Actions

Work Header

Rating:
Archive Warnings:
Categories:
Fandoms:
Relationships:
Characters:
Additional Tags:
Language:
English
Stats:
Published:
2021-06-05
Completed:
2021-06-27
Words:
9,008
Chapters:
8/8
Comments:
152
Kudos:
357
Bookmarks:
46
Hits:
6,414

Ravenclaw_Peredhel Does Jedi-June

Summary:

Exactly what it says on the label

Chapter 1: Prompt: there is no emotion, there is peace/ emotion, yet peace

Notes:

I use the yet and only versions of the Code interchangeably, as I don’t consider either one innately better or worse.

Chapter Text

Obi-Wan’s new lightsaber hums softly as he twirls it through the air in the familiar controlled movements, focusing all his attention on it. Or as much as possible of his attention at least.

The katas are smooth and flowing now, made beautiful by the long midnight hours he has spent practicing them. Soresu becomes easier and easier every time he runs through it, which brings it’s own frustration.

The katas aren’t hard enough to keep his thoughts focused anymore, and he is already doing them at double speed. By now, he knows them so well he could do them in his sleep.

Or, almost.

He fell asleep doing them the other night, and he has the burn on his left arm to prove it. Thankfully, his saber had been on low enough power not to necessitate a visit to Healer Che.

It is irritating.

He just wants to lose himself in the katas, to spend the night without the dreams that have plagued him ever since Naboo.

One night where his exhaustion gives him peaceful rest, without memories tinged red by light of blade and ray, and grey by grief. Without seeing his Master’s dying face, and without feeling the horrible sinking feeling in his stomach, knowing that there is nothing he can do. Not any more.

Obi-Wan cuts off the kata and switches to Makashi.

Master Qui-Gon had loved and hated it by turns, he recalls as he moves into the opening position. He had admitted it’s usefulness, and was skilled at it, but claimed that his own Master’s insistence on it had soured him to it.

A sob rises, and the young Knight chokes it back as he begins moving through the first kata of Makashi.

Form II is harder than Form V for him, less well-practiced, completely different to Obi-Wan’s usual katas, all sharp sallies and abrupt ripostes, but by necessity each movement flowing and graceful.

It’s hard, and it’s annoying and it finally empties his mind of the thoughts and images buzzing round it.

The damning red tinge of the ray shield vanishes from his eyes, his Master’s dying, pained face, the Sith’s snarling, distorted one.

The sinking pit of guilt and resignation vanishes from his stomach, the leaden grief and regret from his limbs.

There is only the humming of his azure blade, the comparitevely unfamiliar position of Makashi, and the swift movements it requires.

His hair is growing out, and it flops into his face as he moves so he closes his eyes. 

The Force guides his movements, his hair tickling his closed eyelids as he follows the Force’s promptings. It feels good to be able to trust something. 

What and who else can he trust? Master Yoda, old and far away, busy with ten thousand other beings? Master Dooku, distant and grieving as heavily as he? Anakin, a scared, traumatized child? None of them should have to bear his burdens in addition to their own.

His feet slip and scuff on the floor, the humming of his blade growing faster and faster as he increases the speed and whirls ever faster through the movements.

It’s hard and it takes all his concentration, like Soresu did at first.

For a moment, all his cares and worries and guilts fly away, and he is free, released to soar through the Force  

The snap-hiss-buzz of two blades connecting, and Obi-Wan’s eyes fly open at the unexpected resistance.

Azure eyes meet dark ones, both swimming with barely restrained grief.

“Master Dooku!”

The elder Jedi inclines his head, his eyes solemn, and presses his attack wordlessly.

Obi-Wan parries and then slips backwards, barely catching himself from the subtle Force push.

A swift sally follows the underhanded trick, and the young Knight is hard pressed to avoid the glowing blade. Still, he manages it, and a glow of triumph illuminates him for a short second, until the next attack.

Around and around the salle they fight, Obi-Wan occasionally slipping into Soresu, but a sharp snap of ‘Makashi’ instantly bringing him back into the more offensive, sharper, movements. 

Obi-Wan is a talented swordsman, and Makashi comes easier to him than some, difficult as it is. 

But his Grandmaster is the Master of Makashi.

Unbeaten in his chosen Form since he was twenty-seven years old. Legendary.  

And Obi-Wan knows he is toying with him. 

Frustrated, he lunges forward wildly, hoping to catch the infuriating old man off guard. Instead, he is disarmed and dumped on the ground. How humiliating.  

Master Dooku flicks off his lightsaber and lowers himself down opposite the young Knight.

 

“Meditate with me, grandpadawan.”

 

Obi-Wan doesn’t want to meditate. He doesn’t want to deal with the treacherous minefield that is his emotions. He has been avoiding it ever since Naboo.

 

“Grandpadawan.”

 

The mildly chiding voice, with it’s oh so familiar tone has Obi-Wan obeying before he even thinks about it. He sighs and arranges himself into a more comfortable position.

 

“Very well Grandmaster.”

 

The old man smiles, and holds out his hands. A joint meditation then.

 

Hesitantly, Obi-Wan places his trembling hands in his grandmaster’s steady ones. The contact is comforting, and it reminds him of his Master in a way. Both men are taller than him, and their hands are callused in the same way. Very little is similar beyond that, but Master Dooku had helped to shape Master Qui-Gon’s shields nearly half a century ago, and the resonance of their minds is familar. Comforting.

 

“There is no emotion, there is peace.”

 

The familiar youngling chant is more calming than Obi-Wan expected. It reminds him of simpler days, when his only worry was whether Bruck would steal his pudding cup.

 

“There is no ignorance, there is knowledge.”

 

He hasn’t used it for months.

 

Master Dooku’s deep melodious voice is soothing, and Obi-Wan finds himself calming for the first time in a long while.

 

“There is no passion, there is serenity.”

 

And there is the part Obi-Wan has always struggled with. He is so passionate, so brimful of emotions, how can he be serene?

 

His Master, his Grandmaster, everyone in his lineage are capable, but he is not.

 

“There is no chaos, there is harmony.”

 

Chaos like what happened on Naboo.

 

Where everything was upside down and topsy-turvy and nothing made sense.

 

He doesn’t think he knows what harmony is anymore.

 

“There is no death, there is the Force.”

 

Obi-Wan rips his hands away from his grandmaster. “I can’t do this. I’m sorry.”

 

He stands to leave.

 

“Wait.”

 

A gentle hand is placed on his shoulder.

 

“I too grieve for Qui-Gon. But you must let him go.”

 

Ah there is the crux of the matter.

 

“How?”

 

The gentle grip only emanates comfort and support.

 

Obi-Wan sighs and lowers himself back down.

 

He sinks into the Force, expecting to be buffetted and bruised by his own emotions. But Dooku is there, cushioning him and protecting him from the whirling maelstrom.

It is easier with him there, reminding him that he isn’t alone.

 

Obi-Wan sits within the wild storm of his own torment, but he is protected, and calm.

 

His emotions rage still, as wild as ever.

 

But deep within, he is serene and unruffled.

 

In time, he will see his Master again.

 

And until then, it was not his fault. Qui-Gon should have known better than to press on ahead without him.

 

Until then, he has his grandmaster and great-grandmaster and brother, and his whole sprawling lineage.

 

The whirling emotions slow, the calm spot within him growing.

 

Perhaps it will never truly leave, but the storm of emotions is calming.

 

His grandmaster is there, is protecting him.

 

And he always will be.

 

In the midst of his emotions, he is finding peace.

Chapter 2: Prompt: there is no ignorance, there is knowledge/ ignorance yet knowledge

Chapter Text

“Argh!”

 

For the fourth time that hour, the textbook went flying, along with the Nubian peas Obi-Wan had been shelling. Damn.

 

Anakin buried his head in his arms, a little bundle of misery and determined gloom.

 

“I just don’t get it! It’s all stupid!”

 

Sighing, Obi-Wan stooped and lifted the book, looking regretfully at the multitude of peas now scattered over the floor. He had been hoping to have enough to give some to the commissary but their floor was still a bit gritty with tiingilar spices from last night’s cooking attempt and he knew for a fact that several Jedi who ate in the commissary on a regular basis and enjoyed Nubian peas were allergic to those spices. Like Bant and Master Fisto.

And now half of the peas were scattered all over a floor covered with the spices.

Well, maybe there would still be enough if he kept the remaining peas off of the floor. Or swept the floor so that it would’t matter either way. Or shelled the peas in the commissary kitchen. But Anakin had broken the broom four days ago trying to augment his muscles with the Force (without supervision or permission) and the kitchens were on the other side of the temple.

 

Obi-Wan sat down heavily, feeling suddenly overwhelmed. He was too young to deal with this.

 

His eyes were drawn to the textbook.

 

Beginners Force Theory. Ugh.

 

“What don’t you get Anakin?”

 

Thankfully he kept his voice moderately level, rather than screaming or jumping out of the window. Obi-Wan congratulated himself privately.

“Everything.” Moaned the little boy. “I don’t understand why Force bugs help us use the Force or why we need them or why I need to know about it or how they can be my dad. They’re inside me, how can they be my dad.”

 

Oh dear.

 

“Well...” He hasn’t had to think about this kind of Force Theory for years. Much less explain it to a child. But he can try.

 

After all, Anakin is ignorant of it now. It is Obi-Wan’s place to give him knowledge in it’s stead. 

Chapter 3: Prompt: there is no passion, there is serenity/ passion yet serenity

Notes:

I own nothing, Dai Bendu belongs to its creators.

(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)

Chapter Text

T he clones (not the vod’e, not like this) are shooting at his Master. The clones are trying to kill his Master. Grey, Grey who always has her back, Grey who has an indefinable something with his Master that Caleb can never figure out, takes a shot at her back. And it connects, because she isn’t protecting her back. There was never any need, because Grey was there.

“You must run!”

 

Her voice cracks, and she screams, and the little boy starts to run.

 

It is cowardly, and it is selfish to run.

 

He should stay, should make his last stand beside his Master.

 

But Caleb is twelve years old, small and afraid.

 

The men he trusts beyond anything, are killing his Master, and her screams are echoing through their shattering bond and the air, and tears blur his vision.

 

“Run, Caleb!”

 

And something snaps within him. The sound of blaster bolts and the humming of the lightsaber stop.

 

Heart in his mouth, he risks a quick glance back. The emotionless men stand over his Master, who lies sprawled on the ground, very still. Caleb has been on enough battlefields to know death when he sees it, even as a scream rips itself from him, a scream of denial and loss and grief and pure, utter betrayal. The clones raise their heads, eerily in sync, like clankers, and their boots pound the ground in the same synchronized movements, bearing down on him like a wall. It sends a shiver down the terrified boy’s spine.

 

His legs pump and he speeds away from the pursuing men, who feel so wrong, so wrong. Tears and sweat mingle in his eyes and blur his vision, and half-strangled sobs claw their way out of his throat, feeling like acid as they spill into the air.

 

Fast, faster he runs, the Force speeding his limbs, and grief numbing his mind. He has always been fast.

 

Kanan, kanan, ibli kanan

 

Runner, runner, little runner.

 

It feels like a sick joke now.

 

His Master is dead.

 

His men are worse than dead.

 

And Caleb runs.

 

Like a coward.

 

He runs and runs, and he doesn’t stop running.

 

Maybe he does physically, but he knows, deep down, that he will always run now. There is a storm of fear and hatred whirling inside him, that urges him to run and never look back.

And he does.

 

A gruff spacer offers the battered kid with a strange ability to revive his dying hyperdrive a place. Caleb accepts, and he leaves the planet for good, vowing never to return. Even from space, his eyes are fixed on the place where his Master died.

 

“Hey kid, what’s ya name?”

 

Caleb Dume springs to his lips, but he swallows it back down.

 

Caleb Dume was a Jedi Padawan, a Jedi Padawan who must stay MIA. Caleb Dume is a dangerous name, and he locks it away. Caleb Billaba is no better, is worse, because Master Billaba was a High General.

 

Kanan, kanan, ibli kanan

 

Runner, runner, little runner.

 

His Master’s familiar tease runs through his head. “Kanan,” he chokes out, “Kanan Jarrus.”

 

“Pleased ta meetcha Kanan.”

 

And the spacer says it all wrong, the emphasis too late, the vowel clipped too short.

 

It doesn’t get better.

 

He chose this name for his Master, and it hurts when he says it correctly (when someone looks at him with too-bright eyes and smiles with horrible bittersweet joy and pain and they say his name right) but everyone says it wrong. It never rings in the Force anymore (but when it does, he can never acknowledge it, can only look quietly into broken, shadowed eyes and hear Kanan, said right, with the Force behind it, and move on).

 

Hera, who gently laid siege to his soul and calmed the still raging storm within him (and he hears the Code running through his head, passion yet serenity, and he wonders if his Master would be dissappointed in him) but who still cannot pronounce it right - the vowel always a hair too long or short, the emphasis always too contrived.

 

Zeb, chaotic and annoying and endearing never even tries. He mangles it with his Lasat accent, and Kanan finds he almost prefers it to Hera’s efforts. Kanan sounds different from Zeb, like it isn’t meant to ring in the Force with runner-joy-fast-far-sprint-race .

 

Sabine comes closer, but she breaks the a’s into the Mando’a double vowels, and it reminds him of the men who died and loved and killed his Master.

 

Even Ezra cannot speak Dai Bendu.

 

Kanan tries, oh he tries.

 

But Ezra sees no point in learning the language of a slaughtered people. Ezra wants to learn to fight and live, and that is what Kanan teaches him.

 

He thinks Ezra hurts the most, because sometimes, he says it right. And for a moment, it feels like home.

 

So he resigns himself to the uncomfortable prickling of loss when the Force doesn’t react to his name, and he lives with the knowledge that his people are dead, and the one hope he has found has no interest in the people, only the power they can provide.

 

And it hurts.

 

“What was her last word to you?”

 

He doesn’t know how the Inquisitor knows (and he heard this voice before, behind a Temple Guard mask when he was Caleb, worriedly asking if the white-robed Initiate was alright, that looked like quite a tumble, and giving him a sweet from the pocket of his robe, and taking him back to the creche, listening patiently to the little boy’s chatter), but it doesn’t matter.

 

The word that slips from his lips is Basic, but the Inquisitor repeats it right anyway.

 

“Kanan.”

 

And Kanan curses that he relaxes at the imprint of runner-joy-fast-far-sprint-race, that the ringing of the Force reminds him for an instant of home. But it is cold, and the cold burns, and there is something hollow about the word. He shudders, and holds himself very still, trying to ignore the Darksider.

 

The Inquisitor laughs softly, and Kanan can feel him revelling in the anguish that one word has caused him.

 

And Kanan rages inside, a storm, one that keeps him running, and will keep him running forever if it has to.

 

Someone said his name right. And he doesn’t have to worry about being caught. Because he is already caught.

 

Kanan is only a cause of pain for him now.

 

But he finally meets Fulcrum, and she greets him as Kanan, and he feels runner-joy-fast-far-sprint-race , warm and alive, and he looks into Ahsoka Tano’s eyes.

 

Jersara, Ahsoka.”

 

She smiles (and he can see memories of long campaigns together, and he can see she remembers a little boy tagging after her as her grandmaster and his grandmaster spoke worriedly in low voices), and he can see how she revels in the impression she gets from the Force.

 

Jersara, Caleb.”

 

And it sounds right. For the first time in years, he doesn’t flinch at the name.

 

He isn’t Caleb anymore, but it doesn’t hurt anymore either. The storm stills, and, for a moment, he stops running.

 

Kanan, kanan, ibli kanan

 

Runner, runner, little runner.

 

The familiar memory winding through his mind holds less pain, and they speak, not in Basic or Togruta or Chalactan or any other language. Through the Force, and in their own language. And the Ghost ripples with their conversation, and for the first time in a long time, he feels warm.

 

 

Notes:

Kanan - runner
Ibli - little
Jersara - greetings

Chapter 4: Prompt: there is no chaos, there is harmony/ chaos yet harmony

Notes:

(See the end of the chapter for notes.)

Chapter Text

“Kanan?”

 

Even after all these years, Kanan can’t suppress his instinctive flinch at how wrong it sounds. Hera, bless her, he loves her, and she tries, but the way she says it, and the lack of weight behind it, and how close she is, only emphasises just how lost the Jedi are.

 

It is worse, in a way, now that Ahsoka is here. Because he has started to grow accustomed to the word said right again.

 

“Kanan? Where are you?”

 

He sighs, and calls back to her.

 

Kanan, kanan, ibli kanan.

 

Runner, runner, little runner.

 

His Master’s voice seems stronger in his memory now. Maybe it is because he finally has stopped running, or almost stopped. He can wait now, because it feels better now, to meditate and to be calm, now that Ahsoka is here.

 

He can listen to the Force’s song again. And it isn’t the bright, clear melody he can just remember as an Initiate. Nor is it the darker, muddier, but still irrefutably lovely music from his Padawan days. It doesn’t sound the way it did when there were ten thousand Jedi to serve the galaxy, to bring peace and justice to the people.

 

But it doesn’t sound like it did after Knightfall either. When Knightfall happened, Caleb had almost passed out from the pain and rage the Force had lashed out with, from the sudden cacophony of Dark .

 

It sounds...hopeful.

 

And Kanan sighs. Hera tries. And he cannot ask any more of her.

 

*************

 

The tiny holographic figure leaps up and down on the corpse of its enemy, and Kanan sighs.

 

“I could never beat you, ‘Soka.”

 

A laugh, and she nudges him in the Force, sending triumph-victory-not-quite-smug in little waves. “What did you expect ibli Caleb? I was rahkadai to Jaieh Kenobi, victory is assured to me in strategic situations cahshee.”

 

Kanan narrows his eyes. “I will beat you one day, Soka, haj Dai.”

 

“Would you look at that.” She spreads her arms and smirks at him. “The Force isn’t replying. Looks like I’m going to win forever.”

 

Xahx.”

 

Ahsoka slaps him upside the head and tsks. “You kiss your Jaieh with that mouth?”

 

He bats her hand away. “You said worse, and you kissed your Jaieh and his vii ekaiau and your Tonjaieh with that mouth.”

 

“I’m older, it doesn’t count.”

 

Eno Dai veshah keelel mellu im tamah voh veshah keelel, because I won’t be.”

 

Ahsoka gasped and slumped dramatically across the table. “You wound me ibli cahshee! What did I do to deserve this?”

 

He raised one eyebrow sardonically, unconsciously imitating his own long-dead Tonjaieh. “You exist.”

 

Both of them burst out laughing at the same moment, and they don’t notice Ezra, watching them with wide eyes from the vent. Kanan is always so solemn and sad, but with Fulcrum, they are laughing and messing around, and the language they speak makes him feel alive.

 

He sighs quietly, and contemplates his Master’s offer. To learn the Jedi language. Perhaps. But not now.

 

****************

 

Ezra looks down at the gravestone they’ve erected. It seems...paltry.

 

Kanan was so much, so good and so great. Somehow, the little bit of stone doesn’t seem good enough for him.

 

It doesn’t even have much beyond his name on it. Kanan Jarrus.

 

Ezra traces the shapes of the letters. He never learned Dai Bendu.

 

He was too proud.

 

After vehemently denying Kanan’s offer to teach him the culture of the Jedi, he had never managed to bend himself enough to relent.

 

And now, he will never learn.

 

Now, Ezra sees the Aurebesh letters, and knows that he won’t understand the holocron, knows that he will never say Kanan’s name right and watch his eyes widen with hidden delight.

 

It was stupid.

 

He had refused, and for what. 

 

For pride  

 

And now it’s too late.

 

He stands and turns to walk away, back to the Ghost and the other Spectres. Then he hesitates.

 

He wasn’t completely ignorant of the strange, warm language.

 

Eno Dai veshah keelel mellu im tamah voh veshah keelel

 

May the Force be with you.

 

They used to say it a lot.

 

It meant something to them, Ahsoka and Kanan and the hidden Jedi with too-bright eyes and brittle smiles, who would look with dawning wonder at them when Kanan introduced himself. A few words, whispered in market places, and on shuttles, that sent a ripple of comfort-assurance-companionship through the Force. And they had meant so much to the scattered Jedi.

 

“Ezra, are you coming?” Hera’s voice is all choked up, and it makes sympathetic tears rise to his own eyes.

 

“Just a minute!”

 

When he rejoins them, the text on the stone has altered a little. Enough to give hope to a Jedi who wanders past. It’s a foolish idea, but his mind shows him the memory of the old woman who had run that stall on a planet he cannot remember the name of. And of how her eyes had sparkled when she heard Kanan’s name, and the trembling hand she had pressed to her mouth, and the woven bracelet of soft beige tones she had placed into Kanan’s hand. There are other Jedi out there. And they need hope.

 

Eno Dai veshah keelel mellu im tamah voh veshah keelel.

Here lies Kanan Jarrus, who was once Caleb Dume, a Jedi Knight.

 

 

Ezra whispers the strange words to himself, and he knows he is saying them wrong.

 

But he can learn.

 

Somehow

Notes:

As always, I own nothing, Dai Bendu belongs to its genius creators, and comments and kudos really make my day.

Dai Bendu translations:

Kanan: runner
Ibli: little
Rahkadai: lineage
Jaieh: master
Cahshee: a very over the top term of endearment, rarely used seriously
Haj Dai: Force willing
Xahx: fuck
Vii ekaiau: as close as I and my shitty language skills can get to lover
Tonjaieh: grandmaster
Eno Dai veshah keelel mellu im tamah voh veshah keelel: may the Force be with you

Chapter 5: Prompt: there is no death, there is the Force; death yet the Force

Chapter Text

His hands shake, and Obi-Wan curses as hot water spills all over him. 

Not only has he wasted some of his precious Sapiir (a last gift from Bail), but an entire cup of his water is gone. 

He could lift it with the Force, try to cleanse the water and make it fit to drink again. 

He could take his lightsaber and find Vader, finish what he could not before. 

He could walk out into the desert until he cannot walk anymore.

He does none of those things. 

 

Instead, he goes outside to check the vaporator is working, and to gather this morning’s water collection.

 

It is easier to forget about what today is with the routine calming him.

But his hands betray him and slip again. Blood wells up in the webbing between his finger and thumb, and he can only stare at it. 

Obi-Wan slides down to sit with his back to the vaporator, eyes fixed on the blood that is now trickling down his hand. 

No one had bled in the Temple.

It had all been blaster or lightsaber burns. 

The scent of burned flesh springs in his mind anew, with the unnatural silence of the Temple, and the sprawling bodies, and the screams of the Force. 

He curls around himself, trying to forget. 

Rocking to and fro, he never sees the sad, transparent man who sits next to him, one arm gently wrapped around his old Padawan’s shoulders. 

Nor does he see the countless multitudes, each one joining in the silent vigil as the suns rise on the anniversary of their massacre. 

Chapter 6: Prompt: Non-attachment

Notes:

(See the end of the chapter for notes.)

Chapter Text

“The theory of attachment has been much debated over the centuries, through almost all Force User sects. 

For example, one one end of the spectrum, the Nightsisters completely disregard such theories,  while the Sith use it to manipulate each other, and the Jedi ban attachment altogether. 

But what is attachment?”

Plo Koon paused, and waited as little eager hands shot up. 

“Barriss. What do you think?”

The little Mirialan girl drew herself up proudly, though she was smaller than many of the other children in the room.

”Attachment is affection to someone, when you are willing to do things for them that you wouldn’t normally.” 

The Kel Dor Master smiled and shook his head a little. “Not quite Barriss. You take a hard line there, one that many struggle to stick to. If you wish to follow that philosophy, you are welcome to, but please, try to be a little more lenient.” 

Barriss flushed darker green. “Sorry, Master Plo.” 

He sighed and made his way over to the now despondent little girl. “It is not a fault little one. You merely have a stricter view of attachment than most.” 

It would do to keep an eye on this one. Often those with the strictest views on attachments had the most difficulty dealing with them. 

“Anyone else?” 

A little orange hand caught his attention and he smiled. “Yes Soka?” 

Eager as always, Ahsoka jumped up onto her seat to declaim. He cleared his throat and she hesitated. “Ahsoka.” 

Grumbling, she slumped back onto the cushion, but drew herself back up to speak. “It’s when you love someone so much you’ll kill or die for them.” 

Plo hummed thoughtfully. “And yet, would the Master not kill to defend each other, and the Knights? Would the Knights not protect themselves, would they not kill those who threaten their Padawans? Would those self-same Padawans not give their lives for you Initiates?” Seeing them bristle slightly at being seemingly the youngest, he decided to indulge them a little. “Would you not kill to defend the toddlers, the infants and the younger children?” 

Each one nodded enthusiastically. 

“I’d kill a hundred Sith for baby Zatt! I was there when Master Fisto brought him in!”

”Just you try to get past me, I’ll make a wall of bodies in front of the door before I give in!”

”If a Master fell, I’d throw myself in front of their blade so the littles could get out!” 

”Killing would be the least I’d do! I’d hunt anyone who tried to touch the babies like the animal they are!”

”I’d tear them to pieces! I’m a hunter!”

This may have been a mistake. As the children’s thoughts went inevitably to the possible gory scenarios, they got more and more excited, and leapt from their seats to illustrate exactly how they would cut down the armies of the Hutt families to free the clan of toddlers that had been captured. 

Plo sighed. “Initiates, settle down please.” 

Reluctantly, the group of children returned to their seats, though Ahsoka kept her teeth bared, and a wild light was in her eyes. Oh well, Master Ti would be all too glad to take the little Togruta hunting later. 

“Now, where were we?”

”What everyone thought of attachment?” 

He smiled. “Ah yes, thank you Hebe. What do you think?” 

Frowning, the Nubian girl spoke carefully and thoughtfully. “Is it when you have to be with someone all the time? If you’re dependent on them to be happy?” 

“Not quite, but very close. You have a sound grasp of the theory Hebe, but do try and remember that sometimes physical limitations cause people to become dependant on each other. It is not necessarily attachment, but it can become attachment.” 

Each child furrows their brows in thought. 

“Like when Master Kolar crashed a speeder into a fuel cell on a mission and couldn’t walk for two months so had to get a chair but crashed it so kept annoyed Master Koth to carry him around?” 

Oh that. Plo shuddered. It wasn’t just Eeth that Agen had targeted. 

“No, not exactly. Master Koth just wanted to annoy Master Kolar.” 

Agen didn’t have to crash the hoverchair, he didn’t have to refuse another one, he could have just Pushed the speeder into the fuel cells. But no. 

Little Cal Kestis raised his hand. “Is it being willing to do bad things for someone? Like if you love them so much you’ll attack the littles?”

“Yes, that is very good Cal.” Plo reached out and placed a sticker on the Stewjoni boy’s forehead, smiling behind his mask as the child carefully peeled it off and inspected it before placing it on his nose.

 

“Anyone else?”

 

“If it hurts to be away from someone?”

 

Plo blinked, and though none of the children could see his eyes, he had a feeling they had felt his brief moment of astonishment.

 

“Where did you hear that Zett?”

 

The little boy shrugged. “Padawan Skywalker was complaining to his Master in the Archives the other day.”

 

That made sense. “About Queen Amidala?”

 

He nodded.

 

“Well...yes. Although, I would not mention such things to Padawan Skywalker of course. He needs time to let her go you see.”

 

Never mind that it had been nearly half a decade. Poor Obi-Wan was trying his best, but there was only so much one could do with someone like Anakin. An endearing child certainly, but a stubborn one nonetheless.

 

All of the younglings giggled at the idea of heroic Padawan Skywalker doing anything wrong. Ah well, they could do worse for role models, Plo supposed. Anakin was brave and kind, and compassionate. He had his faults, but overall was a fundamentally good person.

 

“Does anyone have any more ideas?”

 

A hand tugged on his robe, and he bent down so Caleb could speak without craning his neck after his accident a few weeks ago. “Is it when you love someone so much you don’t love them anymore?”

 

“That is a wonderful answer Caleb.” He patted the boy’s head and placed a sticker on his hand. Rather than standing up, Plo remained cross-legged on the ground so he could stay at the younglings’ level as he spoke.

 

“Attachment is when love or affection grows too grasping, too greedy. When you become jealous of someone, and believe that you and you alone can control their time and their attention, then you are attached. If you cannot let them spread their wings and fly, then you have crushed them, and that is not love.”

 

Barriss raised her hand. “So attachment is when love goes bad.”

 

“Yes.”

 

She shuddered. “That doesn’t sound nice. I don’t want to love anyone if that can happen.”

 

Plo gently placed a hand on the little girl’s shoulder. “You are cautious Barriss, and that is good. But do not be ruled by fear.”

 

The Mirialian girl nodded, and then sat quite quiet and still, thinking it over.

 

In fact, all of the younglings were thinking hard.

 

He clapped his hands. “Come Initiates, let us meditate on attachments.”

 

With resigned amusement, he noticed that all calmness and balance was gone as the younglings groaned.

 

They would learn.

 

As those who came before him had, and those before them and so on, back to the first Jedi.

 

Notes:

I know these kids aren’t the same age, so wouldn’t be in the same class, but suspension of disbelief? Please?

Chapter 7: Prompt: Duty

Notes:

(See the end of the chapter for notes.)

Chapter Text

The Temple is aflame.

Screams ring from every room, and the whirring of lightsabers and the retort of blasters pierces his ears.

An army, an army they trust, an army loyal to them beyond belief, is butchering them.

He fights their own army to the best of his ability, desperate to keep the younglings behind him safe. They are the future of the Order, of the galaxy, of the Force, but most importantly they are children.

Children strong with the Force, who are part of a people decimated by war, children trained to be deadly killers and skilled diplomats, healers, scholars from the moment they set foot in the Temple. But children just the same. None of the terrified younglings huddling behind him are more than eleven years old.

A blaster bolt gets through his defense, directed by his own tactical droid. It hits his stomach, and the Master gasps as his abdomen and legs light up with pain, all his nerves screaming and jangling horribly.

“Master!” The fear in the younglings is like a knife through him. No child should ever be in a position to sound that afraid.

For a moment, he draws on the rage and betrayal he feels, managing to keep upright and moving. But his emotions are makjng his movements sloppy, and the droids take advantage of his lack of defense. A hit is landed on his leg, leaving a round smoking hole on his thigh. He manages to deflect a bolt, another. Then he falls to his knees, his movements slowing, everything much harder to do. It’s like moving through syrup. “Run.”

The children hesitate, their eyes wide and afraid. They don’t want to leave him. They think they can save him, or that they are safer with him. He smiles mirthlessly at the innocence of children. “Don’t look back, younglings. You cannot live if you stay here.”

Silently, he prays that the traitor will not come here yet. That the little ones will have a chance to escape.

No such luck. Eyes aflame with gold, dark cloak sweeping behind him, and red blade held swept out at his side, the Sith Apprentice strides into the corridor. Everything suddenly feels so much colder. “Run!” His voice is barely loud enough to be heard.

Now they flee, scattering to the winds without thought, and he can hear their screams, feel their deaths as they encounter more and more droids who have the same disastrous glitch in their programming. But some are alive still. And he holds onto that.

“Master Sifo-Dyas. I had hoped you would be clever enough to escape before it came to this.”

He is on his knees, wounded, and dying. But he is undefeated, and he is unbroken.

The Jedi Master raises his head and looks the Sith in the eye. Once upon a time, this man was his friend. Once upon a time, they had grown up together.

Nothing of that man remains.

Sifo-Dyas holds his face impassive, and his body upright. “If a single child survives through my actions, it was worth it.”

And every word of it is true.

He doesn’t regret not taking the opportunity that his status as the man’s friend (long ago, before Yan died and the Count took his place) had given him to escape. He doesn’t regret staying to defend the Hothbat Clan. He won’t regret dying here. He won’t regret dying a Jedi.

“Unfortunate. I had hoped you would join me...my old friend.”

In a tableau as old as time itself, the dying Jedi holds his head high as the Sith who was once someone he knew, someone he loved, brings the saber down.

***********

Sifo-Dyas wakes up.

He is quite alone.

No droids, some bug in their programming making them butcher his people.

No Count, standing on the corpses of children.

No fire ravaging the Temple.

No Darkness, dimming the galaxy.

Everything is bright, and it is clean, and he lies there, tears streaking down his face as he feels the life and the peace permeating everything. As the war dragged on, the millennia old impressions of peace and of life and of beauty and of love had been replaced by stress and grief and sorrow and loss. He had forgotten how beautiful it was.

It can’t be real. And yet...the cup on his bedside table - it’s got the little chip in it that always annoyed him. The sunshine from the window is two centimetres to the left of the plants that need its light, like always. Little details, things that he never told anyone.

It can’t not be real. But...can it really be real?

“Master Sifo-Dyas? Master Sifo-Dyas?”

He starts, drawing his lightsaber in a quick, practised movement, before realising it is a Padawan on the other side of the door. Being on the frontlines of the war had given him bad habits, violent habits. With a pang of guilt, he extinguishes the blade and opens the door.

“Yes, child?”

They bow, a little jerkily, their stubby braid bobbing over their shoulder. They must be a new Padawan then. Probably their Master is a reckless young Knight, confined to Healer Che’s domain for a while. He can’t think of another reason a Padawan would be on door duty so young. Not without the Droid Wars raging to violently.

“Excuse me Master, but the Council is summoning you.”

“The...the Council?” He was the last, there was no one else - the Count had seen to that. There was never any time to appoint anyone else.

It is odd to be summoned by another now.

“You are late to the meeting, Master. It began a quarter of an hour ago.”

“O...of course. Please inform them I shall be right there. My thanks for your message youngling.”

The Padawan grins and skips away, remembering halfway down the corridor that they are on Official Business, and slowing to on overly staid walk that would send Sifo-Dyas into fits of laughter if he was less shell-shocked.

Yan had killed him. No, the Count had killed him. They had finally been making progress (five years, and they had been beaten back through half the Inner Rim worlds, and so many worlds had been lost, but they were finally pushing back, finally getting closer to winning), and then Palpatine (he had been removed from the Senate, they had imprisoned him, impeached him, had made him toothless) had declared himself Emperor, and their own droids had mowed them down. Sifo-Dyas rubs his fingers over the shoulder his once friend’s lightsaber had sliced in two earlier. He had felt the blade as it moved all the way to his heart.

It feels odd not to have a scar, or even any pain. There is nothing. No reminder of the ten, fifteen years he had lived.

Almost in a trance, he dresses and walks to the Council Chamber. How is this possible? And why him? Could it have been a vision? But it was too real, too substantial to be a vision.

And yet...he still resists the idea that it could be real.

“Ah, Master Sifo-Dyas. Late, you are.” Master Yoda. The Count had killed him on Geonosis, along with Kenobi and Skywalker. The two had been so promising, so young, and the Count had cut them down like so much straw. Knight Kenobi had been so inexperienced when he took Skywalker as his Padawan, but they had made such a wonderful team. Maybe they would have helped them win the war earlier had they lived. Maybe Master Yoda would have killed the Count and ended the war if he had lived.

Maybe they all would have died anyway.

He murmurs an apology, and sits down, his mind still whirling.

What if? What if this isn’t just a vision? What if he really is flung back in time? What if he has been sent to change things, to make things better?

“Master Sifo-Dyas? You seem unsettled.”

He smiles at Plo (Grevious had ripped his mask off, and made him watch as the Kel Dor died, choking on air, bleeding, his veins bursting beneath his skin), and tries to hide the horror in his eyes, remembering the writhing, twitching body he had been left with, awaiting a rescue that didn’t come for nearly a month. By then the body had been decayed enough that he had been able to see bone in places.

“An unusually vivid and dark vision, nothing more.”

Mace Windu leans forward, his eyes serious. He can’t look at the other man. All they had ever found was his head, one side of his face melted by the heat of his own lightsaber. Then it had been just Sifo-Dyas, the last Councillor. The last, the only one who the Count hadn’t murdered. He still feels sick, from the horror of their deaths, and from the guilt that had pooled in his stomach. Why had he lived through all of that?

“Was it important, Master Sifo-Dyas?”

He laughs, cracked and broken. Insane.

“You could say that.”

Shaak Ti looks at him with concern, and he physically jolted away. To think of how she had died, to think of...

It would break him all over again. No one had deserved that, least of all the motherly Togruta.

“Are you alright? Do you need anything, Master?”

They all look so calm and peaceful, sitting in their oasis of beauty and of Light. None of them know what he has seen, none of them know how they die.

He jolts to his feet, his eyes wild. “You are asking me? Why? Why are you asking me? You died! You all died! The war killed you. I was the last Councillor, the last of us left, and the Temple burned. Our own droids turned against us, gunned down our children!”

“Sifo...why don’t you sit down a minute? Obviously, you’re still overwrought from the vision you just had. Take some time to calm down, and to think it over.” They don’t believe him. In their eyes, he can see the belief that this is just another vision, maybe even just a dream. Something to be dissected and taken apart and maybe never acted upon. Poor Master Sifo-Dyas, too caught up in the Unifying to tell when he has overestimated a vision’s veracity.

It enrages him. They are all going to die, he knows how they will die, horribly, and he knows he can stop it if they just listen.

Then he noticed who spoke. Master Dooku, his eyes brown, his clothes simple, his face open.

“No. I’m not going to sit down and let you dismiss this! You,” he points at the man who was once his friend, “you Fell! You left the Order, and you led the war, and you killed us! You marched into the Temple and slaughtered our children! You betrayed us, and you took the lightsaber you made, and you used it to cut down younglings! You become a monster! A Sith!” Master Yoda reaches to whack him on the shins.

“Calm down, you must. Unless calm you are, tell us of your vision, you should not.”

“I will not calm down!” He is aware he must look quite demented, but Dooku killed him, and Yoda, and so many others. And he cannot let his people die just because he was intimidated into staying silent. “He killed you! And his grand-padawan, and Kenobi’s own Padawan! You want to know what I saw? I saw our people turned into warriors, sent out onto the battlefield to die. I saw the Temple aflame, our own droids mowing us down like so much grass! I saw the Count, eyes golden and blade red, standing over his own Lineage’s bodies! I saw the Temple grow dark, and our halls grow empty because we were dying! And I was killed, and I came back, because we have to stop it happening again!”

The others exchange glances. “Why don’t you have some water Master Sifo-Dyas? And then you can sit down and have a rest.”

He shakes off Oppo Rancisis’ hand from his elbow (the Death Watch had cut him to pieces and toasted him, and then had sent his head back, and he still nearly throws up whenever he thinks about it), frustrated and angry and scared. “You are all going to die! The galaxy will be plunged into war! The Jedi will be slaughtered! Please, you must listen to me!”

But they won’t. He can already tell.

So he walks out.

If they won’t save themselves, he will do it for them.

***************

Jocasta hasn’t heard about his breakdown yet. She is quite happy to let him search for...not droid manufacturers. Droids are programmed, and therefore easily controlled and corruptible. He sits and ponders what could happen instead.

In a few moments, Jo has been called away to help a clan of initiates find resources for their homework, and he is left alone.

What could replace droids as their army? He needs an army large enough to protect the Jedi, an army strong and fast, and with more processing power than a battle droid.

He needs...well, he needs living beings.

The planet list he has been scrolling through idly catches his attention. Kamino.

He did a project on it as a youngling.

Remote.

Stormy.

Home to a race of cloners.

Cloners.

That’s it! Clones. If he finds the right person, then the army he gives the Jedi will be skilled and independant, and most importantly, won’t rely on direct orders to act.

He stands and rushes out.

Ten years until the Droid Wars begin.

Ten years for an army of clones to be grown and trained.

Ten years to do his duty and save the galaxy...and his people.

Notes:

So far, I have never yet found a story where Sifo-Dyas was a time traveller who tried to fix things. I have never been so disappointed in the SW fandom.

Chapter 8: Prompt: Intergalactic Therapists

Notes:

(See the end of the chapter for notes.)

Chapter Text

“Master wait!”

The tall man slowed his long strides and turned to look with a smile at the little boy panting along behind him. He grabbed the child and tossed him easily over his shoulder, ignoring the indignant protests as he continued on.

“Master, I’m not a child anymore!”

Ignoring the childish tone, he merely quickened his pace. “No, you are just too little to walk fast enough, Padawan mine. And I don’t want to miss the first time you meet your Grandmaster just because we missed a shuttle on a backwater planet.”

A sharp elbow prodded him. “It’s humiliating Master, I’m a Padawan now, not a youngling.”

“You’re small enough to be one.”

The elbow poked him harder this time, and Qui-Gon stifled a laugh. “Not my fault you’re a giant, Master.”

“Not my fault you’re a midget, Imp.”

An unwilling chuckle broke from the little boy, and laughing, the two Jedi made their way to the shuttle off whatever this planet was called. Who knew - it was small, swampy, and full of unpleasantly standoffish, isolationist amphibious beings.

Missing the shuttle would have stranded them here for a month, and they breathed a sigh of relief as the streaks of hyperspace greeted them. Honestly, there was no reasoning with some people, and the Council would just have to deal with the fact that this planet didn’t want Jedi aid.

Too bad for them.

Anyway, he had an appointment for dinner with his Master, and he wasn’t going to miss it because some self-important people on a tiny insignificant planet in the Outer Rim couldn’t bend their stiff necks to let the Jedi mediate their civil war. Come to think of it, he should probably take a lesson from these...whatever they were.

He hadn’t spoken to Rael for years, not after what had happened with their Padawans. Maybe he should contact his lineage brother again. The galaxy could use a bit of fixing.

***************

“Master, why are we here?”

Depa looked around at the muddy little town with curiosity (and a bit of distaste for the grime).

He smiled and continued walking, following the path fixed in his mind.

“To see some friends of mine.”

“Who live here?”

The girl’s tone of surprise nearly made him laugh. “Leading the life of an active field Jedi doesn’t always mean that you cannot make friends who live in places other than palaces, child.”

“Yes, Master.”

“Besides,” his tone lightened, “I think you’ll like these people.”

Reaching the house he wanted, he knocked twice on the door.

“Who is it?”

“The crazy Jedi you chased off your land with a flock of nuna birds.” Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Depa perk up. She was never going to rest until she got the story.

A laugh sounded from inside, and the door was flung open.

“You came back! Crazy bastard. Come in, come in, make yourself at home.”

Bright eyes peered past him and widened in shock. “Don’t tell me you knocked someone up and it came back to bite you.”

Both he and Depa flushed, and a mischevious light twinkled in his friend’s eyes. “No, no, Depa is my Padawan.”

One brow raised, and then they were yanked into the house and pushed onto the sofa.

“How was I to know? You never write, you never call, you’re a terrible friend! For all I know, some woman could have showed up at your Temple and dumped a kid on you. Stranger things have happened, and when your friend doesn’t call for months, who knows what could have hit the fan.”

“Thea! It was one undercover mission.”

The old Twi’lek frowned and shoved a cup of hot chocolate into his hands. “You were undercover for months, and you never even texted. I thought you were dead for half the time, but no, no you were taking down a slaver gang.”

Then she grinned. “And it was twice.”

“It was necessary! I got your granddaughter back as well, who you did not tell me had been taken.”

“You didn’t do that well, Master Jedi. Did you hear she’s decided to call her first child Numa? What kind of name is that? She’s not even seeing anyone yet!”

“And her bad naming decisions are obviously my fault.”

“You’re the one who rescued her from the slavers.”

Depa watched incredulously as her proper Master laughed and bantered with the old woman. She knew he had spent a lot of time on Ryloth, sorting out a trade agreement and dismantling a slaver group. But somehow, she had never thought that he would have made lasting connections, or friends. Yet here he was, chatting happily to an old woman who looked like she would never have seen a Jedi, let alone befriend one.

Well, she supposed it was just another thing that went to show, Jedi fixed things, but they also made things. Like friends. And happiness. And peace.

*****************

Diplomacy; Skywalker, Anakin, Padawan

Grade: F

Teacher: Pernosh, Rue, Knight Consular

Comment: Anakin needs a more basic class for this subject. He insists that ‘aggressive negotiations’ are a valid tactic, and prefers to use intimidation to get his way. I understand that his background has led him to understand shows of power as a highly pertinent method of communication, but he cannot be cleared for diplomatic missions until he can go five minute without drawing his lightsaber and threatening people into submission. He also needs to learn to swallow his pride and control his temper. I have had to send three students to the Healers over the course of my injury leave because Anakin loses control and explodes things. Master Che is not impressed, just a warning Kenobi. Why is your Padawan so difficult? You were the best in our class!

Recommendations: Basic Diplomacy classes 1 and 2 are probably the best place for Anakin to start. Having to take classes with five year olds will also help to deflat his ego a little. You will have to deal with sulks though, sorry. Better you than me, old friend.

*****************

Being a Jedi meant you had to solve the galaxy’s problems.

It also meant you had to deal with the fallout when it didn’t go right.

The Jedi exchanged tired glances as the opposing groups drew hidden weapons yet again in the weapons-free peace conference.

What did this make? The fifth time today?

The Knight slumped a little. For a first mission as a Knight Consular, this was unusually delicate. As a key planet on the main hyperspace trade routes, if civil war broke out again (shattering the tense peace that had existed between the two factions for the last thousand years), the entire Republic’s economy would be severely destabilised, if not toppled.

Fortunately for the Knight, two Masters were also there to oversee proceedings. They looked calm and unruffled still, which the Knight envied heavily. But, they were leaking aggravation and exhaustion into the Force, which comforted the younger Jedi immensely as the three waded into the brawl yet again.

Why had he decided to be a Consular? Why not a Guardian? Then he could just jump into a war zone and hit things. That sounded so much easier than having to balance politics and economics and culture and try to satisfy everyone.

Ugh. He shook his head as a fist connected with his temple.

Being an Archivist would have been so much better - spending his life in the Archives with so many books would have been great.

Honestly, he was regretting his life choices so much now.

Fixing the galaxy, his big toe. All they were doing was trying to stop a load of people killing each other. This was not what he had imagined when he had signed up to be a Consular.

Maybe a Sentinel would have been better, or a Guard.

You didn’t have to talk to people as a Guard.

You just had to stand there and look intimidating. And stay quiet.

Come to think of it, that sounded great.

Once he had enough field experience, he would apply to become a Temple Guard. No more bloody diplomacy. No more kriffing brawls over peace talks.

The Pau’an ducked a wild punch and pulled two struggling people apart.

Maybe he wouldn’t be able to negotiate great treaties or save countless lives if he transferred to the Guard, but he would be doing something even better - protecting his people’s home. Protecting their children, their elderly, their injured, and their legacy. Protecting them at home, so that they could protect others in the galaxy.

He’d always liked Jedi better than other people anyway.

Notes:

I did have another ending for the last snippet:
The Grand Inquisitor woke up. Another dream about a past long dead.

 

And that’s a wrap. Wow, it’s been a month guys. I can’t believe I’ve managed to write something (no matter how weird) for each prompt.