Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

A being chosen by the Force will come to lend aid to the Jedi Order when times grow dark. One with the vision to see, the power to bear, and the light to spare the galaxy. This being will choose a twin soul in the Force, and if that being so agrees, a powerful bond will form—a dyad to protect the Chosen One from harm.

~ Ahch-To Mystics (d. Approximately 25,000 years ago)

Obi-Wan Kenobi’s screams shatter glass.

The scary pictures in his head won’t stop. They won’t stop. His eyes throb, and his insides feel weird, and the smell of his earlier sick makes him want to be sick again.

Hurts hurts hurts his head hurts.

He can’t make the scary pictures go away. He can never make them go away. This one has been coming and going and coming and going forever. He doesn’t remember sleeping. Things keep going blurry. He wet himself, and it’s gross, and—

The scary pictures drown him like an inescapable tide, and he can’t see the world anymore. Only the pictures. Blood runs across the ground in those pictures like ... like a spiderweb. Someone screams. He doesn’t know who, but that man in the black cloak with the yellow eyes makes whoever it is bleed again with the squelch of a glinting black knife. The man licks scarlet from his fingers. Another man in green robes comes up. He’s yelling. Obi-Wan can’t … his face swirls.

He is not a creature to be defiled like this! He is the link. Not a sacrifice.

Hush, apprentice. He will live until we no longer need him. Draw his screams unto yourself. Feast on them as I do and let It give you power.

“Be quiet, you wicked thing! You’ve broken the screen of my holocaster!”

The mean lady who stays with him slaps him in the face, and the scary picture goes away again. Sometimes, she sprinkles water on him when he cries too much. That water makes his skin tingle and burn.

It hurts it hurts it hurts.

The door opens, and the sounds of the Stewjoni sea reach him. He’s always liked the water. The water is his only friend aside from the animals he comes across.

Boots crunch on the shards of glass spilled on the floor. One of the guards curses in Stewjoni. Obi-Wan knows the word.

Force-devil.

His Papa follows the guards inside. He’s been here more because Obi-Wan's hasn’t been sleeping. He can’t stop screaming and seeing and crying.

Shut your cursed mouth, his Papa exclaimed last night. What did I do to earn such an unholy son?

Obi-Wan tries to be good. He tries he tries he tries.

“Take him,” his Papa says, low voice booming out. “Then go out the back way that I indicated. No one is to see him. Am I understood? My guards will escort you.”

His Papa is ... he’s telling these strangers to take him? His Papa hates him. He didn’t always. More tears spill down Obi-Wan’s cheeks. He didn’t mean to be bad.

A green-skinned woman with black markings that Obi-Wan doesn’t know says something he can’t hear. There's too much screaming. Too much crying. Too much blood. Where is she from? He’s never seen anyone like her.

Another man comes up to him, and Obi-Wan looks out from between his fingers as the scary pictures fade a little bit more. This man has smooth, warm-dark skin and curly, short black hair.

“Hello, little one,” the man says as he crouches down in front of the chair Obi-Wan's curled up in. “My name is Mace, and I’m a Jedi. Would you mind if I picked you up? We’re going to take you to a new place that I think you’ll like. Does that sound all right?”

A Jedi. Everyone says the Jedi are evil, but the Force shines around Mace. That must mean he can’t be evil. The Force is Obi-Wan’s friend and wouldn’t lie to him.

Part of Obi-Wan is scared. He only knows Stewjon. He likes the sea and playing with the wild dogs that live nearby.

His Papa hates him.

His Mama never comes now. She used to. She had his eyes, and they looked sad. Then his Papa said she couldn’t come anymore. She’s not allowed to.

He heard the mean lady say something about him being dead, except ... well, he’s not. That’s why he’s in this house and not his house. He can’t remember much about that house. He only knows it was nicer. His Papa wore a shiny thing on his head and a velvet cape while he talked to people who knelt in front of him with baskets of fish.

Obi-Wan thinks that he was a prince, once. Not anymore.

“Can you make the scary pictures go away?” he asks.

“We’ll do our very best. I promise.”

He nods at the smiling man, who scoops him up into his arms.

The scary pictures fade a little more, but everything still hurts. He shouldn’t scream, but he can’t help it. The things he sees aren’t always bad. Sometimes he sees a grinning boy—older than him. He has yellow on his face. Brown skin. Black hair. He’s always putting out his hand on a color-blur, busy street.

Come on, Obes. We can disappear for tonight.

Obes. Is that him?

The boy always vanishes, though. Obi-Wan doesn’t know what happened to him. There’s another picture that came once, and he saw a very small boy with sandy hair, a girl with long braids, and a blue alien girl. The girl with the braids called the boy with the sandy hair Ani.

“King Kenobi,” the green-skinned woman says, and Obi-Wan thinks that her eyes are kind, “do you want to say goodbye?”

His Papa, with copper hair like his, freezes in the doorway. He glances back, and ... Obi-Wan feels a little tug like he sometimes does, in the Force. The Force makes the pictures happen. It lets him move things. The mean lady hates that.

“Take him where he’s wanted to your temple of unholy freaks,” his Papa hisses with a strange shimmer in his eyes. “He certainly isn’t wanted here.”

Obi-Wan sobs, he shouts Papa, and Mace rubs a hand up and down his back. Going with Mace is good, but he’s scared.

Stars wink at them from the big sky when they leave the hut. Obi-Wan can read some, already, so he knows the constellation names. Big ships and fishing boats sit in the distant harbor. Away from this hut. Away from him. Salt stings the air. His Papa’s guards, all dressed in light blue, gather around him and the two beings taking him away from here. Moonlight glints off their tridents. Obi-Wan's seen them catch fish with those.

One dark night, they put a man to a platform outside the nice house where Obi-Wan used to live. They cut him with it like they were gutting a fish. He screamed and he bled, and that blood seeped into the spaces between the lime-white cobblestones. The guards gutted the man again and again and let the blood drip drip drip while a crowd chanted cleanse him cleanse him cleanse him. Obi-Wan cried into his Papa’s shoulder, but he wasn’t allowed not to look.

Be good now, his Papa said, and his Mama walked away weeping. You don’t want this to happen to you. Your powers are dangerous. Unholy. You hurt the Force by using it and hurt the galaxy in turn. You make yourself unclean. You embarrass me. Our people cannot know.

That wasn’t very long ago. He came to this hut after. The men in those same light blue uniforms brought him. They slashed his hand and smeared the blood on the white-shell stairs of the old house. They took his tunics, stripped him, and forced him flat on his front. Pinned him. Beat on his back with a piece of driftwood chanting the same thing.

Cleanse him.

A priest came in, an old man that Obi-Wan knew. He closed metal bands around Obi-Wan's thighs that cut into his skin, and it hurt.

“You must be penitent, my child,” the priest said. “These will help you.”

They left him. Naked. Cold. Hungry and bleeding.

That was when the mean lady came.

The smiling man presses his forehead to Obi-Wan's. The woman with green skin puts something against his neck and says this will help you, young one. It won’t hurt.

With the stormy sea roaring in his ears, three-and-a-half-year-old Obi-Wan Kenobi, the pronounced-dead-prince-of-Stewjon, tumbles into darkness.

The Force binds all life together. To use the Force is to damage it and make yourself unclean. If a child is born with the power to wield it, that ability must be driven out of them. Physical harm to achieve this is not an unholy action. It is best for the child, the family, and the community. When a child cannot be cured, death is the only way. If this is not done, we all answer to the Force for it.

The Force will be free.

~ The Holy Book of Stewjon (d. Approx 380 years)

When the Fifth Chosen One of the Jedi Order arrives on Coruscant, the Force screams symphonies.

The electric jolt down his spine tears Jedi Knight Sheev Palpatine out of his evening meditation.

Go. He needs to ... the main hall. That’s the source of things.

Exhaustion nips at him. He only just returned from a diplomatic mission to Raxus this very afternoon. Well, diplomatic is putting too fine a point on it. It was mostly himself and Master Gallia preventing tussles between two feuding villages eager to fist fight one another. Raxus’ young senator, Avi Singh, has done quite the job riling up some citizens against the Republic while throwing around words like secession. That may happen one day, but Singh, with all his corporate connections, is not brave enough yet and hardly less corrupt, in Palpatine’s mind, than most senators who beat their chests in support of the crumbling status quo. War will come, certainly. It will take at least two decades for the spark to light. That’s how things move in the galaxy.

Slow.

Other Jedi, already ahead of him when he emerges from his quarters on the third level, speak in hushed tones. The Force flits frantic between them.

Something has happened.

When he reaches the dim-lit main hall, Sheev realizes that it wasn’t just the Force screaming.

It was a child.

Outside, a rare Coruscant storm rages, all wind-whipped rain and roaring thunder. The weather system must have demanded it or gotten out of sorts. Lightning casts the toddler’s face in clean white light.

Stringy copper hair that hasn’t been washed in some time falls into the boy’s eyes.

And ....

Oh.

That marking. That pink-red, thin-line  marking running from the middle of his nose and arcing across his right cheek. It looks a bit like a scar.

Well, perhaps the boy caused the storm.

The arrival of a Chosen One means events are afoot.

A surprise thunderstorm is the least of it.

Given that it’s dinner hour, quite a few of his fellows, on their way to one of the refectories, are also bearing witness to this unexpected drama.

"Shhh, little one." Master Yoda runs a green hand over the boy's forehead and soothes that scream. "Home, you are. Help you, we will."

Whispering winds its way through the crowd of Jedi. A familiar presence approaches Palpatine from behind—that cold silver shine he’s known since he was twelve.

“Padawan,” Dooku says as a crack of thunder goes off again. “What is all of this? I felt something strange in the Force. Pain.”

Given that Dooku has a new Padawan and has for some years—the strange Qui-Gon Jinn, now twenty-two and soon to be knighted—the term hardly applies. Palpatine delights in and disdains the old word he heard for a decade. He’s never certain if it’s a power play or not. It does mean Dooku is paying attention to him.

"A new youngling," Palpatine replies. "Plagued by a vision, it would seem, and if that marking is any indication—"

"A new chosen one," Dooku finishes with a touch of awe. "I wondered if I would even see one in my lifetime. This is quite close to the last. That was only two-hundred years ago.”

"I expect you won't see him for much of it," Palpatine remarks. "They never live past twenty."

Dooku grimaces. "Your negativity serves you ill, Sheev."

"It's a fact," Palpatine shoots back less smoothly than he likes. "The first committed suicide at eighteen. The second was killed by a Force-user hating cult. The third fell to that horrible Sith Ritual that was enacted upon her, wasn’t it? And we all know what happened to Elzar Mann at twenty. His dyad partners only ever half recovered from it. Not a single one of them has reached twenty-one.”

The boy wails again, and Palpatine can only assume they aren't taking him to the creche to avoid upsetting the other younglings. Two more Jedi join them—Qui-Gon, and Qui-Gon's best friend Tholme, who was knighted a year ago. That happens with Shadows, usually. Getting knighted younger. That, and Dooku quite obviously doesn’t want to let go. He’s always been over-protective of Qui-Gon.

"I'm hearing that the temple received a comm from the child's family on Stewjon to come as soon as possible, because the child hadn't slept in almost three days," Tholme says. "They begged them to take the boy. They’re a superstitious lot there. They must have been desperate.”

Superstitious is putting it lightly. The Stewjoni despise the Jedi. They don’t trust Force-users and are known for beating their children who show signs of being Force-sensitive.

A pang goes off in Palpatine's chest. Feeling sorry for the boy is useless, but part of him does regardless. His own father hadn't wanted him, and at first, that bonded him with his master.

Dooku's father left him as a babe in the woods.

Palpatine's dropped him off at the temple, aged four, with the words take this thing spilling like poison from his lips.

Dooku gives Tholme a look. "How do you know everything all the time?"

Tholme shrugs. "I heard it from Padawan Windu. It was him and his master on the mission.” 

Qui-Gon, brows furrowed, says nothing. Drawn, apparently, toward the screeching child, he goes toward the group of Council members and healers gathered around the Chosen One.

"He hates hearing little ones cry," Dooku says softly. "Though, I'm not sure what will stop this other than a sedative. Poor thing. Even Sifo's visions didn't start this early. That child can't be more than three." He glances at Tholme, who has a bag hefted over his shoulder. "Where are you off to? You'll have to wait for the weather."

"Kiffu," Tholme explains. "There's a youngling there, the nephew of the Sheyf, who is Force-sensitive and apparently very prodigious with psychometry. They're having some trouble helping him, but he's also the heir apparent, and they're split on whether to give him to the Jedi. I spent time there in my Padawan years, so I'm going to see if I can assist."

Without warning, the wails, the screams and the cries and the tears, quiet.

Qui-Gon holds the boy close against his chest. Scrawny arms wrap around the senior Padawan’s neck as he supports the child’s bottom with one hand and rubs his back with the other. Of course. Of course, perfect, placid Qui-Gon has managed what no one else can.

Dooku, enamored as ever with his favorite apprentice, steps through the crowd. Tholme follows. Palpatine, in need of knowing more, does the same.

The boy's eyes, one a paler blue than the other, become clearer upon closer inspection, and it is ... unsettling. Palpatine’s comm goes off, set to an infernal ring that Rael selected. His older lineage sibling is, in Palpatine’s experience, always up to nonsense despite being near to his mid-40s.

“What?” Palpatine says in greeting. “You felt that in the Force as much as the rest of us. The least you could do is come look.”

“Sith Hells, Sheev, take it down a notch.”

Sheev hears the curl of Rael’s smile.  

“I have a bad headache,” Rael continues. “This whole thing isn’t helping. What is it?”

“A Chosen One has arrived.”

“Shut up.”

Sheev breathes in sharp. He can’t slap Rael from here, unfortunately.

“It’s true.”

“I say it every time. I come back to the temple from a long mission, and something interesting happens.”

Sheev clicks off the comm. Rael will come or he won’t.

Palpatine continues his observations of the now quiet child. He’s thin for his age—too thin—and probably malnourished if the pale skin is any indication. His clothes amount to little more than a sack, but his right arm bears ....

That’s interesting.

“He’s part of the Stewjoni nobility,” Master Plo explains, and Palpatine can only assume that he’s being let in on this because he’s Dooku’s student, and Dooku took a seat on the council last year. “The new junior senator is his uncle. Stewjon does hold elections for the senate, but opponents never do well against the ruling family. That’s not the most of it, however. His father is the king.”

Palpatine studies the blue swirl on the boy’s inner wrist as some of the other council members gently shoo the onlookers away toward the refectories.

“They wouldn’t tell us his first name,” Master Myr says. “We could request access to Stewjoni birth records, but I doubt it will do any good. We only know he’s from the line Kenobi because that’s the king’s name.”

Stewjon joined the republic just under two-hundred years ago. It’s new, in the grand scheme. They have, however, been busy leading a contingent of senators who want to push legislation that will hamstring the Jedi. Treat them as all but slaves to the Republic rather than working hand in hand.

Sheev ought not think about that now. He’ll lose his temper.

He’ll lose his secret.

“They barely looked at us,” Padawan Windu, Myr’s apprentice, adds. “I’ve never seen anything like it on any Seeking mission. They insisted that we never tell anyone outside the order whose son he was. He was their only, as far as I could tell. The heir. You wouldn’t have known it from where they kept him. Just a hut by the sea. No grand manor, even though I saw one off in the distance. I gathered only about ten people on the entire planet knew this little one was Force-sensitive.”

Well. That is even more interesting. Palpatine can picture it. A king on a Force-sensitive-hating planet announcing the birth of a son only to find out, much too late to take it back, that he had abilities.

“I think they faked the child’s death,” Master Myr adds. “Because they were so embarrassed. And yet, they waited all this time to call us in. King Kenobi said he started showing signs at less than a year old. I suppose it just became too much to handle only recently.”

“Little one?” Qui-Gon eases the toddler’s face out from where it’s buried in his neck and puts a hand under his chin. “Can you tell us your name?”

Those big, blue eyes fill with tears. The vision, at least, must have passed. Or maybe it passed earlier, and the child simply couldn’t recover. Or maybe he had more than one. Aftershocks. Sifo Dyas has that, sometimes.

“Obi-Wan,” the boy says softly.

That electric jolt from earlier runs down Sheev’s spine again. The Force demands his attention.

“Obi-Wan, I’m Qui-Gon. My friends here are Master Dooku, Tholme, Sheev, Master Yoda, Master Myr, Mace, who you met, and Master Plo.”

Sheev fights the urge to roll his eyes. He gets billing with Tholme and Mace as far as respect goes. Qui-Gon looks at him as a peer despite the fact that they’re eleven years apart. Dooku, with all his appreciation for Jedi tradition and top-notch manners, has never made sense with Qui-Gon.

And yet.

A healer comes sweeping past them—the Twi’lek Knight Che who was in Sheev’s own youngling clan—with a hypo in hand.

The sedative Dooku spoke of.

The boy goes limp in Qui-Gon's arms, and finally, he hands the toddler over to the crechemaster. Vokara follows them.

Leaving Yoda and Plo to speak to Windu and Myr, the members of Sheev’s lineage and Tholme step aside together.

“He formed a bond with me,” Qui-Gon says without ceremony as he tucks a strand of shoulder-length brown hair behind his ear. “I felt it click into place. I got a flash of a starry sea. That must have been Stewjon.”

“A bond?” Dooku murmurs. “Extraordinary that he would form one with anyone other than his Seeker right now. Did Padawan Windu say he felt one?”

Qui-Gon nods. “A bit different, but yes.”

“He’s probably forming bonds with anyone who is kind to him,” Sheev cuts in. “He’s quite obviously been abused. As soon as they change his clothes, they’ll find bruises. Be sure of that.”

Dooku glances at him. He’s one of the few, other than the council, who knows that Cosinga left bruises. Sheev was too young to stop him, then. Now, he knows how to use his powers. Not enough of the Jedi use them to their full extent, in his view. Force-sensitives are superior beings. He can’t say that aloud in the temple, but it’s true. All his life it’s been Jedi have special gifts, but we are no better than anyone else.

He disagrees.

“That would make him less likely to form bonds so quickly, in my view,” Tholme says. “With anyone other than the Jedi who found him on Stewjon, I mean.”

Heaving a sigh, Dooku gestures at the three of them. “You ought to eat. All of you. I need to go speak to Master Yoda.”

Tholme, who can’t leave during the storm anyway, puts a hand on Qui-Gon's shoulder and gently urges him away. Qui-Gon invites Sheev to come eat with them, and as annoying as he is, your lineage is your lineage.

Sheev intends to remain a part of this one. 

Obi-Wan wakes up in a cozy room with Tookas on the wallpaper. He always wanted one, but his Papa said no.

“Obi-Wan?” A kind-looking man with a fluffy ginger beard appears at his side. “You’re in the Jedi Temple. You were asleep for a while. My name’s Reginald, and I’ve got one of our doctors here, Vokara, and your friend Mace who brought you.”

Obi-Wan's breathing eases when he sees Mace. Where is Mister Qui-Gon? He helped Obi-Wan stop screaming. Obi-Wan doesn’t know why. He just knows that the Force said that Qui-Gon was safe. When Qui-Gon touched him, he saw plants in the sun.

Reginald asks him if he feels better. Obi-Wan's body aches, he wants to go back to sleep in this soft bed, but the scary pictures are gone. His head hurts, and he’s very thirsty, but they’re gone. So, Obi-Wan says that he does. He doesn’t tell them about his head hurting. They’re being so nice to him already. Mace sits with him on the bed and asks him if the doctor, a lady with blue skin and long tails on her head, can take a look at him for any injuries.

That scares Obi-Wan, because when people touch him, it hurts, but and maybe this won’t? There was a time, at least he thinks, when his Papa and Mama would cuddle him, and nothing hurt at all. Maybe he made that up, but he clings to it.

He says yes.

Mace helps him out of his brown shift. This leaves him in just his underwear, and Reginald makes a noise. Upset. He’s upset. Did Obi-Wan upset him? He didn’t mean to upset him he keeps doing that.

“It’s all right, little one,” Mace says, and this calms him. “No one is angry at you. Can you tell us what these bands are? On your legs?”

Oh. Obi-Wan looks down at the ... he can’t remember what they’re called. They like bracelets, but they go around his thighs instead. The loops of metal scrape against his skin when he walks. Sometimes they draw blood.

“People on Stewjon wear them when they do something unholy,” he says, and Mace’s eyes go wide, and that means the Jedi don’t do this. “Papa’s guards put them on me when they took me to the hut.”

The doctor undoes the locks on the things on Obi-Wan's legs, and Obi-Wan almost cries—but he doesn’t—when they come off. She cleans off the dried blood there, and there are scars, but that’s okay. It just feels nice to have them off. She puts Bacta on them—they have that on Stewjon too—before getting him into some new underwear. His cheeks get all warm, but his old ones smell, and after, he sits on the the side of the bed so she can take a look at him. He’s supposed to tell her if it hurts.

She looks at his back and his legs. She asks him what he ate on Stewjon, and he tells her—a lot of fish and fruit. He was always hungry, though. A feeling beats in the Force that he doesn’t ... it ... he worries a whole lot, but these nice people seem to be worrying about him. Once she’s done listening for his heartbeat and a bunch of other things, he doesn’t cry at all when she says tiny prick, so that something in a clear bag can get into his ... blood? That sounds right. She gives him something for his headache too without him needing to say anything.

“Would you like a bath tonight, Obi-Wan?” Mace asks. “Or a shower in the morning?”

“Shower, please,” he says. He doesn’t explain why.

One of the first things he remembers—other than his Mama with her eyes like his cuddling him in the nice house—is his Papa lifting him up to a big, tall bowl when he was very small. His Papa handed him to the priest in the blue robes, and that priest dunked Obi-Wan's head beneath cold water. He held him there for a long time until Obi-Wan flailed. He couldn’t breathe. The priest did that again and again, and Obi-Wan’s Papa slapped his bottom until it was sore because he couldn’t stop crying.

That happened to another lady once, at the gathering they had every week—the water. She married someone she wasn’t supposed to. A non-human. Obi-Wan's Papa said that only humans could protect the Force. Obi-Wan only saw non-humans in holos before today.

“Would you rather eat or sleep, little one?”

He’s hungry, but he’s too tired. He wants to sleep so much. He feels like he could sleep forever.

“Sleep.”

With this, Mace doesn’t argue, though he does have Obi-Wan drink something. It’s not water. It tastes nice and is orange and Obi-Wan finishes the whole thing.

Dressed in a set of new tunics, he gets to lay back down again, and that’s good, because his eyes are heavy. Reginald lays a blue blanket over him, and Obi-Wan tries again not to cry, but he does. He says please please please no blue, and they’re so nice to him even though he’s being a baby. They bring him a green blanket instead, and he’s not sure he deserves that, because he’s unclean, but if he’s unclean, these Jedi are unclean. He was told not to like them but ....

“Shhh, little one,” Reginald says, and the feeling of a hand on his forehead calms Obi-Wan again. “Go to sleep, all right? You don’t have to worry anymore. You’re safe with us.”

Obi-Wan's eyes fall closed.

"You missed dinner."

The amused and familiar voice loosens the knot in Dooku’s neck that's been there ever since he heard the little Stewjoni boy's first scream.

"How did you know where I was?"

"Well, when you didn't answer mine or Jo’s comms," Sifo Dyas says as he comes up beside Dooku with his long black hair spilled loose, "I tried Qui-Gon. No answer. I know better than to try Rael—he might as well not have a comm when I need him to. Your middle Padawan was happy enough to answer and explained the hubbub going on."

"Did you have fun without me?" Dooku asks, not quite ready to discuss the matter at hand.

"We didn't let the food get cold." Sifo's hand goes to Dooku's back and traces his spine with the pads of his fingers, lips quirking at the double entendre. He pauses, his voice going lower in concern. "The little one is having visions? I didn't have my first until I was a teenager. Horrible for a youngling that's not even four years old."

Dooku crosses his arms over his chest and stifles the empathy welling there. He has nearly raised three Padawans—Qui-Gon will be a knight in six months at best. He has a seat on the Jedi Council. The last thing he has time for, at fifty-four, is … getting back into this business. Prophecies and mystics and visions have never brought out the best in him. Regardless, this boy broke something open, and not just because he’s the Chosen One. The Force sparkled when Dooku first saw him.

Dark eyes narrowing, Sifo studies Dooku with that look of his.

“What, Si?”

“You’re bothered.”

Dooku heaves a sigh. Being known is ... annoying, sometimes.

“I assume Sheev said that the boy is likely the new Chosen One. He has the marking. The visions at a young age. I don't know what his M-Count is, yet. They won't be able to test the empathy powers until he's calmer."

"That poor child," Sifo mutters. "Qui-Gon helped with him?"

It’s Dooku’s turn to shoot his partner a look.

"Neither of us are here because of our prophecy interests. Do you suppose you are who you are to me because of your visions?"

"No." Sifo, as ever, remains pleasant in the face of his barbs. "I'm just asking a question. Besides, you’ve always been interested in the Chosen One stories. Qui-Gon is too. All that mystic business. It’s not a wild thing to wonder about.”

Dooku shakes his head. “Jedi in the past were not protective enough of their Chosen Ones.”

“You can’t keep a person locked in a tower,” Sifo argues. “That’s not a life.”

“Is being dead better?”

Dooku snaps without meaning to. Sifo, of course, forgives him. Sifo always does whether he deserves it or not.

"Qui-Gon was drawn to him in the Force, interest in all that mystic business, or not," Dooku explains. "The boy stopped crying the minute Qui-Gon held him."

"You might be looking at your future grandpadawan."

"Sifo."

"What? I'm not going to damn a toddler to death and simply assume that he has, at best, a twenty year lifespan. Of all people, I'm not going to predetermine his fate. Some people thought I wouldn't make it to knighthood, let alone becoming a master, because I would lose my mind and do ... something tragic as a result. I'm still here."

With this, Dooku can hardly argue.

“Sheev was strange tonight.”

“Sheev usually is.”

“I think he’s still harboring those the Jedi ought to have more power in the Republic and are superior beings thoughts of his.”

Not that he can say anything. He used to have them, too, when he became all-too-aware of the rot taking root in the Republic senate. The Jedi took on more and more and were criticized despite it. It frustrated him to no end. He and his middle Padawan shared that, and he regrets it to this very day. He didn’t get his head on straight until he used Force lightning on someone threatening Qui-Gon's life when his current student was just a young teenager.

He still remembers the day. The brush where Qui-Gon was about to be a vicious bounty hunter’s victim. The cold rage and calculation in him as he heard her mocking his student.

Save him.

Save the Jedi.

Save him.

The lightning came with ease.

Qui-Gon cried out Master, stop! He was shaking and green around the edges.

And Dooku saw himself as his Padawan did.

Slipping. Slipping into darkness.

It wasn’t a child’s place save his soul.

But he did.

That was when he knew that his thoughts, his mad, god-king thoughts of the Jedi seizing power, would not save the Jedi themselves. It wouldn’t help the current predicament.

He had been headed toward a full-scale fall.

For six months after the incident, he handed Qui-Gon's training to Yoda and set himself to rights.

“Your Padawan?” Sifo says with a half-smile. “Overprotective? I can’t imagine where he gets it from. We only need make sure that he doesn’t take it to extremes. He seems settled, these days.”

Opening his mouth to argue, Dooku isn’t given the chance when Jocasta comes striding in with a to-go container from the refectory.

“Force knows, Yan,” she says, lips pursed as she shoves the covered bowl at him, “you skip half your meals. Sit here and eat this if you’re going to insist on waiting for the Chosen One’s medical updates.”

“How did you—”

“Please.” Jo waves her hand before tucking a strand of Sifo-mussed strawberry blonde hair behind her ear. “Everyone’s talking about it.”

Knowing better than to argue with the decidedly scarier of his two partners, Dooku sits down in one of the ... bean bags in this entry room to the rest of the creche. Just as he’s dug in his spoon to a nice looking stew, however, Knight Che returns.

“Master Dooku,” she says, surprised. “I was about to go report to the council. Have you been waiting? It’s been ... two hours.”

Dooku clears his throat and remains in the bean bag no matter how silly he looks.

“I was concerned. How is the boy? You may share with Masters Nu and Dyas.”

“His visions didn’t return after an hour of sedation, which is good news, but he was exhausted and finally fell properly asleep. He’s underweight, certainly—that's easy to tell even without weighing him. The Stewjoni diet is fish and fruit heavy, so even if they didn’t give him enough, the nutritional deficiencies I’m sure I’ll find once I can run some blood tests, while concerning, won’t affect cognitive development, though it may take longer for him to grow while we correct all of that. I’m also not certain if he’s had his vaccines, though he was familiar with Bacta. He was a very smart child from what I could tell. He’ll be on a special diet. He’ll need infusions. He did have several fresh bruises.” Vokara bites her lip and pushes forward. “But what worried me most were the scars on his back and legs. They seemed to be from what I assume was a beating with a type of branch. Possibly driftwood. And they used some kind of circular metal objects on his legs that were meant to be left there. Sharp. We had to take them off.”

“Force alive.” Sifo runs a hand over his face. “To a child that young?”

Sheev endured beatings from his father. Dooku knows that well enough. This, however, seems to be quite another level.

“It reads like ritualized religious practices,” Dooku says. “Or am I going too far?”

“We can learn more from Obi-Wan when he’s ready, but from what Master Myr and his Padawan said, what we know of Stewjon, I’d tend to agree,” Vokara says. “The physical issues, we can heal over time. The abuse he suffered so young will be our greater challenge. He’s not the first youngling we’ve seen come in from a family who didn’t take care of them, however, so I trust we can do it.”

Dooku shifts on his feet. He was only six months old when his father left him in the woods. He doesn’t remember anything about it other than a sense of overwhelming sadness that seems to trail behind him some days.

“If you and the crechemaster agree, Vokara,” Sifo says, “I’d like to sit with him through the night in case he does have any vision aftershocks. I’m”—he laughs with a touch of wry exhaustion—“a bit familiar with some things that might help him.”

Vokara says she’ll go speak with Crechemaster Coll. As soon as she goes, Dooku gets a text comm.

A council meeting.

“Go,” Sifo tells him. “You can fill us in.”

“He means you had best fill us in,” Jo adds, but the lift of her lips is fond.

Dooku says that he will and kisses them both goodbye in the deserted hallway outside the creche. It’s not as if people don’t know about them, but he is, after all, a private person. He doesn’t need to run into a group of gossiping Padawans.

The meeting itself is short. They intend to talk more once the child has settled in. In the morning, they will speak with the crechemasters about which clan might be best. They will call Sifo and his master, Lene Kostana, in for practical advice about the visions. Blood tests will be run and the empathy powers at least sized-up. That’s important for making sure the child doesn’t accidentally overuse them, which can be fatal.

“The boy needs to be protected,” Dooku says toward the end. “For both his sake, and the Jedi’s, we cannot let him die as the others have.”

“Careful you must be, Padawan mine,” Yoda warns. “In your desperation to keep him safe, put on him the burden of who he is so soon, we must not. Slowly, we must explain to him. What these visions are. Why they come. What his other powers are and the legacy of those who came before him. Complicated, it will be. Done over years as appropriate, the only way, it is.”

“He will find out who he is soon enough, Master,” Dooku argues. “We have an entire hall dedicated to the lost Chosen Ones. People will talk. Even the younglings in his own clan will recognize the marking.”

“I think we can keep him from the hall for now.” Yaddle fixes him with a concerned gaze. “We’re all worried for his fate. We’re all deeply aware of the history. You’re not alone in your fear for him. We have to manage that to ensure he is well taken care of. When he has questions, we’ll answer them. Giving him too much at this age after what he’s experienced ... we must think it through. You appreciate a strategy, Master Dooku. Let us come up with one together.”

Yaddle, in her way, has always eased Dooku’s anxieties—when he allows anyone to see them. Yoda isn’t wrong, but ....

It was Yoda’s story about Elzar Mann that sparked Dooku’s obsession with the Chosen Ones in the first place. He knew the stories like anyone in the temple, but when he saw his master looking at a photo of a teenage Elzar with his two best friends/romantic interests and eventual dyad partners, Avar Kriss and Stellan Gios, something sparked.

When Elzar died, Yoda said, more vulnerable than Dooku had yet heard him, wondered, I did, why the Force would put such a burden on someone. Realized, I did, that the Force was only trying to help the Jedi. To keep us alive. With those in the galaxy who feared or hated us, the trouble rested. Fate, it was not, for the Chosen Ones to die so young. Burdened, they are, yes. Doomed, they need not be. How to protect them, learning, we still are.

Why do some people despise us so, Master?

Yoda shook his head. Heroes we are, or hated. Mortal beings, we rarely are, to the public. Difficult, that makes things.

Can the Chosen Ones really save us? You’re always telling me that interpreting visions is difficult and must be approached with care. And their other powers are almost … overwhelming for them. Dangerous.

Say that always, I will, about visions. But spare us, I think they can, if we protect them. Alive, we still are. Helped us already, they have, time and again before returning to the Force. Even during the Jedi-Sith war, continued on, we did.

If we were in power ....

Yoda swung around in a way he usually didn’t. Echoes of a past that weren’t his clung to him.

Careful, we must be. Our sabers, we will wield, yes, in defense of ourselves and others. Subjugated, we will not be, let the galaxy fall to darkness, we must not, but craving power and calling it safety, a Sith, it makes us. Smart, we will be, when hard times come. Not brutal.

Dooku didn’t learn that lesson for a long time.

Maybe he’s still learning it.

Dooku makes his way down the hall to his quarters. A trio waits for him in the shape of his Padawans. Two presences twined close. A third slightly apart. When he puts in the code, he finds Rael and Qui-Gon on his dark purple sofa and Sheev sitting at the eating table.

“A break in,” Dooku mutters. “Do the three of you have any respect for my privacy?”

“Qui-Gon does,” Rael says with a laugh. “But he’s easily led.”

“Excuse me,” Qui-Gon protests, his usual good nature gone in the face of this barb—only Tholme can tease him and get away with it.

“Peace, little one.” Rael raises his hands in defeat. “It’s my right as your lineage sibling to tease you.”

“Sheev doesn’t tease me.”

“Sheev doesn’t tease anyone. Middle child syndrome, and all.”

“Shut up, Rael,” Sheev complains. “Pardon me for not having a childish, sense of humor.”

“Is there a reason the three of you are here?” Dooku asks as he goes toward the stove to make tea. “Unionizing against me, are you?”

“We would never do that, Master.” A teasing glint of his own appears in Qui-Gon's eyes. “Though the expensive restaurant workers in the federal district should. I was reading in the news that they were trying.”

“Perfect child.” Rael pinches Qui-Gon's cheek with a grin. “You would never say a word against your master, huh?”

“Qui-Gon has his own sense of stubbornness,” Dooku quips. “He’s simply more respectful than you about it. And get your blessed feet off my furniture, Rael Averross. If you’re all going to stay, we will sit at the table.”

Dooku pours each of them cups and lays out the milk and sugar in their specified containers. The Force buzzes and snaps. It won’t settle. Dooku, glancing at his middle Padawan, senses that blankness around him again. But then, Sheev has always been good at shielding. In a temple full of people who can gage your feelings to varying degrees depending, wanting to curate what they do is only reasonable.

Nevertheless, his middle Padawan has been ... more like that, of late. Dooku has been less formal, less strict with Qui-Gon than he was with Sheev. He was twenty-six when he took on Rael, who had not gelled with his first master and needed a new one at fifteen. While the Order generally prefers that members take Padawans on at age thirty onward so they can have time on their own as young knights, exceptions are sometimes made, and Dooku likes a challenge. He was young and learning as a teacher. The rules that formed as he taught Rael—in part to reign in a stubborn teenager who was more a younger brother than apprentice, some days—Sheev knew from day one. Their bond was always strong. At least, it had been. Sheev’s apparent jealousy of Qui-Gon is obvious enough, but unless it becomes a real problem, he’s not going to lecture his thirty-three-year-old former student. Sheev cares for Qui-Gon despite it. Dooku knows that.

“Did the council agree?” Qui-Gon asks. “That the child is the chosen one?”

“They’re quite certain.” Dooku takes his first sip of Alderaanian tea and lets the spice sit on his tongue. “They’ll do more tests when he’s less upset.”

“They ought to steal some Beskar from Mandalore and build him a suit,” Sheev remarks as he sweeps his red hair out of his eyes. “That might keep him safe.”

“That’s unkind, Sheev,” Qui-Gon says. “He can’t help what he is.”

“I’m not trying to be unkind,” Sheev replies. “I’m being realistic. There are whispers of war, these days. More conflict. People who think the Jedi aren’t doing enough and hate us for it. People who distrust us. And then this anointed boy appears with powers even we ourselves struggle to understand? People will worship him and hate him all at once. The Order will need to be smart about things. That’s why he appeared, after all. It’s a sign of the times.”

A strange heaviness sits like stone in Dooku’s stomach.

The trouble is, Sheev isn’t wrong.

Once he’s shooed his Padawans out for the night, he comms Jocasta.

“Jo,” he says when she picks up. “I need a favor.”

A Brief History of the Chosen Ones of the Jedi Order (transferred from the archives on Jedha to the temple on Coruscant)

First Chosen One (At the birth of the Jedi Order 25,000 years ago)

Name: Zina Jari

Species: Human Female

Age at Death: 19

Dyad Partner: Thalor Jari (twin brother)

Cause of Death: Took her own life after overusing an apparent power to take on other beings’ negative emotions and relieve their pain. It was later discovered that Chosen Ones and their dyad partners could, when together, but with quite a bit of Force energy, strengthen each other’s positive emotions and their connection with the Force. Both could lead to exhaustion, so discretion was needed. Zina was on a mission with her master on a planet struck by a blight and severe famine. With resources still days away, Zina took on the despair and hunger of these people until help arrived. They survived. She did not. Her twin brother took his own life a decade later. This planet became a safe harbor for Jedi during the Sith Empire centuries later.

Second Chosen One (During the 100-year-darkness when the Sith first came to be)

Name: Kevmo Zink

Species: Male Pantoran

Age at Death: 20

Dyad Partner: Zallah Macri (his master)

Cause of Death: Killed by extremist members of what would one day become the Path of the Open Hand/Path of the Closed Fist, a cult who believed that no one should use the Force because it would cause dark events to happen elsewhere. While there were times on and off when the group was peaceful, violence threaded its way into their beliefs—especially when it came to the Jedi. Kevmo, in protection of younglings at a temple in the Outer Rim, died at the hand of one of the cult members, but prevented them from harming any of the children. Two of these children eventually became members of the Jedi Council that led the Order through the darkest years of the Sith Empire.

Third Chosen One (Toward the end of the Jedi-Sith War and the end of the Old Republic)

Name: Nila Shandis

Species: Female Nautolan

Age at Death: 18

Dyad Partner: Vena Dallis (Best friend)

Cause of Death: She and her dyad partner helped win one of the final, pivotal battles of the Jedi-Sith War that cemented the Republic we know today. Their combined strength muted the powers of the Sith. Unfortunately, Vena was killed by the Sith after the fact, and Nila was captured by Darth Bane and subjected to a Sith Ritual that we know little about to this day. The Jedi only knew she died from the ritual given markings on her body, time spent with Bane, and the abrupt madness that led to her death at her own hand.

Fourth Chosen One (During the Waning Days of the High Republic)

Name: Elzar Mann

Species: Human Male

Age at death: 20 (killed by the Nameless)

Dyad partners: Avar Kriss and Stellan Gios (Romantic Partners)

Cause of death: Padawan Mann was killed by one of the Nameless in pursuit of a home key to destroy the Nihil’s Stormwall technology. Upon discovering that the last home key was etched onto Nihil leader Marchion Ro’s body, Mann snapped a holo and transferred the information to the Republic before encountering one of the Nameless. While Kriss and and Gios were present during the battle in which Mann was killed, they were protecting civilians and were unable to get to Mann in time after he broke off from them to retrieve the home key. Up until then, the dyad bond had prevented the Nameless from harming the Chosen One, Gios, or Kriss. In order to protect the dozens of Jedi with him, Mann sacrificed himself to the Nameless, giving Kriss and Gios the chance to reach him as he died and kill the creature before fainting themselves. After this, the Stormwall was taken down for the final time. It was said that Gios and Kriss both lost consciousness from the power of Elzar’s end of the dyad snapping when the Nameless turned him to dust.

Check Out Record

Reference Only: bypassed

Bypassed by: Deputy Chief Archivist Jocasta Nu

Reason for Bypass: Council Member

Patron: Master Yan Dooku

As hail batters the windows of the creche, Sifo watches little Obi-Wan Kenobi sleep.

Fondness blooms deep within him as he observes the boy’s features. His almost shoulder-length copper hair falling into his eyes. The red-pink marking. The freckles spattered over his nose. Little fingers grasping the mint-green blanket.

“Little prince,” Sifo whispers. “You deserved better than your parents’ hatred. I’m so sorry. But we’ll take care of you here. We will. I know what it’s like to be a little strange. We all do.”

Pop. Pop pop pop clink.

The storm won’t let up, will it? Something tells him that it’s more than just the weather system.

Dooku’s affection for the boy curled up in Sifo’s chest like the Tookas on the walls in here, and it lingers still. Their bond makes it difficult to hide things like that from one another, though, Dooku does try on his grumpier days. Sifo wishes he wasn’t worried about Dooku’s interest in prophecy, and this lore in particular, complicating things. Qui-Gon, he worries less about. He’s a stubborn but good-natured young man whose impulses are far less likely to lead him toward darkness. His determination to live in the present moment despite his love of prophecy and the mystics helps ground him. Sifo wouldn’t like to be the one arguing with him when he’s digging his heels in, but thankfully? He’s never been on that end of things.

But Sifo knows the man he loves. He knows Yan Dooku, and he worries that Dooku’s desire to protect the child—who does need protecting—will turn into obsession. Still, his partner’s intentions felt nothing less than genuine earlier. Jo agreed.

For now, he sets his fears for the future aside. Tonight, tomorrow, next week, they all need to work to make this boy feel safe for the first time in his life.

Sifo draws his thumb down the marking on Obi-Wan's cheek and eases his hitched breathing. His own visions have come less often the past ... well, three years or so, actually. They come vivid when they do, and rather than changing as he’s been used to, only one vision has plagued him these past months. It’s all curl-gray smoke and blaster fire and the stomping of armored feet and lightsabers beating back bolts. Tanks rolls in and destroy crops and trees and landscapes.

Secession, one paint-drip senator says when that vision tilts and changes. We must secede from the Republic.

War.

These visions are of nothing less than war, and they are more distant, further out in time than he’s experienced before. While intra-planetary conflicts certainly occur, a full-scale war involving the entire galaxy? That’s not happened for a thousand years. The council knows about these visions, but the vague nature makes it near impossible to guess at, and guessing wrong would be dangerous.

Even he cannot grasp onto them, and it makes him paranoid and—

An idea occurs.

He wonders if this poor child is taking more of the weight, somehow. While the visions do come, Sifo has them with far less frequency now.

He would take that back if he could. He would spare Obi-Wan something.

“The vision to see, the power to bear, and the light to spare the galaxy,” Sifo murmurs as he rolls back the sleeve of his chocolate-brown robe. “That’s a lot for a little one, isn’t it? But you won’t be alone. We’ll take care of you. And someone ... there will be someone special you’ll choose and you’ll protect each other. A friend. A lover. A teacher. Whoever you like. I know what it’s like to see scary things. I know how overwhelming it can be.”

Thunder roars and rattles the windows.

Unlike any other child Sifo’s seen, Obi-Wan sleeps through the racket. He doesn’t scream or cry or even wake.

Stewjon, a planet of islands surrounded by water, must get storms worse than this.

Whatever happens next, Sifo intends, along with Dooku and Qui-Gon, to be a part of this boy’s life. So, through the night, he stays, and when the little one wakes from dreams, he introduces himself, gets Obi-Wan some water, takes him to the fresher, and eases him back to sleep with a lullaby that his crechemaster used to sing to his clan.

When the sun rises and Obi-Wan has slept through the rest of the night, Sifo Dyas is still there.

When senior Padawan Qui-Gon Jinn wakes the next morning, he goes to the creche first thing with his clothes more rumpled than Master Dooku would probably approve of. But he has to get there. He must see Obi-Wan. Sleep did not come easy last night when he was tossing and turning and fretting over the little boy. Qui-Gon is not a worrier by nature, but when there is something to worry about? He can rather get lost in it.

He finds Crechemaster Coll already awake and encouraging a Mon Calamari girl to eat her cereal in the refectory for younglings aged two to five.

“Good morning, Padawan Jinn,” he says with a smile. “Here to check on little Obi-Wan?”

“I am. Is that all right?”

“I’ve been expecting you. Obi-Wan is awake in his sick room. My Padawan is sitting with him while he drinks a smoothie for his breakfast. We’ve got him showered and have time before a healer comes by, if you’d like to see him.”

Qui-Gon says that he would. He doesn’t speak the word need, but it feels like a need. His connection with the Force feels like it won’t quite catch until he sees Obi-Wan with his own eyes.  

“I’m thinking of putting Obi-Wan in Kybuck clan with Bant here,” Master Coll tells him. She’s just his age, and terribly sweet. And there’s another girl in that clan, Siri Tachi, who would also be a good friend. I think she’ll make quite certain that no one gives Obi-Wan too much trouble about being the chosen one.” He jiggles his leg and makes the little girl laugh. “Would you like a new friend, Bant? The one I introduced you to this morning?”

“Obi-Wan!” she exclaims with great enthusiasm. “He likes holobooks. I said I’d bring him some for Crechemaster Coll to read to him.”

Qui-Gon bops the little girl on the nose before Master Coll sits her next to some of the other young ones before they take their leave.

Qui-Gon chuckles as they walk along the pale green painted hallways. They pass by the nursery for the smallest children who are younger than two, and a Jedi inside sings them a song that Qui-Gon recognizes. Giggling comes from the refectory for initiates aged six to eight. Sun streams in through the window of the library filled with bean bag seats and toys and holobooks. The weather, at least, has stabilized, and Tholme left before sunup to tend to his own youngling business.

An affectionate peace swirls through the air of the creche. Whatever conspiracies some might like to spread, the Jedi treasure their children. Qui-Gon, during his entire childhood, never felt anything but.

“Just from speaking with him,” Master Coll adds, “it seems that Obi-Wan has very early memory recall. Most Jedi have it from two onward, but he seems to have it from twelve months. Not all clear, but decidedly present.”

“You worry that means it will affect him more emotionally,” Qui-Gon surmises.

“I do. He’s a sweet child, very intelligent, but afraid to upset anyone. I think he might be more candid and comfortable with you since the bond formed so quickly. Knight Che also believes, as does your master, that Obi-Wan has been subjected to some type of religious, ritualistic abuse. It’s nothing I’ve ever heard of before in any Force faith, but the galaxy is vast.”

With a rush of anxiety, Qui-Gon wishes Tholme were here instead of heading toward Kiffu. He’s worked a great deal more with hurting children as a Shadow than Qui-Gon has. Still, Obi-Wan did bond with him, so perhaps Master Coll is correct in his confidence.

“Knight Che also came by this morning and took some blood for tests. The M Count came back fast—25,000 per cell.”

Force alive. That is high.

They find Obi-Wan diligently drinking his smoothie with Master Coll’s Padawan, Saria, a Togrutan girl about three years younger than Qui-Gon, at his side. Blue and green and white and brown Tookas run merry across the wallpaper. A mint green blanket, soft and new, covers the toddler-sized bed with rose-pink sheets. The light from the overhead shines soft and unobtrusive. These little sick rooms are a far cry from the hut Mace described. Mace, three years behind Qui-Gon and his friend for quite some time now, sat with him for a long while last night when neither of them could settle.

Obi-Wan's blue eyes brighten at the sight of him, and that starry sea melts into Qui-Gon's mind again.

The bond.

He wasn’t making it up. He didn’t think he was, but Sheev did make him doubt. Sheev didn’t mean anything by it, of course. He’s just skeptical generally. Regardless, he’s spent as much time showing Qui-Gon the best ways to research in the archives and helping him with his history assignments as Rael has sparring with him in the salles. Sheev studied Makashi like Dooku while Qui-Gon and Rael both selected Ataru. They’re all different, but they are a close lineage.

“Hello, little one,” Qui-Gon says in greeting. “Do you mind if I sit with you for a little while?”

Obi-Wan shakes his head. “There was another nice man here when I woke up. He had long black hair. Is he your friend?”

Sifo Dyas must have been here.

“He’s my”—Qui-Gon hesitates from saying master because Obi-Wan might not know what that means, yet—“teacher’s best friend.” Well, that’s not wrong, and enough for a toddler, for certain. “He has scary pictures in his head sometimes like you do.”

Shy, suddenly, or perhaps embarrassed about his screaming and crying last evening, Obi-Wan averts his gaze.

“Thank you for drinking so much of your smoothie, Obi-Wan,” Saria says. “Do you want me to leave it here for you?”

Obi-Wan says yes. The smoothie is, indeed, almost gone. The boy must be hungry, because toddlers are often not eager for their breakfast if it’s not exactly to their standards.

Once they’re alone together, Qui-Gon, not wanting to crowd Obi-Wan, sits in the rocking chair next to the bed. In the space between as he sorts out what to say, he considers the holocron of prophecy that he used to look at with his master. It included what is now known as the chosen one prophecy that struck him from the start.

The vision to see, the power to bear, and the light to spare the galaxy.

Their shared love of prophecy and the mystics leaves Qui-Gon's master anxious, most days. Afraid of himself and his shadows. Yoda says that Qui-Gon, for all his emphasis on the present moment, sometimes gets lost in the future. Except, Qui-Gon doesn’t feel darkness when he tangles with the old mystics. He doesn’t want to control outcomes—at least not usually. He wants to swim with the tide of these maybes.

He does worry about Dooku even though Dooku hates that. His master has changed in the last almost-decade. He’s less strict, less tense, less distant than in those first two years of Qui-Gon’s apprenticeship. That day, the one with the lightning, remains vivid anyway. It makes Qui-Gon on the lookout for any signs that Dooku might be slipping, because that’s the last thing in the galaxy Qui-Gon wants. Dooku is, of course, dear to him. He’s made Qui-Gon the Jedi knight he’s about to be. Jedi throughout the Order look up to him, and for good reason.

It's just that sometimes he is … hard to know, but then he’ll laugh and make tea with extra sugar and dig up a book in the archives that Qui-Gon loves, and he seems within easier reach.

The prophecy that he and Dooku used to discuss back when rings in Qui-Gon’s head.

The light to spare the galaxy.

Qui-Gon finds that he wants to spare this child from pain. He can’t take away the burdens, no, but he can protect him. Of course, he’s getting ahead of himself. Obi-Wan is only three and wouldn’t be a Padawan until twelve at the youngest. Qui-Gon might not be the best for him.

Except, he feels like he might be.

“My Papa says the Jedi are bad.” Obi-Wan is the one who breaks the silence. Who figures out what to say first. “But Mace and his teacher were nice to me. Everyone here has been nice to me. Does that make me bad? Papa said that ... that I’m dirty. Unclean. Unholy.”

Resisting the urge to lunge forward and bring the child into a hug, Qui-Gon breathes in deep and manages his anger. A child. Someone said these things to a little boy. That anger crackles and cuts, and Obi-Wan, going pale, jolts like a split-open livewire.

All the Jedi have varying levels of being able to parse out people’s feelings through the Force, and some struggle with the weight of hyper-empathy and need help sorting their own feelings’ from others’. The Chosen Ones, according to the lore, can actively take another being’s negative emotions into their own body. Sometimes, they can even take on physical pain. So, it goes that others’ feelings reverberate quite strongly on even a normal day. Qui-Gon's skills lay more in being able to tell truth from lies rather than directly naming another being’s emotions without paying attention to body language and tone. Obi-Wan is too young to understand where the emotions are directed. He only knows what he feels coming from the other person, Qui-Gon expects.

“I’m sorry.” Obi-Wan shakes from head to toe and twists a strand of damp copper hair around his finger. “I didn’t mean to make you mad. I didn’t mean to, Mister Qui-Gon.”

“I’m not angry at you, little one,” Qui-Gon reassures him, and he puts one hand on the boy’s knee. “I’m just”—how to say this without insulting the boy’s father and family—“upset that anyone would say those things to you. You are not unholy. You are a sweet child. Some people don’t understand the Jedi, but we are born with these special powers, gifted to us by the Force, and we want to use them to help others. I know you must be scared to be somewhere so new, but you are right where you belong. I promise.”

Obi-Wan keeps shaking. He doesn’t cry. He doesn’t scream. He doesn’t turn away. Grounding himself in their new bond and summoning that starry sea, Qui-Gon searches for what the little one wants. What he won’t ask for.

Hug. The boy wants the hug Qui-Gon was afraid to give. How starved he must have been in that terrible place. So, Qui-Gon gets into the little bed, slips an arm around Obi-Wan’s shoulders shoulders, and tucks him close. The bond warms, and that warmth gilds Qui-Gon’s veins with tenderness.

And something occurs to him.

The tattoo.

The blue tattoo on Obi-Wan's arm. He and Sheev read about similar markings one day in the archives when Qui-Gon was writing about other Force faiths and dug deep into research on the Guardians of the Whills. On the page just after was information about faiths-turned-cults. He can’t believe he didn’t think of it last night!

“Obi-Wan,” he asks as the little boy curls into him, “did they teach you about anything called The Path of the Open Hand or The Path of the Closed Fist on Stewjon?”

The members of those cults, one of whom killed the second Chosen One in their early days, used blue face paint.

Obi-Wan nods against Qui-Gon's shoulder. “Our holy book comes from them. The were our ... our—” Obi-Wan bites his lip. “I can’t ‘member the word.”

Holy book? Sith hells.

“Ancestors?”

“Yes. Only the human ones, though. There’s no aliens on Stewjon.”

“Do you mind if I ask you a few questions about what happened to you? We can stop anytime.”

Obi-Wan nods again. He wants to be brave. Qui-Gon can tell.

“They hurt you because you could use the Force?”

“They said I was unclean. Not just me.”

“Not just you?”

“No.” Obi-Wan trembles, and Qui-Gon tugs the blanket up around the boy’s legs. “They strapped a man to ... wood? Outside my house. My first one. They used their tridents to make him bleed. He stopped—” Obi-Wan gulps and holds back tears. “He stopped breathing.”

Red-hot rage tempts Qui-Gon, but he tamps it down in order not to frighten Obi-Wan again.

They’re not only abusing Force-sensitive children on Stewjon.

They’re killing Force-sensitive adults.

And that? Makes the likelihood of them murdering children even higher.

“And they did other things to hurt you because you can use the Force?”

Obi-Wan explains a few things. The beatings. The things clasped around his thighs. Being dunked into cold water until he couldn’t breathe. Once the little one can’t hold back from crying, Qui-Gon stops asking questions immediately.

“Thank you for telling me all of this,” Qui-Gon whispers. “Do you want to go back to sleep a while? I can sit with you.”

Obi-Wan pulls back, he glances down at his hands, and anxiety bubbles up between them.

“I don’t want to bother you.”

“You’re not bothering me, Obi-Wan. I promise.”

“I’ll be good,” Obi-Wan says, and his lip quivers. “I will. I—”

“Shhh.” Qui-Gon smooths the child’s hair back out of his face and presses his thumb against a pressure point on the too-obvious spine. “You haven’t done anything wrong. You can use the Force here, and there’s nothing wrong with it. We’re going to help you with the scary pictures too. I promise.”

Promise. He has no right to be promising exactly that. Plenty of Jedi get visions now and again, but from what Qui-Gon understands, it took a long time to even manage Sifo’s, and he’s the closest person any of them other than Master Yoda have to compare this to.

He promises anyway, because they will treat him better than anyone on Stewjon. How dare those people do this to anyone, but a child?

Much like his rumpled robes, his master probably wouldn’t like the rashness, but Qui-Gon is no fool.

He saw that soft look in Dooku’s eye.

Dooku cares as much about Obi-Wan as Qui-Gon does even if he doesn’t want to admit it yet.

Qui-Gon Jinn, almost a knight, settles his back against the wall, rests the toddler’s head in his lap, and cards his fingers through the clean copper strands. Once the lad falls asleep again, Qui-Gon takes out his comm.

He knows exactly who to talk to.

“Dex,” he says, when his old friend picks up. “What can you tell me about Stewjon?”

The Works District. Coruscant

The evening after the Chosen One’s arrival, Jedi Knight Sheev Palpatine makes his way toward the beaten, burned-out sector of the city. A few factories remain, but only a few. Most, refusing to adapt to new environmentally friendly technology, shut down.

Just past the front doors of one of these abandoned factories, his new teacher waits.

“Master Damask,” Sheev says. “Are we alone?”

“Quite,” Hego Damask says. “So, it’s true, then? A new Chosen One has arrived?”

The Muun tosses back his coal-black hood and reveals his long, thin face with those yellow eyes.

With an exhale, Sheev drops the intense shields he keeps from day to day. That gray-black darkness slithers into his veins, and he hates and loves it in equal measure. He has been taught, all his life, to defend against the dark. To acknowledge it and let it go. All Jedi are tempted. They glance off the shadows.

This is different.

What was it that Plagueis, his true name, as he calls it, said to him when he finally agreed to their partnership?

The Jedi and the Sith have historically abhorred the in-between. They have called it impossible. There is only light and dark. I believe them to be wrong. The discipline of the Jedi and the wild power of the Sith would make quite a combination, don’t you think?

“Yes,” Sheev replies. “He’s from Stewjon, of all places. That Force-sensitive-hating backwater trash compactor of a planet.”

His anger burns past embers, and oh, yes. That feels good.

“I’m sure he’ll die like the others,” Sheev adds. “But—”

“Do not count him out,” Plagueis interrupts. “Remember the prophecy.”

Sheev thinks back to the holocron he keeps—the one Plagueis gave him a decade ago. When he falters, it reminds him of his goal.

As the galaxy slides slowly toward the specter of war, the only beings who can save them from themselves will face hatred. Sith and Jedi, ending their feud, will come together to take power. A Chosen One will appear, and if they survive past their 20^th birthday, will serve as a bridge and a weapon.

That’s how the prophecy goes, but it’s not a prophecy that the Jedi, in their hallowed halls, know anything about. They wouldn’t give it a moment’s thought, regardless. They wouldn’t bother. They hate the Sith too much to see how much the galaxy hates them.

Sheev has clarity. He will see where they cannot.

“You’re here on Coruscant for your usual senate lobbying?” Palpatine asks. “I expected to have to wait to meet.”

Plagueis waves his hand. “Damask Holdings business called me away from Sojourn first to Scipio to meet with the IBC and then here. Appearances must be kept, after all. I must seem to be the opposite of what I truly am.”

That, of course, is a reminder to Palpatine.

Keep your temper. Keep your face. Keep your reputation.

He searches his new teacher for lies and finds none. He doesn’t find truths, either, in that Plagueis is old enough to have secrets he could spend the rest of his life telling. Sheev doesn’t ... like the man, exactly, but he does respect him. He needs him even more, as much as he resents that. He can’t learn about the dark side from the Jedi. Learning about the dark side will help him spare the Jedi from their own foolish hubris.

If not power, then death.

The Jedi that don’t choose power will die, at his hand or Plagueis’, but the rest will see. He will make them see.

“My youngest lineage sibling already has his eye on taking the Chosen One as his Padawan when the time comes,” Sheev adds. “I can tell. Dooku’s interest is piqued, and he’s eager to put the child under lock and key. Do you suppose I ought to get in the way of that? Should I set it up to have you take him?”

Plagueis shakes his head. “Put aside your jealousy and rash impulses, apprentice. Taking the boy now will alert the Jedi and ruin everything. Let it be. Encourage it, where the opportunity arises. Agree that the boy must be coddled in private and then ingratiate yourself into his life as a friendly face who understands him. The boy will be frustrated at being kept on a leash and therefore ripe for our control. That way, if he survives past his twentieth year, we can ... set up whatever necessary crisis to get Qui-Gon out of the way and put the Chosen One under your tutelage. Then, he can fulfill his purpose.” Plagueis pauses. “Do you still believe that your old master will help us, when the time comes?”

Palpatine swallows. “He forgets himself, of late. He forgets his true nature. When the time comes? Yes. I do. He wants to protect the Jedi. He’s dabbled in the dark to do it before.”

Plagueis nods at this. “Keep an eye out for the boy’s eventual dyad partner. We could use them, when the time is right. The power of that bond is key to it all. Watch who the Chosen One befriends and grows close to.”

A bright and blazing image soars into Palpatine’s mind. Ten thousand Jedi, sabers ignited, surrounding the senate building. Running down the halls. Cutting down anyone who tries to stop them. What has the senate done but ground the Jedi down down down?

“Are you free of responsibilities this evening?” Plagueis asks.

“And tomorrow,” Sheev replies.

Teach me.

“To my apartments, then. Wait five minutes. Don’t follow too closely.”

Sheev Palpatine obeys. Dooku would be astonished at just how well. When those minutes have passed, he gets into his speeder and drives through the dark of the city.

One day, it will belong to him. To the Jedi.

To those who deserve it.

From the Journals of Elzar Mann (Fourth Chosen One of the Jedi Order)

These words are meant to be read only by the Jedi Council and the Chosen One who comes after me—assuming there is one—so, I’m always hoping to be honest. I’m a weird one even among weird ones, and I ended up with two dyad partners instead of one. Do I call that a triad? A double dyad? I don’t know. Something. Most days, I can’t even believe that I’m the Chosen One. I don’t know why the Force would pick someone like me. Messy. Unsure. Working around the edges of things. What I do know is that Avar and Stellan ground me. They make me feel more certain of myself. Without them I’d be ... lost. I think the thing about this whole dyad situation that makes it work is that it isn’t forged by fate. I couldn’t decide whether or not I wanted to be the Chosen One, but I could pick who I wanted at my side. I chose them, and they chose me. They put themselves willingly in harm’s way to help protect me. Our bond supercharges our Force-sensitivity, but it doesn’t mean we’re unkillable. Sometimes, I wonder if I shouldn’t have agreed to forging the dyad at all. Sometimes, I worry that it makes them targets. Marchion Ro and the Nihil want me dead. I know that. And now, because of me, they want Avar and Stellan dead too. They’re targets as much as me. They would be anyway, I know, because they’re both brilliant, and they shine so bright, and they don’t need to be associated with whatever mythic thing I am to have that, they’d have it on their own, but still, I ... I feel badly about it.

I shouldn’t say this, really. Those guys want every Jedi dead. I guess I am saying it because I want whoever comes after me not to feel alone with these big emotions and questions. You should find your dyad partner, but if you fear for them, if you hesitate, I get it. No one knows exactly what this is like except for us—to be a savior and a saint more than a person, some days. That’s the thing about Stellan and Avar, though, despite this mythical bond we have. They always see me as me. That’s who you should look for. That person.

(d. Approx 200 years ago)

Lightning slices white-gold through Kiffu’s ebony sky shortly after Tholme arrives.

The weather really doesn’t want him to get where he’s going, does it?

The orbital insistence of Kiffu and Kiffex won’t be denied. When the two sister planets tip closer together, storm season arrives and interrupts the arid climate. While the lightning might frighten others, the people here are, of all things, immune to the deadly effects of being struck by it, and the season allows them to harness electrical energy that they use year-round. Needless to say, it also replenishes their water supplies enough that they don’t need moisture farmers.

Two members of the clan escort him inside Sheyf Kurlin’s home. The Clan Vos compound, a sprawling collection of circular buildings stretching at least two klicks, sits slightly elevated to help prevent flooding. The houses, built of a particular Kiffu stone, helps manage the extreme hot and cold temperatures.

Rain pours from the sky like the tears of an ancient and vengeful god. Thank the Force for the duracrete walkway, because otherwise, Tholme would probably be sinking into sodden sand right about now. The slick material of his black rain cloak keeps him dry, at least. The hearty Yellow Star Flowers that Clan Vos uses for their tattoo ink grow wild off in the distance. The Kiffar have, Tholme learned when he was here for a year as a senior Padawan, a sophisticated drainage system that protects their plants and crops from root rot and the like when this kind of intense precipitation occurs. Dry desert ground does not absorb moisture well on its own.

That year, spent assisting the Kiffu Guardians with an infiltration of Anzati on both planets, made Tholme, in many respects, who he is today.

A high-pitched sound cuts through the clap of thunder that goes off right as Tholme steps through the front door.

A child screaming and crying.

A child screaming such that Tholme worries the boy will tear his throat open.

Despite the chaos in the Jedi Temple right now, he is where he needs to be—helping this boy. He’ll comm Qui-Gon later when he has a moment to check-in.

In the entrance hall lined with light green tile that keeps things cool during the sweltering desert days, Tholme takes off his sopping cloak, hangs it up, and removes his boots as well. The two family members lead him into a sitting room.

That scream comes again, and it could draw blood. Urgency quickens Tholme’s steps. The familiar five pointed star—the symbol of both Clan Vos and the Kiffu Guardians they currently oversee—glints at him from its place above the turned-off holocaster.

That boy comes into focus. Tied-up black locs. Warm-brown skin. Yellow tattoos that mark him as a member of Clan Vos. The atmosphere zings and zips with anxiety. The lights flicker from the storm, but Tholme knows a generator will kick on if they go out. Given their expertise with them, about a hundred years ago the Kiffar opened a factory for building generators, which are a sought-after export now. Pale yellow paint adorns the walls, and a fire crackles in the hearth

“Quinlan, my sweetheart,” a woman says to child boy writhing in her arms. “It’s all right. You’re safe. You’re safe.”

Quinlan. The name etches yellow across Tholme’s heart.

Tholme knows the woman—Quian Vos, who he met during his year here. The man at her side, his eyes sparkling with tears, he does not. He must be her husband. Sheyf Kurlin, also of his acquaintance, shouts at an older woman Tholme knows in passing.

“Tinte, what in the blessed Force were you thinking wearing that?”

“I was thinking it was passed down to me from a relative!”

“Quinlan doesn’t have control of his psychometry yet! It’s stronger than the rest of seem to understand with how high is M count is. We must be careful. We of all people know how powerfully memory echoes.”

Whatever Tinte was wearing must have been imbued with some terrible remembrance, Tholme can only assume. The Force contracts with the child’s agony, and Tholme’s empathy stretches out to soothe him.

The screaming dies down, and the little is left only sobbing. Tholme wouldn’t say only about such a thing, except it is better than the screaming. 

“May I, Quian?” Tholme asks as he holds out his arms. “I think I can help. You have a fine looking little lad here.”

“Knight Tholme,” Quian breathes, and the tension-tight Force eases a touch. “Please help him if you can. Nothing is working. It’s been an hour like this.”

If nothing is working, then this boy truly is as unique as Sheyf Kurlin said. The Kiffar know how to handle psychometric children.

Tholme takes the boy into his arms, and the Force swirls golden fire in his mind’s eye. A flash-bang of thunder that would normally draw his attention does nothing of the sort. Everything draws down to the boy. To his hitched breaths against Tholme’s neck. To the fast-paced beat of his heart. Tholme holds Quinlan close against his chest with one arm supporting his bottom, and the child’s arms slide around his neck. This little ruler-to-be of Kiffu clings to him. If he gets snot on him, so be it. He certainly had worse doing Padawan duty in the creche. Besides, he has a high tolerance for ... excretions. Mucus is the least of it.

It’s only then that he realizes that the sobbing has stopped.

The Force echoes maybes into Tholme’s head. Visions have never come to him like they have to Qui-Gon—or let alone someone like Sifo Dyas—but now they ... he can’t quite tell if this is a vision or simply a sudden wish of his own. Quinlan, this child in his arms, races around the Room of a Thousand fountains, and his laughter makes Tholme’s heart soar. The image draws away as quick as it came, but it imprints upon his memory like a favorite painting. Finding Force-sensitive children has grown more difficult since Tholme’s childhood. The Force itself feels more out of balance. Families don’t trust them as often for no reason that Tholme can understand. It is, of course, their choice to give their children to the Order or not. To be a Jedi, most days, is to be adored or despised by those who see them as more or less than any other being. He considers Obi-Wan, that poor child, who will be both hunted and worshipped.

Quinlan pulls back, and bright brown eyes, tear-streaked and tired, study Tholme with a gleam of curiosity.

“I know you,” Quinlan says as he touches Tholme’s long black hair.

“Perhaps you do, little one,” Tholme replies, and his raw emotion floods freely into the Force. Let the child know that he’s a safe person. Let the child know he can help.

“Thank you so much,” Quian’s husband says. “We were so afraid we wouldn’t be able to—" He steps closer to put a hand on Tholme’s shoulder, and his smile glows. “I’m Pethros Vos. I ought to have said before.” He turns to his son, who laughs when his father taps the edge of his nose. “Do you feel better Quin?”

Quin nods, and he glances at his mother, who smirks like she knows what he’s about to ask.

“What is it, my darling?”

Quin sniffs, and he’s shaking a bit, still. “Can I have a milkshake for dinner? Cousin Qualvin—”

“Says it helps after a bad episode,” Quian finishes with a fond shake of her head. “So I've heard.”

At this, a booming laugh escapes Sheyf Kurlin, and Tinte, whatever her irritation earlier, smiles at his side.

Tholme finds he doesn’t trust her.

“Despite your cousin’s falsehoods,” Quian says, but she doesn’t take Quinlan from Tholme’s arms. She seems to sense he wants to be there. “Tonight, you may have a milkshake for dinner, but you have to drink your electrolyte drink, after, all right?” She sticks out her pinky toward her son. “Swear? That actually will make you feel better.”

Quin giggles and pinky swears his mother.

Tholme, still carrying him, follows the family into the dining room where other members of the clan are likely waiting.

Outside, the storm rages.

Tholme, with a tired toddler warm against his chest, leaves the future behind for the first time since last night.

For now, he breathes easy.

The future will come on its own terms.

Chapter Text

16 Years Before the Arrival of the Chosen One

Karlinus. Chommell Sector

Seventeen-year-old Padawan Sheev Palpatine slumps against the pilot’s seat of this old T-1 shuttle as it speeds through the blue-silver swirl of hyperspace. He isn’t a ship aficionado by any means, but it does annoy him that old vessels like these are still part of the Jedi fleet. The Order deserves better. The Jedi always want to fix things that can be fixed, of course, and he should think that way too. He should.

Still.

“Your posture leaves much to be desired,” Master Dooku remarks from the seat next to him.

“No one’s looking at me right now but you,” Sheev snaps. “So, I think you’ll survive.”

That was definitely too far, and undeserved—as irritating as his master’s rules sometimes are, there’s a purpose to them—but they could be going out with Master Kostana right now on her new hunt for a Sith artifact. They were invited.

And then they got a comm from the council.

Bandits on Karlinus, essentially a sister planet to Naboo, needed their attention.

“I do suppose I will,” Dooku says, less sharp than Sheev expected as he brushes back a strand of his already immaculate black hair. “We’re not going to Naboo itself, Padawan. The council wouldn’t send you if we were. I wouldn’t take you to Naboo.”

I do think you need to work on your anger at even a mention of the place, is what Dooku doesn’t say aloud, but Sheev’s heard it before. A million times. His master is right, but it’s easier said than done.

At first, Sheev doesn’t respond. He knows well enough about Dooku’s own return to his home planet of Serenno when he was twelve and unaware that his father hated Force-sensitives. Stumbling across the sister he didn’t know he had, Dooku also met his father, Count Gora, who stated quite clearly that he never wanted to see his son again. When Dooku asked the expected questions about this, Yoda, having wished to spare him pain, explained the details—Gora commed the Jedi to come pick up his son and left him in the wilderness.

Dooku was a year old.

When Dooku returned to Serenno years later for the funeral of the mother he never met despite the negative encounter with his father as a youngling, his father shouted and shoved him and called him a freak.

Needless to say, Dooku’s family reunion didn’t go as planned.

“You wouldn’t take me to Naboo because you think I can’t handle it,” Sheev adds peevishly. “Even if you went to your homeworld. Confronted your father who hated you.”

Heaving a sigh, Dooku turns in his seat and furrows his brows in Sheev’s general direction.

“My return to Serenno caused ... difficulties. It tempted me toward things that ... I would protect you from my own experiences.”

Sheev cuts his gaze out toward space. “Because you were too attached to your sister? Did that cause the difficulties?”

“Sometimes, I let my feelings manage me instead of managing them when it came to rushing off to save Jenza, but that is not so unique among the Jedi or elsewhere. Don’t let fear overwhelm you, love others but don’t possess them, understand that you cannot control everything, etc. All Jedi work at those things daily.” Dooku pauses like he’s surprised at his own candid comments. “The more dangerous issue I encountered was being unable to get past the hurt my father caused. Having him hate Force-sensitives enough to leave his own son in the woods to be devoured by Spine wolves. I wanted to save Serenno from that kind of nonsense, from people like him, and—”

Dooku clears his throat and claws back the tendrils of truth.

The trouble is, Sheev heard them. He heard that nugget of clarity in his master. He heard thoughts that spin through his own head all the time.

“Do you ever want to go back to Serenno?” Sheev asks. “To try and take what’s—”

“Mine?” Dooku finishes, and a shot of cold rage at old things boomerangs in the Force. “Sometimes. I find that being the best Jedi I can be, however, is a much better revenge.” He laughs, dry and a little dark, and Sheev understands. “Don’t repeat that, if you don’t mind.”

Quiet falls between them, and Sheev’s mind turns toward the mission.

“So, bandits? Isn’t that a bit ... beneath a Jedi?”

“Nothing is beneath us,” Dooku replies, “but it does seem like something local law enforcement or the regional judicial officers should be able to handle. The Jedi are stretched thin already. However, we have a close relationship with this sector and maintaining that is worth it.”

Rising from his seat, Dooku puts a light hand on Sheev’s shoulder. Sheev doesn’t say thank you, it’s beneath both of them, but he accepts the gesture.

“I’m going to meditate a while,” Dooku tells him. “I trust you to pilot us there.” 

Once his master leaves, Sheev takes his grown-out red hair out of its tie, retrieves his holobook from the storage box, and puts his feet up on the console.

Rael is a bad influence.

Flicking to the place where he left off in The Jedha Museum: The Galaxy’s Most Infamous Art Heist, Sheev loses himself in the mysterious details of this unsolved theft. Master Jocasta suggested this title because of his interest in art and artifacts, and she, as always, knows his taste well. He and his best friend, Silas Tynn—a member of his creche clan—spend enough time in the archives to have succeeded in making her fond of them. Dooku is certainly fond of her, but Sheev would really rather not consider the open secret of whatever his master is up to with Master Jocasta and Master Sifo Dyas.

Sheev likes a good sparring session, but while many of his agemates are eager to prove themselves time and again in the salles—and in some cases, flirting with one another whilst fighting—he feels confident enough in his skills to avoid their competitions. Maybe it’s having one of the greatest duelists in the Order as his master that gives him the confidence, but he earned it. Dooku is, above all, a tireless teacher.

One more round, Padawan, Dooku said two weeks ago when they last sparred together, both of them dripping sweat and heaving for breath. You’re getting closer, but you’re still putting too much into it. Makashi is precise. Don’t put all your strength into each strike, but instead, think about the strikes themselves. Economy of motion.

They went again, and Sheev held back his impulse to go at his opponent like a wild creature, to scratch and claw and push, and observed, instead. Thought two steps ahead. Dooku is one of the only remaining practitioners of Makashi in the Order, and Sheev, eager to learn the classic style, selected it immediately upon being asked which form he would like to focus on. His fellows will be better at beating back blaster bolts, yes, but this form marks him as a Jedi who appreciates the history of their Order.

Besides, Master Dooku remains quite open about his anxieties over the Sith’s return. Having a friend plagued by dark visions ... probably doesn’t help, but Sheev doesn’t blame him.

Creatures like the Sith don’t disappear.

Bladework is about being smarter than your opponent, Dooku told him again and again. Quicker footwork, a sharper mind, a body in shape, will get you further than any show of brute strength.

Dooku smiled when they finished. It was the proud one with that flash of white teeth that Sheev chases after more than he probably should. They sat together in the salle, drank their water, and watched the sun melt down the windows of the temple. After, they went to dinner with Master Sifo, who told them about his latest seeking mission.

As for the flirting with other Padawans? Well, Sheev finds some other boys his age attractive, and he’s had fun a time or two, but he doesn’t need to make it known to the world at large, and he’s not interested in any long-term sort of thing.

He really would rather be hunting artifacts with Master Kostana, but at least this mission has an investigative aspect to it rather than just putting out fires or battling idiot bounty hunters.

Maybe that, hopefully, will make him forget that he’s so close to Naboo.

Maybe.

They arrive to the sight of golden wheat stalks weaving in the wind, and Sheev eases the shuttle down onto a landing bay. The fields, expansive as they are beneath the bold blue sky, almost make him feel like he’s about to drown. Sheev knows everything there is to know about most every planet in the Chommell sector. Information is power, after all. Karlinus is almost entirely agricultural, and they are one of the main exporters of grain in the mid rim. Maybe his master was right. Maybe they won’t run into his father here. What would a Naboo nobleman who hides away at his lake house need to do here?

Taking a quick glance in the mirror, he smooths his olive-green tunic, ties his hair back again, sets his Padawan braid over his shoulder, and slides on his deep brown robe.

Wherever you go, you represent the Jedi Order, Dooku told him during the first week of their partnership. Please make sure that your tunics are pressed, your hair brushed, and your boots polished.

His master, all six feet five inches of him, appears in the doorway of the cockpit. His cape hangs off his shoulders with nary a wrinkle in sight. His hair shines almost as well as his boots. Sheev isn’t sure how Dooku manages it, but he’d like to learn.

“Ready?”

As he’ll ever be.

Governor Linus meets them as they come off the ship. A Muun, wearing what is no doubt a designer cape made of black velvet, waits with him, and he is, somehow, taller than Dooku. Sheev’s met a few beings from Muunilist and Mygeeto in his travels and on Coruscant, but none of them from the International Banking Clan. This Muun, given the patch on his cape, seems to be a member.

“Governor Linus,” Dooku says with a bow, “I am Jedi Master Yan Dooku, and this is my Padawan, Sheev Palpatine.”

The governor’s eyes widen. “Palpatine? Are you any relation to Cosinga Palpatine of Naboo, perhaps? He’s a friend of mine.”

Be calm be calm be calm represent the Jedi well you want them to keep wanting you remember what you were taught.

The thoughts bang against Palpatine’s skull as he clenches one fist beneath the fall of his sleeve, acknowledges the lava coursing through his veins, and lets at least some of it go.

“He’s my father.” Palpatine’s smile stretches, and it hurts, but he keeps doing it because Dooku taught him how. “Of course, I haven’t seen him in some years.”

“Splendid, splendid, it’s wonderful to have a Jedi from our sector here.” Governor Linus claps his hands together. “I’m pleased to meet you both. This is Hego Damask, of Damask Holdings. He is currently working with Naboo to refine their plasma resources for export and recently began doing the same here with King Tapalo’s permission. He was on-world when the thefts began and wanted to stay to make sure they cleared up in case the bandits got any ideas about plasma rather than grain.”

“I’m sure we can use all the help we can get.”

Dooku smiles that smile as he speaks, tight and tense. Sheev knows well enough that it means he doesn’t like someone, but the pleasant tone of his voice makes the person think he does. Sheev searches for anything in the Force to warrant that dislike but finds ... blankness. Interesting. Perhaps his master can feel something he can’t, though it’s likely not anything more than an irritation with what Dooku often calls the corporate invasion of the galaxy. Although, he is, it seems, more willing to work with them than some other Jedi, if it means sorting out problems in the Republic.

Corporations have their own agendas, Master Sifo said just last week as they all sat in the refectory. If you suppose you can control them for your own well-meaning aims, do suppose again. Even your considerable diplomatic skills are unlikely to make them bend the knee to anything other than their own interests.

Governor Linus transports them to his well-built but modest home at the edge of a lush forest, and the blue-green roof and white stone reminds Sheev of driving through Theed one late night when he was four, not long before Cosinga took him to the temple. His two-year-old sister and six-month-old brother sat with him in the back while his father complained to his mother about some political rival or another. Cosinga backhanded him, that night, for talking to him in an unacceptable tone. The truth was his father just didn’t like to be disobeyed in any context, and Sheev dared to say, at age four, that he was sleepy and wanted to go home.

He puts that away. He’s here to be a Jedi. He’s here to help even if this mission is beneath him and certainly beneath his master.

Governor Linus explains the situation to them—bandits are attacking farmers travelling their grain, both day and night, on both rural and city roads. Once the grain is in their possession, they sell it to Outer Rim worlds in need at double the market price. This, to Sheev, says they must have some central base from which they’re sending out groups of thieves, and that ought to be what they focus on. His master agrees when he speaks that aloud, and when Dooku goes with Linus to collect a set of holomaps to study, Sheev is left alone with Hego Damask.

“Is it good to be back in your home sector?” Damask asks, but the lift of his lips seems to indicate that he knows it isn’t.

Sheev clearly didn’t put on enough of a show when they arrived, because this man picked up on his feelings. Is he Force-sensitive? Palpatine considers that blankness again. Everyone has a Force presence, Jedi or not. It’s a matter of strength, not existence.

With this man, there’s nothing.

“My memories of Naboo and the Chommell sector are fuzzy.” Sheev tells the lie with elegance. He speaks it not through clenched teeth, but with a smile of his own. “Even with earlier Jedi memory recall, it’s been so long.”

The lie hangs between them, and Damask snatches it between his long fingers.

What does this man want? Sheev isn’t interested in being a bored businessman’s entertainment, but his temper is his greatest flaw, and he needs to do better with it.

“I did meet your father on Naboo,” Damask continues. “He was very against the plasma refinement agreement.”

“He was very protective of Naboo, from what I recall,” Sheev says, and he’s a bit short but still polite, just as his master would approve of. “If you don’t mind my asking, what does Damask Holdings do?”

Steer the discussion in a better direction. Yes. That’s what he needs to do. He’s watched Dooku do it dozens of times. He’s watched his master capture a conversation in less than a minute.

“We have various investments throughout the galaxy. Agriculture. Technology. Transportation. Minerals. I like to find ... opportunities.” Damask takes a sip of the famed blood-red wine that the Chommell sector is known for. “So, do tell me—do you enjoy being a Jedi? It must be quite the adventurous life.”

Wealthy people like this are usually bored and nosy. Perhaps that’s all this Muun is if he thought grain thieves might go for something as unstable as plasma and inserted himself into the middle of an investigation.

“I get to visit quite a few planets. My master is one of the most well-thought-of Jedi in the Order, and I’m honored to learn from him.”

Despite his enthusiasm for these facts, Sheev holds still in the Force. His crechemaster used to say that he had a nose for people with ill intent. Indeed, he once felt the presence of a thief coming up behind his youngling clan when he was ten and warned the three older Jedi with them. Thankfully, rather than getting mugged, his clan was able to go on their field trip to Coruscant’s Tooka rescue.

There’s nothing Sheev can do about it if there is ill intent with Damask, but he doesn’t have to play whatever game the Muun is interested in pulling him into for his brief amusement.

That matchstick temper of his threatens. Cosinga’s name inks into his skin like the blood he left behind when he backhanded Sheev while still wearing his signet ring. How dare this stranger, this wealthy wretch who has what—

No. No. He is above thinking that way. He is above Naboo and the nobility and all of their foolish concerns. The Jedi wanted him.

His blood family didn’t.

No fine robes or lake houses or credits will make up for that.

“Do you share in the Naboo love of art?” Damask asks, right as Sheev’s temper is about to slip through his fingers. “I’ve enjoyed the museums in Theed.”

Sheev draws in a deep breath and remembers that moment with his master in the salle. He remembers a late night with Silas in the archives when the two of them snuck in snacks so they could stay later. Silas, a Twi’lek, found a shop in the city that sold some of his favorites from Ryloth, and they shared them until some nonsensical time of the night. Vokara, another of their clan mates, came by. She chided them for the violation but took some food anyway and sat with them a while.

The Jedi want him around. They don’t tell him that he’s a nasty child. They don’t. They wouldn’t.

Meditate upon the things that bring peace, Dooku has told him time and again, and it will melt the anger. Clear your head.

Calm comes more easily than Sheev expected. It cascades over his shoulders and down his ribs like a coating of clarity.

“I did,” he replies with a note of friendliness in his voice that he couldn’t manage before. “I’m reading a book on the Jedha heist, actually.”

“Ah.” Damask raises a finger and smiles what might be ... an actual smile? Sheev can’t get a read. “An excellent choice. I’m an art collector myself. I’m in Coruscant for part of the year and keep some of my favorite pieces in my apartment there. Perhaps when your apprenticeship has finished, and you’re the master of your own time, you can come see them.”

An odd stone-weight plummets to the pit of Sheev’s stomach, but before the maybe comes out of his mouth, his master returns. Several members of local law enforcement arrive, and the lot of them go over the maps and locate the most likely bases for the bandits. Damask pays Sheev no particular mind, after that. Maybe it really was just the idle musings of a bored businessman and nothing more sinister.

For now, they have thieves to find.

Three Days Later

High off the satisfaction and excitement of finding the clue that led to the bandits’ capture, Sheev finds himself in the governor’s home a second time. While Dooku is busy assisting the officers with taking the bandits in, Sheev waits in Governor Linus’ sitting room. He’d rather go back to his room at the lodging house, but the governor is insisting on having them for an elaborate dinner in thanks.

He really ought to have brought his book.

He does have his datapad and opts to catch up on his holomails instead. One of the archivists wrote asking if he would mind helping with a class for older younglings about how to use the archives. There’s another on the chain his creche clan keeps with photos of some type of lizard creature that one of them encountered on a mission.

The front door opens with a whine—the hinges need some oil.

A chill shoots down Sheev’s spine, violent enough to make him jolt.

Everyone really does have a Force presence.

“Your timing is incredible, Cosinga,” Governor Linus, somewhere in the entryway and out of view, says.

“Oh?” that nasal, pitched up voice that Sheev knows like he knows the look of his own face in the mirror, asks. “Why is that?”

“Because”—Governor Linus steps inside the sitting room, and Sheev almost breaks the screen of his datapad from pressing down so hard—“your son is one of the Jedi who helped catch the bandits.”

For the first time, Sheev understands what it means when people say that they left their body. Here he is in this house. His father, Cosinga Palpatine, is standing right in front of him. He’s aged, but it’s him. It's him with gray streaking through the same fire-red hair Sheev himself has. Those fine black tunics are exactly as Sheev remembers them. The signet ring glints beneath the overhead light.

“Oh,” Cosinga says, and Sheev hates that he couldn’t find the words to speak first, “what a ... surprise.”

A frown cuts into that sharp-sculpted face as Cosinga sizes Sheev up and no doubt finds him wanting.

“You’re well, I imagine?” he continues, and his eyes dart toward Linus, who looks on expectantly. “An apprentice now, I expect?”

“A Padawan, yes, sir.” Sir tastes like ash in his mouth, but he cannot be seen being rude to his father. “Master Dooku is my teacher.” 

“Master Dooku is quite impressive,” Linus says, bouncing up and down on the balls of his feet in a pleased-with-himself way. “Quite tall too. Almost like a Lasat or a Wookie. I certainly wouldn’t want to go against him in a duel, I should think.”

“Yes,” Cosinga says absently, and his gaze lingers on Sheev. “I do believe I’ve heard his name before.” That frown turns into a slap dash smile. “I applaud you and your master on finding the thieves.”

“Sheev found the final clue, actually,” Linus adds. “You’ve got quite a clever young man, Cosinga.”

Sheev inclines his head. “Thank you, Governor.”

“The Jedi do a great service to the galaxy,” Cosinga says. “We’re lucky to have their assistance. I’m certainly proud to have a Palpatine in their ranks.”

Liar. Liar liar liar.

Take this thing.

“I’m sorry to dash, Linus, but I fear I must take my leave. Thank you for lunch.” He turns toward Sheev with that same slap dash smile. “It’s good to see you, Sheev. I’ll tell your mother and siblings you’re doing well. You have another brother and another sister now.”

Two more siblings? Of course. Of course.

Cosigna puts out his hand for Sheev to shake, and Sheev takes it because Linus is still standing right there. Their palms slide together, and a second shot of cold goes down Sheev’s spine. It twists around the cord and ties a knot.

“It was good to see you, as well. Give Mother my best.”

“Would you like me to drive you, Cosinga?”

“Not necessary, thank you. It’s a nice day. I can walk and find a taxi to the spaceport.”

Walk. His father has never walked anywhere in his life. He wants to leave.

Dark green cape swinging behind him, Cosinga does exactly that.

Leaves.

Linus, patting Sheev on the shoulder, says something about supper and exits the room himself. Sheev waits. He waits one and two and three and four minutes, and his master isn’t here, and something buried not-so-deep strikes that match. The fire crackles in his ears, and it’s loud, and he calls out to Governor Linus that Dooku has commed and asked him to come to town.

“Please feel free to take one of the speeders out front.” Linus pokes his head around the door of the sitting room. “Is everything all right? Did a bandit escape?”

Sheev waves his hand even as that thing that lit the match coils beneath his ribs, desperate to spring to life.

“Nothing like that. We might be needed on another mission, it seems. I don’t yet have the details. My apologies if we have to miss dinner because of it. You’ve been a kind host. Thank you for bringing my father by. It was good to see him.”

That's right, the thing whispers. Play the role. Your master taught you how.

Linus tells him it’s no bother.

Sheev bows.

Then, he runs. He runs up the drive hard and fast, kicking up gravel beneath his boots until he reaches the trio of speeders parked at the bottom of the winding woods leading to the governor’s home.

The keys are already inside.

The engine roars in his ears as the speeder starts up, and he presses the pedal to the floor. Air rushes over him as he goes and goes and goes. The world whizzes by. The bold blue sky. The red Millaflower bushes. The birdsong screams in his ear, and maybe he screams with it.

Cosinga’s green cape catches his eye. Sheev slams on the brakes, and the speeder hasn’t even come to a halt before he’s jumping over the side. The Force makes it easy. He has the Force. His father doesn’t. His father thinks he’s special, and for what? Nothing but money and a name that would be dirt if Sheev had anything to say about it. That thing springs bloody out of his chest. A darkness hunts at his heels, some presence that can’t be anything but him in truth. The memories he thought of the other day with Hego Damask fracture. He can’t grab hold of them. Does he want to? Interrogating that question is too much right now.

Cosigna swings around.

“What in the absolute—”

“Leaving, are you?” Palpatine snarls. “Those aren’t the manners you taught me. But then, none of your rules ever applied to you, did they?”

“Sheev.” Cosinga rolls his eyes, and that makes the thing scream. It makes that tracking presence move in closer. “Whatever you think you remember—”

“I have memory recall from the age of two,” Sheev spits. “I remember enough. Take this thing, you said when you brought me to the temple.”

“You were far better off at the temple.”

Sheev scoffs. “What riveting insight. I know that.”

The Jedi keep him safe from that thing inside him. That thing that’s been let loose now, and he needs to draw it back, but he can’t. That shadow, that presence, presses close against his back.

“Then what are you so upset about, son?”

Son flies from Cosinga’s mouth like a construction worker spitting cigarra chewing tobacco onto the sidewalk in Coruscant.

“To not have my own father hit me, for one thing.”

Cosinga stalks closer, and his blue eyes burn as he seizes Sheev’s wrist in an unforgiving grasp. Their rage matches, and Sheev Palpatine is his father, isn’t he? He doesn’t want to be. He must not be.

Emotion, yet peace. Emotion, yet peace.

“Children get what they deserve,” Cosinga seethes. “And you deserved every bit of it for being a dark, disturbed, disobedient boy.”

Emotion, yet peace. Emotion, yet peace. Sun-melt windows snacks in the refectory the mint green creche blanket on his first night in the temple.

“You were in there lying about how you appreciate the Jedi.” Sheev’s voice goes low. “Why do you hate Force-sensitives? What did they ever do to you?”

Cosinga barks a laugh.

“I’m not a bigot, and you’re a fool for assuming so.” Cosinga leans closer and squeezes Sheev’s wrist like he’s talking to his toddler and not his powerful adolescent son. “I don’t hate Force-sensitives, Sheev. I just hate you.”

That thing strikes the match again. That presence hangs over Sheev’s shoulders. He tears his wrist out of his father’s grasp. He pushes, not with his hands, but with the Force, and ....

Cosinga goes flying through the air in a green-black whirl. No matter his rage, Sheev didn’t shove that hard. An intoxcating power runs sticky-hot through his veins. It’s his and it isn’t and what is happening he didn’t—

Cosinga doesn’t even have a chance to shout. To scream. Nothing.

A sickening crack resounds. Blood spatters onto the grass. The brief flash of satisfaction at watching his father go hurtling through the air fades, though bits of it linger beneath his skin. A dark drive fills him up to the brim and tussles with the part of him that is going to vomit.

Closing the distance between himself and his father, Sheev finds what he expected to find.

Open, glassy eyes. Cosinga’s head bashed against a sharp rock. His limbs twisted at odd, impossible angles.

Dead. He’s—

The sounds of a speeder reach him. No no no no he’ll be out of the Order in jail done for. That cold silver shine prods at the back of his neck down the bond.

Dooku.

Master Dooku is—

“Sheev?” Dooku leaps out of the speeder with elegant ease. “Sheev, what—”

Dooku reaches Sheev and the body both. He curses.

“Master,” Sheev breathes, and he is above hyperventilating. He is above panic. “I didn’t ... he grabbed me. I pulled away and shoved him with the Force. Not ... hard. I—”

Doing several things at once that are beneath him, Sheev Palpatine collapses to the grass. He grabs a handful and tears it out at the root. A sob tempts him, and he swallows it back, because no one can hear him. They can’t hear him.

Is he sorry that his father is dead? No, and that scares him. He can say he’s sorry that he killed him. He hadn’t meant to. How did he shove that hard? The dark side. He must have tapped into it with his rage. Now, the Jedi will throw him out. The only people who ever wanted him won’t anymore, and that’s childish, that’s childish, he has killed his father, but the Jedi are all he has ever had.

His master’s hand comes down and grasps the back of Sheev’s robes with a firm but gentle tug. Unsteady on his feet, Sheev lets Dooku turn him around so they’re facing one another. That bird song screeches in his ear again. That bold blue sky beats down. That shadow clings to his spine, and that thing curls back beneath his ribs.

That thing has ruined him.

“Look at me, Sheev.”

No. He can’t look at his master. He can’t look at the master who chose him because of his appreciation for academics. The master who chose him because he was quiet and a little strange even for a Jedi. The master who noticed his discipline and his dedication. They’ve both always wanted to be the best.

“Look at me, Sheev.”

Sheev’s natural defiance leaves him, because that command, low and deep in Dooku’s chest, cannot go unanswered. His master searches him with the usual intensity in his brown eyes that Sheev has gotten used to over the years. Those eyes can spot a lie a klick away, because as good of a Jedi as Master Yan Dooku is? Paranoia makes him distrustful. It’s yet another thing they share in common.

“What we’re going to do,” Dooku says when he’s found whatever it is he’s looking for, “is roll him down that hill with the Force. Do not touch him. You said he grabbed you. Did his gloves touch your skin? Sweat? Anything?”

Sheev shakes his head. “I don’t think so. He grabbed my wrist. My sleeve covered everything.”

“All right. We’ll roll him down that hill. You’ll get back in your speeder, and I’ll get back in mine. We’ll split off before town. I’ll go in. You’ll wait so it looks like you’re meeting me where people can see. We’ll comm Governor Linus and make our excuses. We got called on another mission. Am I understood?”

The cool calculation in his master’s voice soothes him, of all things. He respects it.

“Yes, Master.”

Why the governorship of Karlinus set this house at the edge of a forest, Sheev couldn’t say, but now? It’s a blesssing.

Raising their hands together, Sheev and Dooku direct the Force toward Cosinga’s corpse.

“Easy,” Dooku says. “We don’t want a repeat.”

Except, when Sheev pushes, it’s with his normal amount of power. He’s been training long enough to know how to do these things without overdoing them.

He truly must have tapped into the dark side. There’s no other answer.

They watch as Cosinga careens down the steep slope of the hill and lands near a bush. Dooku sends the blood-streaked rock down as well.

“He stopped to look at something and fell,” Dooku tells him. “That’s what they’ll assume. Unless ... did you see him inside the house? How did you react?”

“I was polite,” Sheev whispers. “I shook his hand. I said it was good to see him.”

“Good,” Dooku murmurs. “Good.”

Cosinga’s blank-eyed corpse stares up at him from the bottom of the hill, and the beat of his own heart thrums in his ears. Well, his mother and siblings can live without the terror of Cosinga’s moods. That’s something. His mother never helped him, but still.

“He was right about me,” Sheev says softly. “I am everything he said I was that he didn’t want to recognize in himself. I’m him.”

Dooku puts a hand on Sheev’s shoulder, and Sheev doesn’t shrug it off. “You are not. Do you believe that I’m the freak my father said I was?”

“No.”

“And was this truly an accident?”

“Yes.”

I think so.

“We will continue to work on your temper.”

“The council will—”

“The council would not cast you out,” Dooku interrupts. “That’s not how the Order does things—even for Jedi who fall and do much worse than this. It’s the legal ramifications I have concern over. We’ll relieve them of that burden by keeping this to ourselves.”

“Master?”

“Yes?”

“Have you ever”—Sheev hesitates before plunging forward—“been tempted by the dark side?”

Dooku spins around when something—Sheev doesn’t know what—summons his attention. His narrowed eyes search out the source and find nothing. It must have been a creature of some sort.

“Yes,” Dooku answers. “We’ll sort it out together, Padawan. Now, let’s go. You go right at the end of the drive and double back. I’ll go left and wait at the fountain in the center of town.”

Sheev complies without comment, but this time? This time there is one thing that isn’t beneath him.

“Thank you,” he says. “For helping me.”

Dooku clears his throat with a nod. “You’re welcome. Now go.”

The engine of this old speeder revs to life, and Sheev slows his heartbeat, times it to his slowed-down breaths, and tries to forget the relief that rushed through him when he heard that crack, like he had exorcised a demon from some ancient and forgotten religion out of his body.

Except, maybe he did.

Maybe now, he can live without ghosts.

To use the Force is to take from it and deplete its energy. Using it to “save” one life will have negative consequences elsewhere. So-called “users” of the Force claim to be sparing lives, but if a being dies, it was the will of the Force for them to die. Any being born with the power to “use” the Force has an evil within them that must be cast out. Children with this affliction must confess, every week, every time that they either used the Force or thought about using it. Punishments are doled out according to their confession. In this way, as they let go of their defiance, they will become adults free of this affliction.

~ The Holy  Book of Stewjon (d. 380 years ago)

One Week After the Chosen One’s Arrival

The Jedi Temple

Obi-Wan really, really likes the Jedi Temple.

Everything is bright and soft here. Everyone is kind to him. He slept by himself at first, but now he shares a big, cozy room with bunk beds! He’s part of ... a clan? There’s Siri. There’s Bant, who is Mon Calamari. Obi-Wan's never met anyone from there. There’s Prie, who likes animals as much as he does. There are two other boys—Garen, a human, and Bolla, a Rodian. Sometimes, Obi-Wan catches Bolla looking at him funny? Maybe it’s the marking on his face. It’s thin, but it does go across his whole cheek, so everyone can see it.

His back feels better, too. His legs don’t have cuts anymore, and there are scars, but that’s okay. No one can see them except for when he’s showering and needs help. There’s always enough to eat, though he has to eat different things from the other children, and he has to go to the hospital in the temple to get ... infusions? That’s what Healer Vokara calls them. That’s okay. They make him feel better. He doesn’t feel as tired as he did before.

Right now, sitting between Siri and Bant in the creche library, Obi-Wan watches a holoshow that he’s never seen before. It’s not just their clan, though. Lots of other children are in here with them.

Fruitsaber & Ember Across the Galaxy flashes over the screen.

“A tooka and a charhound find lanes that help people go to other planets,” Bant explains. “We always watch every week.”

They had holoshows on Stewjon, too, but they weren’t like this. They were always talking about The Path of the Open Hand and Closed Fist and Mardo Ro and how the Force shouldn’t be used. There were stories about how people came to Stewjon to escape other places.

Sometimes, when he accidentally used the Force, his Papa sat him down and made him watch one of the shows even if he’d seen it before.

This is our history, his Papa said once as he tossed Obi-Wan's supper into the trash. You will watch it and think upon what you’ve done.

“I’ve never seen it before,” Obi-Wan says, and he holds one of the spare sitting pillows to his chest.

Bant smiles at him, and Obi-Wan thinks that he’s been smiled at here more in the past week than ever before in his whole life.

“That’s okay. You’re so smart. I know you’ll catch up!”

“See, Obi-Wan?” Prie points at the screen. “I know you’ve seen a Tooka, but that’s a charhound! They can shoot fire out of their mouths!”

Fire? That’s so amazing.

A black dog with orange on its belly runs across the screen after a brown and black tooka cat and races past.

“Not fair!” the tooka shouts. “You have a natural advantage!”

Laughter cascades through the room, and Obi-Wan laughs, too, but he is a little confused.

“They talk?” he asks. “But they don’t in real life.”

Bolla, the Rodian boy in his clan, makes a face.

“It’s a holoshow. It’s dumb that you haven’t seen it.”

Sadness pricks at the back of Obi-Wan's throat, and his eyes start filling up, and he can’t cry no no no he’ll get in trouble.

The mean lady hated it when he cried. His Papa hated it. Only his Mama didn’t mind.

“They don’t have it on Stewjon, stupid!” Siri stands up beside Obi-Wan, her face turning a little red. “Stop being mean.”

“You’re being mean,” Bolla protests. 

Some of the other children start talking. A few older ones get up like Siri did, and Obi-Wan didn’t mean to interrupt the show. He didn’t mean to make anyone miss anything. He didn’t mean to make himself the center of attention. His Papa used to say that he did that.

Obi-Wan gets up, and the Force fills him up like it does sometimes when he can’t control it. He drops the pillow he was holding and runs over the bright blue carpet blue blue blue he hates blue. An older child tries to stop him. Bant calls out his name. Tears start falling from Obi-Wan's eyes, and before he can get out of the library, he accidentally pushes a chair out of his way with the Force, and it smacks against the wall, and now the nice Jedi will come and send him back to Stewjon for being weird—

“Obi-Wan?” Reginald—Master Coll—asks once Obi-Wan gets into the hall. “What’s the matter, little one?”

Obi-Wan can’t answer. He just keeps running. He doesn’t even know where. Before he rounds the corner, another Jedi, not Reginald, says something back in the library.

Siri, you can’t kick him! We use our words.

He didn’t listen to my words!

The halls are green here. Green. That makes him feel better. He runs and runs and runs until he hits—

A person.

A very tall person.

“I’m sorry,” he says as he glances up and recognizes one of the Jedi from his first night. At least, he thinks so. He has smooth black hair and a beard. “I’m really, sorry.”

“Well, if it isn’t just the youngling I was here to see,” the Jedi says in a deep, pleasant voice. “Are you all right?”

Obi-Wan sniffs and wipes at his eyes.

“Yes, sir.”

Crouching down, the Jedi tilts his head.

“Not a very good liar, then? And you don’t have to call me sir.”

“Lying is bad. Do I have to confess that?”

The Jedi’s brown-black eyes, bright at first, darken.

“Confess?”

Now Obi-Wan feels even weirder. He shouldn’t have said that.

“You don’t have to do that here?” he asks. “Tell a priest what you did bad every week?”

“Like using the Force?”

Obi-Wan nods. For thinking about using the Force, too, but he doesn’t say that. He’s been weird enough today.

“No,” the Jedi says softly. “You’re a little boy, Obi-Wan. You haven’t done anything wrong.”

His name. This kind, very tall Jedi knows his name.

“I’m Master Dooku,” the Jedi adds. “You know what master means here?”

“Like teacher? You have”—Obi-Wan bites his lip, trying to remember—“um, initiate, pada ....”

“Padawan, that’s right.”

“And um ... knight and master.”

“Smart lad. Those are the ranks in our order. But when we say master, it just means we’ve been here a while and know things. That’s all.”

“Master Dooku, apologies,” Reginald says as he comes up behind them. “We had a bit of a tussle in the library. I believe we’ve settled it now.” He smiles down at Obi-Wan as Dooku straightens up. “Bolla is very sorry, Obi-Wan. Fruitsaber and Ember is his favorite show, and he gets grumpy when the other children talk during it. Do you want to come back and watch?”

Obi-Wan's face warms.

“I was bad. I broke that chair.”

Reginald laughs from deep in his belly, and this makes Obi-Wan feel better.

“You are not the first, young one. It was a little more powerful than we’ve seen before, but many younglings have broken chairs in my years. Among other things. You’re all learning. It’s just what happens, and no one is angry. I promise.”

The Jedi Temple is so, so different from Stewjon.

So different.

“I have ... extra powers?” Obi-Wan asks. He’s heard some of the adults talking about it.

“That’s right. Don’t worry, you’ll learn how to manage them.”

“So, you won’t send me back?”

Obi-Wan misses the ocean and the starry skies on Stewjon. He misses his Mama. He … sometimes he misses his Papa.

He likes it better here, though. He hopes that’s not bad.

“Absolutely not,” Master Dooku says with a bite, and Obi-Wan guesses that it’s because all the adults seem mad about his bruises and the things on his legs that hurt and all of that stuff. “You don’t have to worry about that, Obi-Wan. You’re part of our Jedi family now.”

“You truly don’t need to worry,” Reginald says. “Let’s go, little one. I think you’ll like the show.”

Well, Obi-Wan guesses he could go. Bant and Siri and Prie would want him to.

“Master Dooku?” he asks. “Do you want to watch?”

Master Dooku seems a little sad, but very smart, and Obi-Wan wants to talk to him more, if he doesn’t mind.

Master Dooku’s smile, wide as it is, gets a little lost in his beard.

“I’d be pleased to.”

Reaching down, he sweeps Obi-Wan up into his arms, sets him on his hip, and walks back toward the creche library. Obi-Wan likes the soft feel of his robes. He smells good too. He’s ... a little bit like Qui-Gon. Or the nice man with long black hair, Master Sifo. The Force warms, and Obi-Wan giggles when Master Dooku collapses them into one of the bright yellow beanbags in the back. Siri, Bant, and Prie come join them. Bolla apologizes and Obi-Wan says that he’s sorry for talking but would like to hear all about the show later. Even if some of the other kids look at him a little funny, they don’t say anything mean at all.

Or, actually, maybe they’re all looking at Master Dooku. He must be famous, or something.

“I’ve taught some of these older younglings a few lightsaber techniques. Do you know what a lightsaber is?”

Obi-Wan is about to say that he does, but then some of the children hush Master Dooku, who falls quiet.

Maybe the Jedi won’t send him back. Maybe he can sleep in the little cave he’s made of his bottom bunk bed and miss the sea without wanting to go back to it. He likes being around people like him. The Force makes him feel safe, and here, he doesn’t get in trouble for it. A little pinch goes up his neck at the thought.

Master Dooku wraps an arm around Obi-Wan's shoulders and tucks him close against his side.

In Obi-Wan's head, the Force shines stars above a smooth and glassy sea.

Dex’s Diner

Senior Padawan and soon-to-be Jedi Knight Qui-Gon Jinn blows on the hot cup of caf in his hands and watches the steam dissipate.

It’s his third cup of the day, and is that a tad excessive? Probably. Sleep hasn’t come easily, of late. He’s been up ruminating, worrying over Obi-Wan. Qui-Gon tries not to over worry as a rule unless there is something to worry about. He likes to take things as they come.

This little boy, everything with Stewjon, won’t let him go.

Leaning back in his seat, he sets the cup of caf down.

“I suppose I was hoping—” He presses his thumb into a small scratch in the red leather of the booth and centers his spinning mind. “I don’t know. Obi-Wan told me himself. The seekers who found him told us all how it was on Stewjon.”

“You didn’t want it to be as bad as it is there,” Dex says. “That’s only fair, kid.”

Qui-Gon quirks a brow. “I’m hardly a kid, Dex.”

“Your master is a kid to me.”

With all of this information beating against his skull, Qui-Gon appreciates the joke. He's been here for two hours with Dex listening to him talk about the Path of the Open Hand/Closed Fist and their origins on Dalna. Hearing about the Battle of Jedha, essentially caused by this cult, rather than reading about it was ... quite something.

“We work in harmony and friendship with other Force religions even if we differ on some points of doctrine and belief—you'd find that in the Jedi temple alone. The beings who don’t like us usually aren’t religious, exactly,” Qui-Gon says. “They either don’t understand our abilities and are scared of them, or they think we’re not doing enough to help the galaxy, or they think we have too much power. This is older. More ancient and embedded. I suppose I didn’t imagine exactly this would reoccur. That the descendants of an old cult would come back to haunt us.”

“Past has a funny way of coming back around in strange places.” Dex takes a swig of his own black caf. “Felt like I’d been thrown back in time when I went to Stewjon. Saw those blue markings. The statues of Marda Ro. They had some new person who founded their particular flavor of what the Path did, who wrote the so-called holy book, but they still respected her. It was a beautiful planet, though. The sea looked like blue glass. Temperature was perfect. Could have been a good tourist spot, to be honest. People were out fishing and sailing, but everyone looked somber. Instead of saying goodbye, they always said the Force will be free, the old Path saying. They were superstitious as Sith hells. Had charms on their ships to ward away ghosts, I think. I don’t envy the kid growing up around all that.”

“He does seem to be perking up at the least,” Qui-Gon replies. “He’s made friends in his youngling clan already. But, he’s anxious. Still afraid of doing something wrong. I expect it will take some time for it to sink in that we won’t subject him to anything like he experienced on Stewjon. And for us to learn more about what he went through.”

“And then you’ll have to worry about everything else,” Dex adds. “Chosen One, and all.”

“Yes. We hope to keep it private for a time. Until he’s older. The last thing a toddler needs is being hunted down or worshiped.”

Dex shakes his head. “I remember poor Elzar Mann. On one hand, there were two attempts to kill him before he actually died, and those were just the ones released to the public. On the other, folks had holy cards with his face on them. They still sell them on the holonet. That said, though, I’d love to meet your little one. He’s probably never seen a diner like this.”

Qui-Gon is about to agree wholeheartedly to this when his comm goes off with a message.

Qui, if you’re finished at Dexter’s, please come to the halls of healing. Obi-Wan is fine. We just want to do some testing. Did you eat there?

No, Qui-Gon types back. I just had caf. Why?

I’ll explain when you arrive.

“Your master?” Dex asks.

“Indeed. I need to get going. Thank you, Dex, for the report you drew up. It will help us when we present this to the senate.”

Dex crosses his arms over his chest. “I know you appreciate it. The question is, will your fancy master?”

“He does not hate you,” Qui-Gon argues. “He just doesn’t like that you were a pirate once.”

“I was a prospector who helped Maz Kanata’s crew, and she was friendly with the Jedi,” Dex protests. “So, not the kind of pirate he’s thinking of.”

Qui-Gon and Dooku met Dex on a mission some years back when Qui-Gon was sixteen, and the Besalisk was still a prospector who gave them information on a group of traffickers in the Coruscant Underworld who were responsible for a kidnapping. They found the child, and later, the Shadows were able to break up the ring.

“I’m sure he’ll come around.” Qui-Gon, sliding the drive Dex handed him into his pocket, winks. “I’m not even sure he liked me at first.”

Dex’s cackle resounds, and Qui-Gon, wishing he had taken a speeder rather than the subway, makes his way slowly but surely back to the temple district. Coruscant’s colorful chaos delights him as always. The train rattles by, and smears of graffiti art catch Qui-Gon’s eye. The city changes as he goes, and the charming grime of CoCo town turns into the sky high, gleaming buildings of the federal district. The beings getting on and off the train—and their clothing—are different too. Rather than the duracrete-mix-stained trousers of construction workers or the sensible shoe wear of shopkeepers and restaurant servers, it’s beings in sleek suits and well-made capes. Eventually, they reach the temple district, and his master’s impatience runs down the bond.

“Force alive, Qui-Gon,” Dooku says upon Qui-Gon's arrival. “It’s been an hour.”

Dooku says this from his place in a Tooka-print armchair in the Halls of Healing pediatric wing with Obi-Wan on his knee, so this rather cuts into the gravity of the moment. It doesn’t help that the chair itself is meant for a child, so Qui-Gon’s master is rather … too large for it.

Sifo Dyas, crouched down in front of Obi-Wan with a picture book related to that hyperspace prospector show the younglings like, taps a finger above each of the words, and Obi-Wan, at not yet four, can read most of them. Incredible. While Force-sensitive children develop faster in some areas—like memory recall—most initiates don’t generally start reading until five or sometimes four like other children their age.

“Padawan Qui-Gon!” Obi-Wan exclaims as he slides down from Dooku’s knee.

They’ve trimmed his hair, so it hangs just above his shoulders in a wave that parts naturally in the middle.

“Hello, Obi-Wan.” Qui-Gon, bending down from his height, puts his hands on his knees. “And how are you this afternoon?”

While the abuse may not have affected Obi-Wan's learning development, Qui-Gon sees the other marks well enough. The little boy holds himself tight and tense despite his excitement. His eyes flit to and fro like he’s searching for danger. When that finally stops, he rests his gaze on the floor and doesn’t make eye contact. Qui-Gon doesn’t force it.

“Fine.” Obi-Wan twists his fingers, which indicates something might have gone wrong, but he doesn’t say what. “Happy to see you. Is that okay?”

A crack runs up Qui-Gon's heart.

This child has been through too much.

“Of course. I’m very happy to see you too.”

He sweeps Obi-Wan up into his arms, earns a muted giggle, and sets his sights on his master.

“And just what have you been up to?”

“Mind your manners, Qui-Gon,” Dooku chides. “I am still your master until you pass the trials.”

“Master Dooku watched the Ember and Fruitsaber show with us,” Obi-Wan whispers conspiratorially into Qui-Gon's ear. “He said he liked it.”

Qui-Gon pulls back with a grin. “Did he now?”

“He did,” Sifo says, throwing himself into the fray with a smirk. “I heard him say so myself.”

“Hush, the both of you.” Dooku, prim as ever, keeps his folded hands over one knee. “I called for you, Padawan, because I wanted to test out a particular power of Obi-Wan's so we can help him not overuse it. So, Qui-Gon, are you hungry? If you are, take our young friend’s hand, help him focus, and we’ll see if the hunger transfers. Knight Che is collecting Obi-Wan's lunch as we speak, so it won’t be long.”

This is the least harmful way of testing the Chosen One’s ability to both take on another being’s negative emotions and/or some physical pain, which includes hunger. Obi-Wan likely won’t understand it unless they try it out. The Chosen One and their dyad partner, at least in the past, have been able to share positive feelings back and forth—in a more tangible and pronounced way than other Jedi—and that, apparently, temporarily increases their Force-sensitivity. This, of course, will have to wait until Obi-Wan chooses a dyad partner—if he does.

“Obi-Wan,” Qui-Gon says as he sits the child on the empty reception desk so they can see eye to eye, “have you ever ... felt like you really wanted to make someone around you feel less sad?

Obi-Wan, swinging his hanging legs back and forth like a nervous kind of tic, nods.

“Have you ever tried to do anything about that?”

Obi-Wan nods again. “There was a little girl my age, from another planet um ... Raxus. And she fell. And she cried. And I put my hand on her shoulder and thought really hard, and she stopped crying? But then I felt sad. And my knee hurt a little.”

“All right, we need to help you learn to manage that, because if you do too much of that—taking on that sadness yourself, or trying to heal others, you’ll get really hurt. Do you understand? Did you feel tired after you did it?”

“Uh huh.”

“Did her knee stop bleeding?”

“Yeah. There was still a scrape, though.”

“All right,” Qui-Gon repeats. “Take my hand like Master Dooku asked and think really hard like you did before. Stop when I say to.”

Obi-Wan grasps onto Qui-Gon's much larger fingers, shuts his eyes, and almost immediately, the Force pulses with power. It beats with a need to do what Qui-Gon needs, and if someone around him had a truly devastating emotion or pain? That could turn into a gaping maw. They’re going to have to teach him when and when not to use the power as well as how to use it within reason when he does choose to.

Obi-Wan siphons the hunger from Qui-Gon's body, and maybe some of his worry, too. Qui-Gon ought to have emptied his mind out, been calmer. Tears fill Obi-Wan's eyes, and he holds them back, but his face scrunches with the effort.

“All right, easy, young one,” Qui-Gon soothes. “You did well. Are you hungry?”

“Yes. And scared. Are you scared?”

“I just don’t want you to feel any pain, that’s all.” Qui-Gon lifts Obi-Wan and holds him close against his chest. “Knight Che is going to bring you your lunch, and then I bet Master Sifo will finish reading you that book.”

Once Knight Che returns, they settle Obi-Wan into one of the pediatric urgent care rooms for his vitamin infusion, give him his lunch, and, indeed, have Sifo read to him. Qui-Gon goes down the hall with his master under the auspices of getting caf and tea from the refreshment room, but concern darkens Dooku’s face.

“He told me a little bit about the vision that brought him to us in the first place,” Dooku says. “He saw a man in a black cloak”—Dooku swallows—“licking blood off his fingers after using a knife on someone screaming. Obi-Wan couldn’t see his face. And there was another man there fighting with the man in the black cloak. I can’t say it didn’t make me think of the Sith ritual.”

Qui-Gon wants to say no, Master, you don’t need to worry about the Sith, they’re gone, but ... the Chosen One’s arrival alone is a sign of something coming.

“Between Sifo’s visions of a war, and this ....” Dooku trails off. “The boy will need protecting. For as long as we’re able, we must keep him a secret. If the Sith are out there, they will aim for him. And Force knows who else might. Besides, he’s a very intellectually gifted child, reading at his young age. I don’t think that has anything to do with being the Chosen One, but it will make him even more obvious when the galaxy finds out. I expect if we test his IQ, it will be quite high.”

Qui-Gon agrees with keeping Obi-Wan a secret for a time, but the fervor in his master’s voice concerns him. Still, he’s not yet a knight, and Dooku has far more experience.

“Did you speak to Master Yoda?”

Dooku nods. “Briefly. The council will convene tomorrow. He agreed about keeping this business to ourselves for a time.”

“And about the Sith?”

“He says he’s been sensing imbalance, a creep of some dark unknown, which could be a sign. Of course we cannot know,” Dooku answers. “He’s not counting it out, however. But—”

“Visions are to be dealt with carefully,” Qui-Gon finishes. “I know. He’s told me before. The Chosen One’s visions, meant to warn us they are, but jump to conclusions, we must not. Did I get it right?”

Dooku quirks a brow. “Count yourself lucky he’s only your grandmaster. My ability to sense a lie is nothing compared to his, although ... I’m not certain I’ve yet learned that lesson myself.” He sighs and casts a glance back at Obi-Wan. “In any case, Master Coll said there’s not been a sign of another vision yet, but the little one is having nightmares.”

“That’s no surprise.”

“You do very well with him, Padawan.” Dooku puts a hand on Qui-Gon's shoulder and offers him one of the rarest smiles of all—proud, but soft. It’s different than the one that comes when Qui-Gon is clever or has succeeded at something. “Getting an abused child, especially one who has been through mistreatment of this magnitude ... the Force is with you. Trust in that.”

“Thank you, Master. Truly.”

Qui-Gon escorts Obi-Wan back to the creche himself, where he meets the rest of the clan. Thoughts clash and clang in his head, and he takes a turbolift up up up to the main gardens of the temple near the roof. Greeting the civilian temple workers who grow fruits and vegetables in this well-controlled greenhouse, Qui-Gon find his favorite bench tucked by a bush of vibrant red Millaflowers from Naboo. There are some in the Room of a Thousand Fountains too, having been gifted from a queen some decades back. Naboo is fond of the Jedi, and the Jedi are fond of Naboo, in turn. It’s too bad, in the end, that Sheev doesn’t like his homeworld. Qui-Gon doesn’t blame him, but Naboo is such a beautiful place.

Those thoughts quiet but don’t vanish. The arrival of a Chosen One could be a sign of the Sith, yes, but Qui-Gon doesn’t want to lose sight of the present moment by deciding the shape of the future when he doesn’t know it. Even if this is a sign of the Sith, the Sith are more than just themselves.

It will be complicated.

To tend to the future, he must pay attention to the moment.

And he must, whatever else comes, take care of that little boy who trusted him in his most terrified moment. The Force spoke, and Qui-Gon listened.

He intends to keep listening.

From the Journals of Kevmo Zink (Second Chosen One of the Jedi Order)

Master Zacri and the council suggested that I start writing some things down about what my life is like as the Chosen One in case others come after me. Most of what we have about Zina is information others collected about her and not much from her. I guess at the time they didn’t really think about that since she was the first.

That’s what they’re calling me now, I guess? The Second Chosen One. There is a prophecy, I just ... it’s hard to believe sometimes that I’m a part of it? Me? Kevmo Zink? I’m willing to go where the Force leads, it’s just weird to think about.

I was out on the steps of the temple today—on one of our outposts in the Outer Rim—and several beings came running up to me. They had cards in their hands with Zina’s face on them—the first Chosen One, for anyone reading this after me, I realize I wasn’t totally clear before—and some with mine. There were strands of beads, too, in the shape of the Jedi crest. People wore them like necklaces. I got a few handed to me to be what they called blessed by the Force because I’m the closest to it. I did it, but it felt a little strange. I might be ... I guess important, I have these special powers that I want to live up to, but I am only as much as I can be. I want to help others, I do, so much, but being seen as more is hard. So, if you read this and feel that way too, you aren’t alone.

Things are dark, right now. We’re constantly fighting Fallen Jedi who are determined that using the dark side is the right path.

It isn’t.

It never will be.

I only hope I can help bring this conflict to a close. Despite it all, I’m not sure I’m a good enough Jedi to do it.

But I’m going to try.

2 Weeks After the Chosen One’s Arrival

The Senate Building. Coruscant

13-year-old Bail Prestor, foregoing good posture in favor of studying the two Jedi across from him, has to try pretty hard to fight a smile.

They. Are. So. Cool.

A Jedi who came to Alderaan for an investigative mission when Bail was ten sparked his love for the Order. Bail really liked how calm and kind and smart the Jedi was and enjoyed learning about his way of life straight from the source. Far from being cold and distant, Bail saw such warmth and curiosity. The Jedi stayed for a month in the Prestor household, and it changed Bail’s life.

“We will send a Judicial investigator to Stewjon to see to the safety of any Force-sensitive children based on the written testimony of Padawan Jinn, Knight Che, the Jedi Seekers, and Mr. Jettster,” Senator Antilles is saying. “Unfortunately, we won’t be able to press any charges as far as the young prince is concerned. What happened to the little one we have proof of, but as to the rest it ... I’m afraid it’s only a story from a small child.”

Bail’s mentor clenches his jaw as he says this.

Senator Antilles doesn’t like this one bit, but other senators on this committee are too afraid to risk upsetting the head of state of a fairly new Republic planet when there are whispers of rumors about some worlds thinking about maybe seceding one day. Bail understands it’s complicated, but in his view, just the fear of a war off in the future shouldn’t stop them from helping people who are hurting now. Bigotry shouldn’t be tolerated.

“The Jedi Council understands this is a thorny issue,” Master Poof says. “The intricacies of geopolitics in the best of times is no simple matter, but Senators—”

“This is not a slippery slope, Master Jedi,” Avi Singh, the senator from Raxus interrupts. “It is a matter of a single planet.”

“Abusing Force-sensitive children,” Master Yaddle replies, steady but firm. “We’re not saying that it’s happening everywhere, Senator Singh, but if it’s allowed to go without enough note on Stewjon, then other planets who are prone to bigotry against Force-sensitives—Jedi or not—will follow suit.”

Bail is only in the legislative youth program and not a senator—yet—but she’s right. She’s really right. Anger builds up in him, and it’s not his best trait, his mother always says, but he likes to think of it as passion, instead. He saw the pictures of that little boy.

And he can’t forget.

Singh raises his brows. “I understood that the Jedi did not believe in being overly punitive.”

Here, Senator Antilles’ temper gets the better of him.

“Avi, they’re not asking you to flog King Kenobi in the square. They’re asking you to protect other children from being tortured and adults from potentially being murdered. We all understand that arresting a head of state would be nearly impossible without a larger scandal, but economic sanctions or other warnings are not.”

“Oh yes,” Singh bites out, “it’s very simple, isn’t it? Doing more than sending an observer will make the Stewjoni feel as if we’re trampling over their culture. Republic overreach, indeed, and they wouldn’t be wrong.”

Bail should ... not do what he’s about to do.

But he does.

Because someone has to.

“They beat that little boy because he was Force-sensitive.” Bail doesn’t shout, but oh, he wants to, and if he loses his spot in the program, so be it. “They put painful devices around his legs. Half-starved him. He’s three years old. If someone was doing that on Alderaan, even the ruling family, I would speak out against it.”

“My young firebrand from Alderaan,” Bec Lawise of Mileva cuts in, “when you’re older, you’ll understand that trespassing against the sovereignty of a Republic member world is a fantastic way to lay the stones for conflict.”

“They’re breaking Republic law.”

“Bail,” Senator Antilles says, putting a hand on his arm. “Please sit down.”

“But Senator—”

“Sit.”

Tossing himself into his chair in a way not befitting a son of the Elder Houses of Alderaan, Bail complies. The glint in his mentor’s eye, however, means business.

“My brash young friend is correct,” Senator Antilles says after a moment. “Unfortunately, those of us who see sense on this matter have been outvoted by this committee. However, Masters Yaddle and Poof, please do keep us informed of Obi-Wan's healing progress and let us know if other reports reach you.”

“We will, all of us”—Senator Mac of Kiffu, who also voted with Senator Antilles, makes eye contact with what seems like each and every member of the fifty-being committee—“keep young Prince Kenobi’s identity as your Chosen One to ourselves until the Jedi Order so chooses to share that news with the public. He should be kept safe, and the history does speak for itself.”

At least Bail can maybe be glad that the vote was close—twenty-two for, twenty-eight against—but the ones who voted against are stupid. He hopes they know that. Lawise, he knows for sure, voted to give corporations senate seats, so it’s not like he respects the guy anyway.

“We appreciate that greatly,” Master Poof says. “Obi-Wan’s safety is very important to us. And please do keep us informed of any findings the investigator shares.”

The meeting of the Jedi Affairs committee adjourns, and Bail jogs over to the two Jedi Council members.

“Hello, young one.” Master Yaddle radiates calm despite it all, and this eases Bail’s nerves. “Can we do something for you?”

“I, uh—” He could use his mouth so well a moment ago, couldn’t he? “I have something for the little boy? Obi-Wan? If that’s okay?”

“Perfectly,” Yaddle replies as Master Poof accepts the package Bail hands over and lifts the top.

“It’s a Tooka.” Bail states the obvious and curses himself. “I just thought ... I hoped maybe it would make him feel better.”

“There’s nothing a crechling loves more than a stuffed creature.” Master Poof smiles at the fawn and brown Tooka cat and runs a finger over its smiling mouth. “So I heard tell from Master Dooku, Obi-Wan has been watching reruns of that children’s program featuring a Tooka, so I know he’ll love this. Thank you. Bail, isn’t it? I’ll be sure to tell him it’s from you.”

Bail nods, and these really neat Jedi are talking to him with interest and respect, and he is going to lose it. When he gets home, he’ll have so much to tell Breha—his best friend in the whole world.

“Bail Prestor, Master Jedi. I’m here as part of the Legislative Youth Program.”

“You were very brave to speak for us and for Obi-Wan,” Yaddle adds. “We appreciate it very much.”

Bail’s hands starts sweating. Damn, why are they sweating?

“It’s my honor. If I’m in the senate one day, you can count on me.”

The two Jedi thank him again, and Bail sweeps to the side of his mentor, who raises both eyebrows—never a good sign.

“I’m sorry,” Bail says before Senator Antilles can say anything. “I’m really sorry.”

“You’re not in the slightest.” Senator Antilles shakes his head but ushers Bail along, which must mean he’s not getting kicked out. “I support the Jedi too and think the king ought to face consequences, but we were outvoted. Your passion does you credit, but you must learn to use it as a tool in the right moments. Making people angry that you want to convince won’t do the trick.”

“Yes, sir. I know.”

“I do have a project for you pertaining to the Jedi.” Senator Antilles looks over with a smile and stops to fix Bail’s out of sorts cape. “Senator Mac, myself, and a few others are in the early stages of crafting legislation to force special interest groups who donate to political campaigns to disclose who their major donors are. There are several planets currently known for wishing to legislate against the Jedi and change the way they work with the republic, and while I don’t see it as an imminent threat, it could be in the future. I for one would like to know who is funneling money to those senators’ elections—where they are elected and not appointed. Does that sound—”

“Yes,” Bail replies without letting his mentor finish. “I’ll start the research.”

“Good. Valeria is in charge,” he says, mentioning his chief aide. “You’ll work with her.”

Bail, who usually likes the hands-on work more than searching through documents and books, has never, in his life, been as excited to go to the senate archives as he is now.

He gets to help the Jedi.

The Jedi Temple

Dooku, with a headache blooming behind his right eye, needs to meditate.

Breathe in. Breathe out. Breathe in. Breathe out. He must not go back to the place that so tempted him toward the dark before. He must not give those thoughts credence.

The Jedi ought to go leave let the Republic sort it out for themselves.

The Jedi ought to be in charge they ought to run things why not?

The thoughts come, and they go, and he exhales again.

The truth of the matter is, as much as he didn’t want to admit it years ago, the slow-crumbling, corrupt Republic will crumble entirely without the Jedi.

In a better position to help, we are, Yoda said just now, from this alliance with the Republic, than we would be on our own. Keep an eye on this matter, we must.

The Seekers will work on a new campaign to educate the public about what to look for in Force-sensitive children and to contact the Jedi whether they wish to give their children to the Order or not. Education is key to helping those children manage their powers and also to cut down on any superstition and fear people may have surrounding Force-sensitivity. It won’t change the Stewjoni, but it can help elsewhere.

Bidding hello to his fellows as twilight drips down the temple windows, Dooku skips the refectory entirely—Jo’s accusations weren’t for naught—and makes his way to his quarters.

Someone’s waiting for him just outside.

“Sheev,” he says in greeting. “No breaking in this time, hmm?”

His Padawan’s smirkish smile, the old one he doesn’t see as often these days, graces his features.

“You’re mistaking me for Rael.”

“If you wish to speak about the committee hearing—”

“It’s absurd.”

“—I’m quite tired and will be more coherent in the morning.”

Hurt pinches the still well-made bond. It’s gone as quick as it came, but the feeling took a shape.

You always have time for Qui-Gon.

Nevermind that Qui-Gon is still his Padawan, but Sheev has always ... needed him in a way the others haven’t despite seeming the least like he might.

Dooku would say it was the buried body, except ... it was like this before.

“A few minutes,” Dooku concedes as he puts in the code. “Then perhaps you also need to meditate. News does travel fast around these halls, I see.”

Sheev’s balled-up energy doesn’t allow him to sit. No, instead he paces back and forth across the carpet while Dooku takes up residence on the dark purple sofa. As ever, Sheev’s olive-green tunics are pressed and his tied back red hair brushed neat.

“What did the council say?” Sheev asks. “What is the plan?”

Dooku crosses one leg over the other and folds his hands over an aching knee. “We’re starting some new initiatives. The Seekers, led by Sifo Dyas should he choose to accept, will develop a campaign to educate the public about Force-sensitive children and offer our help even if the children don’t join the Order.”

“More to do for the Jedi, as always.”

“We’ll insist on the Stewjon report from the judicial investigator.”

“If they bother to write one.”

“Sheev, Republic officials always write reports.”

“That’s not the point.”

“The council,” Dooku continues, “made itself very clear at this hearing via our representatives. We are going to keep the young one’s identity a secret and double our efforts to protect Force-sensitive children. I also hear that our senate allies are intending to craft legislation to force the unveiling of senators who are getting money from anti-Jedi interests. What would you have us do? Yes, the arrival of a Chosen One signals danger for the Jedi, but we don’t know any details of what that means yet. We must be patient.”

In the past, Sheev might have thrown up his hands or huffed. Now, he just smooths the rage out of his expression and shakes his head.

A good sign, in the long run. His old Padawan does have trouble with his temper, but he’s improved much in the intervening years since that day with Cosinga, and something ... Dooku has no proof but there were odd happenings that day.

He wonders, not for the first time, why he disliked Hego Damask so strongly.

Speaking of shadowy money.

“I only care for the future of the Jedi,” Sheev says, and the sincerity is clear despite the grumble. “We used to see eye to eye on how.”

“Leaving the Republic won’t make worlds like Stewjon change, and we’ll be less protected, indeed,” Dooku replies. “And you had best not be meaning the Jedi seizing power. I regret ever having that conversation.”

“I meant leaving,” Sheev answers. “I’m not a twenty-year old fool with delusions of grandeur anymore.”

Dooku prods the Force for a lie and finds none. There’s also less blankness in Sheev’s presence than there was the night Obi-Wan appeared. It’s all prickling anger. Perhaps he was too paranoid about Sheev still having those particular thoughts.

“The council believes, as do most Jedi, I imagine, that remaining with the Republic gives us our best opportunity to help the galaxy.” Dooku meets his former student’s eyes and finds a gleam of real grief there.

“And you?” Sheev asks, softer than usual. “What do you think?”

“I think”—Dooku gathers his still-jumbled thoughts—“that we are most accessible as a part of the Republic. I will continue to insist on smart and bold action to protect the Jedi. You may count upon that.” Here, he pauses, and an idea he hadn’t considered occurs to him. “If you wanted to go be a wayseeker for a time, and see where the Force leads you—”

“I don’t want to take a sabbatical,” Sheev interrupts. “This is my home.”

“And you protect it well.” Dooku offers a smile. He’s tried to remember to do that more in recent years. “I just think it would behoove you to recall that you need not protect it alone.”

Sheev’s comm goes off, and with a sigh, he reads the message.

“Rael and Qui-Gon want me to come eat with them,” he mutters. “I had better go, or I’ll never hear the end of it. How is the youngling? After all of this?”

“Settling in, I think. It will be a long road. He’s quite bright. You ought to visit him, when you can. I think you’d find him an intriguing child.”

Sheev gives a bow before he takes his leave—a far cry from Dooku’s less proper, more rule-bending Padawans. Dooku takes his brown cape, a gift from his sister Jenza, and hangs it on the hook by his door. He’s just pulled out his meditation mat from the storage box beneath the caf table when that door slides open without a knock.

“I need to meditate,” Dooku says, his back still turned to Jo and Sifo. “It’s been a long day.”

“Grumpy as usual,” Sifo chides as he comes up behind him. “I’m leaving in the morning on a seeking mission, and you meditate for hours.”

Jo, dressed in her long, well-pressed green skirts and the gold-brown short tunics common among Jedi archivists, circles around the sofa—which faces the door—and leans her arms on the back with a stretch of her lovely neck.

“Is this an ambush?” Dooku grumbles.

Sifo wins out by the tried-and-true method of running his finger down Dooku’s spine and drawing away the tension. The Force heightens when Dooku is with his partners—for all of them.

“I think this form of meditation will serve you just as well,” Sifo whispers against Dooku’s cheek.

“Hardly by the book,” Dooku murmurs.

“Let Jo tell you if it is or not. Jo? What’s the verdict?”

“It’s one of the most ancient forms of meditation, actually,” Jocasta responds, one hand on her hip as she watches them with them with an eager gaze and a bitten lip. “You should let Sifo kiss you, Yan. Or would you disappoint me?”

“Only when I must, dear,” Dooku says, and his mouth curls into a smirk. “Only when I must.”

Sifo, tilting Dooku’s chin down, kisses him with a slow ease. Dooku parts his lips when Sifo’s tongue asks with a gentle permission, and he lets himself be kissed. He is not a man who surrenders much, but in here with Sifo and Jo, he does. Sliding his fingers into Sifo’s silken hair, he pulls out the black band his partner used to tie it back so he can gain a stronger purchase. Jo’s presence hums with pleasure at the sight, and soon enough, she’s there kissing Dooku with a bite that sends a sting down his spine. How different all three of them are, and how wonderfully they come together.

It was himself and Sifo, first, once they sorted themselves out after their early adolescent fumblings. Jo, their close friend since their Padawan years who is three years older, came into this particular equation in their early twenties when they both admitted to having quite the crush on her.

They only ... didn’t know how to approach. Sifo tried to be romantic. Dooku was blunt

Somehow, it worked.

“I’d like you to do as I say, tonight.” Jo, her mouth a half inch from Dooku’s ear, blows warm breath over his skin. “Can you do that?”

Dooku, with a defiant smirk, pulls back to meet her gaze. Her chest heaves, and her eyes gleam, and next to her, Sifo is looking very much as if he’d like to eat them both for breakfast.

“What did you have in mind, Madam Nu?”

“Let Sifo take care of you,” she says, running a thumb over his lips, “while you ... take care of me.”

To this, Jedi High Council Member Master Yan Dooku agrees.

Sometime later, with his head buried between Jo’s thighs and Sifo pressing deep inside him, Dooku loses himself. Noises he would never allow anyone but these blessings of his to hear leave his mouth. The Force sings around them, and he’s familiar, as always, with the song.

The future fades away, and the present moment, for once, reigns supreme. 

HoloNet News Network

Breaking: In an unexpected press conference this afternoon, Senator Dash Terren of Glee Anselm came forward with an explosive accusation against Castyl Kenobi, King of Stewjon. Senator Terren alleges that King Kenobi faked the death of his young son, abused him for being Force-sensitive, and then sent him to the Jedi Temple for training. Along with this, Senator Terren alleged that the prince, whose name is Obi-Wan, is the new Chosen One of the Jedi Order. For our citizens who are unaware, the Chosen Ones are Force-sensitive younglings who have appeared at important moments in the history of the galaxy. There have been four recorded Chosen Ones. The most recent, and likely most familiar to beings living today, is Elzar Mann, who died during the high republic. Senator Terren, a member of the Jedi Affairs Committee, claims to have received this information during a meeting of that committee.

Stewjon, a world that joined the Republic only two-hundred years ago, remains largely closed to off-world visitors, but there has been tension between Stewjon and Glee Anselm due to the two planets exporting some of the same goods. Initial responses to the announcement postulate that this could be the motivation for Senator Terren’s sudden announcement, as Stewjon is known for disliking Force-sensitives and this could destabilize the king’s grip on power. The senator shared a holo of the alleged Stewjoni prince, aged three, with the marking long associated with Chosen Ones throughout history.  Meeting records from the Jedi Affairs committee require security clearance to view and are not available to the public, so we at HNN are unable to confirm the facts.

Neither the Kenobi royal family nor the Jedi Order have yet responded for comment.

The Jedi Temple

Obi-Wan is watching another episode of Fruitsaber & Ember with his clan and some other children when another show interrupts.

A groan goes through the group of younglings when a woman at a desk with a datapad in her hand appears on the screen.

“We have breaking news from Stewjon, where King Castyl Kenobi is giving a rare press conference,” she says, “in response to the allegations that he has a Force-sensitive son who is the alleged fifth Chosen One of the Jedi Order. We’re tuning in live now.”

Chosen One? Obi-Wan doesn’t know what that means. The adults have said he has special powers, and they want to help him with those, but he hasn’t heard that. The other children start whispering. Bant and Siri both scoot closer. Do they know what the Chosen One is?

Obi-Wan's stomach drops when his Papa appears on the screen. His Mama isn’t there. They’re standing in front of the nice house he used to live in, and it’s all white and has seashells. A big crowd waits behind him.

“I come forward today with a painful truth,” his Papa says in that low, deep voice that Obi-Wan knows. “While Senator Terren’s accusations of abuse are outlandish, my wife and I did give birth to a Force-sensitive son. Here on Stewjon, it is against our faith to use the Force as the Jedi do. While the Jedi may do as they will with their own beliefs, beings who live on Stewjon cannot use any powers they may have to use and manipulate the Force. Given that our son, Obi-Wan, was our great hope and heir, I wanted to spare my people from the truth of who he was. Telling my people that he was dead was an attempt to spare them the pain of the truth. Perhaps that was foolish, but leaders make mistakes, and this mistake was made for love of my homeworld. When it was no longer impossible to deny what Obi-Wan was, we sent him in secret to the Jedi Order. There has not been a Force-sensitive child born on Stewjon in three-hundred-and-eighty years, and it took my wife and I by surprise.”

Blood. Lime-white stones. Blood blood blood. Screaming.

“He’s lying,” Obi-Wan whispers, and Master Coll comes up behind them. “He’s—”

Tears well in Obi-Wan's eyes, and ... and ... he’s angry at his Papa. Why would his Papa say that?

“He’s being mean, Obi-Wan,” Siri says with a flash of stubborn that Obi-Wan already recognizes. “We’re your family now.”

The Force builds and builds and builds as his Papa’s words crack and creak like the bottom of an old wooden sea ship. The starry sea. He always sees the Force as a starry sea, and now, the sea churns like it does when it storms. The stars shake.

Senator Terren has imposed himself on a private matter.

The Force crackles between Obi-Wan's fingers like static like lightning like—

I never beat my son.

He had other adults beat me, Obi-Wan thinks, without wanting to think it.

Obi-Wan.

Another voice. A soft voice a gentle one. Someone picking him up.

I only hope the Jedi can assist in controlling his behaviors. He is not a son of Stewjon any longer.

The big crowd cheers. They agree with his Papa. His Papa was always good at that. Talking. Making people believe him.

The sea turns into a spout of water. He saw one once, during a big, big storm. The stars melt from the sky.

The build of the Force breaks. It shoots through Obi-Wan's body, and he can’t control it, he can’t do anything when the holocaster explodes into pieces. Some of the other children scream. Obi-Wan wants to help. He wants to help his new friends. He hopes he didn’t hurt them, but maybe just being here is hurting them.

Other Jedi rush in. Master Coll carries him out and Obi-Wan sobs.

“I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to I’m sorry.”

“I know, little one.” Master Coll strokes his hair, and he doesn’t deserve it. “I know that. We all know that.”

“I don’t know what the Chosen One is. I didn’t know I was.”

“It’s like we’ve said.” Master Coll holds him close close close. “You have some special powers. There are other Jedi who have been like that—unique in the Force.”

Obi-Wan doesn’t want to be unique in the Force. It makes him scary. It makes him hurt other people. It makes his Papa hate him.

“Let’s go out on the front steps, all right?” Master Coll asks. “Get you some air.”

Obi-Wan holds on tight to Master Coll’s billowing brown robe. The Force swims around him, thick, and his stomach sloshes. Other Jedi murmur, but they don’t say mean things. They don’t seem angry. Worried. They feel worried. Obi-Wan gulps for air when Master Coll opens the big door—different from the one Obi-Wan came in when he got here.

“Breathe in with me, nice and deep,” Master Coll urges. “And then out again.”

Obi-Wan obeys, and the Force doesn’t feel quite so thick anymore. The sea stops roaring, and the stars glow a little more.

“Keep doing that for me.” Master Coll’s hand runs up and down Obi-Wan's back and slows his heartbeat. “If you need to cry, little one, that’s all right. I promise.”

Obi-Wan, burying his head in Master Coll’s neck, does just that. He doesn’t want to, but he can’t help it.

“You have a unique place in this galaxy,” Master Coll whispers. “But this temple is a place for unique people, and it is your home, Obi-Wan. The Force might feel overwhelming sometimes, for you, but it is your friend, I promise. As you get older, we’ll answer all your questions. Teach you. You don’t have to worry about that.”

The Force is his friend. It makes him feel safe even if it scares him sometimes.

He nods against Master Coll’s shoulder just as a weird prickle runs up his back.

“That’s him!” someone shouts. “He has hair just like the king’s!”

Shifting in Master Coll’s arms, Obi-Wan sees a ... a crowd of people. A big one.

“That’s the marking!” a woman calls out. “I see it!”

Some of the people have things in their hands—strands of beads in the shape of ... the ... Master Coll said the word ... crest?

The people start rushing up. They aren’t angry either, just like the Jedi weren’t, they’re ... Obi-Wan doesn’t know. He only knows that the Force thickens again.

“I’m sorry,” Master Coll says, and he puts a hand out in front of him. “Not tonight. He’s a little boy, and he needs his rest.”

The big door opens again. The green alien, the one he met on his first night that was kind, comes down the stairs. Padawan Mace is with him, and a few other Jedi he hasn’t seen before. They feel powerful, all of them, and they step in front of him and Master Coll.

“Appreciate your support of the Jedi, we do,” the green alien, Master Yoda, says. “See you tonight, Obi-Wan cannot. A youngling, he is. Remember that, you must.”

A Jedi with an oxygen mask—Obi-Wan saw him the first night too—ushers Master Coll inside.

Those beings wanted him to talk to them? Because of his powers? He doesn’t know how to help them.

His Papa doesn’t love him. Maybe his Mama does, but he doesn’t know. He’s scared, and he made the holocaster break again, and he still doesn’t really understand what being the Chosen One means. Leaning against Master Coll’s shoulder, he tries to remember. He tries to be good and remember what the crechemaster said.

It is your home, Obi-Wan.

It is your home.

The wife of the king of Stewjon walks beneath the cover of night.

Above her, the full moon spills silver onto the white sand of the shore.

Beyond, dark water waits.

Shells press against her heels, but her skin, familiar with these shells and this sand, doesn’t give way. She used to dance down by the sea as a girl with her sisters while her father caught fish.

It was how she caught the eye of the young crown prince.

The wife of the king of Stewjon lets the water rush around her ankles. She wishes, of all the silly things she could wish, that she was a selkie. She wishes she could pull her skin from her wardrobe, don it, and never return to land.

The wife of the king of Stewjon never took to being a princess, let alone a queen. She accepted the prince’s hand because she loved him, and he her.

Her family is not faithful enough in the teachings, she once heard the now-dead queen say to the now-dead king. You spoiled him by allowing this.

Her husband still loves her, at least enough to send their son away rather than letting him die when they could no longer hide their secret. That may, of course, be the limit of it. The last favor he ever grants her.

“Obi-Wan Obi-Wan Obi-Wan,” she whispers to the sea, to the Force, to whoever might be listening. “Stay safe, my love. Stay safe.”

The wife of the king of Stewjon, barren after a difficult pregnancy, hears the call of whatever devil lives beneath the waves.

Enough enough enough. End it.

Obi-Wan was a quiet baby except for when the visions came, like he wanted to make up for the screaming he did then. He came out screaming. He came out a prophet before he knew what breathing was. She bled and bled and bled and stained the blue sheets scarlet. At first, they didn’t know why he screamed, not until he said scary pictures.

She knew what he was before. She knew when he was in the womb. She had strange dreams. She was simply more in tune with everything. The baby grew, and he soothed her when she was sad. Despite how ill Obi-Wan made her, how bedridden and sore, she adored him before she ever laid eyes on his face.

Castyl really should have known when the ultrasound machine futzed and fritzed whenever they did an exam.

She knew.

She didn’t tell him.  

The pictures were clear, and the baby was healthy, so he didn’t suspect that baby was different.

Enough enough enough. End it.

She could, but she won’t. There’s a little girl, the daughter of one of her maids, who is like Obi-Wan was. Not as powerful, not a Chosen One, but obvious enough. She must protect that little girl and teach her to hide until she can run. She wants to do so for any other Force-sensitive she comes across. No one else need die because they were granted a gift by the Force all the people on Stewjon claim to worship.

It is true, after all.

Her family was never faithful enough in the teachings.

And it saved her son’s life.

Six Months After the Chosen One’s Arrival

Kiffu

Lightning. Screaming. Knight Tholme’s arms around him.

Lightning. Screaming. Knight Tholme’s arms around him.

Lightning screaming Knight Tholme’s arms around him.

Rain on the roof making Quin’s head hurt all of him hurts his Mama and Papa are gone dead those things killed them sucked out their brains their life the light out of their eyes and Tinte made him hold touch see his Mama’s guardian medallion. The medallion burned into his skin. It’s gone now, Knight Tholme took it away, but Quin can’t. Stop. Screaming. He can’t stop seeing the monsters sliding those tendril things into his Mama and Papa’s noses and his Mama and Papa screaming, they were screaming too, and maybe that’s why he can’t stop.

Maybe he never will.

Four-year-old Quin’s throat still hurts from all the screaming.

His legs are sore his arms are sore all of him is sore.

He slept on the ship here, for a while. It flew through space, and he’s never been in space, but he doesn’t remember much. Once he stopped screaming, once the scary pictures went away, Knight Tholme still didn’t let go. He pushed past Quin’s Aunt Tinte, he ran into Quin’s room and picked up the spark dragon plush, Cinnamon, and tucked him into Quin’s arms. Quin’s vision blurred, and he heard his uncle Kurlin’s voice.

Take him, Uncle Kurlin said. Take him, Tholme. Now.

Guards grabbed his Aunt Tinte. She said something. Snarled it. Quin didn’t hear.

He’ll be safe, Knight Tholme replies. I promise you, Kurlin. I’ll take care of him.

Uncle Kurlin kissed Quin’s head, and finally, the storm outside died. How long had he been screaming? He started screaming in the sitting room and stopped in Knight Tholme’s room. He wanted his Mama and Papa, and they were dead. Aunt Tinte shouted. Uncle Kurlin shouted. Shadows scratched at Quin’s shoulders as Knight Tholme ran into the night. Why would his auntie do that? Why would she make him look and see? Something inside him feels bad weird scary angry.

Things went dark while Knight Tholme ran. Quin woke up on that ship sailing through stars.

And now he’s somewhere new.

We’re going to the Jedi Temple, Tholme told him. There are lots of Jedi there like me. And children just your age. Kiffu isn’t safe for you, little one. It’s not safe anymore. Do you understand? Your Uncle wants me to protect you there. From your aunt.

Quin only nodded. He couldn’t talk. He hasn’t talked since. He didn’t cry either, not on the ship. He just stared and stared and stared.

His Mama and Papa are dead. He can’t stop seeing them dead. He can’t stop thinking about them being dead.

Quin wants to sleep. Knight Tholme carries him down a pretty, bright hallway in this place where the Jedi live. This building is different from Kiffu. The ceilings are high and there are carpets instead of tiles. It’s nice in here, though. The Force feels ... happy.

Quin doesn’t feel happy. Quin feels ... he was so scared and now ... empty. He feels empty. Tholme tried to get him to eat, but he couldn’t. Nothing sounds good.

His Mama and Papa are dead.

“You’re going to sleep in my quarters until you feel better,” Tholme tells him. “But we have Jedi here who take care of our little ones until they’re about twelve, before they’re Padawans, and I want them to meet you first.”

Quin nods again.

Empty empty empty.

Knight Tholme goes through some doors and down a green hallway.

And that’s when Quin hears it.

The screaming.

The Force pinches like it something hurt it. Those screams sound like Quin’s screams.

“Is that a little boy?” Quin asks. His voice sounds funny. From the not talking. And probably also the screaming.

Knight Tholme frowns. He does that a lot, but also sometimes he laughs really big and makes Quin feel safe when he does. The frown doesn’t mean he’s mad. It just means he’s thinking. Sometimes, it means he’s grumpy, but Quin knows how to cheer him up.

“There’s a little boy your age who sees scary pictures like you,” he says. “But in a different way. He doesn’t touch things to make them happen. They just happen.”

Quin’s stomach drops. That emptiness goes away, and he hurts like the Force does. Screaming like that feels bad. He doesn’t want that little boy to feel bad. He can help.

Knight Tholme takes him toward the room without Quin saying that, but Knight Tholme just knows things and says one day Quin will too. The screaming turns into sobs as Knight Tholme knocks on the open door of a room with Tookas on the wall. The child inside that room has a stuffed Tooka just like Quin has Cinnamon. A man with a beard and friendly eyes holds a little boy with copper hair.

“The man in the black cloak isn’t here, youngling,” the man with the beard says. “He’s not here. The scary pictures are over for now. They’re over for now.”

“Master Coll.” Tholme shifts Quin on his hip. “I’m sorry to interrupt, but Quin here, he ... I can’t explain it. He wants to help Obi-Wan. We heard the … upset when we came into the creche. I’ve just brought him in from Kiffu. I will explain that, when we’re done here. He’ll need to stay with me for a few nights at first.”

“The Force leads all,” the friendly Jedi says, which sounds like Quin’s Uncle Kurlin, and that makes him miss Kiffu really bad.

The Force spins and swirls, and Quin reaches out for the other little boy without even thinking he would. Knight Tholme sits him on the side of the bed. Quin can’t make his Mama and Papa come back, but he can help this boy like him stop crying. The boy’s eyes are both blue but different. He has a marking on his cheek, but not a tattoo like Quin’s. It’s thin and pink-red like a scar.

“I get scary pictures in my head too,” Quin says. “Some aren’t scary. But some are.”

The blue eyes Quin saw have red lines in the whites. That happens to him too, sometimes, when he gets stuck in one of the pictures—the scary ones—and can’t get out. He always seems them in the mirror.

The little boy sniffs. “You do?”

“Uh huh. I like your Tooka. What’s their name?”

“Fruitsaber,” the other boy says, and he shakes a little less than he was before. “Is that a dragon?”

“Yep. Cinnamon.”

The Force swims around Quin like the bright stars did in space. That’s what he sees when he looks at this little boy who has scary pictures like him.

Stars.

The boy takes Quin’s hand, the one with the medallion imprint burned into it, and he doesn’t say that’s weird, and he isn’t scared of it. Nothing feels good, nothing feels safe, but this other boy is like him. This little boy makes him think of the starry sky his Papa used to show him after a big storm.

“I’m sorry you get scary pictures too,” the other boy says. “My name is Obi-Wan.”

“Quinlan. But you can call me Quin.”

“Well.” The friendly Jedi with the beard winks at Quin. “It just so happens I have a space in Kybuck Clan for you, Quinlan.”

Obi-Wan has a juice. Quin, gently told by Tholme that he has to eat something, takes one too, and the friendly Jedi—Master Coll—gives him a pack of gummy fruit snacks. The two Jedi talk outside the door, and Quin has to see a healer? Is that a doctor? He doesn’t know. That emptiness starts coming back, that bad weird scary angry thing, too. Obi-Wan asks him about Cinnamon, and that helps. He asks what kind of dragon he is, and how it’s so neat that there’s dragons on Kiffu, and Quin tells him what they are, and how they’re small but smart and powerful. Obi-Wan says he’s from Stewjon, which Quin doesn’t know, and he sounds sad when he says it. Quin says that his Mama and Papa have just died so Obi-Wan isn’t alone in being sad. Quin’s sadness is so big that it feels like it might swallow him, and he thinks maybe Obi-Wan has that too. Obi-Wan was a prince, before. Sort of like Quin.

“I’m sorry, Quin,” Obi-Wan whispers. “I know you’re scared and sad, but the Jedi here are really nice, and they’ll help.”

Tholme, with a bag in hand, walks them both to his room that’s up a turbolift and down a hall. A really, really tall man with brown hair down to his shoulders waits for them there.

Obi-Wan, letting go of Quin’s hand for the first time in a while, runs to the man.

“Padawan Qui-Gon!”

“It’s knight now, my favorite little one,” the man called Qui-Gon says as he crouches down. “I’ve passed my trials.” He glances at Quin with what Quin’s papa always called a whiff of mischief, and that makes Quin miss his Mama and Papa so bad his stomach hurts. “And who is your friend?”

“Quin,” Obi-Wan replies. “From Kiffu. He gets scary pictures like me, and Knight Tholme said we could sleep over here tonight. He made me feel better earlier, and I ...” Obi-Wan looks back. “Something bad happened to his parents. I want to help him too.”

“I’ve heard a lot about you, Quin.” Qui-Gon reaches his hand out for Quin to shake, and his smile sets Quin at ease. “Knight Tholme and I have been friends since we weren’t much more than your age.”

Quin doesn’t want to talk much now, and he changes into a set of soft white sleeping tunics with short pants. He brushes his teeth with Knight Tholme’s help. He’s a little afraid he might throw up, but he doesn’t.

“I know you don’t feel safe,” Knight Tholme tells him as he takes Quin’s locs down and sets the band on the caf table. “I know you’ve been through something terrible. I know you are going to miss your Mama and Papa, and this is all so new. But I’m here for you, young one. Just like I have been these past months. Trust me?”

Tinte scared the trust out of him, but Quin trusts Knight Tholme anyway.

He trusts Obi-Wan.

He nods.

Knight Qui-Gon and Knight Tholme build a blanket fort in the sitting room, and it hides Quin and Obi-Wan from the world. While Knight Qui-Gon snores lightly on the sofa, Quin and Obi-Wan cuddle up with their stuffies and each other. There are scars on Obi-Wan's legs that Quin sees in the short pants, and he wonders if Obi-Wan's Papa gave him those.

For the first time since he stopped screaming, Quin cries.

Obi-Wan's skinny arm goes around him, and those stars shine. Panic punches into Quin’s stomach like it did during the scary pictures, and he counts the freckles on the bridge of Obi-Wan's nose instead. He looks into the eyes of his new friend, and maybe other people are mean to him because they’re two different blues, but Quin thinks they’re cool.

“I’m right here, Quin,” Obi-Wan whispers. “Promise.”

Quin believes him.

The Force flickers like fire.

And Quinlan Vos, would-be Sheyf of Kiffu, falls asleep next to the lost prince of Stewjon.

All night long, they don’t let go.

Chapter Text

13 Years Before the Chosen One’s Arrival

Mygeeto

“Well,” Sheev says as he buttons his deep green Bantha wool coat with the Jedi crest stitched white into the left corner, “I can’t say I don’t prefer this type of cold over desert conditions.”

Master Dooku snorts, and his low laugh resounds from the back of his throat.

“I do believe I’ll take the desert,” Master Sifo complains, eyeing the crystalline landscape as the shuttle door opens up. He shivers. “Mygeeto is never warm.”

“There there,” Master Dooku replies with a wry smile. “Master Nu knit you that scarf. I do suppose you’ll be just fine. Besides, the desert gets cold at night.”

“We’ll see.”

Sheev, used to their antics by now, shakes his head with a measure of fondness he can’t deny. At twenty, he’s spent a solid eight years nearly as much under Master Sifo’s and Jocasta’s tutelage as Dooku’s. He can’t, however, say that he isn’t itching, in some respects, to go out on his own, but that’s still off in the future by a little bit.

They’re here to solve the apparent murder of one of their fellow Jedi, Knight Katri, who came to mediate a land dispute between the native Lurmen and human settlers from Castell. Master Sifo, usually busy with seeking missions rather than investigations, had a vision about the murder just before it happened—but not in time to prevent it. So, he wished to come along. He was quiet on the way here, and Master Dooku openly fussed over him.

A slate-gray sky greets them as they step off the gangplank—Mygeeto doesn’t get much sunlight—and so does ....

Hego Damask.

The cold wind Master Sifo dreaded cuts across Sheev’s cheek.

Despite the Muun being nowhere near the site of Cosinga’s death, just the sight of him makes the shoved-back memories of Karlinus light up in the storage-depths of his brain. He's been working on his temper, it’s better, it is, but focusing too hard on that day makes him remember that for one fleeting moment, the rage and the hurt in him liked the way his father’s head cracked on that rock. The shame comes after, the fear that he is his father, that the Jedi will see he is a monster and—

Breathe in. Breathe out. Emotion, yet peace. You are twenty-years old, Padawan Palpatine, get yourself under control.

It was an accident, Master Dooku always says on the rare occasions when they discuss it, which isn’t often. For all we know he had aims toward harming you. Do not let it define you, Padawan.

Again, Damask is with someone else: the planet’s administrator, another Muun named Telin Ven. According to Sheev’s research, about a decade ago—just after several corporations gained seats in the senate—the Republic negotiated a treaty between the Lurmen and members of the International Banking Clan. The IBC wished to purchase land in order to build new offices on this planet. Having experienced push back from their fellow Muuns on Muunilist and Scipio both for how much power they had taken on those planets, they were looking to spread out rather than centralize.

“Magister Damask,” Dooku says, and this time, he puts out his hand for Damask to shake. “We meet again, I see. I’ve brought my Padawan, who you’ve met, and this is my fellow Jedi Master, Sifo-Dyas.”

“Hego was raised on Mygeeto,” Administrator Ven replies, shaking each of their hands in greeting. “He was here closing up his lately deceased father’s estate when the murder occurred. Before he worked for the IBC, Caar Damask was the administrator on Mygeeto as I am now. In any case, when we reached out to the Jedi to report the unfortunate chain of events, Hego suggested I ask for you specifically, Master Dooku, as he had seen the thorough job you did on Karlinus several years ago.”

Then, finally, that smile appears on Dooku’s face again, the polite-but-doesn't-like-someone smile.

“I’m honored to be thought of.”

Damask bows, and his eyes flit toward Sheev.

“This is not the planet to see art,” he says, “but I do hope you’ve furthered your interest, young Jedi.”

Sheev nods and settles himself down, putting the memories back where they belong. “I have, Magister. I appreciate you remembering our conversation.”

While the native Lurmen live in the traditional crystalline domes Mygeeto is known for, the Muuns who purchased the empty land built your more typical structures that can still stand up to the weather. They take a short speeder ride from the space port to one of those homes, which is yet another shade of gray.

It’s quite ... depressing.

Given hot tea to warm them, they discuss the details of the murder, which happened after the negotiations were complete. While Jedi are killed on missions with crime syndicates and other fools from time to time, certainly, this mission came with little to no danger. Since the period of the Nihil ended, Jedi could largely count on not being slaughtered when working.

Or, so they believed.

A slip of rage tempts Sheev’s temper. He’s sure that someone here killed Knight Katri not for money or drugs or fear of arrest, but because she was a Jedi.

“What was most disturbing,” Administrator Ven tells them as he flicks through photos on his datapad, “was not the state of Knight Katri’s body—a vibroblade wound to the heart is efficient enough—but what was found next to it.”

He moves to the next holo, and there, in front of Sheev’s eyes, is an anti-Jedi propaganda poster from a period during the Jedi-Sith wars when much of the galaxy felt the two factions were the same, and that the Jedi hadn’t done enough to stop the Sith.

Deliver Us From Jedi Evil.

Hands reach up to the sky while a faceless figure shrouded in a black cloak and carrying a lightsaber looms large.

The rage tips over. It spills blood-hot into Sheev’s veins. How dare they how dare they how dare they. Breathing in deep, he summons the things that bring him peace. Sun-bright temple windows. The quiet dark of the archives. The fresh flower scent in the Room of a Thousand Fountains. The—

A cold fury seeps into the Force and matches the intensity of his own.

When he looks up, his master’s eyes glint and gleam with—

“My goodness,” Master Sifo says, the only one of them calm. “That is ... I don’t believe we’ve seen propaganda like that since the Nihil period. This poster itself is much older than even that. I do wonder where they found it.”

“Base bigotry,” Magister Damask replies with a sniff. “Whether beings support the Jedi or not, this speaks to hatred of Force-sensitivity itself, in my mind. The images, the use of deliver us, are almost religious in tone. Which also tells me that it wasn’t a Muun settler who murdered Knight Katri.”

“Why do you say that?” Sheev asks when Dooku doesn’t, and he’s less polite than he intended to be. He needs to think move do something to get—

Revenge, not our way, it is. Master Yoda’s voice breaks into Sheev’s memory. Justice, we must search for.

Investigate. He must investigate. It is not just about one Jedi.

It’s about all of them.

And this could happen again.

“Muuns are generally distrustful of things in the galaxy that cannot be explained by hard facts. Science, mathematics, engineering, medicine, these are the skills we tend to value as a people. Faith and religion, this sort of”—Damask gestures vaguely—“mysticism is not our interest. But I do not believe that would create hatred, and certainly not enough to murder a Jedi here serving as a diplomat. The Lurmen are indisputably pacifists. So, I can only look to the human settlers.” 

“The vision I had about this murder,” Master Sifo adds, “was muddled, but the perpetrator, from the back, did look far too short to be a Muun. I tend to agree, Magister Damask.”

Dooku, folding his hands in his lap and clearing his throat, gives a nod.

“The question remains,” Dooku says, and that knife-sharp glint hasn’t yet died, “how did someone without any particular skill overtake Knight Katri?”

Here, Administrator Ven shakes his head.

“Knight Katri fell ill not long after the negotiations ended,” he answers. “The altitude of the planet hadn’t been agreeing with her. She was killed in her sleep, and I imagine that the illness dulled her senses, or she would have woken up.”

Sheev temples his fingers and leans forward. Talking helps. Talking gets him out of his head and his rage. How dare some simpleton murder a Jedi?

I don’t hate the Jedi. I just hate you.

“Were fingerprints taken?” he asks. “At the scene?”

“The scene is as it was, aside from the removal of Knight Katri’s body.”

“And there was no sign”—the words out of Dooku’s mouth are almost, maybe, a growl, and he has never once sounded so in front of anyone they encountered on a mission—“of hostility toward her? No rumblings of anti-Jedi sentiment?”

Here, Administrator Ven pauses.

“There was,” Dooku surmises, and that rage plunges to sub-zero temperatures. “And you did not report this to the senate when requesting Jedi assistance in the first place?”

“I’m sure the administrator did not suppose any sentiment of the sort would lead to cold-blooded murder.” Master Sifo steps in here, and the push of calm down in the Force bond between him and Master Dooku is strong enough for Sheev to feel. “While some beings distrust us for various reasons—and more do of late—it has been some time since violent action was taken by anyone who isn’t a crime lord or a bounty hunter type. Beings talk, yes, but this is different. However, in the future, Administrator Ven, please do let us know if any groups the Jedi work with dislike us. We tend to have specific approaches for that and wouldn’t have sent Knight Katri alone.”

Ven says that he will, and Magister Damask offers to escort them to the crime scene himself.

As they go out the door, Master Dooku’s hand comes down on Sheev’s shoulder, and the gesture says one thing.

Stay close.

Two Days Later

As it turns out, the murderer was not all that intelligent.

Sheev doesn’t have an immense amount of experience chasing murderers—that sort of thing often falls to Shadows when Jedi are involved—but he would have expected them to cover their tracks a touch better than this.

They catch the man, of all places, on an under-construction pedestrian bridge covering a chasm where there used to be a passable rock formation.

Sheev would feel better about this if the bridge had all of its safety railings.

It does not.

Indeed, nothing about this bridge follows Republic safety standards, but Sheev isn’t surprised. If the IBC is in charge of constructing it, they’ll be cutting corners like any other corporation tends to.

A Lurmen homestead rests twenty feet beneath the bridge, and the small beings have taken refuge in their domed houses. Sheev, green saber drawn, blocks one end of the bridge and Master Dooku blocks the other.

Master Sifo, killing his own blue blade with a snap-hiss, stands before the murderer, who is, indeed, a human as Magister Damask and Master Sifo both suggested. Sheev maintains a higher respect for the mysterious Muun after his help with this situation. That human is a refugee from Castell, and the Republic keeps fingerprint records of all refugees in order to keep track of them for the first year after resettlement. There were fingerprints at the crime scene. Those fingerprints led to the address of one Ror Lem.

And, of course, the idiot ran when they knocked on the door.

So, here they are.

Master Dooku doesn’t speak when Master Sifo hooks his saber back on his belt, but a flash of frustration and worry runs down his bond with Sheev clear as day. That it’s so obvious means he is truly upset.

The sentiment in their own bond remains obvious enough.

Stay back.

With Master Sifo in danger, Sheev opts not to insist that he is twenty damned years old.

“We don’t want to hurt you,” Sifo says, raising his hands in front of him. “We want to understand what would cause you to commit murder.”

“Of a Jedi,” Lem spits.

“Of anyone,” Sifo counters. “Please. Tell us. We’re listening. Did Knight Katri harm you? If so, we’d like to know.”

“I’m a refugee from Castell,” Lem shoots back. “We started getting acid rain. It destroyed my farm. It destroyed a lot of farms. The Jedi came on behalf of the Republic and what did they do with all their fancy powers? Bantha shit. She didn’t harm me with her own two hands, but she might as well have.”

“I’m afraid the Force has limits,” Sifo answers.

“That’s not true!” Lem shouts. “That one Jedi, Mann or whatever his name was, the Chosen One, he healed a dead forest. Cured blights that killed crops. I read about it on the holonet.”

“Elzar Mann was a very rare Jedi. And he is long dead. I’m sorry about your home.”

Sheev knows well enough what Lem is referring to. Elzar Mann, hailing from D’Quar, a jungle planet known for its lush forests, had particular powers relating to his homeworld. All the Chosen Ones do.

“If you were sorry”—the man flicks open his vibro blade, which makes Dooku and Sheev move in closer—“you would have convinced the Republic to do more. They were going to put us in a refugee camp until government housing opened up. Living in tents and all that. The Commerce Guild? They bought our land from us at a good price so they could build a factory. Gave me enough to move.”

“The Commerce Guild,” Sifo continues, and that while that thin thread of impatience rings in the Force, it doesn’t sound in his voice, “caused the acid rain in the first place with their factories on Castell.”

Master Sifo doesn’t say that the Commerce Guild is blatantly violating Republic environmental regulations and just keeps paying the fine because the senate won’t take any other action. Facts like that won’t speak to this man.

Normally, one of them would simply use the Force and get the blade out of the Lem’s hand, but this bridge is unstable at best and outright dangerous at worst with only one safety railing. One wrong move, one wrong step, and one of them might go tumbling. Of course, Sheev, Dooku, and Sifo could catch themselves, but Lem cannot.

And as furious as Sheev is, they do have to care about that.

Several things happen at once.

Lem swings, wild and uncontrolled, out toward Master Sifo, who seizes his wrist but doesn’t pull out his saber or use the Force. Steering the pair of them toward the single safety rail on the lefthand side, Master Sifo almost, almost gets the knife out of Lem’s hand.

But not quite.

The blade, glowing orange, plunges into Master Sifo’s abdomen.

Lem doesn’t have the chance to pull it out and try again.

An ice-cold chill that has nothing to do with the weather creeps up Sheev’s spine.

Jedi Master Yan Dooku, revered and respected in the Order at just past forty, runs forward and raises one hand.

He pulls his fingers into a tight fist.

And Lem, making a gagging, choking, breathless sound, scrabbles at his throat.

Master Sifo collapses, and Sheev, tearing himself away from staring at his master, kills his own saber and dives for his other mentor.

Unlike most bladed weapons, a vibro has to be pulled out immediately, or it will cut and slice your organs to pieces like a gutted animal.

The burning blade comes sliding out, and Sheev tosses it over the edge of the bridge. The wound didn’t have the chance to cauterize, so it does bleed, and Sheev presses his hand against it.

Master Sifo’s comes down on top of his.

And they turn toward Dooku.

“You murder one Jedi and set out to murder another.” Dooku’s brown eyes go wide. He breathes in rapid breaths through his nose, and Sheev has never seen him like this, not his calm, collected master who helped him hide a corpse. “Because you blame us for being unable to stop climate damage. As if we would not do that if we could.”

Again, like a thousand times before, Sheev replays Cosinga flying through the air.

Except this time ....

This time, he doesn’t feel shame.

He feels ... validation.

For all we know, he had an aim toward harming you.

Maybe he need not be so penitent. Maybe sometimes, they must do violence against those who would harm the Jedi just for being Jedi, and not only in defense of innocents. Maybe sometimes, a saber or a Force push isn’t enough.

Maybe sometimes they need more.

Lem’s eyes bulge. The color drains from his pale face.

And Master Sifo’s voice rumbles like thunder. Sheev hasn’t heard him sound exactly like that before.

“Let go, Master Dooku.”

Dooku jolts like a reprimanded charhound. His hand goes limp.

And Lem stumbles forward gasping for breath.

Move, the Force says, and Sheev listens to the deeply-embedded instinct that’s been there since he can remember.

Master Sifo presses on the wound, which won’t be fatal, just painful. Master Dooku, surprised at himself, stares at his hand, and Sheev ....

Sheev does what needs doing.

Igniting his saber again, he takes hold of Lem’s wrist, and the both of them are slick and sweaty despite the cold.

“We’ll be taking you back to Coruscant,” Sheev says. “For the murder of Knight Katri.” He swallows and adds the necessary addendum despite not really wanting to, because this man murdered a Jedi only a decade or so older than Sheev himself. “No further harm will come to you.”

Lem’s eyes widen like Master Dooku’s did.

“I don’t believe you,” he mutters as fear wafts off him. “I don’t.”

The slippery grasp doesn’t hold. Lem tears his wrist out of Sheev’s grasp, and the remaining safety rail that isn’t high enough, really, given this bridge is twenty feet above the ground, does what they were all afraid it would.

It gives way.

Sheev doesn’t want to save the bastard, he doesn’t, but ... but he ought to. Grounding himself so he doesn’t fall and need saving too, he kills his blade, reaches out with both hands, and catches Lem. His shakes with the effort.

But he’s not alone.

Master Dooku has stepped up beside him, and together, they bring Lem back onto the bridge, cuffing him before he can do anything further. Sheev breathes hard, and then ....

“Take him!” Dooku shouts, shoving Lem toward Sheev as he goes for Master Sifo. “Go, Padawan!”

Sheev listens.

The bridge makes an ominous whining sound, and Sheev leaps, with Lem in his grasp, back onto the perma-frozen ground. The bridge tilts sideways, and Sheev’s stomach drops as Master Dooku jumps high high high into the air with Master Sifo on his back.

Awe rushes through him, and for a minute, he might be a child again.

How could anyone hate Force-sensitives after watching that?

Dooku and Sifo crash back onto land, and the bridge, tearing out of the flimsy supports, drops down toward the Lurmen homestead. The crunch of metal on crystalline domes meets Sheev’s ear, and he can only think one thing he probably shouldn’t be thinking.

This murderer’s life wasn’t worth it.

Thankfully, at least, the busted bridge didn’t kill anyone. It did destroy a home, but homes can be fixed.

They take Lem to the local jail for holding. He’ll go with them when they leave in the morning to face charges for Master Katri’s murder rather. A few-hours long dunk in the Bacta tank heals Master Sifo’s wound without much fuss since the knife didn’t hit any major organs. Intent on avoiding his master’s bad mood, Sheev stays in his room until he gets a comm from Dooku telling him he should go have dinner.

Alone, Sheev can only assume.

The trouble is, the walls in this lodging house are thin. Mygeeto, not exactly a spot for tourists, only has the one, and much like the bridge, the construction of it leaves quite a bit to be desired.

“Le-le-leave it,” Master Sifo says, and his stutter, a side effect of the visons and subsequent seizures, returns, as it often does, when he’s under stress. “I’m sore, that’s all. The Bacta healed the wound. And the wound would be the least of things, regardless.”

“The least of things?”

Sheev hears rather than sees Master Sifo roll his eyes.

“You Force choked that man. In front of your Padawan. Do you want to tell me where you learned that?”

Master Dooku clears his throat. “I didn’t. It was instinct. I was trying to protect you.”

“Am I a Jedi Master or am I not?”

“Si—”

“Am I a Jedi Master or not?”

“Yes.”

“And are you also … are you not also—” Sifo clears his throat once and then again before restarting. “You are the teacher of a young man who does not need to see you behaving in such a way. I’m not a fool. Lem was being violent and needed to be stopped. You, a talented and studied Jedi, had a dozen other ways to accomplish that that didn’t involve choking him.”

“Going to tell the council, are you?” Master Dooku growls.

“Stop it,” Master Sifo snaps. “I’m less likely to tell the council than you are yourself, but Yoda has a way of finding things out regardless, and neither of us ever learned that when we were young. You ought to tell Jo. You have to work on this.” A pause. A spark of anger in the Force. “Or yes, if it continues, I will. Breaking rules? I was a troublemaker long before you were. I’m sure I always will be. Turning to the dark? Well, I won’t let you do that. I spent enough time with Lene collecting Sith artifacts to know what just a touch of the dark side can do. We all glance off it, sometimes. You did far more than that.”

“You want to protect the Jedi as much as I do.  You insisted on coming on this mission. Things are starting to change. I sense it, and not a Jedi has been murdered. We have to think differently. The survival of the Jedi demands it. You—” Dooku huffs in frustration at what must be a look from Master Sifo. “You of all people ... you have been paranoid about growing anti-Jedi sentiment as much as me. More, sometimes. We’re finding less younglings, Yan. The Force is off, Yan. My visions are getting darker and—”

“Enough. You study the future, those prophecies, the Chosen One lore, all on your own. You get obsessed with them, and you think ... I’ve learned the hard way about thinking I can control the future. My visions have taught me that the future is fluid. Sometimes I can stop bad things from happening. Sometimes I can’t. There are no predetermined outcomes, only the ability to be smart about things when the Force warns us. I can’t escape the future, most days. I wish I could. But it gives me clarity, and that clarity tells me that we can’t change anything by choking people who don’t like us. Sometimes Jedi have to take life in defense of others and ourselves. Jedi need not bow to those who despise us, but nor did you need to behave in such a way as to validate that man’s thoughts. You’re smarter than that. We shouldn’t have to care about the optics. But the fact remains—we do.”

The lodging house bed creaks when Master Dooku sits down, and things fall quiet between the two older Jedi.

“Going to leave me, hmm?” Master Dooku mutters, and it’s half a joke and half a plea.

“Shut up, please,” Master Sifo says, but he says it softly, like the run of a finger down Dooku’s back. He drags in air and exhales. “Do you remember the Presagers?”

“I’ll never forget.”

“Well, remember how you felt that day. How abhorred you were that you used the dark side when you didn’t even intend to as you did today.”

“Advocating for my shame, then?”

“Hardly. I’m advocating for you to remember who you are. The best Jedi I know.”

At this, Sheev, holding still in the Force—a specialty of his—makes himself scarce. He might as well go and eat dinner as his master suggested because he does not want to hear it if they have frustrated sex in that thin-walled room. Retrieving his holobook from his class on Force artifacts, he heads downstairs to the small pub on the first floor of this lodging house. This is, so far, his favorite class that he’s taken since becoming a Padawan. If he could make a knighthood of searching for lost and stolen artifacts and returning them to places like Jedha, Illum, or the temple itself? He wouldn’t mind that one bit. Dooku worries about his propensity for working alone, but he has friends enough, and he works with other Jedi when he needs to.

Beings here to do business with the IBC fill the small restaurant, and Sheev is not going to be able to find a table by himself, is he? He’s just about to decide what table partner would annoy him least when he sees ....

Magister Damask.

Well, that’s his option then.

“Do you mind if I join you?” Sheev asks. “It’s crowded in here.”

Damask gestures at the empty chair across from him. “Not at all. No Master Dooku?”

“He’s helping Master Sifo-Dyas. He was injured.”

“So Administrator Ven told me.” Damask gestures again, this time at the waiter, who comes without pause—almost too fast, in fact. “Terrible fiend, murdering one Jedi and then stabbing another. Force-sensitive bigotry ebbs and flows, but it does appear to be growing, recently.”

The waiter, reaching their table, asks Sheev what he’d like, and Sheev, studying Damask’s bowl of thick brown-broth stew and glass of red wine, opts to have the same. With his wealth and finery, the Muun likely has good taste.

“I’ll have what Magister Damask is having,” Sheev says. “Thank you.”

The lights in this wood-paneled room go down lower when the wind howls outside the window, and the half dark makes Damask’s orange eyes glow.

“Not much drinking in the Jedi Temple, I expect?” Damask asks.

Sheev snorts. “Don’t be so quick to assume. We don’t have it in the refectory so that Jedi who have struggled with addiction don’t have to look at it every day, but while most Jedi practice moderation, on Life Day and the anniversary of the founding of the Order? You will find contests going on. And my master enjoys wine.”

A smile, a real one, this time, slides onto Damask’s lips. “I learn more every day.” He sips at his wine with an elegance that reminds Sheev of Dooku. “So, do tell me—what are you interested in doing as a Jedi? I’m assuming, at your age, you only have a year or two left of your apprenticeship?”

Rather than the strange blankness Sheev felt before, Damask’s presence curls into the metaphorical air like the thin stream of smoke off a candle. It holds ... interest. Sheev recalls the stone-weight drop when Damask offered him the chance to see his art at his home on Coruscant, but he can’t recall why he felt that way, anymore. The hairs on the back of his neck don’t rise.

This man understands the growing bigotry against Force-sensitives. The sleeping beast of a thing is slowly but surely starting to wake.

The question is, why does he care? He doesn’t seem the sort to bother with things that don’t involve him.

Again, Sheev wonders if Damask is Force-sensitive.

“I do enjoy this kind of investigative work,” Sheev says, “but I hope to do artifact searching. Missing light side artifacts. Sith artifacts to add to the Bogan collection in the archives, when I'm granted the permission to do so.”

Damask raises his brows. “You wish to study the dark side?”

His master’s face appears again in his mind’s eye. That cold rage. That clenched fist.

“I’m interested in knowing, academically, what those kinds of artifacts are capable of. I want to make sure they are where they should be so they aren’t endangering others. I’m”—Sheev chooses his words carefully—“not afraid to know what the artifacts can do. I think fear of them gives them more power.”

“Hmmm. Wise for such a young man.”

The waiter brings Sheev’s dinner along with the glass of wine, and he was right—Damask does have good taste. The broth, rich on his tongue, tastes better than anything he’s yet had on Mygeeto, and the wine, full-bodied with flavors of berry and dark chocolate, lingers on his tongue.

“You had bold words as far as Force-sensitive bigotry is concerned.” Sheev dares the question by making it a statement. He’s seen his master do it a thousand times to soften bluntness. It makes him sound polite even if he isn’t, exactly. “I appreciated it.”

“Well.” Damask leans forward, meets Sheev’s eye, and lowers his voice. “Those of us with the gift of the Force do have to care about these things, after all.”

A smile plays at the corner of Sheev’s mouth.

“You are Force-sensitive.”

“My good young Jedi,” Damask replies. “You are as intelligent as I gave you credit for.”

“But you were never a Jedi.” 

“It’s as I said before, Muuns don’t generally send their children to the Order. But I have taught myself a few things. Part of me wishes I could have been a part of the Jedi, though, I do like my privacy, and I’m afraid, my possessions. My tastes might be too grand. I imagine myself an ally, however. People may despise the Jedi specifically either due to superstition or because of some imagined grievance, yes, but that will fall on all Force-sensitives eventually, whether in the Order or not.”

Sheev thinks back to seeing Knight Katri’s body with Master Dooku while Master Sifo was in the Bacta. His father’s open-eyed, broken corpse, as much as it disturbed him, still had color in the cheeks. Cosinga looked as though he had once been alive. Knight Katri was different. A human woman from Alderaan, her skin, a light olive, paled. All the little details stick in Sheev’s memory. The bloodless lips. The stiff limbs. A doll. She looked like a doll rather than a living being.

Someone did that to her because they hated her for being a Jedi.

Magister Damask is right.

The bigotry won’t stop there. Sheev’s biggest concern is, of course, protecting the order that raised him, but other Force-sensitives in the galaxy hardly deserve it, either. Even the Sith, dead and gone as they are—though Master Dooku and Sifo and Kostana worry about their reappearance—don't deserve bigotry for being Force-sensitive.

“Ror Lem killed Knight Katri because of who she was, and the senate will do little about it other than send a single man to prison.” Sheev’s voice deepens, that match lights, and he should calm down, but he doesn’t want to. “My master’s father hated Force-sensitives too. He’s hardly alone.”

I don’t hate Force-sensitives, Sheev. I just hate you.

Liar. His father was a liar.

Damask shakes his head. “It’s horrible, and something ought to be done about it. Without the protection of the Jedi Order, I admit, I don’t tell many other beings about myself. You never know who might be holding a secret hatred.”

“Your secret’s safe with me, Magister Damask,” Sheev replies with more passion than he would have expected when he first met the man. “I understand.”

“I know you do, my young Jedi. I know you do.” He pauses, running a long finger over the rim of his wine glass. “I do wonder, however, if the Jedi will be able to protect their own forever. In my eye, they are giving more to this alliance with the Republic than the Republic itself. We saw, in the waning days of the high republic, the beginnings of what is happening now—the burden on the Jedi. Had things gone even a touch differently, who knows if the Order would exist. Marchion Ro certainly desired destruction. Those creatures of his, well ... they could turn any Force-sensitive to dust, couldn’t they? A great many Jedi died during that conflict.”

A curl of licking flame burns in Sheev’s belly.

Magister Damask isn’t wrong.

Sheev finishes his meal, and for another hour, he speaks with Hego Damask. They talk of worlds like Stewjon that dislike Force-sensitives on principle. They discuss art and Damask’s travels. They go on until Master Dooku appears in the doorway to the restaurant and summons Sheev upstairs.

They’re leaving early in the morning.

When Magister Damask offers his personal comm code, Sheev takes it.

On the first leg of their 24-standard-hour journey, Sheev finds himself in the familiar position of travelling home with his master. As has been the case since he was sixteen or so, Sheev pilots the shuttle. Master Sifo, exhausted from his ordeal, sleeps in the cabin at the back of the ship.

And Master Dooku ....

Master Dooku stares at the swirl of hyperspace like he hopes it will tell him something. He strokes at his beard while he stares—a sure sign that he’s deep in thought.

So, when Dooku speaks only a few minutes after Sheev takes out his holobook for his artifacts class since the ship is on autopilot, it makes him jump in his chair.

“I apologize, Padawan, for my actions yesterday.” Dooku glances at him as he smooths a strand of black hair out of his eyes. “I am trying to teach you to mind your temper, you have succeeded well in that of late, and yet, here I am.”

Sheev, shifting in his seat, doesn’t look at his master, or he might not say what first comes to mind.

“Maybe you shouldn’t have done it,” he says, “but it made me feel less ... alone. For what I did to my father.”

“Sheev—”

“You’re going to say it’s different. And maybe it was. I didn’t mean to do what I did, but I still shoved him. I still got angry at him for hating me. You weren’t just angry at Lem for stabbing Master Sifo. You were angry at him for murdering Knight Katri. For hating the Jedi. And I—” Finally, he meets his master’s eye and finds ... a strange softness. A lack of judgement. Perhaps even understanding. “I know we aren’t meant to hate, and that’s not the point of what I mean. The point of what I mean is that there are people who hate us. Today, it’s my father or Ror Lem or superstitious fools on Stewjon. Tomorrow? It’s more. You always say that Jedi have special powers, gifts granted to us by the Force. So, why are we letting people treat us this way? The Republic is hardly as strong an ally to us as we are to them, and—”

“Sheev—”

“I don’t mean that we become the Sith,” Sheev insists, and interrupting his master is a bad idea, but he’s already in it. A sort of mania fills him up, warms his blood, and it feels good and right. Ideas come to him. The Force grants him clarity. “I would never suggest that. I mean that the Jedi ought to have more power than we do, because we have these gifts. It would protect us and the galaxy, in the end, once people got used to it. It would not be power for power’s sake, but for protection and progress. That is what the Jedi want. Progress.”

He rests his hand on the console and spins his chair so he can face his master fully, and Dooku, oddly enough, doesn’t stop him again. Silver-blue washes across Dooku’s face, and he tilts his head in intrigue and surprise and ... that sense of understanding balloons between them. His master has had these thoughts before, too. Yes. Sheev isn’t alone in thinking them. Dooku doesn’t think him a monster for it.

“If we had power like that,” Sheev adds as the ideas comes so fast they fall into one another like a game of spominos, “no fool like Lem would set out to murder one of our own. You ... someone like your father wouldn’t dare leave you in the woods to die.”

Dooku breathes in sharp, Sheev feels the stab in his own chest, and finally, he stops.

How to make their fellow Jedi see this, he couldn’t say. Oh, but the things they could do without the restraints and corruption of the Republic. Crush crime lords. Stop slavers. The democracy isn’t … it’s hardly working, these days.

“I admit to having had similar thoughts.” Dooku confesses into the quiet of the cockpit. “My temper yesterday was hardly useful, but you’re right, Padawan. While I was upset about Sifo-Dyas, it was the idea of that man believing he had the right to kill Jedi that ... usurped my senses.” Dooku curls his hand into a fist. “If occurrences like this continue, I ... something will need to be done about it. Something bold as you suggest.” His eyes darken, and another admission hangs on the tip of his tongue. “I had an ... experience when I was a Padawan myself. A vision of my own. I saw the Jedi taking power. Surrounding the senate building. I was horrified at the time. Jedi are to be respected, not mistreated, but we had always sworn to serve democracy.”

“And now?”

“I wish for there to be other ways that don’t involve anything … authoritarian, even in a benevolent manner, but I do ... I keep that blueprint in mind, so to speak, if things grow dire. Still, visions are tricky things. Fluid. I didn’t have the full context of why the Jedi were taking that action. But it did make me consider things … outside the framework. It made me consider … just how far things had fallen for the Jedi to something so extreme as dismantling the Republic, at least for a time.”

“The light shines,”Sheev says, “but it burns when the need arises.”

The proud smile comes next, the one with the flash of fondness and teeth. “You’ve grown into an astute young Jedi, Sheev.”

Sheev lets himself grin. “You did teach me, master.”

Dooku’s laughter makes the Force glow, and Sheev basks in the pride. Given all the hours ahead of them, Dooku offers him an age-old game of chess, which they’ve been playing together since Sheev was twelve. That was when he started seeing the Force as a chess board just like this. The Living Force runs through everything, and the Cosmic Force, with all the souls returned to it, envelops them all. The Force isn’t stagnant. It moves with those who have the gift of using it just like the pieces on a board.

For once, Sheev manages to oust his master. A rarity.

Upon their return to the temple, Master Dooku gives him leave to go, bent on taking Master Sifo to the healers for a second check-up. Sheev commed Silas when they entered the atmosphere, and he finds his old friend saving him a seat in the busy and bustling refectory.

“So,” Silas says, smiling with his sharp Twi’lek teeth once Sheev retrieves his dinner and sits down, “tell me everything. Did you solve the murder? I feel awful for Knight Katri, but I am jealous you got to go on the mission to find out what happened to her. Everyone’s shaken up about it.”

Sheev does not tell him everything, but he weaves quite a tale with what he can divulge.

When they’re done, they make their way to the archives so Silas can show Sheev a collection of historical papers relating to their artifacts seminar. Master Jocasta, at the front desk, greets him with a grin. A lot of Padawans and even knights are scared of her, but Sheev doesn’t know why. If you just respect her space, she’ll respect you.

“Your master and Sifo-Dyas returned you in one piece, I see,” she jokes, and he gives her a cheeky bow in turn. “I’m pleased to see it. I assume, given what I heard of the mission, that Master Dooku has taken Sifo-Dyas to the Halls?”

“He fusses,” Sheev says. “So, you would be correct.”

“Eternally.” She winks, and she could mean that Dooku fusses eternally, or that she’s right eternally, or both. “Silas has been keeping your usual table warm, but come by before you leave. I have a new holobook for you.”

Sheev says that he will, and Master Jocasta pats his shoulder before shooing them off to their study table on the second level. Settled in and listening to Silas explain about the collection, Sheev gazes at the vast expanse of knowledge all around him. He takes in the low hum of Jedi asking questions of the archivists and the beep of the checkout machines and the squeaky wheels of return carts. The archives are, in actuality, part archive and part library, and they contain more information than any other repository in the galaxy.

This.

All of this is exactly what he wants to protect.

Whatever it takes.

Seven Months After the Arrival of the Chosen One

The Jedi Temple

Obi-Wan misses the sea, but the waterfall in the Room of a Thousand Fountains? Delights him. Kicking his feet slowly up and down in the large round pool, he watches that waterfall come down from all the way up seven stories above him. The blue-green water runs cool over his skin, and the flowers and plants smell wonderful. Next to him, Quin watches the waterfall too, his side pressed warm against Obi-Wan's.

Quin’s been at the temple a month, and while Obi-Wan has more friends now than he ever did on Stewjon, Quin is his best one.

Quin doesn’t talk a bunch, and Master Reginald says that’s because he’s sad about what happened to his parents, and probably he’ll talk more one day, but Obi-Wan watches for the way he smiles at Siri playing with a toy lightsaber or Bant quietly putting a piece of her Jogan fruit on his plate, and things like that. When Quin really smiles, it brightens up the Force. He also seemed to really like their visit to the music room, where older younglings played some instruments for them after their schooling was done for the day.

Obi-Wan likes noticing things like that about Quin. He’s been through a lot, and Obi-Wan knows why he’s so sad.

Today, though, Quin’s been laughing more.

And Obi-Wan is proud of that.

“It’s pretty,” Quin says softly. “Kiffu doesn’t have waterfalls.”

Obi-Wan skims his fingers over the water, and the Force tugs at him when he does, and he isn’t sure what that means, but maybe he should ask.

“Stewjon either. But I like the ocean. Do you know how to swim?”

Quin shakes his head.

Obi-Wan learned to swim on Stewjon, but he’s heard the older younglings talk about lessons in the bigger pool they have somewhere else in the temple. Maybe he can help the other members of his clan learn.

“We have a lot of storms on Kiffu, though. I like them,” Quin adds. “Lightning can hit me, and it won’t hurt. Just tickles.”

“Really?”

“Uh huh.”

Maybe one day, Obi-Wan can teach Quin how to swim, and Quin can teach him to like storms. They always scared him on Stewjon.

Now that Quin’s joined the clan, he and Obi-Wan sleep in bottom bunks across from each other, with Siri above Obi-Wan and Bant above Quin, and they all make up stories about their stuffies, and Prie tells them to go to sleep, please, so she can hopefully have another dream about a cool creature. Garen talks in his sleep and doesn’t hear them. Bolla sleeps like the dead, which is what Master Reginald says. Sometimes, Quin has nightmares, and nightmares are sort of like scary pictures, and he climbs into Obi-Wan's bed. They fall asleep together like that, and Obi-Wan has less bad dreams too, when that happens. It makes him glad that Quin trusts him.

Obi-Wan remembers how other children on Stewjon would play in the ocean and splash each other. They would giggle together and screech in protest. He always had to play alone, so he never got to do that, but it looked fun. So, hoping he can make Quin happy, he dips his hand into the water and splashes it across Quin’s knees. At first, Quin’s eyes widen, and he tilts his head like he doesn’t know why Obi-Wan did that, but then a smile slowly slips onto his mouth.

And Quin splashes back.

Obi-Wan yelps when the water from Quin’s revenge gets his rolled-up trousers wet, and they go back and forth and back and forth until they’re damp up to their waists in their cream-white tunics and laughing hard. Obi-Wan's ribs hurt, but he doesn’t care. Quin’s laugh glows in the Force like a yellow flame, warm but not burning.

Quin dips his whole arm into the pool, and he grins, and Obi-Wan's never seen him grin that big, and his eyes glimmer with what Knight Qui-Gon would call mischief—Obi-Wan just learned that word—when he flings water up into the air. That water rains down on Obi-Wan's head, and some of it goes up his nose, and he doesn’t mind at all. With his tattoos bright on his brown skin, Quin looks happier now that he usually does. His eyes sort of sparkle.

Knight Qui-Gon calls to them.

“Boys! Come here, please. There’s someone I’d like you to meet.”

Taking two towels from the bin next to the pool when Knight Tholme asks them to, they dry themselves off before running up, barefoot, to see who has come to visit. A Jedi shorter than Knight Qui-Gon stands next to the wooden bench surrounded by a kind of red flower that Obi-Wan doesn’t know the name of. Knight Qui-Gon will know. He loves plants. The Jedi, dressed in green tunics, has ginger hair tied back into a smooth tail at the base of his neck. Searching in the Force like he always does when he meets someone new, Obi-Wan senses ... the Jedi seems lonely. Sad.

“Obi-Wan, Quin,” Knight Qui-Gon says with a fond smile, “This is Jedi Knight Sheev Palpatine, my older lineage sibling.”

Oh! Knight Sheev! Obi-Wan's heard a lot about him. Quin gives off a pop of dislike, but Quin is unsure about new people a lot. That’s okay. Obi-Wan understands why. Obi-Wan bows like he’s seen a lot of other Jedi do.

“Hi, Knight Sheev,” he replies. “Knight Qui-Gon and Master Dooku and Master Rael have told me all about you.”

A crooked smile draws light into Knight Sheev’s face.

“All terrible?”

Obi-Wan shakes his head. “No. They said you liked studying. I like to read, too.”

That crooked smile grows. “You’ve been telling lies, Qui-Gon. I’m rather surly, so I’ve heard. But I do like to read, young one.”

“Particular,” Knight Qui-Gon answers. “Knight Sheev is a great favorite of Master Jocasta, boys, and if you want to get into her good graces, letting him teach you all there is to know about the archives will help with that.”

“True,” Knight Tholme echoes as he lifts Quin up onto his lap. “He did help Qui-Gon and I do quite a few of our papers. My master was more lenient about how I did on them, but Master Dooku expected excellence.”

“My daydreaming did get in my way, didn’t it?” Knight Qui-Gon laughs and pats the empty spot next to him for Obi-Wan to sit. “Thankfully I had you to get me to focus, Sheev. Are you off on a mission? I see you’ve got some materials there.”

“Another outpost temple is shutting down.” Knight Sheev sighs, and Obi-Wan thinks he’s heard of one of these places from Master Dooku. “It’s too expensive to run, the Republic won’t help cover costs, so I’ll be cataloging the artifacts with one of the archivists. I leave in a week’s time and wanted to see the records on what they have in their possession.”

Knight Qui-Gon explained, once, that the Jedi put money away a long, long time ago, and that’s how they pay for things in the temple like food, but that the Republic pays them for missions or? Something like that?

“Anyhow,” Knight Sheev adds. “It’s good you’re back from Kiffu, Tholme. And I see these two younglings have made fast friends.”

Obi-Wan wants to say that Quin is his best friend, but he tries not to talk too much unless the adults talk to him first. The Jedi say he doesn’t have to do that, but ... his Papa always ... he’s trying.

“I think Quin here is Obi-Wan's best friend.” Qui-Gon elbows Obi-Wan gently in the ribs and winks at Quin, who nods, still without speaking. “Don’t you think, Obi-Wan?”

“Yes. Quin is my best best friend.”

Knight Sheev chuckles, but it’s ... weird? It doesn’t sound quite right. No one seems to notice, though.

“That is how it goes in the creche, hmm?” Knight Sheev says. “Strong bonds.”

“Sometimes Dooku says he’s surprised that you didn’t become an archivist like Silas,” Knight Qui-Gon adds. “You do love it there.”

“I need a bit more fresh air than Silas. But he does let me know when interesting new materials arrive.”

Tholme, hefting himself up from the bench with Quin in his arms, shoots Obi-Wan a smile, and his gray eyes are kind.

“I need to get this little one back to the creche to spend some time with Master Reginald. I’m off in the morning on a mission.”

At the mention of this, Quin snuggles closer against Knight Tholme’s chest with a soft whine. Obi-Wan understands. Knight Qui-Gon has to go on missions too, and Obi-Wan misses him when he’s gone, but he really likes Master Reginald and the other crechemasters and Master Yoda and Master Dooku and Master Sifo and Knight Tholme and Knight Che and all his friends. The second time Knight Qui-Gon left hurt less than the first, when he was gone for his ... trials? That’s what they’re called. He thinks.

“I know it’s hard, Quin,” Tholme says softly, and he shifts his grasp so that Quin looks at him. “But I have a friend who does the same work I do looking for bad people, and we’ve not heard from him, and I need to go make sure he’s all right. Do you understand?”

Quin grasps the Tholme’s long black hair and nods.

“I can be brave. Promise.”

Quin’s words, barely audible, make Obi-Wan's heart hurt.

“You’re one the bravest lads I’ve ever met,” Tholme tells him. “But it’s all right if you’re sad or afraid. Master Reginald will take good care of you, and you’ll have all your new friends. And Obi-Wan, of course. I know that will help.”

Quin nods again, and he waves at Obi-Wan as Tholme says, don’t keep him too-late, Qui. Creche lights out for these boys is in an hour. Knight Qui-Gon says that he won’t, and just as he does, another Jedi calls out to him.

This leaves Obi-Wan alone with Knight Sheev, who sits down next to him.

“I was very sorry to hear, Obi-Wan,” he begins, “of the terrible things that happened to you on your homeworld.”

“Oh.” Obi-Wan wants to glance back out at the water, but his Papa said ... his Papa always said to look at him when he spoke, and Knight Sheev might not be mad but he ... he should try. “Thank you. I’m better now.”

Knight Sheev’s blue eyes have that sadness Obi-Wan felt before. Was his Papa mean to him too?

“No one should be hurt for being Force-sensitive, but especially not a small child.”

Obi-Wan rubs at the scars on his legs that hide beneath his trousers. “Was your Papa mean to you too?”

The question he wasn’t going to ask, the one his Papa would have him beaten for asking, slips out. He just has so many questions sometimes!

“You are an inquisitive little one, aren’t you?”

Obi-Wan tilts his head. “What does that mean?”

“Curious.”

“Ohhh.” Obi-Wan wraps his arms around himself. “Yes. I like to know things. I’m sorry.”

“No, it’s a not a bad thing, youngling.” Knight Sheev pauses, and a flash of some kind of board appears in Obi-Wan's head. “More than a few of us here have been hurt by our parents, myself among them. That’s what the Jedi are for. To protect us.”

Knight Qui-Gon jogs back over and sweeps Obi-Wan up into his arms.

“All right, well, I suppose I had better listen to Tholme and get this little one back to the creche,” he says. “Will you be at family dinner on Benduday, Sheev? That’s before you leave.”

“I should be there. Is Rael back?”

“Just yesterday. Dooku thinks he’s on the hunt for a Padawan.”

Knight Sheev scowls. “Force forbid that.”

Qui-Gon give Knight Sheev a look. “Be kind.”

“I am being kind. To a future Padawan. Rael is an excellent Jedi. What I’m questioning is his ability to teach.”

“You could take a Padawan, you know.” Knight Qui-Gon smirks, and it makes Obi-Wan giggle. “I do think you could teach. You taught me.”

A little bit of light appears in Knight Sheev’s eyes. “We’ll see. I like my privacy.”

“Like our master.” Qui-Gon sets Obi-Wan on his hip. “Tell Knight Sheev goodnight, Obi-Wan.”

“Good night.” Obi-Wan gives a wave. “I liked meeting you.”

Knight Sheev gives a wave in return, and Obi-Wan leans his head on Qui-Gon's shoulder while they walk back to the creche. He liked Knight Sheev and hopes maybe one day he’ll take him to the archives with him—if he’s good.

And maybe one day, too, Knight Sheev won’t be so sad.

8 Months After the Chosen One’s Arrival

The Jedi Temple

When Quin comes into a room, he can tell whether that room has mostly good memories or bad ones—without touching anything.

The creche music room has only good ones, and being in here makes him happy.

Running his bare fingers over the pale green carpet, Quin sees a golden flash of other kids laughing. It’s new. Fresh. He didn’t really have to try to read that memory, and Knight Tholme says that as he grows up, he’ll have control over his powers. So, he won’t see pictures when he touches something with a lot of memory on it if he doesn’t want to see them. A bunch of Kiffar have psychometry—that’s what it’s called—but only a few of them have enough midichlo ... whatever they’re called, to be a Jedi. His Mama used to say that was what made him so special. There was another Kiffar Jedi named Vildar Mac, and there’s a man from his clan in the senate right now.

Even before you’re old enough to be my Padawan, Knight Tholme told him, I’m going to help you with your psychometry. You’ll learn to have control over when you read memories and when you don’t.

Always?

Quin thought of the medallion. His Mama’s medallion. He didn’t even try to use his powers and his still saw everything. It feels like no matter what he does that will happen. It scares him. If he had just been able to stop from seeing it, maybe that bad weird angry scary thing under his ribs wouldn’t have happened.

Usually, Tholme answered. There will always be some objects that are very powerful. I’m going to get you some gloves, which will help. We’ll see when you need to wear them.

Obi-Wan, sitting next to him with Fruitsaber in his lap, watches Depa and Luminara—three years older than them—play a song. Depa sings. Luminara plays the piano. Another even older youngling, Kit, who is ten, plays the cloud flute.

The music makes the bad weird scary angry feeling go away.

Obi-Wan's knee bumps against his, and that helps too. His new friend, his best friend, is really smart, and always kind, and he seems to know just when Quin needs cheering up. On his other side, Bant, who he likes very much, holds onto her fish stuffie named Pinkie, and watches the older children. Quin shuts his eyes, and the music, especially the piano, washes over him like the water in the Room of a Thousand Fountains. The Force flickers fire, but not a bad fire. It’s a nice one like his Mama and Papa used to have in the sitting room of their house when big storms came. Quin liked the storms on Kiffu. He misses them. His Mama had a little piano, too, and said that Uncle Kurlin taught her to play old Kiffar folk songs when she was small like him.

They all clap when Depa, Luminara, and Kit are done.

“My Mama used to play the piano,” Quin says, surprising everyone when he speaks. “We have a lot of music on Kiffu.”

“Maybe you can learn to play, Quin.” Obi-Wan squeezes Quin’s hand. “Lumi would help teach you I bet.”

“And we’d clap for you,” Bant adds as Siri nods next to her. “A lot.”

Obi-Wan smiles, and his copper hair shines in the sun. His skin is paler than normal, because he had another scary picture the other day, and it makes the freckles on his nose stand out. Quin’s not sure what the vision was about. Obi-Wan said he saw a group of people with signs outside of a really big building and that one of them, or maybe more, got hurt when someone else, with a different sign, tried to stab them. Older Jedi went to the building, they said, and stopped anyone from getting hurt, which made Obi-Wan feel better.

They said they went to the senate, Obi-Wan told him. My uncle is in that. And they were arguing about legi ... I don’t remember the word. People were arguing, though. In the senate.

“Bant’s right,” Obi-Wan says, pulling Quin out of his head. “We could clap a lot for you.”

For a little while, Quin forgets the scar on his palm that even the Bacta won’t make go away. He forgets how sad he is.

I feel bad when I laugh or smile, Quin told Knight Tholme before. My Mama and Papa can’t do that.

Your Mama and Papa would want you to feel happy when you can, youngling, Knight Tholme said. Kiffu was your home. I know that. This can be your home too. I promise.

Knight Tholme is really smart.

Maybe he’s right.

Maybe Quin can miss his Mama and Papa and still smile and laugh sometimes.

He looks at Obi-Wan, who has that thin pink-red marking on his face that he can’t get rid of, either, and his eyes that are different shades of blue, and even though he doesn’t like those things just like Quin doesn’t like his scar, the Jedi don’t think he’s weird or bad.

Maybe, just maybe, they won’t think he’s weird or bad either.

Maybe.

Coruscant Magazine

A New Path Forward: Meet the Senators Who Want to Change the Republic’s Relationship With the Jedi Order

When you think of the Galactic Republic, the Jedi Order isn’t far behind. In our nearly one-thousand-year-history, the two have been synonymous.

A small group of senators would like to change that.

While they don’t have the votes now, these senators say they intend on working toward—however long it takes. Some want an official Republic military and feel the Jedi will no longer be needed in an official capacity. Some hold beliefs that the Jedi abuse the Force by using it and feel the Order is being given a religious preference. Others feel corporate innovation and job creation will invigorate Republic stagnation and think the Jedi will push back against it. In this piece, you’ll meet Senator Avi Singh of Raxus, Sano Sauro of Europha, Bog Divinian of Castell, Valsi Kenobi of Stewjon, Bec LaWise of Mileva, and young newcomer Sly Moore of Umbara.

HNN Spotlight

Five-year-old Obi-Wan Kenobi, the cast out former prince of Stewjon and mysterious Jedi Chosen One, was spotted outside the Coruscant Children’s Museum this morning. The Jedi initiate, now five-years-old and rarely seen outside the temple, was on a field trip. His caretaker, which the Jedi call crechemasters, ushered Kenobi and the other children inside the museum before anyone in the crowd of admirers could speak to him. One Kiffar initiate attempted to kick a reporter but was thwarted by an older Jedi.

The Chosen Ones are meant to be out in public, a Coruscanti resident who spoke to us said. All I wanted was for him to touch my Jedi beads, give a blessing, say May the Force Be With You, anything, but the older Jedi were rude to me. My family is really into the Chosen Ones. My mom collects the memorabilia—even the older stuff you can only find on gBay. The Jedi keeping him so isolated isn’t right. The Chosen Ones mean a lot to people, and things are getting harder out there in the galaxy. Everything’s more expensive. The senate moves slow. Seems like there’s more fighting. People need hope. That’s the Jedi’s job.

The Jedi Order Communications Liason could not be reached for comment.

Two Years After the Arrival of the Chosen One

The Jedi Temple

When it comes, the vision sucks Obi-Wan out of his clan’s lesson with Master Yoda and puts him ... it puts him ....

Dark room. Black cloak. Red beard. Black stones. An ... Obi-Wan doesn’t know what that is. The stones. The steps up to the stones.

Obi-Wan!

Quin’s voice. Obi-Wan can’t see him. Is he here? Sunny salle open windows training sabers all of it goes away, and he’s lost. Lost.

The man in the black cloak moves aside. Obi-Wan can’t see his face, but ....

Oh. Oh. It’s him on the stones. An older him. He thinks. Yes. Him him it’s him the man in the black cloak has been making him scream and bleed all this time.

Glowing orange eyes meet his. Ropes bite into his skin and draw blood. Black cloak black cloak, and the person in the cloak putting their hands on Obi-Wan's shoulders. Nails dig in, but he can’t see his face.

Aren’t you the perfect Jedi specimen, my brave little Chosen One?

Obi-Wan, youngling, here we are. What do you see? Tell us what you see?

A green hand comes down onto his arm. Not the vision not the vision Master Yoda. Master Yoda can’t pull him out.

There’s another man in the vision. Two men. Flash of green tunics flash of blue robes red beard swipe of yellow roar of the sea.

The man in the black cloak holds a shiny silver knife in his long-fingered hand.

I’m looking forward to breaking you, little prophet.

Obi-Wan!

Quin’s voice again.

Youngling, come back to us, you must. Come back.

A scream spills out of Obi-Wan's mouth. It spills out right as the knife cuts him and he bleeds and—

“Breathe, young one.”

Master Yoda’s face appears in an unspooling swirl of green.

Obi-Wan is on his back in the pretty salle with the open windows looking out on the city. The sun burns. It hurts his eyes.

“Obi-Wan!” Quin exclaims, kneeling down next to him. “You hit your head. Are you okay?”

His head does hurt, but that’s not weird for a vision. Does it hurt more? Maybe. Tears push and push and push, and he doesn’t want to cry, he doesn’t, but he can’t help it he can’t.

“Take his hand, Quin,” Siri says, her blond hair caught in the light. “That always helps. You one and Bant the other.”

Quin does take Obi-Wan's hand, and Bant takes the other. The force holds him close. His friends steady his heartbeat. Stop crying you already screamed you were already loud they all saw don’t be bad.

“Bad you are not, youngling.” Yoda strokes his forehead. “Breathe with me. In and out.”

Obi-Wan obeys. It helps.

Chosen One Chosen One Chosen One he still doesn’t really understand. He’s heard it, but he doesn’t—

Another Jedi, having heard the scream, gently ushers the rest of his clan out. Quin, who does not like this, protests with a stomp of his foot and a no, but Obi-Wan says I’m okay, and this gets Quin to go with the other Jedi. He isn’t okay, but he can tell Quin later. The adults always want to talk to him alone after he has a vision. A Togruta Jedi rushes in with a glass of water from the fountain in the hall. His visions always make other Jedi notice. They hear him cry and scream. They feel it in the Force.

He doesn’t like it. He doesn’t want to bother them.

Yoda and the Togruta Jedi get him sitting up and help him sip the water. That pain behind his right eye won’t go away. He can’t stop shaking. He might throw up he really really might.

Aren’t you the perfect Jedi specimen, my little Chosen One?

“If not yet ready you are, to tell us what you saw, fine, that is,” Master Yoda says. “Breathe deep, you must.”

“The man in the black cloak called me the Chosen One.” The tears come back, and Obi-Wan sobs without wanting to. “I know I have special powers, but they called me that on the news when I was little and I—”

Obi-Wan's stomach churns, it makes noises, and he throws up, just like he was scared he would, all over the gleaming floor.

“I’m sorry I’m sorry.” He coughs, and it burns, and more colored spit comes up and stains everything. “Master Yoda, I’m—”

He's five now, not a baby, he shouldn’t—

“All right it is, Obi-Wan,” Yoda soothes. “All right.”

More Jedi come in as the Force throbs. He hates it he hates it he hates it everything doing everything for him he wants to do it himself.

One of the Jedi who came in was Knight Mace, who just passed his trials, and Knight Mace picks him up and and says soft things in his ear that the vision steals away. No no no no not again not again. A tingle goes down his legs, and he laughs. He laughs and laughs and laughs and he doesn’t know why why is he laughing he can’t stop.

The man in the black cloak leans down, and his orange eyes scar Obi-Wan's skin.

Bleed for me, little prophet.

Bleed.

Qui-Gon strides toward his old master’s door.

Images of Obi-Wan, small and pale beneath the rose-pink sheets in the Halls, won’t stop assaulting him. The little one has a concussion from hitting his head during a vision and also vomited up everything he’d eaten in the last day or so. Visions usually tire him and cause headaches, but this was quite extreme.

He had a gelastic seizure, Knight Che, who tries to tend to Obi-Wan's medical needs as often as she can because he’s familiar with her, said.

Pardon?

Knight Windu indicated that Obi-Wan stiffened up and then started laughing uncontrollably, which is a sign of that type of seizure. It just means the vision caused unusual electrical activity in the part of the brain that controls those actions.

Some parts of Qui-Gon want to blame the Force for handing this burden out, for putting a child in pain like this, but it is not, in the end, the Force’s fault. No, the Force is only responding to darkness in the galaxy. The Force is trying to save them and warn them.

The Force ushered him toward Obi-Wan, and he must listen to what it’s saying. He must trust the Force as he always does.

Take care of this boy.

When he reaches Dooku’s quarters, his master isn’t alone. Sifo’s voice creeps out from beneath the door.

Unlike most of our fellows and even our senator allies, he’s saying, I’m not opposed to a Republic military. With all the growing intra-planetary conflicts, the tension between factions on the same worlds, and my own visions ... the point being, you don’t raise a military and sever the Republic’s relationship with the Jedi. You have the military so the Jedi can continue to do our work if war breaks out and assist the military if required. There aren’t enough of us to be soldiers. And we’re not meant to be. Warriors, as needed, yes, but not an army. Imagine all the things that would fall the wayside if war broke out and they foolishly cast the Jedi aside?

They must have been reading that much-talked about article in Coruscant Magazine, where senators who want to end the Republic’s official relationship with the Jedi were interviewed. It won’t happen right now, but it was scandalous, and it could lead, in Qui-Gon's view, to subjugation and legalized bigotry. Those senators don’t just want to end the Republic’s relationship with the Jedi.

They hate the Jedi.

That’s not what he needs to worry about at the moment.

He needs to worry about Obi-Wan.

The moment the moment the moment.

Unlike Rael, he knocks, and his master bids him to enter. Qui-Gon types in the familiar code and finds Sifo and Dooku on the dark purple sofa with mugs of tea on the caf table.

“Qui-Gon?” Dooku questions. “What’s the matter?”

“You’ll be hearing from Master Yoda soon,” Qui-Gon replies. “He’s summoning an emergency council meeting. Obi-Wan had a significant vision, and he ... he’s asked to know more about being the Chosen One. The man he keeps seeing, he referred to him as such.”

Dooku stands up with his impossible elegance, and Sifo stands up with him.

“That’s a first. Did he see the man’s face?” Dooku asks.

“No. But there’s more. Obi-Wan ... he realized who the man in the black cloak has been tormenting. We all wondered if—”

“It was him, I assume?” Sifo asks softly. “That poor boy.”

Sifo’s words hit Qui-Gon, suddenly. The grief in his voice punches the air from Qui-Gon's lungs. The future’s potential horrors cling to him like the sharp nails in Obi-Wan's vision. They drag down and draw blood. The moment the moment the present moment is what he needs. He grounds himself in the familiar sights and sounds and smells of his master’s quarters. The soft fabric of the couch beneath his hand. The scent of honey in the tea mugs. The instrumental music playing on the holoradio set to Dooku’s favorite station.

Dooku’s hand goes to his shoulder. Reassurance runs down the bond, and those stars shine silver in Qui-Gon's mind’s eye.

Stars.

Obi-Wan shines like stars over a dark sea.

It’s been a test to not run to Obi-Wan constantly when he’s not away on a mission—and to not put off missions to keep an eye on him—but he must let Obi-Wan also bond with his clan mates, with the crechemasters, and with other Jedi. They raise their little ones communally, after all. One day, Obi-Wan will be his Padawan. He’s already decided that, but he cannot be possessive. Obi-Wan needs more than just him.

“You hurt because you care, Qui,” Dooku whispers. “Give it a moment, and then we’ll go to the council chambers. You should come with Sifo and I.”

Sifo-Dyas, new the to council as of three months ago, nods in agreement.

When he was first Dooku’s student, Qui-Gon was met with a mystery of a master. He would let Qui-Gon sit in his quarters and do his homework, though he wasn’t exactly offering to help with that homework. Qui-Gon enjoyed that quiet time with Dooku, but most days, he didn’t know if he was doing what was right to please the teacher who hand-picked him. They bonded over prophecies and Chosen Ones, and yet still, Dooku was distant. Sheev and Rael said they felt more in sync with Dooku when they were further along into their apprenticeship, and Qui-Gon took that feedback on board.

Things changed when Qui-Gon was fourteen.

That Force lightning, the way he said stop to a legendary Jedi Master, altered his world.

Dooku came back from six months away still himself but different. He communicated, and so, Qui-Gon, who tended toward having trouble with that sometimes—he just assumed others knew his feelings—learned along with him.

You’ve always been a soft one, Qui, Rael says in his memory. That’s not a critique. I just don’t know if I can bear to let myself be. You’re gentle in the Force. Stubborn as Sith Hells, but gentle. We need more of that in the galaxy. I think it’s why our master picked you, honestly. He wanted more of that in himself, even if he didn’t know it.

Dooku’s hand remains on his shoulder. Sifo-Dyas squeezes his hand.

And Jedi Knight Qui-Gon Jinn bears the weight of loving an endangered little boy.

“The flash of yellow, the green tunics, the red beard, those sound more like maybes,” Master Plo says, his voice gone deeper with concern. “All visions are maybes, I know, but ... the man in the black cloak. With the frequency of his appearances, he’s a certainty. Not whether he’ll get his hands on Obi-Wan, but that he exists and intends to. This vision indicates an older Obi-Wan, but if this man had the opportunity earlier? We will need to be on the watch without letting paranoia hold sway.”

“Is it too simple to say that could be a Sith?” Master Rancis adds. “It’s something to keep in mind without jumping to conclusions.”

“Someone who, perhaps, Sith or not, was waiting for the Chosen One to appear,” Master Poof replies. “With what we learned of the abuses on Stewjon, and with this group of senators who have interest in separating us from the Republic, we need to be aware of others who may have their eye on Obi-Wan as a way to harm the Jedi.”

“I feel certain that a Sith is involved.” Dooku rests his hands on his knees, and he fights back the frantic frenzy tempting him toward rudeness. “What Obi-Wan keeps seeing speaks to a ritual.”

“It does,” Yaddle answers. “And a Sith the man may be. We just don’t know for sure, and what Master Poof is saying is that the Sith may be working with others in secret. We need to be careful about sounding the Sith alarm and gaining tunnel vision over it. We see the Sith and miss the other tendrils of the thing. Obi-Wan's future visions will tells us more. If there is a Sith involved, I expect we’ll learn soon enough.”

“I take your point, Master Yaddle.” Dooku folds his hands and considers. “But do the Sith have the discipline to work with others in a way that won’t be an open challenge to us? That remains a fair question. They’re hardly subtle and their previous allies—the Zygerrians come to mind—also aren’t … quiet. Though”—he sets his spinning thoughts right again—“if this rumored Rule of Two is real, if they’ve been hiding all this time as I’ve feared, I suppose they would have to morph and change their ways. Perhaps I’m thinking too much in history and not the present.”

“If a Sith, this man is,” Yoda says, “a new sort, he may be. Open our minds to that, we must.”

“The flash of yellow.” Qui-Gon strokes at the beard he started growing a few months ago, and Dooku sees himself in the reflection. “I know we’re focusing on the man in the black cloak, and I agree, but the yellow could be an indication of Quinlan Vos’ presence. He and Obi-Wan are very close. I think we ought to consider, even now, that he needs protection if their bond remains so. Besides that, with Kurlin’s death, Tinte Vos is now in charge of Kiffu. She wants Quinlan and will make use of his friendship with the Chosen One if she can.”

Tholme told Dooku that he is sure the rumors that Tinte, from her house confinement, had Kurlin poisoned, are true. She laid her claim to Kiffu, and to say that there is turmoil among Clan Vos right now would be putting it lightly.

By protecting a youngling, the Jedi have now made an enemy of a long-standing Republic planet. Kurlin was a steady ally. Tinte is not.

How quickly these things change.

“Agreed, I am.” Yoda rests his hands on his gimmer stick with a pronounced frown. “Witness their bond, I do, in classes. Particular, it is, even at their young age, but very selfless and bright.”

“If the rest of the council agrees”—Dooku clears his throat and feels, oddly, like the Padawan he no longer is—“I would like to take on the task of explaining a bit more to Obi-Wan about what being the Chosen One means. He's asking, and now that he’s a little bit older, I want to explain. I can take Sifo-Dyas along with me, since he has such a long experience with visions.”

Yaddle nods. “You have a strong bond with Obi-Wan, and you know the lore of the Chosen Ones well. I’m in agreement.”

“I’ll keep his bluntness to a minimum,” Sifo-Dyas jokes, and this, for the first time, lightens the mood in the bright and airy council chamber. “But,” he adds, “While I agree that we ought to focus on the man in the black cloak, we should see if these flashes change or remain. The red beard, the yellow, and the green tunics. The beard could be Obi-Wan's father, and as Master Poof said, we need to be on the lookout for those who may ally with any potential Sith—if there is, indeed, a Sith. Obi-Wan did have that vision about the altercation outside the senate last year, concerning the failed political donations legislation. That tells us his foresight is focused on not just potential Sith coming for the Jedi, but other enemies of ours as well.”

“Agree with Sifo-Dyas, I do. Take care of our special little one, we know you will, Dooku.” Yoda smiles, and even at fifty-five, even if he debates his beloved master regularly—and sometimes argues—Dooku beams at the praise.

He has a job to do.

They take Obi-Wan to the Hall of the Chosen Ones.

“Soon, you’ll be too heavy for me to carry, Initiate Kenobi,” Dooku teases, and he puts on a melodramatic groan. “You’re growing so fast, I might be carrying a Bantha.”

“I’m not as heavy as a Bantha,” Obi-Wan protests with a tired giggle. “You’re silly, Master Dooku. Quin and I have a contest about who will be taller. But it will be him, I think. Siri says so.”

Obi-Wan buries his face against Dooku’s shoulder and breathes out burdens that shouldn’t be his. Released from the Halls yesterday with a bottle of anti-seizure medication in hand, Obi-Wan has been, according to Master Coll, far moodier than usual. Mood regulation, so the healers said, can be a side effect of this type of seizure, or it could simply be that the boy is upset by what he saw. Knight Che informed Dooku that medicine, up until recently, could not treat these particular seizures, but that advancements have been made. Given that it’s a Force impact on Obi-Wan's brain rather than a problem in the brain itself, they don’t know how much the medication will do. Sifo, prone to your more typical seizures rather than what Obi-Wan experienced, takes medicine, and it cuts down on his episodes by about half.

They’ll have to see how Obi-Wan does.

In Dooku’s experience, the abuse Obi-Wan endured—not to mention the visions—cause anxiety and panic rather than a bad temper. So, this is new. Still, he seems less moody today.

“You haven’t asked me a single question,” Dooku says. “I thought you’d learned that your curiosity is a good thing, little one.”

“Don’t wanna bother you,” Obi-Wan mumbles against Dooku’s cloak. “My vision upset everybody.”

“Master Dooku adores your questions, youngling,” Sifo-Dyas replies. “He’s already planning your career as a Jedi academic like Knight Sheev. Or perhaps a diplomat.”

Obi-Wan, who likely has only half an idea what these words mean, smiles at Sifo. His experience as a Seeker has taught Sifo-Dyas the finer points of little ones, and it has helped, time and again, with Obi-Wan.

“Where are we going?” Obi-Wan finally asks.

“We’re going to show you the Hall of Chosen Ones.” Dooku rounds the corner, and the brown swinging doors, old as the temple itself, greet them. “So we can tell you a bit about the other Jedi like you.”

Dooku walks the familiar path of the room that is both exhibit and gravesite all at once. The walls, painted pale gold, reminds the Jedi who come through this room that there is always light in darkness. That these Chosen Ones brought that light even if they didn’t have many years to their name. Stenciled onto the wall by the door are the most affecting words of the Chosen One Prophecy itself.

The vision to see, the power to bear, and the light to spare the galaxy.

Here, we honor the Chosen Ones of the Jedi Order. They were more than just the prophecy that bore them. They were more than their noble sacrifices and heroic feats. They were our own, and each of them was loved.

Each Jedi here died before they were knighted. Each Jedi here died before they reached their twenty-first birthday. If Dooku died right this instant, he would have decades on them. Old anger that is still near to the surface threatens, and he quiets it for Obi-Wan's sake.

Forces of darkness, each wearing a different face, destroyed these young souls.

Dooku is determined that the youngling in his arms will not suffer the same fate.

With a squeeze to Dooku’s shoulder, Sifo takes up residence on the bench by the burbling white fountain in the middle of the room. Dooku keeps Obi-Wan on his hip so the boy can see the paintings properly.

And he starts at the beginning.

“There have been four others like you,” Dooku says, “at different times since long, long ago. The first one like you, the first Chosen One, appeared when the Jedi first came to be, around 25,000 years before now.”

Obi-Wan gazes at the painting, more solemn than any child his age should be, and Dooku is grateful that the other art pieces are less ... depressing than this one.

“That’s a long time.”

“Mhmm. There was a prophecy that told the early Jedi that Chosen Ones would appear when there were hard times and darkness in the galaxy. Do you know what a prophecy is?”

Obi-Wan nods. “My Papa told me. There were some in the holy book.”

Dooku fights the urge to roll his eyes. One day, when Obi-Wan is older, maybe he can say what exactly those prophecies were. False, no doubt. In his research on Stewjon since Obi-Wan’s arrival, what he learned wasn’t much. They joined the Republic shortly after the Battle of Jedha during the High Republic. While they credit their theology to Marda Ro and the Path of the Open Hand, they didn’t side with the Nihil or Marchion Ro during that terrible time in the galaxy—at least not openly. Still, the original Stewjoni, an offshoot of the Path who colonized an empty planet, would have known of the Levelers, used and abused by the Ro family to turn Force-sensitives to dust.

Dooku will leave that for now. He might ask Obi-Wan in the future.

“These Jedi have special gifts like you. They could take away people’s sadness and pain, but they had to be careful with that like you. They could see the future.”

Obi-Wan furrows his copper brows. “Is Master Sifo a Chosen One?”

Dooku shakes his head. “No. Other Jedi can have visions, and Master Sifo gets them far more frequently than usual and is talented at interpretation, but Chosen Ones are different.”

“How do you know that’s me?”

“Every Chosen One has had the exact same marking on their face like yours,” Dooku explains. “As well as the visions. A very high midichlorian count, if you remember that, when they took your blood?”

“Mhmm.”

“Yours was over 25,000.”

“Oh. That’s a lot?”

“A great deal. And that’s why you have a bit more trouble with control at your age. All younglings do, but—”

“I’m more different?”

Obi-Wan says this with downcast eyes, and Dooku tips his chin up.

“You’re special. But you’ve already learned a bit about calming down when you’re upset so you don’t move things when you don’t want to, hmm? Master Reginald says you’re a quick learner.”

“I try. I really do.”

“I know you do, youngling. Now, Chosen Ones also usually have powers related to their homeworld. We don’t know what yours is yet, but they’re usually nature-based. Chosen One Mann could heal hurting forests and blights. Do you know what a blight is?”

Sifo’s amusment shoots down their bond, no doubt, at him possibly thinking that a five-year-old, even a gifted one, would know what a blight is.

“No.”

“It’s a disease that kills crops, and Elzar, the Chosen One before you, could heal them because he was from a forest planet.”

“Ohhhhh.”

Dooku moves closer to Zina’s portrait, beneath which rests her tomb, flat on the ground with her ashes beneath it. They have the ashes of all the Chosen Ones except one.

For Elzar, they only have the dust that was left of him.

Perhaps it’s not all that different, in the end.

It feels much worse.

The painting of Zina and her dyad partner—also her twin brother—leaves ... something to be desired when presenting this to a small boy, and the explanation card posted next to it could use some rewording. Zina’s brother holds her bone-thin body in his arms with snarled, gray-black trees behind them. For once, she was not killed by another being, but by her own power. Starving after taking on the hunger of hundreds of beings, she killed herself to relieve the maddening pain. Her brother did the same a decade after.

That planet, however, became a refuge for the Jedi during the Sith Empire after everything grew back.

“This is Zina Jari, the very first Chosen One. She had a lot of visions about crops dying and helped the Jedi assist planets before one could take root.”

Obi-Wan studies the painting before looking back and Dooku.

“She died?”

The starry sea of Obi-Wan's Force presence, visible to Dooku at this close range, remains calm. The fact that he isn’t upset is unnerving, but when Dooku glances at the boy’s face, he sees those narrowed eyes focusing on the painting as if his life depends upon it.

“She did. She took on the hunger of too many people on the planet, and it”—Dooku opts not to mention the suicide piece of things—“unfortunately was too much for her to bear.”

“And that’s why Knight Qui-Gon and Master Reginald tell me to be careful when I try and help people be less sad or hungry?”

“That’s right.”

“Who’s holding her?”

“That is her twin brother, who was also her dyad partner. Remember how you formed a Force bond with Qui-Gon when you met and what that felt like?”

Obi-Wan nods.

“Chosen Ones form a different type of very powerful bond with another Jedi that helps protect them both, but it must be of both Jedi’s choosing. So, later on, you’ll choose someone, and they’ll choose you.”

There’s a ritual, as well, to cement the bond. Dooku needs to refresh himself on the specifics, and Yoda will remember from his experience with Elzar, Avar, and Stellan. It’s something about the two Jedi clasping hands. Words are spoken. Twin souls in the Force, protect light and life and one another, and it goes on.

“So, a dyad partner, “Dooku continues, “can be a sibling who is also a Jedi, your master or other mentor, a best friend or—” He pauses and tries to sort out explaining Elzar’s situation. “Perhaps a special friend or even more than one.”

Special friend Force alive did that just come out of his mouth?

Obi-Wan gazes at him. “Like you and Master Sifo and Master Jocasta?”

Dooku jolts. “What?”

“Like you and Master Sifo and Master Jocasta,” Obi-Wan repeats, and over on the bench, Sifo swallows his laughter whole with one hand clapped over his mouth. “They’re your special friends.”

“And just what do you think a special friend is, little one?”

Obi-Wan shrugs. “That you’re friends who kiss? I’m five, Master Dooku. I know things. Special friends can make babies if they’re the right … whatever it’s called. Not all of them can. Some can.”

This levity makes Dooku smile despite himself. The Jedi gossip mill, right down to the creche, never fails. It’s not a mean sort of gossip. Jedi just like to know things.

Dooku continues down the line of paintings. He tells a story about each Chosen one and the things they did that spared the galaxy from darkness with the help of the Jedi as a whole. That is key—no Chosen One is alone. He talks about Kevmo Zink. Nila Shandis. Elzar Mann. These depictions of the Chosen Ones differ from the original in that they show a happy moment in the Chosen One’s life rather than the tragedy of their death.

Kevmo asleep on his master’s shoulder while she gives him a fond look.

Nila with her arm looped through her dyad partner, Ven’s, as they stroll through a garden.

Elzar laughing in the Room of a Thousand Fountains with Avar and Stellan.

Obi-Wan, locking onto Elzar’s face, puts his hand on the glass. Normally, Dooku would tell him not to, but if anyone deserves to get as close as possible to the painting, it’s this little boy. That still sea churns beneath the surface, and the stars fritz and flicker.

Obi-Wan's eyes flit down to the gravestone, and for once, Dooku wishes he couldn’t read so well already.

“Elzar died too,” Obi-Wan whispers, and he trembles in Dooku’s grasp. “They all ... they all died, Master Dooku.”

Grief wells in Dooku’s throat, and he steadies himself to answer.

Enough. Perhaps this has been enough for today. The other council members were right to caution moving too fast. He only ... the child asks questions. It feels like a lie not to answer them.

“We lost them all before we should have,” Dooku says softly. “But we know more now than we used to. And we will keep you safe.”

“Is that why I don’t get to leave the temple much? Because you’re afraid I’ll die?”

“That is why we keep you here most often, young one. That will change when you’re older and can protect yourself.”

Obi-Wan's sea settles again. The stars shine almost too bright. Obi-Wan's breaths pick up speed, and he stares at the painting of Elzar Mann with a hot spark of determination.

“If I want to help the galaxy,” the little one says as he sets his shoulders, “then I have to go out more when I’m older. Do you promise, Master Dooku? That I can help then?”

The Force nips at his neck.

Love, not possession.

Manage your fear, you must, before it manages you.

Smart, we will be, when hard times come.

“I promise, youngling.”

As promised, Dooku takes Obi-Wan to the refectory for some flavored ice. Obi-Wan eats his treat with delight—it seems Stewjon didn’t allow many sweet foods—but he doesn’t cry or fuss or do ... anything that Dooku thought he would do. Once Qui-Gon, having spent the afternoon with Tholme and young Quinlan Vos, takes Obi-Wan back to the creche, Dooku is left alone, once again, with Sifo-Dyas. Jo will be by presently. 

“I’m worried too,” Sifo says without prompting. “He took on the burden like he ... he took it too well.”

“He wants to help the Order that gave him a home,” Dooku murmurs as he stares at the door, and the words remind him, of course, of Sheev. They remind him of himself. “What do we do when answering the questions is as painful as not answering them?”

“I’m not sure anyone solved’s that one, yet.”

Grief clogs up his old and dependable bond with Sifo, and he turns toward his partner with concern.

“What’s the matter, Si?”

Sifo toys with a stand of his long, straight black hair. “I am still having visions, as you know,” he says, “but the longer Obi-Wan is here in the temple, the less frequently they come. It started before he arrived, and I wondered ... I think he’s taking some of them on without realizing. I don’t want that. I would take some of the bu-bu-burden from that child if—” Sifo’s jaw tightens and he clears his throat. “I could figure  ... figure out how. I’m sure I’ll keep having my own, but I would take some of his. I would.”

Twining their fingers and lifting Sifo’s hand to his, Dooku presses a kiss to Sifo’s knuckles.

When he was young, he wanted to be the best Jedi there ever was. He thought by now, he would know all the answers.

The answers, as ever, elude him.

In the safety of their sleeping room, Obi-Wan tugs his big, mint-green blanket over himself and Quin, with Fruitsaber and Cinnamon tucked between them on the cream-colored sheets. Siri just stirred from the noise of him whispering with Quin, and he doesn’t want to wake her. Quin’s yellow markings pop, and his eyes, amber-brown and looking at Obi-Wan, glow in the peaceful darkness. He focuses on those things like Master Reginald and the other crechemasters taught him. He focuses on the soft sheets and the feel of his sleep tunics against his skin. The sounds of Prie talking in her sleep. The feel of Fruitsaber’s fur beneath his fingers. A boy named Bail Organa who works in the senate was the one who sent her, when Obi-Wan was even littler.

Obi-Wan hopes he’ll meet him one day. He’s from Alderaan, which likes the Jedi, so Master Yaddle said.

“Master Dooku also told me”—Obi-Wan breathes in deep—“that the Chosen Ones like me, that people hurt them, and they died when they weren’t that old, but that the adults would protect me.”

“They will, Obi-Wan,” Quin says, and Obi-Wan sees a hearthfire in his head like he usually does when Quin is close by. “The Jedi are good at helping. And they answered your questions. You really wanted to know more.”

They did. That helped. Obi-Wan likes knowing things. For a minute, he can’t say anything. He runs his fingers over the blue open circle on the inside of his wrist and wishes he could cover it up. He doesn’t like seeing it, and he’s a Jedi now. Not a prince. Stewjon doesn’t like him. The Jedi do. He wants to help the Jedi. Tears fill Obi-Wan's eyes, and he doesn’t want to cry because Quin’s parents died, he had to see it just like he was there, and he doesn’t want to upset his friend by talking about this.

He was scared when Master Dooku told him about the Chosen Ones dying, but then he thought, well, he would have died on Stewjon. His Papa might have ... he might have let him die before he was as old as he is now.

Even if he dies before he’s eighteen or nineteen or twenty, that’s more time.

Obi-Wan swallows. He has to be brave. Honest.

“I know because your Mama and Papa died, that maybe that would be scary to know someone who might die really early. So, if you don’t want to be my—”

“Shut up,” Quin interrupts.

“Master Reginald says we can’t say that.”

“I know, but Obi-Wan, don’t say that. I’ll help keep you safe. Promise.” Quin bites his lip and snuggles closer as his locs, down from their yellow tie, fall over his shoulders. “Master Tholme says I’ll always miss my Mama and Papa, and that’s okay. But he also says that everyone returns to the Force one day, and that I have to ... to try and focus on when people are alive and not on them ... them dying. That makes me scared, but even if ... even if you’re afraid you’ll die like them, before you’re ‘sposed to ... you’re still my best friend.”

“Really?”

“Uh huh. I’d be really sad if you weren’t my best friend.”

“Me too.”

“I’m weird and you’re weird. That means we have to be best friends. I’ll be brave and you’ll be brave.”

Quin presses his forehead against Obi-Wan's, and Obi-Wan's heartbeat slows down. He wants to help the Jedi. He wants to help them so, so much.

“They said that one day, I’ll pick a ... dyad partner? I don’t really know what that is. A special thing in the Force. It helps protect me? But only if the other person wants.” Obi-Wan bites his lip. “I don’t choose until I’m older, but I’d pick you. Another Chosen one did that. Picked their best friend.”

“I’d like that. But I dunno if I’d be good enough, though.”

“Now you shut up.”

“I’m gonna tell Master Reginald,” Quin teases in a sing-song voice. “You never say shut up.”

Obi-Wan shoves at Quin’s shoulder with a giggle, and above him, Siri shifts again.

“You’re gonna be a really amazing Jedi. And a really amazing dy ... whatever Master Dooku said. But it’s only if you want, when we’re older. You’ll be my best friend no matter what.”

Obi-Wan's eyes, damp and heavy, start falling.

“Obi-Wan?” Quin asks.

“Yeah?”

“If you need to cry, that’s okay. You’ll be the coolest Chosen One ever, but it’s scary. Really scary.”

Clutching Fruitsaber, Obi-Wan lets himself cry for the first time since Master Dooku told him all the stories. Quin is here, and Quin doesn’t mind, and sometime after, he doesn’t know when, Obi-Wan falls asleep under the soft shine of the Tooka-shaped nightlight.

The week after Obi-Wan found out about the Chosen One stories—Quin is still trying to understand it all—Knight Tholme takes him to the creche music room.

Quin’s favorite place.

Master Elysia, a Tholothian that taught Depa, Lumi, and Kit, waits by the piano.

Quin glances up at Tholme.

“I’ve heard tell,” Knight Tholme explains with a twinkle in his gray eyes, “that you’ve been enjoying hearing other younglings playing music? You’re old enough to learn piano now. I thought you might like to.”

Yesterday, when Quin was in the hall after playing in the gardens outside by the back of the temple with his clan mates, a group of older Jedi walked by, including one with a cane, who tripped over a bit of uneven carpet. The Jedi stumbled, caught by his friend, and Quin, hoping to help, picked up the cane even though it was taller than him.

He wasn’t wearing his gloves.

Memories, the Jedi’s memories, filled Quin up to the brim. He saw the Jedi sitting on his bed rubbing at his aching knee. Further back back back, he saw the Jedi take a big fall. He saw him smash his knee on a rock and tumble tumble tumble. A tear rip ouch went through his own knee for a split second, and he was scared, and it wasn’t nearly as bad as other things he’s seen, but it made him sad for the Jedi, and he cried right there in the hallway. It didn’t last that long, and he tried pulling out of it like Knight Tholme said, but he still couldn’t control it.

He wants to. He wants to, or that bad weird scary angry feeling won’t ever go away.

After, when Obi-Wan, Siri, Bant, Prie, Garen, and Bolla were sure he was okay, Master Reginald took Quin to the music room and put on a pretty piece of music with just instruments on the holoplayer.  

Shut your eyes, little one, Master Reginald said, and feel the flow of the notes. It will help you calm down.

He was right.

It did.

Quin would feel weirder about being so weird, even for a Jedi, but he and Obi-Wan are weird together. They promised.

“You think it will help?” Quin asks.

“I think so, yes,” Knight Tholme answers. “But also, I think you’ll enjoy it. That matters, too. Reading and being read to helps Obi-Wan, right? But he also likes it.”

“I’d like to play,” Quin says. “If Master Elysia doesn’t mind teaching me.”

Master Elysia bends down and bops the tip of his nose like his Papa used to do, and it hurts and feels good all at once.

“I would be happy to, Quin. Would you like Knight Tholme to stay for our first lesson, if he has time?”

Quin, of course, agrees. Knight Tholme has important work to do, and Quin knows that, but whenever Knight Tholme can stay, he wants him to.

The keys are nice beneath his fingers. He remembers his Mama and his Uncle Kurlin, who are both dead now, playing in his house on Kiffu. The memory, the sound of the piano, helps him call the temple home in a way he’s been scared to do before.

Knight Tholme. Obi-Wan. Knight Qui-Gon. Siri and Bant and Prie and Garen and Bolla. These names mean home to him too, just like Mama and Papa and Uncle and storms and yellow-star flowers also do.

He can be both.

Just like Knight Tholme said.

The city shoots by in a whirl of color as Sheev rides the external turbolift up up up to Hego Damask’s Coruscant residence on the outskirts of the Federal District.

The Chosen One’s face appears, once again, in his head.

The boy continues to be ... different than expected. Inquisitive. Intelligent. Kind-hearted. Anxious. There might be a hint of stubbornness there as well, but nothing to concern himself over. It is hardly defiance or determination. He doubts it will become such.

Of course, now that Dooku has explained to him how special he is, well ... that may change things. He will grow arrogant, no doubt. Sheev gazes at the holy card in his hand, picked up from a street vendor. The picture, he can only assume, came from one of the few outings Obi-Wan has had outside the temple since he arrived. His clan, escorted by several crechemasters, went to the Coruscant Children’s Museum.

The press had a field day.

Deliver us from darkness, the card reads in Aurebesh.

The lift pings and opens up into the hallway outside the penthouse level of this building, which much cost at least two fortunes. Damask is here in the city to meet with the senators whose campaigns he funds, and luckily, legislation to divulge the names of such donors failed in the senate not a year ago.

If Sheev were not part of this scheme, the failure of said legislation would have infuriated him. He does not enjoy being a part of anything that includes senators with an anti-Jedi agenda, but those senators must be allowed to move slowly forward with their nefarious nonsense. The Jedi must be pushed into understanding that they are in danger. They must be pushed into understanding that the game is rigged against them, and one day, they will lose. The Republic intends to use and discard them. Sheev must set the stage. He must risk short-term pain for long-term salvation. Most of these senators have political aims, but the senator from Stewjon, Obi-Wan's childless uncle, is in it for something quite a bit more. His fanaticism grates, but of course, Palpatine doesn’t have to deal with him as of yet. None of them know about him. None of them know that Damask is Force-sensitive. Whether that will change remains to be seen. They must move as the Force leads them.

The twinge of guilt at working with people who hate Force-users as a matter of religious extremism, with a man who surely agreed to beat it out of a toddler, hurts. Yes, it hurts indeed, but needs must.

When the Jedi take power, these fools will be no more.

Sheev is willing to spill that blood, and maybe one day ....

Maybe one day his old master will be again too.

The red sunset bleeds through the warm window and casts Sheev’s hand in red as he breathes in deep. He lets the creep of darkness come and intermingle with the light. In-between. Yes, he can be the in-between. The gray is possible.

Damask himself answers the door, but within these walls, he is Plagueis, the Sith name his own master gave him. Despite his flaws, Plagueis always says, he raised me far more than Carr Damask ever did.

They sit with the very same red wine they enjoyed that night on Mygeeto, and in the low light of this magnificent apartment that Sheev hates and appreciates in equal measure, they talk. The grandness of the place reminds him of his father, but Damask is more practical in his decoration. He’s more practical as a Sith, too, seeking the in-between as Sheev does. Otherwise, Sheev would not be doing this. The ancient Sith are eternally the enemy of the Jedi.

Things have changed. For survival, they must.

“Qui-Gon told me what the boy’s been seeing,” Sheev says. “He’s smart but far too trusting.”

“And what has he been seeing?”

“A few different things. He foresaw an altercation outside the senate last year—the supporters of the donation legislation and those against. It stopped anyone from being injured, apparently. But, most importantly, he’s been seeing a man in a black cloak. Himself being subjected to bits and pieces of a ritual, though he hasn’t seen it all. It seems similar to the ones you spoke of. Although ... there was one, apparently, where the man in the cloak, who I assume was you, was ... licking blood off your fingers. It wasn’t the most recent. An older vision. The one that the the child had when he arrived at the temple.”

Damask pulls back with a look of genuine disgust. “That is not part of either ritual that we will enact. It will involve bleeding him significantly and then giving him a transfusion to make certain he lives after, yes. There will be pain for him, yes, but it will clarify his Sight. Has he seen the runes?”

“Not that I’m aware of, no.”

“Visions also bring in the Seer’s fears. If he’s frightened of me in his vision, I will grow worse in turn. What do you make of him? The boy? Now that he’s a bit older.”

“He’s very intelligent and less full of himself than I would think, though, I imagine that will change. But he’s soft. Weak. He’ll be easily molded into whatever the council and my lineage wish him to be.”

Sheev sets his jaw. This anointed boy is not the right person to spare and save the Jedi. He can already tell the child doesn’t have the strength in him to do what it takes. While the Chosen Ones are prophets, they also take it upon themselves to be saviors, usually, especially given their myriad powers, though the prophecy makes no specific demand of them as to how or when. This child ... he has too much peace in him to fight. So, whatever tac he takes won’t work.

“Your guilt hangs heavy in the Force,” Plagueis says. “You must let go of this idea of the Chosen One as a particular being with his own thoughts and emotions. He is a tool. The Jedi will protest that, but he is the same to them. He may be a child now, but he will grow, and he will be a bridge if he is willing, between Sith and Jedi so we might all become something new, or he will be a weapon if he is not. That is his fate, should he survive past his twentieth birthday. If not, we will simply have a more difficult job. But very within our power.”

Releasing that guilt—or attempting to—Sheev sips at his wine again.

“Are you certain you don’t wish to take him now?” he asks. “We could mold him ourselves. As he ages, he will have more visions. They will be more varied and telling. He could see your face or mine.”

“We will deal with that if it comes. If he did see your face, the Jedi would take that as something less than exact truth—you know how carefully they interpret foresight. They wouldn’t want to damn you. The Jedi have had the discipline to survive where the Sith did not, but the Sith are superior when it comes to interpreting foresight. The small details of a vision may change based on the Seer themselves, as I said, but the main pieces of them? Those are certain. The Jedi fail to see that. They’re always looking for symbolism and maybes. Besides, children are not of use to us,” Damask replies. “And this child, besides, would attract far, far too much attention. He is not the sort we could hide away. We would be looking over our shoulder every day for years, and everything would fall to pieces. We will wait. We will see if he survives, and if he does, you have a carved-out place to grow close to him.”

Patience, Dooku used to say to him over and over again. You must be patient. You have incredible endurance, Sheev, in many ways, but adding patience to that will help you make enormous strides.

He’s still learning that lesson.

The galaxy slow-simmers with darkness. Their work here will take two decades or more.

And it will be worth it.

“Your guilt will be our focus, this evening,” Plagueis adds. “Sit, as we normally do.”

Sheev leaves his glass behind and sits before the fire with Plagueis at his side. The orange-yellow flames play against his eyelids when he shuts them and focuses on his new mentor’s voice.

“Open yourself up the salvation of the dark,” Plagueis says. “Open yourself up to what it can grant you.”

The tendrils of that darkness twist and twine around Palpatine. That vision comes to him again, the one of thousands of Jedi storming the senate building as lightsabers cut color into the night.

“Your guilt originates with the shame you still feel over your father’s death,” Plagueis continues. “Repeat for me, again, what happened. Repeat it here to me until I can no longer sense your shame.”

They stay like that for hours. And hours. And hours. Sheev tells the story again and again and again. No more wine. No water. No food. No fresher visits.

When the sun rises, his shame and his guilt go with it.

For now.

Chapter Text

8 Years Before the Chosen One’s Arrival

Numidian Prime

It’s Qui-Gon's eyes that do it.

Qui-Gon Jinn is a lot of things. Heels-dug-in stubborn when he wants to be. Brave. Hard to know, sometimes, just like Dooku himself. Those things were not the reason he picked Qui-Gon as his third Padawan. It was his earnest and independent nature. It was the gentleness in him. It was his bright belief in the light that Dooku wanted to mold and protect.

And, if he’s honest with himself, that he envies.

Qui-Gon Jinn is a strange and charming boy, and Dooku’s affection for him grows by the day.

Not that he is … talented at expressing that.

So, given all of this, he’s not surprised that Qui-Gon stood in the way of him shooting yet more merciless bolts of lightning at a vicious bounty hunter that the Jedi have been chasing for weeks. Of course, Qui-Gon, already almost six feet tall himself, said Master, Stop. Please. I’m all right. It’s over. We’re taking her into custody.

Of course.

But his eyes, those bold, dark blue eyes, hold a gleam of horror.

Qui-Gon has never looked at him like that before. Qui-Gon has never looked like that generally. Qui-Gon is not naive by any stretch, but as a jolt goes through Dooku’s body, he can’t help but feel he has shattered his Padawan’s innocence.

He can’t help but feel that he has shattered his Padawan’s belief in him. Perhaps that belief is not so fragile, but fear creeps into him unchecked. Failure, his greatest fear, stings like antiseptic on an open wound.

Qui-Gon is not Rael. Qui-Gon is not Sheev. Rael would have been bothered by this display, worried, he might have said what in the Sith hell’s gotten in you? But he wouldn’t have taken it like this. He wouldn’t have taken it as the larger thing growing inside Dooku’s chest. That snarled black sludge and those darkening stars. Dooku’s been trying to pretend that using those as a tool when needed was fine. Necessary. He was firmly cemented in the light enough for it not to matter. He has control of himself.

He did not have control of himself that day he choked the Jedi murderer. The look in Sheev’s eyes that day was so different from the look in Qui-Gon’s eyes now. Sheev looked relieved.

I’m not a monster, that gleam said. I’m not alone in this rage.

Except, Sheev hadn’t done violence on purpose. A Force shove does not an intent to kill make.

Dooku did intend to kill Shenda Mol just now. He wanted to take one more evil wretch out of the galaxy.

He taught Sheev a lesson that—

The lightning’s energy crackles cold around his fingers. Shenda Mol, a mass murderer who wanted to add his fourteen-year-old Padawan as another notch in her bloodied belt, lays moaning in the dirt. Red-pink spiderweb scars pop fresh on her arms already. He was choking her while he was using the lightning, and he didn’t even realize. The darkness with control is one thing, but the darkness without it ....

Touch the darkness, all Jedi do, in their lives, Yoda said when Dooku was sixteen or so. Face it directly, some choose to do, with saber styles like Vaapad. Acknowledging our own paths toward darkness, the things that tempt us, all Jedi must, in order to see the signs.

What’s my path? Isn’t the dark side always fueled by anger? Possessive attachment?

Many paths there are, some less obvious than others, Yoda replied. Tempted, many Jedi have been, to do the right thing the wrong way.

What does that mean?

A tool, violence is, when no choices are left. Make it more, make it a creed, and lose one’s way, inevitable, it is. Employ that tool sparingly, we must, and in defense of life. Never out of anger. Never out of cutting a shorter path on a long road. The short path makes promises it cannot keep.

You still didn’t answer my question, Master.

Hmmm. Righteousness, your path may be.

Arrogance?

Yoda smiled. Say that, I did not. Change the galaxy, you wish to.

Is that a bad thing?

No, Padawan. But change it alone, you cannot, and easy, it will not be. Why, people in the galaxy ask, can the Jedi not fix everything? Because we are mortal, and complicated, these things are. Complacent, we are not. Slow, the path to change is. Frustrating. Go on, we do. Raise our sabers, we will, to protect democracy. A last resort, it is, when other ways, there still are.

Qui-Gon seems young, suddenly, with his brown Padawan braid hanging over his shoulder, his childish-chubby cheeks, and the gangly arms he hasn’t yet grown into.

“Go and retrieve one of the others, and bring stun cuffs, please, Padawan,” Dooku says. “And we’ll take her into custody.”

Dooku hides his shaking hands in the sleeves of his dark brown tunics as Qui-Gon, giving off of a spark of fear, sprints away with a nod.

He’s not afraid of Dooku. That would be easier and less of a wound.

He’s afraid for him.

Igniting his saber, he keeps a groaning Shenda Mol from getting any further ideas about escape. Never, in her infamous career, has she shown mercy.

But he will show mercy to her.

“Never seen a Jedi do that.” Mol spits blood onto the dirt. “It’s the first time I’ve been impressed with one of you.”

Dooku’s noble Serennian blood that didn’t spare him his father’s hatred runs cold in his veins.

He is a Jedi.

And in all the trappings of sabers and success, he forgot what that actually meant.

The trouble is, when he looks back, he can’t remember when the forgetting began.

Dooku strides double time through the halls of the temple, his brown cloak flowing behind him as he goes. He follows the well-tread path to Sifo-Dyas’ quarters like its second nature. He doesn’t stop to speak to anyone, merely waves and continues course.

Qui-Gon's eyes keep haunting him.

I’m not sorry I stopped you, the boy said when Dooku found him in the small refectory of the ship carrying their entire Jedi strike team, and the glint became not anger, but something more principled. Dooku could have called it stubbornness, and it was, but it was concern, too. It was the assurance that he had done the right thing. It was defiance, and Qui-Gon had never really defied him.

Nor should you be, Dooku replied as he sat down next to his Padawan.

There were a lot of things he perhaps ought to have said as they sat there in silence. I wanted to protect you, was one, and he had wanted that, but also, he was simply enraged by yet one more being hating the Jedi. So, he couldn’t rightfully say which of those things was the true impetus for his actions. Are you still comfortable with me training you was another, but he couldn’t bear to let Qui-Gon go to another master, and the stink of that failure would be—

Selfish. He is a selfish, arrogant fool of a man.

Always striving to keep the appropriate distance between his personal frailties and his Padawans was, perhaps, the wrong tack to take. Rael, a much younger brother as much as a student, simply would not allow him to. He did better with Sheev until the buried body—a secret like that takes down walls. They bonded over their fathers and their thoughts on the future of the Jedi. Things they couldn’t always share with others. With Qui-Gon, Dooku hoped to be that golden, perfect teacher, but he hadn’t considered that maybe that made him impossible to reach.

I’m not angry at you, he finally told Qui-Gon just before they landed back home. You did the right thing.

He doesn’t knock on Sifo’s door. He doesn’t call out. He just punches in the code. Sifo waits on the sofa, and he searches for the source of Dooku’s pain without a word. That deep well of knowing between them bubbles and brims, and all six feet five of Jedi Master Yan Dooku crumples to the carpet.

“Yan?” Sifo asks.

Dooku glances up, and Sifo’s dark eyes, his pale brown skin, his long black hair tied back in a haphazard bun at the base of his neck, all ring familiar.

Dooku is the one who isn’t.

From the cradle of his place between Sifo’s knees, a confession spills. The buried body on Karlinus. The conversation with Sheev after the events on Mygeeto and the god-king thoughts of Jedi power spurred on by that long-ago vision. The Force lightning he used on Shenda Mol and how good it felt. The snarled sludge and the darkened stars.

He read about Sith Lightning in the archives, because he was a master, and masters had access to the Bogan Collection of dark side artifacts and materials. He practiced it in his quarters alone in case in case in case.

“I don’t think the body is the same as the rest, truth be told,” Sifo says. “I can’t say I wouldn’t have done it too. Foolish, perhaps, but Force knows what might have come down on Sheev’s head for an accident. From the Naboo, nobility, I mean. Not the council. The Naboo have a close relationship with the Jedi now, but Cosinga Palpatine was a powerful man.”

Dooku, fingers grasping at Sifo’s trousers, lets his tears spill. Shame and embarrassment come next. He ought to manage himself. He’s never been good at the feeling part of the Jedi teaching of experience your negative emotions, give them space, and then let them go.

He'd rather just not feel them at all.

An explosive ready to go off, that will make you, Yoda once said. More power, you give those feelings, when you refuse to feel them. Overtake you as easily by doing that, they will, than if you just let them control you in the first place.

He never learned.

“What if it wasn’t? An accident?”

Sifo tips Dooku’s chin up toward him. “Don’t overlay the past with later events. Did you think he was lying to you that day?

“No. He has learned impressive shielding since, but at seventeen? He was an open holobook. An open wound. He’s carried the shame with him, but what did I teach him?”

“All you can do,” Sifo says, and it’s gentler than Dooku feels he deserves, “is move forward. Look back and learn. Talk with him about it if you feel he needs that. You can’t change it. Sheev is by all accounts doing very well. Whether we need to worry remains to be seen. He is also his own person. The choices he makes are his.”

“I had a single vision of the Jedi seizing power, and it planted the seed for all of this,” Dooku whispers. “It was after that vision that I became obsessed with the Chosen Ones. I wondered if … if perhaps it would come to pass that if one appeared in our lifetime, they would help the Jedi seize power. How do you bear it, Sifo? All these possibilities of the future?”

“Sometimes I don’t.” Sifo’s voice lowers like he’s holding back tears of his own. “Sometimes I’m terrified of my own madness. I latch onto the threads I deem most important. The most urgent. The most in my body when the visions come. It’s all I can do. You of all people know how imperfect I am.”

The door slides open again, and the sharp morning light that is Jocasta comes inside. Dooku didn’t comm her, he didn’t comm anyone, so she simply must have felt it in their bond. Putting her hand on his shoulder untangles that snarled sludge inside him. The touch draws it to the surface. The darkness, an infant still, pulses between the three of them. Jo doesn’t need to hear the details to understand the gash in him.

“Speak to Yoda,” she says, firm and confident in the advice she offers. “Tell him you need some time to reflect. To heal things you did not know needed healing. You could go to Jedha for a few months and spend some time there. Plenty of Jedi have done so when they needed it. Take a pilgrimage.”

Dooku angles his head to glance at Jo, who stands behind him.

“But Qui-Gon—”

“Will be taken care of,” she assures him. “It’s not forever.”

Getting up from his place sandwiched between his partners, Dooku stands, straightens, and decides that he ought to take Jo’s advice.

“You ought to have told us,” Jo says as she sits down on the sofa next to Sifo and takes his hand, “the magnitude of what you were struggling with after Mygeeto. That was an unforced error, Yan. When have Sifo-Dyass and I not been there for you?”

The petulant boy inside Dooku rankles, but she’s right.

She usually is.

“I know.”

Leaving his partners behind, Dooku makes his way to his master’s quarters as night well and truly falls outside the sanctuary of the Jedi Temple. The city sky shields the stars. Younglings laugh and toddle in the hallway, ushered onward toward the creche by their caretakers. The whole place glows in the Force, and Dooku can’t help but feel as though he is staining his own home by his mere presence.

Yoda doesn’t seem surprised to see him, and he drinks tea as Dooku tells him the heart of the matter without giving all the details. Thankfully, Yoda doesn’t press for them.

The darkness reached out its hand for mine, and I took it.

Speak your heart, Padawan, Yoda says. For what are you asking?

Dooku, swallowing like the teenage Padawan who never learned, as Sifo once said, that Yoda had a penchant for simply knowing everything.

I need you to grant me a leave of absence, Master.

Have it, you may. Come home after, you will?

Of all the things Dooku isn’t sure about, the answer to this, he knows.

Yes, Master. I’ll come home.

Sheev, sipping at the tea Qui-Gon made, sits at his master’s kitchen table.

Something is wrong.

“You love telling stories, kid,” Rael says from his place on the sofa. “And now you don’t want to tell us anything? The reason why our master’s called us all here?”

“Rael,” Sheev chides, “he’s already said he doesn’t want to.”

Rael, running a hand through his shaggy black hair, shrugs.

“Just trying to get him to talk. Not that I would know, I don’t want to talk about anything, but they say it helps.”

Without replying to this, Sheev, dipping the assigned spoon into the honey container, adds more to Qui-Gon's mug of green tea. He’s never met a fourteen-year-old who likes tea that tastes like tree bark, but Qui-Gon does. A smile flickers on Qui-Gon's lips in turn, and that protective instinct that Sheev’s felt since his master took the child on two years ago rears its head. Qui-Gon is ... different from himself and Rael. Softer. Gentler. His babbling and dreamy-headedness grate, sometimes, and Sheev couldn’t be more different, but Qui-Gon is his lineage sibling, and he will be protected. Qui-Gon is very smart and devout in his beliefs, which does him credit, and has a mind for academics even if his attention span sometimes lacks. The key to that, Sheev’s found, is simply to find a topic that Qui-Gon has passion for. Of late, that’s been plants.

Rael isn’t wrong, however.

Qui-Gon being this quiet is ... odd.

Qui-Gon sips again at his tea. He looks at Rael. He looks at Sheev.

And finally tells them something.

“Have either of you ever”—Qui-Gon tap tap taps his foot on the floor—“been scared for Master Dooku?”

“For him?” Rael asks, more serious than usual. “Of him, sure. Though he thinks he’s scarier than he is, if I’m being honest. Is that what you mean, Qui?”

Qui-Gon shakes his head. “No. For him.”

A sinking weight forms in Sheev’s stomach. Images of his master choking that murderer on Mygeeto come to mind.

Oh.

Qui-Gon's fingers curl into a fist, and his gaze, absent before now, comes to life with determination.

“Master Dooku used Force lightning on the bounty hunter we arrested when she threatened to kill me. I thought he was going to kill her when he didn’t need to. I had to stop him.”

“It is okay if that scared you, kid,” Rael adds, and he meets Sheev’s eye for a fleeting second.

Rael still doesn’t quite understand.

Sheev does.

“I wasn’t scared of him,” Qui-Gon insists. “That’s a dark side power. I’d ... I’d never seen him like that. We have to help him. I need you both to help me help him.”

Monster monster monster your lineage brother thinks you’re a monster you killed your father out of rage and hurt and he would think you’re a monster for it.

Help. He wants to help Dooku, Sheev, not damn him. Look at him. He’s shaking.

Help you don’t need help a touch of more-than-needed violence is not the dark side. It's not.

Sheev puts the fear away. He puts the need for a fourteen-year-old's approval away.

The door opens before either Sheev or Rael can say anything more.

The shame reaches Sheev immediately. Rael asks the obvious question first. He’s more certain of Dooku’s approval than Sheev ever has been.

“Uh, what the fuck is going on?”

For once, Dooku doesn’t chide him for the cursing.

Glancing around at all three of them, Dooku clears his throat and brushes his fingers across the meat of his palms over and over again. This is not the master Sheev knows.

Something isn’t just wrong.

Something has changed.

“I can see that Qui-Gon has told you about the events on Numidian Prime,” Dooku finally says. “That’s good. I am to take a leave of absence effective immediately. I will return when I feel I have set myself right.” He turns toward Qui-Gon, who looks at him with those big Tooka eyes that, for the first time, make Sheev angry. “Qui-Gon, Padawan, Yoda will oversee your training until I return. All right?”

“Yes, Master.” Qui-Gon gives a nod, and his braid swings when he does. “Are you okay?”

“I will be.”

Rael scratches at the back of his neck, and the glint of concern in his eyes doesn’t go unnoticed. He wasn’t all that concerned when Qui-Gon told him, but Dooku’s worry seems to have changed his mind.

“I can’t say I’m not surprised,” Rael adds, “but do what you need to do, Master. I’ll make sure to check in on the kid here when I’m temple side.”

Sheev’s temper, better as it’s been—and, most of all, he’s better at hiding it—gives way with a sharp snap in the Force. Here in this room, he isn’t the twenty-five-year-old knight, but a seventeen-year-old Padawan.

“Not that anyone asked my opinion in this family meeting,” he says, “but I can’t imagine what you’re thinking, Master.”

The flash of Dooku’s eyes means trouble, but Sheev doesn’t care. As Rael said, Dooku thinks he’s more frightening than he is once you’re used to his moods.

“Rael.” Dooku’s tone tightens, and he squeezes Qui-Gon's shoulder. “Please take Qui-Gon to the refectory for some dinner. I need a moment with Sheev.”

Rael, knowing better than to argue, blows out a breath, says come on, kid, and leaves Dooku and Sheev alone.

The door shuts.

And Dooku’s disapproval dances between them.

“What I require from you, right now”—Dooku runs a hand through his carefully-cut black hair—“is to keep an eye on Qui-Gon. I am going to Jedha. Your arguing is pointless, so you may as well not waste your breath.”

A mirthless laugh spills from Sheev’s mouth. “Don’t want your perfect Padawan to know your secrets? Is that it?”

“He knows them!” Dooku’s raised voice surprises Sheev, and the storm of him rumbles with rage. “He saw them when I almost murdered a bounty hunter out of pure rage. Not because I needed to.”

“To protect him,” Sheev scoffs. “Qui-Gon is smart, but he’s too soft. You letting him be that way will hurt him later on.”

“I was thinking about my anger first and foremost,” Dooku shoots back. “One Force shove would have put myself in between her and Qui-Gon. One pull-away of her blaster. That was all I needed to do.”

“The galaxy is changing. You know it. I know it. Shenda Mol is a notorious monster. Not you. Not m—”

Sheev ends that thought when it’s half complete and already too late.

An interminable silence hangs in the air. For once, Sheev can’t breach it. Dooku, a master communicator as a diplomat but hardly such in personal situations, manages it somehow.

“I failed you, as a master, when we had that conversation on the way home from Mygeeto,” he says, much softer than before. “Discussing touching the dark side is one thing. Masters and Padawans should speak frankly of it. But the rest ... the rest was a mistake. And I'm sorry. You are not a monster, Padawan. What you did and what I did aren’t the same. My actions on Mygeeto confused that.”

“What happened to doing whatever it took to protect the Jedi?”

Emotion yet peace. Emotion yet peace. Sun-gilded windows quiet archive it’s not working.

“I can’t protect the Jedi at all if I forget what the Jedi stand for,” Dooku argues. “If I lose my way, I lose my sense. We are not just anyone, Sheev. We are stewards of great power. If we go wrong, there are far-reaching consequences.”

“You’ve been practicing with the lightning,” Sheev shoots back, and it’s petulant, and should be above it, but he isn’t. “I smelled it in here. The ozone. The burn. I sensed the darkness like I always have, and I didn’t say a word. I trusted you were doing what you had to do. Qui-Gon needs to understand—”

Dooku raises a hand, and Sheev, even in this mood, doesn’t push back against that.

“Qui-Gon was right. I saw the horror in his eyes, and I knew ... the choking on Mygeeto. The lightning. The thoughts of seizing power ... I knew they were not the way.”

And hiding the body too, right, Sheev wants to say, but he doesn’t. Dooku didn’t say it, and Dooku is always deliberate, but Sheev feels it regardless.

Qui-Gon was right.

The ground shifts beneath Sheev’s feet. A loss reverberates and bashes against bone. The gaping maw of abandonment almost swallows him, and he pushes his shields up instead. His master is still here, but he isn’t. Dooku’s infamous stubbornness will not yield now. No, if Sheev is to lure him back to their shared way of thinking? It won’t happen tonight.

A few months on Jedha won’t fix the wound that is Yan Dooku.

Sheev pulls the Force unto himself. He shakes his head and opts out of a smile—that would be laying it on too thick.

“I apologize.” Sheev swallows and quells the outward flare of his temper. “I only want to protect our lineage. The Jedi. But I ... I will keep an eye on Qui-Gon. And I will ... I will consider what you’ve said tonight.”

“You’ve grown up into an impressive knight, Sheev,” Dooku says. “Despite my mistakes. When I return, we should spend some time together. All right?”

Sheev hears himself agree.

Fast-walking down the hallway, he considers his options. Talking to Jocasta or Sifo-Dyas is out. Sheev senses they want Dooku to go. He could go find Silas, who is probably just off his shift at the archives. Master Kostana is off-world on a pilgrimage somewhere—she retired from active missions last year. Vokara, his old clan mate, had mentioned wanting to catch-up, but that’s not the sort of social engagement where he could discuss this. Talking to Rael will have to come later. He could search out his friend Korin, who he met during his Padawan artifacts class. They sleep together now and again, and sex could make him forget for an hour or two.

Except, he doesn’t want to forget.

And he decides upon exactly the person he can speak to about this.

The person who will understand more than any Jedi could.

Hego Damask.

Sheev has seen Magister Damask once since their time on Mygeeto, taking an afternoon when the Muun was on Coruscant to view his private art collection. While he told Rael where he was going, he didn’t tell his master, who never really warmed to the Muun despite liking him better the second time than the first. Rael, who believes, above all, that people’s private business is their business, kept the outing a secret.

That was over two years ago, not long after Sheev passed his trials.

So, all things considered, Magister Damask answers the comm with an air of surprise.

“Knight Palpatine,” he says, appearing in a crisp shade of blue that shows off the expense of his communications device, “it’s pleasant to hear from you.”

“If you’re on Coruscant, I’d like to catch up,” Sheev replies as his heart pounds. Remembering his manners, he calms himself. “If you’re available, that is. I understand you’re a busy man.”

“I am on Coruscant. I’ve a dinner out this evening, but come by at nine o’clock for a night cap, if you’d like.”

To this, Sheev agrees. With three hours to wait, he doesn’t bother with dinner. His comms from Silas, Rael, Sifo-Dyas, and Jocasta go unanswered. Sitting alone in the quarters he moved into upon his knighthood, he glares at the bottle of wine Dooku gave him that day, telling him to save it for a special occasion. Black-spot rage blurs his vision, he grabs that very bottle, and he breaks it over the edge of his kitchenette counter. The wine drips purple-red onto the beige tile floor, and for the first time since that day, he lets himself go. The explosion of dark bursts like a supernova. The progenitor of him, who he was before today, gives up gravity. The core of his everything collapses into a neutron star. The dense, thick shadows press in even as shreds of light cling to him.

He is not a black hole.

Not yet.

A strange laugh comes spilling out of him, high-pitched and unstable to any ear that isn’t his. He is the only one who knows. The only one who sees, and he is alone in that now.

The galaxy does not love the Jedi, and the Jedi loving the galaxy will never save them.

It will damn them.

That tick tick tick of his temper, now that he’s freed it, sends a gush of relief through him so intense that he finds himself sliding to the floor. That strange laugh comes again. All his life, since his father’s hand first came down on him in violence, that temper has been ticking in the back of his head.

That temper grants him clarity. Yes, clarity. A hiccup forces its way out of his mouth, and some deep-down part of him longs to cry, but he swallows the urge. He rarely cried, even in the creche. When he did, the crechemasters soothed him, and some part of his childish brain hated himself.

Crying never did him any good with Cosinga, did it?

The hours pass. At exactly nine o’clock, he takes the long turbolift ride up to Hego Damask’s penthouse apartment. The Muun, dressed in dove-gray tunics and finely-woven black robes, hands him a glass of wine. He says tell me what distresses you, Sheev. Sheev answers more easily than he has his whole life long. He tells Damask that the Jedi don’t understand the danger they’re in. That they don’t understand that the Republic is using them. That all over, there are enemies in crime lords, senators, and conspiracy theorists alike. Trash like Shenda Mol should be dead for threatening to murder a teenage Padawan. That man who killed Knight Katri should be dead. Dooku’s father should be dead for abandoning his infant son in the woods to be eaten by wolves.

Cosinga is dead.

And he deserved it.

Yes.

Deserved it.

When Sheev’s done, Hego Damask weaves him a tale over the crackling fire in the sitting room.

His name is Darth Plagueis, and he was raised, after age eight, by a Sith Lord.

A slow horror goes through Sheev. Dooku was right just like Master Kostana was right. Dooku was right about the Sith still existing, and now he’s willfully blinding himself for the sake of sparing a teenager’s feelings and adhering to principles that will fail them all. The light of Sheev’s neutron star, trapped in the dense darkness, pushes and pricks. What is he doing here?

Be calm. Be calm, or this man will kill you before you can say a word to anyone.

“Don’t be alarmed,” Damask says. “I said I was raised by a Sith. I never said I wanted to be one.”

Sheev sniffs. “And just what is that supposed to mean, Magister?”

“I was a child, Knight Palpatine,” Damask explains. “I had no choice in where I went after my parents handed me over, and I could not leave him as the Jedi may leave the order. But my time with my master did give me an opportunity to study. Since the ancient days, the Jedi and the Sith have been enemies, but they once shared the same family, did they not? A rogue dark Jedi established the Sith Order, or am I getting my history wrong?”

Sheev chews on his bottom lip hard enough to draw blood. “No. You aren’t.”

“These Jedi wanted to use the darkness as a tool,” Damask continues. “They wanted to study and explore. Were you in their shoes, I expect you might have a lot in common.”

“I’m not a Sith,” Sheev spits, and shame sludges up his blood. “The Sith want to exterminate the Jedi Order. And I am—”

“Patience,” Damask chides. “Listen. Do you honestly believe I would bring you here only to convince you to exterminate the Jedi when we bonded over protecting Force-sensitives?”

With this, Sheev cannot argue.

“These dark Jedi went to Korriban, as you know, and interbred with the dark side Sith species from whom the order took its name.”

“The Sith species were barbaric,” Palpatine argues.

“Yes.” Damask holds up a finger. “But they also understood the importance of a stratified society. That every being has their place. The Kissai caste, for instance, full of those dark Jedi I mentioned, studied the Force. They practiced alchemy and magic. Their intelligence helped them see when ruthlessness was required and when it wasn’t. The ancient Sith, as in the order, did not take this discipline with them when they spread across the galaxy. They fought with each other as much as the Jedi until they were all nearly killed. They gave no thought to protecting Force-sensitives as a whole, but only themselves individually. My master, Darth Tenebrous, blindly followed Darth Bane’s Rule of Two, which you may have heard of?”

“It’s a myth that we’re taught about,” Sheev says. “No one knows if it’s true.” He tongues at the blood on his lip. “My master thinks it is.”

“Your master is a smart man,” Plagueis answers. “Well, usually. Foolishness, is what it is. What is a secret existence worth if Force-sensitives, the most superior beings in the galaxy, cannot be protected? It’s as I said. The Sith thought only of their own petty power and not of the utopia of true Force-sensitive rule. The uniting of Sith and Jedi.”

“The castes.” Sheev leans forward in his chair as his blood pumps warm through his veins. Damask understands. He understands like Dooku should. “You think ... you think that Force-sensitives should be at the top of the chain, so to speak?”

“I do. The Jedi and the Sith both have historically abhorred the in-between. They have called it impossible. There is only light and dark. I believe them to be wrong. I believe that they indulge in the excesses of light and dark and refuse to see the middle ground. They will not open their minds to the fact that the Force gave us all these gifts, and as the Force runs through every living thing, does that not make us, with the ability to wield it, superior? It is foolish to fight with one another over religious differences. The discipline of the Jedi and the cunning of the Sith would make quite a combination, don’t you think? It would be, needless to say, enough to protect us all. That is my interest. And I believe it is yours, is it not? To protect the family that that raised you?”

An unexpected smile slips onto Sheev’s lips. An odd giddiness gilds his insides. When they finish their first glasses of wine and Damask pours another, the Muun opens a cracking tome that must be as old as the original founding documents of the Jedi Order. It belonged, apparently, to the original Sith mystics.

And Sheev Palpatine reads a very different prophecy about one of his master’s obsessions.

The Chosen Ones.

As the galaxy slides slowly toward the specter of war, the only beings who can save them from themselves will face hatred. Sith and Jedi, ending their feud, will come together to take power. A Chosen One will appear once more, and if they survive past their 20 ^th birthday, will serve as a bridge and a weapon.

Through the night, Sheev stays. And he learns. And he chooses.

He chooses to save the Jedi.

Whatever it takes.

Three Years After the Arrival of the Chosen One

Hesperidium. The Fourth Moon of Coruscant

Six-year-old Obi-Wan Kenobi cannot stop staring at the sea.

On Stewjon, the water was always a familiar dark blue-green and the sand was the same tan color as some of the Jedi’s tunics.

But here?

He’s never seen anything like here.

White froths at the edges of the bright violet waves. The sand might as well be sugar beneath his feet. Huge yachts sail around, bigger and different from any of the wooden ships on Stewjon. Beings take up almost the entire beach, all for fun and not for work.

His clan and a few others came here on a field trip to see the different biomes they’ve made on this moon, and Obi-Wan plans to tell Knight Qui-Gon, who loves plants, all about the new kinds he saw.

“Master Reginald?” Obi-Wan asks. “I drank my juice.”

Master Reginald, smiling, raises one brow.

“I see that, Obi-Wan.”

“Sooo.”

“So?”

Obi-Wan, grasping the edge of the bench seat at the table where he’s sitting with Quin, Siri, and Bant, lifts himself up on his hands.

“Can I go back out and swim some more?”

“You need to rest for a few more minutes, youngling,” Master Reginald says. “You’re still recovering from your flu.”

Obi-Wan would argue that he’s so much better, but ... he scratches at the old scars on his thigh, visible in his green swim trunks.

“You were really sick,” Bant adds, and Obi-Wan can’t disagree with her.

Something called the Dantari flu went around the temple, and Siri and Garen got it too, but they were better in a few days with medicine. Obi-Wan was in the Halls for two weeks. Knight Che said his immune system was still catching up from not getting enough to eat when he was little on Stewjon, and that it would be better when he was older.

He wishes it would be better now.

 Obi-Wan was having so much fun out in the ocean swimming around and around with Bant while Quin, standing with the water up to only his knees, looked on with a frown and his arms crossed over his chest. He knows how to swim now, but he still doesn’t trust the sea. Obi-Wan, his muscles a little achy, leans his head on Quin’s shoulder while his friend demolishes a flavored ice. The sun, high in the sky, beats down, and Quin looks up with a tilted head.

“What’s wrong?” Obi-Wan asks.

Quin, shifting closer, his damp thigh pressed against Obi-Wan's, searches the clouds.

“It’s windier than it was before,” Quin says. “But it doesn’t look like rain.”

“Master Reginald said no rain today.” Siri, kicking her feet back and forth next to Obi-Wan, puts her long golden hair over one shoulder. “And you said, too.”

Quin, like most Kiffar, can tell when a storm is coming, so, the crechemasters sometimes call him their weather detector.

“I know,” Quin shoots back. “But we used to get this weird dry lightning on Kiffu. The storms are way up high. I think maybe—”

A scream cuts through the air.

The Force nudges at Obi-Wan's neck, drawing his attention to the violet sea.

Oh. Oh no.

A rip current. Obi-Wan saw them a bunch on Stewjon, and he recognizes it because there aren’t any waves coming in at that spot. There’s not as much foam. The water is too calm. A human woman, trying to swim back toward the beach, can’t. Go sideways, Obi-Wan wants to shout. She won’t hear him, though. A lifeguard dives into that exact same calm spot, and Obi-Wan guesses that they don’t get rip currents here because Master Reginald said the weather and the sea are controlled? Something broke. Something must have.

Ignoring Master Reginald’s protest—Obi-Wan tells himself and tells himself that Master Reginald would never ever hit him for disobeying, never—Obi-Wan leaps from the bench and runs hard toward the water. The current pulled the lifeguard out, too, and they’re both getting smaller and smaller and smaller.

The Force nudges again like it does sometimes, and Obi-Wan listens.

He knows what to do.

Raising his hands, he focuses on the way the current moves. He wants it to come back toward the shore.

“Come to me,” he whispers, and it’s a feeling, more than anything, but the Jedi always say to trust his instincts. To search his feelings and find the truth. “Come to me.”

The calm spot of water bubbles up foam. It crests and crashes over Obi-Wan's feet.

And it moves back the way it’s supposed to.

Hi tugging motion makes the water go faster back toward him, and the woman and the lifeguard both come washing up on shore one after the other. People in the crowd gasp. They point. They say is that the Chosen One? I see his marking. The woman, coughing up violet sea, hugs him. The lifeguard, a Miralan man, says thank you, little one. Beings start gathering around him even as Master Reginald and the other Jedi call out. Holocameras flash and make spots go off in front of Obi-Wan's eyes, and he can’t see, and there are more beings pushing closer and closer and closer, and it’s hot, and he doesn’t know what they want. A few of them thrust those Jedi crest beads at him, and they ... they want him to touch them, and he does, but then there are more of them and more and the wind blows hard and the sun beats and thunder rumbles and—

“Out of my way!” a familiar voice shouts, and that firelight presence comes when Quin slips between a Rodian and a human man and grabs hold of Obi-Wan's wet hands.

Thunder roars, and there’s no rain, but it does make people back off, and—

Quin shoves Obi-Wan onto the sand just as a white-gold bolt of lightning goes cloud-to-ground ...

... and strikes Quin right in the chest.

Quin stumbles. He crashes back first into the water, and Obi-Wan knows, he knows that Quin can’t die from this, but he’s never seen it happen before, either. Get Quin. He needs to get Quin.

Master Reginald grabs him before he can, and Obi-Wan can’t help it.

He fights back.

“No!” he exclaims, and he elbows Master Reginald in the ribs, and that wasn’t nice, but Quin—

“You will die if you get struck in the water, youngling,” Master Reginald says. “That won’t help Quin. Breathe with me. Breathe. He’s just passed out. I’ve not looked after a Kiffar youngling before, but Master Tholme told me everything I needed to know about Quinlan’s biology. I promise. He’ll be just fine.”

Obi-Wan obeys not because he’s scared of Master Reginald, but because he knows ... he wants to be a good Jedi. He needs to let the older Jedi help Quin. He needs to say I’m scared, and then not be so scared that he can’t think right. Quin won’t die, because Kiffar are resistant to lightning strikes. Obi-Wan's only scared he’ll die because he cares about Quin so so so much.

Master Lyla, the Tholothian who looks after Depa and Luminara’s clan, scoops Quin out of the water as the other Jedi rush everyone toward a beachfront cafe just out of reach of high tide.

“I’m sorry, little one,” Master Reginald tells Obi-Wan as he runs in that exact direction, ushering even the beings who trapped Obi-Wan to safety. “They swarmed you, and I didn’t get there fast enough.”

“They didn’t want to hurt me. It’s okay.”

Obi-Wan thinks that Master Reginald wants to say it’s not, but he doesn’t. That pinch that he hates goes up his spine, the one that always happens when he gets anxious. Once, when his father pushed Obi-Wan's face into a full tub because he was mad about a vision that Obi-Wan couldn’t help, Obi-Wan kicked out at his father’s leg.

That didn’t go very well, and he knows Master Reginald would never do that, but he still—

“I’m sorry I elbowed you,” he says. “I’m sorry, Master Reginald. I’m really, really sorry.”

“Shhh, little one, I’m just fine. You’re not the first sharp elbow to come at my ribs.”

Inside the cafe, Master Layla lays Quin out on a cleared table, and while his warm brown skin has gone gray around the edges, his eyes fly open after another ten seconds.

“Easy, Quin,” Master Layla says, putting a hand on Quin’s forehead and stroking back his locs. “Do you remember what happened?”

“Yeah.” Quin sits up, and Master Layla’s hand goes to his back instead. “A bunch of nerf herders wouldn’t leave Obi-Wan alone.”

The other younglings, as well as people in the cafe, laugh, and Master Layla bites back a smile.

“I meant did you remember you were struck by lightning, but yes, that too. Obi-Wan is all right, as you can see. Thanks to you.”

Quin, breathing harder than usual, grins at Obi-Wan before glancing down at his chest. There on the skin over his heart is a branched-out marking, kind of like the shape of lightning itself.

“Quin,” Siri says with one hand on her hip. “That was really, really cool.”

“You saved Obi-Wan!” Bant exclaims. “It was super brave.”

Quin shrugs, ducking his head. “It doesn’t matter if lightning hits me. So, not really. On Kiffu the adults brag about how much they get struck.”

Obi-Wan, wriggling in Master Reginald’s grasp, slides down until his feet hit the floor.

“Bant’s right.” Obi-Wan hops up on the table with Master Layla’s permission. “It was brave.”

“How did you save those people who got pulled out?” Quin asks, and the awe in his voice isn’t weird like those people outside who gathered around him, it’s just Quin thinking what he did was neat. “You made the water come back to you. I’ve only ever seen Jedi push it away.”

This, Obi-Wan doesn’t know. He only knows that by the water, he’s always felt at home. The Force gets closer, and he feels closer to it.

“I dunno. It just felt right. Master Dooku says that Chosen Ones have special powers that come from their homeworld.”

“I do believe we’ve just found yours, Obi-Wan.” Master Reginald, putting a hand on both Obi-Wan's and Quin’s shoulders, squeezes gently. “You were both very courageous today. I’m proud of you.”

The owners of the cafe give them all towels to dry off given that theirs are abandoned on the beach. Once the strange storm ebbs, and they’ve packed off boxes of sweets from the bake case, all of them get back in the shuttle ship that took them here.

As they fly through the stars, Obi-Wan listens to Quin tell stories about the big party they have on Kiffu when lightning season comes, and how, the first time he got struck, he woke up laughing. Quin talks more than he used to when he first came, and that makes Obi-Wan happy.  

Obi-Wan doesn’t understand the love of storms, but he likes hearing Quin talk about them, and he hopes, when they’re older like Master Dooku said, that they’ll have a lot more adventures together.

The Jedi Temple

Zahn Tholme and his aching knee, are, simply put, not in the place for Yan Dooku’s bad mood.

His damn knee hurts tonight, and he should take the pain pills he’s stubborn about taking.

He lost his cover in the midst of a mission hunting down a labor slave trafficker—infamous for tricking refugees from worlds with conflict or climate issues into work—and found himself the victim of rundown building’s rage. Adept at Force healing, he managed to help himself enough, after part of the wall fell on his leg, to run after the bastard at the center of the ring, catch him, and get him into custody.

To no one’s surprise, not even his, running on a half-healed knee didn’t do him any favors. The kneecap’s been replaced, but the soft tissue? Well, that isn’t so easy. He could get a prosthetic, but that’s a whole lot of fuss.

“I knew we shouldn’t have let him go on that field trip,” Dooku grumbles, pacing back and forth across the floor of Qui-Gon's quarters. “It’s dangerous.”

“A moon where wealthy people go to vacation is dangerous?” Tholme cuts in, earning a look from Qui-Gon, who sits next to him on the sofa. “My apologies, Master Dooku, but there was a weather system error. We couldn’t have predicted that. Obi-Wan saved two lives that might not have been saved otherwise, which is more than you can say for most other six-year-olds. Quinlan saved Obi-Wan, in turn. Neither of the boys are hurt.”

Dooku, spinning on his heel with an intentionally dramatic whirl of his cape, glares at Tholme.

“Obi-Wan could have been—”

“He wasn’t,” Tholme interrupts. “I understand the concern you have, that we all have, about the dangers crowds present for Obi-Wan. I think it’s more suitable to think about what safety measures we can take going forward rather than ruminating on could-have-beens.”

“He’s right,” Sifo-Dyas adds from his seat at the small, low-to-the-ground eating table with cushions surrounding it. “We can’t isolate Obi-Wan, Yan. He’ll resent all of us for it.”

“He’ll be alive.”

“And resentful,” Sifo-Dyas insists. “So would each and every one of us. He might hide things from us. Besides, that little one wants to help. It burns in him to the point of ... we ought to keep an eye on it, with those empathy powers of his.”

At this, Dooku, still frowning, relents somewhat and tosses himself back into the armchair he was sitting in before he started pacing. Dooku came back from almost losing himself to the dark, and Tholme, working around the edges of things, respects that more than Dooku knows. The man is brilliant. An astonishing duelist. A revered diplomat. Good with kids—despite one perhaps not expecting that.

However.

Sometimes, Tholme wants to slap him.

“I understand the impulse to keep Obi-Wan safe.” Tholme massages at his knee as Qui-Gon urges him to prop it up on the ottoman. “I have my own concerns about Tinte kidnapping Quinlan. Never letting them go anywhere, however, will only make them resentful, as Sifo-Dyas said. And it simply isn’t fair.”

“Neither of them are normal children,” Dooku protests. “Obi-Wan especially. I could see he was upset when discussing how the crowd wouldn’t let him go.”

“But,” Qui-Gon says, and his smile doesn’t quite reach his eyes, “he was excited to discover the powers related to his homeworld. He has so little from Stewjon that makes him happy. It was good to see, and the moment matters as much as the future. And now that we know, we can help him practice. I’ve seen Jedi do impossible things with water, but controlling currents? That is Obi-Wan's alone.”

This lightens Dooku’s mood somewhat, and they agree to debrief further tomorrow at the council meeting, which Qui-Gon and Tholme will be attending. Sifo-Dyas gives Tholme a nod as he leaves with Dooku, and that’s a good sign. Sifo-Dyas agrees with him, and Sifo-Dyas is two very important things.

He has Dooku’s ear.

And he isn’t afraid of Dooku’s bluster.

Qui-Gon, far, far quieter than usual, busies himself making tea in the kitchenette. Pouring them both a generous helping of the Sapir flavor they enjoy, with a dash of honey, Qui-Gon takes up his place next to Tholme on the sofa.

“Qui?”

“Mhmm.”

“I need to make something clear.”

“All right.”

“The council has already agreed that Quinlan will be my Padawan when the time comes. His safety will be more of a point of discussion than your average Padawan’s, but I do not intend to keep him locked in the temple because of Tinte. If you are set on being Obi-Wan's master—”

“I am going to be his master.”

“See? That’s what I mean. Given your strong bond, I imagine the council will wish for it, and so, you need to find a way to stand up to your own master, who sometimes forgets that Obi-Wan is a boy and not just a Chosen One. You need to make sure you remember the same.”

Qui-Gon, brows furrowed, frowns.

“Dooku cares very much for Obi-Wan. And I understand his viewpoint, right now, about safety matters. Obi-Wan is a target already. I’m surprised Sifo-Dyas isn’t more concerned.”

Sifo-Dyas knows what it’s like to be the odd one even among Jedi, Tholme thinks, but they can talk about that later.

“I’m not disagreeing. But Dooku’s being overprotective and assuming he can control the future by implementing strict rules. You have to speak your mind about your own thoughts, agree or disagree.”

“I believe you’ll find that my master would disagree with you that I don’t speak my mind.”

Tholme heaves a sigh. Force alive, his fondness and affection for Qui-Gon runs deep. Qui-Gon is, after all, his dearest friend, but sometimes he is so willful.

“No one in the entire temple would argue that you don’t speak your mind,” Tholme says. “But when it comes to certain topics with Dooku, I sense your fear. I feel you treating him like the fragile child he certainly is not. And I know why.”

“I—”

“Qui,” Tholme repeats, “you saved your master from something when you were very young. It doesn’t mean you have to be on constant watch for his soul. I don’t think even he expects that of you. If Dooku’s concern over Obi-Wan develops into possession, you won’t be the only one around like you were that day. Obi-Wan's safety is a concern of many, many Jedi. And your master is likely mindful of himself after coming back from the dark place he was in.”

Qui-Gon's irritation softens, and a half-smile, amused and always familiar, appears.

“I hear you.”

Tholme’s sure that Qui-Gon half heard him, as these conversations usually need to happen more than once, but he’s sewn the seed for when these issues inevitably come to the fore when the boys are older.

“No one lectures me quite like you,” Qui-Gon continues, and that smile grows. “I need that in my life.”

“Yes, you do.”

“Now hush, drink your tea, and rest your knee, hmm? I’m not the only one who needs a lecture now and again, I fear.”

“Bastard,” Tholme mutters.

“Do you have a comm with T’Ra tonight?”

“Tomorrow. I’m all yours, for better or worse.”

Qui-Gon, serene as ever, turns on the holocaster and finds the detective holodrama that Tholme watches when he has the time. Together, they sit and live their lives twined around these special children they’ve found. Qui-Gon leaves for a diplomatic mission in two days. Tholme has weeks of physical therapy awaiting him where he’ll also learn to use his new cane.

And they’ll wait for their boys to grow up into Padawans.

The Force Will Be Free: A Believer’s Weekly Newsletter

Notes on the Jedi Order

The Jedi Order is a Stewjoni’s greatest religious adversary. While we were forced to join the Republic for protection against pirates, crime lords, and other low lives, this does not mean that we support their work with the Jedi Order and will never request the Jedi’s help.

It is the eventual goal of the Stewjoni to work with like-minded groups to sever the Republic’s relationship with the Jedi, and, one day, prohibit any Force-sensitives from abusing the Force. While this work will take decades, it remains our one true objective.

The worst of the Jedi are their so-called Chosen Ones. These beings are nothing less than demons wearing human faces. They are the result of centuries of the Jedi abusing the Force and deal only in darkness. Recently, it became known that our own Prince Obi-Wan is one of these demons, no doubt created by the Jedi and sent here to Stewjon on purpose to make us question our faith. He hid his true face from King Kenobi, who wanted to spare us from the truth about our only prince. Obi-Wan is not a Kenobi, but a creature. When accusations are flung our way, we must hold fast to our beliefs. We can see where much of the galaxy, in their worship of the Jedi, cannot. But times are changing. People are beginning to see the Jedi for what they are. They are beginning to see that the Force is a sacred thing that should be worshipped and never used.

We must wait patiently.

If you are aware of any Force-sensitive activity taking place on Stewjon, contact the Church of the Path immediately, at any of our locations.

(Ronhar Vene, Archbishop of Stewjon)

Four Years After the Arrival of the Chosen One

The Jedi Temple

Beneath the high arches and soft blue lights of the Jedi Archives, seven-year-old Obi-Wan Kenobi feels at home.

He’s been in the archives before, but until today, he mostly found his holobooks in the separate creche library. In here ....

In here there’s everything.

His clan is going to start coming here once a week from now until they’re Padawans, and Obi-Wan can’t wait. Today, two senior Padawan archivists gave them a tour and explained about all the different things they have. Fiction and nonfiction holobooks for pleasure reading that Jedi can check out. Collections of “papers”—that’s what the archivists called them whether they’re flimsi or on data tapes—that are all about Jedi history, the history of the galaxy, and all kinds of stuff. There’s information about every single Jedi, living and dead. There’s information that will help older Jedi prepare for missions. Padawans can find texts for their classes. There’s so much that Obi-Wan would be here all day listing it off to himself. Even beings who aren’t Jedi can come in and use the archives. They just can’t look at certain things like the holocrons or the collection of Sith artifacts. But, only knights and masters can look at those, anyway.

Obi-Wan likes his lessons, especially language and geography and history, but he knows the visits here will be one of his favorites. Quin likes their history lessons a lot, too, and also mathematics and music. Bant, like Master Qui-Gon, enjoys science, and Siri loved seeing the Jedi’s fleet of ships last week and decided she wants to be one of the best pilots that the Jedi have ever seen.

There’s so much to learn in the temple, because they also have their Force training lessons with Master Yoda and other crechemasters, and saber training, and ... Obi-Wan loves it. On Stewjon, it always felt like no one wanted to know anything.

Today was a good day for this, because a weird thing happened at the start of the week.

A little girl from Stewjon showed up on the steps of the Jedi Temple with a note from her mother.

“Obi-Wan?” Quin asks, sitting in the chair next to Obi-Wan's at the study table where they’re all picking out a book to take with them. “You okay? I bet the archivists would let you take more than one book if you can’t decide. I think I’m going to take this one”—he holds up a holonovel—“about Jedi Padawans during the High Republic. And Master Reginald is going to see if I can take out that holodisc of Kiffar folk music another Kiffar Jedi donated.”

Quin has a portable holodisk player now, with headphones, because it helps him when his psychometry gives him trouble. He’s gotten good at the piano, too. Sometimes, during the half hour of quiet time before bed, Quin will listen to his music while sitting on Obi-Wan’s bed, and Obi-Wan will either read a holonovel or study his Twi’leki book—that’s the language he’s most interested in right now.

“Good choice! It’s not that. I only—”

“You’re worried about the little girl?” Quin frowns and scoots his chair a little closer. “Did you hear her crying last night too?”

Obi-Wan nods. He asked Master Reginald if he could lend her Fruitsaber, but he said that she came with a stuffie of her own.

To be truthful, one crechemaster said as Obi-Wan, Quin, and Siri listened from outside the door. They were not supposed to be doing that, but Quin is good at keeping his steps quiet and taught them how. I don’t know if this little one’s mother truly wished to have her child be a Jedi or if she thought this was the only place that could protect her. That was what I took from the note she left, anyway.

We can certainly protect her more than others, another answered. But she is two full years older than Obi-Wan was when he arrived. That’s two years longer exposed to that environment, and the oldest age we usually accept. It’s going to take time to settle her. Perhaps we introduce her to Obi-Wan. That might reassure her that she doesn’t need to be afraid of us.

I think that’s a good idea, the first replied. Obi-Wan, what do you think?

Obi-Wan, Quin, and Siri all jumped. The two crechemasters appeared, both sighing but kind.

Quin, one of them said, you might want to wait on eavesdropping when you can shield a bit better, love. Though, we didn’t hear you coming, so, good show.

Quin, beaming as he rocked back and forth on his feet, offered her a sly smile.

I had to try, Master Silvar.

“Maybe you could find a book in here on Stewjon?” Quin suggests. “That has good stuff in it, too, like about the sea creatures or myths or something? The little girl might like that when you see her tomorrow. You could read some to her, probably.”

A familiar, sad-sharp presence approaches, and Obi-Wan catches sight of Knight Sheev coming toward their table with a box in hand.

“Hello, younglings,” Knight Sheev says, setting the box down. “Beginning your archive lessons, I see?”

Quin, Siri, and Bant all wave—Quin less enthusiastically than the others—and Obi-Wan, knowing Knight Sheev the best out of all of them, replies.

“It’s our first one!” he exclaims. “What’s in the box?”

“I’m just back from Jedha,” Knight Sheev explains. “There are some materials in here they’re loaning to us while they do work on one of their museums.”

“I’d love to go to Jedha one day,” Obi-Wan answers. “Knight Sheev, if it’s okay, can you help me find a holobook? I don’t want to bother one of the archivists, and you know everything.”

Knight Sheev chuckles. “Everything is a stretch, Obi-Wan, but I will take the compliment. What are you looking for?”

“A book on, um, maritime planets, maybe? But for someone younger than me. She’s five.”

“Ah, the new Stewjoni initiate. Yes, I’ll help you.”

Asking the others to tell Master Reginald where he went so no one worries, Obi-Wan follows Knight Sheev into the turbolift and up two levels. The third floor lays quieter than the first, filled with archivists re-shelving things and others going with new data tapes to process and catalog. There’s a whole team of Jedi who do that, their tour guide said. Some make guides for finding archival information, and others catalog holobooks.

“I know it must be strange for you to have another Stewjoni youngling here,” Knight Sheev says as they turn a corner toward a sign that reads holobooks—planets—Outer Rim—OR1001.R1-S200. “Perhaps it brings back difficult memories?”

Scratching at his thigh, Obi-Wan responds with a reluctant nod. “I only want her to feel at home here like I do. I don’t know ... I don’t know how she got here.”

“Perhaps the Jedi do have a friend on your homeworld after all.” Knight Sheev takes Obi-Wan's hand as they go the row where the books he’s looking for must be. “Hop up on this stool here and see if any of these titles might suit.”

Knight Sheev helps him so he doesn’t fall, and Obi-Wan gazes at the information cards beneath the slim, crystalline books on the shelf.

A Child’s Guide to Maritime Planets

Sea Creatures of the Outer Rim

Oceanic Myths and Fairytales: Glee Anselm, Mon Cala, and Stewjon

That was one good thing about Stewjon. Obi-Wan loved hearing some of the older sailors tell stories about mythic creatures down in the deep that they swore they’d seen. His father didn’t like it, though.

He pulls the third holobook down, taps the Stewjon chapter on the screen, and reads the first paragraph.

While Stewjon is largely closed off to outsiders—unless those outsiders swear fealty to the planet’s religion—a few beings who have left the planet to explore the galaxy shared stories with me that have become popular with sailors there. These stories are slowly separating from Stewjoni religious beliefs about the Force.

“Thank you. This one is good,” Obi-Wan says. He bites his lip and asks a question because Knight Sheev doesn’t seem to mind. “Do you ever ... have you gone back to Naboo since you left? I’ve heard it’s nice.”

Knight Sheev’s presence knots up, and maybe Obi-Wan shouldn’t have asked, but then it smooths out again, so maybe he imagined it?

“I’ve been to the same sector, but not to Naboo, no. I’m afraid I still am learning to manage my ... difficult feelings about the planet where I was born. It’s all right if you do too, youngling. Having some anger is natural.”

Clenching his fist, Obi-Wan steps down from the stool. “I just don’t understand why they hate the Jedi. Sometimes I’m mad, but ... usually just sad.”

“Hatred is an irrational thing,” Knight Sheev says. “But easily, sparked, I’m afraid.” He pauses, tilting his head. “You know, Obi-Wan, there are papers in the archives, journals and things from previous Chosen Ones.”

A warm light flickers to life in Obi-Wan's chest. He goes, sometimes, down to the Hall of the Chosen Ones when someone can take him. He likes to sit in front of Elzar’s painting and meditate—he's learning how to do that. Elzar was the last one before him, and Obi-Wan often wishes they could just ... talk.

“There are?”

“Indeed. I’m sure your caretakers are just waiting until you’re old enough to read them.”

With the holobook tucked beneath his arm, Obi-Wan follows Knight Sheev back toward the turbolift. The ding goes off, the doors open, and ....

A Twi’lek Jedi with copper-orange skin appears. Dressed in archivist’s tunics with a pair of reading glasses sliding down his nose, that Jedi smiles at Knight Sheev.

“Sheev,” the Jedi says, “I’d just heard you were back but found your box of artifacts at a table with several younglings and no you.”

“I was helping Obi-Wan here find something.” Knight Sheev clasps the Jedi’s hand with a flash of real joy in his presence. “Obi-Wan, this is Jedi Knight Silas Dira, my very old friend from my clan. Like you and young Mister Vos, in fact.”

Knight Silas crouches down, reaches out his hand, and his eyes, the same color as his skin, brighten.

“Hello there, youngling. I’m glad to finally meet you. I get the sense you like the archives?”

“Very much,” Obi-Wan replies as he takes Knight Silas’ offered hand. “Knight Sheev’s talked about you.”

“Positive, I hope?”

Obi-Wan nods. “He says you were the smartest youngling in his clan.”

“Sheev.” Silas smiles wide with his sharp teeth and puts a hand on his chest. “Were you intoxicated, at the time?”

Obi-Wan's giggle tastes like the fruit-jelly candies the crechemasters keep in their lesson room. Seeing Jedi be friends for so long makes him have the courage to look forward to his own future. He could die, maybe, but ... but maybe not. He could have friends for as long as so many other Jedi he’s met. Quin. Siri. Bant. Prie. All his clanmates and other people he meets along the way. Friends weren’t a thing he had on Stewjon—even before his father started hating him. He was the prince, and being a prince was lonely.

He hopes being the Chosen One won’t be.

“No,” Knight Sheev protests, but amusement wells in his voice. “I meant it.”

“Knight Sheev and I were always competing over who could do better in class, Obi-Wan,” Silas explains. “We thought ourselves quite the intellectuals and believed we knew everything. Working in the archives as a knight has taught me quite the opposite.”

Knight Sheev and Silas take Obi-Wan back downstairs, and Quin, still at the table, hops up from his chair and comes with them toward the desk to check out the holobook. A familiar figure in a deep brown cloak, boots shined like starlight, stands at that desk with a cup of caf in hand.

He’s asleep now and told me to stop fussing, Master Dooku says to Master Jocasta, who accepts the cup of caf and takes a sip. It rattled him. It seemed to be about some sort of conflict, but different from the larger war he’s seen. Still distant. Far off. It seemed to indicate a shortage of Bacta. The Jedi were doing their best but struggling to handle it all on our own.

Oh. Master Sifo must have had a vision, today. Empathy ignites beneath Obi-Wan's skin, the scratch to help help help. Master Sifo is so kind, and it’s not fair.

The swing of his mood must alert Dooku, because he turns around before they reach him, and Obi-Wan, who tries not to ask for too much, because the Jedi already do a lot, hands the holobook to Knight Sheev and runs toward Master Dooku anyway.

“Hello, my little one.” Dooku sweeps Obi-Wan up in his arms with a deep, rumbling laugh, and a strand of black hair falls into his eyes. “Master Jocasta said your clan was here for your lesson.” Dooku smiles down at Quin, who waves as he bounces up and down from heel to toe. “Hello, Quinlan. Is that a holonovel set during the high republic you have there?”

“Uh huh. I like learning about it. And this one has a Kiffar Jedi in it.”

“A good choice.” Dooku makes a show of groaning as he sets Obi-Wan on his hip, but then a frown tugs at his mouth. “What’s the matter, Obi-Wan?”

Obi-Wan doesn’t want to say that he overhead them talking about Master Sifo, but he does have a question.

“Are there really journals that other Chosen Ones wrote in the archives?” he asks. “Knight Sheev said—”

“Yes,” Dooku interrupts, and he cuts his eyes sharp at Knight Sheev. “There are. The tradition has been to give them to Chosen Ones when they’re twelve or thirteen once they begin their apprenticeship.”

“Why not now?”

“You’re not old enough, youngling.”

“I am.”

Obi-Wan shouldn’t push, he knows he shouldn’t, but this isn’t Stewjon, and he can ask why. His body tenses anyway. Knight Qui-Gon says that’s just old fear, and old fear can hurt even if what happened won’t happen again. He wants to help. If he can read the Chosen One’s journals, maybe he can help, and Master Sifo won’t have to have those visions and worry and—

 Master Dooku’s frown deepens. “Obi-Wan—”

He wants Knight Qui-Gon, suddenly, and Knight Qui-Gon is away. Other Jedi are noticing. They’re feeling how upset he is, because they always do. He should go before he ruins their studying.

“I’m okay, Master Dooku. I’m sorry.”

“Nothing to be sorry for. Here comes Master Reginald, see here? Would you like to go back to the creche? Would that help?”

“Yes.” Obi-Wan nods against Dooku’s shoulder and senses Quin moving closer to the older Jedi just to be near. “Would you stay for a little while?”

“Of course, youngling. I can read to you if you like.”

Obi-Wan, sliding down from Dooku’s grasp, waits while Master Jocasta checks out the book for him, and he thanks her, Knight Sheev, and Knight Silas. He shouldn’t have been so upset. He doesn’t even know why he’s so upset.

Sitting on the cozy rug in their clan’s sleeping room, with Quin, Siri, Bant, Prie, Garen, and Bolla, Obi-Wan listens to Master Dooku read them the first chapter of Quin’s high republic holonovel.

And he tries to think about what he can do to help the little girl from Stewjon.

The little girl like him.

When he sleeps, he dreams about Stewjon.

He crawls into Quin’s bed and lets himself cry.

The Next Day

While a thick-pelt rain traces patterns down the window, Quin focuses on the three items on the table in front of him.

His clanmates groaned when they saw the weather, but Quin, missing the storms from Kiffu, raced outside after breakfast so he could sit on the big temple steps and watch. It rains when it needs to on Coruscant, but lightning and thunder? Those don’t happen as much. Sometimes, he wonders if the weather modulators are putting on a show just for him. It was their off day for lessons, so he spent an hour watching the dark and swollen clouds move in.

Fiddling with golden cuff bracelet that used to belong to his Mama, Quian etched into the inside, Quinlan sets his shoulders.

“Take your time, Quin,” Tholme says. “Touch each object like you normally would, then focus, like I taught you, tighten your grip, and dip into the memory rather than it overtaking you. The first has a pleasant memory. The second a slightly irritating one. The third is less pleasant but not anything very upsetting. All right?”

Fearing an object that may have an upsetting memory will make the barrier between you and that memory too thin, Knight Tholme said before. Sit with the fear and the discomfort, expose yourself to it, until it has less power. But remember, do not use psychometry on weapons or other items of deadly violence unless you already know the memory that is attached to them. Even still, it may bring you too close. Be wary of it.  

Quin’s hand hovers over a toy ship from the playroom. Brushing his fingers across it, nothing comes. Grasping it, he gets a vague hint of joy. He shuts his eyes. He focuses on the object, the feel and the weight in his hand. That white light washes over him, and his breathe hitches, but it’s okay. Yeah, it’s okay. Quin smiles as a two-year old youngling flies the ship through the air and makes engine noises with her mouth. Her happiness rushes through him.

As he opens his eyes and draws back his thoughts, the memory fades even as his hand stays on the toy.

“I can tell that worked,” Tholme says with his own smile. “How did the barrier feel?”

“Thick. I didn’t see anything until I wanted to.”

“Good, Quin. Good. Try the second one when you’re ready.”

Quin breathes in deep.

In one of the creche sick rooms, Obi-Wan sits with the new Stewjoni girl.

Mira.

Mira is her name.

She was the daughter of one of the queen’s ... his mother’s housemaids.

He hoped reading would help, and it did for a while, but now she wants to talk.

Everyone said that you were a demon made by the Jedi hurting the Force, and they made it so you were sent to Stewjon on purpose. You don’t look like a demon.

I ... I’m not.

I miss my Mama.

I know.

The Jedi won’t hurt me?

Never. That’s why your mama brought you.

I’m bad. Bad like you.

Obi-Wan's fingers curl around Mira’s, and he shouldn’t do this, but—

You’re not bad. Not at all.

Tears spill thick from Mira’s eyes, but she shuts them tight tight tight. They come quiet, and the familiarity makes Obi-Wan's stomach hurt.

Just a little. It won’t matter if he helps her just a little. He’s already sad.

Shutting his own eyes. he focuses on the feel of Mira’s’s knuckles beneath the pad of his thumb.

Think of it like the tide, Knight Qui-Gon said. Move in with the Force and pull out with the Force. Take a few seashells with you when you go. Not every grain of sand. Be careful with this power, little one. Use it sparingly.

Like the tide.

Yes.

He can do that.

Quin’s hand hovers over a fork from the refectory.

He can do this.

He can.

You’re smart like your Mama, his Papa said one day as he pushed Quin on the swing one of the cousins put up on a static tree in the yard of the far-stretching Clan Vos compound. When Quin swung up high, he could see the green roofs of all the individual houses. Don’t know how I got so lucky.

Quin laughed and said that Pethros was smart too, because he was.

Quin wanted to soar even higher. He wanted to see past the tress and down into Kiffax, the largest village on Kiffu. He wanted to see the gleaming gold roof of the Museum of the Guardians. He wanted to see the theater where his parents took him to watch holomovies. His Papa loved holomovies, and Quin did too.

That was a week before ... before ....

His parents believed in him, and he has to try and believe in himself.

Nothing comes when he brushes his fingers across the fork like he did with the toy. When he grasps it, a sharp spark of irritation resounds.

“It’s all right,” Tholme says, “it will take longer to manage less positive memories.”

Closed eyes. White light. A Jedi in the refectory with a tray she shifts to one hand so she can say hello to a friend. The fork goes clattering to the floor, and when she loses her balance trying to pick that up, so does the tray. Another Jedi saves it just before everything spills. A tug comes when Quin tries pulling out, like the memory wants him to stay, but he calmly says no like Master Tholme taught him.

“How was that one, youngling?”

“Not as thick a barrier as the toy. It tried to tug me in, but I got out.”

“Very good. Let’s try the third.”

Memory, the pull of it, wafts off the third object. That happens. Some things are old or loved or hated, and that give them more power.

Quin’s hand shakes.

The woman who helped save me smelled like the queen’s perfume. She took me to the fisherman who put me and Mama on his ship. A regular one. Then one that went through the stars.

Perfume. His Mama’s perfume. What did it smell like?

Orange. Lemon. The citrus sent of the warm season.

Did they hurt you, Mira? I see the scars on your legs.

Her sob cracks open whole. It splits his own chest in two.

Crying crying crying she’s still crying even though he tried to take some of it away. The grains of sand like Knight Qui-Gon said. Grief grounds her in its grasp.

I deserved it.

You didn’t. You didn’t, Mira.

Cleansing blow cleansing blow cleansing blow that was what his father called them when he let the guards hurt him  

Obi-Wan peers around the edge of the half-open door. A crechemaster walks past with a sneezing toddler. Master Pali will be back in a minute. She’ll be back, and she’ll stop him from doing what he needs to do to help.

His fingers curl tighter around Mira’s.

The tide becomes a storm.

Sand and shame and grief and grit stick beneath his fingernails.

Mira’s sobbing eases.

Storms wash away the muck, his father once said, and make us new.

Quin’s hand hovers over a rose-pink hospital gown from the Halls of Healing.

He can do this. If he controls his powers, then he controls the bad weird scary angry thing beneath his ribs. It won’t get him. It won’t.

He brushes his fingers over the soft fabric.

Nothing but a cough resounding in his ear.

He grasps it tighter, eyes still open, and—

The memory yanks him in without warning.

Scratchy throat full nose aching muscles.

Quin.

It’s the Dantari flu, Knight Chandu. You’ll be just right in a few days, but they are just going to be unpleasant.

It’s not even scary. It’s not scary, but Quin tugs and tugs and tugs, and he can’t pull out.

Quin.

Sweat. Fever. Damp. Ache ache ache.

Stuck stuck stuck he’s stuck like that day. He can’t—

Quin!

Lightning yellow gold fire orange red crackle and clang and screaming his Mama screaming his Papa shouting Quian!

Scratch hurt make that monster bleed for hurting his parents make him hurt.

Bad weird scary angry.

Quin!

Hands, kind ones, peeling his fingers off the gown. Knight Tholme’s voice.

Quin!

Quin’s eyes fly open. When did he shut them? He didn’t shut them. A tug comes on ... on his bond with Obi-Wan. Obi-Wan is—

Lightning yellow gold fire orange red crackle and clang Obi-Wan could die. He could die too.

“You’re all right,” Tholme whispers as he squats down next to him. “You’re all right, Quin.”

“I’m not,” Quin says, and he snatches his gloves from the table before tugging them on.

“Did you get stuck?”

Knight Tholme puts a hand out for Quin to take if he wants, but doesn’t Force it. Quin can’t touch anything. An electric zap goes up his spine. Too much. Too much.

“I shouldn’t get stuck!” Quin stomps his foot hard on the floor. “If I get stuck, the bad weird scary angry thing will get me. It will get me, Knight Tholme.”

“Getting stuck is normal, and it’s hard, but you’ve made a lot of progress,” Knight Tholme says, and the knowing in his gray eyes scares Quin more. How does he know what the bad weird scary angry thing even is? “Nothing is going to get you.”

“It will.”

“Tell me what it is, Quinlan. What is the bad weird scary angry thing to you? If you name it, if you look at it, it won’t have so much power.”

A sob fights its way up Quin’s throat, and it’s gonna come out. It is.

And he knows, suddenly, what the bad weird scary angry thing is and how the shape of it changes, but it’s always there.

“Darkness,” he says, and that sob comes. “It’s darkness. And it’s going to get me.”

Sea shanties pour into Obi-Wan's head. The notes slip and slide.

On the shore at sunset, sailors, finishing up for the night, sing in his ear. Where was he? Sitting by the open window of the hut. That’s right. He could only go out when the sailors wouldn’t know that he wasn’t—

To and fro we haul away

Dead.

Haul away, haul away

His father wanted them to think he was—

Tears to turn these waters blue

Dead.

Glashtyn haul away

But his mother—

You all should be at service! A guard shouted while Obi-Wan watched. Hurry up!

The wind whips and whistles and whines. Rain batters his face, but it can’t it can’t he’s inside.

Obi-Wan? Mira asks. Are you okay? I feel better.

Shaking hands shaking hands he’s going to throw up he might throw up.

A tug on his bond with Quin. What’s wrong with Quin? Something wrong something wrong.

Master Pali reappears with two of those smoothies that Obi-Wan drank when he first got here. With her short blonde hair cut just above her shoulders, she looks like ... she looks like one of Elzar’s dyad partners. She looks like Padawan Avar Kriss.

“Obi-Wan?” Master Pali asks. “Youngling, what—”

“I’m okay,” Obi-Wan says, getting up from the bed. “I’m okay. Promise.”

Dashing past, he ignores the way she calls out for him. He can’t cry, no, they’ll know he did what he wasn’t supposed to, but he wants to keep doing it. For Quin. Quin hurts. Obi-Wan doesn’t know why. Searching out Quin’s firelight and Knight Tholme’s shadowcast glow, that orange ring around ... oh what is it called? Obi-Wan can’t remember. He can’t.

Finding the right door, sounds reach him. Quin crying. Quin saying the darkness, it’s going to get me.

He runs in. He has to get to Quin. He has to take Quin’s bad feelings away. Quin doesn’t deserve to feel like that. Ever.

“Obi-Wan?” Tholme, sitting with Quin over in the corner of the room, stands up with a look of surprise, and he’s never surprised.

“Let me help him,” Obi-Wan begs. “Please, I can make it better, Knight Tholme. I can.”

“Obi-Wan, did you overuse your powers while you were visiting the new Stewjoni initiate?”

“It doesn’t matter.”

“It does. It matters very much. It’s dangerous, youngling.”

Footsteps sound in the hall. Two sets. Master Pali and Master Reginald.

Terror tears at Obi-Wan's bond with Quin.

“Let me help him!” Obi-Wan shouts, and it’s almost a scream, and he’s not being good, no, but he has to help. He has to.

Tholme raises a hand, and he must be raising it Master Reginald or Master Pali, because he’s not looking at Obi-Wan.

“You can’t help Quin by hurting yourself, Obi-Wan,” Tholme says softly. “He doesn’t want that.”

“But—”

“Come sit with him. Come sit, little one.”

Tears blur Obi-Wan's vision. He can’t see, but he can feel, and he takes Knight Tholme’s hand and sits next to Quin on the carpet. Mira’s feelings scratch and scrabble at his skin. It hurts. It’s too much. He shouldn’t have done that.

“Obi-Wan?” Quin asks, his eyes all glassy and sad. “Are you okay?”

Obi-Wan sits down next to his best friend in the entire galaxy, and he wants to hug him, but Quin won’t want that right now. Not when he’s like this, and that’s okay. Obi-Wan can’t stop shaking.  A sharp stick stabs behind his eye. Master Reginald wraps a blanket around him and Quin both. Green. Not blue.

He leaves his hand out for Quin if he wants it like he’s seen Master Tholme do when Quin has a bad day. Quin, shaking just like Obi-Wan, joins their pinkies, and the leather of the dark green glove is soft against Obi-Wan's skin.

And Obi-Wan tells Quin what matters most.

“The darkness won’t get you, Quin. I promise.”

The wife of the king of Stewjon sits on the edge of the too-soft royal bed. It makes her back hurt. Every day her back hurts because of this Force-forsaken mattress—the best money can buy.

She sits, and she waits, and she dreads.

She got Mira out.

That’s what matters.

She got Mira and her mother out, and Castyl is none the wiser as to how. She spared that little girl further punishment. She spared that girl a brutal death. That girl will find Obi-Wan. And Obi-Wan, with his kind heart, will help her.

No one, after all, will bother looking for a lone starship hidden in the brush of an isolated island far from the capital city.

No one will be looking for a sailor who knows how to fly through the stars.

She won’t be able to meet her contact in person, anymore, probably, but she has a comm tucked away into a box of sanitary products that her husband would never touch. If more Force-sensitive children show up around her, she can work with that.

There will be more. The Force lives and breathes on Stewjon. She felt the difference, once, when she went to a neighboring planet for a diplomatic event. The Force was still there, of course, the Force is everywhere, but it wasn’t the same.

The sea, understanding her better than anyone can, hums in her ear through the open window. The petrichor smell of the air says a storm is coming. Upon seeing the scarlet sky this morning, sailors all across the main harbor tied down their ships.

The bedroom door bangs open, and the wife of the king of Stewjon jolts despite herself. She twists a strand of brown hair around her finger. Castyl comes in, all tall, broad, and bearded with his long copper curls hanging loose.

“I ought to have known,” Castyl says without greeting, “that you were up to something. That demon you gave birth to—”

“Our son?”

“—ruined you. How much damage he’s done by abusing the Force is yet to be seen, but he’s certainly done far more than enough here.”

“Obi-Wan is seven years old, Castyl. What damage could he have possibly done?”

“Don’t speak his name to me.”

Our damnation for not killing him, Castyl said weeks ago as he ploughed into her while she lay flat and uninterested but consenting because that was easier than saying no, is our lack of heirs. The Force punishing us. But the Force will rid us of him one day. It will exact a pure, clean justice. I’ll make sure of it.

That was what the Path always said, of course. Marda Ro went as wild as she did because a Jedi she loved died, and to make sense of it, she listened to the cult’s teachings.

The Force will establish balance via violence, if necessary, in retribution for the Jedi abusing it.

It was the Jedi who were responsible for Kevmo Zink’s death, and not the members of the Path who killed him outside a Jedi Temple they were storming, because the Force had to exact justice, and by abusing the Force, the Jedi created a foe that had to be killed, or the galaxy would suffer the consequences.

The Chosen One.

Oh yes. It makes so much sense.

Castyl groaned, finished, and didn’t tend to her at all like he used to.

Lay there and don’t move, he snapped. Let my seed take root.

At first, the wife of the king of Stewjon thought she was barren after a difficult pregnancy, but it could just as easily be that Castyl is sterile. Not that he would ever think that. If he finds a surrogate like he’s talked about, and she can’t get pregnant either? That will be interesting.

He cannot, of course, divorce her. Marriage on Stewjon binds until death, and killing her? Well, that would be too obvious, and Castyl must be adored, always, as the middle child between the tragically dead crown prince and his beloved baby brother the senator. Normal families who cannot bear children are forced to the lowest rungs of Stewjoni society, so the fact that she cannot give the king another heir is an affront. An embarrassment.

The next-in-line noble family will be frothing at the mouth to take down House Kenobi, who have been in power for two-hundred years. Given that their ancestors settled on Stewjon not quite four-hundred years ago? That’s quite a while. They claimed the throne after defeating the Glass Water pirates, who hailed from a small island a good distance away from Stewjon’s capital. The pirates didn’t care for the prevailing religion on Stewjon. They made that known. They caused trouble.

And they were put down.

“You will no longer leave the castle on your own,” he tells her. “You will be escorted, everywhere, by your ladies in waiting. I am replacing each and every single one of them with someone new as of tomorrow morning. I will not allow Stewjon to become a mill for sending children to our greatest enemy. Had I known what that demon was in truth, I would never have spared him. I never would have given him a chance to change. I would have killed him before his first cry. You made me soft. I had a feeling he was one of those demons, and I didn’t listen to myself. I listened to you.”

“Keep me prisoner all you like,” the wife of the King of Stewjon says. “Your hold on this place will break one day. It’s already slipping. The sea makes beings think beyond themselves, darling. If our ancestors wanted permanent control, they ought to have chosen another place to settle. As for our son—”

“Shut up—”

“He was the sweetest child I ever met, but he was stubborn and smart, too. If you think he won’t see what’s coming, that the Jedi won’t—”

A stinging slap burns her cheek red, though, it’s nothing in comparison to Castyl’s own flush.

“Enjoy your time in the cleansing room tomorrow for your impertinence,” he seethes. “May the Force have mercy on you. I certainly won’t.”

The wife of the king of Stewjon says nothing in reply.

Because it wouldn’t matter if she did.

Chapter Text

Four Years After the Arrival of the Chosen One

The Jedi Temple

No matter the tumble of life, one thing remains true.

Lineage dinners are always interesting.

Sheev has to more thoroughly shield himself to hide the ball of gray darkness inside himself, but with Plagueis’ training, he’s even more skilled at it than he was before.

You’re a natural at Force stealth, Plagueis said not long ago. You’ll be able to mask yourself with less and less effort as time passes.

Ignoring the chill Dooku keeps sending his way, Sheev focuses on the game of Sabacc he’s playing with Rael.

If his master wants to play that game? Sheev can play it too.

They take turns cooking for these gatherings, and it happens to be Dooku’s turn, which is for the best. Qui-Gon served up a burnt vegetarian dish on his first try upon his knighthood, and the smell didn’t leave Dooku’s quarters for a week. Now, when it’s his turn, he brings takeout. Last time Rael cooked, he made fried Nuna legs, which Dooku raised his eyebrows at but ate all of. Sheev made a thin-sliced Bantha beef tenderloin that their master enjoyed.

“Remind me again why I’m not allowed to play?” Qui-Gon asks as he gestures at Rael and Sheev’s Sabaac cards.

Qui-Gon’s hair, even longer than Sheev’s now, falls past his shoulders, and he puts it half back with some sort of leather tie. Why he can’t use a regular band or ribbon, Sheev doesn’t know.

“Because,” Rael replies, “you’ve watched every Sabacc tutorial holo known to man. Takes the mystery out of things, and you always win.”

“Let him play,” Dooku calls from the kitchenette, angling his head over his shoulder to shoot them a withering look.

“Master’s favorite,” Rael mouths, which earns him a kick beneath the table from Qui-Gon, but he lays out a set of cards and starts the game over. “So, when do you think our grandmaster will make an appearance at one of these again?”

“When you finally select a Padawan.” Sheev sips at his glass of red wine. “As you’ve been saying you were going to for several years now. Then he’ll come to their first dinner. At the pace you’re going, Qui-Gon and Tholme will have taken on Obi-Wan and Quinlan before you choose your own, and the boys are only seven.”

“You could get one, Sheev. Go take a gander and see if there’s a kid you like.”

“You’re older.”

“So?”

“I spend my time dealing with a lot of dusty artifacts and things a Padawan would hardly be interested in, aside from a rare few.”

“Right,” Rael shoots back, “no kid is gonna wanna go hunting for rare stuff.”

“Most of it is hardly that.”

“There are plenty of nerds in the Jedi Order, Sheev. Yourself included. But—”he raises a finger in the air, and his gray eyes twinkle with mischief—“as it so happens, I am in the process of selecting a Padawan. I’m going to submit to the council next week.”

A spatula clatters to the tile.

“It’s a girl!” Rael exclaims with a fond snort at the sight of Dooku’s apron spattered in sauce. “Guess I should have bought one of those baby shower banners.”

“After all of my nagging—” Dooku begins.

“Master,” Rael interrupts, “just say you’re proud and get it over with? Be careful, though, you can only say you’re proud of me twice a year.”

“I am proud,” Dooku says with both an approving nod and a roll of his eyes. “And who is your choice?”

“A Tholothian named Nim Pianna. According to her crechemasters, she’s adventurous, level-headed—which will be good for me—and a little bit rebellious. She keeps up with my brilliant wit when we spend time together, which is proof enough we’ll be a fantastic match.”

“I’m looking forward to meeting her.” Qui-Gon squeezes Rael’s hand, which Rael allows from their younger lineage sibling in a way he wouldn’t with just anyone. “I’m sure she’ll keep us all on our toes.”

“I’m sure of it,” Sheev adds, forcing a chuckle. “Congratulations, Rael.”

The betrayal stings like the fresh rage of a viper wasp wound. Despite the earlier teasing, he had assumed ... Rael has been saying he would get a Padawan for years and never did. And now ... now their master will pressure Sheev to get a Padawan, and he is in no place to do such a thing. He might have, if the right youngling had come along, but that was before Plagueis. That was before his mission to save the Jedi and his own stubborn lineage from themselves. Obi-Wan's face appears in his mind’s eye, and the surge of jealousy makes him want to steal Qui-Gon's student from him right when he turns twelve and make the boy his own, but that won’t do, no. He must wait until the right moment, when the child is older—if he survives.

Breathe in. Breathe out. Scream into your pillow later, or they will notice.

He focuses on the gleam of pride in Dooku’s eye and knows, he knows, that one day, it will be for him again.

“Hopefully you’ll be next, Sheev,” Dooku says, just as Sheev knew he would. “I suspect you would be a fine teacher.”

Well, then, has Dooku suddenly let go of his irritation about the journals? Sheev hardly knows for how his master’s moods swing left and right and all over.

“I appreciate you saying so.” He takes a sip of wine and answers neither too quickly or too slow. “We’ll see if one comes along.”

Dooku brings out the meal—a baked Tip-Yip dish with rice and vegetables. Qui-Gon, who has taken it upon himself to become a vegetarian, always eats meat dishes at lineage dinners, and that serves to annoy Sheev further, this evening.

So, he scratches at his wounds. Qui-Gon is as irritated with him as Dooku about the journals, and he will make his favored sibling say it. If Qui-Gon is ever going to learn to toughen himself up for the difficulties of the future, he must be willing to go to the metaphorical mat.

“Is Obi-Wan doing better after the incident the other day?” Sheev asks. “Tholme said he overused his empathy powers on the new Stewjoni initiate.”

“He had what Vokara said was a two-days long migraine.” Qui-Gon tucks a strand of his hair behind his ear. “I went to see him this morning when I returned from my mission, and he seemed well. A bit tired, but he was playing with his clan mates and went off just fine to their class with Yoda as I was leaving.”

“Poor boy,” Sheev says, and he does, for the most part, mean it. “Having that Stewjoni child appear must be difficult for him. And in such a mysterious way, too.”

Qui-Gon sets his fork down, folds his hands, and looks at Sheev with a slight and telling smile.

There.

He has him.

“I believe it was, yes.” Qui-Gon's eyes flit to Dooku. “He was also asking me about the Chosen One journals.”

Sheev raises a hand. “I’ve already been chided by our master. I only thought that I would like to know, were I him.”

“If it were me, I would have liked to read them as soon as possible,” Qui-Gon continues, surprising him. “However—”

“He is seven years old,” Dooku cuts in with a sigh. “It is not appropriate, Qui.”

Rael snorts. “Master, you were the one wanting to tell him everything at the first chance.”

“Yes, well, that was before I saw that telling him too much at once upset him.”

“Don’t wanna upset the eldritch baby,” Rael quips. “Noted. I wouldn’t want those big Tooka eyes being sad around me, either, truth be told. He’s cute.”

“What I was going to say,” Qui-Gon interjects with a hint of irritation, “is that, in the future, these things ought to be a lineage discussion. The council has agreed that Obi-Wan will be my Padawan when he turns twelve given our strong bond. So, I’d like to be asked before we tell him things going forward.”

The boy is mine, Qui-Gon might as well be saying. Of course, Qui-Gon is taking Obi-Wan on at the youngest possible age. Plenty of initiates don’t become Padawans until thirteen or fourteen or even fifteen. When they’re ready. When the right match is found. There's not a maximum age, only a minimum. Tholme taking Quinlan on earlier makes sense, but what is Qui-Gon in such a rush for?

“I do agree with that.” Dooku dabs at his mouth with the linen napkins he keeps. “But we should wait until he’s older to show him, I still believe. There is intense material in those journals. Besides that, they likely possess strong memory echoes, and if anyone supposes that Obi-Wan will not share those journals with Quinlan, then suppose again. The lad needs to have more control over his powers first.”

“I’ll defer to your wisdom for now, Master.” Qui-Gon raises his hands in mock defeat. “Anyway, we don’t have to discuss this all night. I just wanted to mention it.”

Sheev sets his teeth and doesn’t argue. That exchange was a disagreement at best, not an argument, not a tiff, nothing to knock off Qui-Gon's shine.

And Qui-Gon is far too much of a maverick to truly agree with Dooku on everything to do with protecting Obi-Wan. He’ll have his own ideas.

Surely.

He has made clear to Plagueis that while some Jedi might need to be sacrificed to save the rest, his lineage is off limits—no matter how stubborn they are about the idea of the Jedi seizing power. Qui-Gon will be, Sheev knows, and it’s one of many reasons Sheev needs Dooku in his line of thinking.

It will take time.

And he’s learning to be patient.

They talk of other things. Temple gossip. Rael’s new Padawan. Tholme’s first mission after his recovery from the leg injury he sustained. Sheev’s recent assignment as deputy to the Jedi Master who handles the Order’s long-steady relationship with the Guardians of the Whills and the Church of the Force on Jedha. Dooku does have a gleam of pride in his eye about that, at least.

Dooku and Qui-Gon remain behind to speak about Obi-Wan, and Sheev follows Rael out to the main steps of the temple. The sky hangs dark, brushed with a sheen of the inevitable yellow light pollution from the further-off districts that never sleep even if this one does. The sweet smell of incense catches in the air, perhaps from a fellow Jedi meditating in one of the open rooms a few levels above them. Rael leans against one of the columns and takes out the flimsi container of cigarras.

“You could get a decent holder if you insist on smoking,” Sheev complains. “Actually, no, I’ll find you one at the market and gift it to you. You won’t go.”

Rael doesn’t reply at first, and a small flame flickers when his lighter clicks to life. Sheev watches the orange glow burn through the t’bac in the cigarra, the white edges slowly browning.

“You’ve gotta cool it with Qui-Gon.”

“Cool it?”

Sheev’s shields spring yet higher to mask the uptick of his heartbeat. Does Rael suspect something?

“I could see you setting them up to argue,” Rael says. “And listen, I get it. Far be it from me to admit, but I want our master’s approval too. He’s focused on Qui because they’re both invested in Obi-Wan, and that poor kid needs all the help he can get. Doesn’t mean Dooku doesn’t give a shit about us.”

“You have the benefit of Dooku trusting you,” Sheev snaps. “He lets you worry about him. He thinks Qui-Gon hung the moon. Where does that leave me?”

“Being the most like him of all of us, frankly. Plus, Qui-Gon really respects you. Don’t ruin that trying to win Yan Dooku’s constant approval. Even Sifo-Dyas and Jocasta don’t have that. Yoda either.”

Sheev huffs. “Qui-Gon could stand to show that more.”

Rael shrugs as he blows out a puff of smoke. “Qui-Gon doesn’t show respect by agreeing with everything someone says.”

“He does when it comes to Dooku half the time.”

“Yeah, well, that’s because he’s scared of losing Dooku to the dark. Pretty obvious.”

A stray speeder flies past full of laughing adolescents who must have made a wrong turn. The young man inside Sheev who sought out Rael’s attention when he first came into the lineage purrs like a Tooka cat with the knowledge that he has it. Rael cares.

But he doesn’t understand.

One day, however, when things inevitably get worse for the Jedi, he might.

For now, it’s too early.

“Fearing the dark that deeply will only make Qui-Gon himself more susceptible to it,” Sheev says. “But I take your point.”

He does, and he doesn’t. Rael sees all of Qui-Gon's good traits and none of the worst ones. One day, Dooku will see that his favored boy isn’t looking out for him in the way that matters.

Sheev is.

Putting the cigarra out beneath the heel of his boot, Rael announces that for once, he needs to go to bed early so he can have breakfast with Nim. Palpatine returns to his own quarters, dons his civilian clothes, and leaves again.

He has somewhere to be.

Checking out a temple speeder from one of the workers on the nightshift, Sheev drives the twenty minutes or so to the edge of the federal district and takes the turbolift up to Hego Damask’s penthouse apartment. His new teacher isn’t here, but Sheev has the code and free reign to us it whenever he wishes.

He appreciates the trust.

Leaving his shoes by the door, he treads across the plush carpet toward the kitchen and pours himself a glass of amber-red Port in a Storm, a famous wine hailing from the Outer Rim planet Pamarthe.

Damask’s study calls.

Sipping at the wine, Sheev pushes the button that reveals the secret library of dark side materials hidden behind a bookshelf. Sheev runs his fingers across the spines of ancient texts and gets a shiver of excitement. Knowledge truly is power, and if the Jedi refuse? He’ll learn enough to save all of them. He pulls down a book entitled A Study of Jedi Chosen Ones: Prophecies and Power, sits in the synthleather armchair, and begins.

Should that anointed boy live past twenty, Sheev and Plagueis have two scenarios in mind.

One, Bring Obi-Wan to their side via his own consent. Sheev will work on that over the years. He’ll be an uncle of sorts, and a sympathetic ear while he does what he can to ensure Obi-Wan keeps breathing. He will keep special watch once Obi-Wan becomes a Padawan and take over his training at the exact right moment if a need or opportunity arises. Should Obi-Wan see the light, he and Plagueis will teach him a rumored Chosen One power documented in this text—mind cloud. This power supposedly allows the Chosen One to control Force-sensitives in their vicinity.

And if he doesn’t? Well.

There’s a plan for that too.

When our forebears attempted the thrall spell on the Chosen One, the text below a drawing of Nila Shandis, naked, bleeding, and with Sith runes cut into her skin, reads, was doing so while she lay unconscious, and when she woke, the shock tore her sanity to shreds. The subject must be awake, and blood must be replaced when lost at too high a volume. Controlling the Chosen One is an art and science both. Finesse is required.

Finesse is one thing Sheev has learned over the years. His rage? A flash in the pan. It won’t get him anything. All it ever got him, indeed, was a secret his master carries in shame. Cosinga deserved to die, certainly, but oh, Sheev wishes he were alive to see the Jedi take power. To see his son revered among them for his ability to see where others could not. Sheev sees more than Sifo-Dyas. More than the Chosen One.

More than any of them.

Yes.

Finesse. Patience. These things will win him the Chosen One. The praise of his master. The safety of the Jedi.

It will win him the future.

Five Years Since the Arrival of the Chosen One

Dex’s Diner

“Using my diner as a training center, eh?” Dex asks as Qui-Gon, steaming cup of black-and-sugar caf in hand, leans on the bar counter.

“Youngling enrichment,” Qui-Gon says with a smirk. “It’s good to change their environment.”

Breathing in the glory of the grease-slick air and taking in the pleasant hum of the diner’s chatter, Qui-Gon watches Mace at the booth with Obi-Wan, Quinlan, Siri, and Bant.

Could you feel the level of energy Siri used when she moved the salt shaker? Mace asks, and Obi-Wan, rapt at attention, nods. Use about half of that when you do it.

Squinting with a glint in his eyes that makes him seem older than his years, Obi-Wan holds up a small hand. The Force unfurls like an ancient scroll, slow and steady, as the shaker wooshes across the table toward Mace before coming to a halt and not going, as it did earlier, straight into Mace’s lap. Siri and Bant clap, Quin gives an enthusiastic woo, and Obi-Wan, missing a tooth he lost last week, grins big.

Not even a spill, Mace, half as serious as normal when in the presence of little ones, says with a wink. Try pulling it back toward you.

Mace does less Seeker’s work these days, but his bond with Obi-Wan remains, and Obi-Wan adores him. Qui-Gon is glad, as ever, to have so many friends helping teach him.

“Kid looks happier.” Dex sets all four elbows on the counter while Flo shouts something in the kitchen. “Less weighed down.” Lifting his chin toward Quinlan, who taps a melody on the table with his gloved fingers, Dex smiles. “Our little Kiffar is chattier than he used to be too.”

“They’re both doing well.” Qui-Gon sets his caf down and wipes fritzle fry crumbs off his fingers. The grease and caf combo is going to give him heartburn, later. “It’s a work in progress, of course. Obi-Wan's powers are a lot to handle, and it will be a few years yet before Quin has a full handle on his psychometry, but their routine, temple life ... it’s good for them. They both went through too much too young. The stability helps.”

Watching Obi-Wan again, Qui-Gon's heart swells when the little one takes a long, loud sip of the remnants of his milkshake. It’s the small things that show emotional progress. Obi-Wan keeps himself close, always trying not to bother, not to take up room, but on days like this? He’s a normal boy.

“Your eyes glow when you look at him, Qui,” Dex says, keeping his voice low. “I’m glad he’s got you.”

“He’s an astonishing child.” Qui-Gon clears his throat before he gets weepy in this diner. “Not just because he’s the Chosen One. He loves learning. He’s almost fluent in Twi’leki already and is intent on other languages next. Sheev takes him to the archives frequently, and he’s reading far beyond his level. He just … finds the galaxy fascinating. It would be easy for him not to.”

“Gotta say, if someone hurt that kid? They’d never catch me for murder. And I’m not a Jedi, so, I can do these things. King Kenobi better watch out if he ever comes to Coruscant.”

“Dex.”

“What?”

“Things like that are what make my master think you’re still a pirate at heart.”

“Well, unlike a lot of people I know, I don’t need Master Dooku’s approval.” Dex cackles and bears his rounded teeth. “I think Tholme and I are pretty alone in not looking for it, though.”

As if summoned, Qui-Gon's comm goes off, set with a reminder that he needs to have Obi-Wan back at the temple in an hour’s time.

“Gotta go?” Dex asks.

“Obi-Wan has private saber training with Dooku,” Qui-Gon explains. “In addition to what his clan does with Yoda.”

Dex raises what would be a brow on a human. “Kinda young for that, isn’t he? Does he need extra right now?”

“Initiates start using training sabers at six, but my master feels that Obi-Wan will need extra self-defense training. They do more than just the sabers—there’s some martial arts involved. And before I know it, Obi-Wan will be old enough to get a crystal for his actual saber. Besides, they’re quite close. Obi-Wan likes it.”

Clapping Qui-Gon on the shoulder with a pop of mischief, Dex goes over to the children and puts two large hands on the table.

“I heard that it was someone’s eighth name day last week,” Dex teases. “Now, who could that be?”

“Me!” Obi-Wan exclaims with a giggle. “You know that, Mr. Dex, that’s why we’re here.”

“I’ve been alive so long, little one, that I forget my own name, some days,” Dex replies. “But, we haven’t had cake yet. So, before you go, I have to fix that.”

“Dex,” Qui-Gon protests, “they just had milkshakes.”

“That’s not cake. Your master can wait for them to have some cake. Patience is a Jedi virtue, is it not?”

Mace snorts, and Qui-Gon, with Dooku’s lessons about discipline and punctuality ringing in his head, gives in. Even at his young age, Obi-Wan arrives early for all his other individual lessons. And while Qui-Gon doesn’t believe that his beloved master plays favorites, well ... he knows that Dooku does tend to forgive him faster for transgressions because he is, as Rael puts it, the baby.

Being late once won’t hurt. Dooku will sigh at him, smile, and tell Obi-Wan that he respects being on time more than his future master does.

Even in the life of a Chosen One, there should always be time for cake.

Five Years Since the Arrival of the Chosen One

The Jedi Temple

“Master T’Ra sent a really old piece of Kiffar music that was on flimsi so Quin could learn it,” Obi-Wan explains, more animated that Sifo would have expected given the difficulty of the past few days. “It belonged to Quin’s clan.” Obi-Wan's copper brows furrow. “But his aunt didn’t want him to have it. She doesn’t want him anything. She’s trying to get him back.”

“I’m positive Knight Tholme won’t allow that,” Sifo tells him, putting a hand on the boy’s back to guide him toward the lily pad pool in the Room of a Thousand Fountains. “Nor will the council.”

Obi-Wan twists his fingers. “She got Knight Tholme’s comm code and kept calling. He had to change it. I heard him cursing.”

Laughing, Sifo squeezes Obi-Wan's shoulder. “Tholme just does that. It doesn’t mean this threat is a serious one. And if it turns into one, they’ll do what’s needed to keep Quin safe.”

Sifo wishes they could prove that Tinte poisoned Kurlin two months after the incident with Quin. That would bring Republic charges for murder of a head of state. As it is, Tinte’s put her spies in charge all over Kiffu and Kiffex. She also banished the defiant members of Clan Vos from the family compound. Some have even left the planet. Pockets of resistance exist, but for now, Tinte holds sway.

And, once again, the senate does not see fit to interfere for fear of appearing overbearing—despite the obvious presence of a potential tyrant. These things are tricky, he understands that, but Force alive. They could at least send a judicial investigator like they did with Stewjon.

Catching notice of the little blush in Obi-Wan's cheeks, Sifo, despite himself, prods a bit. Obi-Wan is most animated when speaking of two things—the languages he’s learning, and his friends. Siri is so brave and Bant is so kind and Prie is so smart and Garen is so funny.

But when he talks about Quin? Well, Sifo knows firsthand what a Jedi youngling crush looks and feels like. Quinlan and Obi-Wan remind him, so very much, of himself and Dooku. He didn’t know he had a crush on Dooku until he was twelve or so, and then he thought, oh no, what do I do and also, he’ll never like me like that. Dooku did like him like that, but that took a few more years for either of them to sort, and that was for the better, because what does one even do with a crush at twelve? Hold hands and turn red to death? Not that they weren’t ridiculous at fifteen, but they could kiss, by that age, and mostly do it right.

“Did Quin enjoy the music?”

Obi-Wan nods, his hair swinging in his enthusiasm. “Yes, and that was good, because I don’t want Quin to be sad. I mean of course he is, I am too, because Tinte is mean, but he deserves to be happy. The music made me feel better, too, after ... what did you call what I had?”

“Fractional visions. So, just short visions that only last a minute or two rather than the longer ones you usually have.”

They reach the flower pool, a quiet and tucked away part of the Room of a Thousand fountains complete with a treehouse built by a Jedi who enjoyed carpentry as meditation. Named such because white blossoms from the trees drop into the water, Sifo finds this area of the sprawling centerpiece of the temple best for this type of meditation. The pool, smaller than the rest, draws less attention, and unlike the fountains—or the waterfall—it sits still.

“Do you ever have people get mad at you?” Obi-Wan asks. “When you go visit them to see about other children joining the Jedi?”

Setting his boots aside, Sifo relishes the grass beneath his feet and rolls up his trouser legs. This pool isn’t deep, only about four feet, and perfect to sit with in contemplation. The pair of them put their feet in the azure water, light glinting off the shiny tiles at the bottom.

“Sometimes,” Sifo answers. “Especially if they didn’t reach out to the Jedi first and we discovered the child. Usually, they just want to understand if it would be best for their child to join the Order and ask questions about what their life would be like here. I give them information and always let them make the decision themselves.”

Sifo doesn’t say so much in reply to this question. Parents still reach out to them when they notice their child might be Force-sensitive, but more and more, said parents come from planets that have positive relationships with the Jedi. The Core. Inner Rim. Mid and Outer Rim worlds, more and more overtaken by corporations, trust them less these days. Why? Well, no matter the back and forth of senators and well-paid holonews pundits, the issue isn’t all that complicated.

The Jedi, despite being a mere fraction of the Republic, have become, to these distant planets, the face of Republic stagnation. It makes sense—digging into the depths of a vast bureaucracy is nigh impossible. It’s scarcely the fault of civil servants, regardless. Those beings are keeping government moving.

The blame lays at the fault of the senate.

Why people refuse to blame them?

Sifo wishes he knew.

The Jedi, with magic, as some who hate them call it, should be able to fix everything. So, why aren’t they, goes the thinking.

Sifo thinks back to the man from Castell who murdered Knight Katri. The Commerce Guild caused a problem and then pretended to save that man from it. The corporations certainly aren’t the only reason for the downturn in Jedi approval, but they aren’t helping.

And there just ... there don’t seem to be as many Force-sensitive children on the whole. These things ebb and flow, but children like that are already rare, so when there’s less than before? One takes notice. It’s been that way for the last twenty years or so.

Ever inquisitive, Obi-Wan asks a few more questions about what it’s like to be a Seeker, and Sifo answers with verve. Without a Padawan of his own, he’s always enjoyed mentoring Dooku’s lineage. Obi-Wan isn’t officially that yet, of course, but he will be, and Sifo would want to help him regardless.

You would be an excellent teacher, Jo said to him last night while Dooku slept and the pair of them drank post-coital tea. Far be it from me to say it again when you don’t listen, but it’s true.

It’s late for a lecture, Jo. Sifo’s fingers crawled up her bare thigh, covered by only a thin robe. Didn’t we just have fun?

Jo took his hand and leaned close, strawberry blonde hair hanging in her eyes, and much as it is with Dooku, getting to see her a mess always gives Sifo a thrill.

Of course, Jo said, tugging his hand to her chest. But you have this idea that you’re a danger. You're hoping to relieve Obi-Wan of ever feeling that way, aren’t you?

Yes, but—

But nothing. If you ever want a Padawan, once you’ve finished your initial period on the council, you ought to get one. And in the meantime, you should take a more formal role in Obi-Wan's. Qui-Gon and Yan would like it. And you come the closest to understanding what he’s going through.

You should be on the council with all that wisdom, Sifo quipped. Ever think about going back?

No. It took too much time away from the archives. Are you listening to me?

I’m listening, Jo.

So, this morning, Sifo spoke to Qui-Gon about trying a meditative process with Obi-Wan that he finds helpful in shaking vision fragments free.

And here they are.

Kicking his feet back and forth in the water, Obi-Wan twitches and reaches down to scratch at his thigh. Sifo can’t tell if it’s where his old scars are or if he had a small muscle spasm, but he doesn’t want to make Obi-Wan nervous, so he doesn’t speak to it.

“All right,” Sifo says. “Are you ready to try something new with me?”

“Very much, Master Sifo.”

Obi-Wan's big blue eyes in those two different shades go wide in eager interest, and Sifo resists the urge cuddle the little boy close. They can do that later. For now, he needs to focus up.

“This is a form of meditation that I developed myself,” Sifo explains. “Sometimes, when I've just come off a vision, going all the way into my head would cause another vision or an aftershock, one of the fractals you’ve been having. So, I try to ground myself in the physical world to help anchor me.”

“Like you pick an emotional anchor for the meditation?”

“Exactly.”

Sifo rolls up one sleeve, this time, and lays down flat on his back in the grass.

“Now, what I want you to do is roll up your sleeve and lay down like I am with the top of your head pressed against mine. Then I’ll tell you what to do next.”

Obi-Wan does, and when the little boy’s head presses against his, Sifo notices the uptick of Obi-Wan's heart.

“Are you okay, youngling?”

“Sorry. I just want to do it right.”

Force knows, Dooku had the exact same perfectionist streak at this age—not that he ever got over it. There has been improvement, of course. The infected origin of this trait in Obi-Wan goes back to Stewjon, and Sifo, clenching his teeth, puts aside his anger at King Kenobi and all the adults who brought harm to a child, and gets back to the matter at hand.

“Everything takes practice, Obi-Wan,” Sifo says. “You know that with how much you like to learn, right?”

“Yes.”

Feeling rather than seeing Obi-Wan, Sifo takes one of the boy’s hands and instructs him to put the other in the water.

“I try different methods with this,” Sifo explains, “and while I do often practice this with another Jedi, if you do it alone, please don’t do so by any body of water. I know you’re a strong swimmer, but we want to be safe.”

Obi-Wan laughs, soft and silver, and the stars shining in the Force remind Sifo again of Dooku. The starry sea of Obi-Wan's presence churns like the ocean after a storm has come and gone. Things are better, but they haven’t yet settled. Driftwood and shells, the fragments of Obi-Wan's visions over the past few days, wash up on shore. Today’s exercise will hopefully send most of them back home.

“All right, emotional anchor?”

“Safe,” Obi-Wan whispers. “I’m safe in the temple. Knight Qui-Gon says that my visions can help the Jedi see, but that things don’t always happen the way we think. It’s okay if I’m scared when they happen, but they aren’t set in stone, and that letting fear take over will make them harder to understand, especially if they’re far in the future.”

“That’s right. Very good, Obi-Wan. Even though other Jedi get visions, they don’t get them like you or I do. Quin understands this too, even though his are different than ours. His power is still isolating. Do you feel isolated sometimes?”

Obi-Wan hesitates.

“You can tell me, youngling.”

“Yes.”

“So, you, Quin, and I have to work even harder to feel our fear and then not let it control us. If we do, we can’t decipher the visions as well. We can’t feel out real warnings from maybes. That’s the key.”

“Aren’t they all maybes?”

“Yes.” Sifo pauses, sorting out how to say what he means without passing on paranoia to an eight-year-old—he'll get enough as he grows older with this gift. “Nothing is set in stone, as Qui-Gon said, but certain visions are more direct. The Force is saying pay attention to this could-be. Others are trying to tell us something internal. They’re more ... metaphorical. Do you know what that means?”

“Uh huh. Like in a holonovel. It’s not ... lit ... what’s the word?”

“Literal, that’s right. Some visions can be like dreams that way. You find yourself swimming in an ocean and wake up needing to use the fresher. Some are actual scenarios that might happen. Learning to tease out the difference is the most important skill when you have visions like us.”

“Maybe we should call it warnings and metaphors, instead, Master Sifo.”

A touch of teasing rings in Obi-Wan's voice, and Sifo’s fondness bubbles up.

“Perhaps we should. What’s your physical anchor? Then we’ll begin.”

“The water. Your hand. The grass.”

“Very good. Leave one part of your mind latched onto those things. Shut your eyes, and let the Force come to you. We’ll clear away some of those vision remnants and help you get out of the cycle, okay?”

Obi-Wan twitches again, but Sifo is sure it’s anxiety.

“Okay. I’m ready.”

Sifo shuts his eyes and drifts slow into the Force’s embrace. The cool of the water and the warmth of Obi-Wan's hand ground him, and images from the vision he’s been having about a war over Bacta, far off and distant, float around his mind. Flashes of others, of senators shouting—about what he’s never been able to say—come along as well. The Republic assigned extra security to the Bacta supply chain, and that’s all he can do about that. The shreds of sight fade. Obi-Wan's sea-stars shine.

And then—

Twitching. Thrashing. Obi-Wan's hand tears out of Sifo’s, and the little boy, eyes wrenched shut, goes rolling into the peaceful pool.

Sinking sinking sinking Obi-Wan can’t stop sinking.

Bright caustics, those patterns of light at the bottom of a pool, block him from seeing right. Why are they there? Why … look between them. He has to look between them.

Black altar black bindings black cloak. He’s been here before, a dozen times. That’s him on the shiny black brick altar. Blood runs in rivulets down that altar and onto the floor. Bits of it dry to sticky brown on the floor. Knife wounds slash through skin in shallow straight lines, but that’s not all, no. That’s not all. Symbols and shapes carve into the soft flesh on the underside of his forearms. On his shoulders. On the palms of his hands. Into the pads of his fingers.

The man in black cloak isn’t licking blood off his fingers. Earlier. This must be earlier. Later?

His own copper hair spills sweaty. Longer. It’s just a little bit longer than it is now, hanging in layers and brushing the top of his shoulders. Older. He’s older. Like Knight Mace, maybe. He’s twenty ... something. There’s no Padawan braid. He doesn’t see one.

Does that mean he won’t die?

Does it—

Let the pain purify you to your purpose, the man in the black cloak says, and the fabric shields him from view. Obi-Wan needs to see his face he needs to see it so he can help he has to help.

The vision blurs like he has water in his eyes. That light smears his sight.

Obi-Wan.

Obi-Wan's back hits grass.

Red hair copper beard green tunics blue robes.

The water goes away. The horrible room comes into clear view again. Fear fills Obi-Wan up. Black cloak black altar long nails pressing weals into his bare shoulders. Naked. Why is he naked? He doesn’t like it. He—

Focus on a detail rather than getting swept up in the whole of it, Knight Qui-Gon said not long ago. If you’ve had the same vision over and over again, then focus on something new each time, especially if there’s a new piece to it in the first place.

Focus. Details. Yes, he’s good at those things. Master Reginald has said so. Help. Help the Jedi.

The runes. The strange alphabet. Yes. Focus. Look at those.

Obi-Wan!

Laughter. Laughter ringing in his ears. Laughter shaking his bones. Buzzing in his brain. Zap crackle crackle zap.

Who is laughing? Is he laughing?

That long-fingered hand tips Obi-Wan’s chin up.

You are art and artifact, aren’t you? The man in the black cloak says. My holy war weapon.

Look at the alphabet. Look at it. Not Aurebesh. No. Something different. He doesn’t recognize it from his lessons. Not Twi’leki. Not Stewjoni. Not Binary. Not anything he knows.

Obi-Wan!

A huddle of light around him. A hand. Someone’s hand.

Physical anchor?

Master Sifo. Master Sifo’s hand!

The silver knife cuts into the crook of Obi-Wan's elbow, the tip crusted with blood. Horizontal straight line. Vertical straight line. Horizontal straight line. Remember remember remember he can’t go back to Master Sifo until he remembers.

Straight horizontal line. One two three vertical lines. Horizontal straight line. One like that again with the top half of a triangle in the middle. Remember. Remember.

Obi-Wan!

Laughter scraping up his throat like jagged shards of glass.

Black liquid dripping from fingertips. The man in the cloak rubs it into the wounds, and it stings.

A scream tears out of him, and it sings with the sea. The sea? He’s heard the sea before, hasn’t he? Stewjon. Stewjon is he on Stewjon? Is the bad man on Stewjon?

You sacred sacrifice, the man whispers. The Force gave you to me to save the galaxy. Your life was never yours, my little unwanted prince. It was always mine. You could have made this easier. You chose not to.

Another figure walks through the door. Tall. Black mask. Black trousers with big pockets. Black boots with thick soles. Black gloves. Obi-Wan can’t see his face, either. No, the mask is in the way, but he’s familiar. Obi-Wan knows him. He’s sure he does.

“Obi-Wan!”

With a tug of crescent moonlight, Obi-Wan's eyes fly open. The flower pool. The temple.

Master Sifo.

Long black hair drips water onto Obi-Wan's face. Brown eyes. Light brown skin. Maroon tunics.

Master Sifo.

“It’s pulling me back, Master Sifo, please!” Obi-Wan cries out. “Please, I don’t want ... he’s there, please!”

Scared scared scared try and feel how scared and then let it go. Let it go.

This water pitcher, Master Reginald said to them once, filters out things that we don’t want to drink, right? That’s what we do with things like fear and anger. We give them their time and then let them slowly filter out of us. Some feelings are much bigger than others and take time, but eventually, they will filter out.

That’s what Obi-Wan needs to do. Filter. He’s not a baby. He shouldn’t be so scared. He has to help.

“Shhh, it’s all right. Stay with me, youngling.”

Four other Jedi gather around him, and a flush of embarrassment warms his cheeks. Their worry pierces him. Master Sifo wraps a roll of white fabric with Aurebesh painted onto it around Obi-Wan's arm that was in the water.

“Repeat the words after me, Obi-Wan,” he says. “All right? We walk into the light.”

We walk into the light.

“Acknowledge the dark.”

Acknowledge the dark.

“For the Force is strong.”

The Force is strong.

They do it a second time. A third. A fourth.

The vision’s pull stops.

“I heard laughing. Was that me?” Obi-Wan asks.

“I think you had one of your seizures, sweetheart.” Master Sifo’s thumb presses at the pulse point on Obi-Wan's right wrist. “Just rest for a moment.”

“Warning,” Obi-Wan croaks. His throat hurts. “It was a warning. Not a metaphor.”

“The man in the black cloak?”

Obi-Wan nods, and that flush creeps and creeps and creeps. He needs to go. Get away.

“Runes. On my arms. Another man in a mask. I ... I have to go. I’m sorry. I’m sorry.”

“Obi-Wan—”

Launching himself up in a swirl of dizzy dread, and with a headache stabbing behind his right eye, Obi-Wan runs.

“Obi-Wan!”

Obi-Wan wants to be good. He wants to listen to Master Sifo and go back.

But he can’t.

Quin’s in the music room when Knight Tholme and Master Reginald come looking for him.

Bant, on the bench beside him, jumps when Quin’s finger lands on a loud, wrong note.

Something’s wrong. Really really really wrong. Is Aunt Tinte here? He won’t go back to Kiffu if she tries to make him. He’ll run. He will. Knight Tholme says that won’t happen, but Quin is scared. Siri offered to help hide him in the depths of the temple if Tinte ever shows up and just wait until she goes away. That helped.

“Hello, my kiddos,” Master Reginald says, resting one hand on the piano. “Do either of you know of any place in the temple where Obi-Wan might go if he was upset? We looked in our library here and in the archives. We looked in Qui-Gon’s quarters and Master Dooku’s and Mace’s as well. We looked by the waterfall pool in the Room of a Thousand Fountains.”

“What happened?” Bant asks, biting her lip. “He was meditating with Master Sifo.”

“He was,” Tholme adds. “But he had a vision in the middle of it and it frightened him. He ran out.”

Quin’s stomach drops. The Force is their friend, but he wishes it would stop giving Obi-Wan such bad visions! Or at least a break. They just keep coming this week.

“He’s in the treehouse by the flower pool,” Quin answers. 

“That’s near where he was meditating,” Master Reginald replies. “Do you think he  circled back, Quin?”

“Yeah,” Quin says, sure of himself as he launches himself up from his seat. “He likes it there. He goes when he has big feelings and doesn’t want everyone--”

“Feeling them too,” Master Reginald finishes as he strokes his beard.

“And he’s clever,” Knight Tholme mutters. “He knew we might not look for him in the place he ran from.”

“Can I go talk to him?” Quin rocks back and forth from heel to toe. Go go go he wants to go find Obi-Wan now, but he’s gotta be patient. Knight Tholme says patience is really important for Jedi, and his Mom always said that too—sometimes to his Dad. “Please? I can help. Do you think he’s sick after the vision?”

“That is our concern, yes.” Tholme’s hand comes down on Quin’s shoulder and squeezes. “If you could get Obi-Wan down, my little lad, we’d appreciate it. I think he’ll listen to you.”

Quin says that he can, promises Bant that it will be okay, asks her to tell Siri what’s going on, and follows Knight Tholme out into the hallway, where Knight Qui-Gon, Master Sifo, and Master Dooku wait. Tension tightens the Force around Quin’s ribs, and it takes a sec for him to get a deep breath.

Uh oh.

The method has helped me, Master Sifo says, his tunics damp and his fists clenched. I wanted to see if it would help Obi-Wan.

I think it would have if he wasn’t primed for another vision already, Knight Qui-Gon cuts in, eyes darting back and forth between Master Dooku and Master Sifo, his hands grasping at his trousers. We should try again later.

Master Dooku, his usually smooth black hair hanging in his eyes, sniffs. Neither of you asked me my opinion on the matter.

Is Qui-Gon going to be Obi-Wan's master, or you? Master Sifo snaps, which Quin hasn’t seen before.

There are more classic forms of meditation that—

Obi-Wan isn’t normal. He’s a damned Chosen One, Yan. You’re the one who knows all about them, so stop being willful. You can’t mold him into your idea of some perfect prophet.

That is not what I’m trying to—

“Quin knows where Obi-Wan is,” Knight Tholme interrupts whatever protest Master Dooku was about to make. “I’m going to take him to see if we can lure Obi-Wan out and get him to the Halls. Sifo-Dyas, come with us, if you don’t mind? Qui-Gon, set your master’s ego straight while we’re gone.”

“You’re not amusing, Zahn,” Master Dooku says. “I was only saying—”

“I can fill in the blanks. Traditional meditation is good for many things, however”—Tholme swipes his hand through the air—“In this case, Sifo-Dyas knows more than any of us. I think we ought to listen to him. You’re usually the one speaking from that metaphorical pulpit.”

Quin really wishes the adults would stop arguing. He needs to find Obi-Wan. Their bond kind of ached earlier, but Quin, a little lost in playing, thought maybe it was just the meditation with Master Sifo and the leftover vision stuff, but he should have been paying attention. He … he tries to make sure he notices things. Always. About everything that matters.

“Are you and Master Dooku gonna be okay?” Quin asks Master Sifo, even though he probably shouldn’t.

“Very subtle Quinlan,” Knight Tholme mutters, but he smiles when he does. “If you want to be a Shadow—”

“Master Sifo isn’t a bad guy mark.” Quin smirks. “Why do I need to—”

“You’re all right, little one,” Master Sifo cuts in. “And you needn’t worry. Master Dooku and I bicker all the time. It’s good for him.”

Master Sifo winks, and despite it all, Quin laughs. The thing is, Master Sifo and Master Dooku remind Quin of him and Obi-Wan, and it makes him hope that maybe ... that maybe Obi-Wan will live a lot longer than he thinks. Obi-Wan says that Master Sifo, Master Dooku, and Master Jocasta are special friends who kiss, and Quin doesn’t know much about kissing but figures that kissing Obi-Wan when they’re older wouldn’t be bad at all.

They reach the flower pool, the bond throbs, and without another word, Quin runs toward the treehouse.

“Careful!” Knight Tholme calls out, gesturing with his ebony cane. “Better for you to reach the same place slower and uninjured.”

Quin slows down—sort of—and focuses on the climb. One rung. Two rungs. Three. Obi-Wan's stars melt down the dark sky and into a swirling sea.

Oof. That's bad.

Quin’s hearthfire craves closeness, and the flames lick down his skin. The pop of Obi-Wan's copper hair appears, and the fire settles again.

Obi-Wan sits with his knees pulled up to his chest, which doesn’t give Quin a good look at whether he’s hurt, or anything, but kind of like with the ladder, he should listen to Knight Tholme’s advice.

Take it slow.

Is he scared? Yeah. Sometimes that makes him act too fast. He doesn’t want to do that today.

“Obes?” he asks, using the new nickname he came up with a few weeks ago.

“I wanna be alone.”

Quin likes time to himself after a bad psychometric vision, but sometimes, he knows that even if he wants to be alone, it’s not good for him.

“Nope,” Quin says. “You’ve been in here alone for a long time. Everyone’s been looking for you.”

Glancing up with his arms still hugging his knees, Obi-Wan's blue eyes glint sharp, and he pushes hard down their bond. A big wave crashes on the shore in Quin’s mind’s eye.

“Do that if you want. I’m not scared of you, though.”

“Everyone should be scared of me.”

“Well, I’m not.”

“You should be.”

“You’d be so mad if I said that.”

“Leave me alone, Quin.”

Quin would get his feelings hurt, except, he knows Obi-Wan doesn’t mean it. He just gets spiky sometimes like Quin gets mood swings. Settling down cross-legged, Quin breathes in the scent of cedar and tries another way.

“Why?”

“Because I want to be—”

“No, I mean why should I or anybody be scared of you?”

“Because the man in the black cloak is going to use me for something bad. I saw. Even Master Sifo’s meditation couldn’t help me.”

“Well”—Quin scratches at his nose—“I heard Knight Qui-Gon say he thought it would help if you weren’t already gonna have another vision. It’s like how I have to rest when I touch something powerful, and it won’t go away. If I practiced right after, I wouldn’t do any better.”

Obi-Wan sniffs, and he’s shaking. Quin can see.

“Maybe.”

“Obi-Wan?”

Quin whispers the name, and he hopes that Obi-Wan hears how much he loves him just by the way he says it.

Because he does.

A lot.

Obi-Wan lifts his head enough for Quin to catch sight of the few freckles on the bridge of his nose, and this time, he doesn’t glare.

Quin scoots closer.

“I know what it’s like to be scared of doing something bad you can’t control, or being something bad, or ... all of that,” Quin says. “Like my bad weird scary angry thing.”

Obi-Wan's damp hand takes Quin’s own. The stretch of his friend’s arm shows Quin a smear of red on his tunic sleeve, but he doesn’t ask yet. Maybe he hurt himself when he ran.

“I know.” Obi-Wan squeezes Quin’s fingers. “But you’re all light to me, Quin. Promise.”

“I promise you too.”

“What if no one wants me?” Obi-Wan shifts, sitting cross-legged like Quin, and their knees press together. “When I’m old enough to be a Padawan?”

“Knight Qui-Gon already said,” Quin protests. “Just like me and Knight Tholme. I don’t think he gets scared easy, either.”

“That’s true.” Obi-Wan pauses. “What if no one wants me for me?”

“I think Knight Qui-Gon does, and Master Dooku too, even though he’s strict sometimes. I always will. Siri and Bant will. And Master Reginald and Master Sifo too.”

A smile tugs at the corner of Obi-Wan's mouth, and pride fills Quin up to the brim. All the adults are really smart, but he was the one who knew where Obi-Wan was. He could help, this time, when most times, he feels like he can’t.

“Do you feel sick?” Quin asks.

“Yes. My head hurts pretty bad. I had one of those weird seizures.”

“Did you fall when you ran away?” Quin asks. “There’s blood on your tunic.”

“Oh.” Obi-Wan blushes and unlinks his fingers from Quin’s so he can roll up his sleeve. “I ... um—”

Crusted-over red scratches run up the blue tattoo on Obi-Wan's inner wrist. Quin loves his Kiffar markings.

Obi-Wan doesn’t love his Stewjoni ones.

“The man in the black cloak called me a little unwanted prince,” Obi-Wan tells him, and he runs a finger down the thin pink-red marking on his right cheek. “And I ... I don’t know. I wanted it gone.” Tears well in his eyes, but the bond opens as the sea eases back from shore. “I’m sorry, Quin.”

“For what?”

“I dunno. Just—”

“You don’t need to be, Obes. It’s like you say to me: you can cry or be scared or anything, and I won’t mind. Because I trust you.”

Obi-Wan sniffs again, and that wobbling smile grows.

“Because I’m your best friend?”

“Uh huh. You always will be.”

Quin holds his pinky out, and Obi-Wan, smiling with teeth, this time, takes it.

“Are they waiting for me down there?”

Quin nods. “Knight Tholme and Master Sifo. Knight Qui-Gon and Master Dooku are with Master Reginald in the creche.”

Curling into himself again, Obi-Wan sighs and tangles his fingers into his hair.

“I bet I scared Master Sifo. I feel bad. He told me to stay, and I wanted to be good, but I just—”

“Got scared. I get it. And you are good, Obi-Wan.”

“Master Reginald said good is what we do,” Obi-Wan insists. “And I wasn’t—”

“You’re really kind and always trying to help.” Quin sidles closer, gets Obi-Wan's nod of agreement for touch, and slips his arm around his friend’s shoulders. “Mira wouldn’t be happy here if it weren’t for you reading to her and letting her play with our clan. You were just scared. That’s all. Being good isn’t about doing what you’re told all the time—your dad just made you think so. Master Sifo always says he was kind of a rebel. So, I don’t think he’s mad.”

Obi-Wan leans his head on Quin, and the tension in Quin’s back unclenches. They might be a couple of Tooka Cats curled up in this treehouse, and if not for Knight Tholme and Master Sifo waiting, and all the adults in the creche, and Bant worrying, Quin would say they should take a nap here. They sit for a while, until Obi-Wan starts shaking really hard, and Quin calls Knight Tholme for help.

When they make it to the Halls of Healing, and Knight Qui-Gon pulls Obi-Wan up into his arms, Master Dooku says that Quin can stay while the healers help.

Quin does stay.

As much as being a Jedi lets him, he always will.

A sunset-stained pall hangs over the Jedi high council chambers.

Red glints off the glass and seeps between Dooku’s fingers. Folding them tight and casting a glance at Sifo, across the room in a chair that isn’t normally his, Dooku draws in a deep breath.

For years, he felt the creep of darkness, but what did his fear earn him, in the end? The Force told them what they needed to know via the vessel of a special boy when they needed to know it. He thought his worrying, his surety, would make him say I told you so.

All it did was make him slip into the darkness years before.

Now, in the moment of truth? The I told you so turns to ash in his mouth.

“How is he?” Plo, perhaps unable to bear the silence, asks.

“He had another gelastic seizure, according to Vokara,” Dooku says. “The medication held one off during the smaller visions, but with this—”

“It was too much,” Yaddle finishes. “Is the little one stable, at least?”

For a moment, Dooku can’t answer. Physically stable? Well, yes. If you don’t count the oxygen line in boy’s nostrils, the IV of pain medication for his migraine, and the pale pallor of his skin. If you don’t count the red weals on his wrist from where he scratched at himself trying to tear off the Stewjoni tattoo.

Note of concern: a potential tendency toward self-harm.

They could get the tattoo removed, but the tattoo isn’t the point. Overusing his empathy powers is a sign as well. Dooku is hardly a mental health expert, but Sifo-Dyas has struggled with this in the past, so he sees the signs.

Obi-Wan tugs on his heartstrings like no one has since he first saw Qui-Gon in the saber salles. Important important important he is important, vital, to the fate of the Jedi, but also ... Dooku wants to protect him from the pain of his past. From that cruel cult and that primitive prat of a king. If he sees pieces of himself in Obi-Wan, then ... the boy has an easier personality, but the echoes ... they ring.

I’m sorry, Obi-Wan whispered. I tried to remember everything.

You remembered so much, Dooku assured him as he tucked the stuffed Tooka Reginald brought beneath Obi-Wan's blankets. Go to sleep, youngling. Quinlan and Knight Qui-Gon will be right here when you wake up.

And you?

I have an emergency council meeting, but I’ll return tomorrow morning. I promise.

“Yes. He’ll need to stay in the Halls for a few days for monitoring.”

“At first, I worried that my attempt at this form of meditation might have caused the vision.” Sifo-Dyas runs a hand through his loose hair. “But as I’ve thought upon it ... there were signs that Obi-Wan was about to have a vision. He twitched. I thought I saw his leg spasm. I put that to exhaustion and anxiety after the fractional visions. I now believe they were a prodrome. The meditation couldn’t help, because another vision was already coming, but more to the point, I wonder if getting Obi-Wan a service animal might help. I’d never thought about it for myself before, and I can largely tell, now, when a vision approaches. Obi-Wan is young. An animal could be trained to alert Obi-Wan and his caretakers to an oncoming vision and make sure he’s in a safe place. I ... I understand in light of what we’ve learned that this is a small matter, but—”

“It’s not small,” Master Poof gently interrupts. “Keeping Obi-Wan safe matters a great deal. Our healers have contacts at the Grand Republic Medical Facility, who I believe have a service animal unit where certain Republic officers can go and find a suitable companion. I’m certain a Jedi would qualify, in this case. Especially a child. We can speak to one of our allies in the senate, as well. Perhaps Senator Antilles.”

“Appreciate you input, we do,” Yoda adds. “Of enormous value, your insights are, Master Sifo-Dyas.”

“Thank you, Master,” Sifo replies, and still, he won’t meet Dooku’s apologetic gaze. He might be a Lurca hound begging for scraps and getting none. He deserves it. He knows he does.

Damn his own arrogance. Damn his own temper. He spent years lecturing Sheev on his, and sometimes, he can’t manage his own even now. It’s worse with Sifo-Dyas than others, because he knows Sifo-Dyas will forgive it. Sifo-Dyas, his dearest friend, his partner, serves as an easy target.

He ought to ... he must do better.

“We’re agreed then.” Ki-Adi leans back in his chair with a sigh. “These are Sith runes.”

“I think there can be little doubt, given Obi-Wan's descriptions,” Dooku says, and his own voice sounds strange in the breaking of this awful new dawn. “He must have been focusing on the runes, because he described them to me in detail. He could only make out what seemed to be the word thrall—Sheev offered to double check my memory in the archives—but what the ritual does, we don’t know. I can only guess that the man in the black cloak seeks to control him.”

“There are other dark side groups that might seek to use Sith rituals,” Master Trebor answers. “The Sith Eternal. The Brotherhood of the Ninth Door.”

“Keep our minds open, we will.” Yoda winces like he might have a headache of his own. “But believe, I do, that the Sith have returned. Hiding, they are. Different than before, they are. If one there is, another there must have been. Meditate on this heavy news, we all must. Speak again, we will, tomorrow morning.”

“Before we disperse, Master,” Sifo-Dyas says, “I think we ought to consider the flash of red hair that Obi-Wan keeps seeing. While the event itself is a mere possibility, the man in the black cloak is a certainty, as we’ve discussed. There was a new element here, as well, aside from the runes—the man in the mask. He wasn’t a flash. He was solid. We’ll see if he returns, but these flashes, and the mention of hearing the sea ... we ought to keep our eye on Stewjon. The flashes indicate the presence of King Kenobi is only a mere maybe rather than the idea that he’s already up to something, but they do keep coming. The senate might not do anything on our behalf, but we must be on the lookout. If more younglings appear—”

“We don’t take them in?” Plo cuts in. “But then—”

“That’s not what I’m saying.” Sifo raises a hand, and Dooku notices it shaking. “Of course we protect them. But we must do our due diligence. I wouldn’t put it past King Kenobi to use an innocent child to harm or kill his own son.”

“Nor do I,” Dooku agrees, and Sifo finally gives him a nod. “The Stewjoni are militant. They’re allying with other anti-Jedi interests in the senate, as we all know. As Obi-Wan grows up, they may put him in their sights. Using a child to do it wouldn’t be beyond them.”

“A well taken point.” Plo inclines his head at Sifo. “My apologies, my friend. It’s trying news.”

“Don’t apologize, Plo,” Sifo says. “I’m well aware of how some of my ideas sound, sometimes.” A sad, wry smile slides onto his lips. “Ever a work in progress, hmm?”

Glancing out at the city beyond, Yaddle’s words ring in the quiet.

“So are we all.”

Despite adjourning, each of them lingers. Hands squeeze shoulders. Fingers brush arms. The Force drapes around them like a well-worn sweater on a frigid evening. Yoda keeps Dooku to himself for a while, asking after his well-being and Obi-Wan's both, indicating that he’ll go see the youngling when they’re done here.

When Sifo-Dyas takes his leave, Dooku follows.

“I am more aware than most,” Sifo begins, and his words whip around Dooku’s wrists, drawing thin stripes of blood, “that you are afraid of anything off the beaten path after what happened when Qui-Gon was young.”

“Sifo-Dyas,” Dooku protests, “slow down, if you please.”

“You’re several inches taller than me, Master Dooku. Keep up.”

“That fear,” Sifo continues as they get into the turbolift, “does not grant you rights to accuse me of being anything other than careful with Obi-Wan's care. I spoke to Reginald. I spoke to Qui-Gon. I did not want to have an academic debate with you over strategies. I wanted to help a hurting boy. And with Qui-Gon's permission, I do intend to try again.”

The lift dings, emptying them out onto Sifo’s floor. They walk down the winding hallways, and for once, words elude Jedi Master Yan Dooku.

“I let my concern over Obi-Wan get the best of me,” he finally says, still following at Sifo’s heels like that Lurca hound he thought of earlier.

“Your excuses are of no interest to me,” Sifo mutters, though the bite in it is less than before.

Irritation prickles up Dooku’s spine. “Your attitude does you no favors.”

“Nor does yours.”

They go the rest of the way in silence. Sifo’s crescent moon cuts into Dooku’s starry sky, and Dooku ... he doesn’t know. He prides himself on knowing everything, but tonight? He knows nothing.

They reach Sifo’s quarters, and Dooku finds himself pushed against the swiftly closed door. Sifo’s shaking fingers tangle into Dooku’s tunics.

“Jo said—” Sifo bites his chapped bottom lip until blood beads. “She—”

“What did Jo say?”

Sifo gives him a shove, and Dooku’s head knocks against the door.

“Ow.” Dooku rubs the sore spot, and the whine reminds him of when he was an foolish teenager. “I suppose I deserved that. Feel free to do it again.”

“You’re more dramatic than usual when you feel bad about something you’ve done. Care to say that you’re sorry?”

“What did Jo say?”

“No, then.”

“Sifo-Dyas,” Dooku growls.

“She told me that I needed to stop being afraid of teaching,” Sifo says, ignoring this. “That I should take a more formal role in Obi-Wan's training. That you and Qui-Gon would be glad to have it. Well, as it turns out—”

“I am glad to have it.” Dooku casts his gaze down to the floor and clears his throat. “I’m only a fool, is all. You know that, hmm? You always have.”

Taking hold of Dooku’s chin and forcing it upward, Sifo-Dyas' dark eyes search him like a painter examining a subject. Deciding if he’s worth the brush. One thumb trails through Dooku’s beard, and arousal seeps into the air between them.

Dooku’s breath hitches.

“Make it up to me then,” Sifo murmurs, low and lustful in Dooku’s ear. “Show me you’re sorry.”

The order makes need beat between Dooku’s legs, and he dives into the kiss, fingers tangling into that long, silken hair on his way. Licking into Sifo’s mouth gives him a taste of copper tang on his tongue.

“Oh, I’ll make it up to you, dearest,” Dooku whispers against Sifo’s lips. “I can promise you that.”

Sifo shivers. Clothes fall to the floor, and they trip toward the bed. Sucking bruises into Sifo’s skin, Dooku meditates on his work as he goes along the familiar planes of his partner’s body. New marks, new wrinkles and scars, mar the path, and Dooku kisses each of them with intention. Eventually, he takes Sifo into his mouth. That moon melts, and the truth rings between them. The thing Sifo-Dyas wants beneath the grievances of today.

“Make me forget.” Sifo’s voice pitches high. “If the Sith are back, then everything I’ve seen is on the table. I don’t want to think. I don’t want to think, Yan.”

Dooku, pulling off, crawls back up and kisses the air from Sifo’s lungs.

“I’m your servant, Master Sifo-Dyas,” Dooku murmurs. “What is your pleasure?”

“I would like you to fuck me, if you please.”

Between sloppy kisses and lubricant and whispered reassurances that could die by morning, it takes them a while to reach the forgetting, but Dooku’s own mind whites out as he sinks into Sifo-Dyas' warm and welcoming body. Thrusting hard and fast, Dooku moans as Sifo’s nails scratch down his back. He hopes they draw blood. He deserves that. Maybe they’ll remind him not to be such a bastard to people who have been there for him again and again and again long after they could have stopped. Sifo’s hips rock against his, and they sweat, and they swear, and they come one right after the other, the Force pulsing relief.

“You’re a frightful asshole,” Sifo says, belying this when he smooths Dooku’s sweaty, silver-black hair. “Why do I put up with you?”

“My charming personality.”

Sifo laughs against Dooku’s neck, nips at the skin, and Dooku could die, really—not that he would admit it quite like that.

They fall asleep undressed, and some time later, the main door slides open. Jocasta’s sharp sunlight joins their moon and stars, and her sigh reaches Dooku’s ears before he can open his eyes.

“Hi, Jo,” Sifo says. “Good shift?”

Jo gestures at them with an air of frustration.

“What’s this, then? Did you have an argument? I sense remnants.”

“A small one,” Dooku replies.

“Did you sort it out?”

“Does it not look like we did?” Sifo asks.

Jo huffs. “Please. The pair of you fuck when you’re angry more than you realize.”

Sifo grins, words heavy with sleep. “I love it when you curse, Jo.”

Rolling her eyes, Jo takes her time getting out of her clothing, and, when it suits her, settles in-between them on the bed.

“Rumors are flying about Obi-Wan's vision,” she whispers with a rare tremble of fear. “Sheev spoke to me when he came into the archives to translate what he said were Sith runes. I assumed then that the rumors were true.”

“Yes.” Dooku presses a kiss to the side of her mouth, and there’s no point in lying. Not to Jocasta. “They’re true.”

“Fine then,” Jocasta says as Sifo’s fingers skim across her skin. “The Sith had best prepare to face me. They won’t enjoy it.”

Speeder lights spill in between the blinds and draw out the streaks of silver around Jocasta’s temples and Sifo-Dyas' forehead. Dooku hoped that they would live out their years without his fears coming true, but they are not yet quite sixty. That’s thirty years, and maybe even fifty, given the slightly extended lifespan of Force-sensitives according to their species.

They had plans.

Jo as chief archivist—a position that will be hers in a matter of months.

Dooku himself perhaps filling in more and more for Yoda with the younglings. His master is aging, and there’s no escaping that.

And Sifo ... Sifo retiring from seeking to maybe, finally, rest. Lene Kostana died six months ago, and hard as it was on Dooku, on Sheev, it was hardest of all on Sifo-Dyas.

Their golden years will not be at peace, because things are about to start changing.

They’ve already started.

To: H. Plagueis

From: P. Gray

I am sending this from the encrypted holonet connection in your apartments as requested.

The council, it seems, cannot fight against the Jedi Temple rumor mill. The Chosen One had a vision involving what were said to be Sith runes. Those in power in the Order believe the Sith have returned and are doing their best to ease fears. The Chosen One is an omen as much as a prophet, so accepting the Sith’s return was simpler for the council, I imagine.

My brethren still refuse to understand who their real enemies are. They are not yet in the mindset to understand that Jedi and Sith must work together in protection.

I will be careful, as you advise. The ritual enacted in the boy’s vision implied that we would need to force him into assisting with our plan. That said, I intend to become closer with him as time passes, in the hopes that he will help us voluntarily. The others are already fighting over his training—I will serve as a willing ear to listen to his eventual grievances when this no doubt escalates.

I will also keep an eye on his friendship with the boy from Kiffu. It’s early days for him to be deciding on dyad partner, but I believe the would-be Sheyf is a candidate. His aunt might be a worthy ally if she can get something in return. She’s already attempting to have him returned to Kiffu.

To: P. Gray

From: H. Plagueis

Your notes on the boy’s bond with the Kiffar are insightful. Perhaps we can send the little prodigy back home and destabilize the Chosen One in the process. If the Jedi refuse? We can use that to our advantage too. I will make contact with the Sheyf.

As for the boy himself, well … if he were to see my face, he wouldn’t know me from any other member of my species. I’m working on an alchemical solution that will perhaps hide me in the Force even from our anointed child.

Thank you, Gray. You continue to see where others cannot.

Chapter Text

Five Years After the Arrival of the Chosen One

The Grand Republic Medical Facility

Bail Prestor is, once again, running late.

Throwing his things back into his briefcase, he vacates his small desk by the window of Senator Antilles’ outer office, where he takes calls and takes meeting notes and does policy research. Aides rush past him. Comms ring. Never a quiet day in the senate, and all that.

If you want to marry me one day, Breha said just before he left Alderaan last week, then you’re going to have to learn some punctuality.

Everyone in House Prestor is fashionably late. It’s how I was raised.

Tapping two fingers beneath his chin, Breha grinned. It won’t do for a consort.

Not that they can marry right now, anyway. Bail has one semester of university under his belt, and he can’t even propose until those three years are done. Plus, they have to court publicly for a year before the wedding, and right now they’re still a secret to everyone but Breha’s parents. Even Bail’s family doesn’t know.

He would marry Breha tomorrow if he could. Her parents approve of him because he’s a member of one of Alderaan’s Elder Houses, but he’d like to achieve more in pursuit of her hand. His own family will have mixed feelings about the courtship when they find out. To them, being the lord of House Prestor is more appropriate than being the queen’s consort.

All of that said, he’s doing administrative work for Senator Antilles while on a holiday break from school in the hopes of maybe filling the junior senator seat that might be empty by the time he’s done with university—if the rumors about the current person filling it not enjoying the position are true. Often, the senior senator selects their colleague. He doesn’t love that the seat is appointed rather than elected, but that’s how it is on Alderaan, and he fell in love with the senate when he did the legislative youth program.

And today?

He gets to meet Obi-Wan Kenobi.

Jedi Healer Che contacted Senator Antilles asking if someone from their office could approve giving Obi-Wan a service animal from the Grand Republic Medical Facility training unit, which is usually reserved for Republic officers in the diplomatic core or law enforcement. Senator Antilles asked if Bail could escort the Chosen One, his clan, and their master to the service animal unit, and Bail jumped at the chance to help.

He's never forgotten the little boy, not because of all the rumors flying and the media angling for a glimpse, but because of that committee hearing. He just ... he hopes he can be a friend.

Smoothing his navy-blue cape, Bail walks out of the senate building at a normal pace. He waves at people he knows and makes chit chat in the lift.

When no one is around to see him?

He runs.

Hopefully his hair won’t be too much of a mess as a result.

Catching a speeder taxi from the usual throng outside the building, he pays the driver extra to speed just a little—none too rare a thing on Coruscant—and arrives at the front doors of the Grand Republic Medical Facility just five minutes after he was meant to. Luckily, the press doesn’t hang around here looking for scoops, so Obi-Wan, in the middle of a knot of other younglings, only gets a few stray glances from passerby. Someone will alert the press, though, so they’d best get inside.

“Master Reginald?”

Bail walks up to the broad-shouldered, ginger-bearded Jedi with his hand stuck out.

“That’s me,” the Jedi replies, all warmth and humor. “We were a bit early. Habit.”

“No, no.” Bail shakes Reginald’s hand firm like his father taught him. “I’m late. I got caught on the phone with a constituent about a perpetually broken swing at a park.” He gestures vaguely. “It’s the smallest concerns that usually take the longest.”

“Oh, I know.” Reginald puts a hand on his belly as he laughs. “The Jedi get some of the same. Let me introduce you. Younglings, look here, please.”

The seven Jedi initiates, ceasing their happy chatter, turn toward Bail. There’s Obi-Wan, of course. There’s a little Kiffar boy with yellow markings. Quinlan. That’s right. The would-be sheyf of Kiffu. His aunt has been in the news, of late, criticizing the Republic. There’s a Mon Calamari girl, a blonde human girl, a brunette human girl, a dark-haired human boy, and a Rodian boy.

“This is Bail Prestor,” Reginald says, “who works in Senator Antilles’ office when he’s on break from the University of Alderaan. Bail, this is Obi-Wan, Quinlan, Bant, Siri, Prie, Garen, and Bolla. Bail’s going to take us to the service animal unit and help us get a Tooka picked out for Obi-Wan. Shall we?”

“Of course,” Bail replies. “We should probably go before the press gets any ideas.”

Bail leads them inside, and once they’re up the first lift and going down the long hallway toward their destination, he falls into step with Obi-Wan, who seems to be keeping back to achieve the same. The research wing of the hospital stays quieter than the hubbub of the rest of the sprawling complex, and the warm orange paint in this section is far less unsettling than the stark white in most of the rooms.

“You sent me Fruitsaber,” Obi-Wan tells him with a shy smile. “I mean ... my Tooka stuffie.” A pink flush creeps into the little boy’s cheeks. “That’s her name. You probably didn’t need to know that.”

“Every creature, stuffed or otherwise, deserves a name.” Bail chooses his words carefully, suspecting that Obi-Wan won’t appreciate being treated like a baby even if he still is one, in the grand scheme. Except, if all your kind have died by twenty, he probably feels middle-aged. “So, thank you for telling me.”

“Thank you for sending her. It was very nice of you.”

“Did you happen to name her after Ember and Fruitsaber, or is that just coincidence?”

“I did!” Obi-Wan grins, and Bail feels as if he’s earned something. “I still like it even though I guess I’m a little old.”

“I used to watch it when I was little too. They showed it in my school when Ember and Fruitsaber had an adventure on Alderaan.”

Obi-Wan chatters about how he checked out a book on Alderaan from the archives recently and hopes to read something about every Core World before the end of the year before moving on to the Inner Rim. That shyness evaporates, and Obi-Wan gestures with his hands while he asks Bail questions about his job, what he’s studying at school—public policy with a minor in legal studies—and what it’s like living on Alderaan. Quinlan, breaking off from a conversation with Siri, waves at Bail and listens in. Some beings in the galaxy accuse the Jedi of child theft—ridiculous—and while Tinte Vos has been in the news leveling that exact charge against the Order, Bail sees nothing but ... normal kids. As normal as any kid with powers can be, of course. Siri and Bant giggle about something up ahead. Prie runs out in front of the rest of them to get to the service animal unit faster, called back by Master Reginald. Garen and Bolla open doors with the Force and accidentally bang them back against the wall in their enthusiasm, to which Master Reginald says boys, we’ve had this talk. By all accounts, they appear happy and well cared for. Bail never thought otherwise, but the anti-Jedi contingent in the senate hold their strong opinions despite all evidence to the contrary.

They reach the service animal unit, and Bail shows his senate ID to the front desk receptionist, who tells them to pass the Lurca Hound habitat and take a left around the corner toward the Tookas. Obi-Wan, who has his arm looped through Quin’s, gives Bail the most imploring look in the galaxy.

“Would you help me pick out my Tooka?” he asks. “I feel like it’s only right, since you gave me Fruitsaber.”

“Means you have good taste,” Quin adds, and he must have learned that phrase from an older Jedi, because it’s not exactly a common one for eight-year-old boys.

“Thank you,” Bail says, and he tries to hide the fact that he is just a touch weepy. “I’m happy to help.”

A nurse in bright purple scrubs opens the door to the Tooka enclosure before any of them reaches for it.

“Hi there!” she chirps. “You must be our Jedi visitors. I’m Lena, and I'm one of the nurses in charge of training our Tookas. It’s good to see you all. Which one of you is Obi-Wan?”

Given it’s obvious which one Obi-Wan is with the eyes and the marking and the photos in the press, the nurse’s kindness doesn’t go unappreciated. People might think they want to be special, but even without the Force, Bail can sense well enough that Obi-Wan struggles with it.

“Me.” Obi-Wan raises a hand, and that blush comes back into his cheeks. “It’s nice to meet you.”

“Right back at you,” Lena says with a grin as she clasps her hands together. “Obi-Wan, how about you and your crechemaster come with me while you meet our friends inside, and I can tell you whether or not they’ll suit your needs. Does that sound okay?”

Obi-Wan nods. “May I bring Bail and Quinlan with me?” he asks gesturing at them both.

“Of course.”

“Can we play with them?” Prie chimes in, standing on her tiptoes and vibrating. “I know when they’re working you can’t, but if they’re just at home?”

Bail, in tandem with Master Reginald, covers a laugh with his hand. At home. One day, Bail is determined to have a kid of his own.

“Absolutely. They roam around here in their habitat, so feel free to pet and play with them.”

Needing nothing else, apparently, Prie dashes off into the enclosure. Siri, leaning over into Obi-Wan's ear, has just one piece of advice.

“Pick a good one, okay?”

Obi-Wan affirms that he will. The other younglings follow after Prie.

And Obi-Wan hesitates.

“I—” He shuffles his foot back and forth across the floor. “Do I need to talk about what my, um, signs are? Before I have a vision or one of my seizures?”

Lena shakes her head. “Not unless you want to. I spoke to Master Sifo-Dyas at length about your signs and his own to cover all of our bases. And I have your notes from Healer Che. Take as much time as you need and ask any questions.”

With Quin’s hand in his, Obi-Wan goes, and Bail follows behind with Reginald. Inside, they find, well, as many Tookas as Bail has seen in one place in his entire life. Blue, green, white, and tawny-brown creatures run and jump across a complex set of high-hanging shelves stretching as far as the eye can see. Several Tooka-sized beds rest near the floor-to-ceiling windows—perfect for napping. Tookas chase toys and play in a small pool. Five or six trot immediately over to the other younglings, who are nothing less than thrilled by this.

“There’s so many, Obi-Wan,” Master Reginald says. “I bet there’s a great one here for you.”

“They’ve all been training with us for a year if not more,” Lena tells them. “And we have several who are particularly good at spotting seizures.”

Bail searches the room and spots a tawny Loth Cat with dark brown stripes sitting in a patch of synthetic grass.

“What about that one, Obi-Wan?” Bail leans over and points in the direction of said Loth Cat. “I’ve got a feeling.”

Obi-Wan's eyes brighten.

“She looks like Fruitsaber, Obes,” Quin whispers. “That’s so cool.”

The Loth Cat gets up, stretches with a pronounced yawn, and starts trotting over toward them.

“That,” Lena says, “is Naberrie. A man from Naboo who was visiting Coruscant found her on the street and took her to the rescue, and they named her after him. The folks there thought she would be a good service animal, so we took her in just a little over a year ago now. The man who found her—Ruwee Naberrie—calls to check in on her sometimes. Very kind man.”

Ah, perhaps that’s why Bail had a feeling. Naboo remains one of his favorite planets other than Alderaan and Coruscant, and Breha’s family has a fantastic relationship with them. Their museums loan each other art. Their musicians do fellowships with one another. Bail loves Theed, needless to say, for all its culture, but the Lake Country boasts quite the sights.

It also doesn’t hurt that their planets are quite politically aligned.

“Naberrie,” Obi-Wan says softly, almost like he knows her already.

Naberrie reaches them, and Obi-Wan puts out a hand for her to inspect and sniff. Once this is done, Obi-Wan scratches behind her ears. His tunic sleeve rides up, revealing—

Oh. Hmm.

Almost-healed red weals run up the child’s wrist over the blue tattoo that marks him as Stewjoni nobility. Small bandages litter Obi-Wan's fingers, too. Two around the nailbeds of his right hand. One around a knuckle on his left. Bail knows that some event or another caused this sudden request for a service animal, but he doesn’t have the details, and Senator Antilles didn’t press.  A pang goes off in Bail’s chest. When he meets certain people, he often has this feeling that they are, or will be, important. Strange as it might sound, he felt it when he heard Obi-Wan's story for the first time. Bail always wished for a brother, and it might be insane to think such a thing of a kind of eldritch Jedi youngling, but that youngling needs, he suspects, not only protection, but people he can just ... talk to. One day, Obi-Wan won’t be so small. One day, Bail will be more than an aide. Letting Obi-Wan know he has a friend in the senate can’t hurt.

“Hi, girl,” Obi-Wan says, and the little Loth Cat chirps in reply as she butts her head against his hand. “I’m Obi-Wan. This is my best friend, Quin.”

The resulting meow sounds like a hello, and the motor of Naberrie’s purr starts up.

The boys coo over her, and the Loth Cat, no less enamored with them, it seems, leans into their pets.

“Is that one good with seizures?” Master Reginald, who might have a slight mist in his eyes, asks.

“As a matter of fact,” Lena replies, “she is.”

When Naberrie arrives, Kybuck clan becomes the talk of the creche.

Obi-Wan always worries that being the Chosen One will make him the talk of the creche—in a bad way—but that only happens sometimes when he has a vision, and it’s never bad bad, just other kids being curious. People worrying.

But Naberrie?

He doesn’t mind getting noticed for her at all.

She’ll wear a little brown vest that attaches to her leash when she’s working—mostly when Obi-Wan is out in public or when he’s training, anywhere that having a vision and maybe a seizure could get him hurt—and they’ll take it off her when she isn’t. Siri told him that he picked the best possible Tooka, Bant has already slipped her several treats, and Prie wants to teach her tricks. Cuddled up beneath his mint green blanket with Fruitsaber, who Naberrie chirped at upon laying eyes on her, Obi-Wan waits while his new service pet licks Quin’s face.

“All right, girl.” Quin laughs, and it sounds, to Obi-Wan, like the notes of a song. “Goodnight to you too.”

Naberrie bumps Quin’s knee with her nose before hopping up next to Obi-Wan in his bunk and curling up by his stomach. Knight Qui-Gon got her a glow-in-the-dark green collar so that Obi-Wan can always find her at night. Naberrie liked him and Master Sifo both right away and hopped right up into Master Tholme’s lap—much to his surprise.

Hopefully, she’ll like Master Dooku and Knight Mace when she meets them tomorrow.

He’s sure she will.

His vision changed the mood in the temple. Rumors spread about the return of the Sith. Obi-Wan knows, like any Jedi youngling, the stories of the Jedi’s great enemy, and he feels terrible that he himself is a sign of them coming back. Today, though? Naberrie’s welcome brought joy.

Waving goodnight to Quin, with Naberrie purring softly at his side, Obi-Wan sleeps, for the first time since his big vision, without dreaming about the man in the black cloak.

Six Years Since the Arrival of the Chosen One

The Jedi Temple

Sweat slicks the back of Obi-Wan's ears as he goes through the basic katas of Shii-Cho. The cool air blowing from the overhead vent only helps so much with the sun pressing against the window like it is.

Repetition helps your body remember the movements, Master Dooku always says. It may be boring now, but you will be happy for it later. Being able to fight in defense of yourself is paramount, young one. Especially for you.

Obi-Wan doesn’t find it boring, because the more he practices, the closer he can get to perfect. Master Dooku takes time out of his busy schedule to tutor him privately, and Obi-Wan wants to show how grateful he is. Watching Master Dooku move with his saber reminds Obi-Wan of watching the tide on Stewjon. Natural. Powerful. Without looking like he’s trying too hard.

Besides, Knight Qui-Gon says that the sooner Obi-Wan knows the basics inside and out, the sooner he can decide on a specific form like Ataru, Makashi, Soresu, or Shien once he’s a Padawan. He’s nine, now, so, that’s only three years away. Not all younglings start their apprenticeship at twelve, but the council has decided he will since he already has a bond with Knight Qui-Gon and starting at that age has been the way for past Chosen Ones.

Once you’re a Padawan, you’re more than halfway through your life. What have you done to help? Why are so many of your visions so far in the future?

Obi-Wan missteps on the advance and messes up the parry he was practicing. He should know this parry. He has his clan saber lessons with Master Yoda and these private lessons with Master Dooku.

Quin, joining him for these lessons for the past few months—ever since his aunt started making more threatening comms about taking him away from the Jedi—stops his own repetition.

“You okay?” Quin asks as he wipes away sweat from his temple. His locs, tied up with a yellow band, have gone longer without a trim since Quin wanted to grow them out a bit down a little past his shoulders. Obi-Wan thinks they look cool.

Obi-Wan nods and keeps going. Shii-Cho is about movement. Constant movement. He starts over from before he made the mistake.

Block, lunge, attack.

“A bit faster forward, Obi-Wan,” Master Dooku says from his place next to the long, soft mats in this initiate salle put there in case of a fall. “You’re so concerned with getting the move correct that you’re hesitating. Quinlan, loosen your grip, lad. It’s too tight.”

Lunge, attack, circular parry, disarm, defend your body.

Knight Qui-Gon, watching from the bleachers, gives a wave and a smile, which hopefully means that Obi-Wan is doing it right. He needs to do it right. If he’s going to live past twenty, he has to. Knight Qui-Gon also teaches them some Tae-Jitsu at Dooku’s behest during the first part of these lessons—a kind of martial art that doesn’t involve weapons. Quin likes the martial arts better, and Obi-Wan prefers the saber training.

 A yawn escapes Obi-Wan even as he tries to swallow it. He had classes in the morning with his clan after breakfast and their group meditation. Lunch with Knight Qui-Gon, Quin, and Tholme. Meditation with Master Sifo while Quin had his private psychometry lesson. Then this. Part of him just wants to cuddle with Naberrie and read, but no. No. He has to pay attention. He has a schedule, and this is part of it.

Primedays are for schooling lessons with his clan—things like mathematics and science and geography and literature and history and then electives that they pick. Obi-Wan keeps doing languages. Centaxdays are for their lessons with Master Yoda, their physical education classes, and a visit to the archives. Taungsdays are for Force-training lessons with his clan and these private sessions with Master Dooku. He meditates with Master Sifo every other Taungsday and with Knight Qui-Gon every Zhellday afternoon when he’s not on a mission. Zhelldays are also for a trip somewhere in the temple where they learn what other Jedi do or listen to them speak. Benduday is their day off from lessons.

Quin, loosening his grip as Dooku suggested, catches Obi-Wan's eye. Obi-Wan's anxiety eases as he matches Quin’s movements and releases that mean mantra in his head. This form, Master Dooku told him, came about when the Jedi first switched from metal swords to sabers, and he pictures himself in the shoes of the first Chosen One, Zina Jari, with that heavier blade in her hand doing exactly what he’s doing.

Block, lunge, attack, circular parry, disarm, defend your body.

His gaze flits to Master Dooku, who claps his hands together.

“Good, Obi-Wan!” Master Dooku calls out. “That’s the right speed. You too, Quinlan. Come together for a bout.”

“I’m gonna take my gloves off,” Quin tells them. “It’s hard to grip right with them. My hands get all sweaty.”

“Are you certain? Master Dooku asks.

“Yeah. This is a pretty new training saber, and it’s just got normal memories on it. They aren’t coming into my head without me wanting them like the bad ones do. Knight Tholme said I could try if I wanted when I asked before he left for his mission this morning.”

Master Dooku agrees to this, and Obi-Wan draws in a deep breath. A little part of him wants to cry for how tired his eyes are because of the bad dreams last night. He glances at Master Dooku, who looks so different in his casual black sparring clothes.

“Eyes on Quinlan, Obi-Wan,” Master Dooku says.

“Ready, Obes?”

Quin grins at him, and he talks and smiles and laughs a lot more now than he did when he first arrived. The Quinlan who might have been without his terrible aunt shines through, and Obi-Wan hopes, he really, really hopes, that as they grow up, that will keep happening. Quin deserves everything good.

Obi-Wan is more than what happened on Stewjon. Quin is more than what happened on Kiffu.

That’s their promise.

“Ready to beat you,” Obi-Wan teases.

Knight Qui-Gon taught him how to tie his hair half-back so it will be out of his face when he spars, and Obi-Wan doesn’t mind, at all, that he looks a little bit like his future master when he does. His hair isn’t nearly as long as Knight Qui-Gon's—it just brushes the tops of his shoulders—but it makes him feel older.

Feeling older isn’t such a bad thing when every birthday creeps closer to the big question. He can handle it better if he feels older.

Right?

“That’s what you hope,” Quin quips.

“When the two of you are done, boys,” Master Dooku mutters, but a smile tugs at his mouth. “Bow.”

Obi-Wan and Quin obey, and Dooku counts down.

Five. Four. Three. Two.

One.

Quin, fast as ever, lunges toward Obi-Wan, who blocks the blow and knocks Quin’s training saber off to the side but not out of his hands.

Block, lunge, attack, circular parry, disarm, defend your body.

The second lunge comes faster than the first, Quin aims lower, and Obi-Wan blocks that too, though less quickly. Their sabers clash one two three four five six times before they both back up and start again.

“More precision, less urgency, Quinlan,” Master Dooku says. “Obi-Wan, the opposite. You’re hesitating again. Good footwork from the both of you.”

“Master,” Knight Qui-Gon calls out. “We’ve gone a bit over. The boys need to clean up before their planetarium visit this evening.”

Dooku smooths back his sweaty silver-black hair. “Just one more, Qui. Then we can finish.”

Knight Qui-Gon huffs a little but doesn’t argue. Obi-Wan turns toward Master Dooku.

“Can you help me with my grip, Master?”

The training saber just doesn’t feel right in his hand today, for some reason? Older Jedi say that nothing really does until you build your own hilt. Still, it just ... Obi-Wan yawns again, covering it with his free hand.

“Let’s see here,” Master Dooku says, coming behind him. “You’ll learn different types of grips for whatever form you choose when you’re older. For Shii-Cho, as you know, the grip is more in-tune with a classic metal sword. You’ve got your thumb in the right place there, but”—Master Dooku adjusts Obi-Wan's middle, ring, and pinky ringers, curling them more around the hilt—“these three need to grasp more firmly. The pointer finger doesn’t go all the way around like this.” He adjusts that one too. “There we are. Perfect.”

Obi-Wan puts his weight on his back foot with his front forward when Quin say he’s ready. They smile at each other, and Master Dooku counts down again. Obi-Wan blinks, trying to forget how dry his eyes are.

Five. Four. Three. Two.

One.

Block, lunge, attack, circular parry, disarm, defend your body.

Quin doesn’t lunge first this time, and unless he wants to stand there looking stupid, Obi-Wan has to. He moves with a jabbing motion that Quin puts off with the circular parry Obi-Wan usually prefers. When Quin blocks, he does it diagonally across his front most times. They go again, Quin attacks, and Obi-Wan blocks, but he almost misses. His feet just ... they aren’t working right. Quin is as good as he is, it’s not that, it’s just that he ... why isn’t his body listening to him today?

His eyes flick to Master Dooku, who watches with unbroken focus.

Don’t hesitate. Don’t hesitate. Don’t hesitate.

Swordsmanship is not about strength, Master Dooku said to them last lesson. It’s about smarts, speed, and knowing your form inside and out. Be clever.

Be clever. Obi-Wan's good at being clever all on his own. Without his powers. Without being the Chosen One.

Obi-Wan moves forward, keeping his front and back feet perfectly, yes perfectly in time with one another. His swings his saber toward Quin’s side—keep the movement in the wrist, not the arm—Quin makes to block, and Obi-Wan moves back again. Master Dooku showed them a feint like this, and it drew his opponent—Master Averross—toward him to showcase what it looks like to disarm an opponent that way.

Taking Master Dooku’s lesson to heart, Quin doesn’t do that. He waits, he makes his own attack, and when Obi-Wan hesitates—just like Master Dooku told him not to—Quin’s blade comes down on top of his. Obi-Wan can’t hold on, and his training saber falls to the floor.

Shii-Cho in its current form is about disarming, Dooku said when Obi-Wan first started these lessons. Otherwise, the form is too wild and can make its user equally so. I’m sure Master Yoda has said the same.

Obi-Wan puts out his hand to shake Quin’s even as his stomach sinks. It’s not about losing at all. He and Quin both win and lose to each other all the time, and Quin is great at whatever he puts his mind to whether he believes it or not. It’s about messing up and hesitating and if he hadn’t hesitated and still lost, that would have been fine. He’s the Chosen One. He has to learn faster do better.

“Good job, Quin. You got me!”

“You almost got me,” Quin replies, squeezing Obi-Wan's fingers without letting go just yet. “That feint!”

A question runs down their bond that says are you okay, because Quin picks up on things better than most anyone. About Obi-Wan in particular, but about other beings too.

Obi-Wan shrugs but gives Quin a small smile that says in reply, frustrated-but-fine.

“Very impressive, Quinlan,” Dooku adds as he comes up beside them. He quirks a brow. “You like to pretend you don’t listen, but you do.”

Quin shrugs. “Practicing being a Shadow, Master Dooku.”

Dooku’s laugh rumbles in his chest, and Quin dashes off toward Qui-Gon, who has their preferred Spowerade flavors on hand—lemon-lime for Obi-Wan, orange for Quin.

“You liked the feint I showed you with Master Aveross, hmm?” Master Dooku slides an arm around Obi-Wan's shoulders, and their sides press close as they walk. “I suppose I ought to have guessed you might. Feinting requires a certain appreciation of cleverness in swordplay. You’re testing your opponent. Seeing if you can play an intellectual game as much as a physical one. I was pleased to see Quinlan play it right along with you. You make quite a pair.”

Obi-Wan's gaze flits to Quin, who, much to Knight Qui-Gon's fond chagrin, is chugging his Spowerade without stopping.

“Quin’s a lot smarter than he thinks he is,” Obi-Wan says. “Did you and Master Sifo spar when you were our age?”

“All the time. I was undefeated, of course.”

“Uh huh. I’m gonna ask him for his side of the story.”

Obi-Wan lets himself laugh a little, and he’s earned something when Master Dooku laughs right along with him.

Obi-Wan shifts in Dooku’s grasp and finds a softer, less put together version of the man who will be his grandmaster one day. Red in his cheeks from exertion. Hair falling in his eyes. Eyes bright with affectionate amusement.

“I did like the feint,” Obi-Wan admits. “I saw you do it. So, I wanted to do it too.”

“You want to emulate me?”

Obi-Wan smiles and bites his lip, his cheeks warming a little.

“I’m honored,” Master Dooku continues, and he shoots a glance at Knight Qui-Gon. “Though, I think you ought to try to be more like your future master, perhaps. I see he’s already had an influence on how you’re doing your hair, these days.”

Obi-Wan's smile morphs into a smirk. “I think all members of a family take on different traits of each other. So, I should be like both of you.”

Master Dooku quirks a brow. “Very well then. Qui-Gon's spirit. My dueling skills. And let’s see ... Sheev’s penchant for academia, I think. Rael’s wits. Yoda’s wisdom. How does that sound? I think it suits.”

Good. It sounds good if he can live that long. He has to live that long. He has to help the Jedi.

“I like it. I hope I can be that good one day.” Sticking his saber in the band of his sparring trousers, Obi-Wan picks at his already flaking, red nail beds. “I’m sorry I messed up. I really was trying to listen to what you said.”

Squeezing Obi-Wan's shoulder before letting go, Master Dooku gently stops the picking motion.

“No one would ever accuse you of not trying, youngling. You’re a fast learner. You just need to trust yourself more. Try not to pick at your nails, all right? Go take your rest.”

Obi-Wan wishes, he really does, that it were so easy to trust himself. Sometimes he doesn’t know why it is. He just ... gets caught between the nothing he was on Stewjon and the everything he is here.

He doesn’t always know who he is in the in-between.

You’ll always be Obi-Wan to me, Quin often says. And Obi-Wan is the one who let me cry on his shoulder when he barely knew me.

You did that for me too, Quin.

I know, but you forget that you did the same for me right after.

Knight Qui-Gon hands Obi-Wan his drink, and sitting next to his future master helps. Knight Qui-Gon still wants him even though he messes up. Taking a long swig of his Spowerade with Quin splayed out on his back next to him, Obi-Wan idly watches as Master Dooku practices his Makashi, the salle’s lights glinting off the curved hilt of his saber. Obi-Wan longs for the fluid elegance of his grandmaster. Maybe he’ll get there one day.

“Are you tired, little one?” Knight Qui-Gon asks.

“I’m okay.”

What he wants is to lay down in his bed with Naberrie, who comes over from her napping spot to sit by his feet, but his clan is going to stay in the planetarium tonight, and he doesn’t want to miss that.

“Obi-Wan,” Knight Qui-Gon says, a touch chiding as he turns Obi-Wan's face toward his. “Are you tired?”

His future master’s blue-green eyes search Obi-Wan's face. The lie sits on the tip of Obi-Wan's tongue. Why does he want to lie? Why can’t he just say yes?

“I’m tired,” he admits. “I don’t mean to be.”

“Sometimes one is just tired, I fear, and it’s been a busy day for you.” Knight Qui-Gon chuckles wryly. “Do you want to stay in the temple tonight rather than going to the planetarium?”

Obi-Wan shakes his head. “No. I want to go, I just ... maybe tomorrow night I could stay with you? I haven’t ... I just don’t sleep well for a few days after a vision.”

That flush from earlier returns, and not for the first time, Obi-Wan wishes he weren’t so fair. Not only does he look in the mirror and think of his father, but he really can’t hide a blush, and it’s embarrassing. The vision he had last week wasn’t of the man in black, or the runes, or the altar, or the strange man in a mask. This time, it was what the older Jedi think is the main senate chamber. Beings argued about a bill. The bill was about the Jedi, but the crossed voices made it hard to hear what about the Jedi, and he should have picked up more.

The strangest thing was, Knight Sheev was there in Alderaan’s pod with Bail. Bail looked older. Master Dooku said that while he has personally has spoken in the senate a few times, it doesn’t happen often that Jedi do so.

It didn’t feel like a metaphor, though. It felt like a warning about whatever the senators were doing.

At least he didn’t have a seizure, this time—just a migraine.

“I leave on a mission in three days’ time, so that suits me well,” Knight Qui-Gon replies. “Quin, would you like to join? That holoshow about the High Republic you like plays on Taungsdays, doesn’t it?”

Quin shoots a thumbs up.

“Knight Tholme taught me the types of poisons the bad guy was using when he caught up on it with me last week,” Quin tells them. “I want to see if I remember them.”

Knight Qui-Gon and Master Dooku escort them back toward the creche. As they go, Obi-Wan toys with the bracelet that Master Sifo gave him last week. The glass beads are smooth, and the color echoes a swirling seafoam green. Master Dooku, Knight Qui-Gon, Master Rael, Knight Sheev, and Master Jocasta all have one too, and Master Sifo said he intends to make one for Quin and Knight Tholme next.

“Well, aren’t you all a sweaty lot?”

Master Jocasta’s voice reaches them, and the curl of her smile lifts Obi-Wan's mood. Knight Sheev, at her side, carries what looks like two cups of caf and a bag of pastries from a nearby café that gives the stuff on their menu Jedi-inspired names.

“I think they enjoyed it,” Master Dooku replies, and the stars in his Force presence brighten. “Sheev, I didn’t know you were back from Jedha.”

“Only just this afternoon.”

“And”—Master Jocasta raises a finger—“he has news.”

“What’s that?” Knight Qui-Gon asks.

“I’m to be made a master next month, as it happens. Master Yoda told me privately upon my return, but I imagine you had an inkling this was coming after I reported in from my mission, Master?”

Master Dooku offers a proud smile, and Knight Sheev brightens.

“The council was pleased with your work retrieving the missing artifacts stolen from the Church of the Force by the Brothers of the Ninth Door. So, yes, I admit, we agreed to it after you commed in with your report. Congratulations, Padawan. You have well and truly earned it. Let me take you to lunch tomorrow. Then I imagine I’ll need to arrange a lineage celebration for after the ceremony with some of our friends, as is tradition.”

Quin, brows furrowed, crosses his arms over his chest, and Obi-Wan bumps him with his hip, sending a be nice down their bond. For whatever reason, Quin does not like Knight Sheev.

“Certainly to the first,” Knight Sheev says, and that sadness Obi-Wan always senses lightens. “Please, I beg you, no to the second.”

“If he doesn’t,” Knight Qui-Gon adds, “Rael and Sifo-Dyas will. I think you’d rather our master plan it.”

Knight Sheev laughs, and the sound of it rings genuine, like Knight Qui-Gon and his lineage brother used to tease like this a lot.

“You’re quite right. Jocasta and I are taking our pastries to the Room of a Thousand Fountains, if you’d like us to drop these little ones at the creche.”

Master Dooku and Knight Qui-Gon agree to this, and Quin sidles up to Master Jocasta so he can ask her about the new batch of sheet music that the Coruscant Symphony just donated to the Jedi archives. Obi-Wan falls into step with Knight Sheev. For her part, Naberrie, nuzzling at Obi-Wan's ankle, trots up toward Master Jocasta, who is well known for giving her treats in the archives when no one is looking.

“Congratulations,” Obi-Wan tells Knight Sheev. “That’s really exciting about you becoming a master.”

“Thank you, youngling.” Knight Sheev peers at the bracelet on Obi-Wan's arm. “Do I spy a trinket from our own Master Sifo-Dyas?”

“Mhmm. Do you have yours?”

“I always wear it, indeed.” Knight Sheev shifts the sleeve of his brown robe and green tunics, revealing a bracelet that looks as if it has old-fashioned flimsi book pages inside the beads. “How he made this, I couldn’t tell you. It seems a fine type of moving meditation for him. Did you have a good sparring lesson today?”

Obi-Wan picks at his nailbed, and he needs to stop doing that, because he’s always doing it and leaving little wounds behind, and that gets noticed.

“I learned some things I need to work on to do better. Quin did a really good job, though.”

Knight Sheev’s eyes flick to Quin, who gestures animatedly—much to Master Jocasta’s amusement.

“I’m sure you’re being too hard on yourself, Obi-Wan. I’ve seen you spar. You’re terribly good for your age.” Knight Sheev pauses, and his voice lowers. “But I know you have a great burden on your shoulders.”

Better. He should be better than his age. He’s almost ten, and if he only lives until—

No. No. He’s trying not to think about that. He’s trying to take things as they come. That’s what Knight Qui-Gon always says, what Master Reginald says, and Master Yoda, but it’s hard. Master Sifo admitted that he struggles with it too.

At first, Obi-Wan can’t decide what to say. He’s not supposed to speak about the details of his visions to just anyone at all, obviously, but the Jedi are his family, and he’ll be a part of Knight Sheev’s lineage one day. Knight Sheev isn’t in danger in the vision, so it won’t scare him. That’s what the older Jedi say they all have to be the most careful about when talking to people who are in his visions.

“You were in a vision I had last week,” Obi-Wan tells him. “It wasn’t scary, exactly, just ... stressful. You were helping my friend Bail in the senate with a bill about the Jedi. He’s not a senator yet, though, so it was from further in the future, I guess. If it happens.”

“Oh?” Real surprise passes over Knight Sheev’s face. “I hope I was being helpful.”

“You were,” Obi-Wan says. “I think you were trying to protect the Jedi.”

“Well.” Knight Sheev pats Obi-Wan's shoulder, and some unknowable thing passes across his face just after the surprise. “I always hope to do so, youngling. Thank you for telling me. I have some news to share with you, as well, in turn. I hope to speak to Qui-Gon and Dooku about it.”

“You do?”

“Indeed. When I told the chief Guardian that I knew you ... you’ve heard of the Guardians of the Whills?”

“Yes!” Obi-Wan exclaims, and this improves his mood. “We had a lesson all about Jedha last month.”

“When he realized that I knew you,” Knight Sheev continues, “he mentioned that he and the other guardians, as well as members of the Church of the Force were eager to meet you.”

“Me?”

“You are the Chosen One, youngling. Traditionally, when a new Chosen One appears, the major Force religions gather together when that Chosen One reaches the age of their apprenticeship.”

Oh. Right. That ever-familiar blush creeps into Obi-Wan's cheeks. They don’t want to meet him for being Obi-Wan. They want to meet him because he’s the Chosen One.

He hopes he can live up to it.

On the speeder ride over to the planetarium squished between Quin and Siri, Obi-Wan tries taking Knight Sheev’s words about his sparring to heart. Naberrie sits snug at his feet, and Obi-Wan pulls the oversized robe tightly around him, hood up. Younglings don’t leave Coruscant often, and he hasn’t left since that one trip to Coruscant’s moon, but even going around the city can be hard, sometimes, when reporters, or, as he’s heard Master Plo call them, the well-meaning-but-overwhelming Chosen One faithful, show up. When you’re a Padawan, he often hears, you’ll be able to travel more. That’s the promise.

Jedha.

He would really love to travel to Jedha.

Kit Fisto, a Padawan now, is helping chaperone this field trip of five clans—including Mira’s, the little girl from Stewjon—and Depa, who will officially be Knight Mace’s Padawan next month, is joining them in celebration. Obi-Wan can’t wait to hear about what she learns. Knight Mace is one of his favorite Jedi. Luminara will probably be a Padawan soon, too, and he’ll miss them in the creche. Mira’s settled in a little better, and Obi-Wan spends time reading to her once a week.

They’re meant to sleep under the stars in the Planetarium’s main auditorium, and Depa rolls out a blanket big enough for Obi-Wan, Quin, Siri, and Bant to lay on with her while Kit puts out one for himself, Prie, Garen, and Bolla right next to them. Master Reginald sits in one of the chairs, having, Obi-Wan can guess, one of the most relaxing nights for him in a while—he feels bad for crying out in his sleep and waking the Jedi who takes care of him and his clan day in and day out.

Settling on his back with Quin on one side and Depa on the other, Obi-Wan watches the projections of different night skies go by. Naboo. Alderaan. Chandrila. Corellia. Kiffu—he squeezes Quin’s hand at that one. Haruun Kal, Knight Mace’s home planet, comes next, and the projection creates a lake high, high up in the mountains, the constellations glimmering silver on the surface of the water.

Putting a hand on Obi-Wan's arm, Depa points up to one of the constellations.

“You see that one there?” she asks, indicating a set of stars in the corner. “That’s a fish with wings.”

The touch of Depa’s hand, the snug safety of his friends all around him, helps Obi-Wan release the anxiety that hasn’t stopped bugging him all day.

And when that happens, he does see it.

“Uh huh.”

“Master Mace says that’s a symbol from an old folk tale on Haruun Kal about how Lake Haruuni is at such a high elevation that the fish can fly, and if you saw one doing that, it was good luck.”

“Does he believe that?”

Depa snorts. “No. You know how he is—practical. But I like hearing him talk about the old stories. Master Yoda said he believes it, though.”

Obi-Wan laughs too, and at some point while he’s watching, with Quin’s elbow dug into his ribs, Naberrie at his feet, and Bant telling Siri about a constellation on Mon Cala, Obi-Wan falls asleep.

From the Journals of Elzar Mann (Fourth Chosen One of the Jedi Order)

It’s a weird thing, counting down the years of your life. When you’re growing up, it’s supposed to be exciting to get older. You can do more. Have more freedom—not that I’ve ever had a ton of it as the Chosen One. People worry a lot, and I get it. They want to keep me in the temple more in case someone tries to kill me. And someone did, a couple of times, but we could never figure out who. There are a lot of places I shouldn’t be having visions and seizures or getting followed around by people who think they should worship me.

But I need to get out there more. 

I turn fifteen, this week.

Nila died at eighteen. Zina at nineteen. Kevmo at twenty. I hope I make it longer. I really do.

Avar and Stellan are throwing me a party with the rest of our clan mates. Their masters and mine. Our other Padawan friends. They want me to celebrate, and I know I should. I know it. They’re right.

I just keep hearing that ticking clock.

And I haven’t done enough. Not nearly.

There’s rumors of vicious raiders in the Outer Rim led by a mysterious Evereni, and once this name day is over?

I want to go out there and do what I can to help. I didn’t want to be the Chosen One. I don’t think I’m right for it. I wouldn’t give this burden to Avar or Stellan, but they would be better at it than me.

But the Force makes mistakes, I guess, and it picked me.

So, I need to do things a little bit more my way, now. I have to find a way to be the best me.

I have to, or the Jedi won’t survive it.

Seven Years After the Arrival of the Chosen One

The Jedi Temple

The abrupt opening of his door jolts Tholme from the deep-sleep-sugar-and-grease coma of Quinlan and Obi-Wan's tenth name day celebration at Dex’s, which was held, at their absolute insistence, exactly six weeks after Quin’s and six weeks before Obi-Wan's. It was something about double digits are special. Tholme, being softer than he likes to admit, gave in to this strange request, and made it clear that this meant one name day party at Dex’s rather than two.

Siri, being the most logical of the lot of them, pointed out that this involved less cake, but to no avail.

Obi-Wan was, apparently, born during a hurricane. Quin came out screaming during a historic lightning storm.

He can only attribute their nonsense to that.

Besides, Obi-Wan has had ... difficulties leading up to this name day.

He’s worried he’s already halfway through his life and hasn’t done enough to help the Jedi, Qui-Gon told him one late night, after Obi-Wan, a great lover of all his lessons, hadn’t wanted to leave his bed that morning. Reginald, a consummate professional who adores Obi-Wan, couldn’t achieve it. Neither could Quin. Not Siri or Bant. Qui-Gon was sent for and finally got Obi-Wan up by lunch but gave him the rest of day to rest.

They drank a glass of wine together. Qui-Gon took one of his gummy things, that look like candy to Tholme but certainly aren’t, and meditated on a mat in the corner of Tholme’s sitting room. Tholme wrote his report for the mission he’d just returned from. The two of them worked, as they have time and again, in harmonious silence.

Two people have the code to his room, Qui-Gon being one of them, but Tholme senses who it is without needing to guess.

“T’Ra?” he asks, easing himself up as he throws off the comforter. His bad knee gets stiff in his sleep.

“Take your time,” she says from the sitting room. “I know your leg hurts you when you first wake.”

“Talk to me,” he says. “I get the sense we don’t have a lot of time.”

T’ra’s green eyes gleam in the dark as she steps inside, and the tight-knot of her usually calm demeanor worries him more than the middle-of-the-night disruption.

“I’ve been removed as watchman of the Kiffu sector,” she tells him.

“What? Why? Who is replacing you?”

Tholme sets his feet on the floor and rubs out the ache in his knee. Quinlan. Why does he suddenly feel the need to get to Quinlan?

“No one.” T’Ra sits down on the side of the bed, and she’s being gentle with him in a way that means bad news. “Tinte has forbidden the return of any Jedi to Kiffu.”

“Until?”

T’Ra meets his eye, and he knows before she says it.

“Until we give her Quinlan.”

“Dammit!” Tholme raises his voice and then lowers it again. Yelling won’t do. Yelling won’t help, but Tinte Vos tests his damned patience.

“Zahn?”

“There’s more?”

“Tinte is here. At the starfighter and shuttle landing bay.”

A rare rush of terror goes through Tholme’s blood. It echoes that night on Kiffu when he carried Quinlan out of the Clan Vos compound against the background noise of Sheyf Kurlin shouting at Tinte.

Kurlin was dead a month later after accusing his sister of setting up Quian and Pethros’ deaths in the first place. What she did to Quinlan was enough to get her put on house arrest and shunned by Kurlin, but arranging the murders? Well, that was a one-way ticket to prison on Kiffex.

Kurlin died before he could prove it. Tholme only knew after Kurlin told him on an encrypted comm.

Quinlan doesn’t know that his aunt likely set up the murders, and it’s not as if she’ll be eager to tell him.

For his part, Tholme hopes that Quinlan never finds out and intends to keep it between himself, Qui-Gon, T’Ra, and the council unless and until it becomes relevant. Quin knows that Tinte wanted to force him into the dark side by touching that medallion. He knows that she had Kurlin murdered. He’s well aware, in every way that matters, of how dangerous she is.

Why would Tholme add more to his boy’s shoulders when practicality doesn’t call for it?

Tholme rises from the bed and goes over to his wardrobe. Urgent as this is, he won’t be facing Tinte Vos in his sleep pants.

“The council?” he asks.

“Alerted as soon as I set foot in the door,” T’Ra says as he tugs down a set of gray tunics. “I couldn’t comm on the way. Five Guardians and Tinte herself brought me here. My starfighter remains on Kiffu.”

Tholme curses, and he lets himself rest his hand on T’Ra’s shoulder while he gets his trousers on. There’s not time for his exercises.

“Go to Qui-Gon, rouse him.” Tholme gets on his undershirt and ties the tunic closed with less care than usual. “Tell him to go the creche, alert Reginald, and to sit with Quinlan privately until I say otherwise and to bring Obi-Wan. That will help. Then, go to the archives, quick as you can, and retrieve Quin’s custody papers that Kurlin signed, and the will that Quian and Pethros made designating custody to Kurlin before that should anything happen to them.”

T’ra leaves a kiss on his cheek in reply.

Running a brush through his hair, tying it, and tossing back a glass of water, Tholme retrieves his cane and journeys down the hall as quick as he may. It's only four in the blessed morning. Tholme usually wakes at five-thirty with the other early risers. Memories of Kiffu come to him under the turned-down lights.

Quian, hidden and peering around a corner at Tinte, her dark eyes narrowed.

Pethros, inserting himself into the middle of Tinte making a terrible attempt to play with Quinlan. He smiled. He laughed. He didn’t chide his aunt-in-law, but Tholme sensed his unease.

Quinlan, a physically affectionate little boy, shying away from his great-aunt's touch at supper one night.

It’s taken years, years for Quin to return to anything even resembling his comfort levels in the before as far as being touched. That burning medallion in his hand changed everything. He seeks it out, now, with his clan friends—Obi-Wan in particular—and Tholme himself, often Qui-Gon or Reginald, but it gives off all the mood of a stray Tooka cat who might bolt.

The turbolift goes down, and Tholme, drawing in a deep breath, reaches the shuttle and starfighter landing pad area, where several temple guards and, thankfully, Master Yaddle, keep Tinte from coming inside.

The sight of the old woman makes Tholme’s already hot blood boil. Dressed in full Guardian attire with yellow-star pauldrons, long black gloves, elaborate hair covering, and all, she’s decided upon making a show of it. Perhaps it would have been better for Yaddle not to be here, because it would have forced Tholme to present himself as a Jedi should.

As it is, however.

“Sheyf Vos.” He snarls the title that shouldn’t be hers. “This is both an inappropriate hour to arrive here and a ridiculous errand to begin with.”

Tinte leers at him, baring her teeth, and Tholme’s hand tightens on his cane. She’s got to be approaching seventy and remains hungry for power at all costs. Neither Kurlin nor his mother—the sheyf before him—ever behaved like Tinte does. All members of Clan Vos aside from the few Tinte pulled to her side, were anything but warm, welcoming, and respected by all of Kiffu. Kiffu traces descent and passes down titles and inheritance via the matrilineal line, and Pethros’ family have made no attempt to take Quinlan back or, likely knowing they were a target, done anything to upset Tinte.

Tinte still drove them off the planet.

“I have come across new evidence, Master Jedi, that suggests you forged my poor brother’s signature on our nephew’s custody papers. Kurlin might have had rights to send Quinlan here after Quian and Pethros passed, but when he passed himself? Quinlan should have been sent back to me. After I’m proven right, I will take Quinlan home.”

A dark laugh, too dark, too angry, catches in the back of Tholme’s throat. “Over my dead body, Tinte.”

“All right,” Yaddle interjects. “Sheyf, I request, please, that you find lodgings in the city while we sort this out. Unless something changes, you do not have rights to insist upon seeing Quinlan.”

“I am going to the senate.” She shakes her own cane at them while two Guardians stand like stone behind her. “And they will send for a judge, mark my words.”

“We will be speaking to our own friends in the senate,” Yaddle replies. “Now please. We will be in touch.”

Together, they wait while Tinte goes with a huff. Tholme can’t get a deep breath. He can only read his comm from Qui that says I’m with the boys. The ship, painted with the markings of the Kiffu Guardians that Tinte has corrupted, finally flies off.

And Yaddle turns to him.

“I know,” he says, before she can say anything at all. Being short in stature does not cut the reprimand in her gaze.

“You can’t threaten her, Zahn. She wants to play a game with one of the most entrenched and stupid beliefs that people who don’t like the Jedi hold against us. Don’t give her fodder for it.”

“It’s an expression, Master. Besides, I was indicating that she would have to kill me. Not that I would kill her.”

“Don’t be smart with me, young one.”

“I’m hardly young.”

“You’re not yet thirty. You’re a child to me.”

“If a judge grants her custody because they fear upsetting a head of state just like the senate feared upsetting King Kenobi by making any move to stop the abuses on Stewjon, then I will take Quinlan away from here myself. Then she can only accuse me of stealing him. Not the Jedi.”

Tholme drags a shaking hand through his hair. Dammit. Dammit.

Yaddle puts a hand on his. “We won’t allow that to happen. What happened on Stewjon was different. We have had Quinlan in our custody, legally, for years. So, my question is this: why did she escalate from comms and letters to showing up here now?”

“Quin’s name day just passed,” Tholme explains. “On Kiffu, when a child is announced as the Sheyf-to-be, it traditionally happens on their tenth name day. She must have found other heirs wanting and thought she would try her hand at getting him back. Perhaps she has an ally in the senate. The Kiffu contingent is split between a supporter of hers and not, and it’s possible she spoke with someone in the larger group of senators who dislike the Jedi.”

“Terrible woman,” Yaddle says with a shake of her head. “Kurlin kept peace between the clans on Kiffu and earned their loyalty just as his mother did. He took the role of Sheyf when his older sister died young and did it well. He was a friend not just of the Jedi, but the Republic. Tinte is—”

“A sectarian nationalist tyrant?”

“I do believe you just took the words right out of my mouth. Walk with me, yes? We’ll go up to the council chamber together. Master Yoda said they were preparing to send a message to Senator Mac’s office. One of his aides arrives quite early.”

Yaddle asks the temple guard to double their numbers at the temple’s main entrance. Tholme shoots off another text comm to Qui-Gon.

Tinte is gone but staying in the city. Please tell Quinlan that we’re taking care of it. I’m going to speak with the council and will be down to see him as soon as I can.

Take care of it. Take care of it. What if he promises something to that boy and cannot deliver?

No.

No.

No matter what, he will not let Tinte take Quinlan to Kiffu, whatever happens next.

Senator Mac is a good man, a childhood friend of Quian’s who became the junior senator just before she died, and he’ll help them. He has a copy of the custody papers in his possession, as well. During the turbolift ride up to the council chambers, Tholme lets Yaddle rest a hand on his knee. He matches his breathing with hers. Distress tolerance is key for any Jedi, and he must tolerate this. He must look his darker impulses in the eye, name them, and pursue clarity of thought back toward the light.

When he arrives, all of the on-world council is already present. Dooku gets him a glass of water. Sifo-Dyas retrieves a stool so Tholme can prop up his leg. Master Poof brews a pot of caf for the lot of them.

“Under no circumstance,” Dooku says as he meets Tholme’s gaze, “will we let that woman make off with Quinlan.”

Dooku’s own ghosts throb around him. He was too young to recall being left in the woods, but receiving his father’s unchecked hatred when he returned to Serenno for his mother’s funeral?

Tholme heard about it via a story from Qui-Gon, and it’s clear enough that the experience scarred him.

Tinte wants to use Quin for his Force-sensitivity rather than despising him for it, but the outcome, in the end, remains the same.

Senator Mac returns their comm at just before seven in the morning. Given the disheveled state of him, Tholme can only imagine that his aide contacted him at home and informed him of the urgency.

“Is Quinlan all right?” he asks in greeting.

“Safely in the creche,” Tholme replies. “We sent Tinte away.”

“Good.” Senator Mac holds up his own copy of Kurlin’s custody agreement with the Jedi, complete with the Sheyf’s seal. “I’ve been in touch with the interplanetary family court, which handles custody cases when guardians or adoptive parents are from different worlds than the child coming into their care. They consider the Jedi a world, in this case. Have you dealt with them before?”

“Contested, custody has not been, since the establishment of the current Republic,” Yoda says, his ears drooping. “Rumors, only, have there been, of the Jedi taking younglings without permission. True, none of them are.”

“Well, as you can imagine, it’s quite a busy place, but they’ve given us an emergency hearing with Judge Halcorr the day after tomorrow. I explained, briefly, that trauma that Tinte subjected Quinlan to, and it moved up the proceedings. Bring your original of the custody agreement with Kurlin and the copy of Quian and Pethros’ will when you arrive.”

Tholme clears his throat and makes himself ask the question he least wants to ask.

“Will Quinlan need to appear?”

Mac runs a hand through his shoulder-length locs with a sigh. “Unfortunately, yes. But tell him, please, that we will get this taken care of. I’ve no idea about Judge Halcorr’s opinions on the Jedi, but Tinte has no case. It’s cut and dry.”

When the senator hangs up, Tholme carries that belief with him.

For Quin’s sake, he must.

Footsteps pounding down the hall. Shadows stalking toward him. Coming to get him snatch him take him.

Quin, gasping for breath against a gurgle of acid in his throat, flails awake in his bunk with a rib rattling cough.

His bunk. He’s in his bunk, so why is the Force screaming like the wind during a storm back on Kiffu?

“Quin?” Bant appears in the dark as she leans over the edge of her top bunk. “Are you all right?”

Naberrie chirps from her place next to Obi-Wan, who is pushing his hair out of his face and scrambling up.

“I think”—Quin coughs again as the reflex beats a burn in his chest—“my aunt is here.”

Tinte cannot be here he will not go he will run. But maybe he’ll be too much trouble for the Jedi maybe they won’t want him. No. No that doesn’t make sense. The Jedi care. Knight Tholme cares. What if she makes threats that make that harder? All the older Jedi talk about the senate, and how some of them don’t like the Jedi, and if he has to go, he can’t take Obi-Wan with him. Obi-Wan is the Chosen One and—

In the midst of his thoughts, he didn’t even notice Obi-Wan getting into bed with him, Naberrie not far behind. Bant climbs down from her bed and sits on Obi-Wan's in turn. Siri, rubbing her eyes, joins Bant.

“If she is here,” Siri says, stretching her leg out so that her foot brushes against Quin’s, “then Knight Tholme and the council will fix it. They’ll make her go away.”

What if they can’t what if they can’t?

“Siri’s right.”

Obi-Wan slides an arm around Quin’s waist, and that anchors him. Yes, that helps.

The door slides open, waking Prie, Garen, and Bolla. Still in his pajamas, Master Reginald comes in and gestures Quin toward him.

“I would say I’m sorry to wake you, my little ones,” he says, hoarse from sleep, “but I see you’re already awake. Quin, youngling, come with me, if you would? Obi-Wan too. If the rest of you give me just a moment, I’ll come back and explain.”

Bant squeezes Quin’s hand before he goes. Prie too. Siri whispers something in Obi-Wan's ear that Quin doesn’t catch. Master Reginald leads them to one of the sick rooms that are also used for privacy, and Quin would ask a million questions, except he already knows the answer.

His parents are already dead.

Obi-Wan and all their friends are safe here.

Knight Tholme isn’t on a mission, so he can’t be in danger.

She’s here. He knows it.

With a soft whine, Naberrie bumps her head against Quin’s leg as they go. She doesn’t need a leash when they’re in the creche, happy to go where Obi-Wan goes without trouble.

“Here they are, Qui-Gon,” Master Reginald says, and he puts them in the same room with the Tookas on the wallpaper where Quin and Obi-Wan first met. “Are you all right, here? I want to speak to the other younglings for a moment.”

“Yes, we’re all right. Thank you, Reginald.”

“I’ll be back shortly, boys.” Master Reginald tucks one sleep-tussled loc behind Quin’s ear, and it reminds Quin of his dad so much that it hurts. “Just stay right here with Knight Qui-Gon.”

When the door shuts, Quin looks to Qui-Gon. His long brown hair hangs entirely loose, and the wrinkles in his tunics say they’re from yesterday. So, he got here in a rush. His Force presence, peaceful and playful on a normal day, churns.

“She’s here,” Quin says, fists clenched at his side. “Isn’t she?”

“I’m afraid so. She’s demanding custody, but she’s been sent away from the temple. Tholme and the council are speaking to Senator Mac now. We’re going to sort it out.”

The bad weird scary angry thing beneath Quin’s ribs morphs. It takes a new shape. It offers him the cold and undeniable truth that they can’t sort this out.

“Quin,” Knight Qui-Gon continues, “We are—”

“They won’t be able to fix it,” Quin tells him, and his stomach turns to stone. “She’s going to take me. I know it. You know it. Why are you lying to me?”

Go. He has to go. He has to leave. But what about Obi-Wan? He can’t leave Obi-Wan. He doesn’t want to leave the Jedi at all, his friends, his future, but especially not Obi-Wan, and not Tholme. Maybe Tholme will go with him? Maybe they’ll run and take Obi-Wan and Knight Qui-Gon with them, but no, Obi-Wan has a place and a prophecy carved out for him. If he’s not in the temple, he’ll die just like Quin’s parents.

Quin can’t let that happen.

It’s not fair. It’s not fair that Tinte wrecked one home and now wants to wreck another. Why doesn’t he get to stay anywhere?

“I’m not lying.” Knight Qui-Gon keeps calm, and he squats down so he’s at Quin’s eye level. “But I understand. You had a very bad thing happen to you when you were little. It makes you think that every other bad thing you’re afraid of is inevitable. Is that right?”

Quin wraps the fingers of one hand around the opposite elbow. “I dunno. Maybe.”

“Obi-Wan feels that way sometimes too, I think. Am I right, Obi-Wan?”

Next to Quin, Obi-Wan nods. “Yes, I think so.”

“If you trip and fall on a certain curb on the street,” Qui-Gon tells them, his folded hands propped between his knees, “your brain is going to say if you go there again, you’ll fall again. That hurt. Don’t go back. It wants to protect you. However, you’ve probably crossed that same curb a hundred times and been just fine. Much like Obi-Wan's visions, bad outcomes aren’t inevitable even when you’ve been through something terrible. But it’s only natural that you feel this fear generally, and especially today. It’s whether or not it takes over your life that matters. It only makes sense that you’re frightened today, because it is frightening, and bad things do happen to us and in the galaxy, but what does Tholme tell you?”

Quin draws in a shuddering breath. “Fear doesn’t tell the future.”

“That’s right.” Qui-Gon puts one hand out for Quin’s and one out for Obi-Wan's. “We are none of us alone. So, let’s feel the fear together, all right? Obi-Wan and I will help you hold it. Then maybe it won’t feel so overwhelming.”

That bad weird scary angry cold thing hisses between his ribs, it says don’t, but when Obi-Wan takes Knight Qui-Gon's hand, Quin does, too. Knight Qui-Gon's plant-on-the-windowsill presence warms the Force. Obi-Wan's stars shine, and his sea settles. Quin’s hearthfire flickers faintly to life from the orange embers he woke with.

“Can you tell us what you’re afraid of, Quin?” Knight Qui-Gon asks.

“Of going back there with her. Of her turning me into something ... something dark. That I am dark because she made me that way already. That's what she wants. Of never being a Jedi. Of leaving you and Tholme and Obi-Wan and Bant and Siri.” Tears burn hot in Quin’s eyes, and he holds Obi-Wan's hand tighter. “That I’ll be home again without being home at all.”

The tears come spilling out, and he lets Knight Qui-Gon hug him. He lets Knight Qui-Gon hug him until the older Jedi’s tunics are damp, and he lets Obi-Wan sit curled up with him in the big recliner while they wait for Knight Tholme.

The sense of doom dissipates even as worry still knots in his stomach. He can’t bear eating, so he drinks a cup of fruit juice instead. His gloves. He wishes he’d brought his gloves. The medallion imprint on his hand, while more faded than it once was, hasn’t ever gone away.

And it reminds him.

It reminds him of the searing screams he thought might tear him in two. It reminds him of his mom’s corpse and her blank, brainless eyes. It reminds him of the light going out of his dad’s face and the way it went gray. His mom was always thinking. His dad was always laughing or singing. In the end, they couldn’t do … they couldn’t ….

When he throws up, Knight Qui-Gon catches it in a trash bin just in time. The sour sting of it goes up Quin’s nose, and he spits into the bin a second time. Master Reginald and the other Jedi taught them never to be embarrassed about gross things the body does, because sometimes, bodies just do them.

Right now, that helps.

Focus. Focus on what you’re afraid of right now and not what might happen.

Obi-Wan holds back his locs, and that helps too. Some of the older Padawans make jokes about doing that for their friends when they drink alcohol, but Quin can’t imagine it. Maybe it’s an adult thing. Last Life Day, several of the most-renowned masters, including Master Dooku, had a contest to test their tolerance.

Master Jocasta surprised them all when she took first place.

Master Reginald comes in and gives him a hypo of medicine that will help him calm down a little. It’s the same thing he’s had before when he couldn’t get right after a bad psychometric vision. Obi-Wan’s had it too.

He sets his head on Obi-Wan's shoulder for an amount of time he loses track of. Better. He wants to handle stuff better than this. One day, when they’re older, they won’t be together every day like they are now. He’ll be on missions with Tholme and Obi-Wan with Qui-Gon. Of course they’ll see each other, and of course they’ll have comms, but he wants to be braver. Maybe Obi-Wan will want a dyad partner one day, and he ... it doesn’t have to be him, or anything, it can be whoever Obi-Wan wants, but he would like to be ... to be ... he would like the bad weird scary angry cold thing to go away so he can be a good enough Jedi for it—not perfect, but full of enough light.

I’m right here, okay? Obi-Wan repeats every so often. I promise.

Quin perks up when his bond with Knight Tholme warms, and not half a minute later, his future master comes inside. Strands of his long black hair, messed up from sleep, fall out of the band he used to tie it back, and his gray eyes gleam with ....

Is he crying? Quin hasn’t seen that. Ever.

Master Dooku’s and Master Sifo’s voices reach them from down the hall.

He might not be a little kid anymore, but Quin flings himself into Knight Tholme’s arms anyway. The memory of the storm the night Tholme took him away from Kiffu sweeps him up in its grasp. The roar of the thunder resounding in his ears. The sting of the hard rain on his skin. The slice of yellow-white lightning against an ebony sky. His raw throat made it hard to swallow as he clung to Tholme’s chest.

Just as it was on that night that changed everything, Tholme doesn’t let him go.

From his place across the expansive temple hall waiting for friends to join him for dinner, Jedi Master Sheev Palpatine watches his youngest lineage sibling carry Quinlan Vos on his hip. Qui-Gon, only one inch shorter than their master, doesn’t struggle with carrying the ever-growing youngling. Quinlan’s gangly limbs say that when he’s older, he’ll shoot up. Walking beside Tholme, the Chosen One carries a small bag, and his hair, tied half back, mimics his future master’s, only not as long.

A knot twists in his stomach. Reflux gurgles at the back of his throat.

Consinga’s voice resounds in his head.

Take this thing.

Tinte Vos is, by all accounts, a nasty piece of work. The circumstances are different, but Quinlan remains an object for her use just as Sheev was an object for his father’s disposal. She was happy enough to work with Plagueis, who made the forgery of Kurlin's custody agreement himself after pouring money into the Kiffar economy that Tinte wrecked with her foolishness. That will keep her happy if this doesn't work and they need to find another contingency. 

He also set up one of the Kiffar senators with the anti-Jedi contingent in the senate. Unfortunately, the other remains Tinte's adversary, and senators are elected on Kiffu. The planet is too fragile and in danger of revolt to change that. 

If a pang goes off in Sheev's chest, so be it. If it goes off again and again and again like a sharp stab, so be it.

No one ever said that the road to salvation would be without sacrifice.

A bloody, broken-glass path lies in front of him.

That’s how he’ll reach the other side, and the other side will be worth it. When all of this is done years from now, no one in the galaxy will ever lay hands on a Jedi again. Force-sensitive children will be where they belong, always, and not in danger of their bigoted parents. For now, he and Plagueis must use hatred against the Jedi to their advantage no matter the terrible taste it puts in Sheev's mouth. 

The Chosen One must see that the senate, perhaps even the courts, won’t protect a Jedi child if it upsets a head of state, and the Jedi, blind to their own slow demise, won’t do enough to stop it. He learned it first when he was young and King Kenobi kept his throne.

Now, Sheev must drive the lesson home. He must hammer away at the Chosen One’s foundation that will eventually fall out from under him regardless. It will lead him, one day, to Sheev and Plagueis’ side.

Dooku will, if things go right, follow.

The boy is a tool to save the Jedi.

Quinlan Vos has, by fate or by accident, put himself in the same box.

Qui-Gon, Quinlan, Tholme, and the Chosen One disappear into the turbolift without having noticed Sheev at all.

Good.

His Force stealth keeps improving.

He fiddles with the silver ring Dooku gave him upon his elevation to the rank of master. He did the same for Rael when he reached the same peak and had the pieces engraved with the date for each of them. Up in the Hall of Knighthood, where padawans become knights and knights become masters, Sheev kept his place in a favored lineage. 

“That poor boy,” Vokara says as she comes up behind Sheev with Silas in tow. “I heard about his aunt when Reginald needed some anxiety meds sent to the creche. The little one had a panic attack.”

“I imagine she’ll get her way,” Sheev replies. “The Republic wants to court planets that brazenly break our laws. That way, they won’t threaten secession. We can count Kiffu as a hostile world, these days.”

“Good lord, Sheev, don’t be such a pessimist,” Silas teases, and he pushes his spectacles up the bridge of his nose. “From what I know of Knight Tholme, he will not take this lying down, and the council, from what I’m hearing, is intent on keeping Quinlan here. I expect your master or Sifo-Dyas will tell you the same. It will work out, I expect. The sheyf will put her complaints in the papers, no doubt.”

The Force curls storm cloud gray at Sheev’s back.

“I hope you’re right, my friend. I truly do.”

Chapter Text

One Week Before the Arrival of the Chosen One

Kiffu

Quian Vos lingers in her parents’ mausoleum with a sense of dread in her bones. A storm rumbles and roars outside, child’s play compared to some of their worst, and it bothers her not at all.

She met Pethros in a downpour. They were coming out of the same holomovie theater in Kiffu’s biggest city, Kiffax—the Clan Vos compound isn’t a mile away from the outskirts. He had an umbrella. She didn’t. The umbrella proved useless in the end, regardless, and they sat, for a long while, on the covered patio of a nearby cafe and watched lightning split the sky.

Her markings gave her clan away, but he didn’t treat her any differently because of them. He made her laugh, which was what she needed more than anything else, just then.

That was the week after her mother passed from an abrupt heart attack caused by, so the doctor said, excess potassium. Quian was twenty at the time. She married Pethros three years later. Quin came two years after that.

And she wonders ... part of her has always wondered if ....

Shadows cling to her. They drag their nails down her back and leave welts behind. No theory in her possession is provable. That is, indeed, all they are.

Theories.

Tinte has been strange, lately. Stranger than normal, that is. The youngest sibling of her mother’s generation has always been odd. Pethros agrees, and he’s loathe to think ill of anyone without cause, and isn’t, by his nature, suspicious.

That’s her job.

Her father married into Clan Vos from Clan Mac. He died of a long illness when she was fifteen. It was nothing suspicious—just a slow-moving tragedy when he was barely forty years old.

Quian’s mother wasn’t the first sibling to die suddenly. Quian’s aunt died too, some years ago in an accident, and that was how her Uncle Kurlin found himself as Sheyf.

It was just him and Tinte left.

And she wonders. She really—

“Are you out here contemplating murder theories?” a deep and familiar voice asks. “That’s disrespectful to the dead, isn’t it?”

“Spy,” Quian accuses.

“Hardly,” Pethros says, his grin lit electric white as lightning goes cloud-to-ground not far behind him. “I’m a simple chef working in a middling restaurant in Kiffax hoping to make my big break or, sorry, I was, until I married this really stubborn woman, the catch of Kiffu and Kiffex both who picked me for some unknown—”

“Pethros, I’m not in the mood for your jokes.”

“I’m not opposed to your murder theories, darling.” He slides an arm around her waist. “I’m opposed to you standing here by your parents’ graves thinking of them alone.” Pethros wraps his arms tighter around himself. “Why is it even colder in here than outside? Damn desert nights.”

“Where’s Quin?”

“Zonked.” Pethros laughs warm and full at the mention of their little one. “Ran himself ragged with his cousins today, I think.”

Quian doesn’t answer, at first. Instead, she contemplates her husband, his long, tight curls drenched from walking without an umbrella or a jacket to come out here and find her. His fingers twine tight with hers, and it soothes her as it always does.

“Do you ever think—”

She pauses and runs her knuckles down the cool granite of her mother’s tombstone. The whole mausoleum is granite so it can withstand the elements and extremes of her homeworld.

She will be brave. She will not fear words.

“Do you ever think that maybe ... that maybe Clan Vos has been in power for too long?”

“Kiffu and Kiffex do well for themselves,” Pethros points out. “There hasn’t been significant conflict between any clans for two centuries, and your uncle Kurlin put a stop to the skirmishes between Clan de Chatillon and Clan Moxia that were interrupting trade. He’s forged a strong relationship with the Republic and made us truly a part of it rather than being so mostly in name only.”

“But—”

“You didn’t let me finish.”

Quian gives her husband a kiss, the corners of her mouth curling upward.

“You’re avoiding your point.”

“But,” Pethros admits, “power does go to the head, after a time. All that palace intrigue and wrestling for position.” He lowers his voice. “If you think you-know-who had something to do with your mother’s and your aunt’s deaths? I think that’s not insane. I worry for Kurlin both as her sibling and because his politics run in opposition to hers. I worry for—”

“Quin?”

Pethros’ gaze darts downward, those warm brown eyes dull rather than dancing.

“I do. He’s such a bright little one in more ways than one. So curious and happy with a good heart. The visions are hard enough for him. There’s nothing we can do about that except help him manage. But being Sheyf ... I know that’s what your family wishes. I sometimes wonder if it’s best.”

Quian, keeping Pethros’ hand, leads him to the bench painted with yellow-star flowers. She shuts her eyes and draws in a breath of damp air.

“For all the great good that my uncle has done, that my grandmother did, the rot creeps in,” she says. “I smell it, sometimes. The saccharine-sweet must of it.” Tears well in her eyes, and here in the dark with the person who knows her best, she lets them fall. “I love my family so much, but I do wonder what power has done to us. I wonder, if Tinte makes a move, how many will fall in line with her to keep it.”

Pethros keeps her hand and lets her cry without drawing too much attention to it. The storm eases. Rain drips off the mausoleum's overhang and onto the sandy walkway.

“That Jedi you knew when he was here as an apprentice, the friend of your uncle’s,” Pethros says once just the right amount of time has passed. “I know the debate is largely on the side of keeping Quinlan here, and Force knows, I ... the thought of giving him up breaks my heart, but could this man help with the visions?”

“Tholme. Yes, I expect he could. He’s newly a knight, I believe, so he could come on his own and perhaps have an extended stay. He learned a great deal about psychometry when he was here as a teenager.”

Pethros meets her gaze and squeezes her hand.

“And if things go ... sideways here? If—” Pethros wipes his own eyes, this time. “If things go wrong, and the Jedi is the best place for him, Knight Tholme could take him to Coruscant?”

Quin appears in Quian’s mind’s eye, her laughing, chubby-cheeked little prince with powers that defy all of Kiffar’s recorded psychometric history. Part of her knew, sometime in those first months when he would scream until she thought his eardrums would burst, that the best thing she could do for her boy was send him to the Jedi. That is what love is, after all—doing your best for your children no matter what it means for you.

But it’s no easy choice, is it?

“Yes,” she whispers. “Tholme could take him to Coruscant.”

Seven Years After the Arrival of the Chosen One

The Jedi Temple

Excused from his lessons this morning due to an anxiety-induced sick stomach, Obi-Wan has, at Master Dooku’s insistence, been left in Master Rael’s care for the duration of Quin’s hearing. Master Rael is always fun, and this means that Master Reginald and the other crechemasters won’t have to interrupt their schedules for him. The entire council is at the hearing, and Knight Qui-Gon went to help Tholme with Quin.

Master Rael told him a long, winding story that distracted him enough to drink a smoothie without his stomach lurching, and now, Nim—his Padawan who Obi-Wan likes very much—is helping him with some language flashcards.

Outside the window, slate gray clouds brew angry weather. Quin loves storms, so Obi-Wan takes that as a good omen.

Being a sort of bad omen himself, he’ll take any good ones he can get.

Nim holds up a third flimsi card with a Rodese word written on it.

Obi-Wan narrows his eyes, contemplating that word, and taps a finger against his lips.

“Um, I think that’s ... fresher?”

“Yep!” Nim exclaims. “You’re good at this, Obi-Wan.”

“Nerds,” Master Rael says from his place sprawled in a kid-sized armchair in this creche common room.

“Shut up, Master.”

“Nim,” Obi-Wan protests with a jolt of surprise. “You can’t say that to your master!”

Nim waves a hand. “He’s fine. He needs it, sometimes.”

Master Rael grins and folds his hands, leaning forward in contemplation of Obi-Wan.

“She’s right. I do. Just how many languages do you know, little prodigy? Other than Basic.”

“Stewjoni and Twi’leki. A little bit of Binary.”

“And he’s getting pretty good at Rodese,” Nim says, ruffling Obi-Wan's hair.

“You should try Huttese next.” Master Rael sweeps his black curls out of his face, gray eyes gleaming. “It’s a good one to know.”

Obi-Wan wrinkles his nose. “Isn’t that mostly spoken by criminals and pirates and stuff?”

Tapping a finger against Obi-Wan’s forehead, Master Rael grows a touch serious. “And you never know when you might encounter criminals and pirates and stuff as a Jedi. Probably a lot.”

“Knight Qui-Gon and Master Dooku say I might be a good diplomat.”

“How can they know that? You’re ten. What, are you settling disputes in the creche?”

Obi-Wan shrugs. “Sometimes.”

“Well, your little Kiffar buddy we’re waiting on today is definitely going to be trained as a Shadow. Might not be a bad idea for a Chosen One, either. Disguises are par for the course with that line of work. Being who you aren’t. Huttese would come in real handy then. Think about it.”

“Okay.”

The Force winks light around Master Rael. The more training Obi-Wan gets, the more the Force hums like the ocean in his ear. Watch. Wait. Listen.

See.

Naberrie purrs when Obi-Wan scratches behind her ears, and life thrums beneath his fingers. Her concerns reach him as his thumb brushes across her soft fur. Alert-worry-soothe-safe. The sturdy sense of their bond makes his stomach stop churning a little less.

The Stewjoni think he’s a curse, a demon, a devil because of this gift, and he’ll never understand why. He doesn’t insist on anything at all from the Force.

It called him first.

If using the Force was so evil, if it caused so much harm and damage, then why would any being be Force-sensitive in the first place? It doesn’t make sense.

Nim goes through another fifteen flash cards, and this stops him, not from thinking at all, but from thinking too much about what’s happening with Quin. When Quin gets here, he wants to be ready to help. His friend, his best friend in the galaxy, barely spoke this morning. It reminded Obi-Wan of the early days after Quin first came to the temple.

Change anything, indulging fear does not, Master Yoda said in their lessons last week. Make you ready for bad outcomes, it also will not. Feel the fear, you must, yes, and then let it go, so clear-headed, you will be, to face what happens next.

Once Obi-Wan gets each and every card right, Nim takes a small, purple bag out of her robe pocket.

“Is that rock candy?” Master Rael asks, eyes going wide as the big dinner plates in the refectory.

“Courtesy of Master Dooku.” Nim smirks, holds out her hand, and lets Obi-Wan pick the pieces he wants. “He gave it to me last week at lineage diner. You were too busy trying to beat Qui-Gon at cards to notice.”

Master Rael snorts. “Did you hallucinate, Padawan? My master does not eat candy. Let alone candy that can chip your teeth. Besides, there’s not rock candy at the temple commissary.”

Nim rolls her eyes fondly. “I know that, Master. He heard me say that I liked it and bought some at the same market where you buy your gross cigarras.”

“A shapeshifter has replaced him.”

“It’s just grandpadawan privilege, I fear.”

“Ha. Be a good apprentice, now, and go get your old master some water?”

Nim flicks Master Rael on the arm with a burst of affection in the Force and does as asked. This leaves Obi-Wan alone with Master Rael, who looks at him again in that way. Obi-Wan twists his fingers to avoid picking his nails. Slipping the candy into his pocket, he decides he’ll save it for when Quin gets back.

He will get back. There’s every reason to believe that.

“Hey, kid?”

Obi-Wan glances up. “Yes, Master Rael?”

“You didn’t happen to ....” Master Rael trails off before starting again, as if deciding that no, his initial thought was correct. “Did you use your empathy powers on Quinlan this morning?”

Obi-Wan used to lie to his father about whether or not he’d been thinking about the Force, or accidentally using it, but he was little, so he wasn’t very good at it. He could probably be better at lying now, but also Master Rael can spot a lie, he says, just like Master Dooku and Knight Qui-Gon—they call it a lineage trait—so, he probably shouldn’t.

“Only a little. I couldn’t do it much without him noticing.”

“You really are a smart kid,” Master Rael says. “Knowing when it’s not worth it to lie. I know I’m supposed to tell you not to use the power—”

“I’m not supposed to use it too much,” Obi-Wan protests. “Not never.”

“—but I get why you would.”

“Oh. You do?”

“I do. It’s easy for other people to say don’t do this, but I get the feeling that need to help kinda sits in your bones, huh? And you’re worried about Quinlan.”

Obi-Wan nods, and he picks at a sore spot on his nailbed. “I would miss him so much, but that’s not even what matters. What matters is that his aunt will hurt him for sure. And he’ll run away from Kiffu if they make him go back there. He’s already said so. And he couldn’t come back here. He’d be in a lot of danger and all alone. Anything could happen to him. He deserves better than that. He’s been through enough.”

“Yeah, I know,” Master Rael says softly. “I get why you would want to take a little bit of that away. It’s a good sign you know how to control how much you use it.”

“Knight Qui-Gon and Master Dooku started teaching me when I was little.”

“Was?”

“I’m ten.”

“That’s littler than you know,” Master Rael murmurs just as Nim returns with a glass of water for each of them. “Enough studying, then, little prodigy. I’m going to tell you an embarrassing story about your future master when he wasn’t too much older than you.”

Master Rael, the shortest of his lineage by far, sets his glass down after taking a long swig and lifts Obi-Wan up into the chair with him.

“All right, kid,” he says, “I’m gonna tell you and Nim here about the time Qui-Gon almost got eaten by a rathtar.”

Coruscant Central Court

Nightmares tore into Quin’s sleep last night, all teeth and spit and blood.

Well, they were less nightmares and more just … reliving what happened to his parents in his sleep. Except this time, it wasn’t just them getting their brains sucked out in way too vivid color that he can never, ever forget.

It was Obi-Wan, too.

It would be easier to say it was just a dream if he didn’t know what death felt like. The heart beating too fast and then too slow. The sharp, unending, impossible pain as brains become nothing at all and the body shuts down, panicked without anything telling it what to do. Nerves burn and die. Air stops coming no matter how you gasp for it.

Normal death probably isn’t like that.

But his parents didn’t die normally, and Obi-Wan ... none of the Chosen Ones died normally either. The last one, Elzar Mann, got turned into dust by that creepy thing. He doesn’t want that for Obi-Wan, and he knows he shouldn’t let fear eat at him like this, either, but today, he just can’t help it. 

Slate gray clouds hover in the sky, signaling a storm. Quin can’t even enjoy it. Master Reginald pressed Quin’s tunics for him this morning, and Quin shined his boots himself. The gray is a fine color, but Quin can’t say that he isn’t looking forward to being a Padawan and being able to pick out different ones other than the gray or white. Crechemaster Calliope, who also has locs, helped him with his, and put them in half-up style. His clan worked on shining the gold clasps he has scattered throughout them so they would gleam.

Having to prove that the Jedi take care of him is stupid, but he gets it. Some people, including his aunt, really don’t like the Jedi, so he’ll do his part.

He can’t go back to Kiffu. He can’t he can’t he can’t.

“It’s all right, Quin,” Tholme says just as the courthouse comes into view.

It’s not Quin almost snaps, but he doesn’t. Knight Tholme doesn’t mean it’s all right like that, the kind of empty-make-him-feel-better thing, and Knight Tholme cried two days ago, right in front of him, or at least his eyes were wet, and that? Well, it means a lot.

Knight Qui-Gon's tall shadow casts across the concrete, and Quin breathes in deep.

You’re my brave little boy, his mom said to him once after a bad psychometric episode. But you don’t always have to be. I promise. You’ll know when you need to.

Today, he does. Today, he has to.

Quin spots Senator Mac by his green qukuuf. Another senator, maybe from Alderaan like Bail, waits with him and two others that Quin doesn’t know over by the main entrance. Master Dooku, Master Sifo, Master Yoda, and the rest of the council are inside with the lawyer, so they head toward the front doors. Going inside means seeing Tinte, but he feels exposed out here. Another knot of beings blocks part of the sidewalk, and ... oh.

The other Kiffar senator, Quin knows him from the news, sees him. He's from Kiffex, which apparently likes Tinte better than Kiffu itself. Quin doesn’t know why.

The man next to him has ... why does he have Obi-Wan's hair color?

That man, dressed in sky-blue robes, turns with a slick smirk that Quin really doesn’t like. He wants to slap it off the guy’s face, actually, but that’s ... that’s Obi-Wan's nose, too. Green eyes, but the same nose with the same smattering of freckles across it. King Kenobi has curls, but this man has a soft wave to his hair like Obi-Wan does, though it’s harder to see with it tied back at the base of his neck like it is.

“Degemer mat, Master Jedi,” the man says with a twist of sarcasm.

Quin knows what that phrase means, because Obi-Wan taught him some Stewjoni, but he knows this jerk isn’t actually giving them a friendly welcome.

“Senator Kenobi.” Keeping a hand on Quin’s shoulder, Knight Tholme, along with Knight Qui-Gon, inclines his head rather than bowing for real. “What brings you here?”

“Senator Moxia and I are here to support the Sheyf in her quest,” Senator Kenobi replies. “Children who are wanted by their homeworlds should not be kept by the Jedi, after all. Young Quinlan here is not, for instance, my nephew.”

My Uncle Vasily was always in trouble with my father, Obi-Wan told him once. I used to hear them shouting. I didn’t understand why then, but I think he was having sex with women while not being married to them and also with other men? My father didn’t like either. He’s a good speaker, though. I’ve read some of his speeches.

Knight Qui-Gon narrows his eyes.

Quin almost says your nephew is my best friend and better than you’ll ever be, but Knight Tholme squeezes his shoulder again, and down their bond, Quin senses a gentle don’t. Probably the Jedi don’t want Obi-Wan's family knowing anything about him. It might be dangerous.

“If the Jedi Temple is such a terrible place for children, Senator Kenobi,” Knight Qui-Gon says, pleasant as ever, but his Force presence goes sun-sharp, like rays getting in your eyes on an early morning walk, “then why would you send Obi-Wan to us rather than to, say, an orphanage?”

Senator Kenobi’s smirk grows.

“Because, Master ....”

“Qui-Gon Jinn.”

“Because, Master Jinn,” Senator Kenobi continues, “my nephew ought to be, at least, with others like him and not troubling some poor caretaker with his deviance.”

Quin shouldn’t say anything. He shouldn’t say anything.

“Obi-Wan’s better off with the Jedi than he ever was with you.” Quin spits the words, and his gloved, sweaty hands clench into fists. “You shouldn’t talk about him like that.”

“Friends with Obi-Wan, are you, Quinlan?” Senator Kenobi burns cold in the Force, like frostbite on his fingers in Kiffu’s mountains at night when the temperatures plunge to nothing. “We really do need to get you away from the temple.”

“Quin,” Tholme warns.

“Yeah.” Quin makes to step forward, prevented by Knight Tholme’s hand on his chest. “He’s my best friend, actually. I’ve seen his scars, too, so maybe you should shut up about the Jedi hurting kids like me. You hurt him enough.”

“Oh, another little victim of Jedi propaganda, I see.”

“All right, Vasily.” Senator Moxia interrupts. “We’re not here to discuss religious differences. We’re here to discuss legalities.”

“The legalities,” Knight Tholme answers, and his calm sits on the edge of a knife, Quin can sense it, “are clear enough. Excuse us, gentleman.”

Senator Mac, Senator Antilles, and the others usher Quin, Tholme, and Qui-Gon inside. Quin can’t push the anger away. He can’t let it go. Fire eats through his veins, leaving black char behind. Breathe in breathe in feel and let go feel and let go.

They pass beneath a sign that says Family Court in big letters, and beneath it divorces, interplanetary adoptions, child custody, marriages, and some other stuff.

A family walks past—a broken and busted one if the yelling is any indication. A Zabrak father jabs his finger into the air at the mother, and the human who must be his attorney pulls him back. A little girl’s face winds up before she bursts into tears. Beings with flimsi caf cups in hand stride past wearing beaten-up suits and talking on comm earpieces. A giggling couple surrounded by a knot of friends almost runs into them. The turbolift dings. An announcement crackles over the speaker. Nails drive beneath Quin’s skin, and all he gets is a blaring alarm of too much. Knight Qui-Gon gives off a wave of calm next to him, and that helps, but he really wants to just be quiet for a second.

Once they reach their courtroom, Knight Tholme leads him into the fresher nearby and locks the door behind him.

And Quin?

Well, he bursts into tears.

He’s not a baby. He shouldn’t be crying he’s ten. He’ll get his lightsaber next year!

If he gets to say. If.

“You’re very young, still, little one,” Knight Tholme says, reading his mind as usual, and he squats down so he’s at Quin’s eyeline. “Let it out, all right? It’s best that way.”

Flinging himself into Knight Tholme’s arms, Quin centers his soul in the familiar while the ugly sobs come up sharp. Knight Tholme always carries the pleasant scent of woodsmoke. His cologne, maybe? His tunics, well-kept but worn, lay soft beneath Quin’s cheek. His Force presence, the persistent ring of white light around a solar eclipse, settles him down.

“Whatever happens in there,” Knight Tholme tells him, that gravelly voice vibrating against Quin’s chest, “you will not be alone. I will not allow that to happen. The Force led me to you, and I take that seriously. Do you understand me?”

Quin pulls back, wiping his eyes with the back of his hand. Trusting is ... it’s hard, but he ....

He decides, even now, to trust Knight Tholme.

“I understand.”

They return to the others, and Senator Mac echoes the reassurances the other adults have been giving him all morning. Knight Qui-Gon presses his shoulders. Senator Antilles speaks in low tones with Knight Tholme and says things like this is ridiculous and we’ll sort it. Things like that. Quin touches the bracelet that used to belong to his mom that he only takes off to shower and sleep. He wishes he could have brought Cinnamon, but he didn’t want the judge or anyone to not take him seriously. He’ll give her a cuddle when he gets back.

If he gets back.

The courtroom door slides open, and Quin knows, immediately, that Tinte is here. The rot of her, the black mold, creeps along the floor toward him. It fills his mouth, his lungs, and slurp-screams ring in his ears and rattle his bones and ... no. No. He is a Jedi. A Jedi. Tearing himself out of her metaphorical grasp, he sets himself in the guiding light of the council members. Master Dooku gives him a smile without Quin even saying anything funny to earn it. Master Sifo waves. Masters Yaddle and Yoda push feelings of comfort toward him, and they’ve seen a lot of things, at their age, and maybe ... maybe the Jedi can win this? The room doesn’t look like the one he’s seen on the private detective show that Master Reginald watches in the refectory sometimes. There’s no grand arches or marble floors. It’s just ... a room with a light that kind of flickers. Maybe they only have big murder trials and stuff in those fancy places.

Finally, Quin can’t avoid it anymore. In this small space, his great-aunt is only across the table, and when he sits, tucked between Knight Tholme and Senator Mac, he looks up with his heart pounding in his ears.

Tinte seems the same as ever. She’s been old all of Quin’s life, so that hasn’t changed. Nothing about her has, really. Same head wrap. Same big, gold earrings. She’s wearing black and gold guardian attire. Two other guardians, Quin’s way older second cousin, Kullar—the son of his other great aunt who is dead—sits on one side of Tinte, and his Aunt Qiana, his mom’s sister, sits on the other. His mom had four siblings. She was the oldest, and Qiana was just after her. All of his Great-Uncle Kurlin’s children and their children ran from Kiffu, but other family, they stayed, and that hurts.

And it’s his aunt, with his mom’s nose, and her smile, who reaches out for his hand. Tinte must know he won’t talk to her, so she brought someone she thinks he will talk to.

“Quinny,” Qiana says, repeating the ancient nickname his family sometimes used, “we’re here to take you home, all right? We’re sorry it’s taken so long.”

Quin yanks his hand back, and knocking his finger against the table brings a vague zap of a teenager with a bruise on his face. He does not need his psychometry going haywire right now. “The Jedi Temple is my home.”

A sour expression passes across his aunt’s face. “Your mother would want you home, Quinlan. You know that.”

The words land like blaster shots, and they’re not true, Quin knows they aren’t, but the bad weird scary angry cold thing speaks. Words slither out like poison.

Are you sure?

Folding in on himself in the chair, Quin tries not to touch anything in here, even with the gloves. Can he control whether or not he gets memories off objects that have positive or even kind of neutral memories attached? Yeah, he’s good at that now. Bad stuff though, stuff with a history? That’s still hard.

“Kiffu is your home, child.” Tinte speaks like someone who’s smoked cigarras for a long time even though she never has, as far as he knows. “That’s the truth of it.”

“Let’s stay quiet until the judge arrives, shall we?”

The attorney helping the Jedi, a friend of Senator Mac’s who has red qukuuf on his cheeks, sends nothing less than a glare in Tinte’s direction.

Quin has to cheer for his bravery, because he won’t be going back to Kiffu after challenging her.

Tinte opens her mouth, but the door opens again, and the Tholothian woman who must be the judge sweeps inside wearing a smooth black suit.

“Good morning, everyone,” she says. She waves her hand at the council members, who make to stand. “Don’t get up. There’s no need for formality in this particular proceeding. I expect it won’t take long.”

Quin’s heartbeat times itself to the tune of the judge taking out her datapad and tapping to reach the documents she’s looking for, which must be copies of all the important papers. Odd. Erratic. Out of rhythm. Once she’s done, she sets the pad down, folds her hands, and smiles at Quinlan before addressing the rest of them.

“We have all parties present?”

Master Dooku, who seems too long-legged for the chair, leans forward.

“Yes, your honor. On our side, we have all twelve members of the Jedi Council, Senator Mac of Kiffu, Senator Antilles of Alderaan, Knight Qui-Gon Jinn, Knight Zahn Tholme, who brought Quinlan to the temple, Quinlan himself, and our attorney.”

“Very good,” Judge Halcorr says. “Sheyf Vos?”

“Yes,” Tinte says, sticky sweet. “I have with me Guardian Kullar and Guardian Qiana, both members of Clan Vos, as well as our attorney.”

“Very good,” the judge repeats. “I will be asking some questions to cover our bases, but as far as the paperwork goes, I reviewed the will of Quian and Pethros Vos, the original custody agreement that the deceased Sheyf Kurlin Vos sent to the Jedi, Senator Mac’s copy of the same document, and Sheyf Tinte Vos’ new document. Our signature experts also looked at them and compared each signature to Sheyf Kurlin’s signature on other Republic documents. I expect none of you will be surprised to learn that the Jedi copy is legitimate, and the custody legalities do not change simply because Kurlin passed away. Quian and Pethros granted Kurlin custody, and Kurlin granted the Jedi custody. It’s cut and dry.”

“Your honor,” Tinte’s lawyer says, immediately, “surely to establish authenticity requires a longer process?”

Judge Halcorr cuts her eyes at the Kiffar.

“I would refrain, Mister de Chatillon, from arguing unless you wish for me to press further into any forgery charges.”

“Forgery?” The lawyer puffs up, hands tightening on the table. “Against a head of state? You would have to go to the senate for that.”

“I am not pursuing them, councilor, unless you force the issue. Now, I’m going to ask some questions to ascertain the well-being of the child in question.”

Quin’s heart lifts as the lawyer drops back into his chair. Tinte’s eyes bore holes into him, but he doesn’t look at her.

He looks at Knight Tholme.

“Knight Tholme,” Judge Halcorr begins, “you are the Jedi who trained Quinlan on Kiffu, yes?”

“That’s correct, your honor.”

She asks other questions. Did you bring Quinlan to the temple at the behest of Sheyf Kurlin? Yes. Did you receive the custody agreement confirming the verbal request shortly after? Yes, it was less than a week. Was Quinlan known to suffer mental health troubles after his aunt’s behavior that the deceased Sheyf Kurlin indicates in his letter attached to the custody document? Yes. This includes an explanation that doesn’t get into the nitty gritty of psychometry, which the judge probably won’t understand.

Then, she turns to Quinlan. Sitting up straight in his chair, he meets her eye.

“Quinlan,” she says, “I’m going to ask you a few basic questions about your life at the temple. All you have to do is answer yes or no.”

Quin nods. The judge’s gaze is kind, and there are still people out there, after all, who don’t believe the lies about the Jedi.

Are you well-fed at the temple? Yes. Do you have friends at the temple? Yes. Are you given new clothes when you need them? Yes. Do you receive medical care? Yes. Do you receive schooling apart from Force training? Yes. Do you have any desire to return to Kiffu at the present time?

At this, finally, Quin looks at Tinte again. A hot defiance builds up in him, and maybe it’s right, and maybe it’s not, but he wants her to know he means what he says. He’s not a thing.

“No.”

Her mask slipping, Tinte bangs her gnarled hand against the table, which earns a reprimand from the judge. Qiana puts an arm around her shoulders like she’s some poor, abused old woman, and Quin is hurting her. He scratches at the medallion scar beneath his glove.

“All right.” Judge Halcorr locks her datapad. “As expected, I rule that Quinlan Vos will remain in the custody of the Jedi Order while a minor unless and until he no longer wishes to continue his studies there. If that occurs, he will be transferred to a legal guardian of his choosing until he turns sixteen and may file emancipation paperwork. If none can be found, he will be placed in Republic foster care.”

The uproar starts ... pretty fast. Kullar shouts. So does Tinte’s attorney, which is probably not a good look for a lawyer? Senator Antilles raises his voice in turn, and Senator Mac, keeping his at a normal volume, struggles to be heard. Judge Halcorr loses control of the room now that the official stuff is over. Master Yaddle says take him, Zahn. Knight Tholme gets up from his chair, fast as anything with his cane once he’s stretched his knee out for the morning, and ushers Quin toward the door with Knight Qui-Gon at their heels.

They aren’t fast enough.

Kullar, as tall as Knight Qui-Gon and more muscular by far, swings and hits Knight Tholme right in the face. Blood spurts out of Tholme’s nose as the crunch sickens Quin’s stomach. Qui-Gon catches Tholme when he stumbles. Master Sifo and Master Plo take Kullar by the arms, and in all the chaos, two things happen.

One, a pop of cold rage goes off, and it isn’t Tinte. 

Two, his Aunt Qiana comes over, grasps his wrist, and holds him immobile until Tinte can reach him. Old things hold Quin in place as much as his mother’s sister. The screams. The crying. That night.

Death itself.

That’s what Tinte is to him.

Knight Tholme hasn’t said so, but Quin wonders if she had his parents killed herself.

“You are Kiffu’s miracle.” Tinte takes his chin in hand as the shouting and pushing continues around them. “You will return to Kiffu one day, Quinlan, to take up your place. I will make it so. Until then, you will live with the shame of your parents. Is that what you want? To curse their memory and abandon your home?”

“Let go of me!” Quin shouts as the spell breaks. How dare she talk about his parents like that? How dare she?

Quin tears his wrist out of his Aunt’s Qiana’s grasp, and when she tries grabbing at him, he scratches at her arm like a wild creature, and he doesn’t even care.

“Shut up about my parents!” he shouts, and he might not have as many midichlorians as Obi-Wan, but the Force is strong with him. A crack runs up the water pitcher on the meeting table, and the whole thing shatters.

Tinte reaches out for him, this time. Her gnarled fingers wrap around his forearm.

That pop of cold rage moves closer.

Master Dooku steps into Quin’s line of sight. Suddenly, Tinte doesn’t have hold of him anymore, not after Master Dooku Force pushes her away. The controlled power of Obi-Wan's soon-to-be grandmaster ripples through the air. He only moved Tinte just enough, and that, Quin knows, takes a lot of skill. Stepping between Quin and Tinte, Master Dooku’s face contorts. His nostrils flare. His teeth bare themselves. His cheeks flush red.

“You will move away from him, Sheyf Vos,” Master Dooku says, his rich brown cloak swinging. “This instant.”

The mold retracts in the face of his snarled demand. Tinte, eyes wide, backs away and points her cane in Dooku’s direction.

“Violence from the Jedi,” she says. “I shouldn’t have expected any better. Using the Force as a weapon. And look at Quinlan! This behavior of his.”

Dooku slides an arm around Quin’s shoulders as Qui-Gon comes up with Tholme, who has a handkerchief pressed to his nose.

“I believe it was your relative, Sheyf, that began the altercation,” Master Dooku replies. “Now go, before he faces assault charges.”

That bad weird scary angry cold thing slips out from between Quin’s ribs. Fear follows after.

She’s going to get you one day. She going to get you. She wants your power, and she’s going to get you. You aren’t in control enough to stop her doing what she wants when she does.

Frigid rage comes next. Hurt. He wants to hurt Tinte for hurting Knight Tholme. For hurting him. For probably hurting his parents in the first place.

“Are you all right, Quinlan?” Master Dooku asks, his eyes softer now than a mere second ago.

No.

“Yes, Master. Thank you.”

Blood stains Tholme’s handkerchief, but he turns toward Quin anyway. The council members speak with each other as the judge gets security officers to escort Tinte, Kullar, and Qiana out along with their attorney.

“Quin, I’m sorry she spoke to you that way,” Tholme says. “Are you all right?”

Safe now. He’s safe for now. He needs to remember that for now counts even as a sense of doom-dread pulls at him.

“Are you okay, Knight Tholme?” Quin asks. “Is your nose broken?”

Tholme waves a hand. “I’ve had worse, young one.”

“We’re going to wait a few moments and then go out another door. I expect Vasily Kenobi, Senator Moxia, and others are holding a press conference for Tinte,” Master Sifo tells them as he approaches with a smile for Quin and a look of brief concern for Dooku. He digs into his pockets, pulling out two fizzy sour candies, and stretches out his hand toward Quin. “Obi-Wan says these are your favorite?”

“They are.” Quin slides them into his pocket, and Master Sifo, as ever, smiles back at him. “Thank you, Master Sifo.”

Nausea burbles in the pit of Quin’s stomach. It creeps up up up and then—

“Right here,” Master Sifo says, grabbing a waste basket and getting it in front of Quin just in time.

Quin sinks to his knees and heaves up the toast and half of a smoothie he managed at breakfast. Master Sifo holds his hair while Master Yoda puts a hand on his back.

“Safe you are, youngling.” The lilt of Master Yoda’s voice helps calm Quin down. “Match my breathing, you can, and that will help.”

Quin coughs, a string of acidic spit coming up, but nothing else, and he does as Yoda gently asked.

Breathe in. Breathe out. Breathe in. Breathe out.

Knight Qui-Gon offers him a glass of water and a handkerchief to wipe his mouth—since when did he keep so many?—while Judge Halcorr apologizes to Knight Tholme.

Eventually, they go, taking a turbolift down to a lower level that leads them toward a back door.

Safe. He’s safe. But he’s scared. He’s safe, for now, but he’s scared. The Jedi have shown him so much love and he ... and he ....

Outside, the first crash of thunder comes.

And yet still, no rain.

A few of the council members offer to drive the speeder that Tholme and Qui-Gon brought so Quin doesn’t have to go anywhere near the front doors. Master Dooku drives, and Master Sifo insists on Quin sitting in the passenger seat so he doesn’t get motion sick and squeezes into the back with Knight Tholme and Knight Qui-Gon. Master Dooku opens the windows of this closed-top speeder so Quin can get air. They care. They care so much. Maybe he always felt like he was less than a Jedi because of his psychometry. Because he was scared Tinte would come steal him in the dead of night. The terror twists in his chest, but the love he has for the Jedi glows.

They fly past the main entrance of the courthouse, and there, right in front doors, is Tinte, standing with the Kiffex senator, Obi-Wan's snot-nosed uncle, and a bunch of other guys who look fancy. Cams flash. Recorders whir.

Quin doesn’t know what they’re saying, but the bad weird angry cold thing whispers a question he can’t ignore.

Were you worth it?

Obi-Wan's meditation breaks the minute his bond with Quin warms up. He’s taken, lately, to thinking of Quin’s fire in particular as a hearthfire. His mother used to light one in her bedroom when he was very little and sing lullabies to him. The lyrics come to him again as he thinks of her.

You showed me your love in the light of the stars / Cast your eyes on the ocean / Cast your soul to the sea  / When the dark night seems endless / Please remember me

She always made him feel safe like the temple makes him feel safe.

Like Quin makes him feel safe.

Quin must be getting back, and at least from that faint touch, it might be good news? 

Nim suggested they meditate for a while together, and it did help Obi-Wan's mind stop spinning. He’s not as good at meditation yet as Knight Qui-Gon, who loves it, or Knight Sifo, who calls it necessary for all Jedi, but especially for them, but he’s learning to like it. He meditates every morning with his clan. He just has trouble settling, or looking the Force in the eye, as Knight Qui-Gon sometimes calls it. The Force has always been his friend, but it gives him the visions, too, and the power of it in his body, in his mind, uninterrupted by anything like reading or watching a holoshow or studying his languages, leaves him alone with it in a way that ... he guesses he would call it overwhelming. Connecting with the world via the Force heightens everything every day. The push and press of other people’s feelings. The buzz of life all around him—sentients, plants, even creatures like his own Naberrie. He likes Master Sifo’s physical grounding, which the other adults have folded into their meditations with him.

Anyway, the point is, Quin’s coming home.

Home.

Shutting his eyes and searching the Force, he gets no sign of the mold and the rot of Tinte—that's what Quin said he always thinks of when his aunt comes to mind. No, Obi-Wan only senses Master Dooku, Master Sifo, Knight Tholme, Knight Qui-Gon, and Quin himself. Siri, Bant, and the others will be back from their lessons any minute, too.

The four Jedi and Quin come through the doorway of this creche common room/playroom reserved for initiates aged ten and up. Relief washes through the Force. Master Sifo’s presence bounces. Knight Qui-Gon's eyes shine. Master Dooku smiles. Knight Tholme has a big bruise? That can’t be good. And Quin ....

His fire crackles, but a hint of burnt Kat Saka’s fills Obi-Wan's nose. The adults wouldn’t look like they do if things had gone wrong, but something happened.

“Sith Hells, Zahn.” Master Rael speaks first. “What happened?”

Knight Tholme waves his hand. “Oh, one of the Vos cousins threw a punch. It’s nothing. Our young man here is officially safe with the Jedi, and that was the point of things.”

Obi-Wan wants to run to Quin, hug him, shout for joy, but he holds off. Quin comes to him instead while the adults chatter and throws his arms around Obi-Wan's neck. Quin hugs him tight, almost too tight, and Obi-Wan lets him. A buzz plays at the back of his neck, and he’s sure he doesn’t know what that is. Maybe the everything of it all. He returns Quin’s hug with the same energy, and while he wants to ask a thousand questions, he stays quiet.

Quin needs that.

Master Reginald returns with the rest of their clan and claps his hands together at the news, his eyes twinkling. His smile, too big to get lost in his beard, this time, brightens the room. It makes Quin smile, just a little, in turn. Siri, Bant, Prie, Garen, and Bolla gather around Quin, all beams of light.

We’re so happy, Quin!

Bant claps her pink hands together like Master Reginald, and there might be tears in her eyes.

Me too, Bant.

Quin’s smile tightens.

We were going to hide you if that judge chose wrong. Siri, hands on hips, ponytail swinging, says.

I know you would have, Sir.

Quin’s laugh rings thin, not like the broad breadth of sunshine Obi-Wan's gotten used to since his friend really settled in at the temple.

After the chaos dies down, the other adults go to tend to their business, Knight Tholme goes to the halls after Knight Qui-Gon's nagging, and the rest of their clan gets ushered to their free time before lunch and afternoon lessons, Quin turns toward Master Reginald.

“Is it okay if I take a walk around the temple with Obi-Wan?” he asks as he scratches at his nose. “I just need to ... I dunno. Think.”

“Of course you may,” Master Reginald replies. “Be back in three-quarters of an hour? You're both excused from lessons for the day, but if either of you could eat, it would please me, hmm?”

Quin’s taut smile stays like someone glued it there and agrees to this. They walk, without saying so, toward the treehouse in the Room of a Thousand Fountains. Now that they’re ten, they can go on walks like this by themselves. As much as Obi-Wan loves the temple, and Coruscant itself, he does long to see more of the galaxy. He doesn’t complain, though, because he’ll get to do that when he’s a Padawan. Besides, he shouldn’t complain. The Jedi love him. They gave him a home. He’s a complicated kid, and he wants to try and be, at least as much as he can, a little less so.

He can’t wait to see more of what’s out there. Even if he does make it past twenty? He sort of figures that Chosen Ones might not live a long life, anyway, and he hopes that before then, he can be of help to the Jedi and see more places along the way while he does.

In silence, they climb up the ladder and into the safe haven they’ve both taken to in the past couple of years. Obi-Wan reaches down to pick up Naberrie, who chirps, and manages to climb up herself.

Quin’s smile drops.

Quin puts his back against the wall, slides to the floor, and huffs out a breath. Obi-Wan doesn’t ask questions. Not yet. Quin, especially in this mood, will feel more comfortable if he can talk first. So, Obi-Wan gets on the floor with him, back against the wall just the same, and waits. Quin puts his face in his hands. Their bond throbs, and Obi-Wan rests just a hand on Quin’s shoulder.

“She’s gonna get me, Obes,” Quin whispers after about five minutes, the words muffled against his palms. “I know it. Not today. Not tomorrow. But she will.”

“Didn’t the judge say she doesn’t have any right to you?” Obi-Wan asks.

Quin twines his fingers into his locs and stares straight ahead of him with a blank, battered look.

“I don’t mean like that. If she can’t get me the right way, she’ll kidnap me. Whatever she needs to do. She said so.”

Obi-Wan doesn’t say that won’t happen or the Jedi will keep you safe. He does believe those things, but he understands what Quin’s scared of and why he’s scared of it. His time on Stewjon taught him, when he was really little, just what some adults are willing to do to children. Tinte’s reasons are different, but the lengths she’ll go to? Obi-Wan can guess how far they stretch.

“I know you’re scared,” Obi-Wan says, and finally, Quin looks at him with those brown eyes that make him feel a little ... squirmy sometimes. “And I know why. But a good thing happened today. The Jedi took care of you. Protected you. And the judge helped. There are things to be scared of, but what happened today means one less thing.”

Quin takes Obi-Wan's hand, squeezes it, and doesn’t let go.

“I wanted to take you, one day.” Quin sniffs. “I wanted to show you Kiffu. I wanted to be able to go back there. And now I can’t. Not until she’s dead.” Quin draws in a sharp breath. “I shouldn’t say that. That’s horrible. I’m horrible.”

“You’re not, Quin.”

This, Obi-Wan doesn’t say softly. The truth, as Knight Qui-Gon tells him, doesn’t always come gentle.

“I’m scared of people dying because I know exactly what it feels like,” Quin continues, and he stares again like the fear has possessed him, “but I’m also scared of that bad weird scary angry cold thing. The darkness.” He meets Obi-Wan's eye again. “I wanted to hurt her, Obi-Wan. I yelled and accidentally broke a water pitcher with the Force. I couldn’t control myself at all, and that’s not what a good Jedi does. The Jedi risked a lot for me. They—” Quin’s breath hitches, and tears teeter on the edge of his voice. “They risked a lot for a bad kid.”

A sob cracks through Quin, and when the first one comes, they don’t stop. Gaging in the bond that Quin wants physical comfort, Obi-Wan slides an arm around his best friend’s shoulders. He lets him cry for a pretty long while before he says anything, and tears play on his own lashes.

“You’re not a bad kid,” Obi-Wan insists. “Before you even knew me, when we were so little, you heard me screaming, and you wanted to help. I have a thousand other reasons, but that one’s important because it was right after your horrible aunt did what she did. Right after your parents died. And you still had compassion for me. That’s what being a Jedi is. You’ve done so much since then, Quin, with your psychometry and everything else. And if Tinte does get you one day? She’ll have to deal with me. And I think she won’t like that very much.”

But how long will you live? That voice that comes more and more now asks the question that is, these days, always ringing in the back of his head.

For today, he acknowledges it and puts it to the side. Besides, as Knight Qui-Gon, Master Dooku, and Master Sifo have both emphasized, nothing is set in stone.

Quin’s smile, the real one, forms liquid shaky on his mouth.

“Because you’re the Chosen One?”

Obi-Wan sniffs and holds his head high. “That doesn’t hurt, but no. Because no matter where life takes me, Quinlan Pethros Vos, I’ll always be there for you. And you’re exactly where you belong—right here in the Jedi Temple.”

That wry, golden laugh spills soft from Quin’s lips, and it’s not all fine, not by any means, but they have each other. They have their friends and their future masters. They have the Jedi.

They can’t go home, but they are home, anyway.

And that counts for a lot.

After a while, they go back to the creche and settle into the music room just as their friends come back from lunch with snacks for them. Quin sits at the piano and plays a song based on a poem that the Jedi Chorus sings every spring. His really nice tenor voice lifts into the air, and Siri, sliding onto the bench with Quin, joins in with the alto harmony.

Planting trees early in spring,
we make a place for birds to sing
In time to come. How do we know?
They are singing here now.
There is no other guarantee
that singing will ever be.

Obi-Wan nibbles at a potato hand pie with Bant leaning against him on one side and Prie on the other. Bant and Obi-Wan decide upon going to the big temple pool tonight to swim. One of the crechemasters recently found a marimba, an instrument from Kiffu, at one of Coruscant’s international markets, and Quin is going to have first lesson while they’re gone.

Quin and Siri’s voices fill the room. The Force settles. Joy comes, and Obi-Wan lets himself have it.

HNN News Alert

Breaking: Sheyf Tinte Vos, ruler of Kiffu and Kiffex, along with Senator Moxia of Kiffex, led a press conference in front of the Central Court building just after eleven this morning. The hearing was set to discuss the custody of Quinlan Vos, who is a current initiate in the Jedi Order. They were joined by Senator Vasily Kenobi of Stewjon, his newest junior senator, Vinca Abgrall, Senator Avi Singh, BecLawise, and others known for their strong opinions on the Jedi Order’s relationship with the Republic. The Jedi were granted continued custody of Quinlan Vos, the sheyf’s great-nephew. The sheyf alleges that the custody documents signed by her late brother Kurlin Vos were forged.

It has always been an open secret that if the Jedi want a child in their ranks and are refused by the parents, they can and will secret the child to their temple, Sheyf Vos said. Now, protected by Republic bureaucracy, they grow even bolder. My great-nephew is all I have left of my beloved niece, who was brutally murdered, along with her husband, when Quinlan was only four years old. He was meant to be the next leader of our planets, and the Jedi have denied me this because they want his unique powers for themselves.

Senator Kenobi, the younger brother of King Castyl Kenobi, also had harsh words for the Jedi.

The Jedi may engage with the Force however they wish in their own personal capacity—no matter what I think of it from the viewpoint of my faith. However, it is not their right to indoctrinate children into their beliefs without the permission of their biological family. While some parents may choose to let the Jedi raise their children, Sheyf Tinte has agreed to no such arrangement, and has been fighting to regain custody of her great-nephew for years. Whatever the Jedi’s relationship with the Republic, it is simply not their right to steal children. They are already shown an extreme and unfair religious preference. Enough is enough.

Stay tuned for tonight’s special broadcast, where we’ll hear from beings on both sides of this contentious issue.

Up in the hidden confines of Hego Damask’s penthouse apartment, Jedi Master Sheev Palpatine makes an encrypted call.

Plagueis, as per usual, takes his time answering, which serves to make irritation prickle beneath Sheev’s collar. Whatever blessed thing is he up to when this is happening?

“Hello, Sheev,” Plagueis says when he finally deigns to answer.

“Have you heard?”

“Of course.”

“Have you spoken to the sheyf?”

“I just ended the comm with her not five minutes ago.”

Horrible woman. Horrible. She might not loathe Force sensitives like Cosinga or Count Gora, but she does seek to use her nephew, which isn’t all that different, in the end. Harming a traumatized young boy for no outcome does not suit. Yes, of course, letting Tinte take him would have been quite the ordeal for Quinlan, but he would have served a greater purpose in protecting his kind.

Now, well.

What have they gotten from this scheme?

“Calm yourself, Sheev.” Plagueis’ long fingers stroke at his chin. “All is not lost. Tinte will be joining, as I’m sure you gathered, the contingent of anti-Jedi senators.”

“I despise them,” Sheev snaps. He might as well be the angry adolescent he once was rather than the forty-year-old Jedi Master he’s become.

“As do I, but remember, we are using them for our own ends. They are tools and will be discarded when the time is right. They don’t know the truth of me or anything about you. Though, it may serve us, in future, to bring Tinte into the fold, at least with myself and what I might be able to offer her. We’ll have to see if we can trust her.”

Sheev drags in a breath and settles his temper. Plagueis won’t be impressed at a tantrum.

“What’s to be done next?”

“Next, I believe we wait for a certain Bail Prestor to join the senate and then begin work with our tools on anti-Jedi legislation. It won’t pass, not yet, but it will accomplish two things: reinforcing the Chosen One’s belief in his own visions and giving you—”

“A chance to speak out for the Jedi,” Sheev interrupts, catching onto Plagueis’ meaning. “And keep my position safe.”

“And make them believe you as things grow worse for them over the years,” Plagueis adds. “You’ll earn their trust even further when you make a brave stand. You’ve made yourself enough of a friend to the Chosen One that he spoke to you about his vision. We might as well take advantage of that when the time is right.”

“And Quinlan?”

“Tinte still has her eyes on him, of course, but we’ve agreed to ... approach the matter differently. We will be making use of Quinlan Vos when the time is right.”

“You have a plan?”

“The beginnings of one. It will depend upon a few things. The pieces are still coming to me.”

Sheev knows better than to press. Plagueis remains, as ever, secretive, and prefers discussing certain things at his home on Mygeeto or here on Coruscant. Of course, Sheev can only make it there every so often, and it requires adding time to missions and erasing travel from whatever ship he takes. Plagueis has a great love of science and interest, so he’s said, in Force-sensitive cloning. Whether this has to do with that, Sheev couldn’t say. His own thoughts on the matter remain ethically murky.

“It will require patience.” Plagueis meets Sheev’s eye with meaning. “When we began this, Sheev, you knew it would take years. Decades. And I knew, even when you were young, that you had the ability to wait if it meant we achieved our objective.”

A smirk tugs at the corner of Sheev’s mouth.

“A Jedi’s advice.”

Plagueis’ eyes gleam with amusement.

“Not quite, I think, but it’s as I told you before: the Jedi have longevity over the Sith because of their endurance and ability to adapt to new circumstances—they themselves are eschewing that second part right now as we both know. Applying that lesson here suits us all.” Plagueis pauses, a thought clearly occurring to him. “Perhaps go and speak to your old master and ... tease out his thoughts on the happenings today. I’m sure he’ll have them.”

Sheev wants to say that he was going to do that, but he keeps it to himself. There’s no point in aggravating Plagueis. As much as hates to admit that he can’t do something on his own ... well, this will take them both. Plagueis is the secret influence. The money. Sheev is the man on the inside.

“I will be in Coruscant in two weeks’ time to tend to some business.” Plagueis steeples his fingers. “Do you know if you will be available?”

Sheev gives a nod. “I will make it so.”

Plagueis nods in return and clicks off. It is not, Sheev considers, his best showing in front of his second teacher and ally, but so it goes. Plagueis needs him as much as he needs Plagueis in this symbiotic relationship of would-be Sith and Jedi. Together, they create the gray. The gray, one day, will give way to pure, unflinching light. A cold, bright winter’s day comes to mind.

Not everyone can survive the freeze.

Settling the pieces on his metaphorical holochess board, Sheev takes Plagueis’ compliment to heart.

I knew you had the ability to wait.

Hego Damask, otherwise known as Darth Plagueis, last of Darth Bane’s line, clicks off his comm with Sheev Palpatine and surveys the silver-blue sky beyond the window of his sumptuous Sojourn apartments.

Palpatine is, more than anything else, a brilliant boy who never moved past the rage wounds of childhood. Oh, what could have been if the Jedi had never gotten their hands on him. As it stands, he is exactly the tool Plagueis needs. That will be so for many years to come, but whether he’ll be useful at the end of things? It remains to be seen.

A Jedi can never be a Sith in truth. Plagueis knows this. They can only be Fallen.

Still, perhaps, if Sheev can handle the actual plan when he learns it a long time from now, he’ll be an anomaly.

Stranger things have happened.

Plagueis doubts it.

From somewhere in the depths of the dungeons beneath him, a scream reaches his ears.

Hmm. It seems he’ll have to strengthen the soundproofing.

Again.

Sweeping toward the lift in his long black cloak, he descends down toward those dungeons humming an ancient Sith song.

Come little prophet / O martyr mine / Omen of darkness / Torment is thine

He steps off on the lowest level, and the usual copper scent stings his nose. The children in this section, the least of his captives, sit quietly in their cells. They are beyond tears, it would seem, at least when at rest, and that pleases him. The youngest of his ... initiates are five. The oldest, out in the galaxy, now, are in their early twenties. The intelligent ones up on the level above receive schooling and care at the hands of several Sith Eternal before attending university. His first, Sly Moore, entered the senate not terribly long ago representing Umbara with a perfectly curated backstory. Perhaps, when she’s older, she’ll do for a judgeship. He’s clearly lacking in that department given today’s events, but none of his initiates are yet old enough to be considered.

That will change.

The children on this lowest level serve as experiments for ... a great many things. Not all Force-sensitives are created equal, after all.

When the right time arrives, and he lays hands on the Chosen One, well, he ought to be prepared. The boy will help him subjugate and eventually rid the galaxy of the Jedi, to be sure, and pave the way for the Republic to destroy itself with war in the years after, but there are other, even greater plans in mind.

The word immortality tastes golden on his tongue.

That scream reaches him again. Begging follows.

Please, Lord Venamis. I can’t take anymore.

Don’t you want to be a part of our master’s great work?

Yes, but—

Another scream ricochets off the wall.

And Hego Damask recalls, with great pleasure, the report that Sheev sent him once he was granted access to the masters-only section in the archives.

There are a great many reasons why there are less Force-sensitive children to be found, Jedi High Council Member Sifo-Dyas wrote not a year ago. These things ebb and flow. With corporate power running rampant and people struggling, they distrust the Republic and therefore the Jedi and aren’t willing to have their children raised by the Order. But visions have come to me, of late, of a screaming darkness. The scenes swirl with Shadow, like someone is preventing me from seeing clearly, but the screams are the screams of children.

And I cannot help but wonder if someone is stealing Force-sensitive younglings.

Plagueis chuckles to himself. An ancient Sith spell keeps Sifo-Dyas from seeing clearly, indeed, but he is a worthy Seer if he can infiltrate those defenses at all. Still, Plagueis ought to reinforce his safeguards. While the Chosen One has not yet seen this place—as far as Plagueis’ information goes—it could happen in the future.

“Lord Venamis,” Plagueis says, entering the blood-soaked main medical room and stepping over to the sink to wash his hands. He doesn’t want to risk his prizes getting ill, after all. “How are we doing with young Malar today?”

Venamis, a secret second apprentice of Plagueis’ own master whose brain has been overcooked from once being an experiment himself, bows.

“Well, my master. He expired not a half hour ago, and here he is now, still breathing. Giving him the matching blood of another child seemed to speed the process as you hoped. The midichlorians crave life. I find the glitterstyll erasing their memories after each session also assists with the work.”

“Good,” Plagueis mutters as he pulls on his sterile gloves. “Very good.”

With all of his work running Damask Holdings and all that entails, Plagueis has not the time to train anything other than future politicians and bureaucrats and take care of his experiments. So, let Zahn Tholme train Quinlan Vos. Let him turn him into a skilled spy and whatever else he likes.

Then, one day, if the pieces fall together right, Plagueis can make him ... something else, entirely.

Jedi Master Yan Dooku sits alone at his eating table with rarely seen bad posture, a glass of red wine, and a bottle of cleaner.

There’s a stain in in the wood that simply will not come out.

Meditating sawed down the sharper edges of his bad mood, but it still sits intractable in the pit of his stomach. His silver-plate chrono beeps, letting him know that he has an hour before meeting Sifo and Jo for their once-monthly supper out. His tastes stretch him to the ends of his master’s stipend most months, but he always leaves room for this tradition. He rubs at the stubborn stain on the table again. Perhaps he’ll return it to the shared household items storage area and select another. Most Jedi, including two of his Padawans, would not mind this stain, but at the moment, it aggravates him every time he looks at it.

Never satisfied you are, Yoda once teased with that secret smile of his. Progress, you make, in your studies, a good day, you have, and still looking for the mistakes, for the gray skies, you are.

His master wasn’t wrong, to be sure. He is perpetually unsatisfied, much as he’s worked on that in the years since his slip into the darkness, recognizing it as one of the root issues that caused it in the first place. Being on the hunt for darkness led him, it seemed, right to darkness’ door, instead.

Still.

As relieved as he is for young Quin, Tinte will be up to something in future. A year from now. Five. Ten. Patience must be her forte—she waited until she was nearly seventy to make a power grab.

And the press conference ... to say it tempted his worst impulses is to not say enough.

Hence the meditation.

After Ramil’s ... exploits and death, turmoil swept through Serenno. Jenza’s rule was in question. Finally, the other great houses agreed to her rule upon one condition: she could select one senator, but they, as a council, would select the other. In all of Serenno’s history, the ruling family chose their senators. Still, having one senator on the side of Force-sensitives is better than none. One day, Dooku remains sure, the second Serennian senator will join the anti-Jedi initiative. The planet’s history of being ruled by the Sith Empire has made them hate Force-sensitives on principle no matter how wrongheaded that may be.

A knock sounds at his door, and he knows, of course, who it is before he calls out for them to enter.

“I don’t wish to go over the details of today to death, Padawan,” he says as Sheev enters. “If you’re here for that—”

“I’m not,” Sheev cuts in, holding up a bottle of red wine. “I only thought you might like company. No Sifo-Dyas or Jocasta?”

“Sifo is helping with a youngling he brought to the temple recently who is struggling with nightmares. Jo is training some of the archives night staff, this evening. They’re meeting me here in—” He checks his chrono again. “A half-hour’s time.”

Dooku tells Sheev to sit, and when his middle boy uncorks the wine, the tart scent of red cherries and vanilla reaches him.

“Where did you get this?” Dooku asks as he finishes off his previous glass and allows Sheev to pour him a new one.

“On Jedha, actually, last I was there,” Sheev replies. “There’s a winery there the guardians buy from of late. They age it in—”

“Oak,” Dooku finishes. “Yes, I can tell by the scent.”

One thing Dooku has always appreciated about Sheev is his ability to simply exist in the same room side by side with a person he likes. He and Silas used to spend countless hours like that in the archives. Sheev used to come to Dooku’s own quarters and do his coursework while Dooku read or some such thing. Unlike Rael, who doesn’t like silence unless he’s meditating, and unlike Qui-Gon, who wanted to talk even if he tried not to, Sheev coexists peacefully in the quiet. It’s only when he’s anxious or stubborn that he talks overmuch. So, that’s what they do. They sit. They drink wine. And it does settle Dooku’s heart a bit.

“I know Rael is busy with Nim, and you don’t want to burden Qui-Gon when he’s still young,” Sheev says after several minutes of this. “But you may, if you wish, unburden yourself with me from time to time. I’m aware you have friends, your own master, Sifo-Dyas and Jocasta, but I am far from a child these days, master. I have an ear, should you need one.”

Dooku reaches over with an awkward air and squeezes Sheev’s hand. He doesn’t linger—Cosinga’s abuse made Sheev’s appreciation of physical affection rare—but their bond warms in response.

That strange blankness he sensed around Sheev for a time no longer holds sway.

“That frightful presser aside,” Dooku says with the weight of a confession on his tongue, “I worry for Quinlan’s safety. Which makes me worry for Obi-Wan's safety. Tholme is unlikely to keep Quin anything like temple-bound once he’s a Padawan, but Obi-Wan ....”

“You worry the Stewjoni will try something?” Sheev asks.

Dooku nods. “Two assassination attempts were made on Elzar Mann. No culprit was ever identified, and without access to their holy books, we don’t know if the Stewjoni have any such commandment. Obi-Wan was too young to have learned those kinds of details, and King Kenobi claimed he didn’t know that Obi-Wan was the Chosen One until he was already handed over to us. It will be easier for the Stewjoni or any other villain to find Obi-Wan when he takes missions as a Padawan, and he must be trained in the real world, but depending on the ... situation at the time, we may need to approach things differently. He is the Chosen One, and with his gifts, his powers and his intelligence both, he can spare the Jedi, but also—” Dooku’s throat closes, and a hot flush rushes into his cheeks.

See there? He ought not have discussed this with his Padawan until he could manage himself.

“You care for him?” Sheev expresses the sentiment that Dooku could not, but which remains clear enough, regardless.

A memory comes to Dooku with the bright color and energetic brushstrokes of an Expressionist painting—not his particular favorite but appropriate for childhood remembrances. Obi-Wan, copper hair falling into his eyes, dashing down the hall hand-in-hand with Quinlan, Siri, and Bant while Master Reginald, trying quite hard not to laugh, chased after them with a booming you merry band of brats!

They had, Dooku soon discovered, gone out of the creche without telling their caretaker.

“Yes.” Dooku swallows. “I do.”

“I think you ought to trust your instincts,” Sheev tells him. “If Obi-Wan needs to be kept in the temple more than other young Padawans, then he must. He’ll have classes to see to. Plenty to learn from Qui-Gon within these walls. More time for saber training with you.”

Dooku gives Sheev a look. “Qui-Gon may see it differently. He will see it differently.”

“Qui-Gon will see your wisdom.” Sheev smooths back a loose strand of his wavy red hair, ever tied-back with a ribbon. “Obi-Wan is his first student. You have had three. He will want to protect Obi-Wan, besides. So will the council. In any case, with the behavior of Sheyf Vos, with Vasily Kenobi’s speech, I understand your worry.”

Sheev doesn’t obsess over the overt anti-Jedi sentiments expressed today by Kiffu and Stewjon. This, Dooku appreciates. He’s trying, quite hard, not to obsess over them himself.

The danger to the Jedi is clear but slow-moving. It is not, he thinks, immediately imminent.

They have time to think.

Obi-Wan's safety, however, remains urgent. Quinlan’s as well, though Dooku will have less say over that.

Sheev goes and leaves the bottle of wine with Dooku. Sifo-Dyas replaces him not five minutes later, and Dooku pours him a glass while they wait for Jo. Unlike Sheev, Sifo’s prolonged silence is a strange thing.

“Sifo?” Dooku asks. “What’s the matter?”

Sifo jumps at being addressed. “Oh, apologies. I just was thinking about something my youngling told me.”

Sifo stops his staring and rubs at the underside of his forearm where, Dooku knows, there are several cutting scars. They came from self-inflicted wounds during their adolescence when Sifo wanted to feel anything but the pain of his visions. He didn’t want to die, he made that clear enough, but the amount of blood certainly made adults at the time question things. Sifo was in the halls for a month working daily with a mind healer. Lene was excused from missions to help her Padawan. They weren’t more than fifteen, at the time.

“What about her?”

“She said there was another girl in her neighborhood that was Force-sensitive like she is—not terribly strange on Corellia—and one day she went missing. Law enforcement never found her, and the case went cold.”

“You’re wondering again about someone, perhaps even this Sith Lord, stealing children?”

Sifo’s dark eyes meet Dooku’s, and the purple smears beneath them are prominent in the low light. The Jedi, Seekers especially, have been going to different planets and handing out information about Force-sensitive children since Obi-Wan's arrival, but they may have to double their efforts. Maybe they can install Jedi other than their handful of watchmen in sectors for extended periods so they’re a part of the community. That used to be common before they shut down outposts due to lack of senate funding support. Perhaps they’ll even need to do—Dooku swallows a sigh—television appearances. People call them secretive, and it grates at Dooku constantly.

“I can’t help but think it. And I can’t help but feel ... helpless. Sending out more Jedi watchman to sectors where we often find Force-sensitive children will do nothing to quash these rumors that it’s us who are doing the stealing. Perhaps our fellows less close to this particular issue will have a more clear-headed compromise in mind.” A closed-mouth smile tightens the crinkles around Sifo’s eyes. “It’s been a long day. Let’s not talk anymore about about old Sifo-Dyas' paranoid theories, hmm?”

“Sifo,” Dooku protests, “no one said it was paranoia.”

Sifo raises a hand. “Please, Yan. I don’t want to talk about it anymore tonight. I want to enjoy the evening with you both.”

Dooku knows that rare stiffness in his partner’s tone well enough. He relents, and the cold thud of rage in him finally, finally dissipates. Sifo, even, in this mood, has that impact. He was always cutting up when they were young, and that mischief, that joy, is still in him despite the weight of it all.

Together, they wait for Jocasta.

Together, they ponder the future that is, as ever, just out of their reach.

The wife of the King of Stewjon finds her opening just as a storm takes hold.

Beneath the sea-salt-crusted statue of the Great First Martyr Elecia Zeveron, she hands the infant she found yesterday to the same grizzled old sailor who helped her get Mira to Coruscant. The lights of the white stone church glow yellow against the dark sky. The crash of thunder cuts into the monophonic chant slipping out from beneath the doors, the two sounds twisting together in a way that makes her bones go cold. She couldn’t say why. The deep male voices of the Path monks, their lives dedicated to praying to the Force for guidance, ring in her ears.

 The Force lives not in chains / Nor is it for our hands to touch / The Force will be free

Feigning a migraine, she was excused from services this evening. The handmaidens who watch her could not, of course, receive the same dispensation, which gave her a blessed hour to herself.

The infant cried out from beneath her bedroom window just after sunset last evening, and she can only guess that his parents abandoned him. He was Force-sensitive, she knew that much. So, she drugged him. That kept him quiet while he slept in one of her empty wardrobes. After getting caught helping Mira, Castyl cleaned out all her fine dresses. These days, she wears only simple blue frocks, all in the same color and shape, to express her humility to the people of Stewjon. Castyl, up late in a meeting with priests from across the planet, didn’t come to her. She only heard the doors to his quarters slam shut sometime after midnight.

She’s sure she knows what the meeting was about.

The wind screeches warnings. Lightning casts Elecia’s eyes white. The woman killed Jedi with her creature, the Leveler, that turned Force-sensitives to dust.

She certainly wouldn’t want to spare this child’s life tonight.

The next roar of thunder covers the baby’s wail. That grizzled old sailor takes the basket into his arms as a white-frothing wave slams onto shore. Old scars ring his wrists, visible when the sleeve of his blue rain jacket slides up. A tattoo of the Stewjoni letter for F in Basic, glinting silver, indicates his forever-status in Stewjoni society. A tattoo of an anchor on his collarbone, done in navy-blue, indicates the life he chose.

The wife of the King of Stewjon has one more thing to give him.

A letter written on waterproof flimsi.

“Leave it with him when you drop him off at the temple doors,” she tells him. “Do I have your word?”

“You have it, Lady Morgane.”

That’s what he calls her, because she hates being called queen. That’s all she ever is to anyone else.

The grizzled old sailor, keeping the rain off the child with one flick of his hand, goes toward his tall ship in the harbor whilst humming the notes of a shanty. When the storm clears, he’ll go across the bay toward his starship.

As he disappears into the warm season downpour, Queen Morgane Kenobi née Le Gall repeats the words of the letter she knows by heart.

My Toutig,

As you grow older, be wary. As you grow older, be careful.

As you grow older, look for the blur of Stewjon blue in a crowd.

I love you.