Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Sifo-Dyas breathed out, trying fruitlessly to get the tremble out of his hands.

One would’ve thought that after four decades, he would have become used to the visions, but they still somehow found a way to surprise him. Worse yet, the recovery afterwards drained him more than the vision itself sometimes, and it was in these instances that he found himself missing Yan and Jocasta the most. But, between the inevitable passage of time, Yan’s padawans and diplomatic missions, Jocasta’s ever-growing list of responsibilities with the Archives and the library, and Sifo-Dyas’ recent visions about his friends’ fates, he found himself reluctant to seek the companionship he so solely desired.

The Room of a Thousand Fountains was hardly an adequate substitute, but it would do. Immersing himself in the Living Force wasn’t as soothing as wrapping himself in Yan’s signature or letting Jocasta read to him, but it was good enough to soothe his most frayed edges, and sometimes, that was all a man could hope for.

“Ah, forgive me.” A young voice interrupted Sifo-Dyas’ musings, prompting him to open his eyes and seek the source of the disturbance, somewhat surprised when his gaze landed on a distantly familiar red-headed teen. “I did not mean to interrupt.”

Sifo-Dyas studied the boy for a few seconds, absently wondering what the boy thought he was doing out of bed in the middle of the night, then was struck by the realisation that he was looking at Yan’s new padawan learner.

(He has long since learned that the Force did not have a sense of humour, but this...this was pushing it.)

“Padawan Kenobi.” he greeted on a sigh, and the boy frowned upon being named, studying Sifo-Dyas just as intently as Sifo-Dyas had studied him moments previous, blue eyes sharp as they took him in, and Sifo-Dyas couldn’t help but wonder what the boy saw.

“I’m afraid you have me at a disadvantage, Master…?” the padawan returned politely yet rather pointedly, and Sifo-Dyas smiled tiredly at the echo of Yan in the boy’s demeanour.

“I am Sifo-Dyas.” he replied, and while the padawan’s shields never wavered, the boy could not quite prevent his eyes from widening, clearly recognising Sifo-Dyas’ name though he knew not how.

“I apologise, Master Dyas.” the teen murmured, his voice having gained an urgent note, though he still inclined his head in a respectful bow. “I will be on my way.”

Sifo-Dyas considered the boy more carefully, only then noticing the dark shadows under the padawan’s bloodshot eyes and the pallid tint to his already pale skin, and he stifled another sigh.

If the boy had been another padawan, he would have likely allowed the retreat.

But this child was Yan’s.

“What brings you here at such a late hour?” Sifo-Dyas asked instead, and though his words were quiet, they were enough to halt the boy’s retreat, sky-blue eyes flickering over Sifo-Dyas’ face before he sighed.

“I enjoy meditating here.” the padawan replied, moving as if to tuck his hands into the sleeves of his robes before seemingly remembering that he had come to the Room in his pyjamas, “The organic matter...settles me.”

Sifo-Dyas barely bit back a bitter smile. Of all the padawan learners Yan could have chosen...

“‘Settles’?” he echoed instead of voicing his thoughts, curious about the boy’s answer.

The Living Force could serve as a tangible tether to reality – he himself used it as such – but it was rare for someone as young as the teen before him to need such help.

“I suffer from nightmares, Master.” Yan’s padawan admitted quietly, his voice perfectly neutral, his feelings on the matter carefully hidden, and Sifo-Dyas wondered at that neutrality.

(Wondered at what hid beneath.)

“Your shielding is impeccable.” he stated instead, the words not quite praise, but not quite a neutral statement either. It was...alarming, the discrepancy between what he could see and what he could not feel - the boy was clearly exhausted, yet the defences around his mind and his Force-signature showed no sign of wavering, as if he were a seasoned Master instead of a child. “But you do not need to shield for my sake. Or your Master’s.”

“I meant no offence. I merely do not wish to burden Master Dooku with what I see. Our partnership is still quite new.” the boy demurred, offering Sifo-Dyas an apologetic smile that did not reach his eyes.

( What you see... Sifo-Dyas mused inwardly , studying the boy intently now, or what you See? )

Yet, because he was still feeling sentimental, all he said out loud was: “Yan would not hesitate to comfort you if you allowed him. His nighttime tea-making is second to none.”

(He had that on good authority, after all.)

“I will try to heed your advice, Master.” Yan’s padawan replied evenly, though there was a glint of understanding in his eyes now, as well as an unexpected edge of self-deprecation, “But I am afraid that my shielding is second nature to me, at this point.”

For Master-like shielding to be second nature when the boy could not have been older than fifteen- Sifo-Dyas shuddered.

“You have been plagued by these visions for long, then?” he asked, and though he could not control the way his voice shook, his choice of wording was intentional.

“Since the crèche.” the padawan admitted, his gaze jumping to Sifo-Dyas’ at the word-choice, but he did not correct the Master’s assumption, prompting a rarely-felt indignation to rise within Sifo-Dyas.

Four decades later, and the crèchemasters’ only answer to the pull of the Unifying Force was still to teach shielding.

Sifo-Dyas took a deep breath, then released his frustration into the Force along with his exhale.

“I know what it is like to See things nobody else does.” he told the padawan quietly, a comfort and an offer of kinship in one, for all that the boy could still be too young to recognise it as such. “If you ever wish to talk, your Master will know where I am.”

(Sifo-Dyas has long resigned himself to the fact that Yan has always had a preternatural sense for how to find him, even when Sifo-Dyas did not necessarily want to be found.)

He glanced at the padawan again, noting the contemplative way the boy was now looking at him, as if Sifo-Dyas had offered him a puzzle and not an invitation for tea, and couldn’t help the way his lips curled into a bitter smile.

“And,” he mused, absently aware that he was about to perpetuate a cycle of violence, but too drained to remember all the reasons for why he should not, “if it is any comfort, young one, the future is always in motion.”

That, it seemed, was enough to shake the boy out of his contemplative silence, and for the first time since he had arrived in the Room, Yan’s padawan showed Sifo-Dyas something other than polite deference.

“It is.” the boy agreed, inclining his head, the blue of his eyes gleaming silver in the low light. Then, he smiled, and the expression was more brittle than glass and twice as sharp. “And because it is always in motion, it can be changed.”

And when Sifo-Dyas froze, the implication of the boy’s words not lost on him, the padawan bowed, his face returning once more to the placid, polite mask he had worn throughout their conversation, looking, for all intents and purposes, as if he had not just threatened to commit the one sin all Seers were warned against.

“Goodnight, Master. I apologise again for disturbing you.” the padawan murmured, and when he straightened, turning away, Sifo-Dyas could almost believe that he had imagined the last two minutes of their conversation.

But he had not. He knew that he had not.

(And as the boy headed for the door out of the Room, for just a second, superimposed over the padawan's retreating back, Sifo-Dyas saw another figure. 

A man, his hair the same fiery red as the padawan’s albeit shorter, the cut almost utilitarian. He was taller than the boy though shorter than Sifo-Dyas would have been if they stood side-by-side, and his broad shoulders seemed even broader with the white plastoid armour he wore over his clothing.

A familiar white armour. The same armour, in fact, that has haunted Sifo-Dyas for years. Yet unlike the faceless men of his nightmares who were covered in it from head to toe, this man still wore his Jedi robes, the armour an addition, not the main piece.

And, if that wasn't enough to distinguish him from the blaster-bearing soldiers of Sifo-Dyas' visions, then the lightsabre looped through his belt and the insignia of the Jedi Order stamped on his pauldron certainly were. 

The padawan stopped by the door and, ignorant of the ghost that copied his every move, glanced over his shoulder, his eyes bloodshot and haunted, his lips twisted in a small, resigned smile drenched in sadness and heartbreak. He made eye-contact with Sifo-Dyas for the briefest of seconds, then broke it and headed out, and Sifo-Dyas found himself staring sightlessly at the place the boy had stood, struck speechless by an inescapable, undeniable realisation:

the Jedi soldier's expression had matched the padawan's perfectly.)

((Later, once he had retreated to his quarters, Sifo-Dyas grappled with another thought, one more concerning than his entire exchange with Yan’s padawan:

For the first time in his life, he hadn’t been certain whether the vision he had been looking at had been a glimpse of the future-

-or of the past.))

Chapter Text

“You’ve been skipping meals.”

Sifo-Dyas was too old to startle like a youngling, but his eyes snapped open, his meditation too shallow to keep him from reacting, the Force around him too loud.

He hadn’t expected company, having hidden himself in the alcove above the Room of a Thousand Fountains, the one that was hidden from view of those in the Room, and too small for most of the non-human inhabitants of the Temple to fit in.

So the sight of Yan in the entryway to his favourite alcove, slouched as he was to not hit his head on the low ceiling and with an unimpressed expression on his face – though Sifo-Dyas knew him well enough to read the concern in those dark eyes – allowed him to take the first breath that didn’t tremble on the exhale in what felt like weeks.

“The droids tattled on me again?” Sifo-Dyas asked after a beat of simply staring at the other, having aimed for humour with the quip but clearly landing somewhere to the left if the way Yan’s lips didn’t even twitch was any indication.

“No, Jocasta did.” his friend replied bluntly, watching Sifo-Dyas attentively.

“Jocasta?” Sifo-Dyas couldn’t help but echo, his unfiltered surprise sending a discordant ripple in the Force that Yan could clearly feel if the way he frowned was any indication. “We haven’t-”

-spoken in weeks. He finished in his mind, having had enough sense about him to bite his tongue before he admitted that to the other Master.

“She expressed concern that you’ve been neglecting your diet and isolating yourself again.” Yan revealed, and Sifo-Dyas felt his earlier joy burst like a soap bubble, the realisation that Yan did not seek him out of his own volition leaving a sour taste in his mouth.

“Do you not have a padawan to tend to?” he asked dully, turning away from Yan to hide his disappointment, his eyes absently falling on the three crèchemasters trying to lead a group of five, maybe six-year-old initiates through meditation in the Room below.

He was not expecting the hand that suddenly gripped his shoulder, nor the stubborn glint that he found in Yan’s eyes when the other turned him around to face him once more.

“My padawan is in his room, sleeping off a particularly exhausting session in the training salles.” Yan informed him primly, enunciating clearly, the hand on his shoulder squeezing briefly before falling back to his side. “Come. I got your new diet plan and supplements from the healers. We will eat in my quarters and then you will tell me why you’ve been ignoring basic self-care.”

And Sifo-Dyas- Sifo-Dyas couldn’t allow himself to fall back into the routines of their youth. He couldn’t. He knew he would not be able to bear losing them again.

(And he would lose them.)

“I am a grown man, Yan.” he bristled instead, scowling with an irritation he did not truly feel and hoping that his friend would understand the unspoken plea.

But Yan was stubborn, and cunning, and ruthless when the situation called for it, and far kinder than Sifo-Dyas deserved.

“Then act like one.” was all Yan said, the words blunt and merciless, but they were an order, not a dismissal. As was the hand the man held out, beckoning Sifo-Dyas impatiently. “Come, Sy.”

And Sifo-Dyas, (pathetic) in the face of his oldest friend, the stern Master (Count) Dooku using his childhood nickname, felt his (sentimental, foolish) heart skip in his chest, and was left with no other choice than to push to his (weak) feet-

-and follow.

Sifo-Dyas hated to admit it, but after eating the soup Yan had prepared, taking his supplements, and curling up under the weighted blanket that had been a permanent fixture of Yan’s sofa since Rael had first introduced them to the concept, he felt marginally better.

Of course, that was precisely the moment Yan chose to speak.

“Other than that ten second warning you gave me about Galidraan, you have not sought me out for months.” his friend observed, his voice neutral as if he was commenting about the weather, rather than Sifo-Dyas’ uncharacteristic distance. “And I know it was you who warned us about the minister on Corellia, don’t try to pretend otherwise.”

(When they had been teenagers, Yan had asked Sifo-Dyas to always share the visions that pertained to his missions. No matter how vague, how nebulous, how abstract – Yan considered Sifo-Dyas’ visions to be knowledge, and he believed that any knowledge was better than none.

Decades later, Sifo-Dyas was grateful his friend had unintentionally provided him with the ‘mission-related’ parameter. He would never have been able to share all the Yan-related visions he had.)

"You have a new padawan.” he said after far too long a pause, only belatedly remembering that though there hadn't been a question, Yan was expecting him to explain. “I did not want to intrude.”

Only a partial truth, but not a lie. If Sifo-Dyas was fortunate, Yan would be too tired to dig deeper and allow him at least some semblance of grace or dignity.

He was not fortunate.

“Your visions got worse again.” Yan declared after a few seconds of simply studying Sifo-Dyas, and the certainty in his voice was infuriating. “How many times have you been to the Halls since I left for Corellia?”

(It was infuriating because he wasn’t wrong.)

“I hardly think that’s-” Sifo-Dyas tried regardless, but Yan glared at him then, and the power behind that single look made Sifo-Dyas lose his remaining fighting spirit, releasing an exhausted sigh, and with it, a damning; “About two dozen.”

Yan echoed his sigh, but his was more frustrated, almost disappointed.

“What made you think that having a padawan would mean that I would no longer be available to you should you have need of me?” he asked, and Sifo-Dyas huffed a bitter laugh.

“The fact that I have need of you far more often than is becoming for a man my age.” he shot back, and though his tone was wry, his words dripped with disgust and self-deprecation. “Not to mention a Jedi.”

“Have I ever complained?” Yan asked, and Sifo-Dyas felt his neck crack with how quickly he turned his head to look at his friend, feeling his eyes grow wide.

“Excuse me?” he floundered, not sure if he'd heard correctly, but Yan just met his gaze and held, though his raised eyebrow spoke for itself.

“Have you ever heard me complain?” he repeated, and Sifo-Dyas could only stare for a few seconds, feeling wrong-footed and off-balance and hating it.

“Yan, I-?” he began, but in that moment, the door to the other bedroom opened and Yan's padawan stumbled out, his hair a mess, his nightshirt stuck to his body with sweat, and his eyes wild and panicked.

“What-? Count-?! Where-?” the boy choked out, his words not keeping up with his clearly agitated mind, though Sifo-Dyas found himself stuck on the word Count and the split-second where the padawan’s eyes had landed on Yan and filled with fear.

Oh no.

Before he had quite realised what he was doing, Sifo-Dyas was extending his shields to Yan’s padawan, wrapping him in his Force signature the same way Yan and Jocasta and the crèchemasters used to do for him, plugging the gaps in the boy's wavering shields and making sure that Yan wouldn't catch so much as a glimpse of whatever it was that the boy had seen.

(Not yet. Not ever, if Sifo-Dyas had anything to say about it.)

The boy jerked once he realised what Sifo-Dyas had done, but his panic had abated somewhat, the edge of mania leaving his gaze, and Sifo-Dyas watched as the teen closed his eyes and took a deep breath through his nose.

(He didn’t miss the way the boy curled one hand into a fist and dug his nails into the fleshy part of his palm, however. Using pain as an anchor was not one of the Temple-approved methods for grounding oneself, but Sifo-Dyas was hardly a stranger to desperation.)

“Master.” the padawan greeted after a few seconds, his voice hoarse like he’d been screaming, and when he opened his eyes, he seemed far more lucid, though the earlier fear was still not fully gone. “Masters. Forgive me.”

“Obi-Wan.” Yan breathed, in chastisement and relief in equal measure, his expression concerned, his Force signature agitated. “What happened, padawan?”

“Just a nightmare, Master.” Obi-Wan deflected, offering Yan a smile that didn't reach his eyes. “I apologise for disturbing you.”

“Do not take me for a fool.” Yan shot back sharply, and Sifo-Dyas saw the boy flinch back at the tone. “’Just’ a nightmare would not have had you so frenzied.”

The boy took a deep breath and held it for a beat, and when he released it, it trembled on the exhale in a way Sifo-Dyas was intimately familiar with.

“It was a...bad nightmare.” the teen allowed quietly, his bottom lip beginning to tremble.

“Come here, padawan.” Yan beckoned, clearly noticing the same.

Though Yan had softened his tone, the words were an order, not a request, and Sifo-Dyas saw the exact moment Yan’s padawan realised that and moved to do as bid. He made his way gingerly through the room until he was within arms’ reach of the sofa, but his legs gave out before he could reach the pouf to Yan's left and he crumpled to the floor, his knees hitting the carpet with a soft thud.

Obi-Wan hung his head then, and Sifo-Dyas heard the next breath the teen let out turn into a sob, and he saw the tears that began to drip onto the boy’s sleep pants. It was hardly a surprise when the next thing to happen was Yan reaching out, his large hand settling on his padawan’s hair with unexpected gentleness, using the touch to guide the boy to lean his forehead against Yan’s knee.

“Breathe, Obi-Wan.” Yan instructed quietly, and as the boy tried to obey, his fingers began carding through the padawan’s hair, the touch soothing and grounding in its repetitiveness. “Take your time.”

Sifo-Dyas glanced at his friend then, not surprised to find him already looking back, a wordless understanding passing between them. It had been years since the last time, but they could both picture Yan’s hands, with fewer scars and slimmer fingers, carding through longer, darker hair as silent tears soaked into the leg of his pants.

“Tell us more about your nightmare.” Sifo-Dyas instructed quietly after a few seconds, dropping the eye-contact and refocusing his attention on the distraught padawan. “What did you See?”

“I dreamt of- of Galidraan.” Obi-Wan revealed, answering even though it hadn’t been his Master who’d asked. “Of what would have happened if we had- if we had failed.”

The boy didn’t lift his head from Yan’s knee and so he missed the way Yan’s eyes grew tight at the corners, though whether at the words themselves, or at the fact that they were still coming between desperate gasps for breath, Sifo-Dyas couldn’t be sure.

What he was sure of, however, was that he needed to help.

“But you did not fail.” he told the boy quietly, the truth of his words ringing in his voice and in the Force alike, though he felt mildly alarmed when the boy winced.

Sifo-Dyas searched for what could have caused that reaction and realised that the boy was still under his shields, so he felt what Sifo-Dyas did. Cursing inwardly, Sifo-Dyas began to withdraw, slow so as not to startle, judging the padawan's shields sturdy enough to avoid Yan seeing anything he shouldn't and not willing to expose him to the chaos that was Sifo-Dyas' connection to the Force any longer than necessary. 

Searching for something, anything that could offer some comfort, Sifo-Dyas remembered the padawan’s reaction to his parting comment during their first meeting and decided that he might as well try. 

“Remember," he murmured tentatively, his eyes on the boy's reaction, "the future is always in motion.”

Obi-Wan froze at that, the motion all the more visible with how his back was curved to allow him to keep his forehead pressed to Yan’s knee. Then, as Sifo-Dyas’ words seemed to echo in the room, the boy raised his head slowly, Yan's hand falling away, and his eyes red-rimmed and still glistening with unshed tears, though grateful and completely lucid when they landed on Sifo-Dyas.

“Yes.” The boy whispered, eyes wide like he’d had an epiphany, and though he hiccoughed, his gaze never left Sifo-Dyas’ as he repeated, his voice stronger the second time around, “Yes, it is.”

Then, the boy took a deep breath and pushed away from Yan’s knee to sit back on his haunches, his eyes slipping shut once more, his expression almost serene now, and Sifo-Dyas was struck by the realisation that what for him had always felt like a mockery, for the padawan was a comfort.

(For Sifo-Dyas, motion meant unpredictability. It meant that he could never fully know, could never completely prepare.

For Obi-Wan, motion meant possibility. It meant that he could always influence, could always affect change.)

((Sifo-Dyas was old and jaded and all out of optimism. Obi-Wan’s youth guaranteed his optimism, and his ghosts gave it the teeth of desperation.))

“I apologise, Masters.” the boy breathed after a few seconds, and when he opened his eyes this time, Yan’s perfectly-put-together padawan was back behind the wheel.

The boy pushed to his feet, no trace of a tremor to his motions, then inclined his head in a shallow bow, and his words, when he spoke no longer sounded like they were being wrenched from his very soul. “This is unbecoming conduct for a Jedi. I will-”

“-You will remember that you are a child, Obi-Wan.” Yan cut him off, and the teen straightened so fast Sifo-yas thought he was going to get whiplash. “A child who just had a nightmare as a result of being placed in a stressful, high-stakes situation, not too long after having been in a similar situation.”

Yan sighed, his expression conflicted, though his eyes were warm when he regarded his padawan, a hint of a smile around the corners of his mouth. “I thought I already told you that you are allowed to feel ‘unbecoming’ emotions after something like that, padawan.”

Obi-Wan’s eyes had grown wide while Yan had been speaking, a crack in his composed facade.

“‘Emotion, yet peace’.” he murmured, sounding like he was quoting, and Sifo-Dyas only just managed to refrain from shooting Yan an incredulous look.

“Precisely.” His friend confirmed with a nod, his smile gaining more substance. “Allow yourself to feel, and then let it go. Regain your equilibrium, but do not blame yourself for your reactions.”

Obi-Wan breathed in, and he seemed to settle even more with the inhale, as if Yan’s reminder had been what he’d needed to let go of the last of the guilt that had weighed on him. “Thank you, Master.”

“Come here, child.” Yan beckoned with a smile instead of acknowledging the thanks, gesturing to the sofa between him and Sifo-Dyas in invitation. Sifo-Dyas watched as the padawan eyed the space between him and Yan hesitantly, shooting him an unreadable look that Yan seemed to catch because he glanced at Sifo-Dyas briefly, and there was humour buried in the depths of his eyes when he said, “Master Sifo-Dyas can share his blanket.”

Realising just how he had been sitting and that he was being teased, Sifo-Dyas tried to arrange his limbs into something more befitting a Master as he felt a flush rise up his neck.

“O-of course.” he managed, lowering his legs to the floor and pulling up the edge of the blanket as he did. Once he’d settled, Obi-Wan sat gingerly, accepting the offered blanket with a small smile of thanks, and though he wasn’t quite awkward, it was clear he was far from comfortable, and Sifo-Dyas found himself at a loss.

Then, Yan sighed, and with a glance like Sifo-Dyas was being particularly obtuse, lifted his arm.

Obi-Wan froze, glancing at his Master like he wasn’t sure he was reading the invitation right, and Yan’s earlier amusement faded into concern.

A padawan he may be, but the boy shouldn’t be this shocked by the offer of comfort. Unless things had changed drastically since Sifo-Dyas himself had been in the crèche, the crèchemasters should still be offering the children hugs and gentle touches.

(In the back of his mind, however, Sifo-Dyas understood the boy’s hesitation. Between Yan’s reputation amongst those who did not know him the way Sifo-Dyas and Jocasta did, and the way the other Jedi talked of attachment, it was hardly surprising that a boy whose previous Master had left him in a warzone with accusations of betraying the Order was hesitant to do anything that could paint him as anything other than a perfect padawan.)

But just as Sifo-Dyas thought that Yan would withdraw his offer, mistaking his padawan’s surprise for refusal, the boy moved. Slowly, as if he fully expected Yan to change his mind, he shuffled closer to Yan and carefully curled into the man’s side, ducking his head to rest it against Yan’s clavicle.

Yan took a breath, and then, moving just as slowly as the boy had, lowered his arm until it was wrapped loosely around Obi-Wan’s shoulders, his hand resting lightly on the boy’s upper arm.

Sifo-Dyas watched, almost mesmerised, as, after a few seconds in the embrace, the tension seemed to literally bleed out of the boy’s muscles. The padawan slumped against Yan a moment later, his eyes fluttering shut, his breaths evening out, asleep between one blink and the next, his exhaustion pulling him into a deep, hopefully dreamless sleep.

“You’re good with him.” Sifo-Dyas commented after a few seconds, turning to Yan with a contemplative look.

“I’ve had practice.” Yan replied flatly, but he met Sifo-Dyas’ gaze readily, and despite the flat tone, there was warmth in his eyes that added an extra depth to his words, letting Sifo-Dyas know precisely who he was referring to.

Sifo-Dyas ducked his head, both to acknowledge the truth of the statement, and to let his hair hide his small, pleased smile from Yan’s watchful gaze.

Chapter Text

Sifo-Dyas stirred, stifling a groan when his neck twinged in protest at the position he’d fallen asleep in. Stars, but he was getting old.

He sat up somewhat, blinking the sleep from his eyes, surprised to find Yan still asleep on the other end of the sofa, and he couldn’t help the rush of fondness at the sight. It was rare to catch his friend as relaxed as he was when asleep, and Sifo-Dyas had almost grown out of the childish envy he’d felt that Yan’s dreams weren’t tormented by visions of gruesome futures.

On the subject of futures-

Sifo-Dyas looked around the room, having forgotten that him and Yan hadn’t been alone when they’d fallen asleep. His sweep of their surroundings ended when his gaze fell on the meditation mat, and the padawan perched atop it, legs crossed and eyes closed. The boy was once again an empty space in the Force, his presence almost completely hidden behind his newly rebuilt shields.

If not for the fact that Sifo-Dyas had felt the sheer terror that had been leaking out of the padawan when he’d stumbled out of his room, he’d have assumed that he’d imagined the events of the previous night.

With a quiet sigh, Sifo-Dyas pushed to his feet and covered the few metres between him and the teen, then stopped at the edge of the mat and waited until the boy’s eyes fluttered open.

“Do you mind if I join you?” he asked quietly when those blue eyes fell on him, not wanting to rouse Yan yet not wanting to miss the opportunity to talk to the boy alone.

“Of course.” the padawan replied, offering Sifo-Dyas a small smile, though Sifo-Dyas could tell that he wasn’t as relaxed as he tried to seem. “And thank you for your help, earlier. With my shields.”

“It was no bother.” Sifo-Dyas returned, lowering himself to kneel on the other end of the mat. “I believe I owe you thanks as well. Whatever you and Yan did on Galidraan seems to have made the future marginally Lighter.” 

‘Marginally’ was an understatement, but Sifo-Dyas had long learned that good changes rarely lasted.

“I'm glad.” the boy replied, then tilted his head, and if not for the guileless-padawan facade the boy was affecting, Sifo-Dyas was sure he’d have narrowed his eyes. “But I don't quite understand what you intend by 'whatever' Master Dooku and I did. Everything of import that occurred on Galidraan has been detailed in our respective reports.”

“Precisely. ‘Everything of import’.” Sifo-Dyas confirmed, then shot the boy as close to an exasperated look as he dared considering the boy wasn’t actually his student. “I was not born yesterday, padawan.”

The teen was silent for a few seconds, as if weighing Sifo-Dyas’ words. Then, he sighed, and like it had never been there to begin with, that guileless mask dropped, and Sifo-Dyas found himself pinned in place by those weary, intelligent eyes that seemed to see into his very soul.

Obi-Wan smiled then, a quirk of the lips more than any real smile, small and tired and infinitely sad.

“You can just ask, Master.” he said quietly, meeting Sifo-Dyas’ gaze briefly before he looked away, and Sifo-Dyas took a shuddering breath at the brief flash-memory of that same smile on a General.

“Yan seems convinced that you mind-tricked the Mandalorian.” he murmured, forcefully pushing the vision-memory aside. “But their armour is a Force-nullifier.” 

Obi-Wan glanced at him at that, expression unreadable. “Indeed?” 

Sifo-Dyas frowned, then realised that his words lacked an actual question. “The assumption of mind-tricking implies that you were alone with the Mandalorians at some point. When?”

“Right after we landed.” Obi-Wan revealed, a pleased glint passing through his eyes, as if Sifo-Dyas had passed some sort of test. “I asked Master Dooku to let me go into the city to see what I could find.”

“I struggle to believe he allowed it outright.” Sifo-Dyas rebutted, more than familiar with Yan’s protective streak when it came to those he’d claimed as his.

“I argued my case well.” Obi-Wan replied, shooting Sifo-Dyas a quicksilver smile as if sharing an inside joke.

“I don’t doubt that.” Sifo-Dyas agreed easily, the word Negotiator on the tip of his tongue, though he didn't quite know why. The teen blinked, seemingly surprised by the acquiesce. “What did you find?”

“Nothing that indicated mass-murder of civilians.” Obi-Wan said lightly, and if someone had been passing by they might’ve assumed he was talking about the weather for how airy his tone was.

Sifo-Dyas studied the boy for a beat, then felt his eyes widen as realisation dawned.

“The psychometrists.” he breathed, remembering the other part of Yan’s report that had been used to justify the Jedi not immediately engaging with the True Mandalorians. “Your idea?”

“The word of a lone padawan is worth only as much as an individual’s opinion of that padawan.” Obi-Wan murmured sagely, then ducked his head, hiding his eyes behind his fringe. “But the gift of psychometry is respected.”

(Oh, did Sifo-Dyas know that.)

“I’m assuming you found the Mandalorian on that same outing.” Sifo-Dyas guessed, his tone drier than he’d intended, but the boy’s answer was neither a denial nor a confirmation, and Sifo-Dyas had never had much patience for that sort of politicking.

Obi-Wan smiled at the comment though he remained silent, and Sifo-Dyas belatedly remembered the insistence that he ask. “How did you get him to listen to you?” 

The teen looked up then, pushing his fringe out of his eyes, and though there was a wry smile playing around the corners of his mouth, his expression was otherwise completely serious as he revealed: “I let him hold me at knife-point throughout our conversation and showed him the report the Governor sent to the Senate.”

Sifo-Dyas blinked. Then, he stared.

“Yan doesn’t suffer fools, so I know you cannot be that naïve.” he declared, sharper than he’d intended, but the image of Yan’s padawan allowing a Mandalorian to hold a blade to his throat simply to ensure that the Jedi wouldn’t massacre their people-

Sifo-Dyas released a breath and pulled himself together. “But I would be remiss if I didn’t tell you that even Jedi are not invincible. What you did- luck doesn’t even begin to cover it.”

“Luck had nothing to do with it, Master Dyas.” Obi-Wan denied quietly, and Sifo-Dyas was too taken aback by the gravitas of the boy’s words to correct the misnomer. “Children are respected in Mandalorian culture; their safety and wellbeing paramount. No follower of the Supercommando Codex would lay the first blow on a child, even a Jedi child.”

Sifo-Dyas watched the teen for a few seconds, a small smile quirking his lips as he recalled the padawan’s oral report.

“’I find Mandalorian culture fascinating’.” He quoted, getting a there-and-gone smile from Obi-Wan in confirmation.

Sifo-Dyas hadn't been honest with the boy; he'd known what the missing piece in the report was even before he'd sat down. He closed his eyes, the full implications of what the missing piece meant finally sinking in.

Count-!

I dreamt of- of Galidraan. Of what would have happened if we had- if we had failed.

“You knew what would happen.” he told Obi-Wan, keeping his eyes closed even as he heard Obi-Wan's breath catch, his words a statement not a question. “Everything else- your familiarity with the culture, with the sects, your searches in the Archives- it was so nobody would question the how.”

He opened his eyes, certain of himself in a way he rarely felt anymore, and met the padawan’s gaze.

It was like looking in the mirror.

Obi-Wan held the eye-contact for a few seconds, that half-determined, half-resigned expression bringing back memories of Sifo-Dyas’ own helpless frustrations whenever his warnings went unheeded, then he sighed.

When he spoke, his voice was soft, quiet, measured, yet his words struck Sifo-Dyas like a physical blow: “How often are you believed outright?”

Sifo-Dyas flinched.

Obi-Wan smiled humourlessly, as if the reaction was all the confirmation he’d needed.

Then, he stilled. Between one blink and the next, the world-weary Seer was suddenly gone, and the bright-eyed, fourteen-year-old padawan was back in his place as if he'd never left.

“Good morning, Master Dooku.” the boy greeted as he turned towards the sofa, the sudden lightness to his voice making Sifo-Dyas twitch, though the padawan didn’t so much as glance his way. “Would you care for some tea?”

“Good morning, Obi-Wan, Sifo-Dyas.” Yan returned, voice gravelly with sleep, and Sifo-Dyas was too disturbed to be amused by the fact that, even after fifty, Yan still wasn’t a morning person. “And yes to the tea, padawan.”

“Master Dyas?” the boy inquired, rising to his feet gracefully, though he paused before heading to the kitchenette and glanced at Sifo-Dyas in consternation. “...It’s hyphenated, isn’t it?”

“It is.” Sifo-Dyas confirmed quietly, trying for a smile to ease the padawan’s sudden distress, though he wasn’t certain how successful he was. “It’s an easy mistake to make, padawan. Don’t worry.”

“I apologise nonetheless.” the teen returned, inclining his head in apology, though Sifo-Dyas was still recovering from the whiplash at the change in the padawan’s demeanour once he’d realised that Yan was awake. “Would you also like some tea, Master?”

“There should still be some of that Alderaanian blend that you like.” Yan rumbled from the sofa, and the fond smile that pulled at Sifo-Dyas' lips was far more genuine than the one he'd tried to direct at the padawan.

“Then yes, please.” he addressed Obi-Wan, still smiling, then pushed to his feet once the boy nodded.

While the padawan headed for the kitchenette, Sifo-Dyas made his way to the sofa, settling heavily next to Yan and leaning his head lightly against his friend’s shoulder, trying to wrap his head around the events of the last few minutes. He wasn’t prepared for the hand that rose and pulled his hairband out, and as his hair cascaded around his shoulders, the tension headache he’d had since waking up eased ever so slightly, though it did little to settle his mind.

Still, he sent a curl of gratitude towards Yan, getting a brush of warmth in return before Yan pulled his Force presence behind his shields and straightened, prompting Sifo-Dyas to lift his head as well, no matter how much he would’ve liked to hide away some more.

“Easy night?” Yan inquired quietly, dark eyes sizing Sifo-Dyas up and practically daring him to lie.

“As easy as falling asleep on the sofa at our age can be.” Sifo-Dyas grouched in return, having nothing to hide for once.

There was a sound almost like a snort, but when Sifo-Dyas glanced up, the padawan’s expression was perfectly composed as he set their teacups on the little table by the sofa before grabbing his own and heading for the pouf to Yan’s left.

“Padawan.” Yan called after a few minutes, breaking the comfortable silence that had settled around the room. “I am going to make some assumptions, and I want you to answer yes or no only. Understood?”

“Yes, Master.” the boy replied, though the ease that had been in his posture while he’d sipped on his tea had vanished.

“When you emerged from your room, your shields were tattered, but holding.” Yan began, and Sifo-Dyas had an unfortunate suspicion where his friend was heading with this. “This wasn’t the first time you’ve had a nightmare like this, was it?”

The padawan was silent for a few seconds, then he sighed. “...No, Master.”

“Did Qui-Gon know about them?” Yan pressed, and the boy winced, though he seemed to know better than to lie.

“...Yes.”

“Did the crèchemasters?”

“Yes.” he repeated, and he was visibly tense now, as if scared of where Yan was going with his line of questioning.

Then, Yan sighed, and at a poke from Sifo-Dyas, released the mass of anger-frustration-indignation into the Force. The boy twitched at the echo, glancing between Yan and Sifo-Dyas in confusion, clearly not understanding the reason for Yan’s reaction.

“Sifo-Dyas is a Seer, Obi-Wan, and one of my dearest friends.” Yan announced, meeting his padawan’s gaze evenly and politely ignoring the way Sifo-Dyas gaped at him.

“I am sorry that you’ve been made to feel like you cannot share the burden of your nightmares with others, but that changes now.” Yan continued, and now his padawan was also gaping openly. “If you do not feel comfortable speaking with me or a Mind Healer about your nightmares, I would request that you speak with him. But do not hide and pretend to be fine.”

For a moment, everything was still.

Then Obi-Wan smiled, small and tremulous, and lowered his shields. Sifo-Dyas closed his eyes at the wave of gratitude the boy released, then smiled as he felt what lay beneath.

(Of course the future seemed Lighter – Yan Dooku, the lynchpin to so many of the Darkest futures, was bonded to the living embodiment of the Light.)

Chapter Text

Even though he knew better, Sifo-Dyas stayed.

He stayed when Yan got up to make them breakfast. He stayed when Obi-Wan went to his room to prepare for a day of padawan classes. He stayed when Yan muttered something about a shower and a change of clothes. And most importantly, he stayed even once Obi-Wan had left for the day, all the arguments he’d been using to convince himself to keep his distance from Yan crumbling into dust at the first brush of the other’s mind against his own after months.

Of course, the moment his muscles finally let go of the last of their tension was when Yan decided to speak.

“I assume whatever you Saw that had you avoiding me has since changed?” his friend asked, and Sifo-Dyas winced, his hard-won peace broken by flashes of red ‘sabres and lightning, and for just a moment, he hated the fact that Yan knew him so well.

“Meditate with me.” Sifo-Dyas ordered instead of answering, rising to his feet and extending a hand to Yan, who eyed it suspiciously.

“I’d rather talk.” Yan returned predictably, his words almost a drawl, his clear distaste for meditation bringing a fond smile to Sifo-Dyas’ lips.

Luckily, ‘wrangling Yan’ was an area he had plenty experience in.

“We can talk later.” he argued, wiggling his fingers. “Come.”

Like he’d expected, Yan caved within seconds, though he ignored the extended hand and headed to the mat like it had been his idea, but Sifo-Dyas was hardly going to complain.

“Smugness doesn’t become you.” Yan huffed once he’d settled, his posture annoyingly perfect as always, and Sifo-Dyas rolled his eyes even as he sank to his knees on the other end of the mat.

“Shush.” he shot back, reaching out and prodding at the indignation that predictably flared up at the retort and grinning smugly when Yan immediately obeyed.

Yet, despite the light-hearted words he’d wrapped the invitation in and the childish teasing, Sifo-Dyas would be lying if he said he didn’t have ulterior motives for getting the other to meditate with him.

Yan moved fast, meditation practically antonymous to his very nature. Yet even someone like Yan Dooku could benefit from the sort of quiet introspection that meditation could grant, no matter how much he might grumble about it in private.

It also helped that Sifo-Dyas could prod at his friend’s lingering negative emotions like they were stubborn muscle knots, feeling Yan’s Force-presence Lighten with every one they released.

When Sifo-Dyas pulled himself back into his body an indeterminable amount of time later, Yan was already looking at him, the line of his shoulders visibly looser, the corners of his eyes less pinched.

“Galidraan weighs on you.” Sifo-Dyas observed neutrally after a few seconds of silence, luxuriating in the peaceful thrum of the Force between them.

“It should never have happened.” Yan sighed, giving up on the perfect posture he’d been meditating with to lean forward and rest his elbows on his knees. “The information about the different sects is in the Archives. It shouldn’t have fallen on a padawan to pick out the discrepancy.”

Privately, Sifo-Dyas agreed, but he knew better than to say so out-loud. Yan didn’t need an echo chamber just then; he needed to be reminded that his duty of care to his padawan took priority over his grievances with the Council, the Senate, or the missions the Jedi had been getting assigned of late.

And there was only one way to do that.

“What else?” Sifo-Dyas pressed, and perhaps it was manipulative of him to have waited until Yan was centred and relaxed to have this conversation, but this was too important to risk Yan’s pride getting in the way.

“Obi-Wan’s report.” Yan murmured, hand rising to his beard thoughtfully. “There is something I am missing, but I know he did not lie to me.”

Sifo-Dyas mentally apologised to Obi-Wan then smiled wryly.

“He may not have had to.” he told Yan quietly, holding eye-contact when Yan’s gaze jumped to his at the remark. “He’s a lot like you in that regard.”

Sifo-Dyas had no doubt that Yan’s padawan had given him a bare-bones report and counted on Yan’s own biases and experiences to fill in the blanks; it had been Yan’s own strategy of choice whenever they had been caught doing something they shouldn’t have been when they were younger.

“What did you talk about?” Yan inquired, catching on to what Sifo-Dyas wasn’t saying with the ease of long familiarity.

“I asked him if he’d mind-tricked the Mandalorian.” Sifo-Dyas revealed easily, and Yan’s raised eyebrow was loud enough to make him snort.

“Their armour is a Force-nullifier, and they don’t take their helmets off for strangers.” he said, serious once more, holding Yan’s gaze to drive his point home. “He couldn’t have.”

For a moment, Yan held the eye-contact, then sighed and got up to pace.

“Fett’s second-in-command went against him to keep him from attacking.” Yan revealed after the first lap of the room, and Sifo-Dyas shifted from his knees to sit with his legs stretched out in front of him, knowing from experience that they could be there a while. “My padawan is charismatic, but I did not think him capable of swaying a Mandalorian to such an extent without a mind-trick.”

“You filled in the blanks.” Sifo-Dyas agreed, no judgement in his voice, and Yan eyed him briefly but did not disagree.

“There is something else I am missing.” Yan muttered after a few more minutes of pacing, and Sifo-Dyas briefly considered taking mercy on his friend before the man stilled suddenly.

“The nightmare.” Yan breathed, turning to Sifo-Dyas with an expression like he’d been struck. “It wasn’t a nightmare, was it?”

“What makes you say that?” Sifo-Dyas checked innocently, the one valiant attempt he was willing to make to keep the padawan’s confidence.

“I know the crèchemasters are not cruel, nor negligent. They would not withhold comfort from a child plagued by nightmares.” Yan explained, and the surety of his declaration soothed a part of Sifo-Dyas he hadn’t even realised had been upset. “But one plagued by visions? Particularly if my old Master had known about them? The shielding, the frequent meditation, Qui-Gon- they make far more sense if Obi-Wan’s nightmares are visions.”

“They may be.” Sifo-Dyas agreed neutrally, but Yan must’ve caught something in his voice for his gaze snapped to Sifo-Dyas, eyebrows furrowed in a frown as his eyes searched Sifo-Dyas’ face.

“You knew.” he accused, his words too flat to be a question.

“Suspected.” Sifo-Dyas corrected, Yan’s padawan sharing Yan’s ability to say a lot without really saying anything meaningful, not to mention that the word ‘visions’ had never actually left the boy’s mouth.

“How?” Yan asked, the word sounding almost accusative.

“We first met in the Room of a Thousand Fountains.” Sifo-Dyas revealed, hoping Yan wouldn’t hold his silence on the matter against him. “Your padawan admitted to-”

“-using the organic matter to centre himself.” Yan finished for him, his expression smoothing out as he seemed to realise something.

“...Yes.” Sifo-Dyas confirmed hesitantly, eyes intent on Yan’s reaction.

“It is how I first met him.” Yan explained, and though his face was still expressionless, his Force signature was agitated. “I thought it was a result of his experience on Melidaan.”

“You couldn’t have known, Doo.” Sifo-Dyas sighed, trying to make his words sound like statement instead of an attempt at comfort, but to no avail.

“Don’t placate me.” Yan scowled, though he seemed to be more irritated with himself than Sifo-Dyas. “My padawan doesn’t fear being held at knife-point by a Mandalorian, but he feared me when he first laid eyes on me.”

Yan turned, resuming his frustrated pacing, and though the words continued falling from his mouth, he didn’t seem to be talking to Sifo-Dyas anymore. “You can’t even look at me sometimes after your visions and you’ve known me our whole lives. Of course a padawan-!”

“You cannot change the past, don’t self-flagellate too much.” Sifo-Dyas interrupted flatly, pulling his legs towards himself so he could wrap his arms around his knees while he tried to hide how much the remark had hurt. “Focus on what you can do moving forward.”

Yan finally stilled, but Sifo-Dyas refused to look up from the mat, you can't even look at me sometimes echoing in his mind.

He flinched when Yan was suddenly there, reclaiming his position on the other end of the mat and releasing a cloud of negative emotions into the Force along with his exhale.

“I apologise for my outburst.” Yan murmured after a few seconds, bowing his head, as if having forgotten that Sifo-Dyas had never been able to stay upset with him for long.

“Thank you.” Sifo-Dyas returned just as quietly, then set to redirecting Yan’s attention back to the matter at hand. “What will you do moving forward?”

“If we assume that Obi-Wan's actions on Galidraan were a result of what he Saw, then his visions seem more actionable than yours, which makes the grounding techniques we used useless.” Yan began to list, eyebrows furrowed in a frown.

“Some of them. Not all.” Sifo-Dyas corrected quietly, though he didn't bother clarifying further. “What else?”

“He has been having them for years.” Yan continued, his voice hard, his Force presence growing increasingly frustrated, spiking when he added, “Yet there is no record of them in his file.”

“Pull in a favour or two with Jo before you go pointing fingers.” Sifo-Dyas advised tiredly, the sudden wave of exhaustion that hit him making him glad he was already sitting down. His words had the desired effect of snapping Yan out of his head, however, and Sifo-Dyas managed a wry smile when their gazes met, unable to resist adding a teasing; “Where did your politician’s brain go, hm?”

“...Thank you for the reminder.” Yan acknowledged after a beat, a hint of a smile also pulling at his lips before he grew serious once more. “Will you help me with him?”

Sifo-Dyas blinked, startled by the non-sequitur.

“I have never had a padawan.” he felt the need to point out, no matter that Yan would know that better than most.

“You helped me with Rael and Qui-Gon.” Yan returned, raising an eyebrow as if he thought that Sifo-Dyas had forgotten.

“Rael helped Qui-Gon far more than I ever did.” Sifo-Dyas corrected, because Yan had been young when he’d taken Rael. So young, in fact, that most of the ‘helping’ Sifo-Dyas had done had not been for Rael's sake, but more so revolved around getting his friend to remember that he was not Master Yoda and could afford to have fun once in a while.

He’d tried to be more of a help with Qui-Gon, but Qui-Gon’s padawanship had unfortunately coincided with Sifo-Dyas’ visions taking a turn for worse. So while he had felt ashamed to admit it back then, now he could freely say that his drive to help Yan with his second padawan had stemmed more from the guilt Sifo-Dyas had felt at infringing on Yan’s time and space than any true desire to teach.

So to actually be asked...

“It seems both you and Obi-Wan will benefit from working on your self-esteem.” Yan remarked, his other eyebrow rising, though his eyes were warm. “You are my oldest friend, I value your perspective, and you can help Obi-Wan in ways I cannot. Need I continue?”

For a moment, Sifo-Dyas wasn't quite sure how to react. Then, he smiled fondly, loosening his hold on his legs so he could lean forward and poke Yan’s shin with a finger.

“You’ve grown soft in your old age.” he teased, arranging himself so he mirrored Yan’s cross-legged pose and biting back an exasperated huff when he noticed that the other still seemed to be waiting for his response. “Yes, Doo, I will help.”

Sifo-Dyas wasn’t prepared for Yan to suddenly scowl at the words, though the reason revealed itself almost immediately when he grumbled: “I tolerated that infernal nickname once already. Do not test me.”

Struck momentarily speechless by the words and the endearing dusting of pink across that regal nose, Sifo-Dyas could only stare for a few seconds. 

Then, for the first time in weeks, Sifo-Dyas laughed.

Chapter Text

Fire and lava and the stench of sulphur- anger-grief-pain- I hate you-! two blue lightsabres drawn not to spar but to burn-destroy-kill-! two complementary halves of a single warrior, an asset for so many years yet a curse now - grief so potent it was choking him , tears stinging his eyes more than the heat ever could , betrayal-heartbreak-disappointment- I loved you-!

Sifo-Dyas awoke with a gasp.

He sat up, his blankets tangled around him, his sleep shirt stuck to his back with sweat, his chest heaving with desperate breaths.

For all that Sifo-Dyas was no stranger to visions and nightmares, they never failed to unsettle him.

Frowning, he meandered over to the ‘fresher, dropping his sweat-soaked nightshirt onto the floor as he went and dunking his head under the cold spray as soon as the door sealed behind him.

The vision had felt different. He couldn’t quite put his finger on where the difference lay, but the cold shower had granted him enough clarity to realise something else; the Force wanted him to leave his quarters.

To go where? Sifo-Dyas couldn’t say.

But the gentle tugging was a welcome reprieve from the usual havoc that the Force liked to wreak on her prophet, so Sifo-Dyas would oblige it.

Decision made, Sifo-Dyas dried his hair, donned a clean robe, picked up his nightshirt off the floor and threw it into the hamper, then headed out of the door, only realising he’d forgotten his shoes when his feet made contact with the cold stone floor.

But the cold was good; less chance of getting lost in his own head with the reminder of the here-and-now.

For a while, Sifo-Dyas simply wandered the corridors and let himself enjoy the peaceful hum of the Temple at night, taking comfort in the familiar walls and memory-filled halls.

Then, a slightly stronger tug made him turn towards the door to the salles, his absentminded musings cut off by the sound of feet striking tile.

Sifo-Dyas moved closer to the door, curious despite himself, and sighed at what he found.

Yan’s padawan was in the room, cycling through katas like it was moving meditation, navigating through the movements for each of the Forms with the ease of long practise.

The boy was sweating heavily, a sure sign of having been in the salles for a while, and Sifo-Dyas had the sinking suspicion that the vision that had woken him hadn’t been his.

For a moment, Sifo-Dyas considered simply walking away. But, much like the first time they’d met, the fact that the boy was Yan’s stopped him from taking the coward’s way out.

“Padawan.” Sifo-Dyas called quietly, hoping the interruption was subtle enough to not startle.

No such luck.

Obi-Wan jerked and whirled around, his body falling into the opening stance of Soresu before his eyes even landed on Sifo-Dyas.

“...Master Sifo-Dyas.” he greeted after a beat, then seemed to realise his position and lowered his ‘sabre, switching it off. “My apologies.”

“No need.” Sifo-Dyas dismissed, taking a closer look at the boy’s countenance now that he had stilled and growing more confident by the minute that the nightmare he had woken from had been Obi-Wan’s.

“...Did you need something, Master?” Obi-Wan asked after a few seconds of silence, and Sifo-Dyas felt his eyebrow rise incredulously at the question.

“Just stretching my legs.” He replied glibly, and Obi-Wan winced, clearly chagrined by his unintentional rudeness. Sifo-Dyas took a breath and let it out slowly, reminding himself that he was the Master and that Obi-Wan had done nothing to deserve his sarcasm.

Feeling marginally steadier, he tried for a smile and let himself give voice to the concern he felt.

“While I understand the temptation, exhausting yourself so you sleep through the night is not a sustainable coping mechanism.” He felt his smile grow a little wry, meeting the boy’s gaze when he added, “Trust me.”

Yet, instead of capitulating, Obi-Wan frowned, crossing his arms over his chest.

(Between one blink and the next, the General stood proud over the padawan’s shoulder, his back straight, his arms crossed over his armoured chest, and a frown marring his wearied face.

With the ghost of a future-past behind him, Obi-Wan looked both haunted and haunting; he was simultaneously the padawan Sifo-Dyas knew, with his tired eyes and too-severe frown and a face still lined with baby-fat, and the General Sifo-Dyas had Seen, with the same tired eyes and the same frown and his face streaked with blood and soot.

Sifo-Dyas blinked again and the mirage shattered.)

“It’s not to exhaust myself.” Obi-Wan murmured, turning to face Sifo-Dyas properly. “It’s so that I am prepared.”

Sifo-Dyas closed his eyes briefly, his despair momentarily overwhelming, then opened them with a sigh and forced himself to ask the dreaded; “Prepared for what?”

But Obi-Wan just smiled wryly, looking at Sifo-Dyas with eyes that saw far too much.

“I have been reliably informed that I will not always be able to talk my way out of a conflict. It seems prudent to prepare for that eventuality.” He replied, and Sifo-Dyas knew that he had just been served the Negotiator’s answer, not the real reason. Seemingly catching his flicker of frustration, Obi-Wan huffed a quiet laugh, tired eyes glittering with mirth as he reminded, “Ask, Master.”

“You are not preparing for a simple skirmish.” Sifo-Dyas accused, belatedly remembering to add a question, “Are you?”

“No, I am not.” Obi-Wan admitted surprisingly easily, and his wry smile faded into something far more resigned. “But I am but one padawan. Short of putting a suit of armour around the whole galaxy, this is all I can do.”

Sifo-Dyas flinched, unlived memories of white plastoid flashing through his mind, though all Obi-Wan did was eye him thoughtfully, a calculating glint in his eyes.

“So you have Seen it.” He mused.

For a moment, Sifo-Dyas felt a wave of hot anger and indignation wash through him. Then, he let it go.

“Next time, you can also just ask.” He pointed out instead, not quite able to bite back the bitterness.

“My apologies, Master.” Obi-Wan sighed, looking genuinely contrite. “I forget that I am not...alone.”

(Theirs was the first case in recorded history with two Seers in the Temple at the same time. Sifo-Dyas knew this; he’d checked, and he has not forgotten the fact since.)

((The ecstasy of not being alone anymore was better than any drug that ever did or would exist.))

“Here is my proposition,” Sifo-Dyas began quietly, meeting Obi-Wan’s gaze steadily, “I will spar with you. Once the spar reaches its end, you will return to your quarters and try to sleep, and I will return to mine.”

He smiled then, knowing from the intrigued glint in the padawan’s eyes that he was on the right track.

“If you accept these terms, I will not tell Yan about anything we discuss tonight.” He continued, feeling Obi-Wan’s attention sharpen. “Your choice, padawan.”

Like Sifo-Dyas had expected, he’d hardly finished speaking by the time Obi-Wan was announcing his acceptance.

“You favour Soresu.” Obi-Wan observed after a good quarter of an hour had passed, his form never faltering even when his arms began to tremble.

“So do you.” Sifo-Dyas returned neutrally, because it was one thing to hear from Yan about the fourteen-year-old with a better developed Form than most Knights, and another thing entirely to experience it first-hand.

“We are protectors, not warriors.” Obi-Wan huffed, eyebrows furrowed and his Force signature blazing with his conviction. “We gave up our armies and abandoned our armour with the Ruusan Reformations.”

“Yet you are practising Ataru.” Sifo-Dyas countered, pointing out the odd blend of the padawan’s Soresu with the far more aggressive Form and earning himself a dry look for the remark.

“’The Jedi ideals are noble, but they are ideals nonetheless. Not everyone shares them’.” Obi-Wan quoted, and Sifo-Dyas could hear Yan in the words even before the padawan added; “Master Dooku told me that before he ever took me on as a padawan.”

“’If you want peace, prepare for war’.” Sifo-Dyas huffed, the words of the old maxim dripping with disdain even as he spoke them, but Obi-Wan just smiled sadly.

“Quite.” He agreed, and Sifo-Dyas sighed, ducking under another wide-arching swing and raising his ‘sabre before he even fully straightened to block Obi-Wan's attempt to redirect the strike and capitalise on the split-second when Sifo-Dyas' back was unprotected.

“I have been told that the Force is neither fair nor unfair, it simply is.” He mused sadly as he turned so that he was side-on to the padawan once more, his free hand brushing over his chest to check on a youngling that wasn’t there, the motion as ingrained as the exact angle at which to hold his ‘sabre for the most stable block. “Yet I must admit to finding it unfair that it has robbed you of your childhood. You should not be so shrewd so young.”

Sifo-Dyas himself had been a padawan when he’d gone on the mission that had forever altered his path in life, but he had been older, almost twenty at the time. The bone-deep grief, old guilt, and quiet wisdom that usually hid behind durasteel shields should not look at-home on the face of a barely-teenaged padawan.

“Not everyone finds comfort in the dogma.” Obi-Wan acknowledged sagely, smoothly switching the two-handed grip for a graceful Makashi twist that Sifo-Dyas had seen a hundred times over the years, disengaging with a humourless quirk to his lips.

“But you needn’t worry about me, Master.” The padawan murmured, falling back into his own stance as he seemed to contemplate his next move, his next words slipping out almost as an afterthought, still with that same enigmatic smile: “Even when I had nothing, I had the Force.”

Sifo-Dyas blinked.

(Not the General this time but the Hermit stood hunched over the boy’s shoulder, his face clean but lined with age and grief. Still Light, always Light, but jaded in the way the General wasn’t, and resigned in the way the padawan refused to be.

Sifo-Dyas blinked again, harder this time, but the Hermit lingered, as if daring Sifo-Dyas to look closer.

Though the man’s outfit still resembled the Jedi robes, the cloth was old and worn, with signs of having been frequently mended, as if he had not been able to get them replaced. Sifo-Dyas’ heart skipped a beat at the thought, and he stood frozen as the Hermit slowly raised his head and seemed to look right at him, a small, humourless smile playing around his lips, his eyes dulled by grief and pain and-

“And you, Master? What does your heart tell you you’re meant for?”

“Infinite sadness-”)

“-Master Sifo-Dyas!”

Sifo-Dyas stumbled, his training sabre falling from his slack fingers, his heart beating so fast it felt like it would leap out of his chest. He trembled, his legs suddenly feeling too weak to hold him, instinct moving his body to brace for the fall, for the pain of the hard parquet against his eternally knobbly knees-

-except it never came.

An intangible hand wrapped around his body and lowered him gently to the ground instead, then retreated as suddenly as it had appeared.

For a moment, Sifo-Dyas just breathed, blinking his eyes rapidly to clear the lingering ghosts from his vision. He dug his nails into the meat of his palm, a habit he had not had need for in years, then finally forced himself to look up.

The Hermit and the General were gone, leaving only Yan’s padawan behind, and the boy was looking at Sifo-Dyas with clear concern, his ‘sabre low to the ground (but still on-!) and his hand still outstretched tellingly.

If Sifo-Dyas were a better Jedi, he would chastise the padawan for his frivolous use of the Force.

If Sifo-Dyas were a better Master, he would apologise.

But Sifo-Dyas was just a man.

“Thank you.” He murmured, smiling tremulously up at Obi-Wan, but the boy’s concerned frown only grew.

“Do you need to go to the Halls?” He asked tightly, slowly lowering his hand and switching off his ‘sabre, his shields back up and impenetrable once more.

“No, no, nothing so serious.” Sifo-Dyas dismissed, though the words didn’t sound as convincing as he’d wished. “I just felt a sudden kinship with Master Windu.”

Obi-Wan took a careful step forward and sank to his knees as well, watching Sifo-Dyas silently.

Then, after a few seconds of deliberation, the boy’s mind brushed against his, a question, a comfort, and a request wrapped in the single, wordless touch. Sifo-Dyas gave his assent, and, a moment later, felt the careful way the padawan set to strengthening his tattered shields, plugging the gaps the ghosts had wrought and encouraging Sifo-Dyas’ usual defences back up with the ease of habit he should not have yet.

“You are much better at hiding yourself around Yan.” Sifo-Dyas murmured once the process was complete and the padawan had withdrawn, the sudden lethargy in the face of the silence in his head loosening his tongue.

“Master Dooku is kind, but to him, I am just a child.” Obi-Wan replied, a non-sequitur at first glance, if not for the shrewd blue eyes that pierced into him right after. “But you see more, don’t you, Master?”

(He always has, he always will, more-not enough-too much-!)

“Yan is kind.” Sifo-Dyas agreed, the one thing he could say for certain while he got his thoughts in order. “And I would remind you that whatever future of his you have Seen, it is but one possibility.”

Then, he smiled wryly, and met that shrewd, too observant gaze with his own. “The future is always in motion, after all.”

“...It is.” Obi-Wan confirmed, mirroring his smile for the briefest of seconds before he grew serious once more and pulled back, both physically and in the Force, a frown creasing his brows. “I had not realised I was being unfair. Thank you for brining it to my attention.”

Sifo-Dyas had not meant it as a reprimand, so he tried to soften the words in the only way he knew how: with brutal honesty.

“I can understand wanting to protect yourself, just as I can understand wanting to protect him.” He admitted, more than aware of his own struggles in this regard. “But Yan has always been the most balanced when allowed the anchor of a bond.”

Obi-Wan hummed, thoughtful now instead of concerned, and he seemed almost chagrined when he replied: “I understand that, but- there are things I do not want him to see.”

Sifo-Dyas closed his eyes for a moment, the parallels briefly overwhelming.

“We were bonded throughout my years as a Knight.” He revealed, keeping his eyes closed so he did not see Obi-Wan’s reaction to the admission. “He never once used it to see what I Saw.”

For a few seconds, there was only silence. Then- “I wasn’t aware that was allowed.”

Despite himself, Sifo-Dyas snorted, opening his eyes once more and meeting the padawan’s gaze with his own tired one. “It’s not common, but between my need for an anchor, my own Master’s guilt, and Master Yoda’s worries for Yan’s predisposition for both sides of the Force, we got away with it.”

He could practically taste Obi-Wan’s curiosity, and the sensation brought a small genuine smile to his lips. “A story for another time, padawan.”

Obi-Wan huffed, but conceded with grace, though Sifo-Dyas had no doubt that he would be asked for the story at some point.

“I hope you forgive mind my directness, but if you also benefit from being bonded, why not take a padawan?” Obi-Wan asked instead, and Sifo-Dyas winced.

He should’ve expected this question: the boy was Yan’s, after all – not much slipped past him.

“I am not allowed.” He said bluntly, and the admission almost didn’t hurt anymore. “It would be cruel to expose a padawan to the Force as I perceive it, not to mention the visions themselves.”

Obi-Wan winced, clearly recalling the brief moment he’d personally experienced Sifo-Dyas’ connection to the Force, but then the thoughtful frown was back, and he tilted his head.

“And if the padawan already had sufficiently developed shielding to avoid being affected?”

Sifo-Dyas blinked, briefly taken aback, because- surely not-?

“I would still caution them against it, and remind them to consider their own wellbeing before that of others.” He replied slowly, enunciating each word carefully, eyes intent on the boy’s reaction.

But Obi-Wan only hummed, watching Sifo-Dyas as intently as Sifo-Dyas watched him. Then, he smiled, small and secretive and scheming, but all he said, voice as bland as if he were talking about the weather, was: “What makes you think I’m not?”

Then, he rolled to his feet with enviable grace and bent to pick up Sifo-Dyas’ discarded traing sabre, moving to return them both to the weapons’ chest.

“I thank you for the spar, Master.” Obi-Wan said as he returned, inclining his head politely and running his hand through his sweaty bangs. “I shall retire to my quarters as per your terms and try to sleep. I wish you a restful rest of your night.”

For a moment, Sifo-Dyas could only blink mutely, returning the bow out of reflex more than conscious choice. “...And I, you, padawan.”

(And as he watched the boy’s retreating back, the padawan walking alone once more, Sifo-Dyas had the dawning realisation that he truly was a selfish creature at his core.

He knew that he did not know enough about the potential repercussions to make an educated choice, yet he already knew what he was going to say should the boy ever ask.)

((Theirs was the first case in recorded history with two Seers in the Temple at the same time. That, already, was enough to spark concern.

But two Seers who Saw the same things?

Two Seers bonded to each other?

Together, in an echo chamber of their own making, Sifo-Dyas knew that him and Obi-Wan could either save the galaxy from the futures they have Seen-

-or doom it.))