Archive: M_A, SWAL, WWOMB and anywhere else just ask me.
Category: AU, Angst and Drama
Spoilers: Oh, mangled things for TPM kinda sorta. And the Jedi
Apprentice books.
Summary: A drastic AU set between TPM and ANH.
Series: Sequel to Prelude
Feedback: Yes, please! REALLY REALLY YES! I'm almost literally
dying for feedback on this one - tell me if you liked it or if
I'm just totally off the wall.
Note: [this is telepathy] and /these are thoughts/.
Thanks to Steph and Laura Ann for beta reading! =)
Disclaimer: George Lucas is god. I just slip in and play with
the toys when he's not looking.
July, 1999
"Wake up. Anakin will be here soon."
There was no response for a moment, then dark blue eyes opened
easily, focusing on Obi-Wan. A small smile tugged at Qui-Gon's
lips, his hand reaching up to brush the cheek of the younger
man. "I was awake."
Obi-Wan frowned at the gravely breathed whisper, placing a
reproving fingertip over Qui-Gon's mouth. "Don't. You'll tire
yourself."
The Jedi Master grimaced but did not voice any further words,
waving away Obi-Wan's concern. The younger Jedi let his hands
rest against the side of his lover's throat, fingertips
pressing gently against pulse and glands, monitoring. Qui-Gon
made a half sound of protest but submitted to the touch,
turning his head to let his lips brush Obi-Wan's palm. The
younger man smiled, threading his fingers through the long
silvery strands of hair that brushed Qui-Gon's shoulders.
[I'll be alright; you needn't hover.] Mild reproof in the
thought, but love and understanding as well.
The fingertips slid along the length of Qui-Gon's throat,
caressing rather than testing. Obi-Wan's voice, however, was
factual. "You're breathing easier this morning. Still, you
should save your strength for that, not for talking."
Qui-Gon raised one silver brow in an arched look, nodding
pointedly towards the door to the suite. Obi-Wan laughed
softly. "For Anakin I'll make an exception. But a brief one,
mind you. Go get ready - he'll be here shortly."
The older man rose from his chair before the table, turning to
brush a brief kiss across the other man's lips before stalking
towards the sleeping chamber, shedding his light morning robe
as he went. Obi-Wan looked after him, the mix of his feelings
like the twinge of a bruise pressed wrong. The livid scars
piercing front and back of the Jedi Master's chest were vivid
reminders, stark white against pale skin, pulled taut over ribs
that shone not with the healthy gleam of muscle but the thinner
shadows of illness. Qui-Gon had never bowed to weakness, not
through all the long recovery so many years ago, nor now, when
old injuries and the relentless march of time conspired against
him. The cut of his spine was still ramrod straight, the broad
shoulders unbowed, and if the grace of his movements had become
slightly stiffer over time then Obi-Wan could still honestly
say that his former Master moved better than many men in their
prime.
Letting the mix of worry and pride go, Obi-Wan went through the
motions of clearing the dishes of their morning meal from the
table and setting the central room to rights. Qui-Gon
re-appeared just as he was finishing, dressed but for the free
cascade of his silvery hair. Obediently wordless, he extended
the leather thong to Obi-Wan, who took it with a small smile
and reached to gather back the strands and fasten them
properly.
It was a small thing, a concession to pride and nothing more,
but something that had taken the Jedi Master some time to come
to terms with. Muscles of chest and shoulder across the left
side, hampered by damage and heavy scar tissue, had never quite
regained full mobility. It showed itself in the little things,
the gesture required to lift both hands above and behind the
head to fasten a little strip of leather in his hair. Obi-Wan
tied the strip and indulgently let his fingers comb through the
soft strands - at the outset Qui-Gon had, in stubborn
frustration, cut the whole of it nearly as short as Obi-Wan's
own trimmed hair had been at the time, to the younger man's
extreme dismay. Coaxing over the years had grown it forth again
and now Qui-Gon submitted to the necessity of Obi-Wan's help
with gratitude, if not entirely good grace.
The door chime rang softly. Obi-Wan untangled his hands with a
last regretful caress and went to answer it.
"Good morning, Obi-Wan." Anakin's smile was marred slightly by
the red tinge to his eyes. Obi-Wan smiled, recognizing the look
from many a morning after a sleepless night of last minute
lessons.
"Made a late evening of it, did you?" Stepping back, he ushered
the young man in. "You're in luck - there's half a pot of spice
tea on the table."
"Force be with you," Anakin replied reverently, already
reaching for the cup which Qui-Gon had poured and was holding
out to him. Half the cup disappeared in a long swallow,
followed by a relieved sigh. "I think there were times I've
lived on this. Good morning, Master Qui-Gon."
"Good morning, Ani." Listening closely Obi-Wan could catch the
still wet rasp behind the whispered words, but it was an
improvement over the days before. "What were you up doing?"
"I met Kiot at the games last night. He just returned from
assignment; I haven't seen him in years. We spent half the
night talking." Anakin downed the remnants of the tea, which
was obviously working as a stimulant to thoughts and tongue.
Reaching for the pot, he poured himself another cup and claimed
one of the chairs. "He's taken a Padawan. Over a year ago. I
was surprised - he's a younger then I am. She's a smart girl
for her age, she'll make a fine Knight someday."
Qui-Gon chuckled softly, the sound skipping roughly. "Which
means you aren't any closer to deciding what to do yourself."
Anakin had the grace to blush slightly. "No, sir. I've watched
them all - some of them are very strong, they'll be good Jedi.
But I can't imagine trying to teach one of them. I wouldn't
know where to start." He shrugged slightly, turning the cup
between his hands. "I'm a good Knight, sir, you've said so
yourself. But I'm not a teacher."
"You're a superb Knight," Obi-Wan replied, taking the seat
across from Anakin. "And I think, when it comes to it, you will
be a good teacher."
"You need the right student," Qui-Gon added, his glance passing
fondly across Obi-Wan. "When you find them, you will know. The
Force will not have it otherwise."
Anakin nodded gravely. "Then I will wait for the right one," he
said simply.
Obi-Wan laughed softly. "The Council may not let you wait too
long," he warned. "We need every Knight who can teach."
"Then why don't you take another Padawan, Master?"
Anakin asked curiously.
Shaking his head, Obi-Wan poured the last of the pot of tea
into the younger man's cup. "Don't think the Council hasn't
considered it," he replied. "But a teaching Master should be an
active one and I won't accept an assignment away from the
Temple." His gaze flickered to Qui-Gon, then away. "I'm serving
where I am, teaching the younger classes. Someone must."
Qui-Gon brushed his fingertips across Obi-Wan's wrist, a
gesture of comfort and absolution from the truth. "They would
ask me," he said jokingly, "but three... four, counting you,
Anakin... have tired this old man out." Seeing Anakin's eyes
wander slightly, the Jedi Master barked a laugh and reached to
push a bowl of cenai towards the young man. "A word to the
wise," he cautioned. "If you take a human as your Padawan, take
a girl. They're much easier to keep fed then young boys."
Both Anakin and Obi-Wan flushed but the younger man gamely
reached for a fruit all the same, deftly peeling the thick rind
from the pale globe. "You're not old," he protested around a
mouthful.
Qui-Gon waved the comment away. "Old enough." Leaning back in
his chair, he abruptly changed the subject. "What did the
Council have to say of your report?"
Anakin grimaced. "They don't tell you?"
"Not any more. Why should they?" Qui-Gon shrugged
philosophically. The older man had not been sorry to relinquish
the Council seat he had never wanted. "Did they say anything to
you?"
"Not much," Anakin admitted. "At least, not to me. I
think they're worried about the state of the rumors. There's
worlds where it's safer to not say that you're Jedi."
"There have always been those," Obi-Wan murmured. "Not everyone
respects what we stand for."
"Well, there's more now then there were before," Anakin
replied, a thin crease marring the high arch of his brows.
"The Jedi have had lean times before," Qui-Gon said softly. "We
sustain. Even in this, at our time of weakness, we shall
survive." He looked at Anakin, a shadow passing over the sharp
planes of his expression. "It will be hardest on the young who
must rebuild." The last word dissolved into a viscious wet
cough which the Jedi Master rigorously muffled, the spasms
violently shaking his chest.
Obi-Wan was on his feet at once, hands pressed to Qui-Gon's
chest as he eased the labors of the damply congested lung.
Anakin surged across the table, reaching to extend his own
strength until Qui-Gon's breath came easier, the spasms easing.
Leaning back, the older man took slow deliberate breaths, the
color gradually returning to his blanched face.
When he would have opened his mouth Obi-Wan's hand was firmly
there, the younger man's gaze serious. "Not a word," he ordered
crisply. "Not a syllable, Qui-Gon. Or so help me, I'll... I'll
set you to doing astronavigation problems with the ten year
olds!"
Raising his hands in defeat, Qui-Gon signaled his acquiescence.
Obi-Wan took his hand away slowly, his expression cautioning
against any disobedience. With an inaudible sigh, Qui-Gon
rubbed ruefully at his chest. [I'm sorry, Ani.]
"No, Master Qui-Gon, I'm sorry," Anakin replied, shaken. "I
shouldn't have kept you talking."
[I can't always be mute.] Qui-Gon reached for Obi-Wan's hand to
take the sting from the irritated words, shrugging to let them
know that it was primarily pointed at his own failing flesh.
[Thank you.]
Obi-Wan sighed, raking back the loose mass of his hair. "You...
Between the two of you, teaching a class of ten year olds is
easier. Which I will have to do soon... Qui-Gon, I want your
word that you will rest."
[I haven't much choice, do I?] The Jedi Master smiled,
admitting his own defeat. [I will rest, Obi-Wan. I promise.]
The younger man glared down at his lover, then turned to
Anakin, finger stabbing out in a way that made the former
Padawan press lower in his seat as he had so many times when
caught in a misdeed by that gesture. "You. Have they given you
anything to do today?"
Anakin stammered for a moment. "Ah... no, Master."
"Good," Obi-Wan smiled grimly. "Then you'll stay here and make
sure that this brainless fool," he gave the tips of Qui-Gon's
hair a small tug, "sleeps." He rounded back on the Jedi
Master. "No reading, no walks in the garden, nothing at all
that doesn't involve laying down and breathing as the
sum total of the occupation. Understood?"
"Yes, Master," Anakin replied meekly, echoed by a slowly
drawled [Yes... Master] from the wryly grinning Qui-Gon.
Obi-Wan continued to glare at him for a moment more, then
relented and leaned down to gently kiss the other man. "I'm
selfish," he admitted, leaning his forehead against Qui-Gon's.
"My heart can't take another relapse."
[Then we'll see that it doesn't happen,] Qui-Gon silently
reassured him, reaching up to gently cup Obi-Wan's face between
large hands. [For your sake.] Giving Obi-Wan a little shove, he
made small shooing motions. [I'll be alright. Anakin will make
sure that I behave.]
Hesitating, Obi-Wan turned again to Anakin. All jesting aside,
there was naked reluctance and worry in his eyes. "If he tries
to talk," he instructed the younger man firmly, "gag him."
[That won't be necessary,] Qui-Gon objected firmly. [Go. What
sort of impression will it make on your students if you're late
for your class?]
"If I'm late," Obi-Wan muttered, "I'll be prying them from the
walls. Qui-Gon, go back to bed. I want to see you there before
I leave."
Qui-Gon nodded impatiently, extending a hand which his lover
caught and used to steady the older man as he rose. Anakin
stood hastily, hovering a step behind as Obi-Wan escorted
Qui-Gon firmly towards the inner room. By the time he slumped
down upon the sleeping couch the Jedi Master's breath was
rasping again, soft coughs punctuating each inhale. Obi-Wan
stripped away his boots and outer tunic, easing the larger man
back onto the piled pillows of the couch.
[Don't fuss, healer.] Even his mental voice was faded, but a
touch of humor remained. [Go. Anakin will watch.]
Obi-Wan sighed, frowning worriedly. Reaching down, he passed
light fingertips across his lover's forehead. Anakin felt the
soft surge of the Force around them as the Jedi bound it to his
spoken word. "Sleep."
Qui-Gon's eyes closed heavily; the Jedi Master did not even
attempt to fight the command. Silence, broken only by the
ragged breaths of the sleeping man, descended. Obi-Wan nodded,
gesturing Anakin to step closer as he lowered his voice to a
whisper.
"Let him sleep as long as he can. There's injections on the
shelf - tavisil, to help his breathing. No more than once every
six hours, so keep track of the time if he needs it. If his
breathing stops, call the healers, then me."
Anakin flinched slightly. "It's that bad?"
"He's been improving," Obi-Wan sighed. "But I shouldn't have
let him up yet. He hates being abed - if he wakes, make sure
that he stays there." He shook his head slightly. "The healers
can't dry the infection completely out of his lung, or rebuild
the damaged tissue. He's developed resistance to nearly
anything they can give him. Only time and rest can help."
"I'll watch over him," Anakin confirmed steadily.
Obi-Wan smiled slightly, pressing Anakin's shoulder. "Thank
you. I'll return as soon as I can - I predict that class will
be a little short today." Moving quietly, he gathered data pads
from the small table on the far side of the room and left,
pausing only briefly at the door to glance back. Anakin
listened for the soft whoosh of the outer door of the suite,
then sighed to himself. The worry that creased the lines of his
former Master's face did nothing to lighten the tense vice upon
his own heart. Moving a chair closer to the side of the couch,
he seated himself where he could clearly see the slow rise and
fall of Qui-Gon's chest.
The pale bluish tinge to the Jedi Master's lips and cheeks
worried him. Perpetually shorter of breath since the day a Sith
lightsaber had burned through one lung, Qui-Gon had been forced
to compensate by proportionally lessening his activities. Now,
listening to the remaining lung in the broad chest force air
through fluid filled gasps, Anakin found himself unconsciously
mimicing each breath through his own lungs as though he might
offer their strength to the sleeping man.
The thought gave him pause, particularly as one breath caught
and stuttered painfully, resuming the rhythm at a shallower
pace. Opening himself to the Force, Anakin slowly wove a net
that encompassed the two of them, himself upon the chair and
Qui-Gon upon the couch. He let the net settle into them,
condense and compact into a single solid connection woven of
many myriad smaller connections, all aimed with the singular
goal of linking that faltering breath to his own.
A heaviness settled on him, pressing against his chest. He felt
the phantom congestion, the odd off-balanced sensation of
drawing breath through only one side of his chest. Shaking it
off, Anakin concentrated solely on his own breathing, the slow
paced meditation rhythm that he had first learned years before.
Drawing breath, he heard it echoed precisely in the man before
him, heard the simultaneous whoosh of the slow exhale. Relaxing
slightly, he leaned back in the chair, satisfied with his
solution.
The meditative breathing brought a conscious drifting with it
and Anakin did not fight it. Leaning his head back he half
closed his eyes, keeping just enough awareness to listen to
their combined breathing with an attentive ear. Within, the
root of his personal problem clamored for his attention with
scores of young faces... too many to count and far too many to
choose among. Letting his mind still, the nagging problems and
worries and thoughts of the day fade slowly away, Anakin
reached out to the countless memories and drew each one forth
as a man might draw forth a single grain of sand from the mound
before him. Held so, singular, each one shone with its own
preciously individual worth.
Strong in the Force, quick of mind, centered in temper,
skilled, spirited, young and eager... it seemed as though all
of them had one trait or several that would make them
desirable. Even removing the option of those that were too
young, yet, to be taken as Padawans there were still far too
many to choose from. He let them drift through his thoughts,
all of the dueling bouts he had witnessed over the last few
nights, all of the youths he had passed in the halls of the
Temple or seen as they hurried from class to class. He was not
alone in his dilemma - talk among the Knights had been of
little else than what the opinion was of this one or that one.
Some picked quickly; others, like himself, could not seem to
even begin to narrow down the choices.
Inhale. Exhale. Inhale. His own choosing had hardly been
regular, to come to the temple late and then be immediately
taken on by Obi-Wan. He knew the tale of Obi-Wan's choosing as
well, when the young Obi-Wan had been assigned to AgriCorps and
only Qui-Gon's reluctant intervention had changed the course at
the last moment. /When you find them you will know,/ the Jedi
Master had told him. /The Force will guide you./ From Master to
Padawan, to Jedi and Master and Padawan again, a chain as
secure as ever forged in blood from parent to child and a cycle
that they all walked the ascending path of until they passed it
on to the next link in the chain.
/The Force will guide you./ Casting loose all of the details,
Anakin stilled all thought and let his mind go where it would,
let the warmth of the Force drift aimless within his memories,
attentive to each slight pull or tug that might guide his path.
Inhale. Exhale. A hand reached aimlessly into a basket of
stones, waiting to see which would fall into his palm when he
drew it forth again and trusting that it would be the right
one.
Timeless within the still stream of the Force, it took him some
moment to realize that a hand was upon his shoulder. Blinking,
he slowly drew himself forth, feeling thought and memory and
self collect into one again. Obi-Wan was beside him, a small
frown creasing the Jedi Master's brow. Startled, Anakin
realized that the patterns of light cast from the windows had
progressed across the room and that some time had passed.
"Anakin," Obi-Wan said when he saw the younger man focus upon
him, "let it go." For all that his voice was no more
than a whisper it still carried the icy tone that Anakin had
dreaded in his youth. Glancing in almost panic at the sleeping
couch, he saw that Qui-Gon still rested, chest rising and
falling easily in the same pattern as Anakin's own.
"Wha..."
"Let. It. Go." Obi-Wan's voice was the personification
of command and Anakin, long trained to obey without question,
dissolved the connection between himself and Qui-Gon. The
sleeping man's breath caught for a moment, then resumed, steady
but faster.
Obi-Wan sighed softly, raking back his hair as he relaxed. "You
have no idea how badly you frightened me," he told Anakin. "I
couldn't even rouse you for fear of upsetting the balance
between you. You're not a healer, Anakin. That was a foolish
thing to do."
Though the words were hard the tone of them let Anakin know
that the worry was equally for himself as it was for Qui-Gon.
Obi-Wan ruffled the short brush of his hair slightly, a gesture
used countless times for comfort when Anakin had been small.
"It didn't seem to do any harm," Anakin protested quietly.
"This time. His condition could have affected you, instead of
the other way around. If you had gone too deep the illness
would have fed off of your strength. The healers don't like to
do that - they say it's too risky to be controlled." Seeing
Anakin's expression, Obi-Wan relented, hands pressing warmly to
the younger man's shoulders. "It was foolish... but thank you.
He's slept sound all of this time and there's nothing better
for him."
Smiling slightly, Anakin covered Obi-Wan's hands briefly with
his own. "Are your classes done? Do you need anything else?"
Obi-Wan grinned ruefully, jerking his chin towards the data
pads stacked once more upon the table. "Not unless you want to
help correct student work." Urging Anakin up, Obi-Wan gave him
a small push towards the door. "You've missed midday meal. Go
get yourself something to eat. And Anakin... thank you. For
everything."
Anakin stepped forward briefly into the other man's embrace,
arms tight across each others shoulders as they drew comfort
for the worry that neither could speak. It was disorienting to
feel Obi-Wan's cheek against his own, to realize once again
that the man he had spent all of his youth looking up to was
now no taller than he was himself. Lines of worry had become
graven in around eyes and mouth, the graying hair still full
but retaining only a scattering of the amber color Anakin
remembered. Holding Obi-Wan tighter, Anakin swallowed
painfully, realizing that his worry was not just for Qui-Gon
but for both men. Reaching into himself, he wished in vain for
some insight, some flash of sure knowledge that would offer
hope and comfort. Instead, all he could offer was the momentary
support of his arms and the whisper of assistance. "If you need
anything, Master, call me. I won't be far."
"I know." Obi-Wan stepped back, cupping Anakin's cheek for a
moment. "He'll be alright, Anakin. We all will." His smile was
strained, but what it lacked the warmth in his eyes shone. "Go
on. You need to eat and a few cups of tea hardly count. We'll
see you tomorrow."
"Yes, Master." Anakin echoed the smile, then reluctantly
stepped back, turning towards the door. When he looked back
Obi-Wan had seated himself in the chair beside the couch, cloak
wrapped around him as though to ward off a chill. Sighing
softly, Anakin left.
Once outside his body informed him strongly that it was,
indeed, hungry. Turning his steps towards the public dining
hall, Anakin went to the small table of food left out for those
whose schedules made the main meals impossible. A few pieces of
bread and slices of cold meat did much to improve how he felt.
Taking a barabel fruit with him, the tart juice staining his
fingertips purple, he returned to his own quarters.
His own rooms, compared to his former Masters' quarters, were
sparsely empty. One assignment blurred into another, until he
was sometimes startled to return to the Temple and find his
rooms not only as he had left them, but kept meticulously free
of dust. Few personal belongings dotted the shelves - tools and
mechanical parts cluttered the tables, but what he had been
doing with the pieces he couldn't recall.
Only in the sleeping chamber did some sort of personal
decoration take control - a richly colored tapestry runner from
Naboo lay across the small couchside table, upon which lay a
collection of still holos. A younger Obi-Wan against a tropical
backdrop. Obi-Wan and Qui-Gon to either side of Anakin, taken
the day he had passed the Trials. Amidala in the tastefully
simple lines of her wedding gown, Anakin beside her. Amidala
laughing, Amidala with the newborn twins cradled in her arms.
Amidala, eyes closed in sleep, the long fall of her dark hair
cascading around her.
Anakin sat down on the edge of the couch, picking up the last
holo. His angel, fierce and fiery with a strength that could
put ten Jedi to shame. But at rest she ceased to be Queen and
became what she was - an angel, beautiful beyond compare. He
loved her rare laugh, the sweet lines of her smile and the
throaty quality of her voice. He loved to watch her with their
son and daughter, her head bent over the small ones in her arms
as she hummed songs that her own mother had lulled her to sleep
with.
Luke and Leia... Anakin put the holo down, laying back against
the couch on his cupped hands. Light and dark, like polar
opposites - Leia with her mother's dark coloring, a quiet and
sober baby, while Luke had faded to Anakin's own golden color,
a laughing and cheerful child. Two years... it seemed hard to
believe. Yet each time he returned they had grown so much, from
babes in arms to stumbling toddlers with their first words
already upon their lips.
Despite Amidala's tight-lipped refusal to speak of the matter,
Anakin knew that the day was fast approaching when the twins
would need the training of the Temple. Already the Force
swirled around them, caught by the insistent will of strong
children and molded, unthinkingly, to give their lisped words
strength. He hated to put Amidala through that parting but it
was unavoidable. For himself, it would bring a guilty sort of
joy - boarded at the Temple, the twins might at least be where
he could easily see them between assignments. He would have no
hand in their teaching but they would be nearer to him.
They grew so quickly... idylly, Anakin let himself imagine the
future; Luke grown to Knighthood, strong and proud in the robes
of a Jedi, Leia in gowns of state before the Senate with her
mother's eloquence and keen statesmanship. Or, Anakin admitted,
vice versa; though Luke was marginally stronger in the Force
than his sister. Both might choose to become Jedi though it
would disappoint Amidala. They would rise quickly regardless of
what they chose, Anakin was sure of it.
The foresight caught him as it always did, hard and fast, a
flash that skated across his mind like the skipping of a smooth
rock on water. Sandy haired, his face stamped with a
combination of his parents, unmistakable. Garbed all in black,
lean and strong, the blue tinged blade of his father's
lightsaber a deadly competent whirl in his hands.
Luke. Anakin gasped, sitting abruptly, the vision vanishing as
quickly as it had come. Luke, a grown man, his face pared by
hardship down to the striking lines of bone and sinew. Luke,
dressed as no Jedi would dress but wielding Anakin's own
lightsaber.
Anakin's heart skipped painfully. There had been danger in the
premonition, but hope as well. He reached out, hoping to find
more, but there was nothing and searching would give him naught
but a blinding headache. It came in flashes only, and this
flash told him little. His son would grow to a man, a man
trained as a Jedi. But would he be a Jedi Knight? Or had the
vision been that of disaster, his only son turned upon the path
of darkness?
No, surely not. Anakin did not question the truth of the flash
- he had one of the highest records of accurate foresight among
the Jedi. But flashes did not tell the whole story, only a
frozen instant taken out of context like a lost puzzle piece.
Comforting himself with that, Anakin took a deep breath,
releasing the tension that gripped him. Flashes were rarely
comfortable and there were many times Anakin would gladly have
done without them.
Rubbing at the base of his neck, he turned the image over once
more in his mind. Perhaps... perhaps the vision told of a
future where Jedi could not always safely wear the robes of
their order. Certainly there were places where even now he did
not like to proclaim himself. Yes, perhaps that was it. The
danger of an assignment to a place where Jedi were not welcome,
his son dressed to disguise himself, a grown Jedi Knight.
But in the depths of memory was the taste of sand in his mouth,
the frightened frantic beat of his heart as he ran towards a
gleaming ship, hearing the clash and hum of lightsabers behind
him as a demon faced Sith warrior forced Master Qui-Gon back. A
Sith Lord dressed all in black.
Shuddering, Anakin forced the memory away. Surely not. Surely.
Luke would come to the Temple, would train as a Jedi. He would
be a strong Knight and Anakin would watch his progress with
love and pride. Luke would be a fine Padawan to a Jedi Master
in the not so far future.
/Unless.../ his traitorous mind whispered. /Unless.../
Shoving the thought away, Anakin drew a deep breath and closed
his eyes, opening himself to the Force. Centering himself, he
let the comfort of the Force drive the shadows from his
thoughts, wash away the lingering disturbance of the foresight.
Luke would follow the path of Light, under the guidance of
another Knight. The future was as yet unwritten, clouded with
only bursts of clarity, and while mindful of it a Jedi needed
to concentrate more on the present. His own immediate future
lay not with his children, safe with their mother on distant
Naboo, but with a student chosen from among the ranks of
initiates. Sinking slowly down into the mediation, pushing all
other thoughts away, Anakin resumed his drifting quest for some
guidance in the right choice.
Hours later, as the late afternoon sun burned orange through
the high windows of his chamber, Anakin came up from the
meditation with a clearer, easier heart... and a small whisper
of an answer nestled carefully within his mind.
The niggling itch at the back of his mind lead him away from
the places he would normally have frequented - away from the
bustle of the markets or the quiet atmosphere of the moderate
restaurants and bars which he enjoyed. Letting the trickle of
Force awareness lead him where it would, Anakin was mildly
surprised to find himself standing in the early evening outside
the entrance to what proclaimed itself a bar - but not one in a
part of town that the Jedi Knight would willingly have ventured
into.
After a moment's hesitation - the itch persisted, like an off
tune hum that vibrated in the inner bones of his skull - he
shifted his lightsaber to the back of his hip and wrapped his
cloak tighter around him, concealing his tunic. The precaution
mattered little except to his peace of mind; the people on
Coruscant knew better than anywhere else what the Jedi looked
like.
The bar was dimly lit in shades of red and gold inside, a light
which did little to make it's rough furnishings more appealing.
The district was close to one of the spaceports and the
clientele of the small establishment reflected that position -
offworlders and all races, a babble of different languages in
the smokey air. It was far enough from the seedier areas to at
least be considered relatively 'safe', but still a far cry from
what a respectable citizen might visit.
Glancing once around the tables, Anakin made his way to the
bar. The bartender glanced at him, but if he recognized or
cared that a Jedi had entered his establishment he gave no
notice. The drink Anakin ordered was thumped down onto the bar
with a grunt, the credits he extended disappearing with the
ease of practice. Turning away from the bar, drink cradled in
his hands, Anakin took a better look at the patrons. Private
spacers in eclectic clothes, crew members in uniforms that were
at least relatively clean. Local denizens of Coruscant,
clustered into small knots as they enjoyed a drink after the
day and a bit of talk.
Taking a sip of the drink, Anakin grimaced. The mix was not
weaker, as he had thought the establishment would do, but
instead proportionally stronger than what the Jedi would
normally have drunk. It burned his throat on the way down,
fumes stinging his sinuses until he suppressed a sneeze. Only
after the burning had faded to a tingling did the flavor of it
come forward again, dark and musky against his tongue. Shaking
his head, he set the drink aside. There had been times in his
life when he would have been more than willing to down such a
drink, and several of its kindred besides, but the alcohol
would only blunt the guiding hum of the Force.
Which was no closer to telling him why it had brought him
there. He had learned not to argue with the gut-level instincts
that the Force provided, but it made understanding the urges
that could be more like puzzle boxes than anything straight
forward no easier. Some - like the first time he had set eyes
upon Amidala's face and had seen, in a flash, the future that
stretched out before them - were life shaking but simple.
Others, like the earlier flash that still haunted the back of
his mind, could not be easily interpreted until too late. Still
others, such as the hum that still echoed in him, centered for
no discernable reason on the bar around him, were far more
vague.
There was a small commotion in one corner, centered around the
gaming tables. Anakin looked towards it, catching a glimpse of
one of the sabacc tables between the clustered spectators.
Sabacc normally didn't draw viewers, but the stakes had grown
higher than the casual handful of credits normally played for
in such places. Hardly bank breaking, but the credit chips
piled in the center of the table represented a more than decent
winning for someone. The players - a Rodian and three humans -
were bent over their cards and intent upon the game.
It wasn't until another gap parted in the small crowd that
Anakin saw the boy. Dark hair drawn back into a tight tail, he
had changed the neat gray tunic of an initiate for a
non-descript charcoal shirt and brown trousers. But the young
face, concentrating intent upon the card chips in his hand,
bore the same look as it had three evenings before when he had
faced the girl in the battle arena. 'Spirit', Anakin had called
it then, and he wasn't inclined to change the description now.
The boy had more courage then common sense, to come to a place
like this.
The sun was well set and it was far past curfew for initiates
of the Temple. Worse, he was certain no one had granted the boy
leave - initiates were let off the Temple grounds only for
special circumstances or proscribed holidays. A small glass of
something sat by the boy's hand - mostly full, Anakin noted
with approval, but drinking of any type was frowned upon for
the initiates. Gambling most certainly was, which made the fact
that the boy was not only playing sabacc but playing it
competently against multiple players almost amazing.
Leaving his drink on the bar, Anakin drifted closer to the
gaming tables, subtly creating a path for himself until he had
a better view of the game. The players were entering what would
probably be their last round of play - one of the humans, a
ship pilot, folded in disgust and walked away. The remaining
three players placed their bets, the boy hesitating but finally
meeting the challenge of the Rodian's stack of credits from the
ones gathered near his elbow. This obviously wasn't his first
game of the evening.
A trickle of Force, not directed at him but used somewhere
around him, whispered into Anakin's consciousness. It was weak,
a thready sporadic burst that wavered unsteadily. The boy, he
realized. It would have to be. It felt like the first untrained
efforts of a babe, rather than what should have been the
skilled touch of a grown initiate. But it was there, weak as it
was, and Anakin could easily track it's direction at the cards
in the boy's hand. Wrapped around the chips, it willed the
cards to remain still, to not be changed by the random
shuffling of the sabacc deck. Enough to pull off the trick, but
barely. Obi-Wan was right. The boy would never have been
accepted to the Temple in former days.
But there was something about him, and the urgings of the Force
had lead Anakin here. Frowning slightly, the Jedi watched the
remainder of the game, keeping his eyes on the boy.
The other human took a card, growled a curse and folded, his
hand overplayed. The Rodian pushed two cards into the
interference field, then shoved the rest of his credits into
the betting pool, watching the boy all the while. The boy
hesitated, fingering his cards, then matched the bet. Just as
he did so Anakin felt the faint ripple of the randomizer as it
shuffled the cards. The boy, distracted, could not keep all of
them from shifting. Panic flashed in his dark eyes as one of
the cards in his hand changed. Kept close to his chest the
cards were not visible, but Anakin could see their value in the
boy's mind. The changed card had ruined the numbering, making
the boy's hand worthless.
A purely emotional burst of strong Force rippled out from the
boy, unshielded and unfocused... and the card wavered for a
moment before turning back to its original value. The boy
didn't see it, panic freezing him as he looked at the stacks of
chips in the center of the table. The loss would cost him
everything he had earned earlier. The Rodian, seeing the panic
in his eyes, hooted a soft laughter and laid its cards down on
the tabletop. The shift had changed it's hand only for the
better, giving it a neat twenty-two count.
Swallowing convulsively, the boy shook his head. He seemed
about to fold, leaving his card chips face down on the table -
but then determination steeled his features. Throwing his
shoulders back, he flipped his cards over and pushed them
forward.
No one was more surprised to see a perfect twenty-three, least
of all the boy who oggled the cards with astonishment. The
Rodian cursed, looking ready to protest, but a companion was
plucking at his sleeve and with an ungraceful shove the alien
scattered his cards and pushed the credits towards the boy. The
game was over.
The Rodian was leaving the table, the spectators dispersing.
With eager hands the boy collected the credits from the center
of the table, stacking them neatly. Anakin smiled, stepping
forward and sliding into one of the vacated seats. "Would you
care for another hand?" He pulled a handful of credits from his
belt and pushed them onto the table.
The boy looked up, glancing at him - then glanced again, all
color draining from his face. "Sir... I..."
"You," Anakin said clearly and firmly, "have left Temple
grounds without permission, gone out of your way to find a
disreputable bar, are drinking - which is forbidden to
initiates - and gambling - which is also forbidden." He dropped
his voice. "We won't even mention how you're winning, as it's a
flagrant abuse of everything you've been taught and enough to
get you killed by one of your disgruntled opponents." Gathering
up the cards chips, he shuffled them easily. "But taking you to
task for all of that isn't why I'm here. I'm here to play a
game of sabacc. Would you care for another hand?"
The boy's mouth was gaping open, his face parchment white. Dark
eyes flickered, watching Anakin's hands shuffle the cards.
Swallowing, his eyes never leaving Anakin's hands, he nodded.
His voice was a faint disbelieving whisper. "Yes, sir."
Smiling, Anakin triggered the randomizer and deftly dealt the
cards. The boy's hands shook as he picked them up, sorting
through them quickly. Anakin barely glanced at his own, already
well aware of both his own hand as well as the boy's.
Taking another card, he slid half the stack of credits into the
center of the table without counting them. "I saw your fight,
the other day," he remarked.
The boy flinched, almost dropping the card he was taking.
Expressive lips turned down at the corners. "Then you know why
I'm here," he answered defiantly. Reaching into his former
winnings, he pushed an equal stack towards the center.
"No, I don't," Anakin replied. "Other than to line your
pockets." He made a show of considering for a moment, then
pushed the rest of the credits in.
The boy shook his head, dark fringes of hair around his
forehead falling into his eyes. "No, sir. An initiate doesn't
have any use for credits." He grimaced. "Though it'll be good
later. I'm not going to be a Knight." He glanced up then,
checking for a reaction. Anakin only met his eyes steadily
until the boy dropped them again. "You saw. I'm no good. I'll
never be a Jedi." Dark eyes flashed up again, defiant. "But I'm
a good pilot. I won't go to AgriCorps - when they turn me out
of the Temple I'll win enough to get my own ship and pilot
her."
"Ah, then this is practice." Anakin watched the boy make his
move, placing one card in the interfearance field and matching
the bet with some confidence. Anakin reached out with a tendril
of Force to trigger the change of the deck. The boy flinched
almost imperceptibly as his remaining cards shifted for the
worse. "How old are you?"
"I'll be thirteen in two weeks," was the reply. Anakin opened
himself to the Force, tasting the swirling emotions around the
boy. A touch of sullenness there, of frustration and fear and
helpless anger. Master Yoda would have said that it was the
path to the Dark Side. Anakin read it as the insecurities of
youth, a youth who knew his own shortcomings and was anxious to
get past the unpleasantness of assured rejection to the point
where he could take charge of his own life once more and sink
or swim by the skills he knew.
Glancing at his own hand, which had remained unchanged, Anakin
nodded to himself. "I call." Laying his cards down on the
table, Anakin displayed a pure sabacc. The boy slumped
slightly, but gamely reached out to push his credits towards
the Jedi. Anakin shook his head, reversing the gesture. "Take
them. I was cheating far more then you." Smiling to take the
sting from his words, he made to rise. "I hope we have a chance
to play again. I'm Skywalker, by the way. Anakin Skywalker."
"Sir," the boy replied automatically, startled. Hesitating, he
clasped Anakin's offered wrist. Swallowing convulsively, he
bobbed a quick nod. "Han Solo, sir."
Anakin smiled. "You're a good player, Han. But take a word of
advice - learn to bluff better. And don't let your teachers
find you out here."
"Yes sir," Han answered quickly. Slim fingered hands were
already making quick work of stowing the credit chips in
pockets. "Thank you, sir."
"Don't mention it." Retrieving a chip from where it had slipped
beneath the discarded card, Anakin flipped it to the boy who
caught it neatly and almost unthinkingly, hand flashing out to
intercept the credit with more Force assurance than the boy had
mustered all night under conscious control. Smiling to himself,
Anakin turned away and departed the bar. He had no doubt that
the boy was capable of returning undetected to the Temple the
same way he had left it.
Outside, he let the smile broaden into a grin. Infuriatingly
vague though it was, the hum had proven right once more. If no
one else had seen the hidden potential in the boy then there
might be objections, but he was rather used to that. He would
argue it with the Council on the morrow. And maybe they
wouldn't even object; the Force rarely guided his feelings
wrong and it echoed with affirmation of his guess now, urging
him on towards the path it wanted him to take. The boy, Han,
might argue it - he had been certain of the fate that awaited
him, resigned to it and almost expectant - but Anakin didn't
think there was any record of an initiate declining to be taken
as Padawan.
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