, and she knew that. That’s why she called for us. And when I realized that we weren’t enough, I made the call to the Republic.”

“And now they’ll get the help they need. So they don’t have to keep fighting.”

“Exactly.”

Anakin bites his lip. “But…but what if the Senate didn’t want to help? What if they just told us to leave?”

“Then we would have done what we could and left.”

“But people would have died!”

“Perhaps,” Obi-Wan acknowledges, “but maybe the Senate knew something we didn’t. Maybe they saw a way to stop the fighting without us. Maybe they didn’t want to infringe on Carnelion’s autonomy. Maybe they thought interfering would hurt more people.”

“How could helping hurt people?”

“Well, there are a few ways.” Obi-Wan’s hand strokes his beard, a habit he’s developed over the past few months that Anakin likes to laugh at, but which Obi-Wan finds actually helps him think. “Imagine if that help is unprepared. It’s possible they’ll get caught in the crosshairs of a war. You wouldn’t want to send more people down to Carnelion if it wasn’t safe, right?”

“No,” Anakin shakes his head, “but isn’t that why we’re here? To go to dangerous places and help because we’re trained for it?”

“That’s part of it, but we’re not soldiers, Anakin. We can’t fight other’s wars for them. And even if we could, there’s just not enough of us. Carnelion IV needed far more than two Jedi, but doing so would have meant abandoning other worlds that need us, too.”

Anakin slumps. “Oh.”

“I know it’s not perfect.” He brushes aside his Padawan’s braid tenderly. “You want to help everyone, and that’s a very admirable trait, but there are billions of people who need help, Anakin, and part of being a Jedi is knowing where you can do the most good and trusting others to do the rest.”

Anakin nods, eyes downcast in thought. His lips twist and Obi-Wan waits patiently for him to process the explanation. It takes a minute, and Obi-Wan has to force himself to not look away when Anakin finally looks up at him and asks with all the dejected certainty of a child who’s been let down too often, “But what if I can’t trust others?”

“Then you come to me, and we’ll figure it out together. Okay?”

“Okay,” Anakin agrees, a tiny grin peaking through the shadows.

Obi-Wan returns it with a grin of his own and pats his apprentice’s shoulder. “Good. Now, how about I take this,” he plucks the comm off the table, “and you go and finish your homework.”

Anakin scowls. “But we just got back.”

“And now you’re behind on your work. I know Master Ti is eagerly awaiting your history report, and it would be a shame to disappoint her.”

“I finished most of it!”

“Which means you can finish the rest of it that much more quickly.” He raises an eyebrow and strokes his beard just to illicit one more of Anakin’s laughs. “After all, the sooner you finish the sooner we can go reassure Dex of our continued existence. Maybe even get a milkshake…”

“I’ll have it done in an hour!” Anakin jolts to his feet and bolts for his room, Obi-Wan’s laughter trailing behind him. He’s almost to the door when he slows to a stop and glances back, suddenly uncertain. “You…you’re gonna give that back right? I promise, I wasn’t gonna bother him.”

Obi-Wan tightens his grip on the comm and smiles with as much reassurance as he can muster. “Of course, Anakin. I just don’t want you distracted while you finish your work.”

Anakin huffs, but returns the grin. “It wouldn’t distract me.”

“You forget that I know you. Now come on, finish that paper and we’ll head to Dex’s.”

The boy groans, but complies, entering his room and closing the door behind him. Obi-Wan waits for a second before letting the smile slide from his face and trailing his gaze to the comm. It’s standard issue, the same kind every Padawan gets the moment they’re cleared to start missions, but it weighs heavily in his palm and a chill has spread across his chest to take hold of his heart.

What was the Chancellor doing giving his personal comm number to a twelve-year-old? Obi-Wan could perhaps understand his office number, but this is a direct line. The only person in the Order who should maybe have this kind of access is Master Windu. Maybe Master Yoda. The cold spreads to his stomach and he’s fighting the urge to run when he finds himself standing up from the soft upholstery and calling out to his Padawan.

“Anakin, I’ll be right back. I have to step out for a moment. It shouldn’t take long.”

The boy gives a muffled shout back to confirm he heard, and soon Obi-Wan is hurrying out of their quarters and into the empty hallway. He doesn’t have a specific destination in mind — whether the Council Chambers, Mace’s rooms or Yoda’s — but he knows he needs to get out. The comm burns against his skin, as if trying to make him let go, but Obi-Wan only tightens his grip. There has to be a perfectly reasonable explanation for this. He just needs to know what it is.

Obi-Wan turns into the main corridor outside the Master-Padawan halls and continues at as steady a pace as he can manage so as not to alert anyone to his panic. It’s probably nothing, after all. He’s probably blowing it all out of proportion. But the comm is heavy and, though his shields are locked up tight, he’s sure more than one Master notices his anxiety through the Force.

The wide hallways are bathed in bright afternoon light and he’s just sidestepped a class of young initiates when Windu and Yoda round the other corner. Cool relief spreads across Obi-Wan’s shoulders and he hurries over to where they’ve slowed their own conversation, no doubt sensing his attention.

“Masters,” he says, bowing respectfully.

“Knight Kenobi,” Mace replies. “Is there something you need?”

Obi-Wan takes a deep breath. “An issue has been brought to my attention. One that I would like to discuss with you both.” His eyes flicker back and forth, taking measure of the Jedi surrounding them. “In private, if possible.”

Yoda and Mace exchange a look before the taller Jedi waves them forward. “My quarters are closer. We can talk there.”

Obi-Wan bows again. “Thank you, Masters.”

He follows them back towards the residential area at a far more sedate pace than the one he started with and finds himself almost annoyed at the utter lack of urgency they exude. It’s completely irrational — the situation isn’t urgent at all — but his fingers twitter against the comm all the same. Obi-Wan has to force himself to keep pace and not hurry ahead. It’s far more difficult than it should be, and he must do a poor job of hiding it because Mace and Yoda quicken their steps once the crowds finally thin.

They enter Mace’s apartment and the man urges them to take a seat. As in keeping with the Jedi, the space is clean and austere, but there are little knick-knacks perched on tables and shelves, souvenirs from various worlds that brighten the room and remind Obi-Wan of his own Master. Qui-Gon liked to collect such baubles, too. He shakes the thought, because it’s neither here nor there, but it sits with him, an extra hand on his urging him forward as he reclines back on Mace’s couch. Yoda hoists himself up beside him while Mace takes the opposing chair, and he waits for both of them to get comfortable before holding up the comm.

“Anakin mentioned something to me today, something I wasn’t quite sure how to interpret.” He takes a breath, and it’s far more difficult to say than it should be, but the two Masters are patient and allow him the time. “He told me that the Supreme Chancellor had given him his personal comm number. Not his office number; his personal one. Anakin didn’t seem all that surprised, but then I doubt he realizes the distinction. He said that the Chancellor told him it was nice to talk to someone outside the Senate, and while I can believe that to a point, I’m a little concerned that the person he’s chosen to converse with is my twelve-year-old Padawan.”

“Hmm,” Yoda rubs at his chin in thought. “Surprising, this is. Say anything more, young Skywalker did?”

“Yes, Master. He said that the Chancellor offered him a job once his training is complete. I tried to explain to Anakin that that’s not how Jedi work, and I think I managed to correct any misinterpretations he may have had, but the Chancellor knows better. I can’t understand why he would have extended an offer he knew was unrealistic.”

“Concerning, this is,” Yoda agrees, and leans over his gimer stick. “At a delicate stage, Anakin is. Much to learn he still has. Growing he is, and malleable. Question, I do, the Chancellor’s judgement.”

“I agree. Skywalker has no business with the Chancellor outside his duties. Did the boy say whether or not he was the one to ask for the number?”

Obi-Wan shook his head. “No, Master. He said Palpatine told him to call if he ever needed to talk, but whether Anakin asked or the Chancellor offered, I can’t say for certain. I will say I’m rather uncomfortable letting him continue communication, however. Anakin still struggles with making friends his own age, and while I’m sure the Chancellor has the best of intentions, I’m not sure if his agemates will appreciate any such displays of favoritism.”

“No, Skywalker doesn’t need any more of that.” Mace leans back in his seat, lines creating divots along his forehead as he considers the situation. “When the Chancellor requested Skywalker’s presence I was lead to believe it would be a single instance. He made no mention of intending to continue communication.”

“Anakin did save his planet.”

“And I’m sure Chancellor Palpatine is grateful, but I notice he hasn’t made any similar overtures towards you.”

“Yes, well I’m not the one who needs help.” The two Masters exchange a look, but Obi-Wan can’t determine what for. He elects to ignore it for the time being and plows ahead. “I’m not saying Anakin couldn’t learn a lot from the Chancellor, I’m just not sure it’s…appropriate.”

“It’s not,” Mace states, while Yoda hums in agreement. “Padawan Skywalker can learn enough about the Senate in the classroom. He doesn’t need to be having one-on-one conversations with the Chancellor.”

“No,” Obi-Wan says. “And I’m not sure I approve of the conversations either.”

Mace hedges forwards. “Meaning?”

“Anakin came back two hours past curfew after his meeting with Palpatine. He said he was with the Chancellor, but when he walked in the door he smelled distinctly of death smoke and alcohol. I, perhaps prematurely, assumed he had snuck off to the lower levels again, but he was very earnest in his insistence that he was with the Chancellor the whole time.”

“Death smoke…and alcohol?” Windu raises his brow at that, surprised and suspicious in turn.

“A concerning combination, this is.”

“Yes, Masters. If I didn’t know better, I would have thought Vos had taken him out to a bar. He said the Chancellor and he talked; that Palpatine had him fixing a spare speeder of his.”

“But you don’t believe this.”

“No,” Obi-Wan states with firm conviction. “Anakin can talk for hours about machinery. I’m half convinced binary was his first language. If the Chancellor had Anakin fixing any speeders then he would have spent the next hour telling me all about it, half-asleep or not. Instead, I had to pry the story out of him.”

“Not a speeder then.”

Obi-Wan shakes his head. “And the next day Anakin handed me his lightsaber, saying he wanted to resign from the Order.”

“A coincidence, unlikely this is,” Yoda says. His eyes are troubled, and he presses his gimer stick further into the beige carpet. “Agree with you, I do. Spoken further with young Skywalker, have you, of the meeting?”

“No, Master Yoda, but Anakin did tell me some of what the Chancellor discussed with him and it was obvious he was trying very hard to avoid mentioning whatever else had occurred.”

Mace’s expression is etched in thunder as he crosses his arms across the broad stretch of his chest. “So, either Chancellor Palpatine told him to not mention anything, or Anakin knows it’s something we wouldn’t approve of and is keeping it a secret to avoid trouble.”

“But he wouldn’t be in trouble if it was something the Chancellor told him to do,” Obi-Wan stresses. “I wouldn’t punish him for following orders. He knows that.”

“Then it’s something the Chancellor told him to keep quiet. Which means it’s something we wouldn’t approve of anyway.”

“It could be confidential.”

“And I don’t approve of a twelve-year-old doing anything confidential. As far as I’m concerned, Skywalker is still on kiddie missions.” Mace tosses Obi-Wan a scowl as the younger man has the audacity to look at him with such wry disbelief. “Well, he would be if you two didn’t keep tripping into trouble.”

“Anakin trips. I walk forward with full confidence.”

“And I’m sure Skywalker trips with that same confidence.”

Yoda chuckles. “Always one pair, there is.”

“Yes, well,” Obi-Wan mumbles sheepishly, “it would appear trouble has come to us this time. Masters, I’m not quite sure how to proceed with this. I can’t just tell the Chancellor no, and Anakin will wonder if I don’t return his comm. We can’t even say for certain anything is wrong. It’s possible the Chancellor is in earnest.”

“Possible, it is, yes,” the old Master acknowledges, lips downturned in thought. “Your concerns, however, valid they are. Concentrate on his training, young Skywalker must. Explain this to the Chancellor, we shall. Understand, I trust, he will.”

“And if he doesn’t, we’ll look closer,” Mace promises.

“Of course, Masters. Thank you.” Obi-Wan feels like he can breathe just a little bit easier now. “I’ll talk to Anakin about it; explain the situation. Hopefully, he’ll understand.”

“Understand, he will. A child, he still it, but naïve he is not. A mission we will arrange for you, if necessary you feel it is to get away.”

“Thank you, Master Yoda. I admit I was feeling a bit—”

The sharp beep of Anakin’s comm unit pierces through the air, cutting off Obi-Wan with its shrill call for attention. Obi-Wan’s brow furrows because, sad as it makes him, Anakin has yet to make any real friends that would bother to call him and Obi-Wan is the only other person he talks to regularly.

“Hmm,” Yoda’s eyes are narrow as he stares at the flashing light. “Appear it does, that wish to talk to Padawan Skywalker, the Supreme Chancellor does.”

Yes, that was Obi-Wan’s fear too. His gaze flashes to meet Windu’s and, at the man’s insistence, opens up the comm. He clears his throat and sits up straighter, though he knows this unit lacks any visual component. “This is Knight Kenobi.”

“Ah, Knight Kenobi,” Chancellor Palpatine’s ebullient tone filters out from the device, filling the room like an unwanted visitor. “How wonderful to hear your voice.”

Obi-Wan takes a deep breath and plasters on a smile. “Chancellor Palpatine, this is a surprise.”

“Yes, I admit I was expecting to hear young Anakin on the other end.” He laughs. “My apologies for bothering you.”

“No bother, Chancellor. Anakin is finishing his homework, and I’m afraid he gets very distracted when surrounded by too much machinery.”

“Of course, I understand. He was very excitable when fixing my speeder. I can only imagine what he’s like at home.”

His speeder. Obi-Wan has to bite his tongue to keep from questioning that. Instead, he fakes a laugh and says, “He keeps me on my toes. Is there something you needed from him, Chancellor? Perhaps I can be of assistance.”

“Oh no, no. I wouldn’t want to take up your time. I was just calling to see how Anakin was faring. I saw the report from your mission to Carnelion IV and noticed he’d been taken hostage by one of the factions. I was worried he’d gotten hurt.”

“No, Chancellor. Anakin is fine. He was even complaining about the homework he didn’t finish.”

“Well, I’m glad to hear it,” and he sounds so genuine in his concern that Obi-Wan suddenly feels bad for questioning him. “Tell the boy I say hello and am happy to hear he’s doing well.”

The smile comes easier. “Of course, Chancellor. Will do.”

“Thank you, Knight Kenobi. You've eased an old man's heart. Have a good day, then.”

“And you, sir.” The comm goes dead with a deafening click and Obi-Wan curls his fingers around the device as if punishing it. Is it possible the Chancellor really is just an old man feeling concern for a boy who helped him? He wants to say yes. He can’t. The Force is silent, but the cold pit in Obi-Wan’s stomach only widens its maw.

Mace is the one who puts it into words. “He called Anakin.”

“Yes, he did.”

Yoda hums, the sound traveling from the back of his throat and into the stillness of the room. “Like this, I do not. If wished to inquire on Padawan Skywalker's health, he did, contact the Temple, he should have. Meditate on this, we must. Tomorrow, a mission we will have for you, Knight Kenobi. Time, we need, to consider this in full.”

Obi-Wan bows his head. He fingers the comm as if doing so will give him answers. “Yes, Master Yoda. I’ll let Anakin know to prepare.”

“Speak further on this, we will, when you return. Until then, your Padawan you should tend.”

“Of course. Thank you, Masters. I don’t know what I’d do without your help.”

“Your best, you would,” Yoda reassures kindly. “Glad to be of help, however, we are. Now go. Sense your Padawan’s impatience, I do. Wondering where you are, he is.”

Has it really been that long? The bond he has with Anakin is warm and bright and thrumming with adolescent restlessness, and Obi-Wan feels a smile tug at his lips. “Ah, yes, well I may have promised him Dex’s if he finished his homework on time.”

“Bribery, Kenobi?” Mace asks, brow raised, but the corner of his mouth is twitching and Obi-Wan can do nothing but oblige him the tease.

“I like to think of it as incentive.”

Yoda chuckles. “A treat, Padawan Skywalker has earned. Working hard, he is, hmm?”

“Yes, Master. If nothing else, he’s earned the sugar.” Whether Obi-Wan’s earned the punishment of having to deal with him afterwards is a little more debatable.

“A good child, he is. Done well, on this last mission, he did.” Yoda’s eyes twinkle with amusem*nt as if knowing exactly where Obi-Wan’s thoughts have taken him, and the young Knight allows himself to relax in the levity of the moment. It lasts only a minute, before Yoda sobers and curls his fingers around the head of his gimer stick. “Inform you, we will, if more information we gather. If attempt to contact your Padawan again, Palpatine does, tell us you should.”

Obi-Wan takes a deep breath. “Yes, Master.” With that he stands, bracing his hands on his knees, and, with only minute hesitance, slips the comm into the pocket of his robe. It’s not quite as heavy as it was an hour ago, but the weight is there, an out-of-step tug on the edge of his subconscious. He shakes it off and bows his head. “Masters.”

“Knight Kenobi.”

He sweeps from the room, the council members’ gazes resting comfortingly at his back. The situation doesn't feel quite as daunting with their support. It’s only after he’s gone that Yoda and Mace allow the true depths of their concern to fill the space Obi-Wan left behind.

“Troubling, this is,” Yoda says, face severe.

“Yes, Master.”

“Feel you do, that a danger the Chancellor is to young Skywalker?”

Mace sighs. It starts deep in his chest and ends in a harsh gust of uncertainty from narrow lips. He falls against the back of his chair and gazes heaven-ward. “The Force is placid, Master. It gives nothing when I ask, but I also sensed no danger when he made his initial request.”

“Hmm, yes. Clouded, the Force is. Hard to see, the future has become. But ask, I did, what the Force says, hmm? No. Your feelings, I wish to know.”

Mace huffs, the sound of a man with ten-thousand lives on his shoulders. “And if the Force is speaking serenity in one ear, and my feelings are speaking suspicion in the other, which one do I listen to?”

“Old questions, you are asking,” Yoda says with a cracked smile.

“Yes, and ones I would like an answer to.”

“Know the answer, I do not,” the old Master admits. "Dwell on our feelings, we must not. Acknowledge them, we should, and let them go. Difficult, this sometimes is. Speak to us they may, but allow them to guide our actions we cannot. Information we need, if plan to act, we do."

“That's easier said than done, Master.”

“Know this, I do. Listen to the Force, we must. Guide us, it will. Abandon us, it will not, if patient we are.”

Mace shakes his head. His heart is beating out of time and he can’t shake the shadowy hand pressing on his chest. “I hope I’m wrong, Master. Else, I'm not sure we'll have the luxury of patience.”

“Hope, I do, that wrong you are, as well,” Yoda agrees. “Delicate, we must be. Meditate on this, I must.”

“As do I. In the meantime, I’ll go through the missions and see if there’s anything suitable for Kenobi.”

“A light one, I suggest,” he chuckles. “So trip into trouble, young Skywalker does not.”

“If he doesn’t, Kenobi almost certainly will.”

“But walk into it with confidence, he will.”

Mace groans. “It’s statements like that, Master, which reminds us all that they’re of your line.”

“Keep you on your toes, I must,” Yoda states without an ounce of remorse. He flashes a small smile before allowing the weight of the situation to settle back over them. “Know you do, if a danger the Chancellor is, trouble this will bring.”

“I know, Master. We’ll need to keep a closer eye on the Senate.”

Yoda hums as he leans heavily against his gimer stick. Mace can almost see him replaying the comm call in his head. “Concerned, he was, for Skywalker’s safety.”

“Yes, Master.”

“And polite, he was, to Knight Kenobi.”

“He was." The shadow tightens. "So why do I get the feeling he wasn’t pleased?”

Chapter 3: Boys On A Mission

Chapter Text

“A mission? But we just got back!”

“Anakin, chew please.” The boy rolls his eyes with a huff, but obediently closes his mouth to finish the rest of his meal like a civilized being.

Obi-Wan shakes his head, and turns his attention back to his own meal — an unhealthy combination of fried bantha and a milkshake, which he sips at with relish. The whole thing is nauseatingly sweet and he really could do without the blue tint it leaves on his tongue, but none of that takes away from the fact that it’s damn tasty. Obi-Wan considers himself entitled to the treat. Anakin’s own milkshake is nothing more than melt scraped off the inside of his tumbler and Obi-Wan knows that if he doesn’t keep a close eye out, his own drink will be next. His apprentice has already helped himself to more than his fair share of protato wedges.

The diner is almost empty. Obi-Wan and Anakin arrived late enough to avoid the lunch rush, but a few Sullustans maintain an amicable conversation by the window and a group of teenagers sit bickering around a pile of fried crispic and ice cream. Dex’s particular brand of eclectic music filters over the speakers as Hermione dries a crate of newly washed glasses at the bar. Outside, the middling levels of Coruscant bustle about unimpeded. It’s relaxing, and Obi-Wan allows the mundane calm to ease his nerves.

Food spews from Anakin’s mouth.

“Mouth closed, Padawan.”

“Sorry.” Anakin grimaces, and Obi-Wan can do nothing more than roll his eyes ruefully. Anakin is many things, but decorous is not one of them.

“Just don’t do it during our mission and I’ll let it slide.”

“Yeah, but you still won’t tell me why we’re going on one at all. You were the one grumbling about my homework.”

“Your homework needs to get done, yes, however I’m sure you’ll have no problem working on it during our trip. We might even be able to slot in some time during the festivities for you to finish.”

“Festivities? Our mission is to go to a party?”

“A wedding. Crown Princess Breha Antilles has been promised to Prince Bail Organa for the last two years. Now that the Ascension Accords have been finalized, the two can finally get married.”

“And we’ve been asked to go…why?”

“Because, my very young apprentice, we were invited.” Anakin stares balefully. It’s ridiculously cute. That said, Obi-Wan doesn’t torture him for longer than necessary. “And the Jedi were instrumental in settling Alderaan’s Ascendency Contention. As Master C’baoth — the Master originally involved in the mess — is currently out of the Temple, the Council felt that this would be a good mission for you to practice your diplomacy skills.”

Anakin makes a face. “Do we have to?”

“What, you don’t want to abandon your Galactic History class for a week of revelry and wedding cake?”

“I didn’t say that,” Anakin says a little too quickly, and Obi-Wan doesn’t try very hard to hide his amusem*nt behind the knuckles of his hand.

“It’ll be fine, Anakin. The Alderaanians are a very peaceful people and they have great respect for the Jedi. If you’re going to practice diplomacy on any world, this is the one to start with.”

“It’s so boring, though.”

“Boring or not, it’s still important,” Obi-Wan admonishes. “You’ll be asked to attend far more boring functions in your future. At least with a royal wedding you know the food will be good.”

Anakin concedes with a huffy grab-and-munch of Obi-Wan’s last protato wedge. Obi-Wan arches his brow, but he’s not really all that surprised. The boy is a bottomless pit. If it’s edible, he’ll eat it, and if it’s questionable, he’ll still eat it even if he hates himself for it later. Good food isn’t a necessity for Anakin, but it’s certainly not something he’s ever going to turn down. It’s a wonder he didn’t grab Obi-Wan’s bantha right out of Hermione’s hands.

“In any case, I expect you to be on your best behavior throughout our trip. The Alderaanians may forgive a few blunders, but that doesn’t mean you should aspire to make them.”

“I don’t do it on purpose.”

“I’m aware.” He shoots Anakin an indulgent look. “Take heart, Anakin, you can’t do any worse than I did at my first wedding.”

Anakin’s instantly intrigued. “Your first — wait, what? What do you mean? What did you do?”

“Oh, would you look at that,” Obi-Wan fakes a glance at the chrono. “All the food gone and our transport scheduled to leave in just under three hours. That gives you just enough time to pack and hand in your essay to Master Ti.”

“Obi-Wan!”

“Now, now, Padawan, a Jedi must live in the moment.”

“Live in the moment? You brought it up!”

“And now I’m shutting it down.” Obi-Wan waves his hand in the direction of the counter. “Come on, why don’t you go ask Hermione if she can get you a few ryshcates to go?”

Anakin pouts. “Now you’re just trying to distract me.”

“Perhaps, but is it working?”

It is. Anakin tries to maintain a stubborn front, but Obi-Wan knows he’s won.

“Fine,” the boy sags and gives in, “but you owe me a story later.”

“Hmm, we’ll see.” Obi-Wan’s not giving up that story for anything less than Anakin’s Knighting. Or, better yet, Anakin’s first Padawan.

His apprentice glares but gets up anyway, pre-teen petulance radiating off his form in all its hair-greying glory. Obi-Wan will consider it a win if he has any hair remaining by the end of Anakin’s apprenticeship. He doesn’t think he could pull off the bald look quite as well as Master Windu.

His eyes trail Anakin as the boy marches over to the blonde waitress and gets pulled into a conversation. She’s a friendly young woman, with a sharp mind for mechanics, and Hermione has a way of keeping Anakin’s attention for longer than necessary, which, in this instance, is exactly what Obi-Wan is counting on.

Dex is behind the kitchen window plating a stack of hotcakes when Obi-Wan catches his eye and motions for his discrete attention. The Besalisk nods as if caught up in the current song and finishes up his dish. He gathers the hotcakes and gartro eggs into two of his arms, and a full pot of caff with another, and ambles his large body over to the Sullustans. He doesn’t bother acknowledging Obi-Wan until he’s seen to his other customers, at which point he enthusiastically makes his way over with a cry of, “Obi-Wan!”

“Dex,” the Knight greets warmly. He rises to give the towering man a firm hug before they both squeeze back into the booth. Dex swipes the remaining ice cream from Anakin’s shake onto his finger and licks it, knowing full well that’s Anakin’s favorite part.

Obi-Wan rolls his eyes, but as long as he’s not the one getting yelled at, it doesn’t matter what sort of ire Dex incurs.

“Sent yer boy off to go badger my ‘Mione, eh?”

The Jedi smirks. “I figure he’ll be easier to coerce into doing homework if he’s got a treat on hand.”

“Ha! Bribery at it’s best. Boy’s gonna be jumping off walls with all that sugar.”

“So nothing out of the ordinary then.”

“Bah, ya say that now. You’ll be regretting it come later.”

“Perhaps, but I’m hoping he’ll crash before it comes to that.” He won’t, but it’s a nice thought.

“Well, now you’ve just jinxed yourself, my friend.” The Besalisk chortles. “So, whatcha needin’ me for, hm? Want me to be finishing off lil’ Ani’s sweets?”

“As much as that would probably help me, no.” Obi-Wan then leans in and lowers his voice. There’s not many people here that could overhear, but he can’t take that chance. “I wanted to know if you’ve heard anything…controversial about the Chancellor?”

Dex looks skeptical. “Controversial, eh? About a politician?”

“Untoward then,” Obi-Wan rephrases.

“Untoward? Well, that’s a lil’ different.” Dex raises a hand and massages his upper chin in thought. After a moment, he says, “Can’t think of anything off the top of my head, but I know some kinds of people who might have access to that kind of information.”

“Any chance I could speak to these people?”

“Can’t say most of ‘em would talk to a Jedi,” Dex says. “But I could be persuaded to talk to ‘em for ya.”

“Could you?”

“Hmm. Nothin’ big. FLO’s been having some issues with her processor and it ain’t cheep to fix. I talk to my guys, and your boy fixes my FLO.”

Cautious crevices form on Obi-Wan’s forehead. “Considering he’d do it anyway, that’s very generous of you.”

“What can I say?” Dex leans back with a shrug, playing the conversation off like like a friendly chat. “I like you. And your boy’s stomach is paying my rent.”

“I’m sure it is.” He mimicsDex, keeping it casual, and cards a hand through his beard. “We’ll be out on a mission for the next week or so.” Which Obi-Wan is still a little surprised about. Master Yoda had made is sound like he would at least have until tomorrow, but Mace must have been more worried than he was willing to admit to get them a mission off-world so quickly.

“I’ll see what I can scrounge up for ya, then.”

Scrounge up, as if they’re not talking about the Supreme Chancellor of the Galactic Republic.

“Got the ryshcates,” Anakin announces as he swiftly reappears in their line of sight. There’s no sign that he has any inkling as to their conversation, for which Obi-Wan is grateful; the last thing he needs is for Anakin to think he’s snooping. “Hermione gave me five to split with you, but I think because you’re not growing anymore it’s only fair that I get three of them.” He immediately swivels before Obi-Wan can even process all that, and calls, “Hey, Dex!”

“Ani! My favorite lil’ customer.”

Obi-Wan fakes hurt. “I thought I was your favorite.”

“You were,” Dex says, “but Ani here eats more than you.”

“And who pays for that food?”

“Eh, details.” He waves a hand back and forth between them. “‘Sides, Ani’s gonna be fixing my FLO. Saves me money and my droid.”

“Wait, what’s wrong with FLO?”

“Processor on the fritz,” Dex explains simply. “Obi here said you might give her look.”

“Sure! I can get her back up and running in no time! Do you know if it needs replacing or if it’s just a problem in the wiring? I could probably find some parts in the mech bay. The techs are always throwing away perfectly good parts just because-”

“Anakin,” Obi-Wan interjects in an attempt to get the boy to breathe. “Perhaps we should discuss this more after our mission. Dex can wait a week.”

“Yeah, kid. She ain’t in the junkyard, yet.”

“Fine,” Anakin crosses his arms with a scowl. “I’ll take a look at her when we get back.”

You’d think the mission was a big inconvenience. Obi-Wan tosses Dex a mild look. “Can you tell he’s thrilled to be leaving?”

“Written all over his face,” the Besalisk agrees with equal humor. “Alright kid, I’ll see ya both when you get back. Maybe throw in an extra milkshake just for you.”

“Dex…”

“Just to keep your Master here on his toes.”

“Dex.”

“Deal!”

Oh, Obi-Wan is going to regret this.

Alderaan is breathtaking. It’s not quite as perfect as Naboo in Anakin’s humble opinion, but flying into a world of snow-capped mountains glittering like jewels under the setting sun is, without contest, one of the most incredible sights Anakin has ever seen in his life. Silver spires peak out from the valleys between each mountain, nestled there as if created by nature rather than people. Glacial lakes, crystal clear and surrounded by trees, glisten and beckon to him, begging him to take a drink of cool, abundant water. If Naboo is the home of angels, then Alderaan is for the spirits. It’s everything a slave boy from Tatooine could ever have dreamed of the Republic, and Anakin finds himself overwhelmed by both a feeling of unrelenting awe and dragon-fueled envy.

It’s not, perhaps, the most Jedi-like of reactions, nor is it a particularly new one, but Obi-Wan is always telling him that it’s okay if he struggles sometimes. That he’s still learning and it takes a while to become good at controlling one’s emotions. Of course, he thinks with a flare of frustration, none of the other Padawans seem to struggle all that much. They can control themselves just fine.

No, it’s only Anakin who struggles. There will come a point where Obi-Wan will say he should have learned better by now, and when that time comes Anakin doesn’t want to disappoint him. That it’s been almost three years and he’s still struggling is borderline unacceptable.

“Beautiful, isn’t it?” Obi-Wan asks, coming up from behind him to view the pastoral scenery below.

Anakin nods because it’s the only thing he can do. It’s almost overwhelming how beautiful Alderaan is, and also so unfair that so few people get to live on worlds like this — have access to wealth and safety and abundance like this.

“We’ll be coming up on the capital in a minute. I’ve been told it’s quite a sight.”

All of Alderaan is ‘quite a sight,’ but Obi-Wan is right when he places the capital city in its own category. Nothing can prepare Anakin for the majesty of Aldera. Where Theed was a beautiful flower full of domed palaces, Aldera is much like the winter-capped mountains it’s built upon. The buildings remind him of icicles, growing and spreading like frost across the valley. Trees thread between homes seamlessly, carrying with them the famous ladalums of Alderaan. They bloom red and fleeting, and Anakin has to wonder if Princess Breha and Prince Bail have picked this moment to marry simply for the flowers. Anakin would if he were them.

The royal palace stands tall at the heart of the city, rising above the skyline in a series of sleek turrets overlooking a large lake. Light shimmers off it, splaying a rainbow of pinks and purples and golds in all directions as they approach the landing platform. Already Anakin can make out the wreaths and garlands and flags hanging from every available surface ready to amaze guests and welcome them to their celebration. On any other world, Anakin can imagine it might look tacky, but the Alderaani clearly know the line between tasteful and ostentatious.

They land amidst what can only be a complete restructuring of the palace’s layout; staff rushing to-and-fro trying to fix little imperfections that may have cropped up in a focused sort of controlled chaos Anakin hasn’t seen since the Naboo Peace Celebration. He really can’t figure out the point. It all looks pretty perfect to him, and most of the guests should already be here anyway. What do they care about how decked out the landing pad is?

Anakin shakes his head. Sometimes, he thinks he’s finally figured out how rich people think and then they do things like this and he’s sent straight back to square one.

“Master Jedi, welcome to Alderaan,” a salt-and-pepper gentleman greets them warmly from the platform. He’s dressed in a simple blue brocade with a small golden pin inlaid with diamonds, and Anakin is half convinced this man is more excited to see them than attend a wedding. “I am Prince Gaylor of House Organa. We’re so pleased you were able to make it.”

He’s surrounded on all sides by equally regal people, but all of them are smiling and the knot that always sits in Anakin’s chest on diplomatic missions when he has to ‘be-at-his-very-best-or-else-it-could-spark-a-war-Padawan’ slowly begins to unravel. Maybe Obi-Wan was right. Maybe this will be okay. They look like people who won’t get too angry if he blunders once.

Not that I’m going to. I’m not. He’s going to be the best behaved Padawan this side of the Hydian Way.

Obi-Wan bows with a smile and Anakin is quick to follow suit. “Your Serene Highness. The Jedi thank you for your kind invitation. My Padawan and I are excited to share in your joy.”

“As we are with you. Allow me to introduce my wife, Princess Mazicia Organa,” he points to the wane, but gentle-looking woman at his right, and then the younger individuals to his left, “our son and groom-to-be, Bail, and our daughters, the Ladies Tia, Rouge, and Celly.”

Obi-Wan nods to each of them and places his own hand on Anakin’s shoulder, which, while not necessary, does make the young boy stand up just a little taller. “It’s an honor to meet you. I am Jedi Knight Obi-Wan Kenobi, and this is my apprentice, Anakin Skywalker.”

“Welcome,” the man acknowledges. “Queen Yanna has arranged rooms for you to stay in in the guest wing. She regrets that she is unable to greet you, but custom dictates the bride and her family adhere to strict protocols of solitude, and well,” he shrugs, eyes smiling, “who are we to argue tradition?”

Obi-Wan chuckles politely. “Perhaps not the most convincing of voices.”

“Most assuredly not!” The prince’s laugh is loud and jovial and Anakin has to wonder if it’s real or if the man is just putting up some sort of front for the Jedi. Judging by the fond indulgence on his family’s faces, he’s leaning towards the first option, which, all things considered, is a relief. Anakin might just end up liking these people.

They don’t stay for much longer. More ships bringing late guests appear on the horizon all requiring the Organas’ attention, and Anakin and Obi-Wan are lead to their quarters by a sweet old maid that reminds Anakin of Old Jira. By time they’ve arrived at the guest room he’s learned that she has fourteen grandchildren, her daughter Memily makes the best custard bread in the galaxy, and she needs help with an old cleaning droid which Anakin promptly offers to fix. The woman is overjoyed, and while he can feel Obi-Wan’s exasperation through the Force, his Master doesn’t stop him. Anakin’s pretty sure it’s because if he’s fixing a droid, that’s less of a chance he has to find trouble.

The rest of the evening comprises of homework and meditation, both of which Anakin could have done without. He knows, logically, that he needs to do them. Homework is important and education is a privilege he never thought he’d have. It’s everything he could of dreamed of on Tatooine. That said, Anakin doesn’t think it would kill his teachers to distribute their texts in languages other than Basic. He can read it, of course. Obi-Wan spent months teaching him, it’s just that Huttese is easier. More straightforward. Basic seems designed to contradict itself in vague and incomprehensible ways so that what he reads isn’t always what is meant, or is only half of what is actually being said.

And the less said about meditation, the better.

They eat dinner in their quarters, a nice meal of nerf and greens in some sort of sweet brown sauce, before retiring early. The wedding isn’t for another two days, but ship-lag isn’t something either of them wants to deal with in the midst of such an important function. It’s strange, trying to sleep in the overly stuffed bed the Alderaanians have prepared, and Obi-Wan’s snoring doesn’t help. His Master always says he doesn’t snore, but this is a flat out lie and one of these days Anakin is going to make a recording of the sound and set it off in Obi-Wan’s ear just to see how much he likes it. He eventually manages to fall asleep, but his dreams are once again fragmented, the galaxy calling out to him as he floats amidst an astroid field. Alderaan’s sun burns him, but he cannot find the planet anywhere.

It’s a very sleep-deprived Anakin who goes to fix Delea’s droid the next day. The droid itself is an easy fix. It’s for basic maintenance and has obviously been well cared for, but Anakin is quick to exchange the wiring and sweet talk a good replacement for the photoreceptors out of one of the technicians. The work helps keep him awake, and the sweets Delea and her friends gift him don’t hurt either. Obi-Wan would not approve, but he’s not here to tell Anakin no. Who’s to say refusing wouldn’t be considered an insult anyway? As far as Anakin’s concerned, this is a cultural experience and one he would be remiss to refuse.

The problem comes in once the droid has been fixed up and the maids sent out to finish their chores. Delea had been kind enough to escort him this morning, but with the wedding only a day away, there’s very few people around to help him back to the guest quarters. He can sort of remember the way, but where he’d usually search through the Force for his Master to guide him, he knows for a fact that Obi-Wan is fulfilling his role as ‘the proper Jedi’ and spending the day hobnobbing with all the politicians. Technically, Anakin should join him. Obi-Wan had told him to do so when he was finished, but, well, he’s covered in grease and he doesn’t think all the rich people would really appreciate that.

He’s also, maybe, possibly, procrastinating a little bit. Just a bit, though.

Well, if he gets caught he can honestly say he got lost on his way back to his rooms. Otherwise, it’s not like anyone said he couldn’t go exploring.

He starts off in the direction he thinks he came from, walking lazily passed groups of pages and servants and guards. He gets a few stares, either because they recognize him as a Jedi or because they desperately want to strip him of his filthy clothes and give them a scrub, but no one actually reaches out to talk, too busy with their own work to do so. The chaos is nice; Anakin’s always had a love-hate relationship with the overwhelming serenity of the Temple. On the one hand, it helps to keep out the psychic noise that permeates Coruscant, which, the first time Anakin experienced it, made him pass out in pain. On the other hand, the calm has the unfortunate side effect of making it easier to commune with the Force. For most Jedi, this is a boon; Anakin, however, wishes the Force could maybe learn the meaning of ‘inside voices’. It doesn’t have to shut up completely, just maybe a little less shouting and little more whispering wouldn’t be remiss.

Obi-Wan says meditating helps. It does not.

But the chaos of the Aldera Royal Palace is soothing. It’s just enough people to drown out the Force’s loud buffeting, but not so overwhelming as to cause pain. It helps that everyone’s happy. The Force is a river of joy and excitement and tender caring, and Anakin finds himself smiling as he moseys through the winding corridors.

The palace is, as Anakin has come to expect, just as pretty as the rest of the planet. He passes through one hallway decorated with a slew of statues, holo-art, and sculptures, and another filled with jewels and precious metals. Real, hand-painted portraits hang from the walls, and the famous Alderaanian moss paintings sit atop pedestals for anyone to come and admire. Sunlight filters in through stained glass windows, creating little rainbows along the red carpet, and Anakin relishes in the childish abandon of spinning from one end to another. What must it be like to grow up somewhere like this instead of the dry, deadly heat of Tatooine?

He passes doors made of real wood, up stairs crafted from sparkling marble, and through a skywalk made floor-to-ceiling of transparasteel that makes him feel like he’s actually flying. There are empty offices filled with family holos, lecture halls, and he dances his way through a grandly decorated ballroom that could fit the entirety of Mos Espa. One person gets a nasty shock when he decides that using the Force to jump across balconies is peak entertainment, and he spends an inordinate amount of time sitting with his feet dangling off a balustrade as he gazes out at the lake below.

Anakin has completely lost track of time when he makes the final jump from balcony to garden. Red ladalums and violet arallutes bloom on trellises covered in vines, and curved trees similar to those on Naboo provide ample shade for anyone walking the cobblestone paths. White stone benches line the walkway, and a large gazebo stands in the middle. The gazebo itself is odd, built to accommodate a towering tree growing up from the center and covered in rainbow lichen. Still, for all its grandeur, the garden seems small in comparison to the others he’s passed, and a wall of hedges blocks those in neighboring buildings from looking inside. If Anakin hadn’t literally dropped from the upper stories, he probably wouldn’t have even noticed it.

The Force is calm here. It flows in and out of him, beating in time with his heart as he takes a deep breath. Birds sing overhead and something about this place reminds him of that first step on Naboo; feeling grass between his fingers for the first time and the cool pressure of water on his feet. It’s peaceful in a way Coruscant and the Temple are not. If Obi-Wan wanted to bring him here to meditate maybe he wouldn’t complain so much.

Well, maybe not.

It’s between that first soothing heartbeat and the second that Anakin notices his companion. She’s sitting under the gazebo in a plain white dress and silver belt, reading a book — a real, honest to gods book, with real, honest to gods, paper! — and munching absently on a pastry. Whatever she’s reading must be interesting because she doesn’t seem to notice that one of her braids is falling apart or that a young boy has quite literally dropped from the sky. True, Anakin is quiet, but that seems like the type of thing someone would notice.

He debating whether or not to approach her or just go back the way he came and (finally) put in some actual effort into getting changed, when the young woman looks up and lets out a startled gasp. Her book falls to her lap and the next few seconds are an awkward mess of both them trying to figure out what to say or do.

The woman recovers first. “Hello,” she greets, round features curious. He doesn’t think she doesn’t want him here, but there’s definitely a feeling of intrusion that’s settled over the garden.

Anakin shuffles. “Uh, hi.” He gives a little wave. “Sorry, I was just, uh, wandering around and didn’t know anyone was here and…yeah.” He must be more sleep-deprived than he thought if he missed her signature in the Force.

Thankfully, the woman doesn’t get angry. Instead, amusem*nt creeps across her tan skin as she settles the book more comfortably beside her. “It’s alright. No need to apologize for curiosity. I’m more impressed you managed to get in. The doors were supposed to be locked.”

The doors? Oh, right the actual entrances. “Ah, yeah, I, uh, jumped from,” he points to a balcony nine meters above them, “you know…there.”

She follows his finger and blinks. “You…jumped?”

“Mmhm. I’m a Jedi. Well, a Padawan still, but I’m here for the wedding with my Master and I kinda forgot how to get back to our rooms and I figured, hey, why not go exploring, so I did, and I was up on the balcony when I saw the garden and thought it looked pretty, so…I jumped.”

She blinks again, and he winces. Obi-Wan is going to kill him. “I see.”

“Yeah, I, uh, I can go. If you wanted to be alone, I mean. I promise, I didn’t mean to intrude.”

“Oh, no,” she says, lips curling softly, “you aren’t intruding. Would you like to take a seat? I admit it’d be nice to have company for a while.”

“I mean, if you’re sure.” Even though everything in him is screaming to take the offer. There’s something about this woman that makes him feel younger than he is, but her face is kind and welcoming, and it draws him in like a lost child to their mother.

“I wouldn’t offer otherwise. Please,” she indicates to the spot beside her. “I have some extra custard bread too, if you’d like some. I’m afraid it’d go to waste otherwise.”

Anakin knows he should refuse — this woman is a stranger and he doesn’t know all the customs on Alderaan to know if refusing is a blunder or not — but his stomach growls, reminding him that the last thing he ate was the snack Delea handed him however many hours ago. The woman quirks a delicate brow, knowing she’s got him, and with a blush rising on his cheeks, Anakin hesitantly shuffles forward to take the seat.

She hands him one of the small pastries and it’s as delicious as it looks. Fluffy golden bread with a pink floral custard that oozes out with each bite. It easily ranks as one of the best desserts he’s ever had, and it must show on his face because the woman laughs and plucks another one for herself. She’s got a nice laugh, Anakin decides, one that reminds him strongly of his mother at her happiest. The thought is painful, but not as much as usual. It’s softer, a dull hurt soothed like water over a burn.

“So, you mentioned something about exploring?”

“Mmhm,” Anakin says around a full mouth.

“That sounds like fun. Did you find anything interesting?”

He shrugs. “I found some doors made out of real wood, and there was this huge room that could fit all of Mos Espa inside it. And I found some great parts for some droids that the techs said I could tinker with.”

“Oh? You like droids?”

“Yeah! I can fix anything. I built my own podracer, you know. And my own protocol droid. Delea even had me come and fix her droid this morning and I got it done in like, an hour, which the techs said couldn’t be done, but I showed them!”

“With a record like that I can see why. They must have been impressed.”

“Yep! One of them offered me a job on the spot, but I said I’d teach them instead. Not sure when I’ll have the time, but they seemed excited.”

“I’ll bet. It’s not everyday they see a droid they can’t fix. You look like you could fit right in with them.”

Ah, right. His clothes. He chances a glance at the splotchy beige tunic and winces. “Oh, uh, yeah. I meant to go change, but I got distracted, and then I was just lost. I can go and change now, if it bothers you! I promise, I’m not trying to be rude!”

“No, no, you’re not being rude. I didn’t mean—that is, if I’m being honest, I’m the same way. My mother is constantly shaking her head at me. Says she doesn’t know why I bother with new clothes if I’m just going to get them all grease-stained within the first hour of wearing them.”

“Really?”

“Oh yes. I am a trial to my parents,” she says with a put-upon sigh, but her eyes are shining with humor. “Such is my burden. But it’s always good to know how such things work. You never know when it’ll come in handy, right?”

“Exactly! Obi-Wan always complains right up until we need it.” He pulls a face suddenly, openly imitating her. “I am a trial to my Master.”

Her laugh, loud and gay, fills the garden and she hands him another custard bread as if it’s a reward. They spend a few more minutes just soaking up the sunlight and enjoying the morning breeze. A couple birds land on the stone floor, and the woman tosses the remaining crumbs from her snack for them to eat.

Part of Anakin twitches at the waste, but the woman is obviously rich and he swallows back the comment with another bite. He reassures himself with the knowledge that it’s not being thrown in the garbage, but rather being used to feed something else.

He clears his throat, trying to turn his mind away from the unpleasant thought. “So why were you out here all alone, anyway?”

“Well, if you must know, I’m in hiding.”

“Hiding?”

“Mmhm. I find that the worst time to converse with people is at a wedding. Everyone wants to talk to you and that can be a bit of a bother. If you don’t hide, you’ll never get a moment to yourself.”

“Really? Everyone seems too busy to ask questions.”

Her expression sours. “You would think so, wouldn’t you?”

“Are they bothering you a lot? Why don’t you just ask them to stop?”

“Well, I’m in hiding, so they’re not bothering me now. Before? I went to bed with my head spinning and woke up with my head spinning.”

Anakin grimaces.“I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be. It’s done and over with. All I have to worry about now is making it through tomorrow.”

“Will you have a lot to do?”

“Loads,” and she leans forward as if imparting a secret. “I have a very important job, you see.”

“What kinda job?” He asks, putting the last of the bread in his mouth.

The edge of her mouth quirks. “I have to get married.”

It doesn’t hit at first. There’s a sort of lag between his ears and his ability to process words, but when it finally does click, Anakin doesn’t know whether he wants to die or have the ground swallow him whole. Either way, he wants to disappear.

“Your Highness!” The bread spews from his mouth, compounding his own mortification as he jerks to his feet; of course that would happen in front of the princess. Just what Obi-Wan warned him about. He desperately tries to hide his blush as Princess Breha’s giggles fill the garden. “I-I’m sorry! I didn’t-I…” he lets the sentence die. Welp, so much for not messing up. He tried. No one can say he didn’t try.

To his surprise, however, the princess, face alight, waves her hand in quick dismissal. “No, no, don’t apologize. I’m the one who’s sorry. I couldn’t help myself. Please, don’t worry about it. Sit back down.”

Anakin does, wiping his chin in the hopes she doesn’t notice.

“Well, you know my name then; may I have the pleasure of knowing yours?”

Really, after that display, she still wants to talk to him? “Ah, Anakin Skywalker, Your Highness. And I-I’m really sorry. My Master’s always telling me—”

“Anakin, please. Really, you haven’t insulted me. In fact, you provided me with some much needed levity and company.”

“Oh.” He twists his hands in his lap, pleased despite himself. “Well, I’m glad I could, um…help? But, uh, I mean, aren’t you supposed to be in solitude or something? The prince said something like that last night.”

“Well, technically, yes. But I’ve been in seclusion for over a week now, and I am honestly so bored, you wouldn’t believe it. There’s only so many conversations I can have with my parents before we’re stuck just talking about the weather.”

“Really? You can’t talk to anyone else?”

“Nope. Just my parents. It’s traditional for brides on Alderaan. Halnott, the god of tricks, is always looking for a bride, you see; the higher the status, the less he can resist. His servants will take the faces of your friends and try to lure you to him, while he steals the face of your fiance in order to trick you into marriage. It’s said that if he catches you, he’ll carry you off to his realm to be married, but if you don’t talk to anyone then he and his minions can’t sneak in and steal you, and your marriage will remain blessed.”

Anakin brightens. “Oh, we have a god like that on Tatooine, too! Well, they’re not really a god, more like a collection of really finicky spirits, and they don’t steal brides. Mainly, they play tricks on the masters; make their days just a little bit worse, and yours a little bit better. Sometimes…” he trails off. Sometimes, they’ll dig out a transmitter, or conjure a sandstorm, or confuse a slaver into forgetting who they‘re buying. They’re temperamental and can be as harmful as they are helpful, and all slaves know to give them the Desert's respect. But Anakin is talking to a princess now, and she doesn’t need to know she’s sitting next to a slave. Former slave.

“Sometimes?” She questions after he’s been silent too long.

Anakin pastes on a crooked smile. Padawan. He’s a Jedi Padawan now. “Sometime they’ll steal into Jabba’s palace and make a real mess. My friend Kitster saw it happen once.”

“Well, it seems like your tricksters are far more helpful than mine.”

“I mean if yours is stealing brides and stuff, yeah. So, is it okay for me to be here then? How do you know I’m not one of his servants?”

Breha instantly gives him a critical once over, her mouth puckered as she fights to contain a grin. “Hm, I can’t know for sure, but I don’t think he keeps any children in his employ. No, it’s far more likely that you’re a blessing from Lady Elda; a child sent to keep me company and bless my marriage with good fortune.”

Heat rushes to Anakin’s cheeks. Oh, well, that’s a bit more than he was expecting. Warmth blossoms in his chest and he looks down to try and hide his pleasure.

“I wouldn’t go that far,” he mumbles.

”Nope, it’s decided. The perfect blessing for my marriage.” Her gaze softens as his embarrassed, but still rather pleased flush refuses to go away. She must take pity on him because she instantly pedals back on her teasing and states, “On a more practical note, staying in solitude is supposed to be a purifying experience — to release myself of all that weighs upon me. Personally, I find that to be a load of bantha dung.”

His blush disappears in an instant, replaced by wide eyes, and Breha just manages to muffle a snort behind her hand.

“What, didn’t think a princess could say that?”

“No! Well, I mean, I’m sure you could, but…”

“Well, I figure if it’s just you and me, I can get away with it. Just promise not to tell.”

He nods. “I promise.”

“Excellent! My final bit of truancy before I get married. Truly, Bail shall be marrying a heathen.”

Anakin thinks Bail might be the marrying a goddess, but that doesn’t stop him from laughing along with the joke.

He grabs another piece of bread and decides that if she’s okay with breaking tradition to talk to him, then she’ll probably be okay with him asking questions about it, too. He still doesn’t quite understand the whole ‘arranged marriage’ thing, even though Obi-Wan tried to explain it on the way here. “Do you want to marry him? I mean, what if you don’t like each other?”

“Do I want to?” She taps her chin in thought. “Hm, well, it’s a bit complicated. Our families had some contention a few years ago, which your Order graciously helped fix. Part of the solution meant that I had to marry someone of Bail’s House. I admit, I wasn’t very happy at the time. I wanted to meet someone and fall in love without politics getting in the way, you see. But Bail and I have grown quite close since then. He’s a wonderful man, and I could ask for no better to rule beside me. That said, I do wish we had more time. I’m not sure I’m quite ready to be married, yet. Some days I still feel like a little girl.”

“So…you don’t want to marry him?”

“No, I do,” she says in earnest. “It’s just...how should I word it? I guess you could say that I wish our marriage didn’t come with the added weight of our Houses’ amiability. I wish that I was marrying Bail for Bail, and not the Organa name. Does that make sense?”

“I think so, but if you’re not ready, why don’t you just tell everyone to wait? Why the rush?”

“Because, technically, the Viceroyship of Alderaan was determined to belong to House Organa over House Antilles. They have a better claim, you see, despite my father’s position. If we wait too long, there may be some grumblings amongst his family that House Antilles isn’t holding to our end of the bargain. That could lead to another conflict, which none of us want. By marrying now, House Organa gains the Viceroyship, without displacing House Antilles’ position on the throne.”

“Uh…huh.”

“You look confused.”

“Not confused, just…I guess it just seems silly to me. Like, why does it matter who’s ruling as long as they’re good at it?” The Hutts aren’t good rulers, and Anakin is sure that if someone good came along and got rid of them, no one would care where they came from.

“That’s a good question, Anakin, but politics is full of silly little details that everyone squabbles over. I think it boils down to this: if not everyone agrees that the right person is on the throne then that causes problems that might trickle down and hurt our people. Of course, no one wants that. So, it’s best to get everyone to agree early so that we don’t have problems later.”

“Oh, okay.” That kind of makes sense, “But what if they don’t agree quickly and problems get worse in the meantime?”

“Well, we have contingency plans in place for situations like that. There are many committees and organizations that may step in. And the Queen and Viceroy don’t rule alone. We have the High Court, as well as the High Council that are there to aid us and help keep the government running in the event a problem with the monarchy arises. We just have to make sure it doesn’t go on too long lest it cause a strain.”

“That sounds…complicated.” Like how the Chancellor described the Senate. How could she be sure none of the people on those councils or courts or whatever were like some of those senators that went to the lower levels? Wouldn’t it just be easier if everyone just agreed on the leader and then let them do their job?

“It is, a little bit,” the princess admits. “But it’s better than letting our people hurt when we can do something about it.”

“I think I get it." Maybe. A little. "So, you and the prince are getting married so that everyone’s happy. And your people don’t suffer.”

“That’s right. Don’t get me wrong, I’ve come to really love Bail. He’s smart and sweet and kind, and I can see us having a very good marriage despite its beginnings. That said, it was a little frustrating having my whole future mapped out like that, even though I always knew it was a possibility.”

“And you’re not angry about it? Having your whole life planned out for you?” And he’s not sure why, but he needs to know that she’s not being forced into this. Maybe because she’s nice. Maybe because she reminds him of all the best parts of his mother and Padmé. Maybe it’s because she’s free and he needs to make sure she stays free otherwise it’s just like being back in the Outer Rim, and he’d already escaped that once.

“No,” and her steady admission eases that dragon-knot in his chest. “I was born to be Alderaan’s queen. I’ve always known this. But it’s what I do as queen that’s for me to decide. I’ve decided to get married even when I could have said no because I know it’ll help Alderaan. Does that make sense?”

“Yeah,” he nods his head slowly, then with more vigor. “Yeah, it does.”

“Good. You seem like the type of person who would understand.”

Anakin doesn’t quite know what she means by that, but it’s nice to hear anyway. Her voice is sincere, the air around her calm and steady. It’s almost like the Chancellor, but there’s a note or two off that he just can’t pinpoint, and his skin prickles at the thought. For the first time, he can feel the chill rolling off the mountains. It’s unpleasant.

”Anakin?”

Oh, it must have been more obvious than he thought. Wrapping his arms around himself, he murmurs, “Sorry, got cold.”

She looks skeptical, but says, ”Yes, the mountains can get quite chilly, especially if you’re not used to it. Come here.” He scooches closer to her and she wraps an arm around his shoulders. It feels...safe. Like his mother.

He means to thank her, but what comes out of his mouth is a rushed, “Does it scare you? Being so important to people?”

He regrets it almost instantly. That was not what he wanted to say, but at the same time he desperately wants to know. She’s a princess. She’s going to be a queen and she’s known that her whole life. Anakin is (a jumped up slave) a Jedi. But he’s a Jedi who came late, with no friends, a title that no one can explain, and a dream that seems more and more impossible with each day that passes.

To Breha’s credit, she takes the question in stride, treating it with the gravitas she must hear in his voice. She takes a minute to mull over the question before nodding very slowly. “It does. All the training in the galaxy can’t prepare you for that type of responsibility. All I can do is my best. I have to think of what’s best for my people first, regardless of my own desires. It’s hard, but I’ll do it. I will marry if my people need me to marry. I will sacrifice if they need me to sacrifice. Being a princess comes with great privilege, but with that also comes responsibility. If I am not prepared to shoulder that, then I do not deserve the position I have been given.”

“But what if in doing what you’re supposed to, you end up hurting others?”

“Then I must bear the responsibility of that hurt. You can’t be in my position and please everyone. Inevitably, a situation will arise where there is no right answer and I will have to make the best call I can in the moment and deal with the consequences after.” Her brown eyes bore into his, kind but earnest, and even without her arm wrapped around his shoulders he doesn’t think he’d be able to move. “It’s a very hard lesson to learn that you won’t always be able to help everyone.”

And that hurts because it’s true, but Anakin can’t stop the whispers in his head that question: at what point does ‘not able to help’ become ‘not worth the help’? It’s an old thought. One he’s learned to push away; to keep deep down locked inside where no one can see.

A bird sings in the distance, but it’s too loud. The garden is suddenly too full. The air too sweet. It’s overpowering, and reeks of perfume over unwashed bodies.

Would the princess bother to talk to him if he was still Anakin the slave and not Anakin the Jedi? They both have masters. Their roles are the same. But one can share sweets with a princess, and the other is only fit to eat her crumbs.

He wants to ask her, but stops before the words escape. She’s nice. She reminds him of mom and Padmé and the Chancellor, but she’s not them. He doesn’t know her. She’s just a woman who shared a treat and talked about her wedding. So instead, he keeps his mouth shut and nods as if he agrees.

He doesn’t. Not really. Not fully. But he keeps his peace and allows Breha to pull away and relax back into good humor.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to go off on a lecture.”

“No!” Anakin is quick to assure. “It’s fine. I mean, I did ask.” He shrugs his shoulders and puts on his best smile, hoping she doesn’t catch the doubt he does his best to bury.

She doesn’t, and Anakin breathes an internal sigh of relief. “Well then, in an effort not to ruin a perfectly lovely day with melancholy, why don’t you tell me a little bit more about yourself. You said you built a podracer, correct?”

And suddenly the air is sweet again, the sunshine warmer, and the smile that stretches across his face is real and bright. “Oh, it was so wizard! So, I’m from Tatooine right, and…” his hands fly through the air as he recounts his exploits in front of the future Queen of Alderaan, filling the garden with the imitation of racer engines and laughter.

It’s a long time before either returns to their rooms, but, despite the scolding Anakin gets, he can’t say it wasn’t worth it. A wedding, perhaps, might not be the worst mission in the galaxy.

Chapter 4: Adult Conversations

Chapter Text

“There is one more thing we wish to discuss with you, Chancellor,” Mace Windu says into the lull of conversation that accompanies too much time spend on budget allocations.

Palpatine glances between them, from Master Yoda to Mace, his eyes tired but curious as he settles the holopad they'd been studying back onto his desk. “Oh?”

Their meeting is hedging into its second hour, and the Chancellor’s office has gone from being brightened with natural sunlight to relying on the soft string of lamps lining the walls. It turns the carpet into warm embers and the statuettes into ghostly shadows, and if the room wasn't so cold Mace could almost call it cozy. Outside, night has just begun to settle over Coruscant, as apartments and offices begin to glow like miniature star systems. At this point, Mace would normally suggest they table any remaining points for next week’s briefing, but despite his discomfort he’s loathe to let the situation get away from him, particularly when it requires such delicate handling.

“Yes," Mace begins, pulling himself up tight. "It’s come to our attention that you have given Padawan Skywalker access to your personal comm number. While the Jedi are flattered, I’m afraid we must ask you to reconsider.”

There's a cooling unit that hums loudly in the background of Palpatine's silence, raising gooseflesh across Mace’s skin which he shakes off with the barest twitch of inconvenience. The Senate, he’s convinced, is its own biome, with temperatures ranging between Hoth and Office Building in Summer. This area in particular seems to suffer the brunt of it.

The Chancellor clears his throat, regaining his composure but still openly confused. “Reconsider? I apologize, Master Windu, but I’m afraid I don’t understand.”

“Important it is, that concentrate on his studies young Skywalker does,” Yoda says from his perch at Mace's side. They’d discussed it ad nauseam on the way over, how best to rebuff the Chancellor without causing offense or political backlash. The Order relies too much on the Senate to afford insulting the man, but neither can they let this continue. “Concerned we are that alienate him this will.”

“Alienate?”

Mace takes a deep breath. “As you’re aware, Padawan Skywalker entered our Order later than usual. He has had some struggles adjusting.”

“Yes, I remember. It’s why I offered to talk with him in the first place.”

“And we appreciate that. Our fear is that continued interaction such as the one you offered when you presented him with your contact information may create further distance between him and his peers.”

Palpatine’s face lights up with surprise. “Surely they wouldn’t hold it against him.”

“In an ideal galaxy, no,” Mace says. “However, even Jedi younglings are prone to the vices that affect the rest of their peers. Were they older, or Padawan Skywalker’s situation different, we would not be as concerned, but considering the uniqueness of Skywalker’s circ*mstances and his troubles acclimating, I’m afraid we must insist.”

“Well, if you’re really concerned,” the Chancellor says slowly, hand rising to his chest, “of course I will explain the situation to young Anakin. My only fear is that…”

“Yes?” Mace quirks a brow as the man trails off.

“Well, I must confess, when Anakin and I talked he confided in me that he was feeling lonely at the Temple.”

The Masters exchange looks and Yoda leans forward, ears erect.

“Told you this, Padawan Skywalker did?”

“Yes,” the Chancellor nods. “I was most concerned. It’s why I offered him my number in the first place. I thought, perhaps, if the boy had a friend, or someone just to talk to, it might do him some good.”

“I see.” Mace stamps down the unease his admission brings. He knew Skywalker was struggling, but loneliness? Really? “We appreciate your thoughtfulness, Chancellor.”

“No appreciation necessary, Master Windu. Anakin was a delight to talk to. He’s a very engaging boy. Reminds me of myself.” His blue eyes twinkle with the memories of teenage abandon. “Or well, me in my younger years; back when I still had the reflexes for racing.” Palpatine chuckles to himself and Mace forces a polite smile, Obi-Wan's suspicions whispering in his ears. He doesn't ask the questions he desperately wants to for risk of insulting the Chancellor, and instead waits quietly for Palpatine to sober. “That said, I was sad when he told me he had yet to make any friends. A child as brilliant as Anakin doesn’t deserve that.”

“Deserve it, no child does.’ Yoda agrees, eyes downcast. He leans hard on his gimer stick as if the situation is a physical weight on his shoulders. Mace wouldn’t go that far, but considering the old Master’s ill-hidden stance on the boy, understandable. “A unique case, young Skywalker is, and grateful we are to you for seeing what we did not. Endeavor to help him, we will.”

“You have no idea how relieved that makes me, Master Yoda,” the man states with genuine gratitude. “No child should go without friends.”

“No, they shouldn’t,” though it’s not like they can just make the other children accept him. The boy’s inability to control himself is off-putting enough, but add jealousy and Skywalker’s burning presence in the Force and it’s no wonder the other Padawans shy away from him.

But is the alternative any better? A lonely Jedi is an isolated Jedi is a vulnerable Jedi, and the last person Mace wants vulnerable is Anakin Skywalker.

Especially to a politician.

Rigid control keeps his expression in place as he reads the Chancellor’s Force signature for any signs of deception or malice. Palpatine is an unguarded haze of emotions, no different from any other null person in the building. There are some flashes of concern, sympathy, and warming affection from the man, but nothing to suggest Palpatine has any inclination towards harming or using Skywalker.

Mace relaxes. The Chancellor’s actions are still inappropriate, but at least their fears regarding anything…unseemly appear to be unfounded.

“If that’s all, Master Jedi, then I move to table this discussion for our next meeting. I don’t think the galaxy will fall apart if we hold off on discussing the Order’s new budget for another few days.”

“Fall apart, the galaxy will not,” Yoda agrees, joining the Chancellor in polite laughter. “Grumble, however, Madame Nu may.”

“Well, if she does you have my permission to direct her ire towards me.” His smile is teasing, as if they’re all in on some joke together, but the moment passes quickly and the Chancellor is soon rising to his feet. ”Now, I’m afraid it’s getting rather late and not all of us can bolster our energies with the Force.”

Mace nods as he and Yoda prepare to take their leave. “We understand, Chancellor. Shall we meet again next week, same time?”

“The next ten-day would be best, I think. I’ll be off-world for the rest of week, you see, and I just know the workload will flood back in the moment I return.”

“Another ten-day, then,” Mace affirms.

“Thank you. And do tell young Anakin that I apologize for any awkwardness my offer may have brought him.”

Awkward isn’t necessarily the word Mace would use, but, “We will, Chancellor, and thank you for your understanding.”

The Chancellor smiles benignly and, with a wave of his arm, escorts them out of his office into the rich reception area manned only by a half-asleep Twi’lek secretary. She pens them in for the same time a ten-day from now and the Chancellor waves them off with his usual amiability. The chill from the cooling unit is still irritating, but the hallways are warmer, if only by a fraction.

They pass few beings on the way to the public transports, leaving them ample time to stew in their thoughts. For his part, Mace is tentatively optimistic. The Chancellor’s response to their request had truly been the best case scenario, and Mace would be lying if he said he hadn’t had his doubts. But no, Palpatine had understood. He’d apologized.

Mace barely contains a snort. A politician — apologizing. Will wonders never cease. Not that it can’t happen, it’s just that experience has taught him not to hold his breath waiting. The Chancellor’s sincerity is like a gift with a price tag Mace is still waiting to see, but for the moment he feels comfortable saying they’ve nipped this in the bud.

“Reassured, you are,” Master Yoda says as they enter the back of one of the Senate’s private taxis. It’s a small thing, driven by a droid to maintain confidentiality for its more paranoid passengers, and Mace quickly programs it for the Jedi Temple before engaging the privacy settings.

“More than I thought I’d be,” he states as the taxi lifts into the air. He folds his hands inside his robes and chances a curious glance at the old Master. “You have doubts.”

“Hmm,” Yoda tightens his grip on his gimer stick and stares at the floor as if it holds the answers to all his questions. “Much to think about I have.”

Mace’s brow furrows. “I thought he was very forthcoming.”

“Forthcoming, yes,” but that doesn’t appear to be as reassuring to Yoda as it is to Mace.

“You still have doubts. Did you sense something?”

The tiny Master’s ears droop. It looks to pain him, as if it were a failing on his part. “Sense nothing, I did. Sincere he seemed, but clouded my vision has become.”

Everything is clouded as of late. They have to spend more time than ever in meditation to see even the vaguest impressions of the future. Everything else just trails off into nothingness, like a path falling off the edge of the world.

Mace settles back against the cushions as the Coruscant nightlife flashes by. There goes his good mood. He resists the urge to rub the bridge of his nose, but only just. What did his life look like before the Council again? Actually, no, scratch that. What did his life look like before Anakin Skywalker? He can’t remember.

“He agreed to leave the boy alone.”

“Yes, but agreement an explanation is not.”

“An explanation?”

“Mm.” Yoda nods. “Concerned young Obi-Wan was. Inconsistencies, there were to Padawan Skywalker’s story. Explain those, the Chancellor did not.”

“In all fairness, we didn’t ask.” Though how they were to go about that, Mace isn’t sure. The Chancellor seems glued to the speeder story, and all things considered, it’s not completely far-fetched. The smoke and alcohol smell Kenobi reported, however…

Yoda bows his head, acknowledging the fact. “Ask, we did not. Speak to young Skywalker upon his return, I wish to.”

“You think he’ll talk to you?” Anakin’s reticence around the Council is no secret. Mace isn’t sure what it is about them that the boy seems to fear so much, but he can only hope the boy gets over it soon. Talking to him is, more often than not, akin to pulling teeth.

“Talk to me, he will. Young, Knight Kenobi is. Always know the right questions to ask, he does not.”

“You’re going to trick him.”

“Trick? No. Speak to him, I will. Have no wish do I to trick young Skywalker. Feel I do, that understand the impropriety, he does not. Understand he will not, why concerned we are.”

Fierfek. Mace gives in and pinches the bridge of his nose. “He won’t understand why we’re taking away his new friend.”

“Understand he will not. Resent it, he may.” And Force knows the boy has enough issues with authority figures as it is. Mace privately, and not for the first time, curses Qui-Gon Jinn with enough epithets to make a Hutt blush.

“What do you suggest?” He asks once he’s let his frustrations flow far enough into the Force for Qui-Gon to feel it.

“Speak to him, Kenobi and I will,” Yoda states with an edge of uncertainty. His eyes flicker, trailing absently from headlight to headlight, and his claws tap along the head of his stick. Mace waits. A moment of silence passes before Yoda looks back up and asks with a tinge of remorse, “Know, did you, of the boy’s loneliness?”

No. Well, not in so many words. It strikes Mace that he probably should have. The boy’s shields are impressive for his age, but his age is still twelve and he has far more to contain than the average Jedi. “I knew he struggled, but I admit I focused more on his lack of control than his social problems.”

“Hm, share this oversight we do. Struggles with control young Skywalker does, but a child he still is. Time to grow he has, and mature he will with age. A more imminent problem, loneliness is. Grounded in the Temple he is not.”

“The only person he talks to with any regularity is Kenobi. That can’t be healthy.”

“Healthy, it is not,” Yoda agrees.

“Is it wise then, to stop his friendship with the Chancellor?” Mace asks, even though the thought fills him with unfounded dread not unlike standing on the other side of a disaster. “If it helps him, then is it right for us to interfere?”

“Mentors, Skywalker has. Friends, he needs. With those his own age he must interact. Speak further with Knight Kenobi, I will.”

Mace purses his lips. “Master…we can’t force the other Padawans to be his friends.”

“Force them we will not, but isolated Skywalker cannot remain.”

“What are you thinking?”

“Unsure, I am. Meditate, I must.”

Mace’s nose curls as his lips pull back into a grimace. “It’s not going to involve anymore droids, is it? Force knows Skywalker’s tinkered with enough of them.”

Yoda smirks, the Force blossoming with wry amusem*nt. “If bond over droids young Anakin does, stop him why should we?”

“Because one of him is enough. Force forbid he gains a friend with the same proclivity.”

“Keep us on our toes, it will.”

“If his shenanigans continue, I’ll start floating.”

Master Yoda chuckles, a fully body sound that can be felt through the cushions. Mace doesn’t join, mainly because the idea of another Skywalker is almost physically painful, but if the lines around his eyes ease Yoda is kind enough not to call him out on it.

They make the rest of the trip in silence and split once they reach the entrance hall; Yoda to meditate and Mace to grab food. It’s another one of those nights where he just does not have the energy to cook and so finds himself walking into the canteen at the tail ends of late meal. It’s filled mostly with stragglers, though a couple of nocturnal species are starting breakfast as they begin their wake-cycles.

He grabs the pre-chewed sludge that masquerades for meat, and a helping of vegetables to pretend at health before carting his food over to the empty spot by Plo Koon and Shaak Ti. Plo’s tray is, of course, empty, but he has a habit of joining others for meals in order to provide conversation or calm company after long, tedious days. It’s something Mace has come to appreciate and, as he sinks down into the seat across Shaak, he can feel his frazzled nerves settle into something resembling calm.

“Mace,” Plo greets, and Shaak bows her head in welcome, her mouth full of the same indeterminable meat substance. “A bit late for late meal, is it not?”

“Says the people in the dining hall.”

The lines around Plo’s goggles crinkle, a sure sign that he’s smiling, and says, “I never said it was the wrong time.”

“You didn’t have to,” Shaak teases gently as she dabs her mouth with a napkin. Her eyes trail over Mace’s form and it’s the concern that grows behind her eyes that really tells him just how bad he must look. “Are you alright, Mace? You look tired.”

He slides a finger down the side of his head as if it will massage away the headache he can feel coming on. “I am tired.”

“Did the meeting with the Chancellor go that poorly?” She questions.

“Not poorly, just…” he takes in a deep breath. “How would you describe Padawan Skywalker?”

Both Councillors pull back in surprise, and the lines on Shaak’s forehead cave divots into her skin “Pardon?”

“Anakin Skywalker. How would you describe him?”

“Uh…” Shaak exchanges a glance with Plo, very much like a child called on to answer a question she wasn’t paying attention to. “Well,” she begins slowly, “he’s a very talented boy. Dedicated, hardworking. I would appreciate a little more effort in his homework - his grammar, in particular - but his skills in the salle are impressive.”

“As is his piloting,” Plo adds with a hint of admiration. “I would most enjoy taking him out on a flight one of these days.”

“Yes, yes, he’s skilled,” Mace waves away. “But how is he? Apart from that?”

“Apart from his skills?” Shaak repeats, pushing away her drink to lean more heavily against the table. “I suppose he’s fine. I admit I don’t interact with him very often outside of classes, but aside from some basic control issues, I’ve yet to see anything problematic.” She gaze grows distant and she frowns. “He does tend to spend most of his time alone, however. If he’s not with Obi-Wan, then he’s in the tech bay fiddling with droids.”

Plo nods. “I'd say much the same. From what I have seen, he is a very kind child, but he guards his heart as a Hutt does their power.”

“He’s prideful,” Mace says.

“Perhaps,” the Kel Dor admits. “He is skilled and young; that can lend even the most dedicated of Jedi towards pride. However, if I were to place my bets, I would say the boy is very insecure.”

“Insecure?” Incredulity flashes across Mace’s face. “Skywalker?”

“Contradictory, but apparent once you start looking. He talks at people rather than to them. Spends more time with droids than people because they lack expectations. He is…disconnected. His late entry has not made things easy, and I get the impression he is still trying to catch up.”

“He has caught up,” Shaak remarks, confused. “He’s even surpassed many of those his age.”

“In skill, yes, but if all you have is yourself then that makes for very empty company.” He turns covered eyes to gaze into Mace’s own and tilts his head, questioning. “May I ask why the sudden interest? Was it the Chancellor?”

“Of a sort.” Mace pushes his tray to the side and steeples his fingers under his chin. “Chancellor Palpatine mentioned that Skywalker had confided in him, saying he was feeling lonely at the Temple.”

Shaak Ti sighs, instantly somber as she twiddles her fork. “I’m not surprised. The only time I ever see him in the company of other Padawans is during class.”

“I’m sure his attitude doesn’t help,” Mace states with a slight grumble.

“No, but neither does their jealousy,” Plo counters.

“At his skills or the prophesy?” Shaak's voice is soft, as if asking a question everyone knows the answer to. She takes another bite of her sludge-meat and swallows it without enjoyment.

“Both. Neither.” Plo shrugs. “Anakin Skywalker has the unfortunate distinction of being different for all the wrong reasons, and even Jedi are not immune to the vices of personhood.”

“What would you suggest, then?” Mace asks, because Force knows this isn't his area of expertise. “We can’t force people to be friends.”

“But is it not our job to aide the children under our care? If one of our younglings is struggling, should we not help them?”

Mace arches a brow. “And how would you go about helping?”

“Incrementally,” says Plo without hesitation. “If it is children his own age Padawan Skywalker struggles with, then look to other ages.”

“That’s what the Chancellor suggested.”

“Oh?” Both of his fellow Councillors stare at him, waiting for, or perhaps expecting, elaboration.

Mace would really rather let the matter lie, but, “Knight Kenobi came to Master Yoda and I earlier today. He expressed concern over the fact that the Chancellor had felt it appropriate to give Padawan Skywalker his personal comm number.”

“He did what?” Shaak exclaims. She instantly turns about and extends her attention in the Force outwards, but thankfully the canteen is empty enough that no one appears to have noticed her outburst.

“I must agree with Master Ti,” Plo says. His voice is measured, but his hands are held tightly in his lap, as if restricting them from lashing out. Mace understands the sentiment. “Such an action is highly inappropriate.”

“We thought so, as well. The Chancellor was adamant that it was done in good faith. He felt that by giving Skywalker a listening ear it might help to ease some of his loneliness.”

“Or just further isolate him from his peers,” the Togruta Master adds, to which Mace can only agree.

“Either way,” he says, “Chancellor Palpatine has agreed to refrain from contacting Padawan Skywalker so as to avoid any rumors of favoritism or impropriety. Unfortunately, that leaves Skywalker right back where he started.”

“Lonely,” Shaak says without inflection.

“Yes, which I’m sure we can all agree isn’t good either.”

“No, it’s not,” Shaak agrees, Togruta pack-mentality shuddering at the thought. “Lonely people are vulnerable people, and Padawan Skywalker is the last person I want vulnerable.”

“Agreed,” the Kel Dor Master states. “However, I feel I must clarify that when I suggested we look to other ages, I was thinking those of a younger demographic.”

“Younger? What, initiates?” Shaak asks.

Plo nods. “Yes. If they are young enough, Skywalker will be just another Padawan.”

“Too young and they won’t be able to interact with him at all,” Mace says.

“A few years is all I am suggesting. Old enough to communicate, but young enough not to be aware of the gossip.”

“I don’t know if that fits any group,” Shaak remarks as if trying to let him down gently, and she has a point. Unfortunately, the rumors that trail Anakin Skywalker extend even to the crèche.

Plo dips his head, acknowledging. “Young enough then that it does not matter.”

The tips of Shaak's montrals twitch with doubt. “Children that young…will he even be able to consider them friends?”

“Perhaps, perhaps not, but it will be a start, and the responsibility can only be a boon.”

“Responsibility?” Gut instinct tells Mace he’s not going to like this, and he has the most bizarre feeling that the Force is laughing at him.

“The Clawmouse Clan is due to start saber training next week. Considering his skills, Padawan Skywalker is the ideal candidate to help them.”

Yep, he was right, he does not like it. “You wish to set up Skywalker in the crèche. As an instructor.”

“An assistant,” Plo corrects. “Younglings, I find, have the remarkable ability to run you ragged while also calming the mind. It will be good for Anakin. And,” Mace has the distinct impression Plo is grinning under that mask, “if more Padawans happen to join over time, well that is just the way these things work.”

“You know,” Shaak says with a smiling eyes, “it’s a wonder anyone takes you seriously, Master Koon. Not when you pull stunts like this.”

“Do you disagree?”

“No,” she shakes her head. “I think your plan has merit. My worry is that he’ll grow attached to them. You know he struggles with that.”

“And so we shall cross that bridge if we get to it," Plo replies. "Right now, I am more afraid of leaving him vulnerable. We are very lucky the Chancellor was so understanding; had it been someone else, we could have inadvertently placed young Skywalker in danger.”

Which, never mind how many migraines Skywalker gives him, is not something Mace wants to contemplate.

“I’ll bring your suggestion to Knight Kenobi when he returns, then,” Mace says. “If he agrees, Skywalker can begin helping in the crèche next week.” Force help them if it doesn’t work, and Force save him the chaos Skywalker’s teachings are sure to bring, but for all the potential headaches in his future, the weight that’s been sitting on his shoulders since his meeting with Kenobi eases.

The Chancellor has backed off, there’s a plan for Skywalker, and he’s got a whole ten-day before he has to step foot in the Senate again. All in all, Mace thinks as conversation switches to happier topics, a good end to a productive day.

He goes to bed that night contented.

Sheev Palpatine very carefully does not frown. He waves the Jedi off with enough beneficence to fool a pirate before sending his secretary home with a tin full of confections that make his nose curl. They were a gift, he thinks, from some senator hoping to gain his favor, and while he’ll happily use that to his satisfaction, the cookies are as plebeian a bribe as one can get. They have far better uses in consolidating his image to that of the galaxy’s kindly grandfather than in destroying his taste buds.

He keeps up the façade as his guards escort him back to his apartment at 500 Republica, going so far as to invite them in to share a meal. Their refusal is a given, but it’s the principle of the thing, and Palpatine doesn’t need the Force to know they appreciate his offer. The sweet old man, tirelessly working all day for the Republic only to turn around and offer food to his equally diligent guards. Stories are told about his generosity. They spread far and wide, through all levels of Coruscant and out through the rest of the galaxy, and Palpatine shakes them all off with a wave of his hand and a humble ‘it’s-what-any-decent-person-would-do’ smile.

It works because there’s not many decent beings left in the galaxy and people have a delightful tendency to praise those who do the bare minimum.

He maintains his mask until his apartment — a rich display that plays just the right side of understated to fool anyone who might accuse him of extravagance — has been checked for assassins or poisons or listening devices, and given the all clear. Only after his guards have left does he allow the geniality to slide into a sneer.

The Jedi. Those arrogant, egotistical nuisances. Hard-earned control is the only thing keeping Mace Windu’s head attached to his neck, and Sidious relishes the day he’ll smell Yoda’s flesh burning under his nose. He pictures their faces, horror and shock, as they realize they’ve been playing to his tune all along. Will they beg, he wonders? Spare their children, let them live.

Sidious will oblige, to a point. Not all of them, not even most of them, but enough to enforce his rule. Little pockets of darkness bowing to his every whim. Everyone who resists will find themselves dead or wishing they were. It’ll be glorious, the ultimate triumph, and at the heart, standing behind him, the perfect apprentice, the Jedi’s precious Chosen One.

Anakin Skywalker.

He pulls up the boy’s file as he steps into the hidden room attached to his home office. The area is untraceable and absent from the building plans, and anyone who might have known of its existence is decidedly dead. Most of the room is bare, with the exception of a large holotable situated at its center. There’s a collection of holodisks locked and ready for his perusal behind one wall, plans and holocrons from long-death Sith hidden within pockets of discrete durasteel paneling, and a nondescript cabinet situated off to the side. Its contents are negligible and decaying, and he really should do away with it before he leaves.

Anakin’s file is thick with the work of spies and Sidious’ own observations. The boy is a disgusting beacon of Light, but already Sidious can see shadows nipping at his heels. They whisper with the cracking whip of slavery, with hoarse shouts of abuse, and the indelible scarring of the desert. He hides it well — his past has afforded him a unique gift for masking his true emotions — but for all the boy may be able to fool the Jedi, he’s a transparasteel door to Sidious. He has such need, such a desire to prove himself; he practically aches with it. There’s so much of himself that Sidious sees in the boy. Already he chafes under the Jedi, their authority weighing him down like a Hutt’s chains. It’s beautiful. The perfect apprentice, gift-wrapped and ready for the taking.

The best part is how easy it all is. He won’t even have to do much. Just a little waiting, a little whispering, perhaps a little manipulation of circ*mstances. Coax the boy. Be a friendly ear in the midst of Jedi criticism. Anakin Skywalker craves a justice the Republic will never give him and the Jedi will never act on. But if Sidious plays his cards just right, well, what would Skywalker give for a mother free from slavery? For a Republic that acts? It won’t take much before the boy is trapped within his grasp. All the right strings are there, ready for Sidious to pluck.

If only the Jedi would cooperate.

He’s so close. Too close for him to lose over Jedi concern. A thousand years of careful planning has led to this and he’s not about to let a gaggle of insipid Jedi get in his way. They will not take his victory, nor his prize. The Dark Side twists at the very idea, constricting around him like a snake does their prey. Soon, it whispers in his ear, intoxicating as a lover. It breathes fire into his blood and ice into his bones and power into every cell.

The Dark is patient. It bides it’s time and knows when to strike, and Sidious has learned to embody that calculation to his own benefit. If the Jedi wish to curb his communication with Skywalker, that’s fine. Let them have their short-won victory. It matters little when the outcome is inevitable.

He presses a button on the holocom. Its signal scrambles automatically and within seconds his apprentice appears, grainy and blue before him. The man falls to his knees, one arm across his chest and head bowed, and Sidious grins under the hood of his cloak.

“Master.”

“Lord Tyranus, there’s been a change in plans. I need you to attend a wedding.”

Jango Fett isn’t one to play games. He much prefers straightforward answers and concrete goals to the convoluted byplay of the rest of the galaxy. He’s a bounty hunter and he’s good at it and it’s not his problem to deal with the why’s regarding a target. As far as he’s concerned, no one asks questions, no one argues, and he can be in and out with his money in record time.

His new job threatens to disrupt this otherwise peaceful status quo and if not for the client, he wouldn’t have agreed. Jango knows how to pick his battles. He has a son now, his Bob’ika, who’s tiny and perfect and already showing signs of Mando’atin, and Jango’s not about to go testing his luck against a dar’jetii with that on his conscience. He’s not stupid.

So why then, does it feel like he’s walking into a Hutt’s Den with only one bolt in the blaster?

A galaxy-deep well of frustration claws at his throat as he cycles through the client’s message for the umpteenth time. He doesn’t bother holding back a scowl, letting it chisel across his face as the hooded figure lays out his parameters.

“The Chancellor is set to attend the wedding of Princess Breha Antilles and Prince Bail Organa of Alderaan in two days. In his company will be an aide by the name of Sei Taria. Kill her before they’re set to return and you’ll be handsomely rewarded.”

The bounty isn’t the problem. Get in, kill the woman, get out. It isn’t even the narrow timeframe. She’ll be on planet for all of a day, leaving the best time for taking her out either the wedding or the reception. That’s fine. It’s who else will be there that really has him twisting his blaster.

“There will be Jedi in attendance. The guards I expect to prove unequal to your skills, but if history is to be any indication, the Jedi may prove an obstacle. Taria won’t stray far from the Chancellor and likely they will not stray far from him. I recommend you tread carefully.”

Jetii. The only thing keeping his fingers from the blasters is pure, hard-won self-control. As a rule, Jango tends to stay away from Jedi. He hates them with a passion that is liable to cloud his judgement, and he’s not foolish enough think himself equal to their skills without surprise on his side. A bounty at a royal wedding — difficult, but hardly impossible. A bounty at a royal wedding with Jetii — it complicates things.

Jango Fett does not like complications.

Complications imply risks, and while he doesn’t have any particular feelings about death, Boba is still too young for Jango to be reckless. He’ll do it, of course — he’s been paid — but the target is public and obvious. It smells like a trap, and one he can’t determine the target of.

“Do I sense brooding?”

Jango grunts as the Palliduvan angles her way into the co-pilot seat. She sits splayed across the chair, stars racing through her red hair as her fingers trail a cloth through the inner workings of her sniper.

“It’s not a very good look on you,” she ridicules without looking up.

“I don’t remember asking your opinion, Sing.” His buy’ce hides his features from her, but no doubt she can hear the scowl in his voice.

Aurra Sing smirks. “I don’t remember caring. Is it to do with the job?”

“Do the details matter to you?”

“No,” she says, flippant, “but if it’s something I have to take into account, I’d hope you’d help an ally out.”

“You know why you’re here.” He flicks a hand in her direction. “What do you need details for?”

She shrugs, nonchalant. “I don’t.”

“Then be quiet and go back to bothering Gantu.”

“Gantu,” she stresses with disdain, “doesn’t have the brains he was born with. I am constantly surprised he’s still alive. Why you insisted on bringing him along, I can’t fathom. A bolt to the head is all he’s good for.”

“Fodder,” Jango replies. “A lack of brains means a lack of questions.”

A smile, cruel and cold, curls across her chalk white features.“You’re going to throw him under the speeder.”

“You have your uses. He has his.”

“He’s going to muck it up.”

“If he does, he’s dead.”

“If he does,” she snarls, “we’re all dead. Don’t think I don’t know exactly who we’re dealing with. You may not care about dying, but I still have plenty of life left to live.”

“So kill him.”

“I would if I didn’t know the benefits of an extra body.” To order about, to use as a shield, to throw to the vornskers. Gantu has his uses, even if most of those uses involve him being dead.

Jango grunts. “Then stop complaining, or you’ll be the one with a bolt through the brain.”

“You wouldn’t do that.” She smirks. “You need me.”

“I don’t need anyone.”

“And yet you picked me anyway.”

“You were requested, and your skills may be beneficial.”

“As a sniper?” She asks, knowing as well as Jango that’s not the reason. Not that he’ll give her the satisfaction.

“And others.”

She huffs, amusem*nt trailing off the ends as she shakes her head. “You’ll do anything to get around saying it out loud won’t you.”

“I didn’t realize it needed to be aired.”

“It doesn’t,” she lilts. “I’m just wondering, for someone who hates the Jedi so much, why are you taking jobs from one?”

Jango’s fingers curl around the arm of his chair. “I could ask you the same thing."

Aurra shrugs, eyes burning. "You could. We'd probably have the same answer."

"Money talks," Jango agrees.

“It does. I know what I get out of it, though. You, on the other hand; he must be paying you quite the hefty credit.”

He is, but Jango isn’t about to discuss it with her. The client is the client no matter their background and it’s not Jango’s business to ask. “Is there a point to your questions?”

“Just curiosity.”

“Well then,” Jango leans closer to her and watches with some amount of satisfaction as the cleaning rag stills. “Why don’t you put that curiosity to use and study this.” Her hands are already out and waiting as he tosses their client's message through the air. She catches it deftly between her fingers and twists it about, observing the holodisk from every angle.

"I thought you didn't ask questions of your clients?" She asks after a moment, face unreadable.

Jango's fists tighten. "Precautionary. You don't take risks with Jedi."

“And will I find something interesting?”

“I don’t know.” He eyes her up and down, taking in the contrast of sharp eyes against indifferent slouching. “But there’s got to be a reason he told me to grab you.”

Aurra smirks. As if they both don’t know the answer. “Must be.” She stands up with a graceful flourish and slings the sniper rifle across her shoulder. “I’ll let you know if I find something.”

“Don’t kill Gantu.”

“No promises,” she says, hips swaying as she leaves him behind for the relative comfort of her bunk.

Jango watches her go before crossing his arms and returning his attention to the display of hyperspace. His eyes flutter as the visage hypnotizes him into a light doze and he hits the lock on the door before he can fall any further. They have fourteen hours before they arrive on Alderaan; might as well make the most of his time.

He’s out like a light within minutes.

Chapter 5: Wedding Bells

Chapter Text

The wedding of Crown Princess Breha Antilles and Prince Bail Organa of Alderaan is attended by over ten-thousand invited guests, an untold number of the planet’s population, and enough cameras to stream the event across every holovid from here to the Outer Rim.

It begins early in the morning, before the sun has peaked above the mountains and when the sky is still deciding between night and dawn. How anyone is awake is a question that will plague Anakin for decades to come, and it takes every single one of his Jedi deportment lessons to keep himself from falling asleep on his feet. Obi-Wan is, as usual, unflappable, every bit the calm, collected Jedi Knight Anakin struggles to emulate. His Master holds his tiny Blesser Candle between his hands, the little orange flame flickering in the darkness with all the thousands of others that will be used to greet the rising sun. Anakin’s own is dripping scalding wax onto his hands and he’s rolled his sleeves over his skin in an effort to stem the burns. Obi-Wan is sure to frown severely once the day is bright enough for him to see, but for the moment Anakin is just too relieved to care.

He supposes it’s a nice gesture; the flames are supposed to hold all the guests’ blessings for the married couple, and once the sun rises they’ll be extinguished to allow the well-wishes to rise into the light of a new day. Anakin isn’t quite sure he gets it; he’s pretty positive the only thing the smoke will do is clog everyone’s lungs, but Breha made it sound really special and important and at the end of the day it’s her wedding. Weddings, apparently, come with a lot of traditions that don’t make sense.

Slaves don’t have weddings. Technically, they can’t even get married. Property doesn’t get married because they’re property and what’s the point when your owner can just as easily sell you the next day?

If a slave does want to marry, the only thing the couple has to do is take a piece of japor and carve a blessing onto it. Something to indicate their affection; maybe even a prayer for more time. It's something to hold onto when they're inevitably sold away from each other. Masters will strip the clothes off a slave's back, but they don’t care much about worthless trinkets like japor snippets.

Anakin’s snippets are in a box under his bed. The Jedi don’t like when he mentions his past because it’s an attachment, and he’s sure they’d make him get rid of them if they knew. Someday, maybe he’ll be a good enough Jedi to do it, even though the very idea makes him sick. It’d be like throwing away mom, and Kitster, and Wald, and Amee, and everyone else. If he throws them away what’s to stop him from forgetting? Then they’ll be left in slavery without anyone to save them and Anakin won’t let that happen.

But, the thought creeps in, if I can’t get rid of my past then I can’t be a good Jedi and I can’t free them anyway.

It’s a bitter thought and Anakin bites his lip hard to stem the little cry he wants to let out. His fingers tighten around the candle and his eyes gloss over. He swallows hard, gaze flickering to Obi-Wan to make sure his shields haven’t slipped and alerted his Master. The man’s attention is still focused on the ceremony — a quiet offering of prayers to Lady Elda to grant the couple a happy marriage and loving children — and Anakin breathes a shaky sigh of relief. The last thing he wants to do is raise Obi-Wan’s attention. He’ll ask questions and then his mouth will form that thin line that says ‘you should be past this now, Padawan,’ and Anakin will just end up feeling frustrated and angry because Obi-Wan is right but he can’t help it and then he’s right back where he started.

The guests rise to their feet and Anakin struggles to follow, forcing his thoughts down behind his heaviest shields. He blinks rapidly; his eyes are watery because the sun is rising and it’s far too bright and he’s still so tired and that’s all, and turns his attention stubbornly back to the ceremony.

The blessing comes to an end right as the sun begins to peak over the mountains, splaying rich golds and oranges and pinks across the valley. It’s breathtaking, and the Force dances like a child welcoming the day. Breha said the ceremony always occurs in the open so every Alderaanian can attend if they wish. It’s nice and the tightness that always forms in his chest when surrounded by luxury eases. Hutts don’t marry, but if they did, not doubt they would squander it to celebrate in blood-bought riches with no regard to the people they rule; Alderaanians are guaranteed a whole week of food and drink and time off in order to celebrate with their prince and princess.

Obi-Wan gives him a tiny nudge through their bond, radiating both admonishment and curiosity. Anakin looks up and Obi-Wan pointedly nods to his candle, which is the only one still burning. With blushing cheeks, Anakin blows it out before anyone else can notice, sheepishness patted away like a hand on his head by Obi-Wan’s amused presence in the Force. He almost — almost — wishes Obi-Wan would actually reach out with his hand, but shakes it away before the idea has the chance to take root. Obi-Wan doesn’t do physical affection like that often because attachment and rudeness, and it’s always extra special when he does, so Anakin tries not be too needy.

It’s hard though. Especially when he’s surrounded by so many people and the Force is so loud and the air is cold and everything is just so different. It’d be nice, Anakin thinks, to feel Obi-Wan’s warm hand on his head. Better than the flaky wax and the comforting, but still overwhelming pressure of the Force around him. Yesterday was so much better, when everyone was spaced out and their thoughts weren’t bombarding his shields like hail on transparasteel. He can block it, it’s just…a lot. And Obi-Wan can’t stop it or block it like mom and the Chancellor, but touch helps; less like he’s drowning and more like he’s got an anchor to hold onto. The bond only does so much.

He still leans into it; Obi-Wan’s presence over their bond is gentle and unobtrusive, like shade in the desert. It helps him focus as Bail is led through the throngs of guests to the flower-wreathed pavilion at the edge of the great lake. The sun is spilling over it now, haloing the Prince and his family in a golden glow. He looks radiant, face alight with a smile that makes his eyes sparkle. Anakin hasn’t gotten a chance to really talk to Prince Bail, but he can feel the love and anticipation in the Force around him, and even though Anakin still isn’t completely on board with this whole arranged marriage thing, he’s happy that Breha is marrying a man who so clearly loves her.

With the groom in attendance, the rest of the ceremony proceeds as Bail is escorted by the holy man to the frigid waters and blessed in some sort of language Anakin can’t comprehend. Whatever it is, it flows smoothly off the tongue in a low rhythm that seems designed to sooth. Bail is dipped in the waters five times, one for each of the major Alderaanian gods, and Anakin winces in sympathy. He’s cold just standing here; he can’t imagine actually getting into the water.

Of course, according to Obi-Wan, Bail and Breha had to be up even earlier than they did just to start getting ready, so perhaps it helps. At that point, Anakin wonders if they even bothered going to bed.

The blessings continue as does the chanting, which comes this close to lulling Anakin back to sleep. Obi-Wan can definitely tell, but he says nothing as Anakin manages to maintain awareness enough not to be obvious. He half-watches as the rest of the Organa family is similarly blessed, the sun rising higher with each one. By time they’ve reached hour two, Anakin is honestly wondering if Breha even has a part in this ceremony.

She does. Not a moment later, a bell tolls from one of the spires and everyone turns to watch as Princess Breha, bedecked in soft yellows and shimmering silvers, is escorted to the pavilion by her parents and a woman who can only be her sister. She’s as beautiful as the planet she’s set to rule and her happiness radiates so deep into the Force it fills the whole valley.

For one brief moment, so short Anakin can almost convince himself it doesn’t happen, Breha’s face thins. The yellows of her gown transform into white lace and the flowers in her hair are replaced by a veil. Her eyes widen, going from warm amber to sweet caramel, and her already dainty frame shrinks. She would look fragile except her spine is steel and resolute. She looks at him and her expression is so full of joy it makes his chest ache with emotions he can’t name.

The moment passes and Breha, hair loose and so much darker than the vision’s, finally reaches the lake. Anakin expects a similar ritual to Bail’s, and is puzzled when the Organas and the Antilles form a barrier between the two. There’s tittering from the crowd, curious ones from the off-worlders and anticipatory whispers from the Alderaanians, and both families are grinning far too wide for it to be anything so solemn as the previous few hours.

The holy man backs away allowing Viceroy Antilles to step in front of Bail’s father. His grin is small, especially compared to Organa’s, but no less happy. It’s apparent where Breha got her looks from, and when he talks it’s loud and clear. “Prince Organa.”

“Viceroy Antilles,” Gaylor gives a small bow.

Antilles’ lips twitch, fighting against whatever elation this script of pageantry seems to bring. “We have come today to join our families together in matrimony, but we who are fathers of daughters know the trickster nature of Halnott. Know that We cannot deliver Our daughter into your family if this man you claim as your son is not true. What reassurances can you offer Us for the truth of the groom’s identity?”

“Viceroy Antilles, my eyes are the truest offer I have that this is the son of my blood. He has been blessed five times by Gyda with neither change of face, voice or manners. Halnott is powerful, but the Goddess of Waters is more powerful still and her lakes reveal what people cannot see.”

Breha’s father nods, contemplating, and replies, “Gyda’s Waters are powerful, but Halnott is wily and wise to her truths. Our eyes see what they wish, for they are the greatest of fools. Though We trust your words, We cannot trust your eyes. What other reassurances can you grant Us?”

“My eyes are all I have,” Gaylor recites, “but know that my son has shared three secrets with your daughter. Should this groom know these secrets, it will prove he is my son.”

“Secrets out truths as well as water. We accept your terms. Let Our daughter ask him questions. If this man with your son’s name answers truly, We will accept him as family.”

The Viceroy steps to the side and beckons to Breha. She glides forward, reminding Anakin more and more of Padme with each step, and stops in front of Bail, looking very much like he’s trying to remain serious and failing.

“Son of Organa.” She gives a shallow curtsy.

“Crown Princess.” He bows.

“Before my seclusion you told me three stories. One of dedication, one of loyalty, and one of love,” she begins, loftily. “What story did you tell to display your dedication?”

Bail’s smile falters. It’s tinged with an edge of ruefulness and resignation. “During your Challenge of Body you lost your heart and your lungs.” A hush falls over the assembly and Anakin’s jaw drops. She has cybernetics? Not that it matters to him, but he remembers the look on Obi-Wan’s face when he asked after a Jedi with a new leg. He’d been pitying, enough to make Anakin uncomfortable. Since then, he’s come to the realization that cybernetics are considered somehow lesser within the Order.

The boy looks up to gauge Obi-Wan’s reaction, but the only indication of surprise is a slight widening of his eyes. Maybe the Jedi don’t care if the person is Force-null? Is it only bad if the person is Sensitive?

Bail ignores the silence and continues. “Many feared you would not live, but you pulled through. You beat all the odds stacked against you and rose stronger for it. But there were whispers, hidden and spoken in shadows that you ignored with aplomb. When our engagement was announced, more than one person came to me with offers of annulment. ‘She has no heart to give you,’ they said. ’No breath to breathe into your lungs. Can she give you love when she is missing so much? Can she give you family?’ You heard the whispers and offered me an out. You said you would not trap me, when my fear was trapping you. We barely knew each other, but already I knew that I could not leave. Not out of pity, or stubbornness, or pride, but out of respect and admiration. I am dedicated to you because I admire your grace in the face of derision. I am dedicated to you because I respect your strength in the face of adversity. I am dedicated to you because there is no other I would rather dedicate myself to.”

The most mesmerizing part is that Anakin can tell the prince means it. He doesn’t really understand the need for such flowery script, but it doesn’t detract that Bail is dedicated to Breha. He admires her — that she didn’t let the whispers get to her. He respects that she survived. And Anakin understands; he can't help but admire her too. He doesn’t think he would be able to be half as gracious as Breha.

The princess, shimmering like sunshine on crystal, ducks her head. She takes a breath, gathering herself, before looking up and saying, “Your story rings true, for it is what my betrothed had said, but it is not enough to confirm your identity. Tell me, what story did you tell to display your loyalty?”

“My loyalty is to Alderaan,” Bail starts. He says the word ‘Alderaan’ the way Padme said ‘Naboo’ — full of love and adoration for a whole people they’ve never met, but care about anyway. “It always has been and it always will be. During the Contention, when our Houses warred over a throne, I was fully in agreement with my family. Our House was older. We had a greater claim. I felt, with that in my mind, that those of House Antilles were undeserving of the position — that somehow my House’s age made us more entitled to Alderaan than yours.

“I was wrong. I was foolish. I let my ego get in the way of my senses.” The prince admits it so easily, listing failure after failure. Anakin’s never heard a rich person do that. “And I learned that because of you. We knew each other from afar, from parties and schools, but had never talked; our families were too contentious. I thought, initially, that our marriage would be a duty. You would be my wife and our families would be happy. I did not expect a partnership. I did not respect that you would not just become my wife, but I would become your husband. I thought, foolishly, that in gaining the Viceroyship, that I would also shoulder the work because clearly an Antilles could not love Alderaan the way an Organa could.

"But you came to me; you put me in my place. You’ve been trained to be queen since birth whereas I was not. Your ideas are enlightening. Your sincerity is without question. You care for every single person on this planet and you do your best to let them know it. A champion of education. A champion for the poor and refugees. You do not talk of your plans, you fulfill them, and it is those actions that have earned my loyalty. I was a foolish man to think I could love Alderaan more over something a silly as my name.

“Our marriage will make me your husband,” he leans closer and it’s like the valley is holding its breath. “One day it will make me Alderaan’s Viceroy. But this marriage will never make you Alderaan’s Queen. You will be queen with or without me. Not just because you were born to it, but because you have earned it. You have earned the loyalty of Alderaan through your actions, and you have earned mine. You will never have to ask for it, because I give it, willingly and without reservation. I am loyal to you because there is no other I would rather be loyal to.”

The valley is silent. Politicians, foreign dignitaries, Alderaanian shop keepers and students — everyone is hung on Bail’s words. Anakin is no exception. Loyalty isn’t something the boy struggles with, but all too often he feels like everyone around him is following a rulebook he never got. He wants to think those he’s loyal to are loyal to him in turn, but…

His eyes flicker again to Obi-Wan. Serene, kind Obi-Wan — the perfect Jedi, everything Anakin wants to be someday. What would you do, he wonders, if I disappointed you? If I did something you disagreed with? If I left? Would you care like Bail does? Or would you be like Master Yoda and let me go?

Anakin knows the answer to that question, and it hurts. His heart twinges and he quickly turns back to the ceremony, determinedly burying the thought.

Breha's smile is wide enough to crinkle her eyes. “Again, your story rings true, for it is what my betrothed had said, but it is still not enough to confirm your identity. Tell me, what story did you tell to display your love?"

Bail’s face softens with an emotion Anakin can’t name. It pulls at him, the word on the tip of his tongue, but every time he thinks he’s got it it slips away again. The only thing that seems to fit is that Bail looks as if he’s come home after a long time away. “My first real impression of you was that you couldn’t possibly be the princess I’d been told to marry.”

“Why?” Breha presses, though by her tone she obviously knows.

“You were in the hangar. Your hands were slick with grease and your braids fell over your face. You wore the uniform of a pilot, though it was torn and oversized, and I’m pretty sure you mentioned stealing it from some poor helpless man you bribed with your custard bread. The first word out of your mouth was a curse when my early arrival caused you to shock yourself on the ship you were working on, and, if memory serves, your first instinct upon seeing me there was to throw your hydrospanner at my head.”

“I did miss.”

“And hit my chin instead. I still have the scar.”

“Oh, so that’s why he grew a goatee,” Lady Tia whispers, just loud enough for the speakers to pick up. Her brother throws a mock glare over his shoulder, but it doesn’t last long amongst the chuckles that ripple through the assembly.

“I did not love you then,” Bail continues. “I had only ever seen you from afar. I knew you as the girl who was to become my wife. You would be queen. I came expecting a princess, and I got a hydrospanner to the face instead. I thought it would be the beginning of a terrible marriage.”

“Another thing you were wrong about?” Breha teases, her voice gentle and knowing.

Bail grins. “Another thing I was wrong about. Turns out, getting hit in the face can be the beginning to a pretty wonderful friendship. It can lead to jokes and conversations and adventures to the hangar in the middle of the night. It can lead to making cakes at three in the morning and drafting legislation over breakfast. It can lead to hiking and swimming and trust and affection. You will not just be my wife. You will not just be my queen. You will be my friend. You are my friend. My best friend. My confidant. Your grace and strength are what made me dedicated. Your actions are what made me loyal. But you — greasy, messy-haired and armed with a hydrospanner — are what made me fall in love. I am in love with you because there is no other I would rather love and be loved by.”

“And I do love you, Prince Bail of House Organa.” Her voice is soft, wet, so much so that the amplifiers almost don’t pick up on it, and Anakin is struck by how much her expression reminds him of the woman in his vision.

Her father steps forward, pleased but smothered by ritual. “Daughter, does his story ring true?”

“Yes, father," Breha says, pulling herself together. "He knows the stories my betrothed told to me in secret. I can say with confidence that Halnott has not taken him.”

“We are pleased.” The slim man turns to Bail’s father. “Prince Organa, let it be known that your eyes do not make liars of your words.”

“I am pleased.”

The holy man steps forward then, keeping the bride and groom on either side. “Let it be known that Prince Bail Organa has successfully answered the Three Questions. There is no more doubt to his identity and Halnott has failed in his tricks.

“Now, Your Highness,” he beckons to Breha’s father. “Prince Organa,” Bail’s father steps forward. “You stand here, ready to intertwine the lives of Crown Princess Breha Antilles and Prince Bail Organa — to accept them into your families as one unit. Do you do so of your own free will, with no reservations or fears? Will you entrust them to each other; to keep each other happy and safe and healthy?”

“I do so willingly and without reservation,” they both say, Gaylor’s grin blinding, while Viceroy Antilles’ is softer and very much Breha’s.

The holy man nods. “Your Majesty, Princess Organa, are you ready to intertwine the lives of Crown Princess Breha Antilles and Prince Bail Organa — to accept them into your families as one unit. Do you do so of your own free will, with no reservations or fears? Will you entrust them to each other; to keep each other happy and safe and healthy?”

Frail Princess Mazicia exchanges a smile with Queen Yanna as they echo their husbands. “I do so willingly and without reservation.” Mazicia’s voice is raspy, as if she doesn’t speak often, but the queen’s is crystal clear and reverberates with pride throughout the valley. Anakin thinks he sees a blush spread across Breha’s cheeks.

The parents back away, leaving only the holy man with Bail and Breha. He beckons them to link their hands, which they do with eager enthusiasm, and asks, “Breha Lilit Antilles, Crown Princess of Alderaan, the House of Antilles entrusts you to the care of House Organa, to entwine your life with theirs. Do you go willingly and without reservation?”

“I do go willingly and without reservation,” she says, breathless.

The man smiles. “Bail Prestor Organa, Prince of Alderaan, the House of Organa entrusts you to the care of House Antilles, to entwine your life with theirs. Do you go willingly and without reservation?”

“I do go willingly and without reservation.”

“And do you both agree to share this life with each other? To care for each other as Elda cares for Iianom? To provide safety, and love and comfort even in the face of tragedy and troubles? Will you share yourselves, be as one unit for your families and your people?”

“I do so swear so to do,” they say in tandem, and Anakin has to wonder why the holy man bothered asking. Anyone with eyes can see these two would do anything for each other.

The elderly man then takes out a long slip of green and gold embroidered silk. He sprinkles it with some water from the lake and passes it to all the family members for them to kiss. It’s a little weird, but Anakin’s heard of worse. Once the youngest — Lady Celly — has kissed it, the holy man takes the cloth and wraps it twice around Bail and Breha’s conjoined hands.

“Then let Lady Elda bless you. Let her welcome you as one unit, married under her thread, together forever as husband and wife, lord and lady, prince and princess. With this blessing, I pronounce you Breha and Bail of House Organa, Crown Princess and Prince of Alderaan.”

The valley erupts into deafening cheers and laughs as Breha launches herself forward to seal the marriage with a tearful kiss to Bail’s lips. It lasts much longer than any kiss Anakin’s seen outside of Gardulla’s or the brothels, but everyone’s still clapping so that must be normal.

They don’t stay long after that. Most of the Alderaanians return to the city to begin the revelries there, while the guests make the winding trek up to the palace’s grand entrance. It’s lined on both sides with an immaculate garden and golden trees, and the walk is all the slower because people can’t stop gawking. Not that Anakin is any different. Obi-Wan indulges him as he explores the orchards and moats that grow under the white and golden spires of the palace. The main entrance is made of an ornamented wooden door that opens to a rich hall decorated in flowers and vines and commemorations to the newly-wedded couple. Most of the guests head off to the Grand Ballroom, though a few make the most of the intermission between festivities to explore those areas of the palace open to the public.

Anakin, who’d already done most of his exploring, isn’t disappointed then when Obi-Wan steers him towards the ballroom. He danced through it only yesterday, but somehow in the span of eighteen standard hours, the palace workers have managed to transform an already majestic room into a glittering jewel. Wide windows are framed with wreaths while fountains flow with cool water, and the grand marble staircase is bedecked in ladalums and arallutes. Purple carpets create walkways through the center and plush seats line the walls. There are chandeliers larger than speeders hanging over everyone’s heads, long buffet tables with little hors d’oeuvres and flutes of Alderaanian champagne, and a orchestral band that has already struck up a lively tune playing from the front. Everywhere chatter has sprung up as dignitaries and nobles form their groups, and Obi-Wan steers them towards an empty table nearest a balcony.

Anakin’s not uncomfortable walking amongst the colorful, bejeweled guests, but, well, he glances at Obi-Wan. His Master’s robes are standard Jedi issue: brown and tan and beige, pressed to perfection, and that’s not a problem so much as it makes Anakin look at his own clothes, which, despite Obi-Wan’s best attempts are somehow still caught between inside out and pulled out the hamper. In comparison, Anakin can’t help feeling out of place, like he should be behind the tables serving rather than grabbing his own plate of teacakes.

Slaves, the little dragon in his heart hisses, don’t belong here.

He curls in on himself as he takes a seat, picking at the pastry as his frustration mounts. I'm a Jedi, I'm a Jedi, I'm a Jedi, he hisses back. It doesn't matter what he's wearing or how much wax is on his sleeves. At least, it shouldn't matter, but the Force is loud, much louder than when they were outside in the open, and he can't make the mantra stick. The dragon just laughs.

“Anakin?” His Master’s voice calls from above. The boy looks to Obi-Wan as the man takes a seat beside him, his own plate settling down on the hard wood of the table. His face is serene, but their bond prickles with concern. “Are you alright? You look upset.”

Does he? He didn’t mean to. Anakin shrugs. “I’m fine. It’s just loud.”

“The people or the Force?”

Anakin’s nose scrunches. He crumbles one of the pastries between his fingers. “The Force. Both. I can handle it.”

Obi-Wan raises a brow, but doesn’t contradict him. Instead, he just nods his head and says, “If you need help, I’m here.”

“I know,” but he doesn’t want to rely on that. None of the other Padawans need their Master’s help half as much as Anakin does, and he won’t be the reason the Council gives Obi-Wan a hard time. He looks around the ballroom for something else to focus on and highlights upon the elderly man dressed in mulberry on the other end of the ballroom. “Master, look! It’s the Chancellor. Can I go say hi?” He swivels pleading eyes to Obi-Wan. Maybe if he talks to the Chancellor the Force will take a hint.

But Obi-Wan’s face pulls into a funny expression Anakin can’t decipher. He’s very carefully neutral, but his pupils are sharp and unwavering and his lips have fallen into a thin line. Anakin doesn’t think he’s ever seen Obi-Wan look like that.

“Master?”

Obi-Wan startles and, like a switch, relaxes into a reassuring smile that isn’t actually all that reassuring. “I’m sorry, Padawan. Just a sudden thought,” which doesn’t feel like a lie, but Anakin doesn’t need the Force to know it’s not actually the truth either. “And why don’t you wait a minute? He looks like he’s busy.”

Obi-Wan’s not wrong. The Chancellor is surrounded on all sides by nattering politicians, all of whom are laughing and drinking. Anakin pulls a face. “I could still go over. The Chancellor said he liked talking to me.”

“And they could be talking about something important,” Obi-Wan reasons. “Just wait, Anakin. I’m sure the Chancellor will be happy to talk to you when he’s less busy.”

Surrounded by this many bureaucrats? Unlikely. Anakin humphs and petulantly plops his chin into his palm. No doubt the Chancellor would appreciate a distraction, but Obi-Wan has a point. Anakin will just have to wait.

His Master’s brow softens. “Why don’t you mill around? See if there’s anyone else here you could talk to.”

“Like who?” The delegate from that world he’s never heard of? The rich, entitled brats who wouldn’t know peckish from starvation? No thanks.

Breha’s rich and entitled and she’s nice, whispers the voice that sounds like mom.

But she’s an adult, another part of him whispers back. She has to be nice, which Anakin knows isn’t exactly true; he’s met more entitled adults deserving of the Pit than those that haven’t, but even with that in mind, kids are rarely able to fake it long enough to pretend.

“There’s a group over there,” Obi-Wan says, pointing to a group of children roughly Anakin’s age. One of them has more gold in their hair than most people see in their lifetimes. “They’d probably love to talk to you.”

Anakin pulls a face. “Maybe to brag to their friends that they saw a Jedi.”

“Anakin.”

“What? You know they would.”

Obi-Wan sighs, but very tellingly doesn’t refute him. His eyes flicker. “What about them?” He indicates to another group of children, dressed just slightly less ostentatiously.

A grimace. “No thanks.”

“Are you just going to sit here all day then?”

“No.” Anakin frowns. “I said I was gonna wait for the Chancellor.”

“Who may be busy for hours.”

“I’ll talk to you.”

“And if I get up to talk to someone? Will you just sit here?”

“No, but you hate politicians.”

“So I won’t talk to them?” Obi-Wan raises his brow because they both know that’s not how this works. “If I am pulled into a conversation, I don’t want you sulking by yourself.”

“I’m not sulking!”

“Not yet,” his Master says in that particular Obi-Wan way that is both a tease and an admonishment. He sweeps his hand to the room. “Come on, Padawan, go mingle.”

Anakin looks down and fiddles some more with his cake. “I don’t know how to mingle,” he mumbles. How does one mingle with people this rich? He can’t just walk up to them and expect them to appreciate it. He can’t even walk up to other Jedi without one of them frowning.

“Then take this as a lesson. You’ll have to do far more mingling in the years to come, Anakin. Might as well get the experience now when you have the excuse of youthful ignorance.”

Youthful ignorance. Right, because that’s the image Anakin wants to portray. If he does well Obi-Wan will smile smugly like, ‘see, that wasn’t so bad’ and if he doesn’t then Obi-Wan will be disappointed. Either way, Anakin loses.

Well, he’s already lost. It’s not like he’s going to get out of it now, not if Obi-Wan’s insistence is anything to go by. Anakin drops the crumbs in his hand and stands with a huff. “Fine, but I’m not going to either of them,” he says, indicating to the two groups Obi-Wan had picked out.

His Master holds up his hands in surrender. “That’s fine. You don’t have to. Just…mingle. Make friends.”

Make friends, he says. As if Anakin hasn’t been trying to do just that for the last few years and failed.

Anakin walks away with Obi-Wan’s eyes burning holes into his back and very determinedly ignores him. He can do this. He talked to a princess all yesterday; he can talk to some kids.

He’s on the opposite end of the ballroom when he realizes that he can’t do this. He was completely fooling himself and the minute he opens his mouth he’s going to cause some sort of interplanetary incident and that’s just the facts. The only thing he’s got in his wheelhouse is the fact that he’s a Jedi and that’s only exciting for the first five minutes before conversation breaks down.

Breha, he’s decides, doesn’t count.

Obi-Wan’s going to get that look on his face he always does when Anakin fails to make friends. That droopy-eyed, slumped-shoulder expression that Anakin hates because he doesn’t want to be the reason Obi-Wan is sad like that, but he can’t help it because it’s not his fault no one wants to talk to him, but Obi-Wan always wants him to try, and he does! He really really does. It’s everyone else that seems to have a problem and—

“Now, what is a Jedi Padawan doing all the way over here?”

Anakin spins on his heel, gaze trailing up to a tall elderly man in dark blue silks and a grey sash. Every line of his face screams aristocracy and his brown eyes stare down at Anakin as if he’s been judged and found lacking. It makes Anakin bristle and the only thing that holds him back is his promise to Obi-Wan.

Best behaved Padawan this side of the Hydian Way, he reminds himself. Make friends.

He straightens his shoulders and bows. He can do this. He can make friends. Now if only he could remember what Master Unduli said about etiquette. “My lord. I was just getting some air.” Some air? Who’s going to believe that?

Not this man. “Really? You’d think if you wanted to get some air you would head in a direction where there is some.”

Kriff. He’s right. In his effort to escape Obi-Wan’s eyes, Anakin has somehow managed to wander into one of the more densely occupied areas of the ballroom. “I was just leaving,” he mumbles and the man just has to raise one grey eyebrow for Anakin to know it’s not convincing at all.

“Indeed.” The man pivots. “I was just about to go out and get some air myself. Would you care to join me?”

Anakin blanches. “M-me? I mean, sure. I mean, yes…my lord.” Oh, he’s so bad at this. Master Unduli would weep. “It would be my pleasure.”

“Excellent.” He begins striding away, with barely a nod for Anakin to follow and the boy stumbles over his feet to keep up. “There’s much I feel we have to talk about.”

Huh? “My lord?”

“Apologies, you must be confused,” the man says, though he doesn’t look very apologetic. He swipes a a flute of alcohol from a passing server and Anakin is forced to flit around the unfortunate woman unsteadily. He flashes her a smile in an attempt to make up for the nobleman’s disregard and he thinks she smiles back before he has to either continue scurrying or be left behind. Anakin’s never felt less graceful than he does walking with this man. “It’s been a long time since I’ve had a conversation with a Jedi Padawan. You’ll forgive me.”

Actually, Anakin’s not sure he will. He’s never heard an apology sound more like a command in his life.

Best behaved Padawan, best behaved Padawan, he chants in his head as they near one of the crystalline and ivory coated tables. Anakin takes a deep breath and pushes the annoyance down. “There’s nothing to forgive, sir,” you know, except for you being a total koochoo.

The man smiles. It’s unbearably condescending. “Hm, you do well keeping your frustrations off your face, but your shields are abysmal.”

“I’m the best in my class!” Even though it doesn’t mean anything. Even though Obi-Wan can’t help and doesn’t understand. Even though the Force is so loud just being in the ballroom is enough to drown him and—kriff. He said that out loud. To someone important. So much for best behaved— “Wait, how do you know about my shields?”

“It would appear,” the man drawls, staring down his nose at him, “that Master Yoda is losing his touch.”

Anakin pulls up short. “You know Master Yoda?”

“Of a sort.” The man takes a seat, lounging about it like the chair should be honored to hold him. Anakin sits as if he’s afraid to offend it. “He was my Master for a time.”

“Y-your Master?” It doesn’t compute. There’s a disconnect in Anakin’s mind between the man’s words and its implications. “You’re a Jedi?” How is that possible? This man is the exact opposite of every Jedi Anakin’s ever met. He’s wearing silk, for Force sake! “Are you…undercover?”

The man snorts, as if disgusted by the very idea. “Hardly. I left the Order a few years ago. Disagreements, you see. The Council and I didn’t quite see eye-to-eye.”

And damn if Anakin doesn’t understand that. He’s almost positive the Council hates him, or are at least waiting for him to fail. He knows for a fact that Master Windu is.

“But I’m sure such inconsequential matters don’t interest a young boy like yourself,” the former Jedi says, a tinge of dismissal in his tone. Anakin doesn’t know why it fills his chest with fire, but he stamps it down as far as he can, until he tastes metal on his tongue, knowing that whatever it is Obi-Wan would not approve. “I left and what’s done is done.”

He left…“And you went home?” Anakin’s almost afraid to ask, but all he can see is mom — hear her voice in his head and think to himself, if I’d left I could have found her. I could have freed her.

The man shrugs. “Of a sorts. My parents were gone, but my siblings welcomed me back. My brother passed soon after, unfortunately, but in doing so I inherited his title, hence my inclusion on the guest list. It has allowed me to do some good for my planet, at least.”

“Really?”

“Oh yes. I enjoy being able to help people in a more direct capacity. It’s a feeling unlike any I ever got in the Order.” He gazes at Anakin over the rim of his glass. “But, of course, that’s just me. I understand the Order has a very different point of view.”

It does. Anakin’s seen it. He’s heard it in every lecture about letting go, about control, about why the Jedi never seem to want to take that last step towards actually helping. Sometimes, in the privacy of his mind, when Obi-Wan is asleep and there’s no one around to admonish him, he let’s himself wonder why they bother? Everyone talks so much about helping, about finding peaceful resolutions without bothering to notice that some people can’t be reasoned with. Some people just love the power they get from hurting others. You can’t reason with them, and you can’t let them go; some people are just better off dead.

But Master Yoda doesn’t agree, and if Master Yoda doesn’t agree neither does anyone else. He thinks everyone has value, not realizing that most of the people he’s valuing are scum and the Jedi would be doing a lot of people a lot of good by getting rid of them.

“And what about you? What is a young Padawan doing at a royal wedding of all places?” The old Jedi asks, switching topics so quickly Anakin has to struggle to adjust.

“Oh, uh, the Alderaanians asked for Jedi because we helped them with the Contention, but the original Master is on another mission and the Council thought it would be good practice for me.”

“I see. And has it? Been good practice, I mean?”

“I think so.” Not that he’s had much chance to mess up. Breha was an exception, and what are the chances he’d run into a former Jedi? “Usually when I go on missions something blows up, but so far everything seems to be going okay.”

“Ah yes, that has been known to happen to more than one Jedi.” He chuckles. “If I had a credit for every disaster my Master and I ended up in, I wouldn’t have any need for my family’s fortune.”

“Master Yoda? Really?”

“Indeed. If you get the chance, ask him about his last mission to Milagro. It’s a guaranteed whack to the shins.”

“Then why would I ask?”

“Because I’ve piqued your curiosity and now you’ll no doubt be unable to let it go.”

Sithspit. He’s right of course, but Anakin’s not about to give him the satisfaction. Not that he has to; the old man appears to know exactly how successful he’s been.

“So, I assume the Council didn’t just send one lone Padawan to such an important wedding, no matter how secure.”

Anakin shakes his head. “No. My Master’s around here somewhere. Mingling, probably. He’s really good at that.”

“An important trait in a Jedi. Particularly in such situations as this.”

“Yeah, he’s the best,” Anakin says. A grin splits his face; just the thought of how brilliant Obi-Wan is enough to fill him with awe. He’s the luckiest Padawan in the Temple. “And he’s really strong too. Master Windu even complimented him and he doesn’t compliment anyone.”

“Ah, yes.” The man’s eyes twinkle with recollection. “Mace can be quite hardlined most of the time. But skilled in politics and combat; your Master sounds impressive. What’s his name? Perhaps I’ve heard of him.”

“Obi-Wan Kenobi,” Anakin says proudly. “He just became a Knight a few years ago, but everyone says he’ll be on the Council someday.”

“Obi-Wan Kenobi, you say? Now that’s a name I haven’t heard in quite some time.”

“You know him?”

“Not directly, though I always wished too. His Master, Qui-Gon, was my Padawan many years ago and—“

“You trained Master Qui-Gon?” Anakin exclaims, and it’s a good thing the ballroom is already so loud, otherwise people would have given him nasty looks. As it is, the unimpressed stare from the old Jedi is more than enough admonishment.

“I did, and I would appreciate it if you kept your interruptions to yourself in the future, Padawan. Consider it a lesson in politics.”

Anakin ducks his head, flushing. “Sorry, mast—er, my lord.”

“Forgiven.” He brushes it off, and while it still makes Anakin bristle, he’s starting to think it’s just the way the guy is and not that he’s actually trying to a be complete kung. “But yes, Qui-Gon Jinn was my Padawan. He talked quite a bit about your Master; he was very proud. His death…well, let’s say it was the final straw.”

Anakin can’t even imagine. If Obi-Wan died, or his mom…Anakin doesn’t know what he would do, but leaving would probably be amongst them. He purses his lips and says, “I’m sorry. Master Qui-Gon was the one who found me. He was really kind.”

“He was.” It’s the first time the old Jedi’s look anything other than condescending throughout the whole conversation, and it softens him considerably. Anakin finds himself relaxing as he drinks up what little of Qui-Gon is left in the galaxy. “Though, it would appear the Force has favored me today. It has given me the opportunity to finally meet those of my lineage.”

His lineage. The other Padawans are always talking about their lineages. If their Master isn’t good enough in something they want to learn they just go to a Grandmaster or Great-Grandmaster or Brother-Padawan. The only other person in his lineage that Anakin knows about is Yoda and that’s just a no. Yoda already doesn’t like him. He isn’t about to prove him right by admitting failure at something.

But maybe…

“If…if I’m part of you lineage, does that mean you’d help me?”

“Help you?”

“I mean,” Anakin fiddles with his tunic, anxiously brushing off some of the remaining wax, “you did say my shields need work.”

“So I did. I admit, it wasn’t what I planned on doing today, but in light of the company, I might be able to offer some insight.”

Anakin’s face lights up and he drops the beige cloth. “Really? Thank you! Obi-Wan doesn’t really get it. He thinks they’re fine, but the Force is so loud and it’s already a lot and everyone keeps telling me not to rush ‘cause I could miss something and—“ the man holds up his hand for Anakin to stop.

“That,” he drawls, low and unamused, “will have to stop. Decorum, Padawan. You are a Jedi, not a Null child hyped up on too much sugar.”

Anakin flinches, but takes a steadying breath and nods. “Sorry.”

“Quite. Now, if the Force is loud to you, I assume it’s taking you quite a bit of effort just being in this room, correct?”

“Yes, Master.”

“Very well.” He reaches out his hands, palms up for Anakin to grip. “No time like the present then, Padawan…?”

“Skywalker, Master. Anakin Skywalker.”

“A pleasure, Padawan Skywalker. I am Count Dooku.”

Chapter 6: Instinct

Chapter Text

Obi-Wan watches Anakin go with a close eye and relief thrumming in his bones. His heart is thundering in his chest, far faster and more painful than he has any justification for, and it drowns out the din of the ballroom with its beat. Anakin’s sun-bright signature dwarfs everyone else as he enters the throng, and it’s not so much that Obi-Wan loses track of him as it is that Anakin disappears into the sheer size of his own presence. Just another null in a sea of nulls. It’s something that still unsettles him two years on, and Obi-Wan isn’t sure if he’ll ever adjust to the dangers his student presents.

The problem with Anakin is, unless he’s right in front of you, he’s almost impossible to sense. You can, but you have to know what you’re looking for. He engulfs you, smothers you, drowns you; sometimes Obi-Wan is even convinced reality warps to accommodate him. Standing near him is like floating inside a nebula, oblivious to the star at it’s center until you’re burned by its rays. He’s powerful, and power like that attracts the corruptible. It attracts the unscrupulous, the malicious, the manipulative, and Anakin is a beacon to them all.

For a brief moment, Obi-Wan considers calling him back. He has the irrational urge to keep Anakin close, but a flash of mulberry out of the corner of his eye stays his hand. The Chancellor is still talking with a group of senators Obi-Wan vaguely recognizes from various late-night news segments. They’re all smiling and laughing at whatever Palpatine says, trying to move themselves further up in the political pecking order. Obi-Wan knows he’s biased — his distrust of politicians as a whole is coloring his perceptions — but the picture is enough to raise the hair on the back his arms.

Fact of the matter is, he just doesn’t trust Palpatine.

There’s no denying the man is a political genius. You don’t go from being the senator of a backwater little planet like Naboo to Supreme Chancellor of the Republic in less than a month without having a breadth of political acumen. And, all things considered, Palpatine is a good chancellor. Obi-Wan often agrees with many of the man’s policies.

But trusting the man to run the Republic is very different from trusting him as a person, and whatever goodwill Obi-Wan had to offer was swept away the instant Anakin returned to him smelling like a newly-legal teenager back from his first bender.

This whole mission to Alderaan was supposed to separate the Chancellor from Anakin. Instead, it's brought them together.

There are reasonable explanations. Alderaan is an important Core world and the wedding is just as important for its political stabilization. It’s not unfathomable for the Chancellor to be invited. It’s also not unfathomable for him to accept. It could very easily be a series of unfortunate coincidences.

Obi-Wan Kenobi does not believe in coincidences.

He picks at the confection on his plate and absently pops it into his mouth. It tastes like malla petals and is coated in enough powdered sugar to qualify as a choking hazard. Obi-Wan wants to enjoy the dessert, but it sticks between his teeth, growing tacky and cloying. He pushes the plate away.

The ballroom is far more crowded now that everyone has piled in. Food and drink flows from hand to mouth, delicious scents waft out from the buffet, and while no one has yet begun to dance, the band plays a lively tune just a few notes short of becoming a jig. More than three political alliances have already been finalized, and out by the balcony Obi-Wan sees the Chancellor grow weary of his companions.He leans away, his lips move for shorter intervals, and his feet turn outwards. Obi-Wan tracks him as his eyes flicker about the ballroom for something. A distraction? An excuse?

His bond with Anakin flares bright and then quiets, enough for Obi-Wan to switch his attention with a startle.

Anakin?

Obi-Wan is on his feet before he has a chance to think it through. He’s halfway across the ballroom before common sense kicks in, and he’s just stopped within eye-line when he realizes that Palpatine has caught sight of him. The man smiles, as if they’re old friends, and Obi-Wan suddenly finds himself the Chancellor’s target of escape.

He doesn’t want to. He really doesn’t want to. His thoughts are too jumbled, his nerves too shot. Anakin might need him and Obi-Wan needs more time to prepare.

You can’t prepare for everything, Padawan. Always expect the unexpected.

Yes, Master, he says to the phantom as his stomach continues to sink.

Discretely, he reaches out to check on Anakin as he should have done initially instead of running off half-co*cked, and is relieved to find the boy on the other end of the ballroom, calm and content. There’s another signature beside him, strong but controlled, and it strikes Obi-Wan as familiar though he can’t place exactly why. Either way, Anakin doesn’t appear to be going anywhere anytime soon. If the Chancellor wants to talk, they at least won’t have to worry about the boy interrupting.

Without a reasonable excuse, there’s nowhere to go. Releasing his anxieties to the Force, Obi-Wan steels himself and plasters on a polite smile.

The Chancellor is already on his way over. His companions look more than a little put out, but know better than to monopolize his time if they want to maintain good standing. A few people do try to claim is attention, but the man waves them all off with a smile and reaches Obi-Wan far faster than expected for a man his age.

“Knight Kenobi,” the man exclaims with a broad grin. “I didn’t realize Jedi attended such events.”

“We go where we are requested, Chancellor,” Obi-Wan replies with a slight bow.

“Well yes, but a wedding?” The man co*cks his head. “You’ll forgive me if I’m surprised.”

“Nothing to forgive, sir. House Organa and House Antilles wished to express their gratitude for our help with the Contention by inviting us to the festivities.”

“Ah, I see. Well, I do hope you’re having a good time,” he laughs politely, as if they’re in on some sort of joke, “or at least not having a bad one.”

Obi-Wan titters in turn. Keep it light. Jovial. You’re happy to see him.

He swallows down the dread and wishes with perhaps more fervor than the situation requires for a glass of Corellia’s strongest whiskey. “No fears of that, sir. I’ve been in far worse places. At least here the food is still palatable.” Even if the company is not.

Palpatine winces in commiseration. “Considering some of the meals I’ve partaken in, I have to agree with you. Though,” he lowers his voice, “if you’ll allow me the small complaint, I could do with a few less flowers.”

Ah, that. Alderaanian cuisine does seem to involve an overabundance of floral notes. “It is quite different from the usual fare.”

“Indeed,” the man agrees, with far more sincerity than Obi-Wan. “Naboo cuisine is far sweeter. I admit I miss it at times.”

“Coruscant imitations don’t compare?”

“Little gods, no! They try, bless them, but adding more sugar is such a flawed method of flavoring.”

Obi-Wan doesn’t disagree, but, “I didn’t realize your Excellency was so passionate about food.”

“Oh please, enough with the ‘sirs’ and ‘your Excellencies’.” Palpatine waves his hand absently. It’s as if he thinks they’re friends. Obi-Wan should feel guilty for his charade, but he doesn’t. The part of him that is still a new Knight holding Anakin’s hand as the explosive is removed from his neck is a little too protective to offer the Chancellor anything other than the barest of perfunctory politeness. “You can only hear it so many times before you come to think it’s your name. And I’m afraid food is a bit of a guilty pleasure of mine, though I like to think it doesn’t show.”

“I would never have guessed.” He would, because rumors of the Chancellor gifting his guards with home cooked meals are all over Holonet, but the man doesn’t need to know that.

“Oh, well, you’re too kind,” Palpatine accepts jovially. “My mother, Shiraya rest her soul, was an avid cook. My clearest memories of her always place her somewhere in the kitchen. I can still recall her shurra bread, in fact. Perfectly sweet without a hint of added sugar. I’m afraid Coruscanti cooks just can’t compare.”

Obi-Wan grins; he’s never had a problem with Coruscant cuisine. “Imitators rarely can.”

“Quite. Luckily, my mother taught me enough to replicate my favorites.” The man smiles and casts his eyes around the ballroom before leaning in as if sharing a secret. “If I may be frank, Knight Kenobi, I am pleased to have run into you.”

What? “Chancellor?”

“You see I do believe I owe you a bit of an apology.”

“An apology?” Confusion replaces the tension in Obi-Wan’s chest. Of course, there are things he wants an apology for, but he hadn’t really expected it to happen. “I’m afraid I don’t understand.”

“Yes.” Palpatine nods, contrite. “It has come to my attention that the Jedi were rather displeased with my offer of continued communication with your apprentice.”

“Chancellor—“

Palpatine holds up his hand. “No, please, let me continue. I made an error in judgement when I offered my personal information to your Padawan. You see, it’s been a bit difficult for me being from Naboo. We’re a very family-oriented culture, and I admit spending time with young Anakin, well, it made think about everything I missed out on.”

Obi-Wan’s pale brow crunches. He ignores the sudden chill in the air and says, “I’m not sure I understand.”

“I never married, you see,” Palpatine says. Blue eyes dull as if he’s admitting some sort of failure, one he’s not sure he regrets. “Too much time spent trying to correct the injustices of the galaxy. As such, I’ve missed out on many of the important milestones of my people. At my age, I should be doting on a gaggle of grandchildren not wrangling grown beings who are only trying to line their pockets. Usually, it doesn’t bother me. I do enjoy my job, after all, but Anakin reminded me so much of myself at his age that I forgot he wasn’t actually mine to spend time with.”

“I see,” Obi-Wan drawls, cautious realization beginning to dawn as some of his doubts subside. They don’t disappear exactly, just…soothe over. As if Palpatine’s words are washing them away.

“Yes, so you’ll forgive me if I stepped out of bounds,” the man says. His tone is so sincere Obi-Wan indeed finds himself wanting to forgive the man. Not completely, but it makes sense. An old man lacking a family and finding a young boy to spoil and care for as his own. Did Obi-Wan have it wrong this whole time?

Palpatine continues, “The truth is, Anakin allowed me a little glimpse into the life I could have had and I allowed that selfishness to influence my better judgement. It would appear that no matter how far away I am from Naboo, the Naboo in me will always find an out.”

Of course. Force, Obi-Wan feels so foolish.

“I understand, Chancellor,” and if the warmth in his voice is more genuine, well it’s not like Palpatine notices. Obi-Wan still has questions, but can he really fault an old man his sentimentality? “And Anakin did enjoy his time with you. I appreciate you taking the time out of your day to help him.”

“It was my pleasure! Your apprentice was a joy to have around. He’s such an engaging lad; very much like myself at that age. My father and I used to race speeders, you know. It was how we bonded. When Anakin said he was a podracer, it was like being thrown back in time.”

“I never would have taken you for a racing enthusiast.” Though, suddenly the speeder story is beginning to seem a lot more plausible.

“Oh quite. Of course, my reflexes aren’t what they used to be. Still,” he shrugs, “even if I can’t be the one in the co*ckpit, there’s nothing stopping me from enjoying it with others.”

Obi-Wan grins. “I imagine Anakin was thrilled.”

“Oh yes! I think I maybe got one or two words for every five he said,” the Chancellor recalls with a laugh that Obi-Wan can’t help returning. Because if that isn’t quintessentially Anakin he doesn’t know what is. “I take it that’s normal?”

“It is, yes,” Obi-Wan says with a rueful nod of his head. When Anakin gets going on anything pertaining to racing or mechanics or speeders, it’s always best to resort to the tried and true method of smiling-and-nodding. “Speaking of, he was very excited about the speeder you had him work on.”

He wasn’t, but is that really what Obi-Wan is blaming his suspicions on? That his apprentice wasn’t excited to tell him about one speeder? It was concerning at the time, but now, with the Chancellor in front of him, sincerity threading through the Force, it just seems so silly.

Palpatine’s eyes light up. He doesn’t even miss a beat. “Was he? I mean, he seemed enthusiastic at the time, but all too often people are afraid to tell me when they don’t like something. I hope he didn’t stay up too late talking your ear off about it.”

“No, no,” Obi-Wan assures, because, well, that does makes sense, doesn’t it? “I think it tired him out enough that he just didn’t have the energy.” Which, really, when Obi-Wan thinks about it, is both a perfectly reasonable explanation, and one he should have thought of first before jumping to conclusions.

He was so late, though…

But is that really a big deal? Anakin made it back safe and sound.

A breeze wafts in from the balcony doors, bringing with it the cold air of the mountains, and though it doesn’t bother him, a chill lances down his spine. Obi-Wan curls his fingers reflexively. No, if only for his peace of mind, he has to ask. “I will admit, Chancellor, that when Anakin first returned, I was rather upset. I understand now that I may have taken it out of proportion, but I was a little concerned by how late it was when he came back. Now that we’ve spoken, am I correct in assuming you both just got lost in the work?” Which, again, is something Anakin would do.

Why am I trying to come up with excuses for him?

Because it makes sense, his subconscious replies. Because you’re finally thinking it through instead of letting your emotions cloud your judgement.

The Chancellor nods, guilt seeping into the Force. “Ah, yes. He was most concerned about that. I offered to comm you, but the boy was convinced you would already be asleep and he didn’t want to wake you.”

“He did try to sneak in,” and he’d been startled that Obi-Wan was still awake. That Anakin wouldn’t want to bother him is perfectly reasonable.

It all makes so much sense except—

“The smell.”

“Pardon?”

Obi-Wan blinks, refocusing on the confused visage of Chancellor Palpatine. “My apologies. It’s just, even if I was asleep I don’t think I could have stayed so with the smell Anakin leaked into the apartment.”

For the first time, he catches Palpatine off guard. “Smell? I’m not sure I follow.”

“When Anakin came in,” Obi-Wan elaborates, brow furrowing. Did the Chancellor not…? “He smelled like a bar. I had to send his clothes down to the laundry droids twice just to get rid of the smell of death smoke.”

“Ah,” and it’s like a light goes on behind the Chancellor’s eyes. “That smell. I’m afraid we weren’t alone in the hangar, you see. A lot of the mechanics like to do most of their work later on in the evening due to the lighter foot traffic. Unfortunately, you put a large group of friends together at night and they have a tendency to get a little out of hand. More than a few were drinking and smoking, but it didn’t seem to bother Anakin so I didn’t think it was a concern. He told me it reminded him of Tatooine.”

Which also makes quite a lot of sense, now that Obi-Wan thinks about it. Of course if they were using the Senate hangar they wouldn’t be alone, and Obi-Wan knows for a fact that the Temple’s own technicians are very similar. More than a few like to work evenings more than daylight hours. It stands to reason that if they were smoking and drinking the smell would rub off on Anakin.

And of course it wouldn’t bother the boy. He worked in a junk shop for Force’s sake. Death smoke and alcohol is to him what recycled air is to Obi-Wan.

Force, now he feels awful.Here he is thinking the worst of the man when he was only trying to help. It’s one thing for Obi-Wan to dislike politicians, it’s another for him to actively assume the worst of them.

Such actions are unbecoming of a Jedi, Padawan.

He’s not sure whether to be embarrassed or guilty. Obi-Wan clears his throat. “I understand, Chancellor. And thank you for settling my mind. I really do appreciate you speaking with Anakin.” And this time, he means it. He’ll have to apologize to Master Windu and Master Yoda for wasting their time.

“It was my pleasure, honestly. He’s such a intelligent boy, and I can tell that you’re raising him very well.”

Obi-Wan ducks his head sheepishly. “You’re too kind.”

“Oh no,” the man chuckles without humor. “You don’t get to my position by being too kind, Knight Kenobi. This is me being honest. Anakin is a testament to your teachings. Bright, inquisitive. I foresee him becoming a wonderful Jedi.”

“He will be glad to hear of it.” Even though Obi-Wan isn’t sure Anakin’s virtues are really his to claim.

“As I hope you are. You took on a great burden when your Master passed, and—oh!” Palpatine reels back, guilt eating his face. “I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to—”

“No, no. It’s alright. I’ve long come to terms with it.”

Liar. You haven’t come to terms with anything.

“Still, I apologize for my insensitivity. Your Master is quite revered on Naboo. I dare say there isn’t a person on the planet who doesn’t know his name.”

Obi-Wan swallows down the lump that creates in his throat. His chest hurts, but he wills it away as easily as the chill. “I’m sure he would have appreciated their thoughtfulness.”

“Not just thoughtfulness, my boy. Gratitude. What you and your companions did will forever be remembered by the Naboo. It’s one of the reasons I reached out to young Anakin in the first place. Without any of you, I doubt my planet would have ever been freed.”

“I wouldn’t put us on such high a pedestal.”

“But I would,” Palpatine says with conviction. “The Senate at the time was mired with inaction. It’s one of the main problems I still deal with to this day. It’s only because of Queen Amidala and yourselves that Naboo is able to enjoy our freedom. Know that we will always honor you and your Master for that.”

His face is red. It must be, because Obi-Wan feels like he’s burning. “Then you have my thanks, Chancellor. I am…pleased he’ll be remembered by so many so fondly.”

The Chancellor smiles kindly. “As will you, my boy. The Jedi will not easily be forgotten for all that they did for us. I will not easily forget. Should you ever have need for anything, please don’t hesitate to come to me.”

“I’ll be sure to remember your offer, sir.” He probably won’t use it because that would be a breach of protocol a parsec wide, but he appreciates the offer for the gesture it is.

“Ah, what did I say about that word?” Palpatine teases. “In any case, all I meant to say is that I can tell you are doing him proud with young Anakin. That boy thinks the galaxy of you, and I can imagine that is no small feat.”

“No, no it isn’t,” Obi-Wan admits softly.

Anakin—well. Sometimes Obi-Wan doesn’t know how to describe the boy. His trust is like kyber. Alive, thrumming, powerful…selective. For a few, his trust flows freely — instantly. More than just the innate sense Jedi normally grasp from the Force. It’s as if he’s just stared into the core of your being and seen all there is to know.

For others, he’ll clam up; he’ll be unresponsive and belligerent, and all too often Obi-Wan has to remind his apprentice that snap judgements are unbecoming of a Jedi. They must be able to effectively deal with all types of individuals, even unsavory ones. It’s a difficult lesson for the boy, made all the worse for how often he’s correct. Such positive reinforcement of his own perceptions will only cause him harm in the long run, and Obi-Wan is not looking forward to it.

It's worse at the Temple. There's no instant trust, nor unresponsive antagonism. Anakin drifts through the halls like an outsider told to make himself at home and then stands with his shoes on all night. Sometimes (most times), Obi-Wan thinks the only reason Anakin trusts anyone in the Temple is because they’re Jedi, even though he wouldn’t hand Master Windu or Master Allie anything more important than a stylus.

Obi-Wan doesn’t know why this is though he has his suspicions. Suspicions like cold shoulders and wary eyes and judgmental faces. Unfortunately, like kyber, Anakin’s trust, once destroyed, is never the same.

“Master Kenobi?”

He startles. “Ah, my apologies, Chancellor. I was lost in thought.” Not the best thing to be in front of the most powerful man in the galaxy.

But Palpatine only waves him off. “No apologies necessary, my boy. I’m just glad to know I didn’t bore you of our conversation.”

“Of course not, sir. I’m very grateful for you taking the time with speak with me,” and he is. It’s helped settle his concerns far more than stewing in them did, even if he does feel inexorably guilty.

And here I am lecturing Anakin on his own snap judgements.

“Think nothing of it. With how much Anakin spoke of you, it made me wish I had taken the time to converse with you sooner.”

“I’m afraid I make for a poor conversationalist, Chancellor.”

“Nonsense! Why, I have to say this is the most refreshing conversation I’ve had in days. Such are the trials of dedicating your life to your work, I suspect. Not that I mind,” he’s quick to reassure, “but when you don’t have a family people tend to assume you don’t have a life as well. Thus, every conversation inevitably leads back to work.”

“I’m glad I could offer you the respite, then,” even if he was, for the most part, trying to make sure the man wasn’t about to abscond with his Padawan. “And I hope I’m not being insensitive if I ask, but you never thought of leaving politics for a family?”

“Nothing insensitive about it,” Palpatine states easily. “And I did. Once, a long time ago. But such things come and go, and there are many in the galaxy who need people to fight for them. If I left, well, I think I’d feel rather guilty. Besides, with my position sometimes it feels like I’ve become father to an entire galaxy. At least I know that when my term is up I did everything possible to help the people under my care.”

Obi-Wan smiles. “Then let me say we are lucky to have you, Chancellor. I know far too many politicians who would not be so gracious,” and I’m sorry I placed you in that category.

“You’re too kind, Knight Kenobi.”

“Oh no, Chancellor,” he teases, comfortable enough now to do so, “this is me being honest.”

Palpatine lets out a loud guffaw at the jest, and Obi-Wan feels his lips pull in turn.

“Truly a man of words, Knight Kenobi,” he says once he sobers. “We shall see if that is another gift you pass to your apprentice. In the meantime—“

He’s cut off by a loud burst of fanfare from the entrance as the bride and groom finally make their long awaited reappearance. They look blissfully happy as they descend the marble staircase to the applause of the masses. Obi-Wan doesn’t think he’s seen a happier arranged couple and it does his heart good to know the wedding was a success.

Briefly, so briefly he can pretend it doesn’t happen, he wonders what it must feel like. That heart-pumping joy as he turns to look at his bride, her blonde hair—

He cuts it off. He is a Jedi and nothing will ever make him regret that. Not what-ifs. Not daydreams. Not even her.

A few speeches follow — greetings, thanks, and the formal opening of the ball — and while Obi-Wan finds them interesting he’s surprised to feel Anakin so attentive across their bond.

The boy is calm, focused, his blazing thoughts quieted, but alert. Usually, Anakin is either half-asleep or zoning-out during anything that has to do with politics. Even during the wedding, Anakin’s mind struggled to stay awake.

For a moment, Obi-Wan contemplates excusing himself to go and see what it is that has caught his Padawan’s attention so thoroughly, but thinks better of it. The boy chafes enough as it is; he doesn’t want Anakin to think he’s micromanaging him, too.

In another half-hour he’ll be thankful for this choice, but right now the urge remains. There’s something in the Force, something elusive that prickles along the edges of his mind.

Here and now, Padawan, his Master’s voice whispers in the space where their bond had so viciously snapped, and Obi-Wan obeys. Anakin isn’t nine anymore, and even if he were, Anakin is still the most talented child in the Temple. His skills have already surpassed most of those his age and Obi-Wan is confident that if something does happen, Anakin can defend himself long enough for Obi-Wan to get to him.

The Chancellor, on the other hand, is vulnerable. For the first time he notices how exposed they are, how few obstacles stand between them and the open balcony. Whatever whispers the Force is sending him are better put to use on the one person in the room most likely to be targeted for harm. He’s hedging just a bit closer to the man when Palpatine’s face lights up and he waves over another figure from the crowd.

“Knight Kenobi, if you don’t mind, I would like to introduce you to one of my aides, the Lady Sei Taria. Sei, this is Jedi Knight Obi-Wan Kenobi.”

Obi-Wan extends a bow towards the newcomer and she curtsies back gracefully.

“Lady Taria.”

“Master Jedi.”

Sei Taria is a petite human a decade or so Obi-Wan’s senior. Her cheekbones are sharply defined, and her burgundy gown is high-quality, but utilitarian. It lacks the usual accouterments and crystals Obi-Wan is used to at such events, but the way she stands makes up for the dearth of embellishments. She’s a bulwark, a solidly built wall of necessity against the glittering jewels of the ballroom.

“Sei has been instrumental in helping us transition from Valorum’s administration,” Palpatine praises. “I honestly don’t know what I would have done without her.”

“I’m sure you would have found a way, Chancellor,” Sei says. She’s perfectly polite, if a bit deflective.

Palpatine doesn’t seem to notice. He smiles, bashfully conceding with all the humbleness of a priest. “Eventually perhaps, but I dare say it would have entailed quite a bit more yelling.”

Sei smiles, but it doesn’t quite reach her eyes. Obi-Wan has never been one to put much stock in rumors, particularly those dug up from any of Siri’s holo-mags, but from what he recalls Lady Taria and Chancellor Valorum were quite close.

Scandalously so.

“Then you are to be commended, Lady Taria,” Obi-Wan says. He privately shakes the rags from his head; scandalous gossip means nothing. “Few could have stepped up so easily.”

“You’re too kind, Knight Kenobi,” she says with the tone of a person who’s said it a thousand times to a thousand different people. “I admit the aftermath of the transition was…difficult, but everything turned out for the better. I think few would disagree.”

Considering Palpatine’s latest poll numbers, Obi-Wan is inclined to agree with her. That said, he has to wonder if Sei Taria is in that majority.

Angular eyes flicker every so often to the Chancellor and she holds herself stiffly as if uncomfortable in his presence. It could be that she just dislikes parties, but the Force around her whispers with such deep-seated unease that he’s inclined to say otherwise.

Dislike for the man who displaced her friend, perhaps? Or political differences?

Or — Anakin, two hours late, death smoke in his hair and lies on his tongue — something far more dangerous?

No. You got your answers. Stop trying to find something that isn’t there.

It’s difficult. Almost two weeks of concern and suspicion are hard to stamp out, even with all the facts laid out on the table. He looks closer at the Chancellor, discretely reaching out with the Force, but the man’s signature is as dull and wispy as any other Force-null person. The only thing Obi-Wan gleans is a sense of underlying gratitude and admiration. Whatever Sei Taria has against the man is purely one-sided.

Obi-Wan releases his rising frustrations to the Force. What is he doing? It’s one thing to be concerned for his apprentice, but another to lay aspersions at the Chancellor’s feet. Now he’s just fishing for excuses to continue his dislike.

Trust the Force, younglings, Master Yaddle always said when he was young, for biases make liars of eyes, when the Force tells only truth.

His dislike of politicians aside, the Chancellor has been nothing but understanding. He made a mistake and it says more about Obi-Wan than Palpatine if he doesn’t give him the benefit of the doubt, especially when the Force itself backs him up. Taria is probably just a disgruntled employee.

“Few perhaps,” the Chancellor chuckles, breaking Obi-Wan from his disingenuous thoughts. “Though you wouldn’t know it by how many complaints I get a day.”

Taria’s lips twitch. “Such is the nature of the job, Excellency.”

“She’s correct, Chancellor. Few in terms of trillions can sound very loud.”

Palpatine sighs, long-suffering and tired. “I suppose you’re right. Though I wouldn’t mind if they complained a little quieter.”

“Wouldn’t we all,” a new voice states with rueful agreement. The trio turn to find Prince Bail Organa strolling through the congratulatory crowd towards them.

He’s resplendent in newly-wedded bliss, and bedecked in a yellow and silver brocade tunic. A white sash is tied around his waist and he walks with a spring in his step that is sure to stay for at least a good few weeks. Obi-Wan’s heart skips with the joy he radiates into the Force.

“Your Highness,” Palpatine greets enthusiastically with a bow of his head. “Surely you didn’t leave your bride to speak politics with us.”

Prince Bail laughs as he reaches them. Another breeze drifts in from the balcony, ruffling his hair and giving him a very boyish charm that Breha is sure to enjoy. “Oh no, she took one look at the dessert bar and abandoned me to the masses, I’m afraid.”

“You know where you rank in that hierarchy, I take it,” the Chancellor returns with equal jest.

“I learned early,” Bail agrees, “and I don’t relish spending my wedding night sleeping in the parlor.”

“Well, we’re honored to keep you company until your bride returns.”

“Thank you, Chancellor.” The prince gives a little bow in gratitude and gestures to Obi-Wan and Sei with his flute glass. “Now, I don’t believe I have the pleasure of knowing your companions.”

“Ah, of course! How rude of me. Your Highness, allow me to introduce you to Jedi Knight Obi-Wan Kenobi and my aide, the Lady Sei Taria.”

“Knight Kenobi, Lady Taria, it’s a pleasure.” He smiles, bright and sincere. “I know I met you when you arrived, but it’s difficult to get to know people in such harried circ*mstances. Nevertheless, I’m pleased to meet you both in a more personal capacity.”

“The same can be said for us, Your Highness,” Obi-Wan says with a bow of his own, Taria mirroring him.

“Thank you. I admit, I’ve been looking forward to meeting you, Knight Kenobi. My wife,” and he says the word with all the relish of a man still marveling over the novelty, “was very taken with your apprentice.”

“You have an apprentice, Knight Kenobi?” Taria asks, sounding something other than scripted for the first time since she joined them.

Obi-Wan nods. “Yes. Anakin. He’s twelve, with all the precocious nature of his age.”

Bail grins, showing off a row of shiny white teeth against tan skin. “That’s what Breha said. She got quite the shock when a little boy fell from the balcony with nary a scratch.”

Oh, Anakin. “You have my apologies. Anakin is a bit of a…well, a bit of an adrenaline junkie.”

“Oh no, she loved it,” the prince says with the laughter of a man in love. “Said he helped her polish off an entire batch of custard bread.”

Obi-Wan grimaces. Ah, so it was custard bread. Anakin had failed to mention that. “I recall.”

“Got sugar-high, did he?” The prince asks.

“I think I managed to catch every tenth word out of his mouth before he crashed.”

Laughter at his expense erupts from the two other men, and Taria’s grin almost reaches her eyes.

“Breha did mention his enthusiasm.”

“For sweets, perhaps,” Obi-Wan states, drolly. “Now, if only I could have directed that same energy towards his homework.”

Sei raises a thick brow. “So, like most children?”

Obi-Wan grins, conceding. “Perhaps.”

“I don’t know. Breha said he was very inquisitive. Apparently, he was asking questions left and right.”

“Oh yes, he does that.” More than one Master has come to him to complain about how they can’t get through their lessons because Anakin keeps asking questions. It’s not so bad anymore, but when Anakin first came to the Temple it seemed to happen every other week.

“I think that’s very admirable of him,” Taria states. Her tone is assertive, but no less genuine for it. Perhaps she’s just not good with being put on the spot? “I’ve sat in one too many classes where the students just sit and stare at me as if every word out of my mouth was lulling them to sleep.”

“You’ve taught before?” Obi-Wan asks, more out of politeness than any real interest. She doesn’t seem the type, but then he hardly knows her.

“Mm. In university. I was a graduate student at the time, and you’d think that would make it easier for them to ask questions, but no. Crickets every time.”

“Well if you’d like to teach Anakin I guarantee he’ll talk your ears off.”

She arches a brow. “Is he interested in the harmful economic ramifications of increased partisan politics?”

“Ah…no.”

“Perhaps if you taught engineering,” Bail says. “My wife was very excited when she told me about the podracer he built.”

“He told her about that, did he?” Why is he even asking that? Of course he did.

“In excessive detail, if her amusem*nt was anything to go by. I wouldn’t be surprised if she tried to find a recording of his race.”

“Considering the upset it caused in the podracing circuits, it shouldn’t be hard,” the Chancellor interjects.

Taria turns to him, curious if only not to seem rude. “You watched it, sir?”

“I have to have some hobbies, my lady, lest I get worn down by the job,” Palpatine teases. “But a nine-year-old human winning the Boonta Eve Classic? The racing world was in an uproar for weeks. You couldn’t escape it.”

“I didn’t realize it had made such an impact,” Obi-Wan remarks, doing an admirable job of keeping the confusion off his face.

You said Anakin told you he was a podracer…

A slip of the tongue, says his subconscious with all the bite of the wind.

“Oh yes. A lot of people lost a lot of money on that race.”

“Yourself included?” Bail jokes, taking a sip of his champagne and oblivious to the way Obi-Wan has tensed.

The Chancellor laughs. “Gods, no! Thankfully, my interest extends only to the joy of the race.”

The group titters in the manner of all small-talking jokes, but Obi-Wan has already pulled away. He grabs a flute of champagne from a passing server and brings it to his lips, watching the Chancellor over the rim of the glass.

His smile is all teeth and he gesticulates wildly, voluminous sleeves batting about the air in a flurry. When he laughs, it's full and catching, stretching his wrinkles and highlighting the handsome man he must have been in his youth. His mulberry robes are sumptuous, but tasteful, carefully chosen to fit the occasion without flaunting his wealth. A publicity stunt, and one that will no doubt draw praise from the Holonet.

Beside him, Bail echoes his joy and Sei Taria’s lips twitch as if she knows she’s supposed to smile. Obi-Wan’s gaze slides from Palpatine to her, and, not for the first time, he notices how much closer she stands to the the strange Jedi than the man she’s known for years. Her body leans just slightly away, as if she’s trying to distance herself, but not so much as to make it obvious.

A disgruntled employee, he’d thought, but there’s no anger, no distaste, just wariness, as if she were a child alone in the dark.

You’re thinking too much. Trying to find something that isn’t there.

The Chancellor is a good man. A kind man. Obi-Wan isn’t so petty as to not give him the benefit of the doubt over a mistake, and, from everything he’s seen since, the Chancellor is truly trying to do good by the galaxy.

So why is Sei Taria uncomfortable?

Why is every word out her mouth polite to the point of reticent?

She’s a private person. A politician. You can’t expect them all to be loquacious.

Snow-pierced wind brushes the woman’s dark hair and she shivers, shifting ever closer to Obi-Wan as if he’ll offer some sort of warmth. Her dress brushes against his boots and her breath is loud in his ears. It shouldn’t draw his attention. It shouldn’t concern him. It shouldn’t make him realize that the hair on the back of his neck is standing on end.

He reaches for the Force to try and release his unfounded anxiety and almost recoils. A flash like the flickering of a holo stumbling over old footage greets him. It lasts barely a second, but that’s long enough for Obi-Wan. Tranquil currents — so familiar, so warm — shift like an illusion over a still, diseased lake, and cold fingers reach for his throat as if to strangle him.

Obi-Wan’s heart thunders. He slams back into reality and it’s only rigorous control that keeps the fear off his face. Sei Taria’s dress brushes closer and he watches her like he’s watching Anakin — like he’s seeing the boy disappear into the ballroom all over again. Like he’s watching him walk into their apartment two hours late. Like he’s being shoved out of the Chancellor’s office, his apprentice’s back to him and a whisper like his Master’s voice in his head saying, “Don’t let him go.”

The Chancellor’s voice, kind and jovial and filled with so much good, echoes above the crowd and Obi-Wan stares.

Where did Palpatine take Anakin?

A hangar. There was a speeder. People were smoking. He explained this.

The hangar is large. It’s airy. The smell shouldn’t cling to him like that. Not if he was being doused in engine grease.

You don’t know that. You don’t know how many people were there. You’re fishing. You’re thinking too hard.

Is he? Is he taking something out of context? Is he just unwilling to admit an error in judgement?

But why did Anakin lie?

Did he? Are you sure? His story matches the Chancellor’s.

He did. Even exhausted he would have been excited to tell me about his evening. He would have called me to tell me he was late. He wouldn’t want me to worry.

He’s a child. Children aren’t logical. They do stupid things out of fear of getting punished.

Not Anakin. Never Anakin. He always calls. He never wants to worry me.

As a child, but he’s almost a teenager now. Things change. People grow. He was tired. Even Anakin has a limit. You’re thinking too hard.

Palpatine’s explanations make sense. Obi-Wan knows this. They’re perfectly plausible. He has no reason to suspect anything.

But he remembers the look in Anakin’s eyes when he walked in that night. It wasn’t the look of a boy who just spent the night under the engine of a speeder. He was fishing. Trying to come up with something to say. Lying.

Anakin hates lying. He’s not good at it. He lashes out when he feels threatened, but he doesn’t lie.

Are you sure? You made him cry. How do you know you weren’t the problem?

Obi-Wan thinks he should be able to refute that, that he should have a reason, but he doesn’t. There’s a pressure in his head that won’t abate. His thoughts are jumbled, smothered under a thick blanket of unreliable memories and the feel of the Force, shadowed and diseased, fogging his mind.

Is it diseased? It was barely a flicker, his mind supplies, breathy as whispers on the wind. Just your imagination.

He wants to believe that. He can believe that. It was just a flash, an image caught out of the corner of his mind’s eye. It could be nothing. It could be his own fears manifested in the Force.

"Trust your instincts, Padawan. What does the Force tell you."

The Force is bright, serene — rotting, a cancer growing under the surface — peaceful. It chases away the chill he didn’t know was there, centering him and giving his mind the reprieve it desperately needs.

"Don’t think. Feel."

He’s warm. The Force is a blanket on a cold night and Obi-Wan — has gooseflesh on his arms and ice in his lungs and feet so numb they ache — allows it to sooth him. He breathes in Bail Organa’s joy, Anakin’s excitement, and the bright love that fills the ballroom.

"What do you feel?" His Master asks in his memories. "What do your instincts say?"

Obi-Wan sets his gaze forward. He focuses on the way the prince’s eyes glisten with happiness, the way Sei Taria clutches her wine glass, and the smooth movements of Palpatine’s hands as he talks.

The Chancellor is a slight man — frail with age, but blessed with good health. He’s pale from a life absent of hard labor and stands tall with the privilege of his rank. He’s engaging, speaking as much with his hands as he does with his mouth, and when he smiles you feel compelled to smile back.

The Father of the Galaxy, he called himself. Humble. Caring. Generous.

There’s nothing in his demeanor that would suggest him capable of wrongdoing. Nothing in his voice or his words or his policies.

"What do your instincts say?"

Obi-Wan’s instincts zero in on the way Sei Taria holds herself with durasteel poise; the discomfort that emanates from her in the Force. They zero in on the smoke that clung to Anakin and the lack of engine grease on his clothes. On the comm call and the job offer and his Padawan’s lightsaber still warm in his hands.

They zero in on the Chancellor — on his signature in the Force. Small. Null-soft. Wispy. There’s joy and satisfaction and excitement and everything you would expect of an old man who’s lived such a successful life.

He’s a backwater politician who became Supreme Chancellor of the Republic in under a month.

What do his instincts say?

The Chancellor meets Obi-Wan’s gaze and he grins around the rim of his flute glass. He takes a sip of bubbly champagne, keeping only half an ear on the story Bail is telling. His eyes are blue — lighter than Anakin’s, but no less mesmerizing — and they twinkle with the bright, unremitting light of a man who’s mastered the game of politics.

What do his instincts say? They say that Sheev Palpatine is a very dangerous man.

The moment ends and Palpatine’s attention turns fully back to the prince, but Obi-Wan is done. He needs to get away. He needs to meditate. He needs to find Anakin and get back to the Temple.

He hastily hands off his still-full glass of champagne to a passing server and turns to excuse himself, when his boot catches upon the edge of Sei Taria’s gown.

She doesn’t notice. Her eyes are laser-focused on the conversation, as if hearing something the rest of them are not, and though she remains quiet, she gives off the impression of a person engaged. When they laugh, she laughs. When they smile, so does she. She nods her head at all the correct intervals, and through it all never looks away from the Chancellor.

She’s steady. Observing. Calculating. She takes in everything around her with an ease that is as much practiced as it is natural. Her fingers twitch. Her eyes trail the Chancellor’s every movement. She’s looking for something, her Force signature tense with suspicion, and Obi-Wan has the sudden desire to pull her aside and demand what she knows.

He needs to talk to her. Privately.

Before he can do so, however, Taria shifts. She inches just a bit away from him; closer to the Chancellor than she’s been through the whole conversation, and her eyes, so sharp, are now slightly distant. Too much to drink maybe? She stumbles a bit, even closer to Palpatine than before and Obi-Wan has barely a second to catch hold of her arm before the Force jolts.

He lets go, lightsaber igniting in his hand. Sei falls against the Chancellor in a stumble and someone shouts. Obi-Wan ignores them, the Force screaming a warning. He lifts his blade and blocks the blaster bolt seconds before it enters Sei Taria’s head.

There’s a moment of silence and then the ballroom descends into chaos.

Chapter 7: Deception

Chapter Text

“Behind me!” Obi-Wan shouts. Glass shatters as he shoves the Chancellor and his companions roughly away from the open doors. Blood roars in his ears as the Force ripples in warning. He blocks two bolts as they barrel towards Palpatine, his lightsaber casting a green tint over the man’s stricken face.

“Get behind the pillars!” Another bolt blasts into the wall by Sei’s head, sending the woman into the Chancellor’s arms with a startled scream. The floor is sticky with alcohol and glass crunches under his feet as the Force shouts another warning. Obi-Wan’s wrist flicks, careening the blast into the floor. The three politicians are frozen behind him and Obi-Wan pushes aside his annoyance as he shoves them with the Force to get them moving. He shields them from three more bolts as they tumble over a fallen table into the relative safety of the nearby alcove.

The ballroom is mass of mayhem. Guests and staff alike rush for the doors, as security systems blare overhead. The cacophony makes it difficult to parse out any of the orders from the guards, though they do their best. Alderaan is a pacifistic society; the only reason Obi-Wan was allowed to keep his lightsaber was out of respect for his traditions. The guards, bare of any such weapons and sorely outnumbered, struggle to protect the politicians running to get out of the room.

(The problem with elite society is that they always assume they’re the target. Everyone else is just unfortunate collateral. Put enough people with that mindset in one room and you get messes like this.)

Obi-Wan would have gone to help, but the Force ripples as another blaster bolt aims for the alcove. He deflects it with his lightsaber, leaving a blast mark a few inches into the wall behind his head.

“Knight Kenobi!” Comes a strangled call. The sound of crumbling marble highlights the prince’s panic and Obi-Wan curses under his breath.

This isn’t working. If the target is, as he suspects, the Chancellor, then he can’t leave to find the shooter. Doing so would be as good as abandoning Palpatine to die. Whatever his qualms with the man, they don’t negate the Chancellor’s importance to the galaxy, nor Obi-Wan’s duty to him.

The Jedi retreats to the alcove. He places himself in a spot where he can easily protect the three politicians huddled behind it while still maintaining some cover for himself. It’s a small respite, but enough for him to catch his breath. Quickly, so as not to waste time, he grabs hold of his comm-link and keys in Anakin’s code. It takes a few seconds where he fears the din may have drowned out the call sound, but soon enough Anakin’s frantic voice filters out from the device.

“Master!” Relief echoes into the air, but Obi-Wan has no time to reassure the boy.

“Anakin, where are you?”

There’s a pause and then, “The ballroom, by a fountain. The one with the glass flowers.”

Obi-Wan doesn’t see a fountain with glass flowers anywhere, but the ballroom is big and the struggling crowd blocks everything else from view. He brings the comm-link back to his lips. “How close are you to an exit?”

“Close. I’m near a balcony.” That’s not specific at all, but it doesn’t matter so long as he can get out.

“Good. There’s a shooter on one of the turrets west of the main entrance. Find them, but do not engage.”

“What am I supposed to do if they start shooting again?”

“You find somewhere—“ a blast shatters a vase behind them, “—safe and trail them. We need to know if they have any other weapons." Like a bomb. "Wait for me.”

“Where are you going to be?”

Obi-Wan’s eyes flicker to the terrified man at his side and murmurs, “Getting the Chancellor somewhere safe.” He shuts off the comm and pockets it, trusting Anakin to do his part, and turns to the prince. “Is there a safe room nearby?”

Bail, eyes wide and trembling, shakes his head. “A-a few, but I don’t know of any that are close.”

Obi-Wan curses in his head. “Somewhere far away from the windows then?”

The prince shrugs and helplessly throws out, “The wine cellars?”

“How far are they?”

“A few passages down.”

Not great, but not awful. They should be able to make it there quickly enough for him to get to Anakin before the boy gets impatient. He doesn’t know if the shooter is alone or not, and while Anakin is good, Obi-Wan isn’t willing to bet those odds.

Another blast rockets the nearby pillar, and Obi-Wan just manages to deflect a chunk of stone before it smashes into Sei’s head. Burning ozone tickles Obi-Wan’s nose from the buildup of plasma. Sei’s face is stricken, blood trickling over her eye from the shards of debris that have struck her. She’s trembling, but for someone staring at death, she’s remarkably composed. The urge to speak with her grows, but now is not the time.

“We need to get away from this crowd. If there are more shooters they’re going to be waiting for us.”

“Waiting?” Bail startles. “But then everyone is moving right towards them! Breha—”

“The Chancellor is the target,” Obi-Wan interjects, shortly. “Following will just put them in more danger.”

“You don’t know that!”

For sure? No. But, “No one else is being shot at. I can’t risk putting both them and the Chancellor in additional danger.”

Bail’s lips purse, and he looks geared to fire back when another blast hits the ground at his feet. It kicks up a wave of dust and marble that leaves them all choking into their sleeves, and the Chancellor has to lean against Sei to stay standing.

“I don’t—” Palpatine coughs, “I don’t like it either, but Knight Kenobi is right.” His face is drained of blood — waxy, with wrinkles standing out prominently. “We can’t stay here and I would hate to put others in danger because of me.”

A complicated mix of emotions war across the prince’s face. Devastation, fear, panic — but Obi-Wan can only be impressed as they’re carefully replaced by a mask of duty. It’s good to know that Bail is willing to put others first despite how much Obi-Wan can feel his desire to find his wife. Alderaan will be in good hands if they manage to survive this.

“They will be safer this way,” Obi-Wan reassures, despite how hollow it sounds. He doesn't know for certain if the Chancellor is the target, but the Force is urging him to stay. He just has to trust that Anakin will be his eyes outside. But poor Bail is a terrified, anxious mess — his emotions tangling the Force into nauseating knots, and Obi-wan not so heartless as to not understand. He understands almost too well. Though they are running short on time, he adds, “If you wish, I will not keep you here, Your Highness, Lady Taria. I can protect you from the shooter for as long as it takes to join the crowd, but I cannot bring the Chancellor with you.”

There’s still enough people running that the prince and Sei can dissolve into the group without bringing attention to themselves, but the Chancellor is another matter. It’s a moot point anyway; Sei is already shaking her head before he’s even finished speaking, and Bail simply raises a brow.

“I cannot abandon the Chancellor.”

“Sei—“

“No,” she interjects, cutting Palpatine off. “I am staying.”

Obi-Wan nods, knowing better than to argue. His attention flickers along the peripheral of the mass of guilt and appreciation in the Chancellor’s Force signature. It briefly makes him wonder if the suspicion he’d been getting off her was simply a projection of his own, but shakes it away. That's a thought for later.

“And you won’t be able to find the cellars without me,” the prince adds. He’s resigned but determined, and though his desire to find his bride is palpable, he doesn’t show any hint of backing down. He bears duty well. “I’m just not sure how you plan on us getting there without getting trampled.”

Obi-Wan grimaces. “I was hoping you would know of a back exit.”

“Banking a bit on luck there, Knight Kenobi?” Sei questions, only half-teasing. The other half is very terrified incredulity.

“I don’t believe in luck, my lady. But it was either that or jumping from the balcony.” Of which, he would have definitely had to abandon the prince and Taria. The Chancellor would have had to take precedence.

“What?” Palpatine asks, voice strangled. “I’m sure you know what you’re doing, Master Jedi, but I would really rather my feet stay on the ground if you don’t mind.”

“I’ll do my best—down!” He reaches out with the Force to yank them down, but they’re already on the floor. A series of blasts rocks the pillar at Obi-Wan’s shoulder, sending heavy slats of marble down on their heads. Obi-Wan manages to catch the heaviest pieces, but the smaller ones rain down on them causing waves of dust and pain.

They all let out a series of coughs as their lungs fill with debris. Little droplets of blood trickle to the floor from a gash on Obi-Wan’s forehead. Sei’s lip is split open and her hair is matted from a cut to her hairline, but both Bail and Palpatine are relatively unharmed. Nevertheless, the situation has become increasingly precarious.

“There are servant’s entrances,” Bail chokes, “along the walls. I don’t—” another cough, “—know them well, but if we get close, I should be able to spot one.”

Obi-Wan was hoping for something a little more duracrete, but it’s better than going for any of the main entrances. Even now, they’re clogged with politicians stampeding over each other to escape. He sucks in air through clenched teeth and says, “It’ll have to do. Stay along the walls and keep behind me. Your Highness, let me know when you’ve found one.”

The prince nods and then it’s a mess of crawling and scrambling over fallen stone to move out of the alcove. Obi-Wan’s lightsaber blurs as he blocks a series of shots from the windows. The assailant has moved position, but just barely. Maybe slightly further south of the original position, but to do so while still shooting raises troubling questions.

Is there more than one shooter? Or is the shooter just able to travel that quickly from place to place without stopping their barrage? There are too many people to get a sense of the amount of hostiles, and all he can feel over the incessant warning of danger is a vague direction of attack. It makes his stomach clench. Anakin is good, but Obi-Wan needs to get to him quickly if even one of those possibilities proves true.

They’re behind a buffet table when another blast clips Obi-Wan’s shoulder. He lets out a sharp gasp and loses focus for barely a second, but it’s enough for another shot to get through. It misses Sei’s head by millimeters, but the impact of it hitting the wall sends her careening to the floor. Obi-Wan follows, skidding to stop another blow despite the burning it sends through his arm. Bail and Palpatine have pressed themselves to the floor, hands over their heads as if it will do anything. Through clenched teeth, Obi-Wan opens his mouth to order them all under the table when a clicking sound echoes into his ear.

A hand, old and wrinkled, reaches from a door sliding out from the wall and quickly beckons them forward. “Master Jedi! Quickly, sir! In here.”

Obi-Wan doesn’t think before he’s shoving the Chancellor forward. He blocks another bolt and sends Taria after him, lightsaber singing. He’s immersed in the Force. It fills him, taking his pain and telling him where to move. He loses count of how many shots he’s deflected by time the Prince’s voice shouts, “Knight Kenobi!”

Obi-Wan doesn’t waste time. He leaps into the hidden entrance, deflecting one last shot before the door closes. For a moment, the only sound is that of their own breathing. Obi-Wan’s shoulder pounds with the heat of his injury but he pushes it down, willing the pain into the Force to worry about later.

They’re in a tunnel — evenly lit with little embellishment. There are empty trays and food carts lined along the whitewashed walls, and the floor is clean with the exception of the dust and grime they’ve tracked in. It’s obviously not meant for loitering, but there’s enough space for a few servants to relax and move about without feeling crowded.

The three politicians gasp for breath, shaking as they fold over their knees and lean against the wall for balance. They’re all white as a sheet and blood drips down Taria’s face in tiny rivets. The sound of blaster bolts hitting the wall echoes through the room and it’s only a matter of time before the door fails. They have to keep moving.

“Master Jedi? Are you alright?” Obi-Wan looks up into the cloudy green gaze of an old woman. Her head is a fluffy cloud of white hair and her face is stricken with concern as she stares at his shoulder.

Obi-Wan does a double take. His shoulder does hurt, but the blast doesn’t seem to have hit anything major. He can still move his arm well enough. Fixing it can wait until this mess is resolved.

He smiles, as reassuring as possible. “It’s nothing to be concerned about. A graze.” It’s not, but it doesn’t matter. Better he not scare them over something so minor. “Is everyone else alright?”

There’s a smattering of mumbled affirmatives from the others and the old woman nods. Her face is familiar, but Obi-Wan can’t place it.

“Delea?” The prince pipes up, face staring intently at the maid, and it suddenly clicks that this is the woman Anakin helped with her droid. She’s taller than he remembers. “Have you seen Breha?”

Delea looks confused for a second before her eyes widen and she shakes her head. “No, my prince. The halls are in chaos.”

Bail sags and Taria places a gentle hand on his arm in comfort. She licks away some of the blood from her lip, leaving behind a faded red smudge above her chin, and holds her head high as she assesses their surroundings.

“I’m sure the princess is fine. Right now, we must get the Chancellor to safety.”

If nothing else, Obi-Wan has to admire her fortitude. “Lady Taria is correct. Lady Delea, can you lead us to the cellars? We need somewhere the Chancellor won’t be so easily targeted.”

Delea’s brow furrows. “O-of course, Master Jedi, but I don’t think the cellars will be appropriate. Many of the servants have holed up there and it may not be very secure.”

Shavit. “Is there anywhere else you would suggest? Somewhere close by.”

“I only know of the safe rooms,” Delea ventures, “and none of them are close.”

“Are you sure?”

“The palace has an open-door policy, Master Jedi,” Bail explains. “Even the passages for the staff are easy to enter. You have to understand that Alderaan is a peaceful world. No one expects to need them.”

Sei barks a laugh filled with incredulity. “Might I suggest rectifying that in the future, Your Highness.”

“We’ll take it under advisem*nt.”

“See that you do.”

“Alright,” Obi-Wan interjects. “Lady Delea, can I trust you to escort us to the closest safe room? It would appear to be our best option.”

“Of course.” She nods her head emphatically. “Anything to help.”

“Thank you.” Obi-Wan heaves a sigh. His shoulder twinges, but he focuses on guiding the politicians ahead while he takes the rear.

Few words are exchanged as they traverse the staff halls, all of them too tense to engage in conversation. Obi-Wan pokes at the Force for any hint of danger, but nothing seems forthcoming. It’s as if the Force is suddenly made of molasses. Something shimmers at the edges of his awareness, like a smudge out of the corner of his eye, but no matter how hard he concentrates it remains elusive.

Obi-Wan bites back a scowl. He can analyze it later. First, he has to get the Chancellor to safety. Once that’s done, he’ll be able to focus on the shooter and hopefully get to the bottom of this. Just a little bit longer and everything will be fine.

He studiously ignores the feeling in his gut that says it will be everything but.

There are screams as the crowd surges towards the exits. Upturned tables and shattered glass make hazards of a floor already flooded by broken fountains, and the chandeliers sway dangerously overhead. The guards shout orders that people ignore, and any good Jedi would doubtlessly put aside their own self-interest to help, but Count Dooku has not been a good Jedi in years and rarely has he ever put aside his own self-interests. Instead, he finds himself observing his companion, the Force trembling around the child like a pot about to boil over.

In truth, the boy’s shields are quite good. On any normal Force-sensitive, they might even be considered masterful. It’s almost a shame then, that the boy’s power is so overwhelming as to turn otherwise impressive shields into nothing more than average barriers susceptible to even the slightest changes in the Force. He must have suffered greatly those first few months on Coruscant. The natural shields that protected him on Tatooine would have stood no chance on the city world, and doubtful the Jedi would have had the wherewithal to adjust their teaching methods in order to help him. No, they would have just repeated the same drivel and sent him off with a platitude on patience.

Oh well. Their predictability is his boon.

They’re by a balcony, one of many that line the ballroom, afternoon sunshine mocking the panic that has erupted inside. Politicians shout, trampling over each other, but it’s nothing more than hollow background noise to Dooku. They’re expendable; powerless and easily replaced, and those who aren’t have no need to fear anyway.

The boy stands frozen. His blue eyes are blown wide as he stares at his comm-link, his Master’s voice still echoing in the air. Another person may sympathize. Count Dooku does not.

“Well?” He asks, dry as the champagne still held between his fingers. “Are you just going to stand there or are you going to listen to your Master?”

The boy jolts. Glass shatters and blaster fire rings in the distance, and Dooku takes another sip of his drink. It’s vintage and would be a shame to waste. He stands tall, staring down his nose at the boy as first confusion and then indignation seeps into the Force. Dooku holds back a sneer. Sloppy.

Skywalker glares. “I’m not just standing here,” he states. “I’m trying to figure out what to do.”

“Clearly,” Dooku responds. There’s a twinge deep in the back of his mind, like electricity across copper wire, and he hides a satisfied twitch behind the rim of his glass. “And has it helped you come up with a plan?”

Not so, if the defensive stance he’s taken is any indication. Though Dooku has to give him points for audacity. “Master Obi-Wan said the person was to the west.”

“So you plan on heading west and doing…what exactly?”

“Following them.”

Of course. Impulsive. Arrogant. Clearly a child born of the dregs of society. Dooku’s lip curls. “I see. And if they spot you? If there are more than one? What will you do then?”

The boy shrugs impatiently and Dooku isn’t surprised. His Master’s file is nothing if not thorough. It would almost be humorous if he were something other than Dooku’s problem. Another blaster bolt sings inside, followed by the sound of exploding marble. More screams join the throng, more shouts. A particularly high-pitched wail erupts from a woman bogged down by a gown worth more than some planets. The child worries his lip momentarily, eyes flickering to the chaos. He watches, drinking in the fear, and Dooku can almost see him struggle with himself before he sets his face and marches out onto the balcony

“I don’t know,” the boy says, “but it’ll be easier to figure out once I find them, won’t it? I can’t make plans for things I don’t know.”

A point. One made with all the ignorance of youth. “Indeed. Unfortunately,” Dooku states, unnecessarily elongating the word, “if you don’t plan for everything then you don’t plan for anything, and you’re liable to get both yourself and others killed.”

Not that it matters much to Dooku, but he can’t abide foolishness, of which Skywalker seems to have in abundance. Another jolt of heat simmers in the back of his mind. Heat born of childish indignation. Heat like the memory of another—

“I’m not going to get killed by a stupid blaster,” the Padawan snaps. His feet are already balanced along the banister and he’s poised to jump at any second.

Dooku raises a brow. “And that is exactly the mentality dead Padawans tend to have.”

“So what?” The boy scowls. “We stay here and talk everything out? We don’t have time for that! Obi-Wan is getting shot at!”

And if he gets hit, then clearly someone made a mistake in promoting him. A lone sniper against a Jedi Knight should prove no contest. Not that Dooku expects to be able to explain that to a child of such bluster. “And you’re going to stop it, are you?”

“Maybe!”

“And what will you do if there’s more than one shooter?”

“I…”

“You?”

The boy twitches. “I’ll have you with me!”

Dooku arches an aristocratic brow. “Will you? And if I refuse?”

“You’re a Jedi!”

“Former. I have no lightsaber to protect myself with, nor a blaster. I am also the leader of a Republic world. Are you really going to risk the ruler of a planet because you can’t take a minute to settle a plan?”

Skywalker bristles. “But you have the Force! You were a Jedi. It’s not like I’m asking the princess, and we’re wasting time!” The echo of another shattered window only highlights the fact. It’s followed by more screams and crumbling marble, and the thundering pound of trampling feet.

Irreverent. A Temple child would never be so disrespectful. But his silence seems to be all the answer an uncouth urchin needs. The boy sets his shoulders and stares at the Count, looking down his nose in a way that rankles.

“I’m going,” Skywalker states. “Maybe you’ve forgotten what it means to be a Jedi, but I haven’t. If you want to come, great, but my Master gave me orders to find the shooter and I’m not going to risk people getting hurt by arguing with you.”

Of all the arrogant, rude— but the boy is gone, using the Force to vault himself onto the roof and towards the bounty hunter.

Dooku glares. Acidic heat crawls up his throat like fire seething through a dragon's teeth. Just a moment — a single thought — and he could have that boy quivering on his knees before him, powerless and feeble as the slave he once was. Already the temptation fills him, the intoxicating whisper of the Dark hissing promises of how easy it would be. So what if it angers his Master; it would be over long before he could do anything to stop—

Claws, ice-cold and poison-tipped, spear through his skull. The Dark sharpens, bowing to a greater master as electricity burns across a bond far deeper and thicker than the fledgling copper cord. He staggers, a breathless gasp escaping as he grips the door frame for balance.

“Apprentice,” a voice hisses along the bond. The claws tighten around his throat, invisible and inescapable. He pulls at the collar of his shirt, but it’s useless to try. “Beware your thoughts, Tyranus. They do you no favors.”

“Master-“

“I gave you an order, apprentice. Do you think yourself so mighty yet as to topple me?”

Spots grow along the corners of his eyes as Dooku struggles for air. His ego crumples; the Count is no fool. “N-no, Master.”

“Correct. You are useful, Tyranus, but Maul had his uses as well and I replaced him as easily as I can replace you.”

“Yes, Master.”

“Follow the boy. I will not accept failure.”

“Yes, Master.”

The claws slip away as quickly as they came, leaving Dooku doubled over as he coughs and gasps for breath. Cold fury — a mix of humiliation and fear — wells in his stomach as he buries himself under layers of biting shields. Someday, his blade will pierce his Master’s chest, but Dooku is not so foolish as to think it will be today.

Dooku is powerful — a master of his craft — but he is not Sidious.

Most of the guests have made it out of the ballroom, their fear clouding the Force and sharpening his senses. The Dark, unlike the Light, is an ever hungry beast. It feeds off fear and anger and pain, even from those who cannot touch it, and the galaxy is rife with suffering. If Dooku hated them less, he would pity the Jedi for their blindness. As it is, he can only stand in contempt as they march ever closer towards their inevitable defeat.

Until then, a sneer slides onto his face, his Master’s pet project needs to be tempered correctly. Dooku pays no heed to the destruction behind him as he vaults onto the rooftop with all the grace of a loth-cat. Much as he hates it, the boy (righteous, self-assured, in-tuned to the galaxy as only one other child in his memories—) takes priority.

It’s relatively simple to find him. His presence in the Force is strange, all at once invisible and blinding, as if the burning star at his center is hidden by an illusion of its own brightness. A defense mechanism, perhaps, or simply the way the Force moves through him, but like most defenses it’s easy to bypass once you know how. The Dark hungers for him. It hunts down his burning signature and rips through the nebula that shields him like a vornsker hunting prey.

West, it says, just as Kenobi ordered.

The Count lopes across spires and balconies and ledges, steps silent as he moves with an economy of motion that wastes nothing. The chill mountain air does not bother him, though the angle of the sun would blind any not sensitive to the Force. No doubt the reason the bounty hunter picked it.

But Dooku is sensitive, and he hunts the boy down until he finds him crouched atop a balcony overlooking the shattered remains of the ballroom. Barely two stories below, on a neighboring turret, is a flash of red hair. The bounty hunter is tall with white skin that blends into her surroundings, and a blaster dulled to avoid the sun. She’s steady, unerring, and her signature in the Force is focused.

“We’re going to have to talk about your tactics in the future, young Padawan,” Dooku says as he lands beside the boy.

There’s no surprise, doubtless Skywalker sensed his approach, but his lips curl into a self-satisfied smirk that curdles in Dooku’s gut. Insolent child. Dooku is here for no other reason than his Master’s orders; not the condemnation of a boy too confident for his own good.

Eyes still on the bounty hunter, the boy says, “Didn’t think you were sticking around for the future. You being such an important person and all.”

"Don’t go getting all high and mighty on me, Master…"

Dooku twitches. ”If your recklessness doesn’t get us killed, we’ll see.” Not that he has much of a choice.

Skywalker’s smirk grows, but he doesn’t respond. Instead, he nudges his head in the direction of the bounty hunter. “She has a target. She keeps stopping and moving around to aim.”

“Not someone looking to sow chaos then.”

“No. And whoever she’s after isn’t following the crowd.” He points his finger south, both the direction the guests are evacuating and the opposite of the hunter’s position.

“I see. The Chancellor, perhaps, if your Master’s words are to be considered.”

Dooku watches closely as Skywalker’s fingers curl against the hilt of his lightsaber. Tight, white-knuckled — already he’s attached enough to the man to strike. Dooku raises a brow. Interesting.

A shot goes off, piercing in the silence of the spires, and the boy jolts as if to leap down and cut the blaster in two. Dooku swiftly wraps his fingers tightly around the boy’s wrist. Skywalker swivels, an ugly glare on his face, but Dooku is not cowed. He knows how to deal with bull-headed children.

“I do believe,” he drawls, “that your Master gave you an order.”

“But she’s shooting people! And if she’s really targeting the Chancellor—"

“Conjecture.”

“—then don’t I have a responsibility to protect him? Obi-Wan would want me to stop her.”

“And if that were the case, he would have said so. He did not.” Dooku’s hand clenches painfully round the boy’s wrist. “Your Master clearly possesses information you do not and you do yourself no favors with your recklessness.”

The boy wrenches back his hand. “It’s not reckless if it works.”

“And you are so certain that it will?”

The boy’s nose flairs, incensed and too confident by half. “Yes,” he states. His desire to play hero will get him killed someday.

"Regretful we are, Master Dooku to inform you—"

Dooku’s lips purse. If the boy dies, logic supplies, that’s just less competition, and while this is true, Anakin Skywalker really is no competition at all. Dooku knows the Sith. He knows his Master, despite Sidious’ claims to the contrary.

Tyranus is not Maul. Maul was an attack dog. Tyranus is an apprentice. Skywalker may be able to replace a beast, but it is Tyranus who will inherit the leash.

And a loyal pet is better than a broken one.

It is with calculation that he assesses the boy, as if measuring his worth and finding something other than power to be exploited. Let Skywalker think he believes in him. Let him think he trusts him.

The boy aches for approval. Let him think he has it.

With the nod of a king to an executioner, Dooku lets go. “Then let’s hope your skills live up to your confidence.”

Skywalker straightens, eyes shining. “They do.”

The boy leaps from the balcony, using the Force to propel himself down towards the hunter, and Dooku’s gaze trails after him. He wonders, briefly, how it is Qui-Gon can haunt him so profoundly through a child before deciding it doesn’t matter.

Qui-Gon is dead and whatever light remained died with him. All that’s left is the clean-up.

Anakin knows something is wrong the instant the bounty hunter puts away her slugthrower. It’s heavily modified, no doubt by her, and useless in close combat, but the dual pistols at her sides are not. They hang untouched, sitting in their holsters for reasons Anakin can’t determine. The hunter smiles at him, teeth sharp like bones sticking out of the desert sands and as vicious as the sycks that stalk them. Her eyes highlight on his lightsaber and a shiver runs down his spine. It’s like he’s standing atop a cliff staring down into the abyss.

He’s not sure where he went wrong, exactly. It might have been somewhere between failing to cut her rifle in half and letting her stand up. It might not. Either way, it hardly matters now. He keeps his lightsaber trained on her, heart pounding. The Force is a churning mess and the way she looks at him…

He lunges. The hum of his lightsaber fills the air as he swings at her side. It cleaves through strands of red hair, but she dodges, dancing across the marble on nimble feet. It’s like she’s made of air and Anakin grits his teeth in an effort to stem his frustration. She’s a bounty hunter. Skilled, but still just a bounty hunter.

Another slash, this one stronger than the last, is aimed at her arms. The powerful force of Djem So catches her off guard for a second, but it doesn’t last. He’s only been practicing with the style for a short while and his attacks just aren’t enough to keep her down. She flips over the saber to land gracefully atop the banister, a smirk on her lips. Scowling, Anakin pivots, lightsaber arching towards her leg. It almost connects, but she twists again, jumping to grab hold of the crevices and launching herself onto the turret roof. The Force is a cracking cold; a thunderstorm fit to erupt as his eyes narrow into a glare.

She grins, hateful and mocking. “Little Jedi just learning, is he? First time without your Master?”

“Shut up,” Anakin growls.

“How cute. Hasn’t Master told you not to bite off more than you can chew?”

“I can handle a bounty hunter.”

“Can you?” Shadows shift behind her eyes as she plucks one of the pistols from their holster. The Force presses down on him. For the first time, Anakin notices just how tense the Force has become. Hatred pours from her, a heavy suffocation like standing under the Twins at double noon. He doesn’t even notice his hands shaking until he has to adjust his grip on his lightsaber.

What is wrong with him? She’s just a bounty hunter.

The blaster goes off and Anakin quickly brings his lightsaber up to block. Two more bolts follow, then a third, and he blocks them all with little effort. Internally, he smirks. A bounty hunter. She’s just—

He jerks to the side, a bolt from her second pistol skimming his cheek. A sting like the crack of a whip strikes his face, but he shakes it off and lurches as she fires another shot. He dodges, blocks. One more, two. Again and again he flicks his wrist in an effort to deflect the onslaught. Both blasters are out now, with twice the speed and firepower.

His heart pounds as he’s forced back. Deflected bolts dig up marble and precious metals, creating cracks in the ground that he struggles not to trip over. Every effort to get closer is waylaid by his need to stay on the defense. He growls low in his throat. The lightsaber in his hand is slick despite the chill in the air, and the Force screams in his ear with every shot, hijacking his concentration.

A bounty hunter. A bounty hunter. How is he struggling this much against a kriffing bounty hunter? He’s the best duelist in his class. Sith Hells, he’s the best duelist in some of the upper classes, too. He’s fought off wild animals and defended politicians and killed—

Anakin jerks. White bulbous eyes and a melted face flash in front of him, allowing a bolt through his defenses. It clips him on the arm and he staggers back. A sharp inhalation through clenched teeth is all he allows himself as more shots head his way and he’s forced to ignore the pain in favor of defending himself.

Her shots are precise and quick. They shower down on him as the hunter stands on the turret with a predatory gleam. She’s enjoying this. This isn’t a hit. She’s not struggling to get back to her target. The intense, almost hateful glee on her face is directed purely at him. His heart skips a beat.

Why? Why is she looking at him like that? He deflects another shot, then another. His breath comes in ragged bursts, but he can’t look away. The Force is a distant roaring in his ears, like the sound of a simoom from deep inside a cave. His lightsaber twists on instinct, but no longer does he pay attention to it. She has his full attention. The hunter and her hate.

He’s felt worse, but only once. From a monster with a red lightsaber. The Force pounds on him. He’s being buried under it — under its screams and cries and rage. She’s not cold, not dark; she’s a burning husk of pain and anger that threatens to turn everything around her to ash, and his shields aren’t enough. He can’t keep her out. Why can’t he keep her out? She’s a bounty hunter! She’s null! She’s—

Anakin launches backwards into a roll. What the actual—! Debris cuts into his robes, but he doesn’t care as he struggles to block the new lightsaber from cutting through his flesh. Its red hue almost blinds him as she presses down. His arms shake with the effort of holding her back, his blue blade hissing against hers.

She’s stronger than he is. Stronger and taller, with no injuries to hold her back. She presses even harder, their crossed sabers inching closer and closer to his face. He can smell the ozone under his nose. A few stray hairs burn from the heat. Her teeth bleed red from the tint of her saber, looking more and more like a beast who’s caught their prey.

Heart thundering, Anakin reaches out with the Force, catching the largest chunk of marble he can find and chucking it at her. It comes rushing, fueled by his desperation, and she’s forced to pull away in order to dodge. Anakin immediately rolls back and flips onto his feet. He gasps for breath as the Force blares. But as if his own use of telekinesis was a switch, the hunter reaches out to fling more debris at his head. He twists and dodges, lightsaber singing through the air to slice some of the bigger pieces in two.

A large part of the balcony cracks, forcing Anakin into a stumble as he hurries away. He manages to evade the damage just in time before a section of the banister collapses. Pieces of stone and sleek metal tumble to the ground, and Anakin can only hope no one is below them before she’s on him once more.

He twists, pulling up his lightsaber to catch hers. The Force flows through him, drowning out all other sounds as he blocks and twists and strikes. He kicks out with his foot, catching her in the stomach and sending her back with a wince. A vicious smile twists across his features as she scowls. Finally, he’s got her.

Without allowing himself to slow down, he lunges forward to meet her. Now on the offensive, Anakin finds himself pushing her back. He’s still fairly small, especially in comparison, but he’s skilled enough at augmenting his strength with the Force to work it to his advantage. She glowers at him, face bleeding with the color of her lightsaber.

He flashes his own teeth. “Told you I could handle a bounty hunter.”

“We’ll see,” she hisses back, and then the air is being kicked out his lungs as her foot makes contact with his chest.

He catches himself with his palm and flips onto his feet, bringing his saber up just in time to deflect her own. Her strikes are quick and powerful, though they lack the precision she had with her blasters. Clearly, she uses them more. The blasters are her weapons of choice. The lightsaber…that’s a calling card.

That’s specific.

He has no time to ponder it as she continues to push him back. They match each other, their lightsabers crackling with each strike. Her style is similar to his own, but she clearly has more experience and Anakin is forced to stay on the defensive. It rankles; as if he’s too weak to get a foothold against a woman he should have easily defeated. But this isn’t like the training droids, nor is it like sparring in the Temple. Whoever taught her did not instill the same rules his Master taught him. Either that, or she just chooses to ignore them.

Anakin is inclined to believe the latter.

Another backstep, two, and suddenly there is nowhere else to go. The banister digs painfully into his spine as she presses down on him. His back arches against it and the cold air of the mountains pierces his flesh. His teeth sting from the chill as his arms shake.

“Little Jedi should know better than to underestimate an opponent. You never know who you might end up fighting.” Her eyes flash with contempt. “And I’ve been killing Jedi for as long as you’ve been alive.”

What?

A pressure, not unlike that of a hand, wraps around his throat and Anakin gags. He struggles to keep his lightsaber up, but he can’t do both. His throat closes. Invisible nails dig into his skin and black spots dance across his vision.

How is this possible? How could this happen? She’s a bounty hunter. This isn’t right. This isn’t how the Force works. It doesn’t — white eyes, melted face — you can’t—

Something whistles in his ear, and the hand is gone. Anakin chokes. He gasps for air, lightsaber falling from his grasp as his hands fly to his throat. Air, air, glorious air. He takes in a deep breath of biting oxygen, relishing it as it coats his throat and fills his lungs. The pressure from the banister recedes as he pulls away to slide down on his hands and knees. Debris digs into his palms, but he doesn’t care. Pain is good. Pain means he’s alive.

But how? Anakin wrenches his head up, eyes frantically flickering about for the hunter. At first, he sees nothing, but then the black spots fade and his eyes widen. In front of him, standing like a guardian spirit, is Count Dooku. The man is etched with calm derision, back straight and the picture of sophistication. He’s just about the only thing not covered in a fine layer of dust, and Anakin is half convinced that even if he rolled around on the floor for a few seconds he’d still stand up clean as a whistle.

The bounty hunter is suspended in the air, her lightsaber deactivated on the ground. Her eyes are narrowed into a glare as she struggles against the Force holding her. Anakin can only watch transfixed as the Count keeps her in place.

“Aurra Sing,” Dooku says mildly, as if greeting an old friend. “I had wondered if that was you. Not many bounty hunters of your talents roaming around.”

She scowls. “Not many nobles of yours.”

“I suppose not. But then, I’m not the one walking around crashing weddings.” His eyes flicker to Anakin. “Or attacking young Padawans.”

A laugh, scathing and bitter, erupts from her mouth, but Anakin can’t tell what she finds so funny. “Is that what you call it? I’m pretty sure he attacked me first. I was just defending myself.”

“Defending yourself. With a lightsaber you should not have. My, my, Master Kuro would be most displeased.”

Anger, the sharp burning kind that splices Anakin’s head open, rages from her as she hisses, “If that was meant to hurt me, I’m sorry to disappoint. And if the esteemed Master Kuro feels displeased, all the better. I hope she chokes on it.”

“Yes, that would be your sentiment,” Dooku states, dryly. Something rattles against the marble. “Nevertheless, I have it on reasonable authority that you’ve been responsible for the deaths of several Jedi over the years. While I may no longer belong to the Order, I still consider many of them family. Make no mistake, I will take great pleasure in turning you over to the authorities.”

“Authorities?” She questions, lightly as if pondering the word. “How gracious of you, but I’m afraid I’ll have to decline. Too much to do, you see.”

“You mistake me. That wasn’t a choice.”

“Maybe not.” The rattling grows louder. “Or maybe I just don't care.”

With a sudden hum, the white marble is flooded with red as her lightsaber ignites and flies towards the Count. Anakin lets out a strangled warning, but the man has already noticed it. He releases his grip on Sing and flips backwards, landing in a light crouch millimeters from Anakin. Without missing a beat, Sing falls and flings herself onto the banister, catching the weapon as it flies towards her. She disengages it and slips it back into a pouch behind her back with a smile.

“It’s been fun, Master Dooku, but I have a job to do. As for you Skywalker, well, maybe you should have stayed on the racetrack. Slaves and Jedi don’t have a very good track record.”

Slave. It stings like a slap to the face. Her teeth glint like sun glare off a blaster — like a memory sparking in his head. The Boonta Eve. The race. She was there. She knows who he is. What he was. And Dooku — his Grandmaster, proper, upright and noble — knows now too. He wants to scream. He wants to duck his head in shame. His face is red with anger, his fingers pale with how tightly they fold against his palms.

Aurra Sing cackles, as if knowing exactly what she’s caused, but doesn’t stay to gloat. Before Anakin can react, she tilts her body back and falls. The wind whistles with her descent, and even though he wishes for her to end up a splattered mess on the ground, he knows better. She’ll get away and it’s all his fault.

Blood is still pounding in his ears when Dooku turns to him and raises a brow. He looks even more like a surveyor now and it just increases Anakin’s shame. He knows. He knows and it’s all her fault and now he’ll never want to help Anakin again because men like Dooku don’t help jumped up slave boys like—

“Well, aren’t you going to follow her?”

Anakin startles. “What?”

“Follow her. Her target is still alive, and she doesn’t have much of a reputation for giving up.”

“But…I lost.” What good is he to anyone if he can’t beat one bounty hunter?

“You did. Though, I admit, for someone severely lacking in any form of planning, you managed to hold your own quite well. Aurra Sing has killed far more experienced Jedi than you.”

That was…well, not nice to know, but Anakin thinks it might actually be a compliment. “You still had to save me.”

Dooku nods. “I did, but you lasted longer than most. Even without me, I see no reason why you wouldn’t have been able to escape. I doubt you could have subdued her, but escape was still possible.”

Escape. He means run away. Anakin’s nose twists and his distaste must show on his face because Count Dooku clicks his tongue with a tsk. “Leaving to fight another day is not a weakness, Padawan. She surprised you this time. Now that you’re aware of her abilities it will be far more difficult for her to surprise you again.”

“I could have done better.” If he’d listened. If he’d been faster. Or stronger.

“Perhaps. Perhaps not. It doesn’t matter now. She’s escaped and I do believe your Master still gave you an order, correct?”

Order? What—

“Kriff!” He doesn’t even think as he strides forwards, past the Count and over towards the ledge where she disappeared. There’s no sign of her, but Anakin didn’t expect there to be. Now that he knows she’s Force-sensitive, it’s much easier to fine-tune his senses to her. Whereas before Sing was drowned out by the panicking onslaught of the wedding guests, now that he knows her signature she’s much easier to pinpoint.

It’s one thing to lose to her. It’s another thing to let down Obi-Wan.

He places one foot on the ledge and prepares to jump, but something in the Force has him turning his head to his Grandmaster instead. Anakin doesn’t know if the man wants anything to do with him anymore, but, “I know you’re not a Jedi anymore and I know I messed up and—"

“The point, Padawan,” the man scolds, though it doesn’t sound nearly as derisive as before.

Anakin swallows. “She’s fast and strong and I don’t know if Obi-Wan can help, but you’re here, so…”

Dooku sighs. He shakes his head as if asking the Force what he did to deserve this before looking Anakin in the eye. “We’re going to work on this sentence problem you seem to have. Also, your complete lack of planning.”

“So…?”

“Get a move on, Padawan. You don’t want her to escape entirely.”

A smile, small and tenuous and not sure where he stands with this man, stitches itself across Anakin’s face. He ducks his head and as he launches himself from the banister, he hears, “Reckless. Completely reckless.”

The smile widens as he feels his Grandmaster follow, and they fall the rest of the way together.

The walk to the bunker is as long as Delea warned. While better for the overall safety of the Chancellor, Obi-Wan’s own anxieties towards his apprentice make each step feel like two. Anakin is not the sit and wait type. The longer it takes to get Palpatine to safety, the shorter his apprentice’s fuse will grow and the more likely he’ll be to make rash decisions.

Already Obi-Wan can feel him over their bond, itching with impatience. He does the best he can to send some sort of reassurance to the boy, but the Force is chaotic, muddied, and every attempt ends in a whisper. It’s concerning, if not entirely unusual. Force bonds are difficult and theirs is still growing.

Not that it helps Obi-Wan’s nerves.

Thankfully, his own journey hasn’t seen much action since they left the ballroom. The servants halls are empty of most people, all of them either holed up in some other part of the palace or mingled with the crowd of escaping politicians, and the only problem of note is the clutter of abandoned items.

The group hurries along quickly with only the occasional hushed whisper or instruction from Delea. She makes a few wrong turns that has them spinning in circles, but she’s old and Obi-Wan can’t fault her for her mistakes, despite how frustrating it becomes. She leads them on, down narrow staircases and open hallways. Some parts of the paneling look old and discolored, and Bail is quick to point out the history of wars and destruction etched in their crevices. A nervous habit, Obi-Wan thinks, though the prince remains mostly silent, hands pressing to the dual metal bands of his middle fingers.

Obi-Wan keeps most of his attention on Palpatine. The old man is shaking, his fear mingling with the others’ in the Force so deeply Obi-Wan has to constantly work to push it aside in an effort to keep his attention outwards. Occasionally, the man will make a few whispered comments, but otherwise he shuffles beside the prince with halting, terrified steps.

Sei drags herself beside the Jedi. She probably would have trailed behind if not for Obi-Wan’s insistence on keeping everyone within sight. Her dress is a torn mess, blood trailing her leg from a half-hidden wound. If they had the time, Obi-Wan would have insisted on bandaging it, but the metaphorical chrono is ticking and it doesn’t look deep enough to warrant stopping. They can bandage it once they reach the bunker.

His own injuries pulse with heat. The shot to his shoulder is the worst offender, and even with the Force siphoning much of the pain he can still feel the heaviness as his arm grows weaker. It shouldn’t impede his fighting too much, but he’s careful to keep it as still as possible so as not to damage it further. Master Che would not be pleased if he returned with preventable nerve damage.

They make another turn into a dead end and Delea curses under her breath. Bail’s eyes widen slightly, no doubt unused to hearing such words from servants, but he makes no rebuke and only says, “It’s alright, Delea. We’ll just go back to the last hall. I think I can recall some of the way.”

Delea bows her head, neck reddening. Obi-Wan can feel her irritation rising, but he brushes it off. A maid cursing in front of her prince must be highly embarrassing no matter the kindness of the response.

“Yes, my prince. My apologies.”

“It’s alright,” the prince stresses again with a strained smile. Obviously, it isn’t alright, but best not to hurt the poor woman.

They shuffle about for a minute and work their way back through the old passageways until they come back to the last fork. A few childish paintings line the walls, no doubt from the staff’s children, and they turn into a hall lined with more windows than is comfortable.

Obi-Wan flexes his fingers. His lightsaber stays at the ready in the event of an attack. This hallway is narrower; there’s just enough room for two people to walk side-by-side, and the Chancellor is a little too far ahead for his comfort. He moves forward a little faster, but his foot catches on the hem of Lady Taria’s dress and the woman lets out a sharp intake of breath as it jostles her injuries.

The Jedi curses under his breath. “I’m so sorry, here let me—"

“No, no, it’s fine,” she says, through clenched teeth. Her face is twisted, but she pushes through it quickly and hesitantly puts one foot in front of the other. It doesn’t work.

Another hiss escapes her, and Obi-Wan reaches out with his uninjured arm to help. “Here, grab onto me. I’d offer to rest, but…“

She nods. “We’re in a rush. I know.”

“Yes, unfortunately.” Obi-Wan chances a glance towards the Chancellor, who’s paused further ahead with Bail and Delea. Their faces are etched with concern and the lingering fear of danger, but they relax somewhat as Taria offers them a weak smile.

She grabs hold of his arm and Obi-Wan quickly exchanges his lightsaber into his other hand. Not ideal, but for the moment it works. He doesn’t sense any imminent danger and his bond with Anakin is silent. Sei’s fingers clench tightly around his robes, white knuckled and delicate. With some effort and a slower pace, they shuffle on, the rest of the group taking that as their cue to continue moving.

They walk for a few more minutes through another pair of hallways and then down a long flight of stairs. The windows are small and most of the doors are locked, a byproduct of the palace’s security system. Those that are open are barely more than closets. Even if he wanted to stash the Chancellor in one of them, it wouldn’t be secure and it’s unlikely the man would listen. In his experience, politicians and broom closets don’t mix.

Sei stumbles. “Sorry,” she murmurs, so softly Obi-Wan barely hears her.

“Don’t apologize. You’re injured. I dare say many would not have fared as well.”

She huffs sardonically. “Then I’d question the people you’ve met.”

“Politicians mostly.”

“Ah, well that explains it. I know a fair few who would have had you carry them.”

“As do I. Though I hope that doesn’t deter you from asking the same should you need it.”

She waves him off, hobbling a bit. “No. I grew up on the other side of the spaceport, if you catch my drift. Now, if I’d lost the leg, perhaps, but then I doubt we’d be in this situation in the first place.”

Obi-Wan huffs in amusem*nt. “No, that would be an entirely different set of circ*mstances. Just know that if you do need it, I’m not averse to carrying you.”

“And I thank you for that, but I can manage. I’ve dealt with worse.”

“In your line of work?”

“Does that surprise you? I’ve worked for two Chancellors, Knight Kenobi, both of whom seem determined to drive me into an early grave.”

“I was unaware the Chancellor’s life was in such constant danger,” Obi-Wan says, though the lilt in his tone is undoubtedly a question.

“Finis, most definitely,” she says, eyes distant and somber. “He didn’t deserve it, of course. He tried, but well, a Supreme Chancellor has to do more than try. They have to succeed. And being his aide, I was much easier to get to than he was.”

“Ah.”

“Yes,” she agrees. “As for Chancellor Palpatine,” her face twists, something dark and almost afraid flitting across the sharpness of her cheeks, and she swallows. “He’s a politician. Things happen.”

Obi-Wan’s eyes narrow. Assassination attempts on Valorum were, unfortunately, rather common, but Obi-Wan keeps up with the news and he knows there have been no such attempts on Palpatine in the almost three years he’s been in office. Threats, sure, but nothing that ever amounted to much. He leans closer to her, eyes flickering only once in Palpatine’s direction.

Far enough away not to overhear, but close enough to protect should the need arise. Good.

“Lady Taria,” he whispers and her gaze sharpens. “I hope you don’t take this as a presumption on my part, but I have noticed you do not seem to care much for the Chancellor.”

Face stony, she lifts her chin and says, “I’m not sure what you thought you saw, Knight Kenobi, but I can assure you that is not the case. The Chancellor is a good man.”

The Force ripples and Obi-Wan’s mouth thins. She’s lying. “Forgive me, my lady, but I don’t remember saying he was not. That you feel the need to say as such only tells me otherwise.”

“Then I apologize for the insinuation, which I must insist is incorrect. The Chancellor and I may disagree on certain policies, but I have nothing against him personally.”

“And I would believe you if the Force did not tell me otherwise.”

“The Force,” she murmurs. “I have heard much about your Force, Master Jedi, but I deal with facts. Tangibility. The Force may mean something to you, but it does not to me. If it calls me a liar, then I have every reason to call it a liar in return.”

Obi-Wan tenses. “The Force does not lie, Lady Taria.”

“Perhaps not, but people do. How do I know it is not you who is the liar, Knight Kenobi?”

“I suppose you just have to take my word for it.”

“I am a politician; your word means very little.”

“Ah, but I am not a politician.”

“No, you are a Jedi,” she says, softly as if that means something else to her than it does to him. “And what do any of us mere mortals know of you?”

Obi-Wan’s brow furrows. “We are not gods, my lady.”

Her lips twist, sardonic. “Perhaps not, but the tales of your exploits can certainly make it appear so. I know of your skills, sir Knight. Compulsion, levitation, precognition. For those of us on the outside, you can see how such abilities may give us pause, even fear.”

“That is not our intention—that is, we are as mortal as you, Lady Taria. If we weren’t—“ he shakes off the feeling of dead weight in his arms, of long hair threading through his fingers. He clears his throat. “Our connection to the Force grants us abilities, it’s true. But we are taught young how to harness them for the betterment of those we serve.”

“And who decides the betterment? The one you serve, or yourself? After all, if the Force is speaking to you, can you not say that you know best?”

“No, and no true Jedi would ever say as such. Nor would they ever attempt to override another’s autonomy. Reason with them maybe, but not override them.”

“Truly?” A flash of intrigue crosses her face, as if she just slid another piece of a particularly difficult puzzle into place. “And if they did? What would you call that?”

Confusion wars with concern in Obi-Wan’s mind. “I would call that a severe breach of the Code, and ask who you might have seen do such a thing?” Her shoulders tense and the shadow blackens her eyes. It’s unsettling and the cold pit in Obi-Wan’s stomach makes an unwelcome return. “Lady Taria?”

She turns away. “My apologies, Knight Kenobi. You hear many stories in the Senate. Not many of them true. It was unbecoming of me to believe such of those who have defended the Republic so staunchly.”

Slowly, and with not a small amount of suspicion, Obi-Wan nods. “I accept your apology, my lady. And allow me to extend you the same courtesy. It was not my intention to insult your integrity.”

“Thank you.”

“That said, I’m afraid I really must persist. Your actions in the ballroom, for the most part, did little to convince me of your appreciation for the Chancellor.”

She glares. “I will not speak ill of him, Knight Kenobi.”

“And I would not ask you to if it were not important, but...“

She raises an eyebrow. It’s not demeaning; rather he gets the impression that she’s analyzing him, searching for a reason for why she should tell him anything. “But?” She questions after a moment of silence.

Obi-Wan takes a deep breath. His eyes flicker again to Palpatine, just to be safe, and breathes, “I have reason to believe the Chancellor may be involved in some rather…questionable activities.”

“Questionable activities?”

Obi-Wan’s lips purse. “I have no proof beyond vague guesses and intuition, but…” he takes in another breath. The Force is tense, his bond with Anakin taut as a bowstring, and the hair on his arms stand on end. “My apprentice is twelve years old. Recently, the Chancellor has taken a great deal of interest in him. There are reasonable explanations, of course—"

“But you don’t believe them,” she finishes for him. Her gaze is intense, as if asking if he really wants an answer. Obi-Wan swallows down the lump in his throat and nods.

“I don’t. The Force says all is well, but I can’t help feeling something is wrong.“

Sei waves her free hand. “Like I said, Knight Kenobi, I know little of your Force. But I do understand people. Particularly people with children.” Her eyes slide from him to the Chancellor and he follows that gaze like tracking a shadow in the night. Palpatine looks so frail, swamped in robes made for stronger men. Anyone looking would think he couldn't hurt a fly. The grip on Obi-Wan's robes tighten. “If your instincts say something is amiss, I think you would do well to listen.”

He stiffens to a stop and Sei hisses at the sudden change of pace. “Lady Taria, what—"

“Delea?” The Prince’s voice interrupts, far louder than anything they’ve heard since leaving the ballroom, and Obi-Wan’s attention switches to the lines of Bail’s brow. “Are you alright?”

The maid stops, eyes just slightly wide as she looks at the man. Hesitantly, she nods, “Y-yes, Your Highness. Of course. Why?”

The lines deepen and Bail shakes off her question with a grin that’s too bright to be real. “No, no, you just looked a little pale. I wanted to make sure you weren’t injured.”

She relaxes, green eyes softening. “No injuries, Your Highness. My only ailment is age.”

“Oh, what I wouldn’t give for youth,” Palpatine interjects in an obvious bid for levity.

Delea smiles politely. “Wouldn’t we all? Have no fear though, Your Excellency, the bunker isn't far. We can rest then.”

“Excellent. I do look forward to sitting down.”

“As do I,” Bail says, but Obi-Wan doesn’t miss how it drifts off his tongue like a man pondering a mystery. The prince trails Delea’s form as she turns around and continues leading them down the path, eyes narrowing considerably once out of her and the Chancellor’s line of sight.

Carefully, so as not to be obvious, Bail slows his pace until he’s walking almost level with Obi-Wan and Sei. There’s not enough room for them to get too close and Lady Taria still has a tight grip on his arm, but Obi-Wan leans forward as far as he dares for the Prince to hedge back and whisper in his ear, “Something’s wrong.”

Confused, Obi-Wan tilts his head, silently asking for the prince to elaborate. Bail glances once to the hobbling maid, and murmurs, “This isn’t the way to the bunker.”

“What?” Sei hisses from his side and they stiffen. It’s almost too loud in the silence of the hallway, but neither the maid nor the Chancellor make any indication of having overheard.

Slowly, they relax and Obi-Wan leans in again. “What do you mean?” He asks, eyes on the old woman.

“Before the wedding, security had me memorize every safe room in the palace,” Bail whispers. “I admit I don’t remember all of them, but I know enough. The bunker is at least two floors up. This hall leads to a landing pad used by the guards.”

“Are you sure?” Obi-Wan stresses. “There could be another you don’t remember.”

“Not here. There used to be one per floor, but most of them were refurbished during the Transition. I wouldn’t have thought much of it — most of these hallways still look the same — but there’s a garden outside these windows. We’re too far down.”

Kriff. “We’re being corralled.”

Bail’s lips thin in agreement. “And also…” he trails off.

“Also?” Sei urges.

“Delea helped raise Breha. She’s as dear to my wife as family and yet she hasn’t asked after her once.”

“She did say she hadn’t heard from the princess,” Sei points out, only for Bail to shake his head.

“It doesn’t matter. Delea would be fretting. She’d be worrying about her heart and if she was cold and if she was safe. She would have said something by now.”

“And she hasn’t,” Obi-Wan states.

Bail shakes his head. “No.” He swivels his head to bore dark eyes into Obi-Wan’s own. “Knight Kenobi, I don’t know what is going on here, but I know Delea and that is not her.”

“It could be the situation.”

“It isn’t.”

Obi-Wan opens his mouth to question that claim — plenty of people react strangely to intense situations and Bail doesn’t have the Force to aid him — when a flash of panic erupts over his bond with Anakin. It’s intense, a quick rush of heat and fear before the bond closes off completely and Obi-Wan pulls up short.

He ignores the pained gasp from Sei and the stumble from Bail, and reaches out to his apprentice.

“Anakin? Anakin!” But the bond remains silent. The only thing that gets through are the faintest echoes of adrenaline and surprise. Kriff. Either Anakin got caught or he got impatient. Or both. Either way, he’s run out of time.

Without giving himself time to think, he extracts himself from Sei’s hold and, with one hand on her back, whispers to Bail, “Your Highness, I need you to stay with Lady Taria. Don’t make any sign that anything has changed. I’m going to direct the Chancellor back to you and try and get some answers out of our guide. Should anything happen, I need you to find an empty room and wait for me.”

Bail’s face slackens with alarm. “B-But Knight Kenobi, I don’t—"

“Your Highness, I just need you to trust me on this. Can you do that?”

“Of course, but what—"

“Chancellor!” Obi-Wan lurches forward, leaving Bail floundering to grasp hold of Lady Taria. Both Palpatine and Delea pull up short, questions in their eyes. Obi-Wan affects the most relaxed expression he can manage and moves to catch the Chancellor’s shoulder. “I don’t wish to cause any alarm, but I think it best you stayed behind me.”

Palpatine’s brow furrows. “Is everything alright?”

“I’m not sure.” He contorts his face into one he hopes conveys ‘mysterious Jedi weirdness’ and says, “There’s something elusive ahead. I would feel better if you allowed me to remain in front.”

The Chancellor’s eyes widen and his shoulders hunch slightly in what Obi-Wan can only assume is trepidation. “Oh. I see. I’m not sure I understand, but if you insist…”

“I do.” He ushers the Chancellor back towards Bail and Sei with perhaps a little more force than is necessary, but if pressed would happily chalk it up to the urgency of the situation. Once the man has gotten far enough back, Obi-Wan places a gentle hand on Delea’s arm.

He smiles, probing her Force signature for any sign of deceit. “Lady Delea, I understand this is not ideal for you, but rest assured I will be here to protect you should the need arise.”

Startled, the old woman nods. “O-of course, Master Jedi. It’s not much further. Just around this last turn.”

“Excellent,” he says, waving his hand forward. “If you would.”

They pick up the pace just a little bit more as Obi-Wan keeps an eye out for an ambush. His bond with Anakin is still thrumming with energy and each moment that ticks by is one too many. He needs to get to his apprentice. He needs to figure out why they’re being misled. He needs to be in two places at once and the one place he’s at is the one he least wants to be.

His eyes flicker to the elderly woman beside him. She’s frightened, though she hides it well, and he catches her watching him out of the corner of her eye more than once. Is she seeking reassurance? Or settling curiosity? It’s not an uncommon reaction, but this is hardly their first meeting. She spent hours with Anakin hyping him up on sweets. Now, her shoulders are tense, and every so often her mouth will move as if reciting a mantra.

Obi-Wan’s fingers curl. The prince’s adamance reverberates through him as he prods at her Force signature. Compulsions, perhaps? Bribery? It’s unlikely if she’s as close to the royal family as suggested, but everyone has their price. He pokes further, digging as deep as he dares into the disorganized mass of emotions that surround her. There’s plenty to feel — anxiety, determination, fear — but no guilt and no dark tangles of compulsion.

So what’s left? If it’s not compulsion and it’s not bribery and Bail is correct, then what? His eyes narrow in thought. He presses down on her in the Force and gets no reaction other than a faint flicker, like the flash of a hologram skipping over an old image.

His breath stills. The technology is possible, but expensive; it’s not something an assassin would generally have access to, but there is a rather highly sought after group that makes for the next best thing.

Obi-Wan relaxes. He calmly transfers his lightsaber to his uninjured arm and says, “I know this might not be the best of circ*mstances, but while we have the opportunity I wanted to thank you.”

Her face tightens in puzzlement and she glances up at him as they make the turn into the last corridor. Age spots dot her skin and she has laugh-lines for days. Everything about her is quintessentially grandmother, right down to the fluffy white hair. Obi-Wan’s chest tightens. “Thank me? Master Jedi, I would lay down my life for my prince. This is hardly—“

He waves her off. “Not for this, though I am grateful. No, I wished to extend my gratitude for what you did for my Padawan.”

She tenses, confused. “Your Padawan?”

“Yes,” Obi-Wan says as if he doesn’t notice the panic that dots the Force. “He’s a rather excitable boy, as I’m sure you gathered. Allowing him to fix your oven helped calm him greatly.”

Her shoulders fall, and she smiles with the ease of relief. “Oh, of course! The oven. Forgive me, Master Jedi. I’m afraid I’ve gotten rather forgetful in my old age.”

“Hm,” Obi-Wan hums, noncommittal. They’ve come to the end of the hallway where a large metal door stands unlocked. That in itself is enough to make him suspicious, and he holds his hand up to indicate for the others to stop. They do, the Chancellor more puzzled than the others, but nonetheless they remain far enough back for him to be comfortable in their safety. “Yes, I’m afraid age tends to do that. Unfortunately, your memory is of slightly more importance to me.”

“Master Jedi?”

“Anakin did not fix your oven, Lady Delea. In fact, I do believe it was a rather old maintenance droid that needed repair.” He leans down to look her in the eye and isn’t surprised to find them guarded. “So, either your memory is worse than you thought, or you are not who you say you are.”

“You dare—“

“The prince claims this is not the way to the bunker. I’m inclined to believe him. So, in an effort not to waste time, I would appreciate you telling me who you really are and why you’re after the Chancellor?”

Obi-Wan doesn’t expect an answer really, but it’s still frustrating when instead of words he gets a well-aimed punch to the face. He dodges on instinct and suppresses a hiss of pain as it pulls at his shoulder. She doesn’t give him time to recover. A blaster, small and hidden by the folds of her dress, is aimed at his chest, but his lightsaber is already moving. Her face twists into an ugly veneer as she palms the door open and barrels through, shooting at him as she runs.

“Stay here!” Obi-Wan yells to his stunned charges. He doesn’t wait to hear their protests as he follows after her.

The hangar is full of ships. What Alderaan doesn’t allow in weaponry they make up for with numbers. Obi-Wan runs through the clutter, blocking and deflecting shots as they edge closer to the bay doors. The assassin’s movements are quick and spry as she ducks in and around the ships and machinery. Clearly, whatever she is, she’s far from old.

They hedge closer. There’s less equipment for her to hide between as they approach the opening, and Obi-Wan uses that to his advantage as he blocks more of her shots. He can see the panic on her face as she gets to the end of the platform. Her eyes flash about, desperately searching for something, and he finds himself wondering why she didn’t just steal a ship when the answer rings over his bond with Anakin.

Disappointment. Frustration. Anger.

The initial assassin. The shooter. They got away.

His eyes narrow and he closes the gap between them, slicing through her blaster with his lightsaber easily. She’s cornered now. Either she tries to evade his lightsaber and loses, or she jumps and dies. Neither are particularly good options, but only one guarantees death.

Careful to keep his voice level, Obi-Wan says, “I’m afraid this is as far as you get. If you come quietly and cooperate, I am prepared to request a lesser punishment. However, should you resist, I will not hesitate to protect myself or my charges.”

“I ain’t no snitch, Jedi,” she sneers, far less polite now without the façade of servility. “And I certainly ain’t sticking around for any punishments.”

“Yes,” Obi-Wan says. “That would make this far too easy, I suspect. Nevertheless, you’re not in any such position to refuse.”

“I don’t have to. You Jedi don’t like to—" The Force is his only warning as Obi-Wan brings up his lightsaber to deflect a sudden barrage of shots.

The woman falls, mouth open and eyes wide. Her features morph and contort, skin shifting to a dull green and cheeks hollowing under the bones. Her clothes are suddenly too big for her frame and Obi-Wan grits his teeth. A Clawdite. He’d suspected as much.

He has little time to dwell on the dead assassin. The Force rings in his ears as he backs away from the entrance for more cover. His eyes narrow and his muscles tense as the newcomer comes into view.

They’re held aloft with a jetpack, blue and silver armor glimmering under the afternoon sunshine. A helmet covers their face from view, and they hold two pistols in their hands, both still smoking from their barrage. Obi-Wan bites off a curse. He recognizes that type of armour. Most people in the galaxy do.

Beskar’gam.

A Mandalorian.

Chapter 8: A Princess, a Count, and a Padawan Walk Into a Palace

Chapter Text

Aurra Sing is a volcano in the Force.

Her rage blisters with heat, searing a trail of bloodlust for Anakin to follow. It’s painfully harsh against his senses, more so now that she’s not shielding, and the primal intoxication it brings both terrifies and entices him. Following her is like sitting in the co*ckpit of a podracer. The heat of the engines sings in his veins and he knows that one wrong move could send him crashing into an early grave, but the rush it brings is too tempting to ignore, as if doing so will allow him to finally escape the galaxy that threatens to overwhelm him. She could easily kill him with such hatred, but he chases after her regardless — like singing to like.

Anakin pushes forward. His feet brush lightly over the round spires and bulbous domes of the royal palace, moving too swiftly for the normal eye to catch. Sing’s signature has entered the building through Breha’s garden and it leaves a bitter, angry taste in his mouth that she would scorch something so beautiful with her poison. As if simply stepping into the enclosure has ruined it completely.

Private quarters, Anakin thinks, and the rage rises. Breha’s soft presence echoes in these hallways, hidden under the rotting scent of Aurra’s bloodlust. It makes him want to — bulbous eyes, orange blood — wring her neck.

But the brightness of her anger is fading. She’s masking herself as if to draw him forward just far enough to gain his attention, but not to give him an exact location. A growl threatens the back of his throat, but Anakin holds it back. He’s feeding off her anger. It’s happened often enough in the past for him to recognize the signs, but he thought he’d gotten past this. He hasn’t done it in ages. His shields are stronger now. He’s stronger.

Obi-Wan is going to be so disappointed in him. He’ll get that look on his face that says he knows Anakin is better than this; and Anakin tries. He tries to release it into the Force like Obi-Wan said, but it doesn’t leave. His blood boils. Aurra’s signature burns through him, feeding his anger and frustration, as he glares at the defilement of what is so obviously a private place.

Slaves don’t have privacy. Privacy is a luxury of the Freeborn. It’s the luxury of safety, and safety is precious. Whatever safety rested in this space has been tarnished by the hunter.

Dooku’s footsteps break through the haze only minutely. He’s almost silent, allowing just enough noise to alert Anakin to his entrance. “Calm yourself, Padawan,” the Count’s drawls, as if it’s of no consequence to him. “Your anger only clouds you.”

“I’m fine.” He’s not. He knows it, but her poison tugs at him, like an anxious child pulling at his robes.

“Truly?” The Count questions idly. “My mistake. It would appear your anger only clouds my vision then.”

That catches his attention. The snag loosens and Anakin whirls around to stare up in shock at the man’s unamused frown. “What?”

“Yes, it would appear you are such a prodigy that your anger only clouds those around you and not yourself. Astonishing.”

Anakin flinches. The dragon’s roar is weak and distant. “I—“

“Rein yourself in, Padawan. I trust your Master has at least taught you that.”

Anakin bows his head, chastised and blushing with humiliation. He reaches for the anger, trying to find where his ends and hers begins, and pales. His shields are low — so low — how did he not notice? When did he let them down? His fingers curl into a fist as he slams them back into place, cutting himself off from the heat of the hunter. The hallway fills with an eerily cold. “Yes, Master.”

“Either My Lord or Count, if you must be formal. Ash’van, if you do not. I am no one’s Master, child,” he states, sharp and tinged with a bitterness that reminds Anakin of an unbroken slave.

“Ash’van.” The boy trips his tongue around the sharp intonations of the unfamiliar word. It sounds similar to the words Madame Nu and Obi-Wan make him study now that he’s mastered Basic. The ones that make up the language all Jedi know going back and back and back all the way to before the Republic.

“A variant of a word you’ve no doubt learned in Dai Bendu. I prefer it.”

Anakin swallows. He knows when someone doesn’t want to be asked questions. “Yes, my lor—ah…Ash’van. I’m—I’m sorry. I’ll do better.”

“Yes, see that you do.” The Count nods his head forward towards the end of the hall. “Now, concentrate. Her anger is not your anger and your anger has no business here. Release it and tell me what you see?”

Anakin obeys. He slips through his shields and takes the boiling blood that sings in his veins and shoves it aside as best he can. It whispers to him, like a monster behind a closed door, but he does his best, thinking about everything Obi-Wan taught him. This isn’t the hunter anymore, just him, and because it’s just him he can control it. He just has to concentrate. Focus. Be calm. Picture water and snow and the feel of metal working under his fingers. Calm. Focus. Breathe.

Slowly, the anger recedes, but he doesn’t release it. Tried that, failed. He needs more time to do it Obi-Wan’s way — the Jedi way. Instead, he condenses it into a tight, manageable ball and tries not to think about how disappointed Obi-Wan would be if he found out Anakin let it get this far — that he let his shields down without even noticing. Anakin has to be better. Do better. He can’t let Obi-Wan down. He can’t let anyone think Obi-Wan is a bad teacher just because he can’t do better.

Carefully, he locks the ball away in the dragon cage deep behind his strongest shields. Later, he thinks, he’ll deal with it later. Properly. Like a Jedi. But there’s no time now and he has to find the hunter. Her signature is down to a whisper. Faint embers of annoyance spindling across the threads of the Force. The hallway is lighter without it. Less poisoned and easier to breathe. The chill feels good against the heat of his skin.

He reaches out, catching the spindles of flame in his mind’s eyes like wisps leading him forward. It’s not exact, but wherever Aurra has gotten to is deep enough into the quarters to be a violation. Anakin twitches at the thought but doesn’t let it follow through. Later, he’ll deal with it later.

“She’s that way,” he points, indicating to a tug on the Force near the end of the hall. Doors line the corridor, each one made of real wood and hand-painted with little flowers. The sun splays through a wall of glass windows, making everything shimmer. It’s elegant, but homey; a robe lays across a plush chaise as if someone threw it in a hurry, and under the current of poison remains a brightness that reminds him of mom. It calms him, letting the dragon settle.

The Count raises an aristocratic brow and nods, once, like a slaver to an obedient slave. It burns — a sting like Watto and Gardulla and Ah’tchic before them — but Anakin stamps it down. It’s not the same and the Count is—was a Jedi. He doesn’t understand and he doesn’t mean it.

Anakin is only glad Dooku doesn’t ask questions. At least the old man seems content with that skill. With long, quick strides he makes for the end of the hall, skipping passed the finery as if they were trinkets. Anakin twitches, but follows, taking two steps for every one of the Count’s.

The Jedi continue down the corridor, keeping their presences concealed behind their tightest walls. It’s slow work, Aurra’s signature poking the Force around them, but if she notices them, she’s not concerned. Her presence in the Force is directionless. It burns across his arms, but Anakin brushes it off. His shields are in place. He has control now.

Her anger isn’t my anger and my anger has no business here, he repeats in his head.

They turn the corner to find another open hallway, lined on all sides with vases and paintings that would sell for more than the price of two slaves. The signature flares once, twice, but there’s a scent of crispness in the air, hidden under the poison and Anakin’s brow furrows. It’s familiar to him, flickering like an inconsequential wisp. Under normal circ*mstances he wouldn’t bother with it, but this isn’t normal and if there’s someone else here, best they make sure it’s not another trap.

“Mas—Ash'van,” he mumbles, lips barely moving even as his fingers reach out to grab hold of the Count’s arm. He stops before he can make the mistake of touching him, but it’s enough to gain the Count’s attention. “There’s someone here.”

The Count’s expression doesn’t change. “I’m aware.”

“Should we double check?” He can feel them better now, like a particularly persistent bug bite, only noticeable with attention. Force Null — maybe — and frightened.

Dooku clicks his tongue. “We have more important prospects, Padawan. There is little time for detours.”

It’s hardly a detour. Whoever thought to use these rooms as a hiding spot managed to pick the same path as Aurra Sing. “What if they’re hurt?”

“Do you feel pain?”

Anakin’s brow furrows. “No.”

“Then they are irrelevant.”

“What if it’s a trap and they’re working for her?”

“Then we are already in an adequate position to respond. I can feel their fear as well as you can, Padawan. If they are a trap, doubtful they are a good one. Most likely they are a worker in hiding. You only risk endangering them if you act.”

He’s right, of course. Anakin is being reckless. Again. He bites his lip. Eyes on the mission, he tells himself. Aurra Sing is the mission. Whoever is using these halls as a cover is not, unless they make themselves so.

The itch grows. Anakin does his best to ignore it as they creep closer, passing doors and open verandas and a large sitting room that looks just cozy enough to be slightly out of place. Ahead, the hallway widens, branching off into smaller corridors as they near the center.

It’s as they’re approaching an intersection that the itch becomes unbearable. Blossoms waft under Anakin’s nose, subtle and sweet. It’s familiar, hazily so, and if he could just— the signature tenses. Anakin mirrors it, making sure to keep walking as he prods it with the Force. He knows it, he knows he knows it, but who — snow-melt and blossoms and— Anakin jolts.

Quickly, he spins on his heel, ignoring the hissed reprimand of the Count as he veers sharply into the left hand corridor.

A door, unremarkable in a hallway full of unremarkable extravagance, catches his attention and he yanks it open. Warning blares in the Force and it’s only his remarkable reflexes that keep him from getting stabbed in the face with a vibroblade. He grabs hold of his assailant’s wrist and twists, forcing the person to release the blade as they’re thrown off balance. It drops with a heavy clack against the marble floor, but he hardly notices as a well-timed fist tries to replace it.

He ducks, releasing the person’s wrist and backing away. Hands flying up, he says, “Wait, wait! Your Highness! It’s me!”

The princess stumbles. Her eyes are blown wide with adrenaline and she has to grab hold of the door frame in order to steady herself; he notices one of her shoes is missing. A few flowers are arranged out of skew, hair tumbled and limp. Her dress is a mess of dust and alcohol stains, and tear tracks have smudged her once perfect make-up. A normal princess would look pathetic. Breha just looks determined.

Her eyes narrow in suspicion and Anakin slowly lowers his arms. It takes her a second, but then she’s straightening up, face bright and wild with relief.

“Anakin! Oh, thank Iianom!” The boy doesn’t even have time to think before he’s suddenly engulfed in a hug. It’s a shock at first; hugs are in short supply at the Temple and Obi-Wan isn’t a very tactile person on a good day.

It doesn’t last long, not even long enough for him to get comfortable, as Breha pulls away and holds him still. Her tiny hands rest on his shoulders as she rakes her eyes down his form, studiously assessing for injuries. It’s so very mom, right down to the furrow between her eyes, that his chest aches.

A hand comes up, fingers brushing his injured cheek. He jolts away with a hiss and she winces. “Sorry,” she murmurs, fingertips prodding the surrounding skin gently.

“S’okay,” he mumbles truthfully. Blaster burns like these are nothing.

She purses her lips. “How—no. It doesn’t matter. What are you doing here?”

“Following the intruder. She—“

“What?” Breha lurches. She grabs hold of his shoulders tightly and stares down at him. “You’re following them? Where’s your teacher?”

“Protecting the Chancellor,” Anakin says.

“And he sent you here?”

“Well, no…” Technically, Obi-Wan sent him outside. It’s not his fault Aurra came back in.

“Good, otherwise I might have to have a talk with him about his teaching methods,” she states, standing tall and insistent. Anakin doesn’t want to say it rankles, but, well, it rankles. He’s a perfectly capable Padawan and Obi-Wan is one of the best Knights in the Order. No one, not even a princess as warm as Breha, gets to tell him otherwise. Especially, when they don’t even know him.

But Anakin knows better than to say that out loud. Slaves learn young how to keep their mouths shut and Jedi are humble by nature. Master Unduli had been very insistent when explaining that to him and he likes to think he’s taken it to heart, if not necessarily always to action.

Your pride already cost you once today, Anakin reminds himself, and he doesn’t think Breha would take well to the correction.

Most powerful people don’t.

And he doesn’t think Breha is being intentionally cruel. She just doesn’t understand Jedi. If she met Obi-Wan she’d know he’s the best teacher Anakin could ever ask for. So instead, he takes a deep breath and does what he always did when mom got too worried over him: he changes focus.

“What about you? Shouldn’t you be somewhere safe?” Because surely there’s some sort of rule on what to do if the palace is attacked. The Temple does. They have drills once a year and the Masters always go over it in class at the beginning of each quarter. Anakin thinks it’s a bit excessive because who in their right mind would attack the Temple, but he can appreciate the preparation.

Breha grimaces with ashamed self-deprecation. “I was looking for Bail.”

“And you came here?” Wouldn’t Bail just go wherever the rest of the royals went?

“It’s silly, I know. We were separated and I hoped…” she trails of, catching her lower lip between her teeth as she pastes on a blatantly false smile. “Well, if nothing else, I’m glad you’re safe, Anakin.”

She’s not lying, not exactly, but it’s obvious how much she wishes Bail was here instead. Somewhere in the back of his head, Anakin wonders how it must feel to love someone like that; like as long as they’re okay, nothing else matters. He thinks it must be like how he feels about his mom, but he can’t be sure.

Cautiously, because she’s still a princess, he reaches out to hug her. She relaxes instantly, folding over him so that one of her hands cups the back of his head. She’s shaking slightly, and Anakin tightens his grip. Through the musk of debris he smells sugar and arallutes. It’s nice. Almost enough to forget why they’re here in the first place.

The Count doesn’t abide forgetfulness.

“If you are quite finished,” he idles, appearing from around the corner and Breha tenses, pulling Anakin against her as if she is the more capable of the two. She turns her head, Anakin’s face still pressed to her stomach, and glares.

Dooku bows, hands out disarmingly. “Your Highness.”

Anakin feels the recognition set in as Breha relaxes. Her grip slackens and the tenseness in her torso softens. She pulls away just slightly, one of her arms remaining around his shoulders. It’s just enough for Anakin to stay tucked to her side as she gives a shallow curtsy. “Count Dooku. My apologies.”

“Apologies are unnecessary, Your Highness. I understand you’ve had a trying day.”

Laughter, bubbly with hysteria, breaks through her lips and Breha grins sardonically. “I suppose ‘trying’ is one way to put it.”

“Yes, and unfortunately it is not over yet.” He points to a non-existent chrono on his wrist. “We are on a bit of a timer, my Lady. The bounty hunter—“

“Is nearby, yes I am aware.” Her gaze trails past the Count to peer in the direction of Sing’s signature, lips pursing with indignation that anyone would try to defile her family’s home. Anakin is in agreement, though he has to wonder at how exactly she knows Sing’s general location.

The Count only angles his brow. “Quite. Now if you would be so kind as to retreat somewhere safe, Padawan Skywalker and I will deal with the intruder.”

Breha’s grip tightens. She’s stiffened against him. “Pardon? Forgive me, my Lord, but I could have sworn you just said you and Padawan Skywalker were going to intercept this intruder.”

Dooku’s back straightens. He’s a tall man, built with a broad chest, and he stares down his nose at the princess as if she were a simple child and not the most highly ranked person in the room. Breha doesn’t blink. “Padawan Skywalker is a Jedi, Your Highness. And, as I’m sure you are aware, I was a Master of the Order before I left for Serenno. We are quite capable of handling a bounty hunter on our own.”

Never mind that the bounty hunter smells like copper and sulfur, the Force howling like a simoom with every move she makes.

Breha’s lips thin. “That may be, but from where I stand Padawan Skywalker is a child, and I don’t recall you bringing a lightsaber to my wedding.”

“Perhaps,” the Count drawls, low and indulgent. “That does not take away from the fact that, in this instance, I am correct, and every moment you waste fighting me is a moment more this hunter gains to reach her goal. I’m sure we can all agree that’s not something we want.”

“We can. We can also agree that bringing a child with you to apprehend said bounty hunter is nothing short of reckless.”

“Padawan,” Anakin mutters under his breath a second too late to control himself. Feke. Master Unduli would not be pleased.

Heat burns through his bones. Why? Because you spoke the truth? The thought comes unbidden to his mind, cold and bitter as a molo seed. It’s not wrong. He’s a Padawan, not a helpless child. Why should she question him?

The dragon rumbles, stirring in his chest, and Anakin shoves it away, viciously. No, he’s being uncharitable. She’s a princess, she’s null, she doesn’t understand. She doesn’t realize her insult.

Dooku nods to him. He must have sensed Anakin’s restraint, and the approval pools warmth into his chest. The man may be a pretentious koochoo, but that just makes his compliments all the more meaningful. “The boy is right. He’s a Padawan. Not a child. And your obstinance is wasting precious time.”

Breha’s eyes flash. They flicker to Anakin, and the boy straightens, staring back at her resolutely. He likes Breha. Her feather-soft smile and chest-deep laugh, but she doesn’t understand. She sees a child, when Anakin Skywalker has only ever been an adult.

He steps out of her grasp and bows. “Your Highness, I’m glad to see you’re alright, but the Count is right. We can’t waste time. Please stay inside and wait for us to tell you it’s safe.”

Breha looks at him with something akin to alarm. Her arm hangs loose from where he stepped out of her grasp and her head spins from him to Dooku and then back again. “You’re actually okay with this?”

Anakin nods, resolute. “It’s my job, Your Highness.”

She wants to argue. He can see it all over her face, but either she recognizes that he won’t be swayed or she has enough respect for the Jedi to keep her from arguing. Either way, she doesn’t voice her displeasure. Instead, she snaps cold eyes to the Count and says, “Well then, I suggest you start leading or we’ll never catch her in time.”

“I apologize, Your Highness, but you are not equipped to follow.”

“I, a fully grown and trained adult am not equipped to deal with an intruder, but a child is? I think you are mistaken, my Lord. You may have your lightsabers and I won’t protest, but blasters are just as effective and I have those to spare.”

The Count co*cks his head, bemused. “Do you? I was unaware Alderaan’s stance on weaponry had changed so recently.”

Breha huffs and hikes up her skirt to reveal a holster and two pistols. Anakin’s eyes bulge at the unexpected sight. “We are not New Mandalore, my Lord. I have been extensively trained in self-defense. You need not worry about me.”

Something vaguely recognizable as condescension echoes into the Force and Anakin glances at the Count, wary. He can almost see the animosity growing between them. “Considering you are the heir to the throne, you’ll forgive my doubts.”

“And considering I survived falling off a mountain, I don’t think you have cause for concern. I highly doubt I will be in any more risk against a bounty hunter who doesn’t seem interested in me to begin with. And, as you seem persistent on pressing the issue, let me first say that, while I will agree to stay out of your way, if you insist on bringing along a child, I will continue to insist on accompanying.” She flashes Dooku a pearly smile. “Think of me as the responsible adult, if you will.”

“I take it that’s your way of saying you do not think me responsible.”

“I would never dare to imply such of one of my guests.”

The Count returns the smile, right down to the bitter dislike. “Of course. How silly of me,” and Anakin gets the distinct impression he would like nothing more than to be rid of her entirely. Dooku pivots on his heel. “Well, I can see there is nothing I can say to sway you, then. However, make no mistake, of the three of us, Your Highness is the least prepared for combat. If you insist on coming, then I must insist you listen to our orders. You will stay within reach, but out of any fighting, and if we tell you to hide you will do so. No arguing, no loopholes, or I will leave you here and lock the door myself. Am I clear?”

She bows her head, smile sweet as sugar-coated poison. “Crystalline.”

His lips thin with displeasure. “So glad we could come to an agreement, then.” Dooku motions to Anakin. “Padawan, take point. I will ensure the princess refrains from tumbling into any more trouble.”

Breha breezes past him as Anakin takes the lead, walking between them with her head held high. “I like to think I was doing just fine before you came.”

“Yes, well the child you’re so concerned about managed to disarm you with little effort from my recollection. I don’t think he’s the one in need of my protection.”

Anakin doesn’t grin. He doesn’t, but a pleased flush spreads across his face at the Count’s praise and he ducks his head in an effort to hide it. He appreciates the princess’ concern, but it isn’t necessary. Count Dooku’s regard is enough.

From behind, he hears Breha scoff, but she doesn’t waste her time replying. Instead the ruffling of her skirts fills the air, and what sounds like an aggravated sigh from Dooku. Anakin takes two more steps before his attention is pulled sharply back into focus by the sound of Breha’s outrage.

“And just what are you intending to do with that?” Anakin swivels, coming face to face with the image of Count Dooku pointing the vibroblade at the princess’ dress.

Dooku very obviously does not beg the Force for patience. “Your skirt is a hazard. If we need to run we don’t need you tripping over it, and the sound it makes is as conspicuous as a bell. You can’t have your hands tied up with skirts if you need to shoot.”

“I was trained for it.”

“As a last resort, I’m sure,” the man counters. He holds out the blade hilt first as if giving her an option. “Either cut the skirt yourself, or I will.”

Clearly annoyed, but conceding to the sense of his argument, Breha plucks the blade from his hand. “I do have pants you know.”

“And little time to change into them. It’s very likely the bounty hunter has already found what she was looking for and I will not waste any more time just because you are being difficult.”

Breha scowls. It would look spoiled on any other princess, but Breha somehow manages to make it perfectly regal. “Are you always so considerate, Count, or is this just the way of Serennian diplomacy?”

“I assure you, Princess, I learned all my diplomacy from the Jedi.”

It’s funny almost, how much their disdain leaks through the Force, but Breha is a pillar of poise as she bundles the edges of her wedding dress in her hands and slices through the layers of expensive fabric. The edges flutter to the floor without care as she lets the rest fall to her shins. She then takes the blade and holds it carefully between her fingers, hilt pointed towards the Count.

With a smile to melt butter, she says, “For you, my Lord. I don’t wish for you to be unprepared for combat.”

The Count’s lips stretch, eyes sharp with irritation as he takes the hilt in hand. “Your Highness’ consideration is appreciated.”

“I act only as any other in my position. I just don’t wish for you to be disadvantaged while aiding my royal person,” and, to drill in the point, she hoists up her skirts and grabs one of the blasters from their holster, palming it and flicking off the safety with practiced fingers. Evidently, she hadn’t been kidding when she said she’d been extensively trained.

The flares of whisper-fury flicker through the Force, hot and prickly, reminding Anakin of the time crunch. Dooku tenses as well and Breha quickly picks up on the change. Her animosity is replaced with what Obi-Wan would term diplomatic cooperation, as the trio move forward. They make it out into the main hallway, steps cautious and nibble in preparation for an attack.

There’s a large door at the end of the corridor. It’s made of the same sleek chromium plating as much of the rest of the palace with a biometric scanner inlaid below a sconce. Breha quickly steps forward before they can think to draw their lightsabers and Anakin tries not to be disappointed. He reminds himself that using his lightsaber just to cut through a door isn’t proper Jedi behavior, even if he’s trying to impress a princess.

Especially, if he’s trying to impress a princess.

Breha glances pointedly at the Count as the double doors slide open, and she flourishes her hand. “After you.”

Dooku’s lips twist. “Your Highness, what would we do without you?”

“One can only guess,” she states loftily, tossing him a patently false smile. “Such luck you don’t have to find out.”

Anakin ducks his head and moves forward, not wanting to be in the middle of whatever it is the two start on about now. He didn’t know royalty could snipe at each other so much, though he’s starting to think it’s just something the Count brings out in people.

The hallway they end up in is different from the last. Gone are the personal touches, the discarded robes, and papers left for later. It’s sparse; the only life to be found being the decorative art displayed neatly in their places. Not to say it isn’t pretty, just impersonal.

Breha purses her lips. “She’s down here?”

Anakin nods. He can feel Aurra’s signature not far away. “Yeah, a few doors down,” he whispers. He’s not sure just how good she is at sensing people, but no doubt she can at least feel Breha.

The princess’ face twists, tan skin paling as her eyes brush over each door. “She wouldn’t happen to be near the end, would she?”

The thing about non-Force sensitives and dealing with Jedi is they have a tendency to think the Force is like a personal tracker. It’s not. It’s more of a compass, pointing towards something but never actually giving you a real approximate answer. That said, from what Anakin can glean, Breha isn’t far off.

“Something like that.”

Breha takes in a deep breath. “I see.”

“Is there something special at the end of the hall?”

Her eyes flicker distastefully to the Count, and Anakin can’t exactly fault her. His voice seems to have only two tones: annoyed and condescending. But she brushes it aside and nods. “This hall is specially designed for high profile guests. So that they may be near my family, but still can afford the both of us our privacy.”

“Ah,” the Count says, eyes alighting with an understanding that seems to have gone over Anakin’s head.

“Yes.” Breha tenses with the preparation of someone waiting for the other foot to drop. “I don’t suppose you happen to know what this may mean?”

“Not thoroughly, though from what Knight Kenobi conveyed he seemed rather concerned for the Chancellor’s safety.”

“I see.”

“I don’t,” Anakin interjects. What does the Chancellor have to do with this?

Breha’s earnest face is contrasted with the Count’s dispassionate one, and he’s glad when she’s the one who decides to answer. “We set up the Chancellor and his entourage in these rooms. It is considered…polite to keep him close to the family.”

She doesn’t sound like she thinks it’s polite, but Anakin’s not Obi-Wan. He’s not sure he completely gets all these nuances that Core Worlders seem to just know on sight.

“If the bounty hunter is still here that means she’s searching for something.”

“Like what?”

The princess shrugs. “Could be anything. Documents, artifacts, information. There are plenty—“ She’s cut off.

A loud boom reverberates through the hall. The ground shakes, sending them all grasping for purchase and the Force echoes painfully in Anakin’s head. He barely manages to keep himself from shouting as he braces himself against a wall and the Count’s hand has wrapped around Breha’s mouth in an effort to stem the same. The princess’ eyes are wide with fear, concentrating on the smoke cloud billowing outside the windows.

“W-what?” Anakin asks involuntarily, not really expecting an answer.

Dooku responds anyway. “It would appear there is more to consider than just Aurra Sing.”

“More?”Anakin spins, eyes widening with fear as he instinctively reaches out for his Master. Ob-Wan’s side of the bond is shadowed as if hidden by a fog, but there’s an urgency on his end that sends Anakin’s heart racing. “We have to do something! Obi-Wan—“

“Is a Jedi Knight and surely has everything in hand,” the Count replies firmly. He takes the brunt of Anakin’s panic with nary a care and seems not to notice the way the princess is staring down at the hand still cupped over her mouth. She wrenches it away with a glare, but Dooku ignores her. “We have a job here. Whatever is going on elsewhere is none of our concern.”

“None of our concern?” Breha asks, incredulously. “My people are—“

“Yes, none of our concern. If you so wish, Your Highness, you are welcome to go and investigate, but Padawan Skywalker and I have a job to do and will not be able to act as protection should you run off. And now that there is evidence to conclude there is more than one assailant, I think you would be more concerned with said protection.”

Breha shuts her mouth, but doesn’t say anything to refute him. She knows he’s right. Anakin knows he’s right. Doesn’t make it any easier to swallow. The Count nods in satisfaction. “Excellent. Now, shall we proceed?”

Anakin wants to say no just to be contrary, but the urgency of the explosion has spread to their own situation and Anakin gets his feet to move once more towards the end of the hallway. Anticipation seeps into the air as with each step. The prickling heat grows heavier the closer they get and Anakin can tell from the resignation in Breha’s signature that she was indeed correct. There’s something in the Chancellor’s rooms Aurra wants, meaning whoever hired her wants more than just the man dead.

They want information.

Anakin will admit he’s not the best at his Galactic Politics courses, but anything that requires snooping through the head of the galaxy’s private quarters can’t spell good things. He’s got to have a whole host of important information that could be used for nefarious reasons.

If Anakin didn’t feel guilty about letting Aurra win before, he sure does now. This could mean more than just Aurra Sing hurting someone. This could be important. Really important. Galactically important. And it’ll be his fault if she gets away with it.

They reach the Chancellor’s chambers in a blink of an eye that seems to last forever. The door is made of chromium, and the biometric scan has been destroyed. Even without the Force, it wouldn’t have been difficult to know where Aurra had gone. Anakin readies his lightsaber as Dooku turns to the princess.

“Your Highness, I understand your proclivity for involving yourself, but I must insist you wait out here. Aurra Sing will not be above using you to her advantage.”

This time Breha doesn’t protest. Her gaze flickers once to Anakin, lips thin, but voices none of the contestations he can see on her face. She instead readies her blaster and steps aside to stand beside the door in the event she needs to take action. Dooku, pleased for what seems like the first time, nods once to her in acknowledgement before he and Anakin step into the room.

It’s a mess.

Blaster scoring has ruined the colorful murals and gilded frames that line the entrance hall, and the door to the receiving room has been sliced clean through. Further in they find upturned furniture and clothes that have been strewn about the ground like confetti. Security droids lay in pieces beside shattered glass and priceless decorations, and the trail of destruction is no different from room to room. The chambers are in shambles and they have to pick their way across the floor in order to get to the center of the Force locus.

Anakin wishes he could say they surprised her. She’s in the office, datapads piled in a haphazard destruction on the floor. In her hand is a nondescript pad, but the triumph she exudes leaves no room for doubt. She’s found what she wanted and the smirk on her lips as they enter is just a taunt. She wants them to know she’s won. She wants them to see their failure.

Her teeth shine like razors in the dark. “Well, look who it is. And here I thought we had an agreement.” She pockets the datapad, slipping it into a pouch on her hip.

Anakin’s blood boils. “We didn’t.”

“Really? I could have sworn I left you two to go on your merry way, but alas! Here you are. And I was almost done, too.”

“I’m afraid we were far too intrigued when you mentioned your job,” Dooku chimes in, as if they’re having a chat. He indicates his head towards the pouch. “Stealing confidential information, are we? How plebeian.”

She eyes him, but Anakin is at a loss to tell what she’s seeing. It’s not quite calculating or distasteful. He’d say she was amused, but that’s not it either. “Plebeian? Perhaps to Jedi standards, but I like to think of it as business. A job is a job after all, and we can’t all be as picky as the Jedi. Helping royalty left and right, and leaving everyone else to rot.” She pats the pouch. “I like to think I’m just performing my contribution to society.”

Anakin tightens his grip on his saber. She’s hit a nerve, a scabbed wound he desperately tries to ignore. He wants to lash at her, ask her what she could possibly know about rotting, but he doesn’t. He’s a Jedi. Jedi don’t do that. He wrestles the beast down into the depths of his heart and says, “You’re outnumbered, Sing. You can’t escape this time.”

Her teeth flash. “Can’t I?”

Without warning, she whips out a blaster and fires. Anakin ducks, the bolt shattering a vase that no doubt costs more than he does. He rolls across the messy floor, broken tech digging into his body as Dooku launches towards her. She shoots again and the man evades. A chord strikes the Force as the Count reaches out calling the blaster to his hand, but Aurra Sing is nothing if not efficient. She lets the blaster go, and commands a part of the desk to follow. It catches Dooku off guard as he’s hit and sent sprawling in a heap into the next room.

Anakin is not so hindered.

He swings to his feet and reaches out to yank the datapad from her pouch, and grins as it’s ripped from her side. His victory is short-lived as Aurra reaches back. The datapad trembles between them, before a vicious snarl stretches across Aurra’s face, wild and bloodthirsty. The Force swells painfully, and the datapad is torn from his grasp to shoot into its place at her hip.

Before he can even think to retaliate she’s on him. Their lightsabers burn between them, smelling of ozone and copper, and Anakin doesn’t even realize the fear swelling between them. Her breath dances across his skin, hot and tinged with spice. It unsettles him, his heart beating faster than intended. Why is he feeling like this? What is it about her that has him wanting to run to Obi-Wan?

She chuckles. “Little Jedi didn’t learn his lesson last time, I see. Maybe you need a review.”

Frustration rushes through him. He was co*cky last time. He didn’t think. He knows better now.

With little effort, he gathers the Force and pushes, catching her off guard and sending her flying into another table. She manages to catch herself on the edge, using the momentum to flip over the detritus and land atop the furnishing.

Dooku, having gotten his bearings, fires two shots in quick succession, but she blocks them with ease. Her blade flashes, creating ribbons of red that bath her skin in its bloody glow. Anakin uses the distraction to launch himself forward and attack from the side; she still has the datapad and he reaches for it, pulling at the pouch. The force of it splits her attention, but it’s no use. Her teeth gleam red as she sends them both sprawling to opposite ends of the room with the Force.

Anakin lands with a thud. His head aches from where he’s hit the sharp edges of a table and he blinks in an effort to rid himself of the black spots that dot his vision. He tries to pull himself up, but the room swims as he fights down the bile that rises in his throat. He wants nothing more than to lay back down, but he can’t. He can’t let Aurra win. Doing so means letting her get away with whatever is so important someone is willing to kill for it. It means letting her put other people in danger.

The sound of another blaster shot rings in his ear and her lightsaber hums as it blocks the onslaught. Furniture clashes against furniture and the Force swells, Aurra’s volcanic presence battling Dooku’s placid lake. Every attempted use of the Force is batted away or overcome. They’re like giants battling for purchase without making any gains.

Anakin tries to focus, to find an opening, but it’s hard. There’s something there, something under the dark spots that make it almost impossible to concentrate, but it whips past him like sand in a storm. Whatever it is, it makes the dragon in his chest stir and he shies away. He doesn’t want to go there. He has a job to do. He needs to focus.

Obi-Wan’s calm is a soothing balm. He can sense him; that notion of reassurance that always seems to stretch along their bond no matter how far apart they are. He’s distracted, Anakin can tell, but the calm doesn’t waver. It’s there anytime Anakin needs it and he grasps it with both hands in an effort to sooth the churning in his head. If nothing else, it gives him the strength he needs to return to the fight.

Aurra’s back is turned to him, her focus caught on Dooku as he attempts to restrict her with the Force. It doesn’t work; her lightsaber slashing in an effort to bisect him, but he dodges and rolls away. Anakin uses that to his advantage. Masking himself just enough to keep himself from alerting her, he pulls himself up and barrels into her from behind, no delicacy in the action as he sends them both tumbling to the ground. His head rings, but he pushes it aside, siphoning what he can into the Force and enduring what he can’t.

She shrieks, nails biting into his face, blood beading from the cuts they cause. He ignores it, taking advantage of their close proximity to swipe the datapad from her pouch. With a kick he launches her away and rolls to his feet.

Her face twists into ugly contempt, but a warning from behind tells him to duck as Dooku fires off another shot aimed at her head. She manages to dodge, but it grazes her cheek, blood standing in stark contrast to her skin. Anakin wants to crow but the Force is tense, raising the hair on his arms, and the only warning he gets is the wild, manic gleam in her eyes before his world explodes in pain.

Glass spirals through the air as furniture breaks in a cacophony of destruction. Something hits his head. Once, twice. The pain is back and he thinks he feels something like alarm through his bond with Obi-Wan, but he can’t concentrate, can’t think. The room is hazy and he thinks there’s more debris than there should be.

Beside him, Dooku lets out a grunt. Anakin can’t see him, but based on the lack of another body hitting the floor, he’s pretty sure the elderly man is doing better than he is. That shouldn’t be as humiliating as it is — the Count was a Jedi Master and Anakin isn’t so arrogant as to assume himself equal — but heat flushes his cheeks anyway.

Footsteps, light and quick and deliberate, sound next to his ear, and a sharp fingernail trails down his cheek. He winces as it runs over his cuts, but the feeling is brief. Hot air breathes into his ear as the datapad in his hand is plucked out of his grasp with the ease of a kill.

“Nice try, Little One,” Aurra whispers, and her use of the name sends a spear of hatred through his heart. Obi-Wan calls him that. No one else is allowed to call him that and he hates her for defiling that simple endearment. “I admit, you’re more interesting than I thought. I’ll be sure to tell my client how much fun we had. Maybe we’ll meet again. I hope so. It’s more fun when the kill puts up a good fight.”

Anakin struggles to reply, but the words are mush on his tongue. He hears her boots crackle over cracked glass as she makes her way to the door and he wishes, fervently, that he could move. But his body is heavy and his head feels fit to split open and it’s a struggle even to move his fingers. He still tries because Anakin Skywalker doesn’t give up, but he knows when the outcome doesn’t look good.

He’s still struggling when Aurra lets out a sharp cry.

From between slitted eyes, Anakin sees the woman held in a hold not unlike the one from earlier as the Count limps towards her. There’s a cut on his forehead, blood trailing down over one eye and his grip with the Force is tenuous. Aurra’s arm struggles against the hold as she stretches out for her fallen lightsaber. With what little focus Anakin can manage he sends out a tendril of his own and the lightsaber stops halfway to her hand.

Her eyes are bloodthirsty and narrowed as she throws a glare in his direction, but Anakin is too focused on keeping the lightsaber away to care for her anger. Dooku seems to have abandoned his blaster in favor of the vibroblade and he extends his hand out to the vibrating lightsaber. Anakin gladly relinquishes his hold on the weapon as Aurra is thrown backwards a second before her saber soars towards the Count’s outstretched hand. The blade ignites, casting the Count in blood. Between the haze of wakefulness, Anakin finds it fits. The red blade seems at home in Dooku’s hand far more than a blue or green one ever could.

He shakes it off because that’s not a very kind thought, but it sticks, furrowing into the back of his head to be considered another day. Aurra stands, her fury a simoon in the Force.

“I do believe, Miss Sing, that this is two for two now. Come quietly, and I will work to ensure you get a fair judgement.”

She sneers. “I’m sure you would. Unfortunately, my response still stands. I have too much to do to waste my time in a prison cell.”

“And I have too much to do to waste my time running after you. I’m afraid, in this instance, I really must insist.”

“As must I,” and before anyone can blink, she pulls out a blaster from the holster at her side and fires. The Count blocks it with the blade of her saber and advances forward as if her shots were playthings he had long since outgrown.

Panic flashes across her face and Anakin is mesmerized by the ease of the Count’s movements. He wastes nothing. Every step is controlled; every twirl of his saber a dance of finesse. It’s like nothing he’s ever seen, not even from Obi-Wan, and he understands the fear that settles under Aurra’s anger. Dooku is terrifying.

He creeps closer, not bothering to pick up his pace because why should he when victory is assured? Why should he when he has Aurra up against a wall with an ineffective weapon against a superior opponent? Well, Anakin realizes too late, it’s because an inferior opponent always goes in realizing they’re inferior.

Aurra Sing is bloodthirsty and powerful in the Force. Dooku is more so. She’s skilled with a blade and with a blaster and has no regard for whether or not her opponent lives or dies. Dooku is the same.

What then does she have to even the playing field?

Anakin is a second too late to warn the Count as she drops the blaster and replaces it just as quickly with the slugthrower on her back. It’s not designed for close combat, but little doubt Aurra cares. She shoots and the slug barrels forward too quickly for Dooku to dodge. He brings up the saber in defense but the thing about slugs is that they don’t stop. A lightsaber can deflect a blaster easy; a slug, not so much.

The Count lets out a strangled scream as the little piece of metal digs into his arm. Red blossoms across the elegant embroidery of his tunic and he drops the saber in an instinctual need to grasp his wound. Aurra grins. She raises the weapon again, but Dooku is a Master and through the haze of pain he reaches out to call the gun to him. Anakin watches as it’s ripped from her hands and soars through the air into the enraged Count’s hand. The boy wants to grin, but that takes effort, so he settles for basking in the satisfaction.

It doesn’t last.

The instant the slugthrower is out of her grasp, Aurra reaches for her pocket. If he had the energy, Anakin would wonder about just how she manages to keep so many weapons on her person, but he doesn’t. She pulls back, hurling a bomb into the air as she makes for the balcony. The Force rings with warning, giving the Count just enough time to jump away.

Anakin is not so lucky.

He’s still struggling to move and debris flies over him painfully. The desk blocks much of the pressure, but its destruction is enough to cause damage. Anakin cries out as slabs of wood barrage his body. He’d really appreciate some help right about now, but Obi-Wan is too far away and Anakin isn’t foolish enough to depend on Dooku. Aurra is too much of a threat to waste time on a Padawan while she gets away with important information.

The Count is of the same mind. He’s considerate enough to check Anakin with the Force, just to make sure he’s still alive, but if that’s the standard by which he measures health Anakin thinks he might want to reevaluate his priorities. Nevertheless, from what he’s gleaned of the man, it’s a thoughtful gesture and Anakin is filled with a sort of triumphant pleasure that he’s managed to register as useful and worthy of even that consideration. He doesn’t think many have.

But the blast has done its job. The explosive, while small, has gotten Aurra out of the corner. She stands near Anakin, body posed to jump from the now exposed balcony. The glass doors have been blown clean off letting in the cold mountain air and whipping wind. It stings Anakin’s wounds, but the chill is soothing, numbing his pain enough to aid the Force in siphoning much of it away. If nothing else, he can move his fingers.

From the corner of his eye, he sees the pack that contains the datapad. It’s low on her hip, but the Force slips like sand through his fingers when he attempts to grab it. He tries to channel it through his body like he does when he jumps and that works moderately better. His toes move and he thinks if he tried the Force might help him get to his knees.

“I apologize for leaving so soon, Master Dooku, but I have to go. Places to be, people to meet. I’ll be sure to give them your regards.” Aurra smiles and spins on her heel, pack twisting away from Anakin’s line of sight, but Dooku is ahead of him.

The man has struggled out from behind an overturned side table and with his uninjured arm launches Breha’s vibroblade. Sing instinctively retaliates with a Force wave strong enough to knock the man back off his feet and into the wall, but it’s too late. The blade catches on the bottom of her pack, sending the datapad tumbling to the ground to land with a clack near Anakin’s head.

He doesn’t think. He barely breathes as he forces his hand forward to grab the datapad and shove it under his body. Is it the most effective plan he’s ever had? Probably not. Is it all his jumbled brain can come up with at the moment? Yes. Unfortunately, Aurra isn’t stupid, nor unobservant.

With a grip like a vice, the Force curls around Anakin and hauls him to his knees. He lets out a cry of pain as the movement jars his injured body, but his struggles are weak and ineffective. Black spots dance across his vision.

Aurra brings him closer, holding him up with the Force as she clicks her tongue. “Now that wasn’t very smart, Little Jedi. I could have been on my merry way without another thought to you. Now look at what you’ve done? You’ve gained my attention. Most people learn pretty quickly that’s not very smart, but you’re not a very quick learner, are you?”

Anakin forces himself to look her in the eyes. They glow like bonfires amidst ash. He grins, tasting iron on his tongue. “I le’rn. Y’re j’st n-not a good t’cher.” His words are slurred and if he didn’t know he had a concussion before he certainly does now.

She plucks the datapad from his limp fingers as her other hand curls around his collar. “Perhaps you need another lesson then.”

What happens next will only be a haze in Anakin’s memory.

The datapad held in Sing’s hand explodes, sending metal and sparks flying. She jerks back, shrieking, her fingers seared, and narrowly avoids a blaster bolt to the face. Eyes livid, she spins, Anakin yanked painfully along in her grip. The black spots are hard to see through, but not so much that he can’t pick out Breha’s yellow dress against the red walls of the Chancellor’s office.

It stuns Anakin to startling clarity as he registers the blaster pointed at them. Breha’s unforgiving gaze sears into Aurra’s with all the ferocity of a mother nexu. He wants to fight, to tell Breha to run, but he can’t speak; his bones are heavy, his body numb with cold and adrenaline, and the only thing he has to fall back on is the whispered warning of his mother.

“Go limp, Ani. Don’t be a threat. People forget that which they don’t fear.”

He goes limp, Breha’s features smudging along the edges until all he can see is mom. Shmi had never owned a dress as beautiful as Breha’s, but he thinks she might remind him of her. His mom looked just like that the first time Gardulla made him race.

The onset of gravity offsets Aurra’s balance as she’s forced to compensate for both the surprise and the sudden heaviness of Anakin’s body. She oversteps and Breha’s next shot hits her right in the shoulder. Pain spikes like solar flares in the Force and Anakin’s shields are too feeble to block them entirely. He doesn’t even notice as she loses his grip on him and he goes tumbling onto the hard marble floor. All he can focus on is the fire that spikes through his brain.

But Aurra is not so injured as to lose focus.

She reaches out, poker hot tendrils of the Force ripping the blaster from Breha’s fingers before clawing their way around her throat. Anakin watches through the Force as those tendrils close around the princess’ soft presence and slowly snuffs it out.

No, he whispers desperately in his head. No. He has to move. Has to do something. Dooku? Where’s Dooku? But the man’s Force signature is murky with half-awareness and every poke and prod from Anakin does nothing to stir his help. He tries to reach out and intercept Aurra, but her claws are like shadows in the desert, slipping away from him with each step he takes to meet them.

He can’t do anything. He can’t help. Breha’s snow-bright presence dims and he battles desperately against unconsciousness in a bid to do something. If he could just move he could help her. Why can’t he help her? Why-

His fingers twitch.

They ache with pain and the numbness of the mountain air, but he forces himself forward. He thinks of earlier, how the Force curled through him, sending strength to his broken body. He tries to reach that again.

The Force isn’t a cure all; he’s been told that a thousand times in a thousand ways in as many languages as he can remember. Master Che would be very upset with him if she knew what he was doing, but Breha is so dim and Master Dooku so clouded, and Anakin is the only one with the awareness to do anything. If the Force won’t move outwards, at least he can make it move inwards.

He coaxes it through his body, clearing his head and pushing his limbs to move even though they scream with agony. Breha is barely struggling anymore, her flailing growing feeble, and he has to move faster. He pushes the Force into his limbs like he does when he jumps and powers through the cries his muscles make.

One step. Two. He reaches out his fingers and, with the Force reinforcing his muscles, dives for Sing. Her concentration drops in an instant and Anakin hears Breha crumble to the floor in a heap. He wants to turn and check on her, to make sure she’s okay, that he made it in time, but he can’t. Aurra’s body is sharp against his, a heavy weight, and he realizes too late that he put too much speed in his movements.

Anakin feels the jolt of her back hitting the banister. They flip, the world tilting as his vision flickers. It’s cold and biting against the unnatural heat of the bounty hunter and he doesn’t even register as her nails claw at his spine. Someone cries out his name, but it’s distant, like the echo of a memory, and he can’t concentrate enough to figure out who.

He’s falling.

The wind whips around him as the ground rushes up, but he has no energy to be afraid. It’s like flying. He loses himself to the peace and as he closes his eyes he wonders, distantly, if Obi-Wan will tell his mom what happened.

He doesn’t think anything after that.

Chapter 9: The Mandalorian and the Jedi

Chapter Text

“I don’t suppose,” Obi-Wan blocks a bolt, “that was your friend, was it?”

He gets no reply. Not that Obi-Wan truly expected one. Bounty hunters - real, true, good ones of the Old Mandalorian variety - don’t tend to be chatty. That said, it puts a damper on his attempts at gathering information.

He blocks another blast. The Mandalorian fires in quick succession, leaving Obi-Wan on the defensive. A few strays hit the dead body between them and Obi-Wan casts a silent apology into the Force. Sure, the guy tried to kill him, but that doesn’t mean he can’t still be polite. He dances away from the corpse, as much out of respect as convenience, lightsaber a haze arching around him.

Of all things, the bounty hunter had to be a Mandalorian.

Obi-Wan will admit he has a tangled history with Mandalorians. It’s not uncommon; Mandalorians often have a tangled history with themselves. Still, he has to wonder what it is about people from Mandalore barreling into his life when he least expects it and at the most inopportune moments.

The situation, as it stands, would be funny if it didn’t come on the tail ends of a Devaronian Rodeo and what is clearly, in hindsight, a very well planned attack to separate the main threats in order to take out the target without arousing suspicion. Obi-Wan can almost appreciate it.

He would, of course, appreciate it a lot more if it didn’t include him being shot at.

The Mandalorian flies over him, blasters firing as he blocks the onslaught with his lightsaber. The ships in the hangar aren’t the best cover, but they do the job of giving him some modicum of breathing room. His current hiding spot is a sleek ship of Naboo design and while part of him feels bad for the damage being leveled at what is clearly the Chancellor’s personal ship, it’s hindered by his very real relief at the size of the vessel and the cover it brings.

The bounty hunter isn’t particularly frugal with his shots.

He fires one after another in quick succession and if Obi-Wan could just get a clear angle for the jetpack it would make his life significantly easier. He’s tried a few times now to grasp hold of it through the Force, but the speed and evasiveness of the other being makes it difficult to make reality.

Two more shots hit the side of the ship close to Obi-Wan’s face and he takes that to mean it’s time to find a new spot to lay low. Hopefully his companions have acted accordingly and made it to a safer position, but, if his track record is to be considered, Obi-Wan very much doubts it. Therefore, it is imperative he keep the bounty hunter as far away as possible from the hangar entrance, lest he put them in more danger. Unfortunately, that means moving from behind the Chancellor’s ship.

For being a hangar designated for guards, it’s surprisingly full of diplomatic vessels. They’re everywhere, large and covered in blaster scoring, offering him ample coverage to choose from. Unfortunately for Obi-Wan, the benefits of being the de facto head of the galaxy apparently includes not having to walk far even when the hangar should already be filled with an assortment of dignitaries who had the consideration to arrive on time.

No. Focus.

Obi-Wan pushes the thought from his head. He’s being disingenuous. Again. Just because the gap between ships inconveniences him doesn’t give him an excuse to be rude. And his thoughts on the Chancellor have no business — he blocks another shot — interfering when he’s being attacked by a Sith-damned Mandalorian and his Sith-damned blasters.

The bounty hunter reappears overhead, forcing Obi-Wan to abandon the space entirely. He runs, lightsaber twirling in his grasp with each warning of the Force. The gap between the Chancellor’s vessel and the next is far too open and the bounty hunter takes full advantage of it.

He shoots. Obi-Wan’s injured arm pulls angrily, causing him to miss a mark as a shot cuts into his forearm. He stifles a curse, desperately trying to keep his grip on his lightsaber.

His eyes flash to the wound; it’s deep but not vitally so. Torn muscle and dangerous only in the immediate effect on his defenses. Not ideal, but nothing he hasn’t had before. He’ll just have to make do.

Biting his lip, Obi-Wan switches his lightsaber to his other hand and lets the injured one be. He’ll bandage it when he gets clear. With enough liberal application of the Force to give Master Che a headache, he siphons what pain he can into the void. It’s not much; just enough to keep his head clear and focused. He’ll have to endure the rest until he has a moment.

Enduring, of course, is the hardest part in this game of defense he’s playing. It’s a game he’s good at, and frankly prefers, but the longer this continues the longer it’ll take to get his companions to safety and the longer it’ll take for him to reach Anakin.

He can feel the boy through their bond. His shields are a mess, unstable and fallen in too many vital places. Anger, volcanic and smothering, filters through the chaotic mess and Obi-Wan has to raise his own shields higher just to keep his attention on his own fight. He isn’t sure what the situation is on his Padawan’s end, but whatever it is sparks unease in his heart. He needs to finish this quickly before Anakin gets into even more trouble, and he could do that if he could just get the damn jetpack off the damn bounty hunter.

The expanse between the Chancellor’s ship and a smaller one further away closes, and he skids to a stop under the wing. Obi-Wan reaches out again from his new hiding place to catch hold of the jetpack, but the bounty hunter moves too quickly out of his grasp. If he could just focus on one thing for more than a second at a time this wouldn’t be an issue. Qui-Gon would have had the pack off in seconds and — no.

Bile, acrid and hot, stings his throat. He’s not going there. This isn’t the time to bemoan his own shortcomings. Qui-Gon isn’t here and there’s no use contemplating otherwise.

Instead, Obi-Wan listens for any sign that the hunter is close by while keeping his senses attuned to the entrance. So long as he has the Mandalorian’s attention they won’t try to go anywhere else.

A Jedi is too dangerous a problem to risk leaving unresolved.

He takes the moment of breathing room to inspect his arm and winces. The shoulder wound from earlier has been aggravated far more than he’d like and Master Che will surely recruit Bant to lecture him later. Likewise, while his new wound isn’t as debilitating, the torn muscle will definitely be a problem down the road. The Force is the only thing keeping the pain at bay.

With a sharp tug that does nothing to help the fire in his nerves, he slips off his robe and tears off a section of it to use as a makeshift sling. The tears in it make this a simple enough task and he has his arm wrapped in a matter of moments.

It’s not a second too soon either, as the Force rings a warning loud enough to deafen.

Obi-Wan is already moving, jumping aside as a bomb goes off under the ship. He’s hit with a rush of heat that aggravates his already aggravated wounds and is sent flying, tumbling through the air as the concussive force hits and pelts him with debris. Ship after ship is torn from its mooring, upturning and catching fire as the bomb causes a chain reaction of explosions. Obi-Wan catches himself on a bridge overlooking the main floor and the image, once he finally has his bearings enough to look down, isn’t good.

Kriff.

With a fire raging below him and smoke rising, his options are now limited to suffocating up here or burning down there. Neither option presents as particularly pleasant. And, of course, the sprinkler chooses that moment to go off, drenching the metal and causing his hands to grow slick. They twist against the beam and his grip loosens.

Well, Obi-Wan grouses, I suppose that settles it. He tightens his grip as hard as he can muster and swings, using the momentum to angle himself correctly before letting go.

The sprinklers are, by and large, not built for such a massive fire. It rages around him as Obi-Wan’s feet hit the floor with a painful thud, landing in a puddle and just narrowly avoiding a large slab of half melted slag. Droids and tools lay strew about the ground in a haphazard mess, a minefield of debris for Obi-Wan to cross.

The Force is a churning mess around him. Even with his shields up Obi-Wan can still feel Anakin’s own chaotic star, and he’s stuck trying to siphon away his own pain with a supernova in the back of his head. The Force slips through his fingers twice before he’s able to grab hold and keep the smoke free of his lungs. He coughs into his sleeve, trying to keep quiet while he casts about for the Mandalorian.

Obi-Wan squints his eyes. Tears well as the smoke rises. The bounty hunter is still in the room; he can feel them in the loud chaos the Force has become, but with Obi-Wan’s concentration now halved he’s harder to pin down. So where does logic leave him then?

If he’s trying to get to the Chancellor, he’ll head for the main entrance, Obi-Wan rationalizes. So main entrance it is.

Carefully, Obi-Wan toes around the destruction. His arm has settled into a dull ache, his clothes are drenched, and every step means more effort taken in keeping the smoke and flames from his face. The Force is stretched thin in too many directions and he has to stop siphoning the pain away in order to keep his lungs safe. It doesn’t help with his injuries, but at least he can function.

The only good thing is the sirens wailing in the distance, filling Obi-Wan’s muscles with relief. At least, he won’t have to worry about the fire once he catches up to the bounty hunter.

He ambles forward. The hunter’s signature flickers ahead of him, his beskar keeping him safe from the heat of the flames, and Obi-Wan follows. He crosses the great expanse that once existed between the Chancellor’s ship and the rest of the hangar and tries to ignore the twist in his gut.

Surely the hunter would wish to make sure he was dead before making for their target? It’s only logical. Else, they run the risk of him interfering. But no. Whatever mission the hunter’s been given, time appears to be of the essence, if he deems this a distraction enough to risk it.

Something beeps, sharp and shrill nearby and Obi-Wan’s heart skips. Kriff. Kriffing sithspit in a Corellian whor* house. He gives up on avoiding the debris, relying entirely on the Force as he picks up the pace. If the hunter’s already made it to the door then Obi-Wan’s further behind than he thought.

There’s a ship, hull torn and on fire, caught between the door to the palace and Obi-Wan. He can sense the Mandalorian on the other side. The roar of the fire makes it harder to discern, but the sound of grating metal meets his ears and he knows his time is running out.

Without thinking, Obi-Wan jumps. He lands atop the burning metal ship, flames licking the edges of his boots and warping the soles. Dancing across it, he tries to keep moving forward as much as possible, doing his best to avoid the smoke, but the task is difficult. It’s everywhere, clogging the air and burning his nose.

Obi-Wan chokes on ash.

Heat sears his throat as he lobbies for the Force’s protection. He manages to prevent much of it from entering his lungs, but it’s not nearly enough. Obi-Wan tumbles from the ship at a roll, coughing and catching a blast to the leg for his distraction.

He stumbles, landing on his uninjured arm. It’s a minor boon, but one he doesn’t take for granted as he uses it to avoid a vibroblade aimed at his face. Stumbling, Obi-Wan blocks the next strike with his lightsaber. He cuts clear through the blade, but the hunter doesn’t slow. The Mandalorian falls to the floor, kicking out Obi-Wan’s injured leg.

The Jedi collapses with a cry, instinctively curling in on himself as fire shoots through his lower body. He spews a truly filthy curse within the confines of his mind, and the only reason it doesn’t fly out his mouth is because he’s in too much pain to speak. The Force shrieks and he jolts; the only reason he doesn’t lose his head to another blaster shot.

Obi-Wan manages to pull himself upwards, releasing what pain he can back into the Force, but it’s a poor job. His balance is off as he bats aside another blaster shot with lopsided grace. It pulls at his injuries further, but it’s either continue siphoning the pain, or live, and Obi-Wan knows which one to pick.

His blade swings again, blocking another bolt. Sweat pours down his face as the fire burns behind him, and he knows he’s hit a dangerous point once his vision starts to tilt. Another blast comes his way and Obi-Wan grits his teeth.

He’s annoyed. He’s in pain. He really just wants to fall into bed and forget this day ever happened. Surely, that can’t be too much to ask?

But the bounty hunter doesn’t let up and so this time when Obi-Wan blocks, he angles his blade just so as to reverberate the blast back at his opponent. The other person has good reflexes, but they’re not Jedi level and the bolt hits the jetpack, damaging the thrusters and making it obsolete.

Obi-Wan just barely refrains from smirking.

“Well, it would appear you’re not going anywhere now.”

The Mandalorian remains silent, but Obi-Wan can pick up their annoyance in the Force. Good. Finally, something other than the one-note determination Obi-Wan’s been subjected to throughout their little meeting.

“Can I assume you’re not shooting anymore because you appreciate my wit or have you finally run out of blaster bolts?”

Ah, shouldn’t have goaded. Not a good idea. Obi-Wan deflects another blast, this one aimed specifically for his head, but doesn’t allow himself to remain on the defensive. He needs to finish this before his injuries make him useless.

The more blasts fired, the more Obi-Wan blocks, advancing on the now retreating Mandalorian. They inch closer to the palace entrance, the door having locked with the onset of the blast. There’s a small metal device attached to the locking panel, but Obi-Wan can’t get a good enough look to see what it is. Blue bolts skim his face and with only one working arm and a semi-functional leg, it’s clumsy work.

He’s within striking distance when two things happen:

One: he mistimes his deflection and sends a bolt careening into the entrance keypad.

Two: he brings his lightsaber down on the end of both of the blasters.

The blade slices through one of them completely while clipping the other and the hunter immediately drops them both as the power packs explode. He stumbles back and, if not for Obi-Wan’s initial blunder, that would have been it, but the combination of Obi-Wan’s mistake and what he can now see is a security overloader has caused the door’s mechanisms to falter. Without a backwards glance, the Mandalorian is free to escape into the hallway.

Great. Wonderful. Exactly what Obi-Wan didn’t want. If not just for the hunter then for the flames that are still raging around him. Through the open hangar bay, fire patrols have already started attempting to put out the fire, but it’ll be far more problematic if they escape into the rest of the palace.

He doesn’t give himself time to think. Obi-Wan barrels through the open doors and spins on his uninjured leg. With a great swelling of the Force, he warps the damaged metal into a temporary block. It’s not a complete solution, but it should hopefully keep the fire from spreading.

Hopefully, he snorts in his head. As if today seems to care at all what he wants.

But the bounty hunter isn’t gone. As if the hangar wasn’t enough, the Mandalorian releases a stream of fire in Obi-Wan’s direction.

Of course he has a flamethrower. Why wouldn’t he have a flamethrower?

Obi-Wan dodges, pulling a discarded piece of the door up as a shield. He waits two heartbeats before he pushes the debris forward with an exhausted wave of the Force. It’s getting harder to call on, fatigue and his injuries hindering his concentration. A dull thud and a strangled cry indicate he’s hit his target and Obi-Wan swallows down the satisfaction. He rolls to his feet, doing everything possible to keep himself from falling again as the dizziness returns. He won’t last much longer.

The door lays in a haphazard heap along the side. Aggravation pours into the Force from the body slowly rising up behind it. His armor protects him well, but even from this distance Obi-Wan can see the damage done to the flamethrower. Good. One less weapon for Obi-Wan to worry about.

His lightsaber is heavy in his hands, but the narrow corridor allows for at least a modicum of help. There’s very few places for the bounty hunter to go but straight. Obi-Wan surges forward, ignoring his pain out of sheer tenacity. It’s meaningless; something to worry about later.

The Mandalorian dodges his blade and ducks, barreling into Obi-Wan’s stomach. Air rushes from his lungs, but he takes the hit, using the momentum to flip over the hunter’s shoulder and land at a crouch. His chest burns, but it’s no matter. The move is enough to throw the hunter off. He falls hard on his back, but a quick twist and he’s up on his feet, a fibercord whip shooting out from one of the vambraces.

Obi-Wan aims low. He’s still working on moving between his original Ataru and his growing proficiency in Soresu, but the three years of practice have done him well. He weaves through the wire aimed at his torso and strikes. Lightsabers may not be effective on beskar, but the armorweave underneath is not as resistant. Better to aim for the weave directly and land a hit, than try for the beskar and fail.

That said, Obi-Wan’s not completely surprised when the Mandalorian dodges. He tilts, rolling his body so as to end up behind the Jedi. His armor brushes against Obi-Wan’s side almost like a taunt and the Knight grits his teeth.

Bastard.

Obi-Wan spins, ready to deflect an attack, but the move jars his leg and he falters. It’s all the opening the hunter needs.

Wire winds around his wrists, the grappler at the end tying them together with a tightness that aches. He doesn’t have time to react as the Mandalorian pulls, using what little he can of the damaged jetpack to give himself the momentum he needs to bring Obi-Wan sliding across the floor.

He sees what the hunter is aiming for only seconds before he can react. Ducking his hands behind enclosed fists, Obi-Wan is powerless as the Mandalorian breaks through one of the windows that leads out into a garden.

Glass shatters on impact, and Obi-Wan’s preparation is the only thing that shields his face from the shards and branches. They dig into the skin of his hands, blood beading along the tears. Should he survive this, Obi-Wan is in for an extended lecture from Master Che.

Sunshine, far dimmer and lower on the horizon than before, is the first thing that greets him. The second is the painful patch of stone his body slams into as he skids to a halt along a footpath. Thankfully, the hunter’s jetpack is far too damaged to do much more than skim the ground before it sputters out. Not as great is the fact that Obi-Wan’s lightsaber is lost somewhere amidst the foliage. He can’t help but mourn the loss.

And after all those lectures I’ve given Anakin.

He doesn’t have long to lament as the Force whispers another warning. Obi-Wan rolls hastily to his feet, stumbling to avoid a laser as it’s shot from the other gauntlet.

Just how many weapons does this person have? It’s almost hilarious at this point, but Obi-Wan recalls far too many times when he assumed the weapons were through only to get blasted or stabbed or blown up in some ridiculous fashion.

Coincidentally, most of those times involved Mandalorians. He’s starting to think it’s a trend.

Another shot aims for his face, but Obi-Wan turns quickly. He brings up his wrists and the laser skims through the wire locking them together. It trails a painful burn across the skin, but considering his other injuries this one is decidedly tame.

Hands free, Obi-Wan casts about for his lightsaber. He can feel it, somewhere under a destroyed hedge, and reaches out his hand—

Pain. Sharp agonizing pain. There’s an explosion from up above them and if not for the searing agony rippling through his head, Obi-Wan would laugh. Because of course. Of course there would be another explosion.

Why have one when you can have two?

But Obi-Wan doesn’t laugh. It’s all he can do not to collapse where he stands, his own injuries pulsing with the echo of Anakin’s pain. He can only be grateful the explosion has distracted the hunter as much as himself.

“Anakin? Anakin!”

The other end of the bond is dim with half-awareness. Doubtful his apprentice is even cognizant of his calls, but Obi-Wan does it anyway. He reaches out, desperately searching for the boy in the Force — to feel him, in any way, for any injury Obi-Wan can help him with.

There’s nothing. Just pain and a lingering sense of danger that Obi-Wan is unable to sooth. He sets his jaw and holds back a growl. His own injuries he can deal with later; Anakin’s are substantially more dire.

Debris rains down on the garden as Obi-Wan levels a glare at the bounty hunter. This has gone on too long. As the Mandalorian raises their hand, Obi-Wan reaches out. With Anakin still rippling through his mind, the Force comes eagerly. He rips the gauntlet from the other being’s wrist and calls it to him. It lands swiftly in his hands and a quick glance of the charge shows it’s recently been replaced. Good.

He aims, firing two rounds at the bounty hunter as the man rolls to the side. A quick tug with the Force and a rock is sent hurtling through the air. It slams into the hunter’s side, sending him sprawling across the grass and back towards the hallway.

For a moment, Obi-Wan is afraid he’ll take the opportunity to jump back inside, but, as with most things today, he’s wrong. Instead, with another shot aimed at the bounty hunter’s head, the Mandalorian crouches down and shoots his hand out to grab hold of something.

He jumps quickly to his feet as Obi-Wan sends another boulder their way, but it’s a moot point. A blue blade ignites, slicing the boulder in two and leaving harmless, crackling pebbles to hit the blaster-scored beskar.

Of course this would happen to Obi-Wan Kenobi.

He’s not sure what’s going to be worse: his meeting with Master Che or the one he’ll have with Master Windu.

Obi-Wan isn’t given any more time to wallow as the hunter rushes towards him. He shoots in quick succession, most of which are dodged. A few shots hit the armor, but it’s beskar and Obi-Wan knows better than to assume he’s hit anything vital. In his experience, such assumptions often prove false.

Much to his detriment.

The trick with Mandalorians is to aim for the joints, and his opponent is unfortunately just as well-versed in protecting his weak spots as Obi-Wan is in finding them. And while wielding a lightsaber isn’t necessarily easy for an untrained Force Null, the other being does manage to get a few lucky deflections in.

The hunter swings low, aiming for Obi-Wan’s injured leg. He dances around the clumsy swing and tries to reach out to pull his lightsaber from his opponent’s grasp, but the Mandalorian has a grip like the beskar he wears. Another flourish has Obi-Wan ducking into a roll, reaching to kick out the hunter’s legs, but they jump and pivot, using the momentum to bring the blade back around to lope off Obi-Wan’s head.

It’s a miss, but a near one. Were they not trying to kill him, Obi-Wan might even be impressed. He weaves around the blade and takes aim with the laser, only to pull back as the lightsaber is brought down towards his arm. Obi-Wan has never been so thankful for his own reflexes as he jerks away, keeping his remaining appendage firmly attached to his body and only sacrificing the gauntlet.

It’s fine. He doesn’t like lasers anyway.

But the Mandalorian overcompensated. One of the benefits of the lightsaber is in it’s lack of weight — a boon to those who have the Force to fall back on; not so much for those who don’t. Especially those who are used to fighting with heavier weapons.

Obi-Wan grins. He reaches out again for his lightsaber and this time the weapon complies. He catches it, the lightsaber flying from the hunter’s startled hands. The blue blade glows against the silver of the palace walls and Obi-Wan takes comfort in the familiar thrum of his crystal. It’s happy to be back in his hand.

He turns back to his opponent and rushes forward, lightsaber cresting in an arch aimed for the joint between his elbow. One less arm is one less weapon, but the hunter is quick and there’s a reason Mandalorians dress as they do. He jolts, Obi-Wan’s blade skimming the edges of the armor and burning a small hole through the weave. The injury is small — hardly debilitating — but it’s enough to force the hunter back with a cry.

They have a deep voice, no doubt deeper with the helmet, and masculine enough that Obi-Wan is comfortable in his initial conclusion of them being male, though he’s not married to the idea. Human too, if the exposed skin is any indication.

Mandalorian, male, human, tan skin. Age unknown, but on the younger side. Close to his own, perhaps. Features unknown. Trade: bounty hunter.

Obi-Wan narrows his eyes. The burn, slight, but noticeable, sits against the armor where his lightsaber hit and it lights a memory of time spent dodging assassins with a duch*ess at his side.

“Beskar is expensive, Obi-Wan,” a brilliant smile shines beneath a dirty face, “and Mandalorians are as subject to finances as any other being. Durasteel works just as well.”

Armor: Durasteel-plated.

It’s not much, but in a galaxy of trillions it narrows the playing field so in the event Obi-Wan loses him here he’ll know where to start the investigation (and there will be an investigation. An assassination attempt on the Chancellor at the wedding of powerful Core World royalty? Even Quinlan wouldn’t take that bet.)

The other man holds his arm gingerly, and Obi-Wan almost smiles. He’s not one for pettiness, but his arm is smarting, his leg is on fire, and somewhere in the back of his mind his apprentice’s blazing presence has dimmed to a whisper, so he thinks he’ll be forgiven for feeling the slightest bit petty at finally giving the other man a taste of his own medicine. Just a bit.

“Careful with these,” Obi-Wan teases, because he can’t help himself and has spent far too much time with only a twelve-year-old for company. “They can take an arm off.”

Anger stirs the air around the bounty hunter, charged with disgust. Normally, Obi-Wan would delight in having offset his opponent, but the familiar satisfaction escapes him. He tenses. The hunter reaches for something at his side and Obi-Wan is a second too slow to realize what it is. His only warning is a prickle in the Force.

The bomb goes off.

It’s much smaller and clogs Obi-Wan’s lungs with gas. Frantically, he curls the Force around him, not knowing what effects the gas may cause. A distraction — mild irritation? Or something more dangerous? He doesn’t know and he doesn’t have the time to risk finding out. Luckily, the Force keeps the gas from entering his already damaged lungs any further, but it’s that minor distraction that gives the hunter his opening.

A wrist blade (because apparently the vibroblade wasn’t enough) slashes at his neck, but Obi-Wan easily cleaves through it with his lightsaber. The hunter doesn’t stop, however. He barrels through, body slamming into Obi-Wan’s and knocking the breath from his lungs. It jostles his injuries, sending white hot pain through Obi-Wan’s nerves and whiting out his vision.

He feels his lightsaber slip from his grasp and then the Mandalorian is on top of him. Fingers — thick, and covered in armor and weave — curl around Obi-Wan’s neck in an effort to cut off his oxygen. The Jedi gasps, both arms rising to stop him because, injuries aside, his arm won’t matter if he’s dead.

The Force is a shrieking, distorted mess. His vision flickers into a dark haze, but he’s just able to catch the shine of a second blade as it aims for his face. He grabs it with his good hand, sharp edges digging into his flesh. Obi-Wan gasps in pain; the searing heat agony along his callused flesh. The weapon grows slick with his blood and his grip weakens with each whisper of oxygen he loses. He’s fading, slowly but surely, the blade inching closer to his face. Eyes shut so tightly he sees stars, Obi-Wan reaches out desperately for the Force.

Please, he begs. The Force is a distant cry, as if lost in the mist, and Obi-Wan tries desperately to reach out to it. Every second that passes is another second he wastes. He’s slipping. The dark spots grow. His grip slackens and the blade moves closer. Please, he reaches again, the image of Anakin flickering in his mind. He’s hurt; Anakin’s hurt, and if this hunter succeeds there will be no one left to help him. His Padawan will be alone.

No, he decides. No. I promised. I promised him. Adrenaline surges through his body as Obi-Wan hunts for a light in the mist. It’s slight but there, and he grasps hold of it with everything he has, slamming the hunter away with a force that knocks the wind out of them both.

The Mandalorian rolls away, helmet falling from his head and into a bramble. For a moment, Obi-Wan sees double, the world spinning, and he knows it’s not just his injuries. There’s something — something on Anakin’s end — that has the Force screaming. He needs to get up. He needs to move. He needs to get to his apprentice before anything else happens.

Hand pulsing and lungs burning, Obi-Wan pulls himself to his feet at the same time as the bounty hunter. He looks up, meeting dark eyes and a scowl, and, inanely, the first thing that soars through his mind isn’t that he was correct — male, human, possibly his age — but that underneath the helmet he doesn’t look very much like a bounty hunter.

Good to know stereotypes are useless and all that.

Obi-Wan staggers. His leg is two seconds away from giving out on him and the blood loss is long-past its critical point. Little black spots dance across his vision, turning time into a meaningless jumble. He can’t even feel his arm anymore and that’s never a good sign, never mind what’s going on with his hand. Even the Force is a mess, the haze made worse by his most recent stunt. Its whispers are so quiet Obi-Wan can barely hear anything.

He knows he has to do something. Somehow he has to get the bounty hunter away or down or otherwise incapacitated, but his injuries make it difficult and the cries — pain, fear, help, help, help — filtering like static through his bond with Anakin makes any form of concentration harder.

Reaching out with what little he can manage, he feels for his lightsaber. The kyber crystal hums with longing, but he doesn’t pull it forward. His hands are too injured. Nevertheless, Obi-Wan isn’t down yet. The hunter is good, exceptionally so, but Obi-Wan knows his skills well and if this man wants to take him out then Obi-Wan’s going to make him work for it.

“Well,” he calls over because when in doubt, talk. “I must say, it’s nice to put a face to a figure. Your buy’ce left much to be desired.” Just a little more. The lightsaber scuttles across the ground, inch by painful inch, but Obi-Wan never looks away from the hunter.

The Mandalorian remains silent, mouth twisting, and Obi-Wan gets the faint impression he doesn’t approve of his use of Mando’a. It pulls the scars across his face into sharp contrast, highlighting the edges and giving him a much more stereotypical bounty hunter look. Not completely though. His jaw is too round for that.

“Not much of a talker, I gather,” Obi-Wan continues. His lightsaber grows closer, and thankfully the hunter doesn’t move. He hasn’t reached for any more weapons, but that doesn’t mean they’re not there. Obi-Wan’s willing to believe this man has at least a few more bombs on him.

He seems like the type.

Obi-Wan shrugs, as if put out. “Can I get a name, at least? You’ve already taken my lightsaber for a spin; the least you can do is tell me to whom to attribute the honor.”

Ah, that gets a reaction. The snarl is tinged now with distaste and something akin to suspicion. Well, that’s just rude. Obi-Wan is being exceptionally polite for someone the man’s tried to kill.

And okay, maybe Obi-Wan’s mind isn’t the sharpest at the moment — blood loss and all that — but it’s still rude to keep silent when someone is trying to start a conversation.

He huffs. “Well, I can’t keep calling you the Mandalorian—“

“I’m not.”

Obi-Wan pulls up short. “Pardon?”

“I’m not.”

His voice is low, with a lilt that is decidedly not Mandalorian, but has similar enough intonations to at least point towards the sector. It’s a nice voice, all things considered. Pleasant, even, if Obi-Wan is feeling generous.

He, of course, is not feeling generous, but the point stands. If he can keep him talking just a little bit longer…his lightsaber scuttles across the ground, closer and closer, and it takes all his energy not to lose his grip on the Force. It’s like trying to hold one droplet of water in a fog.

Masking himself with suitable contrition, Obi-Wan bows his head. “My apologies. I assumed from the armor—”

Wrong thing to say. The sneer that twisted his face contorts into something so beyond ugly that Obi-Wan has to refrain from flinching. Anger, seething and raging like magma rising to the surface, blisters the air between them. It’s so hot Obi-Wan can feel it on his skin, burning him with its intensity. His heart stutters and the lightsaber freezes in place, tense and shuddering.

“You assume?” The bounty hunter says, voice rising like a question, though clearly not of any Obi-Wan asked. The air crackles. Something shifts near the broken window and a thrumming from above thunders like a storm in the distance.

But Obi-Wan can’t look away. His arms don’t matter. His leg doesn’t matter. His bond with Anakin is as tense as a taut rubber band, and the bounty hunter stands before him rippling with hatred loud enough to drown all of that out.

“Yes,” the man says, hissed from breath on the tip of his tongue. “You would. Jetii always assume.”

The word lands between them — a curse married to a declaration of war — as the garden alights with chaos.

Obi-Wan’s lightsaber ignites along the grass behind his opponent, pulled forward like a lance to spear the hunter’s thigh from behind. In the same instance, the high-pitched keening of a blaster shot echoes out from the window and the hunter swivels on his heel to avoid the hit. The lightsaber manages to clip him in the exposed section of his upper thigh, but it doesn’t do the debilitating damage Obi-Wan was hoping for.

The bounty hunter falls to one knee, face twisting in pain as Bail Organa appears, pale and harried from the window. He has a blaster in hand as he rushes out into the courtyard, apparently ready to fire again should he need to. Behind him, Sei Taria and the Chancellor come barreling into view and Obi-Wan has to refrain from screaming.

Because honestly, what the kriff?

What in the galaxy has possessed them to such heights of stupidity? Their faces are stricken as they take in the downed hunter and Obi-Wan opens his mouth to shout at them when the whistle of displaced air shatters the stillness.

The group tenses, eyes shooting upwards to catch sight of something falling from a balcony. In the split second it takes for Obi-Wan to register what he’s seeing and react, the bounty hunter has jumped to his feet and grabbed the prince in a chokehold. Sei and the Chancellor scream, Palpatine hastily reaching out to pull his aide to his side.

The not-Mandalorian grabs the blaster from Bail’s hand and pivots, aiming for the Chancellor. Obi-Wan jolts forward. He motions to yank the blaster from his grasp when he realizes that the falling object isn’t an object at all.

Anakin, the Force whispers and Obi-Wan’s heart stops.

Time comes to a crawl. Blood thunders in his ears. The hunter aims.

He can’t do both. He can’t stop both. The Force churns around him, distant and suffocating in turn. The Chancellor or Anakin. Anakin or the Chancellor. A heart beat passes. Then another.

It’s not even a choice.

Obi-Wan doesn’t think. He doesn’t question. The Force rushes to him, a protective beast beckoned by his call. There is no haze. All blocks are gone. His exhaustion and pain nonexistent. Anakin, silent and still, crashes into his arms right as the blaster goes off.

And across the garden, Sheev Palpatine falls.

Chapter 10: Death, And Other Inconveniences

Chapter Text

His target lands with a satisfying thump, crumpling in a heap of burnt and torn clothing. He waits a second, but they don’t move and he nods once in satisfaction. The garden is still with stunned silence. Smoke wafts from his blaster, and its heat pilfers through the chill around his glove. It’s a familiar sensation — comforting, even. Like the touch of a childhood blanket.

Jango pulls away. He keeps the blaster aloft, just in case, while the man in his grasp allows himself to be dragged along. He thinks it’s the groom. Poor man. Jango would feel bad if he cared enough.

He does not.

The edge of the garden is only a few meters behind him. If the damn Jetii hadn’t taken out his jetpack, it wouldn’t have been an issue, but without it he’s stuck waiting on Aurra. She’s still taking her sweet time getting up. Whatever the Jetii did threw her off, and it’s just his luck to need to rely on her.

Another weakness to correct.

Aurra’s crumpled form shakes as she rises to her feet. Her eyes narrow in a loathsome glare, the temperature rising around them to such a point even a Force-null rock would notice. Interesting. He’s never seen her so openly reviling. She’s too arrogant to give another the satisfaction. He’ll have to get the full story out of her later. It promises to be a good one.

But they don’t have time for her vitriol right now. They don’t even have time for his own. His thigh burns at the reminder and he tightens his grip around the groom. The man whimpers.

Karking hut’uun and his karking jetii’kad.

The damn Jedi didn’t even have the decency to fight him from the front. No, he went from behind. Jango almost hates the part of himself that’s impressed. Begrudgingly — but impressed.

Anything to survive, he muses, lips twisting into a snarl. Just one more box ticked under Jetii hypocrisy. They spend all their time preaching peace and nobility, only to turn around and fight just as dirty as the rest of the galaxy once the chips are down.

He should have expected it. That was his mistake. He won’t make it again.

Aurra moves toward the still downed Jedi, the joy she usually exudes right before a kill gone under her fury. She’s roiling with it. Seething with it. The Jedi carefully lowers his partner — small and unconscious — atop the grass and stands over him, prepared to fight if necessary.

Jango almost snorts. The other man doesn’t look strong enough to fight Boba, never mind two bounty hunters of their caliber.

But he fights dirty, and that’s enough to make Jango pull back. He positions the blaster against the prince’s head and ignores the strangled gasp. They don’t have time for this.

“Sing,” he snaps, drawing her attention. “Another day.”

“I don’t recall taking orders—’

“Aurra.” She stills. Good. She’s smart. “Another. Day.” His eyes slide towards the crumpled heap by the hedges. “It’s time to go.”

Sing scowls, but it’s merely the spite of a predator denied prey. She backs down. Taking long strides his way, she holds the Jetii’s gaze. He’s tracking them, taking stock of their movements. Jango almost approves.

But the Jedi won’t risk the prince’s safety, not with the blaster positioned as it is, and, considering he went after his falling partner rather than the target, it’s unlikely he’ll put the other Jedi in harm’s way, either.

Smart. If not for the fact that he’s a Jetii, Jango might almost respect him.

Almost.

A little red light blinks from the top of Aurra’s antenna and he tenses in preparation as she grabs hold of his armorweave. Relying on her makes his teeth clench, but better her than someone else.

They step back. One. Two. The prince stumbles, frantic breaths echoing in Jango’s ear, but he pays him no mind. The sound is as familiar as the job.

He keeps his eyes on the Jedi as they near the edge, making sure he doesn’t pull anything. But no. He won’t risk the prince’s life. Aurra’s grip tightens, the body between them stiffening in preparation for whatever they decide.

Tch. Politicians.

It’s not always about them.

His feet caress the edge of the garden; nothing below them except grass fields and an endless ring of mountains. The air is still. Aurra taps his back, just enough to alert him of her movements. The ship is ready. He prepares to jump when he feels the pressure of the Jetii’s powers pulling at his hand.

Bastard.

The Jedi yanks the prince from his grasp in such a way as to knock the blaster from his hand. It goes sprawling into a hedge, the prince atop it, right as Aurra curls her fire around him and leaps.

The weightless sensation of nothingness is unsettling. It curdles his stomach, fighting against his natural reaction to Jetii magic, but he hides it behind a glare. Engaging the magnet on his wrist, he uses the last second to call his buy’ce to him. The blaster he can do without. His helmet? Not a chance.

It jolts into his hand as they crest over the side of the garden wall. He settles it over his head, relaxing under the weight, and his last sight of the mess is the little Jedi lying unconscious behind the legs of their partner.

It’s not a small species.

It’s a child.

The Jetii sacrificed his chance to stop Jango in order to save an adiik.

The image follows him as the ground rushes up. It follows as Aurra catapults them around a balcony and onto the waiting hull of her ship. It drifts through his mind as he settles into the co*ckpit and Aurra fires up the thrusters. And it sticks with him as Alderaan disappears into the deep void of hyperspace.

An adiik.

There had been nothing about a child in the Count’s message. Nothing to even indicate the possibility. But there he was, and it would appear Jango had been the only one not in the know.

He trails his gaze to his companion; watches her with the cold, biting expectation of an ally slighted. She doesn’t look at him. She sits, coiled like a wounded nexu, her face twisted into a scowl as she affixes bacta to the blaster burn in her shoulder.

His own injuries flare, begging for attention from the med-kit on the console. Bacta patches call to him from their packaging, but he doesn’t lift a finger to reach for them. His mind is elsewhere; his focus narrowed on more pressing concerns.

An adiik.

It sears through him, a deep, acidic heat in the back of his throat. His fingers curl around the arm of his seat; his armorweave is suddenly too tight, his beskar’gam too dirty. An adiik. A child. A little body unmoving on the grass.

Aurra’s fingers are speckled with drying blood. The dark rust stands out starkly against the white of her skin, little flakes floating to the floor from even the most minute flexing of her fingers. It’s like dust. Little powders that belie the severity of her actions.

Child blood. Ad’tal.

Demogolka.

“If you have something to say, then say it, but don’t hide there behind your little helmet like a petulant youngling,” the child-killer says beside him. It takes a second for him to understand what she’s saying. His heart is thumping in his chest, his blood boiling.

He swallows harshly. His buy’ce is suddenly suffocating. “You didn’t mention there was a child.”

“Child?” She scoffs, brow furrowing in surprise. The bandages drop carelessly onto her lap as she leans away. “You’re angry about the Jedi?”

“The child,” he hisses from behind clenched teeth.

Aurra’s eyes narrow. Her face twists into a sneer. “The Jedi,” she reminds. “You think his age matters? A Jedi is a Jedi. Don’t tell me you’ve suddenly developed a conscience.”

“My conscience, or what’s left of it, is not the issue,” Jango states, leaning forward in his chair, tight as a coil. “You attacked a child. You may have killed a child.” If not for the Jetii. If not for his—what? Sentimentality? Care?

No. Jedi have no use for such things. Everyone knows they’re stripped of such things as children.

Investment? Probably.

Aurra bats away his rebuke. “Oh, don’t twist your weave. He was still alive when we left. Crisis averted, conscience clear.”

“Did you know?”

She rolls her eyes, flicking a bit of dried blood out from under a fingernail. “That one of the Jedi was a child? How could I possibly have known?”

“Jetii magic. The client. You never did tell me what else was on that holodisk.”

“Because it was none of your concern,” she bites. “You had your job. I had mine. You don’t see me questioning you despite your interference.”

“The job was done. You were taking unnecessary risks.”

“Unnecessary risks?” She echoes, blood staining her teeth and highlighting her mania. “Against two half-dead Jedi? The only one taking risks was you. You left them alive. I would have finished the job.”

“An unnecessary job. Your bloodlust blinds you, Sing. The Jetii fought dirty. He would have held out until more guards arrived.”

“Oh?” She pulls back, assessing him with derisive humor. “So sure of that, are you? Did he impress you that much? I have to say, he didn’t look like much.”

Jango grunts. “He’s alive.”

“High praise, I guess.” She grins, sharp and predatory. “Or maybe you’re just losing your touch.”

Jango mirrors her behind his helmet and nods towards her shoulder. “Me? Or you?”

She scowls. Good. He hit a nerve. “He had help. An assessment, if you will. At least I was successful. You, well,” she eyes him, mocking, “I notice Gantu is no longer with us.”

Jango snorts. “He’s dead. Served his purpose.”

“Good riddance. More money for us.” She tilts her head, eyeing the lightsaber burn on his forearm. “That is, if you were successful. I hope the big bad Jedi didn’t knock off your aim.”

Jango’s eyes harden. Slowly, he leans back against his seat, his fingers brushing an empty holster. He’ll need to restock. His companion eyes him, noting the position of his hands, and returns the gesture. A mutual warning. An understanding of where they stand.

The stars streak passed.

Jango huffs. Blue eyes and copper hair flash in front of his face. Mando’a, spoken in the haughty butchery of Kalevala, rolling from cracked lips as if to mock Jango further. There’s a pressure on his shoulders, cold as the snow-topped mountains of Alderaan, and his fingers twitch at the thought. “I was successful.”

Aurra smirks. It lacks the usual camaraderie. “Then, there’s no problem. Our jobs are done. Our money, waiting. And we can go on our merry way. You won’t have to see me and I won’t have to see you. Give us both time to cool down.”

“Are you that angry I ruined your kill?” Jango goads, unamused. A child, he thinks. An adiik. “Be glad I stopped you, Sing. Had you killed a child—”

She clicks her tongue, rising from her chair with the lethal grace of a predator. “You’d do what? Kill me? Would that really assuage your conscience?”

Jango says nothing and Aurra laughs, high-pitched and cruel. She lays a hand on his shoulder. It prickles.

“Word of advice, Fett, next time you try to order me around or interfere in my job, I’ll snap your neck. Jetii magic,” she mangles, “just for you.”

Behind his buy’ce, Jango growls. “You can try.”

“And I’ll succeed. You think I’ve never killed a child? The Jedi would not have been the first. Not even the first of his kind. And if you get in my way again, I’ll kill you, too. Then who’ll raise your son?” She grins. “I think you should think long and hard about who matters to you more: a Jedi child, or your own?”

Whip sharp, Jango clenches his hand around Aurra’s wrist. Her fingers are still cupped around his shoulder and they twitch as the bones of her wrist grind together under his grasp. The pads of her fingers are burned. He stares up at her, the expressionless mask of his visor only highlighting his fury.

“Threaten my son again, and you won’t have to worry about next time.”

Her lips twitch, but the manic spark in her eyes darkens. Worry or contempt, it’s hard to say. She leans in. “Then don’t interfere. Your conscience will be no more clear from one dead Jedi than all your other jobs.”

She rips her wrist from his grasp, and he lets her go. Red stripes wrap around her white skin; they’ll be purple by tomorrow. Jango can’t bring himself to feel guilty. She deserves it.

“We have four days to Nar Shaddaa. I suggest you take the time to cool down. Lick your wounds. Reorganize your priorities.” With a hardened glare, she turns on her heel and stalks from the co*ckpit.

Jango is left alone. He stares out at the stars, and the Jetii — stalwart and protective — stares back.

Obi-Wan watches the bounty hunters disappear over the garden ledge with numb relief. His heart is pounding in his chest, loud and hot; blood coursing through his veins painfully. Each pulse is thick in his neck and he’s focused on the sensation, an uncomfortable thump drowning out the world around him.

The garden is still. Obi-Wan registers, somewhere, there are sirens and flashing lights and smoke on the wind, but time has stopped in this little enclave. As if they were a piece ripped out of a story and left to hang. It’s silent, everyone counting their heartbeats, waiting for the other shoe to drop. For the next assassin, the next bomb, the next body.

The next body.

Obi-Wan stumbles, time rushing forward as he takes in the smell of smoke, the searing aches of his body, the screams and the char and the felled mulberry laying stark against the grass. It’s bigger than he thought it’d be. The man is so small; surely those robes aren’t big enough to drown him and oh Force—

What have I done? What have I done? What have I—

Something brushes his leg. It’s faint as a spring breeze and gives Obi-Wan pause as he makes to rush to the Chancellor’s side.

What, he thinks, twisting on his heel, but he doesn’t even have to look down before his mind catches up with him and — Anakin.

Anakin. Anakin. Anakin.

He stares.

Frozen, feet melded to the ground, Obi-Wan stares. The blood drains from his face, his breath stills, the galaxy tunnels — smaller and smaller until his world is filled with Anakin, Anakin, Anakin; a dying star flickering with its last gasps.

I failed, he thinks, with the slow quality of molasses. Anakin, he thinks again, like a man trying to rewrite reality.

The grass is cold and wet beneath his knees. Somehow he’s landed beside the twelve-year-old, but he couldn’t explain the steps that occurred in between standing and falling if he tried. He recognizes the pain it ignites in his leg, blaster wound screaming at him, but Anakin is bleeding and unconscious on the ground and Obi-Wan’s pains don’t matter.

He reaches out a hand — red and crusty — his blood, Anakin’s blood, who knows — when a strangled cry filters over the pounding of his heart. It’s followed by the telltale sounds of retching, and Obi-Wan is turning before he’s entirely aware of it.

The garden is a mess, which shouldn’t be his first thought, but nonetheless is the first thing he notices. The second is the hunched figure of Prince Bail Organa, his wedding attire filthy beyond repair as he vomits next to the Chancellor’s downed body. Mulberry robes lay unmoving on the grass. It’s funny. They seem so much darker in the waning light. Swallowing the body whole and—

Kriff. Oh, kriff. Oh, kriffing Sith-Hells, what have I done?

Obi-Wan’s hand drifts above his apprentice’s mouth, eyes glued to the red bundle as it lies mangled on the opposite path. This is his fault. This is his fault.

The Chancellor of the Republic is dead, and it’s all Obi-Wan’s fault.

The Chancellor of the Republic and his aide are dead, and it’s all Obi-Wan’s fault.

Beneath him, Anakin breathes. His breath, warm in the chilly Alderaanian air, ghosts over Obi-Wan’s mangled palm. He registers it. Acknowledges the fact that Anakin is breathing, which means he’s alive, which means Obi-Wan didn’t fail — hasn’t failed. Anakin’s alive so the galaxy can stop feeling as if it’s going to crush him now, except it can’t because Anakin is alive, but the Chancellor is dead, Sei Taria is dead, and Obi-Wan Kenobi is absolutely the worst Jedi Knight in the history of the Order, and he never should have been allowed to teach a Padawan if these are the kinds of lessons he may unwillingly impart.

What have I done? He thinks, as Bail Organa continues to vomit.

Attachment, countless lessons whisper back.

He sacrificed the leader of the Republic to save his apprentice. He didn’t even hesitate.

Anakin would have died, his mind reminds.

The Chancellor did die, he hisses back.

And he knows, knows to the bottom of his core, just how big of a mistake he’s made. The Chancellor — the Chancellor — is dead, tragically and horrifically, and the Senate will undoubtedly spiral into chaos as soon as the details get out. There will be infighting and delays and a power vacuum a parsec wide. The immediate ramifications alone are harrowing enough, never mind what will happen once the effects trickle down.

How many worlds won’t get necessary aid because of delays? How many people will go hungry because food can’t be delivered? How many criminals will go unencumbered while the Senate fights? Things are bad enough as they are without an assassination stirring up the pot.

And Obi-Wan can’t even bring himself to regret it.

Anakin’s breath stings the gash along his palm, keeping him steady. His body screams for a reprieve, but Obi-Wan — relieved and not nearly guilty enough — forces himself to focus on that sting. It helps. He deserves it. He needs it. Little red droplets land on Anakin’s face, and Obi-Wan notes the sticky trails they leave on his cheeks.

Dark vermilion. As dark as the dead man’s robes.

What, he thinks again, sluggish with blood loss and shock, have I done?

He should, he knows, get up. He should get up and go over to the bodies and check on the prince and call the guards and medics and authorities, but doing that means leaving Anakin, and the breath is painful on his wound, but he needs it. It’s a good pain. It means Anakin’s alive. It means he didn’t sacrifice two people for nothing.

He sacrificed two people for one boy.

Master Yoda was right. He was too young to train a Padawan. Maybe even too young to be Knighted because this right here is the utter definition of attachment. Anakin would have been a personal loss, but the Chancellor—

And Obi-Wan can’t even get up to help.

(He stuffs the tiny voice that echoes relief down into a deep, dark hole to examine later. Relief that the Chancellor is dead. Relief that whatever the man wanted with his apprentice can never come to fruition. It’s unbecoming of a Jedi, and Obi-Wan clings to whatever virtues he has left to stem the guilt and doubt and horror.)

Across the garden, Bail Organa has stopped throwing up and now sits shaking against the grass. He clutches at his breast pocket, his breath coming out in static intervals. Obi-Wan wants to feel something for him, but he’s too numb — too shocked and guilty and sickened and relieved — to do anything other than watch.

He watches because his legs won’t move and Anakin needs him and Obi-Wan can’t bring himself to do his job and help.

(He ignores the fact that it isn’t Anakin who needs him right now. It isn’t Anakin who is depending on Obi-Wan to stay awake or alert. Those are thoughts to deal with later.)

The buffeting of displaced fabric whispers into Obi-Wan’s ears. It travels on the wind for a quick second, as if someone had jumped from a very tall height, before something heavy joins them in the garden. Obi-Wan tenses on instinct, hyperaware of the blood trailing from his injuries and his absolute inability to defend against anyone right now.

He’s a mess. He can’t fight. He can’t even use his lightsaber. All he has is the Force and that should be enough for a Jedi, but reality is never so nice and Obi-Wan is so utterly exhausted and—

Calm. Soothing. A gentle press on his shields. Reassurance, as if he’d just stepped into the Temple to the waiting arms of his family.

A hand lands softly atop Obi-Wan’s uninjured shoulder. It’s large and wrinkled with age, but warmth emanates through Obi-Wan’s torn tunic. He hadn’t even realized how cold he was and his body relaxes on instinct, relishing the comfort.

Obi-Wan glances up. A man looks down at him — as familiar as a memory tickling his brain — face placid with aristocratic control and Jedi serenity. His rich blue tunic is stained with dust and blood, but he stands tall as if they’re minor inconveniences. Perhaps they are. Obi-Wan blinks to rid the spots growing in front of his eyes.

“Can you stand?” The man asks, his deep baritone lilting with the familiar accent of the Temple.

“I—” Obi-Wan stutters. His lips crack, chapped and sticky; his throat scorched raw. He twitches, eyes roving from the man to his legs as if on autopilot and—oh.

Perhaps his inability to move has less to do with his own shortcomings than the fact that he can’t feel his leg.

Well. That’s just great.

The man hums. “I see. Stay here, I will—”

“No.”

The man raises a delicate brow. “No? Knight Kenobi, I appreciate good old Jedi stubbornness as much as the next being, but, if I may be so bold, you look as if a stiff wind would blow you over. I dare say Master Che would not be pleased with either of us if I were to allow you to follow through with such foolishness.”

“It’s not—” Obi-Wan grunts, “—foolishness.” He wills his leg to move out of sheer tenacity. It’s agonizing, like a hot poker driven through the bone, but Obi-Wan pushes the pain deep into the Force. He’ll deal with it later.

Obi-Wan is the reason the Chancellor and Lady Taria are dead. He owes them the consideration.

“You are only going to damage yourself further, you know,” the unnamed man admonishes. He sounds uncomfortably like Qui-Gon.

Obi-Wan’s jaw twitches. “With respect, Master,” because this man is a Master, there’s no doubt in Obi-Wan’s mind, and where were you an hour ago? He takes a deep breath. “I feel the prince needs a friendly face. I assure you, I can manage.”

It’s a flimsy excuse, but Obi-Wan doesn’t care. His heart is pounding, his body screaming, but there’s a Master here and Anakin is alive and Obi-Wan would much rather entrust his Padawan to someone more deserving of their rank than he is.

If anything else happens, at least Anakin will be safe.

The man stares at him for a moment before acquiescing. “Very well,” he says. “I assume you would like me to stay with the boy then?”

“If it doesn’t trouble you, Master,” and Force does it feel good to say that. To be able to walk away knowing that a Master is here.

The older Jedi nods. “Very well. Thankfully, security should arrive soon. I don’t think our poor groom will last much longer otherwise.”

Indeed, Prince Organa appears to have gone into shock. He’s stopped shaking, eyes locked on the bodies collapsed on the ground. His lips move as if he’s talking to himself and his hand has yet to leave its place atop his breast pocket.

He’s an utterly pathetic picture, and Obi-Wan aches for him.

The Jedi half-falls into each step, but he makes it across the garden path relatively quickly. He’s hyperaware of the brightness of Sei’s and Palpatine’s robes as he falls on his knees next to them. Bail stares unblinking across from him; he doesn’t even seem to have registered his presence.

Obi-Wan’s face softens. “Your Highness?”

The man jolts upwards, eyes inflamed and wide as a startled bantha. His lips move silently for a few seconds before his voice scratches out, “K—Knight Kenobi. I—I…I don’t—I—”

Obi-Wan holds up a hand. It’s the bloody one and Bail pales further. Hastily, Obi-Wan retracts the appendage and wraps it in the remains of his cloak. It stings, but the added pressure is a relief the Jedi gladly embraces.

“I know,” Obi-Wan says. “I understand, but I need you to help me right now. Can you do that?”

The man stares. “Help? But I—”

“Yes,” Obi-Wan nods. He needs to keep the Prince focused. “I’m afraid my injuries are rather debilitating, at the moment, and it’s taking quite a bit of concentration to siphon what I can into the Force. I need your help to bring the guards and what medical personnel you can find here. Can you do that for me?”

Bail nods, hesitantly, then again with more vigor. “Y—yes, I can. I, uh…” His gaze flickers to the bodies and he flinches. With a deep intake of breath, he turns back to Obi-Wan and nods again, resolute. “I will bring the medics.”

Obi-Wan smiles, tight, but reassuring, like he’s dealing with a traumatized child. “Thank you.”

He watches as the prince scurries to his feet, studiously ignoring the bodies and half-trips in his rush to find help. Obi-Wan doesn’t think it will take long. He can hear the sirens getting closer. Doubtless, the explosions paved a direct enough path towards the danger, but no sensible medic will arrive until they give the all-clear, and Obi-Wan doesn’t have the time to wait for that.

Anakin doesn’t have that time, and the Chancellor—

Well. The sooner a medic confirms the fates of Lady Taria and Chancellor Palpatine, the sooner the Senate can begin putting plans in motion to mitigate any damages.

Slowly, so as not to aggravate his injuries, Obi-Wan reaches out. The Force is murky once more, slipping through his grasp like mud. He wasn’t lying when he told the prince it was taking a lot of concentration to siphon off his pain, but this is unnatural. It’s as if the Force itself is being smothered now that Anakin is no longer Obi-Wan’s focus.

Dread pools in his stomach.

But Obi-Wan has a job to do. He stops releasing his pain and regrets it almost immediately. The agony is a molten core through his body and it’s only Qui-Gon Jinn levels of stubbornness that allows him to redirect his concentration towards lifting Taria from atop the Chancellor’s prone form. From her position, he assumes she must have tried to shield the Chancellor from the blast only to end up dying in the attempt. Noble, but, in this case, futile.

(A small, cynical part of him wonders if this is Palpatine’s last act of obfuscation. Kill the woman who might have some idea as to his actual character and then die in the process. The thought is completely inappropriate and disingenuous, and Obi-Wan shakes it away quickly, but the ire sits in his chest, waiting for him to examine later.)

He lowers her carefully to the ground, her burgundy gown spilling around her like an homage. Idly, Obi-Wan muses they chose the perfect outfits. Dark enough to hide the blaster scoring from view, but on-the-nose enough for the mind to draw parallels.

It’s not funny, but Obi-Wan’s lip twitches, anyway.

Sei’s sightless eyes stare at him. They’re glassing over with death, and her skin has already paled to the typical chalk-like hue. A burn, searing through her gown, sits faded into the red fabric right above her heart. It was quick. He should take comfort in that.

Obi-Wan looks away. There’s nothing accusatory about her gaze, vacant that it is, but Obi-Wan feels it, nonetheless. Sei Taria is dead because of him. She’s dead (and Anakin is alive) and there’s nothing Obi-Wan can do to change it.

The Chancellor is similarly pale, though it’s hard to tell from his typical complexion. His eyes are crinkled at the side, shut in such a way that fills Obi-Wan with relief. He should look this man in the eye — apologize for his actions, but the words stick on his tongue and he doesn’t think he can handle actually looking at him.

(He’s not sorry enough.)

Instead, he looks down. The Chancellor’s wound is closer to his shoulder than his heart, the momentum caused by Sei’s actions having catapulted him out of his initial position. The burn from the blaster carved a small hole in the expensive fabric, piercing through skin and—

No.

Obi-Wan stares, uncomprehending. It lasts barely a second before he’s grasping at the man’s wrist. His fingers press around the thin skin as he struggles to grasp hold of the Force and — there!

Weak and thready, the Chancellor’s pulse beats under Obi-Wan’s bloody fingers. His signature in the Force is almost negligible, but it’s there, wispy and dull. For a moment, Obi-Wan forgets to breathe.

He’s alive. The Chancellor is alive.

But he might not be for very long. Frantically, Obi-Wan looks up, hoping to see the prince with a cadre of medics on his heels, but there’s nothing. He thinks he can feel them nearby, but the Chancellor doesn’t have that kind of time.

Master Che is going to murder him for this. She’s going to murder him, bring him back to life, and then hand him over to Bant to be killed again, but Obi-Wan doesn’t care. He has a chance. A chance to fix at least part of what he’s so hideously broken.

The Force eases as he sinks into a trance. It’s less like trying to chip through ice sheets and more like shifting aside pond scum. Placing a hand over the Chancellor’s wound, he focuses the Force towards the area, soothing it and helping to speed up the healing process.

It takes surprisingly little effort for his own meagre skills, but he doesn’t stop to think about it. The man’s Force signature latches onto his — wispy energy, cold and biting with death, sinking into him. It’s like nothing he’s ever felt before, and it leaves a part of him hollow and aching for a warmth he doesn’t remember having.

Is this what the medics have to deal with all the time? If so, he owes them far more than he ever thought possible.

He’s not sure how long he sits in the trance. It can’t have been too long as he still has feeling in his legs, but soon the sounds of running feet break through the stillness of the garden. A hand, gentle but firm, presses on Obi-Wan’s shoulder.

His eyes flicker as he comes out of meditation, flinching as the setting sun burns into his retinas. A voice, panicked and familiar, calls out to him, but Obi-Wan is suddenly far too aware of his injuries. The world tilts. It spins as Obi-Wan lurches forward. He’s cold. Too cold, but a warm pair of arms wraps around his body and lowers him to the ground. He opens his mouth to thank whoever prevented yet another concussion, but all that comes out is a barely intelligible croak.

“Knight Kenobi? Knight Kenobi!” But Obi-Wan is too far gone.

The last thing he sees is the gentle rise and fall of Chancellor Palpatine’s chest before he shuts his eyes and sleeps.

Chapter 11: The Grandmaster

Chapter Text

Obi-Wan awakens to a dimly lit ceiling and the whir of machinery. It’s blurry, splotches of black and grey at the corner of his vision. He’s pleasantly surprised to find most of the pain gone, but the fuzzy, half-aware sensation in his limbs makes it abundantly clear it’s not because he’s healed, but because he’s doped up on an obscene amount of painkillers.

That’s fine. He’s not about to complain.

Slowly, Obi-Wan turns his head. He lets out a low groan as his muscles protest, bringing an arm up to massage away the headache that erupts from the minor movement. He doesn’t get far. The hand pounds with a dull ache, and it catches on an IV that keeps him from moving any further.

“Finally with us, then?” A deep, baritone questions. “Or are you still out of it?”

Obi-Wan’s eyes lazily shift to a blob of black and silver to his right. He’s pretty sure it’s a human, but you can never be too cautious with such assumptions.

“Pardon?” He croaks. Force, his throat hurts.

The man huffs. A sound like the scraping of a chair filters into Obi-Wan’s ears, and the form is suddenly above him. This close, Obi-Wan can just make out his beard and worn hands. Ah, definitely human.

“Here,” the man says, cold moisture tickling Obi-Wan’s lips. “No water allowed, per the healer’s orders, though ice is apparently just fine.”

Obi-Wan blinks blearily. “Don’t know why. Just going to melt anyway,” but he takes the ice chip greedily, relishing the cool liquid as it trickles down his throat.

They’re silent as Obi-Wan downs two more chips, the stranger perfectly content to relax into his chair and scroll through his datapad. Obi-Wan can hear the gentle taps of his fingers against the screen. It’s pleasant, like the Halls at the Temple.

But these are not the Halls. He knows that because he’s been there far too often and they’re not nearly as spacious as his current room. Master Che could fit three Jedi in here without bothering to worry about space. So no, not the Halls. Not even Coruscant. Where is he again?

A mission. He’s on a mission. Light. Easy. Shouldn’t have been any trouble, but then—

An explosion. A bounty hunter. The Chancellor—

“Anakin,” Obi-Wan jolts, and quickly stems a cry as it pulls at his injuries.

It would be just his luck to wake up right as the pain medication is wearing off.

Wonderful.

He grits his teeth, but doesn’t care as he pulls at the blankets and IVs, not thinking of anything except his Padawan. His very injured Padawan. His Padawan who is only a murky half-consciousness through their bond.

The older gentleman raises his brow. It’s vaguely admonishing, and Obi-Wan stills almost without thought. He doesn’t even register the fact that he can see well enough to make out such a minute detail.

“Your Padawan?” The man asks idly, as if he already knows. “Sleeping, but coherent. As you have been told repeatedly by now. Though, I suppose I cannot fault you for your memory. Your injuries were rather extensive.”

Obi-Wan blinks. He vaguely remembers waking up before, but it’s as hazy as a dream. He takes a deep breath, willing himself to act like the Knight he is instead of a panicky Padawan, and settles back against the bed. Focus. Here, now. “And the Chancellor?”

“Alive. The force of the blaster bolt knocked him unconscious, but his actual injuries were minimal. I cannot say the same for his aide, unfortunately, but her sacrifice saved our good Chancellor’s life, of which I’m sure we’re all grateful.”

Grateful. Yes. Grateful and relieved and desperately disappointed at the same time. Sei Taria is gone. Her life extinguished because Obi-Wan couldn’t do his damn job properly.

And, treasonously, a little voice in the back of his head whispers, that whatever information she had on their good Chancellor is gone, now, too.

Not that it would have mattered had Anakin died (and Obi-Wan doesn’t contemplate that one any further), but the thought lingers.

“I am pleased his Excellency is well,” Obi-Wan swallows, “though I extend my condolences for his loss.”

“Yes,” the man nods, something shining behind his eyes that Obi-Wan is at a loss to interpret. “He is holding up admirably, however. He’s already pulling together a committee to look into the attack.”

“No doubt the Order will be involved.”

“No doubt,” the man agrees. “Though, I hope you will allow yourself to rest before inserting yourself further. I find it’s best to let yourself heal from one attack before striding into another.”

“I wasn’t—” But the Master raises a brow, gaze flickering to the dangling IV line, and Obi-Wan closes his mouth. The expression is so familiar it aches. He clears his throat. “Yes, Master. I appreciate your advice.”

The man scoffs. “Hardly advice. Common sense is more like it.”

Ah, yes, well… “I’m afraid common sense isn’t very common.”

“In this galaxy? No. But I expect better from within the Order. Contrary to popular belief, Jedi are not invincible.”

Well, of course not. If we were—

Obi-Wan shakes his head. “I’m aware.”

“Hm, yes, I’m sure you are,” and somehow he makes it sound both condescending and sympathetic at the same time. “In any case, Master Yoda saw fit to give you and your apprentice medical leave for the next ten-day. Provided, of course, Vokara decides not to extend it.”

“Or decrease it.”

“I have never known Vokara Che to let a patient go early, and I doubt she will start now.”

“Worth a try.”

“I would say something repetitive about trying, but Master Yoda and I have never quite seen eye-to-eye on the subject. Rather, I will just tell you to pick easier battles.”

“I think I’ve battled enough for the moment.” And, indeed, the lack of medication is making it abundantly clear just how unhappy his body actually is. A ten-day doesn’t sound so bad right now.

“Yes, I can see that.”

Obi-Wan clears his throat, trying to distract from the man’s unimpressed stare. “How long have I been out, then?”

“Three days. You were in bacta the first day, then incoherent much of the past two. Your apprentice was much the same, though he’s projected to be on his feet quicker than originally expected.” He rolls his eyes sky-ward. “You’d think with all those hard knocks, he’d still be out of it, but not so. Boy has a hard head.”

Obi-Wan snorts. He can’t help it. “That he does.” And then, because Obi-Wan really can’t help it, asks, “Is he really alright?”

The man tilts his head, considering. “He’ll make a full recovery, if that’s what you’re asking. Provided, of course, he doesn’t push himself, which, from what I observed, may be asking too much.”

“Anakin? Not a chance.” And, of course, Obi-Wan will have to be the one to rein him in, which he is not looking forward to.

“No, I didn’t think so. I wish you and Master Che luck.”

“Master Che has given up on him.”

“Oh, I very much doubt that. As long as I’ve known her, Master Che has never once given up on anyone, no matter how often she has to sedate them into compliance.”

“Anakin is…hard to sedate,” which is a very roundabout way of saying that Anakin’s basic biology has driven the healers at the Temple to drink more than once, but Obi-Wan is not about to air his Padawan’s personal details to an unknown Master.

Which, come to think of it, is inexorably rude on Obi-Wan’s part, and that he’s carried on so long without knowing who this gentleman is is a blunder he can only blame on his concussion. “Forgive me, Master. We’ve been talking this whole time and you apparently know me, but I don’t know you.” He vaguely remembers the man calling him by his name on that grassy garden path, but can’t be sure if that was real or imagined.

“No?” The man quirks a sharp brow, amused. “My apologies then. I did not realize I had aged so much. You, however, look much as your Master described you. Sans the beard, of course.”

My Master? Qui-Gon? Why would Qui-Gon—? Obi-Wan’s eyes widen. “Master Dooku?”

And, oh, Obi-Wan is such a fool. He knew the man was familiar! Master Qui-Gon had kept a holo of them together in his room for years. A man so skilled and distinguished in the Order, that Obi-Wan himself remembers watching him countless times. His departure shook the entire Temple.

The man smirks as if reading his thoughts. “Count Dooku, now. It would appear that even after I have left the Order, the Order will not leave me. I suspect Qui-Gon’s meddling.”

Obi-Wan’s brow furrows. “Master Qui-Gon—”

“Is dead, I’m aware,” his face pinches, “but if there’s any Jedi I believe able to out-stubborn the Force and make his will known after death, it’s Qui-Gon Jinn.”

Which is both patently ridiculous and definitely something Obi-Wan can believe of his old Master. He smiles, despite himself. The deep searing pain that usually accompanies his memories of Qui-Gon is softened before this man who knew him so well.

“He spoke fondly of you,” Obi-Wan finds himself saying to the clear amusem*nt of the older man.

“Did he? You’d think for all his fondness he would have spoken to me more often.”

“Probably too busy off rescuing whichever pathetic life-form struck his interest that week.” He’s not sure why that’s the first thing he thinks of, but the Force is warm and fuzzy at the thought, and he falls into the comfort without hesitation. It was just so quintessentially Qui-Gon, and if anyone is going to understand, it’s Master Dooku.

“Ah, yes,” the older gentleman smiles. “He had that tendency.”

Obi-Wan chuffs, memories spewing unbidden from his mouth. “He did. It felt like every mission I was bringing something home. Me, mind you. My Master rescued them, while I took care of them. And you’d think that’d mean they’d like me more, but nope. Qui-Gon held their hearts every time.”

Dooku dips his head, but it’s not enough for Obi-Wan to miss the mirth that inches across his face. “He had that effect,” but then he stares at Obi-Wan, contemplative, and adds, “Your apprentice is perhaps the one exception.”

Obi-Wan jerks with surprise. It doesn’t help the ache in his head, but he doesn’t care as he stares at his Grandmaster with wide eyes. “Pardon?”

“Yes,” the Count says, shifting to sit up straighter. From this angle, Obi-Wan can just make out the thick bulge of a bandage wrapped around the man’s upper arm. “He was very emphatic about helping you. Excessively, in fact. You’ll want to talk to him about that. He reeks of attachment.”

And Obi-Wan doesn’t know why that hits so hard. A bolt to the heart, as if his biggest fear has been made real and weaponized specifically to hurt him. He’s heard the same from other Masters, but they’re just words, easily soothed and rationalized. From his Grandmaster, it’s failure; ugly reality staring him in the face.

I should be teaching him better, he thinks, remembering the sound of a blaster behind him and a warm body crashing into his. The student is only as good as their Master. And if the student fails, it’s only because the Master didn’t do his job properly.

It’s not Anakin’s fault. Obi-Wan clearly needs to work on his own issues regarding attachment before he can successfully guide his Padawan.

Obi-Wan picks at a loose thread in his blanket. “Anakin is young,” he says, as he has to countless Masters countless times. “There’s much we’re still working on. He came late, and we had to bring him up to the level of his peers first.”

He’s already surpassed his peers, hisses a bitter voice in the back of his head. If Anakin is still struggling with attachment, it’s only because you are. Doesn’t the Chancellor’s situation prove that?

Dooku nods, oblivious to Obi-Wan’s concerns. “Understandable, but, in this case, misguided. Skills, techniques, abilities. Combat and levitation. These are things that can be learned at any age. But there is a reason we take our children young. He lacks restraint and control, and these will only worsen as he ages if you continue to make excuses for him.”

“I’m not—”

“You are,” the Master says firmly. “I won’t lie. The boy is impressive. He handled himself admirably and is a credit to you. But I saw enough warning signs. He’s powerful, but co*cksure because of it. He lacks humility. He lacks control. He lacks the ability to see the bigger picture, only ever focusing on those details that affect him. His concern was for you when it should have been for Alderaan and the mission.”

Obi-Wan swallows back the knot in his throat. “He’s a child,” but it comes out pitiful and weak, tasting of excuses.

“Children grow,” Dooku states. “Better he learn now than crumble as a Knight.”

As you are, his subconscious states.

“And how would you suggest I teach him?” Obi-Wan asks, more exhausted than he intends. It’s not his fault. It’s mine. I’m not a good teacher and how—his thoughts stutter.

How do I teach detachment and control to a boy with more power than I can comprehend?

“Anakin is…brilliant,” and it’s amazing how much he can admire a child he fears for so much. “He’s already leaps and bounds above his peers, which, while impressive, doesn’t endear him to them. And when I try to teach him humility by holding him back, all I get is frustration. But if I let him move forward, I get arrogance. I’ve gone to countless Masters asking them for advice and it never seems to take. So, if you have any advice for me that I have not already heard, I welcome it, but don’t think I haven’t tried, Master. We both have. Whatever Anakin’s flaws, they are not for lack of trying.” They’re because I haven’t found a way to help him.

Because I’m not good enough to help him.

The silence that settles is uncomfortable. His grandmaster stares at him, dark eyes contemplative, and Obi-Wan would squirm if he wasn’t so tired. His ribs are knives resting on his lungs, and he wonders at what point he has to get to for the medication cycle to kick back in. Surely it’s soon.

Dooku steeples his fingers. “You raise a good point,” he says after another moment of scrutiny. “Rarely, I’ve found, do prodigies of your Padawan’s level do well in standard environments. They will grow bored if held back, but isolated if allowed to advance. They will chafe at restrictions, but become arrogant without them. You need to discipline him just enough to tame him, but not so much as to clip his wings.”

“I don’t want to tame him. I want him to tame himself. If he doesn’t…”

“Then there will be no one left who can?” Dooku finishes as Obi-Wan’s thoughts hang suspended in the air. “Oh, don’t look so surprised. I’m aware of what my apprentice thought of him, and I’d have to be a blind fool not to see what is right in front of my eyes. If he Fell, it would spell devastation to the Republic, if not the galaxy at large.”

Which isn’t exactly how Obi-Wan likes to think about it, if only because putting it into words makes it real.

“So what do I do? How do I help him?” He’s struggled for almost three years to teach Anakin. Struggled to do the right thing, teach the right lessons, be everything Qui-Gon Jinn was to him, but Obi-Wan is barely a Knight as it is. This mission has proven that. The Chancellor almost died because Obi-Wan failed to do the exact thing he’s constantly trying to teach Anakin. Detachment. Control. And Obi-Wan’s failures will continue to be Anakin’s failures unless he learns how to help him — unless someone helps him help him. Like a Padawan to a Master, or a Knight to a Grandmaster.

Dooku eyes him, and Obi-Wan holds his gaze. Please, he thinks, letting it seep into the fuzzy reaches of the Force. I’m so far out of my depth I’m drowning.

A moment passes before the man deigns to speak. “Do you want my actual advice or a platitude?”

“Advice. I’ve rarely found a helpful platitude when it comes to Anakin.”

“Very well,” Dooku states. “You need to make him fail.”

“What?”

The Master raises a brow, as if Obi-Wan were a child. It’s as condescending as it is comforting. Qui-Gon used to make the same exact face. “You need to make him fail. Your Padawan is gifted. What takes other Padawans months to figure out, he will learn in days, correct?”

“Yes,” Obi-Wan says, slowly.

“And if he does not succeed immediately, then he will toss it aside as useless or irrelevant,” and it’s not a question. Dooku is very confident for a man who’s only known the boy for a day, but Obi-Wan nods, anyway. He’s not wrong.

“Then he needs to learn what it means to work for results. It will not be easy, of course,” Dooku adds. “I’ve trained enough Padawans to know that, but if you want the boy to learn humility, you must first teach him how to fail. And then, how to learn from that failure.”

“And,” Obi-Wan clears his throat. What he wouldn’t give for more ice chips. “And control?”

Dooku smirks. “With failure comes consequences, and with consequences comes the desire to avoid them. He will learn control then.”

“He can’t avoid every consequence,” says Obi-Wan, Sei Taria’s dead body flashing in front of him. It could have been Anakin. It could have been Anakin so easily had Obi-Wan made the correct choice.

“No,” the Count agrees, and there’s something in his eyes that makes Obi-Wan think he knows exactly what he’s thinking about. He’s not sure how he feels about that. “But that’s the beauty of it. Consequences will teach him control. And the consequences of choosing correctly, will teach him to let go of those things outside of his control.”

“Attachment,” Obi-Wan breathes. He’s not sure if Dooku is talking about Anakin anymore.

“Quite.”

The Knight stares, turning everything over in his head. Heat pulses through his bandaged hand, and he realizes almost too late it’s because he’s clenching it so tightly. Splotches of red have leaked through the gauze. He forces himself to relax. To think. It makes sense, he tells himself. It makes a distinct amount of sense and is something he wishes he’d thought of himself. He opens his mouth to thank the man, but all that comes out is, “He won’t like it.”

Dooku shrugs. “People rarely do. As my Master was always so fond of telling me: failure, a fun lesson, rarely is.” His jaw twitches. “But it is a good one.”

Obi-Wan nods — hesitantly, contemplative. Failure. Well, he knows all about that, doesn’t he? The Knight settles back into the pillows. “Thank you, Master. I—I appreciate your advice.”

“Well, you are of my lineage. It’s the least I can do considering our…unique circ*mstances.”

“Unique? Is that the word we’re using?”

“Well, it’s certainly not common.”

Obi-Wan can’t stop himself from chuckling despite the spears it pierces through his ribs. This whole situation is so absurd and yet so par for the course. “You may be right.”

“May? My boy, I am right, and don’t you forget it.”

A grin, Obi-Wan’s teeth peaking through his lips.“Yes, Master.”

“Good,” the man smiles. It softens his face and fills the room with warmth. Obi-Wan hadn’t even realized how cold the room had gotten. He can almost pretend they’re in the Temple and not in the healer’s ward of a palace on Alderaan. “Well, on that note, I do believe I should leave you to rest.”

“So soon?”

“Considering I can see your eyelids drooping, yes. And those pain meds will be kicking back in at any minute, at which point you will doubtlessly drift back to sleep, anyway. I regret to inform you, Padawan of my Padawan, that however much I may have enjoyed our conversation, talking to myself can only remain so riveting for so long.”

“I don’t know,” Obi-Wan teases. “I’ve had many riveting conversations with myself. Won most of my arguments that way.”

“Oh, I’m sure you have,” Dooku states. “Your Master was quite proud of your burgeoning silver-tongue.”

That was news. “He was?” Qui-Gon never said anything about—well. He just never said.

“Oh, yes. He only ever had praise for you.”

“Really?” And why does he suddenly feel like an immature Padawan again? Looking for reassurance in anyone who offers it?

The crow’s feet on Dooku’s face widen and stretch, dark eyes warm in the dim light. “He did. Very much.”

“He never said.”

“No,” Dooku agrees. He shakes his head and looks down, almost ashamed. “A byproduct of being my apprentice, I fear. I was rather frugal with my praise, and thus so was he. But I like to think he turned out well. As did you.”

“I don’t—”

“You have. I can see it. You are a credit to him. Anakin is very lucky.”

“I hope so.” Desperately. He hopes, by the Force and gods he doesn’t believe in, that he ends up doing well by Anakin, even with all his shortcomings.

Like attachment, Sei Taria whispers in his mind, her eyes glassy with death and just as cold.

“He is,” Dooku says over her voice. “He may not realize it, being a teenager and all, but he is. Just follow my advice, and I think he’ll turn out fine.”

“And if I need more?” Obi-Wan asks it as if he were teasing, but there’s a desperation in him vying for an experienced Master’s help. Most Knights can lean on their own Masters for their first Padawan, and while Yoda is invaluable, his attention must be on everyone.

Master Dooku, however…

“More advice? Or help with your Padawan?” His brow raises and Obi-Wan forces down a blush.

“Advice, of course. I wouldn’t want to impose—”

“No imposition,” Dooku waves away. “For all his flaws, I do like the boy. He has potential, and I would not be averse to helping him reach it. While I admit my time is limited, should you find you need help, I am happy to do what I can.”

It’s amazing how simple a phrase can mean so much. The weight that Obi-Wan has carried for almost three years sheds like a winter coat on Tatooine. This is what he’s needed since Qui-Gon died. Since Anakin came into his life. A Master — his Master — to offer him help. One that doesn’t make him feel as if he’s intruding upon another’s time with their own student.

He bows his head, as low as he can without pulling at his wounds. It hurts, but he doesn’t care. “Thank you, Master. I am indebted to you.”

“Of course, Knight Kenobi,” Dooku grins. “Anything to help the Padawan of my Padawan.”

“Are you supposed to be up?”

“Are you?”

A scoff. “Impertinence will get you nowhere, child. Least of all with me.”

“Then why did you come in if you thought I’d be sleeping?”

“Your frustration is flooding the Force like a broken dam. I couldn’t mistake you for sleeping if I tried.”

Shavit.

Heat spreads across Anakin’s cheeks as he stares resolutely down at the thin hospital blanket. He thought he’d fixed those. He’d spent all day repairing his shields, building each layer back up from the ground; good to know he’d wasted his time.

“Pull back, Padawan. My headache is bad enough without you adding to it.”

More shame, but Anakin does as he’s told, tugging at the chaos of anxiety and frustration that’s welled within him. He takes them and stuffs them behind sandstone walls and canyon mazes, burrowing them so deep inside himself he dares the old man to find them. Judging by the blink-and-you’d-miss-it approval on the man’s face, he succeeds.

“Adequate,” Dooku says, hospital sleep-clothes billowing about as he strides further into the room.

Because why bother asking Anakin for permission? It’s not as if the chrono is blinking a very annoying 01:37 in their faces. That is, 01:37 Alderaani Standard, which, considering the planet only has a rotation of eighteen hours, is all that much worse compared to Coruscant.

Go away, Anakin wants to push, because surely the old Master can tell he wants to be alone. If he can feel his frustration that clearly, then he can feel that, too.

But no. Not the Count. Permission is for other people.

“Your Master is awake,” the man says as he settles into the relatively comfortable chair beside Anakin’ bed. “He was asking about you.”

He was? Who is he kidding, of course he was. Probably wants to know how Anakin managed to completely kriff up as much as he did. Not that he’s going to tell Dooku that. No, that’s not a direction Anakin wants to go right now. Better to just shrug and pretend nonchalance. “I know. Breh—the princess told me.”

“Did she now? How kind of her,” and Dooku’s lips curl just slightly, as if the mere mention of Princess Breha were enough to tick him off. Probably is. Anakin doesn’t have the energy to find it funny.

“Yeah,” is all he says, burrowing deeper into the mattress. It’s thin and uncomfortable, but leagues better than anything he ever had on Tatooine. Most things are.

The man hums, raking his eyes over Anakin’s form. It prickles his neck, and he clenches the blankets tighter. Please, just go away.

“Not very chatty tonight, are you?”

“Thought you didn’t like my chatter.”

“I don’t. It’s uncouth and rushed gibberish much of the time, and your accent could do with a polish.”

His accent? What the kark is wrong with his accent? Sure, it’s not all hoity-toity like the rest of the Order’s, but Anakin likes it. It’s how his mother talks.

“Did you just come in here to insult me?”

“Not at all. I came here because your lack of control was giving me a headache,” the man states, blithely. “Besides, facts do not an insult make. Don’t twist my words, boy. As a Jedi, you will speak to many important people — people who will judge you from how you look, to how you speak, to how you carry yourself. They won’t care one wit about your deeds if the rest of you does not match their standards. Oration is important. Diction is important. You may think them vain or fanciful or useless, but the rest of the galaxy does not, and it is the rest of the galaxy you must contend with. Do you understand?”

“Empirically,” the boy mumbles, and at Dooku’s raised brow, he states, “I can talk fancy. I’m not dumb.” He was a slave, not stupid. Stupid slaves don’t last as long as he did.

“No, you’re not. Which is rather the problem. You say you understand and yet turn around and do the opposite. It doesn’t reflect well on you.”

“I don’t like it.”

“People rarely do. Just as people rarely enjoy doing much of anything they don’t like. That does not mean they do not do them. A war can be ended by the countenance of those in charge. Or, it can be started. Knowing how to use such things to your advantage will be paramount to your success as a Knight. In private, you are free to think them as insipid as you like. In public, it is a very different matter.” He eyes Anakin up and down. “Case in point, you are obviously averse to my presence, and I can tell that simply from your body language. You’ll have to learn to curb that if you wish to succeed as a Jedi.”

Anakin sinks deeper into the bed and glowers. “We’re in private,” and you are intruding.

“You were in private,” Dooku corrects. “But now that I am here, you should conduct yourself accordingly so as not to offend. Consider it practice.”

The boy’s scowl deepens. “Feels like lying.” Like being a slave. Like having to twist his words and reshape them to fit whatever his master desired.

Anakin knows exactly how to speak without offending. He just shouldn’t have to in his own kriffing room. The room, he would like to remind the Count, he wasn’t invited into.

Dooku’s mouth twitches. “It can be. Or it can just be another point of view.”

“That’s what Obi-Wan says.”

“And do you agree?”

Anakin’s jaw clicks. Maybe for some things, but sometimes there is no other point of view. Sometimes things are just wrong. Which is not, he knows, the answer Dooku wants, so Anakin shrugs because it’s not lying if he does sometimes agree.

Not his fault sometimes isn’t every time.

“Eloquent,” the man bites. “And thus, proving my point. Are we just going to sit in silence then?”

“You can go back to your room.”

“Ah, but I’ve already made the journey here. Seems like such a waste when letting you stew is only going to force me back in a few hours.”

Anakin glares. “I know how to keep my shields up.”

“Clearly,” the Count mocks, knocking on a crack in his shields to prove his point. Anakin jerks, the intrusion as unwelcome as the man himself.

His fingers curl against the mattress, and there’s a small screech of metal on metal — a too-tight bolt twisting itself deeper into a monitor. “You could have just told me, you know? Or do you just get off on digging through my head?”

Dooku delicately raises an aristocratic brow, eyes flickering to the machine. His nose ends in a point and Anakin ducks his head. The man isn’t a surveyor, but that doesn’t lessen the instinct any further. “Control yourself, Padawan. Both the Force and your tongue. Another Master would have you sit and meditate on your behavior.”

“And you won’t?” Anakin murmurs, head still lowered. “Aren’t you a Master?”

“I,” Dooku states, “am a Count. Your impertinence may be acceptable to those who will dismiss it as childhood naiveté, but I will not. Little boys grow up, and if you do not learn to curb that tongue of yours now, do not be surprised when someone comes along and takes it from you later. Am I understood?”

Crystal.

Two can play at this game.

Anakin shutters his eyes, perfectly placid, face smooth and betraying nothing. The bolt doesn’t move; his fingers don’t clench. They smooth along the blanket, leaving nothing but wrinkles in their wake. The Force follows; he wills a desert into being, cold and windless and dark, empty of any feelings that would disturb a man from sleep.

I understand, he thinks, burying his emotions under the sand. I remember.

“Yes, master,” Anakin states, words slipping from his mouth as if he was born saying them. The intonation is just a hair off. A lilt, a tone, a twist of the tongue, so familiar he doesn’t even notice his error.

Dooku does.

He surveys the child. “You have a chip on your shoulder, Padawan,” and Anakin doesn’t refute this. His eyes burn, but he feels nothing. The Force is still; locked and vibrating — as it isn’t for Obi-Wan or Shmi or even Palpatine. A creeping nothingness. It’s Tatooine before a raid, before a sale, before an execution. It’s Anakin, but he is blind and deaf and senseless, and he curls inside that nothingness because outside is a storm and he knows better than to let it in.

He doesn’t notice the Count move, nor does he look as the weight of another body presses down beside him on the bed. A finger — gentle, wrinkled, callused — tickles his chin and lifts his head. Dark brown eyes assess him, picking through the nothing and highlighting upon the tempest.

Anakin’s fingers twitch. His eyes quiver. The suns rise in the desert, bright and defiant and forbidding. A slave’s will to live another day; bending and bending, but never breaking. He will not allow a master the satisfaction.

Dooku hums, his forefingers curling around Anakin’s chin. “Careful, Padawan. Chips such as yours can be dangerous. You’re reckless and hot-tempered and arrogant. You lack control, and the same overwhelming power that makes you worthy of being a Jedi, is the very same one you must be wary of.”

He’s dangerous, Obi-Wan whispers, his hair short and braid long.

Just a slave, his classmate mocks into the ear of another.

Too old, Yoda states, sure as a king on his throne.

The words are grains of sand on the wind, tearing through him layer by layer as if he were caught in a simoom with no shelter. He tries to pull his chin from Dooku’s grip, but the fingers are firm and he’s forced to hold the man’s unrelenting gaze.

He’s trapped. The nothingness gone; empty desert replaced with burning heat and deadly winds. Dust billows between canyons, whipping through them like rapids through a gorge. He can’t look away. Why can’t he look away?

“You have so much anger,” the Count whispers, but it’s a parsec away, tethered to a reality Anakin is only half-aware of.

The room fades. Dooku’s eyes blur into sandstone walls.

He’s in his house, in that little slum in the Quarters, empty only because Watto didn’t have the funds to stuff it full of chattel. A singularity within his mind. Time ceases, and the room stretches on into infinity, despite the walls that press around him. The windows are tiny and round; the door jammed on the hydraulics. Above the sink, a golden root sways without cause. He’s safe here, in his mind, huddled between shields he built himself. Surrounded, enclosed, an island unto himself.

He smells the storm before he hears it — the scent of ozone, of dust, of blood spilt in the sand.

Control, he thinks, as the storm batters stone.

Power, the storm whispers back, shattering windows and cracking doors.

A krayt roars over the wind. It’s awake and breathing and stares at him with Dooku’s eyes and Dooku’s glare. Its breath stings of bomb-flesh as it smiles Sing’s grin, sharp and hungry and waiting. A body lays under its claws.

Power, the dragon bites.

Control, the body begs. She’s garbed in sunsets to match the blood.

His mother lays a hand on his head. She’s a ghost, a memory, a ghost of a memory, huddled with him behind desert walls and desert storms. He breathes her in. The unwashed scent of grime and oil and sweat; the musk of sand given life on the wind.

The storm quiets. Buffering, whirling, pounding and screeching; he hears her over all of it.

“Control, Ani. A slave that lacks control is a dead slave.”

And Anakin is very much alive.

He rips his chin from Dooku’s grasp. Manicured nails leave small scratches along his jaw, but they’re nothing more than minor annoyances. The man doesn’t even deign to apologize. He simply splays his fingers in a mockery of pacification and lifts his brow; as if Anakin were the one in the wrong and not the other way around.

He takes a deep breath, just like Obi-Wan showed him; wills the storm behind canyon walls and sand-worn doors, locks the dragon in its cage, and leaves the body to the dunes. They’re invisible, ignorable. The desert is still, as it should be. He is in control.

I’m in control, I’m in control, I’m—

Anakin’s eyes widen, fire boiling his blood. “You were in my head!”

Dooku shrugs, unapologetic. “Considering all the effort we put into strengthening your shields during the ball, you should have recognized it. Did you learn nothing from my help?”

“I did!”

“Well, you certainly didn’t prove it. It took you far too long to kick me out.”

“I wasn’t ready.”

“And your enemies aren’t likely to give you the courtesy of preparation.”

“Are you my enemy?”

Eyes flash, sharp as Sing’s vibroblade. “Not unless you make me.”

Lightning dances between them. Only the rhythmic beeping of the heart monitor breaks through the tension.

Anakin’s fingers clutch on hospital blankets, pulling at the fabric, and he is uncomfortably aware of just how tender his body is — how hot the blood pulsing through his still healing limbs are, how his muscles shake with fatigue. The IVs in his hands tug awkwardly under his skin, and he’s hit with the sudden urge to tear them out and let them bleed.

Dooku clicks his tongue. “Careful,” he says, the word undulating with the song of admonishment. “You don’t want to be here any longer than you have to, do you?”

“What?”

The man tilts his head towards Anakin’s hands. He hadn’t even realized his fingers had curled around the lines. “Those are there for a reason, Padawan. Best not to take your anger out on yourself. It’ll only prolong your stay.”

“I—” he swallows, fingers twitching and jerking back to his sides. “I’m not angry.”

“No? Then it is some other emotion you are so desperately burying under those shields of yours?”

“I’m not burying anything,” Anakin says, too quickly to be true, and draws hasty blinds over the cracked windows of his mind. He ignores the body staring through them, her gaze accusing.

Dooku isn’t fooled. A smirk teases the edges of his lips, but he’s much too arrogant to make it obvious. “You are. Anger, guilt. It leaves a chill in the Force, one that I am uniquely adept at identifying. Empathic shields are among the hardest to master for those of us who naturally excel in the art. Though, I will grant you the courtesy of acknowledging that, for one of your power, your control is not entirely abysmal. You just had the bad luck of catching my attention.”

Great. Good to know, Anakin wants to say. He doesn’t only because he can feel the cracks in the windows widen.

“But this anger of yours,” Dooku shakes his head. “It’s a problem. I know the basic Jedi tenant is to demand you let it go, but I’ve found, in my time, that such vague instructions rarely offer anything other than frustration. So, instead, I will ask you this: why are you angry?”

“I’m not.”

“Really? You’re not angry at me? I’ve only spent my time pointing out your flaws and chipping away at whatever boy-ish bluster you have to your ego. You need to hear it, of course, and I won’t offer you apologies for the courtesy, but I understand that rarely are the things we need to hear the things we want to. You may think me unfair. I am not. But I understand misdirected anger.” He tilts his head, reassessing.

“Then again, your frustrations were what was keeping me awake at this Force-forsaken hour of the night, so it can’t just be me.” His eyes rake over Anakin’s form. The storm — the Force, cold and lethal — rages at the invasion, and Anakin clenches himself into a tight ball.

Control, he wills, as the walls within his mind shake. There are holes in the foundation, patchwork shoddy, allowing thoughts to scuffle through. Not enough, not enough. The walls are never good enough and the storm keeps coming back.

“Is it your injuries?” Dooku continues, as if he doesn’t see Anakin struggling. “I admit, bedrest is annoying, but the bacta appears to have done its job. You’ll hardly be laid up for long. And I know it cannot be the princess, so I’m afraid I’m running out of suspects. The only ones left are the bounty hunters and your Master, so which one is it?”

Both, Anakin wants to say. Neither.

The answer sits in his chest, feeding the dragon. It breathes fire behind razor teeth and drags its claws over the body held in its grasp. She glares at him.

Anakin wishes she would go away. He wishes he had never gone looking in the first place.

Dooku leans forward. This close and Anakin can smell his cologne — wood-smoke and sapir. The smell of Obi-Wan’s tea. He doesn’t know how the Count snuck it into the Healing Ward, nor why he bothered, but it wafts on the air, mingling with antiseptic and bacta, and curdling Anakin’s stomach.

He swallows down bile and bites his tongue. Through the cracks of his eyes he can see the phantom of the woman, escaped from his mind to haunt his reality. Her red gown is stark against the white walls. They didn’t bother to remove it when they placed her in the morgue, and his memory will keep her that way forever.

The Count spares a glance over his shoulder, following the boy’s line of sight, but the spectre is only here for Anakin. She watches him.

He turns back around. “Is it Knight Kenobi?”

“What?”

“Your anger. Is it towards Knight Kenobi?”

The word “No,” leaps from Anakin’s lips so fast he doesn’t even realize he’s said it until it’s out in the open. It’s insistent and true, ripping him from the phantom, and back to the old man at his bedside. How dare he? How dare he ever suggest Anakin could be mad at a person like Obi-Wan.

Obi-Wan is perfect.

“The bounty hunters, then?”

Anakin opens his mouth. He goes to say, “no” and it doesn’t come out. He goes to say, “yes” and it doesn’t come out. A lump rises in his throat. His eyes burn, stinging his nose and pounding his head. Around him, the Force churns, prickling like sand over exposed skin. Hair stands on the back of Dooku’s neck and the machines glitch.

Beep. Skip. Beep.

He’s back in his house. Outside, the desert stretches on endlessly, dust clouds on the horizon. The woman has a partner now. A teenager with a golden head and orange blood, white eyes bulging unnaturally from his skull. They follow him, watch him breathe as their chests remain stubbornly still.

They never stop watching.

“It was a mistake,” he says to them, words a rasping wheeze. They’re not really there, he tells himself. It’s the concussion. It’s all in his head.

But so are the desert and the storm and the dragon and the walls, and they’re as real as his inability to contain them.

“Hm?” The Count intones, the only indication of his surprise a slight uptick of his brow. “What was a mistake?”

But Anakin shakes his head vigorously. They’re watching him — the Lady and the Blood Carver — and they won’t go away, and there’s acid on his tongue and a pulsing fire behind his eyes, and he just wants to be alone.

Dooku is not so kind as to let him. “Anakin?”

Shut up, shut up, shut up, shut up.

“I’m not going anywhere,” the Count continues. “So either you speak up or we sit here in silence, and I can assure you the first will be far more comfortable in the long run.”

“It’s none of your business,” the Padawan states through gritted teeth.

“Considering it kept me up into the wee hours of the morning, I beg to differ.” He adjusts himself against the thin mattress. “Come. This is what Grandmasters are for; for young, irascible Padawans to vent about the things they don’t want their Masters to know about.”

“They are not,” even though the acknowledgment warms his chest as fully as one of Obi-Wan’s smiles.

The woman flickers. The Blood Carver disappears.

“Well, how would you know? I haven’t been around before. I dare say, I would know better than you what Grandmasters are good for.”

“Training?”

“This is training. It’s learning to identify the root of a problem and deal with it effectively so you don’t disturb others in the future. Now, tell me about this mistake.”

“It’s not a big deal.”

“And lying will get you nowhere. Try again.”

“It’s stupid.” It’s not. The glare leveled at him from sightless eyes tells him as much, but maybe if he says it enough times, he’ll believe it and she’ll go away.

Dooku hums under his breath. “Yes, I too have lain awake at night, keeping others from sleep because of stupid thoughts. Again. This time without the stalling.”

“Why do you care?”

“Why shouldn’t I? You are my Grandpadawan, are you not? Do you have some sudden aversion to my help?”

“Yeah. I don’t want it.”

“No? That’s not the narrative you gave me three days ago.”

“Yeah, well, that was three days ago.”

“And what has changed between then and now?”

“Do you want the short list or the long?”

“Your sarcasm is noted, but unnecessary. And you’re stalling. Again. For the third time. Now, I will ask you one more time and if you continue your obstinance, I’m afraid I will have to bring it up with your Master.”

Anakin flinches, because he absolutely does not want to have this conversation with Obi-Wan. It will involve lectures and meditation and that particular downturn of Obi-Wan’s lips that indicates disappointment. He hates disappointing his Master. He hates that look in his eyes that says he knows Anakin is better than this. It’s like upsetting mom, only worse, because Anakin isn’t nearly as good at figuring out why Obi-Wan’s disappointed. Coruscant doesn’t make sense like Tatooine did, and Obi-Wan is Coruscanti to the bone.

“Well,” Dooku says after a moment, “am I going to have to get your Master or are you going to talk?”

Anakin worries his lip. “Talk,” he mumbles, barely audible.

“Then by all means, talk.”

“I—” but he can’t. She’s staring at him from the foot of his bed and, no matter what he does, she doesn’t go away.

“You…what, Padawan? Speak up.”

“I—’ He swallows harshly and whispers, “I killed her.”

Dooku’s brow furrows. He looks honestly baffled, and Anakin would be pleased to have illicit such a reaction if he wasn’t so completely consumed with himself. “Pardon?”

“The Lady. I killed her.”

“Lady? I presume you are not referring to the maid, then.”

The maid — Delea — who’d offered Anakin sweets and smothered him with compliments and had fourteen grandchildren, had been found in the wine cellars, splayed at the bottom of the stairs. She’d been discarded like trash and forgotten almost as easily.

“And if not the maid,” Dooku continues, as if Delea didn’t matter, “then the only one left is Lady Taria, and I fail to see how you had any true hand in her death.”

“But I did!” The Force trembles with the strength of his conviction. It’s as if a dam has broken under the strain, and Anakin’s anger and guilt and shame fill the air as the words tear from his throat and scrape raw at the feet of an unyielding master. “I pushed Sing out the window. She was hurting the princess and all I could think of was making her stop, and I didn’t even think to check for anyone else. I just wanted her to stop hurting Breha and, instead, I got someone else killed.”

And she keeps staring at him. Through the window, in his head, at the foot of his bed, she keeps kriffing staring.

He bites down hard on his lip. The pain grounds him, and she flickers in and out of sight. Harder, he bites; harder until she’s gone, and the room is empty of phantoms. Red beads under his teeth. It trickles down his chin, his lip a mockery of Naboo royalty. A Scar of Remembrance for a woman who won’t let him forget.

Dooku says nothing. He watches dispassionately, not moving to give comfort or consideration. Not like Obi-Wan. Obi-Wan would have tried to talk. Obi-Wan would have held his hand and steadied him, a solid tether to the storm under his skin.

He doesn’t deserve it, and he doesn’t know why he wants it.

Anakin takes a shuddering breath. He’s in control, he tells himself, plugging the holes in his shields with duratape and spit. The Force churns, battering against the walls, forming new cracks as quickly as it takes to seal the old.

What is wrong with me? He thinks. I’m better than this. I’m better than this. I’m better—

“She’s dead,” he whispers, half to Dooku and half to himself. “She’s dead, ‘cause I wasn’t good enough. ‘Cause Obi-Wan had to save me. I was stupid and didn’t think and she died. And what if she hadn’t been there? Then the Chancellor would have died and it would have been all my fault!” He slams his fist against the bed as a final punctuation of the fact and cares not a wit for the pain it shoots through his fingers.

It steadies him.

“Well,” Dooku says, dry as the Desert. It scrapes at Anakin’s nerves. “That’s quite a bit of blame to put on yourself, don’t you think?”

“Not if it’s true.”

“And is it? True?”

Anakin huffs, tossing the old man a glare as fierce as he’s able to from the bed. “Of course it is. I’m not a liar.”

Dooku shrugs. “I never said you were. There you go, putting words in my mouth again.”

“I’m not—”

“You are,” Dooku states. “I have ideas of where you got this idea that everyone around you clearly thinks the worst, but they are not the current topic of conversation. As it is, I am not calling you a liar. Rather, I am trying to understand where you think you could have changed anything, because, frankly, Padawan, I can’t think of many.”

Anakin raises his brow because that’s a load of bantha-sh*t if he’s ever heard any. “Really?”

“Don’t take that tone with me,” the Count admonishes, though Anakin can’t bring himself to feel any chagrin. He’s resigned himself to the man’s ire. “And yes, really. Were you a Knight, we would be having a very different conversation, this is true, but I acknowledge the fact that for all your faults, you are still learning. Yes, there were things you could have done better, but on the whole, those things are minor, and against an opponent such as Aurra Sing, I doubt they would have had much of an effect on the eventual outcome.

“You are alive,” Dooku stresses. “The Chancellor is alive and your Master is alive. It is a shame that one woman had to lose her life, but considering the alternatives, I think events worked out for the best.”

Anakin sits up on his elbows and glowers. “A woman is—”

“Dead. I’m aware. I’m sorry about that, but the Chancellor — the bounty hunters’ target — is alive, and while Sing may have gotten away, whatever she wanted on that datapad was destroyed. It’s sad that someone had to die, but so long as their objective was incomplete, then you must accept the sacrifices and move on.”

Anakin flops back down with a scowl. “I can’t. It’s not right.”

“A typical reaction.”

“And Obi-Wan still had to save me. She died because Obi-Wan saved me.”

“Would you rather he hadn’t?”

Anakin crosses his arms, pulling them tight against his chest because dammit, he is! He’s so goddamn grateful and it fills his whole chest with warmth because Obi-Wan chose him, but he knows, down to his core, that he shouldn’t be because a woman is dead because of it and no doubt Obi-Wan is going to get in trouble, and if Anakin had just been better—

The Count sighs. It’s not exasperated or mocking, and, for the first time, Anakin really registers just how old he is. Looking at him is like looking in the mirror and seeing the years stretch on ahead of him. It’s frightening.

“Oh, Padawan. I understand how it feels to want to be better. To feel the Force beneath your fingertips and know you had the power to do everything right if only you did one thing differently. Yes,” he nods, “there were things you could have done better. I don’t know if they would have been enough to prevent the poor Lady’s death, but it’s possible. Your control was lacking. You attacked Sing with anger and then allowed your shields to fall so thoroughly that she could manipulate you into attack. Your forethought was downright detrimental. But these are not things that cannot be fixed. You’re rough, but there’s enough potential in you to do better. Perhaps, someday, you will be good enough to stop people from dying.”

Anakin’s lip stings, corners twisting with doubt. Lady Taria flashes in the doorway, the Blood Carver beside her, and somewhere in the back of his mind, in memories too old to recall—

“Mom, where’s Pema?”

He shakes it away — the bleeding void of nothingness within his mind; pulls at the tear in his lip until the Blood Carver vanishes and the Lady with him. Words clog his throat as he forces out, “You think so?”

“For one of your power? Yes. You may well become a great Jedi someday. If, of course, you learn to control yourself.”

“I’m trying. It’s just…”

“Just? Speak up, Padawan. This tendency of yours to half-sentences is unbecoming.”

Anakin swallows. His eyes burn, but the rules of Tatooine are as hard to forget as the rules of Coruscant are to remember. He keeps his tears to himself. “It’s so much. I feel everything all the time, and it doesn’t stop, and I don’t know how to fix it and I know I could be better, but no one listens, and how can I learn to be better if no one tells me how? You, the Council, Obi-Wan — you all tell me to control myself, but no one tells me how to do it, and then you all get upset when I can’t figure it out.”

Dooku hums. “You bring up a valid point. One I’ve long had with the Jedi. Rarely, I’ve found over the years, do they ever give you a straightforward answer.”

“You’re not any better,” Anakin mumbles, mostly to himself, though by the twist of his mouth, it’s clear Dooku hears him.

“Perhaps not. It’s not often — or perhaps, not ever, in your case — that I meet someone of your innate strength. You’ll forgive an old man his habits. But I meant what I said. It is a problem I have had in the past, as well. All too often, they expect you to find the answers for yourself without the proper guidance on how to do so. It can lead to…frustration.”

Anakin scoffs. It’s a little wet, but his eyes are dry as the desert. “You can say that again.”

“But while their methods leave much to be desired, they are not entirely wrong in their assessment. Your skills cannot make up for your shortcomings. Eventually, they will only hold you back. Luckily for you, I am not averse to helping you out.”

He-what-now? Anakin blinks, bandaged fingers twitching in surprise as he gazes at his entirely too-pleased Grandmaster. “What?”

“I don’t deny your potential,” Dooku says. “You are impressive. And whatever my position, either in or out of the Order, you are still of my lineage. That matters to me. As such, should you wish, I am willing to remain in contact should you continue to have trouble with your training.”

“Are—are you kidding? You’d really help me?”

“I won’t give handouts, but, should you need it, yes.”

But Anakin isn’t listening. He doesn’t actually listen past the offer of continued training. Instead, he uses all his strength to scramble up from the bed and fold himself in a bow deep enough to hurt. His thumbs tremble against his forehead, and the foot that’s supposed to be in front buckles under the strain. It’s graceless and sloppy and certainly not the type of bow Anakin’s supposed to give to a Grandmaster, but it’s the only one he knows that can convey just how thankful he is.

The Count may be an arrogant, egotistical jerk, but he’s an arrogant, egotistical jerk who wants to help him. Like Qui-Gon. Like the Chancellor. No dying promises or reluctant half-offers necessary. The occurrence is rare enough to be a novelty.

Dooku sighs. “I see we have much work to do. Get up, before you collapse.” He nudges the boy with his foot and Anakin straightens, stumbling as the world spins around him. He catches himself on the edge of his bed before easing back onto the mattress.

It’s thin and hard and feels wonderful on his muscles. Anakin hates it.

The Count pays him no mind as he pulls the blanket back up and readjusts his IVs. Instead, the man leans back in his seat and says, “Make no mistake, I am not your teacher—“

“Well, duh. Obi-Wan—“

“Let me finish,” Dooku silences. “I am not your teacher. This is help, should you need it. While I have residences on Coruscant, it is not my home. Much of my time is spent ruling a planet, so I expect you to be respectful of that time and not call for any reasons of frivolity.”

“I will. I promise.”

“Yes,” Dooku eyes him as if daring him to try, “see that you do. You will take my advice to heart, young one. I will accept nothing less. No dithering or whatever it is young Padawans high off their own petard do these days.”

“Yes, Master.”

“Ah, ah. What did I say about calling me Master?”

Anakin flushes. The correct word burns like an electro-whip in his memory. “Not to. It’s A—Ash’van, right?”

“Correct. It is a...variant on a word in Dai Bendu. One I am more comfortable with. If you do well, and prove yourself capable, I may teach you more.”

“Really? I mean,” Anakin clears his throat, schooling his features into something more befitting a proper Padawan. “Thank you, Ash’van. I will strive to prove myself capable.”

Dooku nods, a satisfied smirk curling his lips. “Good. It would seem there is hope for you yet, my Tashwai Nwûl’sot.”

Count Dooku knocks on an innocuous door of a closed-off section of the Healing Ward. It’s lined on either side with clinical white walls, glossed over with tasteful paintings and comfortable furniture that does little to make up for the smell of antiseptic. The air is choked with it, stinging his nose and curdling the blood in his veins.

It’s cold.

Four guards stand at their post beside him. They’re garbed in blue, faces obscured behind helmets, with stun pikes held tightly in their grasps. Two more stand at the end of the hall and six others rotate through on patrol. He can sense their eyes on him, tickling the Force like kittens stretching their claws. So much bluster, so little skill.

He could kill them all within a minute. Less, if he was trying.

The cold presses down upon his shoulders as his attention returns to the door. Copper taint paints his tongue and the chill crawls over him, latching onto his mind. Amusem*nt, he thinks, or satisfaction. There’s certainly cause for both. He raises a steady hand and knocks twice in quick succession.

“Come in,” a kindly voice calls out, and a guard presses a button to unlock the door.

Dooku walks in, calm, with the grace of his station. The door closes behind him with a soft whir of the hydraulics, but he pays it no mind as he takes in the machinery obscured by luxury. Only the best for the Chancellor of the Republic.

He bows.“Your Excellency. You wished to see me?”

“Ah, Count Dooku,” the Chancellor welcomes with a smile. “Yes. I hear you had quite the adventure.”

“Indeed, Chancellor.” He slides into a chair opposite the bed and looks his Master in the eye. “It’s quite the tale. Would you like to hear it?”

“By all means, my friend. Tell me everything.”