FicWad

Author’s Warnings: 1.) Please see the Author's Warnings for the preface and prologue and first chapter of this story, as they continue to hold true pretty much throughout the rest of the story!
2.) Again, this story does not have a beta - I've proof-read and checked the grammar, but I won't swear that there aren't any typos! I will be happy to fix any errors that are pointed out to me!

Author’s Notes: 1.) Please see the Author's Notesfor the preface and prologue and first chapter of this story, as they continue to hold true pretty much throughout the rest of the story!
2.) Please keep in mind that some of the scenes in this work are going to be deliberately modelled after scenes in AotC (specifically the novelization of AotC by R. A. Salvatore), especially near the start of the story!
3.) Again, I have a journal entry with a running list of costumes/images that work as "illustrations" for much of this story, over at http://polgarawolf. livejournal. com/119841.html and, when the story is completely done, I will likely go back and either create specific entries with links for each chapter or include the proper information on costumes and such for each chapter in that chapter post.



Star Wars
Becoming Love: I, In You
The Rise of the Clone Wars

Chapter Two: In the Face of Danger


1,000:05:17 After Ruusan Reformations (25,001 After Republic’s Founding), 19 days prior to the Battle of Geonosis

Those who do not fear unwittingly give the advantage to danger, for those who know no fear also know no caution. Yet, those who know only fear become so ruled by that fear that it inevitably devours them whole. Thus, it is wisest to explore fear, to let the fear of a specific danger become a spur to help prevent it. In exploring a fear, the danger surrounding it becomes both less terrifying and less mysterious – and, thus, more controllable. Part of courage comes from extending knowledge, from the understanding that one need not be ruled by emotion, by terror, alone. Fear ever grows best in ignorance, in darkness: if one wishes to banish fear, to defeat danger, then the surest recourse is to turn on a light, to search out a source of illumination.
– Dormé Tammesin, handmaiden, former primary decoy of Queen Amidala of Naboo, and teacher of new handmaidens and decoys of Senator Amidala of the Chommell Sector, from private papers dated prior to the Battle of Geonosis



Surprisingly enough, the Senate Building on Coruscant isn’t one of the tallest buildings gracing the city-planet – a fact Dormé has always found somewhat odd, considering the massive egos it is often called upon to hold. Dome-shaped and relatively low, though, the structure does not soar up to the clouds, catching the artificially magnified light of Coruscant’s weak sun as most of the other important buildings on Coruscant do in a brilliant display of sparkling, lustrous metal and shimmering amber-glossed transparisteel and glass. Yet, somehow, the magnificent structure is not dwarfed by those towering skyscrapers about it, including the various senatorial apartment complexes of 500 Republica Way. Centrally located within that complex of structures and with a design quite different from the typical squared or otherwise regularly polygonal-shaped skyscraper – a design half buried beneath the artificial grounds that hold the sprawling plaza with its decorative gardens, surrounding the Senate Building like the setting for a jewel – the smooth bluish dome of the softly rounded building provides a welcome relief to the eye of the beholder, an enormous piece of art snugly set down within a community of simple (if towering and often light-chased) efficiency, seeming to glow softly, of its own accord, in the lingering dusky gloom of the extremely early dawn.

The interior of the building is no less huge and impressive, its sunken levels leading up to a gigantic rotunda encircled, row upon row, by the floating platforms of the many Senators of the Galactic Republic, representing the great majority of the galaxy’s known inhabitable worlds. A significant number of those platforms stand empty now, though, because of the recent Separatist movement. In the past few years alone, several thousand systems have joined with Count Dooku, supporting his plans to secede from a Republic that has, in their eyes, grown too ponderous and too bureaucratic to be effective . . . a claim that even the staunchest supporters of the Republic cannot completely, truthfully, dispute. Still, with the vital issue of whether a standing military force for the Republic might be necessary, given the increasingly tumultuous time, technically still scheduled for voting (if not yet firmly rescheduled, following the news of the attack against Senator Amidala), the walls of the circular (near-spherical) room echo, hundreds upon hundreds of voices all chattering at once, expressing emotions that range from anger to fear to regret to determination. As Dormé follows Padmé Amidala back into this vast space, she once again has the strange sensation that this must be what it would be like for a tiny creature of the sea to climb within the heart of a cast-off conch shell, surrounded on all sides by the booming echo and susurring murmur of the tidal rise and fall of rhythmic ocean waves.

In the center of the main floor, standing at the stationary dais, the one unmoving speaking platform in the entire building, Supreme Chancellor Palpatine watches and listens, taking in both the rhythms and the tumult of that rising and falling din, garbed in robes so dark and deep a blue as to appear black, at first glance (almost as if he were in mourning for the Republic, though those robes nonetheless still stubbornly demonstrate a singular allegiance to his home system, incorporating, as they do, embroidered tunics with /V/-shaped high double collars and outmoded cloaks of thickly quilted fabric), and wearing an expression that shows deep concern. Palpatine’s normally bright blue eyes, generally quite prominent and vivid in his kind – if somewhat florid and ever so slightly doughy (at least in Dormé’s opinion, almost as if the man were a china doll whose features were not quite allowed to harden properly before being taken out of the oven) – face, are now heavy-lidded, tired, watery, and shockingly indistinct in their exhaustion-sunken sockets above his sharp rudder of a nose, though they nonetheless still seem sharp enough to take in the ebb and flow of the discussions swirling around the Senate.

The thought that the man looks old, even worn out, is a bit difficult to avoid. Although a vigorous man who’d seemed still in the prime of his life when he took the position of Supreme Chancellor a little over a decade ago, Palpatine now seems well past middle age, an old and tired man with silver hair (tinged only a very little still, around the very base of the skull, and in his eyebrows, by its natural ruddy hue, though he still wears it in the provincial style of the outlying systems, as he did when he first took office, combed straight back from his high forehead and left thick and long behind his low-set ears) and a face creased by deep lines of age, experience, and exhaustion. His term limit ended over two years ago – about half a year after Padmé Amidala’s second and final term as Queen of Naboo, in point of fact – but a series of crises centered around the burgeoning and increasingly bold Separatist movement have allowed him to stay in office well beyond the legal limit of two four-year terms. From a distance, one might almost have thought the man frail; yet, up close, there can be no doubt of the strength and fortitude of the accomplished politician. Though clearly tired, Palpatine’s surprisingly broad shoulders – broad not just because of his elaborately layered and constructed clothing, but because the form beneath that clothing is still startlingly powerful – are unbowed, his spine almost rigidly upright, and there is a sense of all but tangible power, palpable strength, surrounding him, like an aura.

Idly, Dormé wonders, once again, why she always seems to feel a frisson of cold, of dislike, of almost danger, when within the Supreme Chancellor’s presence. She is quickly distracted from the thought, though, as her party moves to take its appointed space, and Milady turns to quietly ask for Dormé to help her go over her notes again, regarding which Senators are as yet undecided on the matter of the proposed bill, while there’s still some time before the meeting is finally called to order.

Hours later and with nothing decided save that the vote would continue to be delayed until the Senate had reached a decision as to whether or not it was necessary for the perpetrators behind the attack on Senator Amidala to be caught and brought to justice before the vote could take place – for fear, apparently, that the attack would sway the minds of the Senators voting – she follows a silently fuming Padmé Amidala back out into the traffic clogging the Coruscant sky, slipping among the striated streams of magnetically guided sky traffic (transports, air buses, taxis, speeders, skimmers, and all manner of other such transports coursing between the towering spires and gliding over the measureless chasms between those tall edifices like flocks of exotic birds moving above and amongst the cityscape) flowing steadily (if, in may cases, also somewhat slowly, due to the sheer amount of traffic and inevitable congestion) through the meandering smoggy haze. The sun is well and truly up, now (unlike earlier, when the meeting was called, with the first rays of the sun only just breaking over the Senate Building and its towering neighbors) giving the sprawling city a warm golden glow, and yet many lights are still on, shining behind the windows of the great skyscrapers.

The massive towers of the Republic Executive Building loom above it all, seeming as if they might reach up and pierce the very heavens, the seemingly needle-sharp upper levels of those towers thrusting up into and even past the stratosphere, almost daring to reach beyond the layers of Coruscant’s breathable atmosphere. And that seems fitting indeed, for inside, even at this early hour, the events and participants contained within those towers take on godlike stature to the trillions of common folk of the Republic . . . though Dormé, for one, cannot help but recall a number of old sayings about pride preceding a fall and the mighty being brought low and the danger of residing in castles in the clouds.

By the time Amidala’s party has reached the massive structure, Supreme Chancellor Palpatine is already seated behind his massive desk in the spacious and tasteful offices he keeps in one of those towers, staring silently across at four Jedi Master visitors. Across the room, a pair of red-clad guards flank the door, imposing, powerful figures, with great curving helmets and wide, floor-length capes. Dormé can clearly see them all from where she is standing, mostly hidden by a pillar down the hallway from the (oddly enough) open doorway of the Supreme Chancellor’s offices. Milady is waiting for the other members of the Loyalist Committee who were invited to this meeting to arrive before stepping forward, to announce her presence, and this is why Dormé is standing, thus, well within both sight and hearing range of the group of Jedi Masters already ensconced in Palpatine’s offices. Though she is certain that everyone within that spacious room is aware of the presences gathering outside the doorway, for the moment, at least, they are all calmly ignoring them, and she feels an odd twinge of conscience, as though she were eavesdropping on a conversation not meant for her . . . or as if she had happened upon a tableau deliberately set up for other eyes and ears than hers.

Eventually, Palpatine breaks the silence, tiredly sighing, “I fear this vote,” and steepling his hands thoughtfully before him.

“It is unavoidable,” Mace Windu – a tall and muscular Korunnai, bald, dark skinned, and with penetrating eyes, standing next to the even taller Ki-Adi-Mundi – quietly but firmly replies.

“And it could unravel the remainder of the Republic,” Palpatine retorts, fingers doubling over, hands clenching tightly together, as if the thought alone is enough to bring pain. “Never have I seen the Senators so at odds over any issue.”

“Few issues would carry the import of creating a Republic army,” Jedi Master Plo Koon – a tall, sturdy Kel Dor with dark, shadowed eyes and a black mask over the lower portion of his face, his head ridged and ruffled at the sides in a manner oddly reminiscent of the curly hair of a young girl – sadly adds. “The Senators are anxious and afraid, and believe that no vote will ever be more important than this one now before them.”

“And this way or that, much mending must you do,” Master Yoda – the smallest being in the room, in physical stature, yet a Jedi Master and Grand Master of the Order, nonetheless, and an individual so powerful as to stand tall in comparison to any other being in the galaxy – instantly, firmly insists. Yoda’s huge, amber-flecked green eyes blink slowly and his tremendous ears swivel subtly, revealing, for those who are more familiar with him, that he is extremely deep in thought, giving this situation his utmost attention. “Unseen is much that is here,” he continues, before closing his eyes in contemplation.

“I don’t know how much longer I can hold off the vote, my friends,” Palpatine quietly replies, his voice betraying both his worry and his increasing exhaustion. “And I fear that delay on this definitive issue might well erode the Republic through attrition. More and more star systems are joining the Separatists.”

Mace Windu, a pillar of strength even among the Jedi, gravely nods his understanding of the dilemma. “And yet, when the vote is done, if the losers do break away – ”

“I will not let this Republic that has stood for a thousand years be split in two!” Palpatine immediately, fervently declares, slamming a fist determinedly onto his desk. “My negotiations will not fail!”

One dark eyebrow perhaps twitches upwards a millimeter or two at this display of furious passion, but otherwise Mace Windu holds his calm, keeping his rich voice even and controlled. “But if they do, you must realize there aren’t enough Jedi to protect the Republic. We are keepers of the peace, not soldiers.”

Palpatine takes a few steadying breaths, trying to digest it all. “Master Yoda,” he begins, a plaintive note entering his voice as he turns towards that deceptively small form, waiting for the greenish-skinned Jedi Master to regard him. “Do you really think it will come to war?”

Again Yoda closes his eyes. “Worse than war, I fear,” he gravely replies. “Much worse.”

“What?” an alarmed Palpatine instantly demands.

“Master Yoda, what do you sense?” Mace Windu prompts, his voice deepening in a manner which only those closest to him would even suspect betrays the man’s uneasiness.

“Impossible to see, the future is,” the small Jedi Master quietly replies, his large eyes still looking inward. “The Dark Side clouds everything. But this I am sure of . . . ” He pops open his eyes and stares hard at Palpatine. “Do their duty, the Jedi will.”

A brief look of confusion comes over the Supreme Chancellor, but before he can begin to respond to Yoda, a hologram appears on his desk, the image of Dar Wac, one of his aides. “The Loyalist Committee members you asked to see have arrived and are waiting, Milord,” Dar Wac announces into the politely waiting silence.

“Send them in.”

The hologram disappears and Palpatine rises, along with the seated Jedi, to properly greet these distinguished visitors. They come inside in two groups, Senator Padmé Amidala walking with Dormé, Captain Typho, and Jar Jar Binks, and the male Chagrian Vice Chairman of the Galactic Senate, Mas Amedda, followed by a scant handful of Senators, including Bail Organa of Alderaan, Lexi Dio of Uyter, the rather dour Ister Paddie of Sermeria, and a tired-looking Horox Ryyder of Raioballo. Everyone moves to exchange pleasant greetings, and Yoda pointedly taps Padmé with his small cane, a gnarled stick made of gimer wood.

“With you, the Force has been strong, young Senator,” the Jedi Master tells her. “Your tragedy on the landing platform, terrible. To see you alive brings warm feelings to my heart.”

“Thank you, Master Yoda,” she graciously replies, inclining her head deeply. Then, the niceties seen too, she leans in a little closer, and, eyes narrowing, asks, “Do you have any idea who was behind this attack?”

Her question has everyone in the room turning to regard her and Yoda directly.

Mace Windu clears his throat and steps forward into the sudden silence. “Senator, we have nothing definitive, but our intelligence points to disgruntled spice miners on the moons of Naboo,” he announces.

Padmé looks to Captain Typho, who shakes his head in such a way as to indicate that he has no answers, himself. They’ve both recently witnessed the frustration of those spice miners, back on Naboo, but those demonstrations seem a long way from the tragedy that occurred on the landing platform, here on Coruscant. Releasing Typho from her gaze, she turns to stare hard at Mace Windu, wondering if it would be wise to voice her suspicions at this time. Dormé sighs and braces herself for a storm, well aware of the controversy that Milady is considering stirring up, knowing that the claim she is about to make is going to sound extremely illogical to many of the members of this room, and yet still . . . unable, truly, to fault Padmé in her conclusion.

“I do not wish to disagree,” she begins, her voice polite and deceptively quiet as the residents of the room begin to take their seats, “but I think that Count Dooku was behind it.”

A stir of surprise immediately ripples about the room, and the four Jedi Masters freeze in their tracks, exchanging looks that ranged from astonishment to outright disapproval.

“You know, Milady,” Mace quietly notes in his calm and resonant voice, “Count Dooku was once a Jedi. He wouldn’t assassinate anyone. It’s not in his character.”

“He is a political idealist,” Ki-Adi-Mundi, the fourth of the Jedi contingent, adds. “Not a murderer.” With his great domed head, the Cerean Jedi Master stands taller than anyone else in the room (Dormé would have to crane her neck at an awkward angle, to see the top of his tall skull, where she standing as close to him as Padmé is to Master Yoda), and the ridged flaps at the side of his pensive face adds a measure of introspection to his imposing physical form.

Master Yoda taps his gimer stick again, drawing attention to himself, and that alone exerts a calming influence over the increasingly tense mood. “In dark times, nothing is what it appears to be,” the diminutive figure sadly remarks, a slight gesture inviting those who are still standing to take their seats. “But the fact remains, Senator, in grave danger you are.”

Supreme Chancellor Palpatine – the only one in the room who has yet to take a seat – heaves a dramatic sigh and turns to stride over to the window, staring in a darkly brooding manner out at the Coruscant cityscape. After a few moments of introspective silence, he queries, “Master Jedi, may I suggest that the Senator be placed under the protection of your graces?”

Padmé gasps, the noise indicative both of shock and affront, and Senator Organa hurries to head her off, fearing an explosion. “Do you think that a wise use of our limited resources at this stressful time?” Bail interject, stroking his well-trimmed black goatee in a thoughtful gesture that reminds Dormé of a very similar mannerism of Obi-Wan Kenobi. “Thousands of systems have gone over fully to the separatists, and many more may soon join them. The Jedi are our – ”

“Chancellor,” Padmé firmly interrupts, “if I may comment. I do not believe the – ”

“ – situation is that serious,” Palpatine turns to finish for her. “No, but I do, Senator.”

“Chancellor, please!” she pleads. “I do not want any more guards!”

Palpatine merely stares at her as an overprotective father might – a look that Padmé might have viewed as condescending from any other man, and the tolerance of which, in Dormé’s opinion, reveals an uncomfortable increasing closeness in their relationship. “I realize all too well that additional security might be disruptive for you,” he begins, his voice pitched to be both soothing and reasonable, and then he suddenly pauses, a look coming over him as if he has just struck upon a logical and acceptable compromise. If Dormé had not known, beforehand, what that sudden compromise would entail, she fears she would have bristled, at the apparent lack of forethought such an expression seemed to reveal. “But perhaps someone you are familiar with, an old friend.” Smiling cleverly, clearly pleased with himself, Palpatine turns to look at Mace Windu and Yoda. “Say, Master Kenobi?” he finishes, raising an eyebrow inquisitively as he tilts his head, his smile only widening when Mace Windu nods thoughtfully back.

“That’s possible,” the Korunnai Jedi Master confirms. “He has just returned from a border dispute on Ansion.”

“You must remember him, Milady,” Palpatine notes, grinning hugely, as if it were already a done deal, the expression making Dormé’s hackles rise even though she knows that what he is proposing is actually for the best. “He watched over you during the blockade conflict. And the two of you have remained on friendly terms, haven’t you?”

“This is not necessary, Chancellor,” Padmé determinedly replies, but Palpatine doesn’t relinquish his grin in the least, showing clearly that he knows well how to defeat the independent Senator’s argument.

“Do it for me, Milady. Please. I will rest easier. When new of the attack came . . . well, it was a dreadful fright. The thought of losing you is unbearable.”

Several times Padmé begins to respond, but she obviously has no clear notion how she possibly say anything to deny the Supreme Chancellor’s expressed concern without coming off as either spoiled, petulant, or unreasonably rash. She finally gives a great sigh, defeated, and the Jedi rise and turned to leave.

“I will have Obi-Wan report to you immediately, Milady,” Mace Windu informs Padmé, inclining his head politely before he glides gracefully past her.

As he passes, Yoda leans in close to Padmé and whispers so that only she and those nearest to her (Dormé and Typho, as it happens) can hear, “Too little about yourself you worry, Senator, and too much about politics. Be mindful of your danger, Padmé. Accept our help.”

The Jedi all leave the room, then, and Padmé Amidala stares at the door and the flanking guards for a long while, her face for once blankly inscrutable, even to Dormé.

Behind her, at the back of his office, Chancellor Palpatine watches them all, a hardness in his eyes that makes Dormé want very badly to shiver.

*****

“It troubles me to hear Count Dooku’s name mentioned in such a manner, Master,” Mace Windu quietly tells Yoda as the Jedi make their way back to their own Council Chamber. “And from one as esteemed as Senator Amidala. Any mistrust of Jedi, or even former Jedi, in times such as these can be disastrous.”

“Deny Dooku’s involvement in the Separatist movement, we cannot,” Yoda merely sadly reminds him.

“Nor can we deny that he left us and began that movement because of ideals,” Mace stubbornly argues. “He was once our friend – that we must not forget – and to hear him slandered and named as an assassin – ”

“Not named,” Yoda cuts in, thumping his gimer stick against the floor for emphasis. “But darkness there is, about us all, and in that darkness, nothing is what it seems.”

Mace frowns darkly, pushing the point by noting, “But it makes little sense to me that Count Dooku would make an attempt on the life of Senator Amidala, when she is the one most adamantly opposed to the creation of an army. Would the Separatists not wish Amidala well in her endeavors? Would they not believe that she is, however unintentionally, an ally to their cause? Or are we really to believe that they want war with the Republic?”

Yoda leans heavily on his cane, seeming very weary, and his huge eyes slowly slip shut. “More is here than we can know,” he very quietly sighs. “Clouded is the Force. Troubling it is.”

Troubled by the Grand Master’s seeming exhaustion, Mace dismisses his forthcoming reflexive response, a further defense of his old mentor and friend, Dooku. Count Dooku had been among the most accomplished of the Jedi Masters, respected among the Council, a student of the older and, some would say, more profound Jedi philosophies and styles, including an arcane lightsaber fighting style that’s more front and back, thrust and riposte, than the typical circular movements currently employed by most of the Jedi. It had been a terrible blow – made all the more grievous, coming as it had on the heels of the loss of Qui-Gon Jinn – both to the Jedi Order, as a whole, and to Mace Windu, personally, when Dooku walked away from them, and for many of the same reasons the so-called Separatists are now trying to walk away from the Galactic Republic. Dooku had quietly but firmly opined, before his departure, that the Jedi Order has grown too far apart from the Republic and the sentient beings whose rights and freedoms the Jedi are meant to shepherd and safeguard, too lofty and rigid and hidebound and bureaucratic in nature, to be able to carry out their duties properly or even be able to clearly sense, much less obey, the will of the Force, just as the Separatists now argue that the Republic has grown too ponderous and unresponsive to the needs of the individual, even of individual systems, the workings and members of the government so far removed from the day-to-day needs and desires and hopes and fears of the people as to no longer be able to truly, fairly, accurately represent them. It is no less troubling to Mace Windu, concerning Dooku, as it is, no doubt, to Amidala and Palpatine, concerning the Separatists, that some of the arguments made in favor of leaving or of needing to do away with the current system entirely are not without merit.

Mace Windu sighs, continuing to follow Master Yoda’s lead. It is a pretty pickle that the Republic has gotten itself into and no doubt about it, and, unfortunately, given the Order’s low number of members and increasingly obvious interference from the deepening pall of the Dark Side, it is extremely difficult to truly get enough of a feel for everything is happening and why to understand enough to predict what will happen next, much less to attempt to steer both the Order and the Republic to some kind of safe path. He only hopes that the involvement of the Jedi Order will be enough, in this case, will be enough both to clear up this troublesome accusation and to help steer the Republic to a safe course through the coming days, until the time comes when the crucial vote regarding this proposed Military Creation Act can be held. As he follows Master Yoda into the Temple proper, it occurs to him that he should, perhaps, wish Master Kenobi and his young Padawan learner – Anakin Skywalker, the barely twenty-year-old boy so many believe may be the Chosen One of ancient prophecies, destined to bring balance to the Force in the midst of dark times – good luck with their assignment.

He has a sinking suspicion – prompted in part by a familiar sickening sensation in the pit of his stomach – that they are going to need all the luck they can get.

*****

As the lights of Coruscant grow dim, the bright glare of the artificially magnified light of the sun gradually fading, the great and towering cityscape takes on a vastly different appearance. Under the darkening evening sky, the skyscrapers seem to become gigantic natural monoliths, and all of the supersized structures that so dominate the city-planet, that so mark Coruscant as a monument to the ingenuity of the sentient beings of the galaxy, seem somehow a mark of folly, of futile pride striving against the natural vastness and majesty that lies beyond the grasp of any mere mortal. Even the wind at the higher levels of the structures sounds mournful, almost as a herald to what would eventually, inevitably, naturally become of even the most durable of the structures of that great city and the great civilization that has spawned it.

As Obi-Wan Kenobi and Anakin Skywalker stand in the turbolift of the particular tower of the Senate Apartment Complex that houses Padmé Amidala’s senatorial apartments, the young Jedi Master is silently pondering such deep universal truths as inevitability and the subtle change of day into night. Beside him, though, his young Padawan certainly is not dwelling upon anything so universal or profound. Anakin is about to see Padmé again, the woman who captured his heart and soul when he was but ten years old and never, thereafter, let it go. He is also about to see, for the first time ever, knowingly (that is, with the both of them knowing each other, truly, deeply, as real friends, and not just more faces in the crowd of allies and protectors surrounding Padmé Amidala), face to face, Dormé Tammesin, the young woman who is, perhaps, the closest thing he has to a sister, his longstanding confident and supporter and occasional (and sometimes acerbic) voice of conscience.

Anakin Skywalker is far too busy being torn between sheer, unadulterated terror over the idea of how many things could go wrong and unthinking, giddy joy at the thought of all of the things that could go right to notice such things as the symbolism of the deepening darkness descending upon Coruscant.

“You seem a little on edge, Anakin,” Obi-Wan eventually notes as the lift continues in its climb towards the proper floor, tilting his head slightly and raising an eyebrow at his Padawan’s increasing obvious inability to stand still.

“Not at all,” comes the wholly unconvincing reply, the words coming both too quickly and in far too high and uncertain a voice to come across as anything other than a thoroughly unsuccessful attempt to distract Obi-Wan from his awareness of Anakin’s inner turmoil.

A ruddy gold brow goes winging rapidly upwards, and Obi-Wan’s face takes on lines of patent disbelief as he quietly (and with some amusement) notes, “I haven’t seen you this nervous since we fell into that nest of gundarks.”

“You fell into that nightmare, Master, and I rescued you. Remember?”

The truth of the matter is far more complex than that, of course – Obi-Wan, as he seems to recall, plummeted into that nest of gundarks during an attempt to save Anakin, who had still been so badly strung out on the drugs Jenna Zan Arbor had repeatedly dosed him with as to seem wholly unaware of the danger he was in, teetering as he had been on the edge of a fall down into that nest – but Obi-Wan’s little attempt at distracting his increasingly fidgety apprentice seems to have the desired effect, and so he merely inclines his head slightly and shares a much-needed laugh with his Padawan. When their easy laughter has faded into silence, though, Anakin remains obviously on edge, and Obi-Wan finds himself sighing over the need to take a more direct approach to the problem. “You’re sweating,” he quietly notes. “Take a deep breath,” he then advises, clasping his Padawan’s tense shoulder and shaking him a little. “Relax.”

“I haven’t seen her in over ten years.”

“Anakin, /relax/,” Obi-Wan patiently reiterates. “She’s not the Queen anymore.”

The lift door finally slides open, then, and Obi-Wan strides out into the corridor, while Anakin, behind him, mutters indistinctly under his breath, “That’s not why I’m nervous.”

Obi-Wan is forced to repress an urge to frown, at that remark, and he is about to turn back to his companion and ask for a bit of clarification when, as Anakin steps forward to join him in the corridor, a door across the way abruptly slides open and a well-dressed Gungan male, clad in extremely fine red and black robes, ventures out into the corridor opposite them. The three stand still, regarding each other silently for a few moments, and then the Gungan diplomat (familiar, despite his finery), losing all sense of reserve and propriety, begins hopping around like an excited child who’s had far too much caf and sugar.

“Obi! Obi! Obi!” Jar Jar Binks cries, tongue and ears all flapping as he continues to jump up and down. “Mesa so smilen to see’en yousa! Wahoooo!”

Obi-Wan smiles back politely, though his quick glance aside to Anakin betrays his embarrassment at and discomfort with being so enthusiastically greeted, and he quickly begins to make gentle patting motions in the air with his hands, trying to calm the excitable fellow back down. “It’s good to see you, too, Jar Jar.”

Jar Jar continues to hop about for another few moments before finally, with obvious great effort, calming down. “And this, mesa guessen, issen yousa apprentice,” the Gungun eventually ventures, seeming to have much more control over himself. That sense of calm control only lasts for a few moments, though, until he’s taken a good look at the young Padawan, and all pretense at serenity melts away. “Noooooooo!” he all but shrieks at the top of his lungs, clapping his hands together with violent joy. “Ani? Noooooooo! Little bitty Ani?” Jar Jar grabs the Padawan and pulls him forcefully to arm’s length, studying him head to toe. “Noooooooo! Yousa so biggen! Yiyiyiyi! Ani! Mesa no believen!”

Now it’s Anakin’s turn to wear an embarrassed smile. Politely, he offers no resistance as the overexcited Gungan slams him into a crushing hug, childish hops shaking him violently. “Hi, Jar Jar,” Anakin eventually manages to say, when he’s got his breath back, as Jar Jar continues on, hopping and crying out his name and issuing a series of strange yiyi sounds. It seems as if the violently happy greeting might go on forever, but then Obi-Wan gently but firmly takes hold of Jar Jar by the arm. “We have come to speak with Senator Amidala. Could you show us to her?”

Jar Jar instantly stops bouncing and looks at Obi-Wan with such an expression of grimly intent seriousness that Anakin finds himself taken more than a little bit aback at how earnestly solemn and still that previously comically mobile duck-billed face is apparently able to quickly become. “Shesa expecting yousa,” he acknowledges, inclining his head at Obi-Wan. And then, a bit less grimly, but still far more wistfully than joyously, he reiterates, “Ani! Mesa no believen!” His head bobs a little bit more, and then he grabs Anakin by the hand and pulls him on down the hallway, Obi-Wan following after with a small smile of amusement that he doesn’t even bother to try hiding from his extremely discombobulated apprentice.

The receiving room of the series of interconnected suites just inside the door that Jar Jar brings them to is tastefully decorated, with serene arching blue walls broken up by spacious windows and a few well-placed (and stunningly gorgeous) pieces of art scattering about those walls and deeply cushioned chairs and couches (all the same golden hue of sun-kissed sand) set in a circular pattern in the chamber’s center. Dormé standing by the back of the couch that is situated nearest the door, clad in elegant yet understated attire – a deep midnight indigo-purple velvet robe-like hooded cloak (stylized emblems woven into the deep pile of the fabric, running from just below the shoulders to just above the hem on either side of the robe’s open front, declaring her loyalty both to Padmé Amidala and, through her, to Sabé Kandala) with elaborate gathered wide sleeves (tailored to fit close to the arm, all the way down to and even a little past the wrist, despite their full, swallow-like drape) and carefully, meticulously connected draped tabards across the back (its deep cowl pushed low on her shoulders and back) over a slightly lighter purple crushed velvet gown with an elaborately gathered bodice and high neck and long, floor-sweeping skirt – typical of Padmé’s handmaidens, while Captain Typho (clad in his typical military garb of blue uniform under a durable dark brown leather tunic, with black leather gloves and a stiff cap, its brim and band also of black leather) is standing further into the room behind her, over by one of the large windows, quite near the only other resident of the room.

Obi-Wan Kenobi’s eyes sweep across them before coming to rest on that third resident: Padmé Amidala, in her typical splendor, with her paradoxical beauty, both simple and complex. With her enormous brown eyes and softly heart-shaped face with its beautifully refined features, Padmé could have easily outshone almost any other person around her (with the exception of her childhood friend and companion, the equally lovely, equally captivating Sabé Dahn), even if she were dressed in simple peasant’s clothing: in her elaborate senatorial attire – a gorgeous burnt-out flame-patterned silk velvet overdress and floor-sweeping tabard of deep midnight plum hue, flowing like a river under an evening dark sky over a fabulous underdress of lighter colored, heavy indigo-lavender silk charmeuse, the bodice (much like the flared sleeves of the overdress) largely covered with elaborate blue and indigo beading and scrollwork, her graceful long neck emphasized both by the golden choker necklace (seven layers of what looks like highly flexible, thick, flat gold chain linked to vertical rectangular bars of gold) and her severe hairstyle, pulled back and held rigidly in place by an almost conical cage of patterned gold circular coils linked by several thin strips of gold, tapering tightly before blooming into an oddly flower-like pouf at the back, where tiny braids of hair loop over and outwards from the end of the golden cage of that elaborate headdress – in Obi-Wan’s eyes, she easily outshines the very stars themselves. Padmé’s mixture of intelligence and beauty, of innocence and allure, of courage and integrity (yet, despite her obvious tiredness, the worn, haunted look lingering at the back of her eyes, still leavened with a good measure of a child’s mischievousness), floors Obi-Wan every time he looks at her, and this time is no different, though he is careful not to betray his sudden shortness of breath.

It is, perhaps, not so very surprising, that he should miss both his Padawan’s sudden intake of shocked breath, when he locks eyes with Dormé Tammesin, and the loud whooshing sound of that abruptly released breath, when he has succeeded in wrenching his gaze away from her only to have his eyes collide with the eminently breath-stealing vision of Padmé Amidala.

Anakin feels as if he’s been kicked in the stomach, turned aside in an attempt to recover his lost breath and dignity, and been struck hard across the back of the head. He stares dumbly at Padmé Amidala, helplessly drinking in the sight of her, eyes wide, their normally fairly light blue all but invisible, nearly swallowed whole by darkened pupils. If ever he had held any moments of doubt as to whether Padmé might or might not be as beautiful as he remembers her, they were washed away, then and there, in that first shocked instant of sight. His gaze roams across the Senator’s small and shapely frame in her deep purple and blue-spangled indigo robes, taking in every detail, from the hems brushing softly against the floor (triggering a strange envy of the blue carpeting being so gently touched) to the high jut of her enclosed hair, drawn back so far and so tall above her head that his fingers instantly begin to itch to find the clasps holding that basket-like assembly closed and to tumble her hair down so that it will fall freely across her shoulders and down her back. He wants to lose himself in that thick brown hair, having freed it. He sees her dark eyes and wants to stare into them for eternity. He sees her lips, pink and full and slightly slackened by surprise, and wants to . . .

With a supreme act of will, Anakin wrenches his gaze away, his eyes sliding naturally back to Dormé (who, having turned towards the opening door, is directly in his line of sight), and a whimper catches in the back of his throat, nearly choking him. He has drawn Dormé’s face dozens of times, hundreds of times, long fingers tracing thoughtfully, lovingly, over the delicate lines of a face a little too slender to be called truly heart-shaped but too finely chiseled to simply be termed oval, at least in his opinion. He has sketched the sweeping tilt of her nose, traced over the hint of freckles usually hidden away by cosmetics meant to made the handmaidens all seem more alike, more like their sworn Lady, poured all of the rich darkness and giving of the most fecund shades of moist earth into her eyes and the waves of her dark hair, tinted her cheeks with the pale pink bloom of the shivering first blossoms of spring, painted her lips rose red to match the truth of her legally given name, and yet . . . and yet, he feels as if he has no earthly clue who this woman is, standing before him, gliding gracefully as a wind-puffed bit of down over towards him. The tightness in his chest in such that he cannot draw the breath he has lost, in the shock of seeing Padmé again, and there is such a roaring in his ears that he is reminded, suddenly, of how it was, to stand near enough to the waterfall at Theed, below the Palace, to be soaked, head to toe, by its glistening, rainbow-swooning spray.

Anakin forces his eyes shut again, just for a moment, and makes himself inhale deeply (if shakily), trying to seize the tattering edges of his rapidly unraveling calm and wrap himself in it like Obi-Wan so easily wraps himself in the serene mystique of a Jedi Master. His attempt fails spectacularly, though, for the moment his eyes shut, the scent of her slams into him, the sweet perfume that has been burned into his memory for over a decade now as Padmé’s natural smell.

It takes every single ounce of willpower he can muster to not only strangle the groan that wants to rise up from the pit of his stomach into silence, but to force himself to walk in slowly and respectfully behind Obi-Wan, deliberately pacing his Master, rather than simply rushing in and crushing . . . well, someone – Padmé, Dormé, /someone/! – in a wildly enthusiastic hug . . . and yet, paradoxically, it also takes every bit of his willpower to move his legs, which suddenly seem so very weak, to even take that first step into the room, that first step towards . . . /her/.

“Mesa here. Lookie! Lookie!” Jar Jar happily screeches – hardly the announcement Obi-Wan would have preferred, but one that he now realizes he must expect from the emotionally volatile Gungan – breaking the peaceful tableau. “Desa Jedi arriven.”

“It’s a pleasure to see you again, Milady,” Obi-Wan quietly declares, moving to stand before the beautiful young Senator, inclining his head politely and giving her a small smile.

Standing behind and off to the side of his Master, Anakin is torn between staring at the woman who has haunted his dreams and noting her every move (she does, he notice, glance at him once, though very briefly, and with no recognition whatsoever that he can detect in her eyes) and drinking in the sight of Dormé, as she gracefully paces beside her mistress, her position by Padmé echoing Anakin’s by Obi-Wan, her soft, sweet smile and her slightly (shyly?) lowered dark gaze clearly meant for Anakin alone.

Padmé, whose gliding steps all but rush to Obi-Wan, is all smiles and open pleasure, and she blooms and shines like a suddenly rising star as she pauses before him, near enough that the hem of her skirts brush softly, sensuously, across the toes of Obi-Wan’s boots. Obi-Wan is standing with his hands threaded together, all but lost in the belling sweep of the long sleeves of his robe, but she hesitates not at all before bolding reaching to take Obi-Wan’s hands gently in her own, her small white hands pressing tightly around Obi-Wan’s much larger hands. “It has been far too long, Master Kenobi. I’m so glad our paths have crossed again!” she exclaims, her smile widening, her face radiant and lovely, before, with a visible start – apparently caused by the sound of Captain Typho’s heels clicking together, as he comes to rest across from where they are standing, his figure silhouetted in the space between their bodies – she seems to recall that she is not alone in the room. Her hands tighten for a moment around Obi-Wan’s before, reluctantly, she opens her hands enough to allow him to slip away from her. Quietly, sadly, she then adds, “But I must warn you that I think your presence here is unnecessary.”

“I am sure that the members of the Jedi Council have their reasons,” Obi-Wan merely softly replies, and if the tips of his fingers linger in the warm slide away from the press of Padmé’s hands, well . . . not even Anakin, frozen in shock as he is, seems to notice.

Padmé’s radiant glow shutters into a resigned, accepting expression at that answer, but a look of curiosity soon replaces it as she glances again behind the Jedi Knight and Master, to the young Padawan standing, apparently quite patiently, off to the side. She takes a small step to the side, so that she is standing more directly in front of Anakin, and frowns slightly, gazing at him intently. “Ani?” she finally asks after several long heartbeats (in which Anakin’s eyes cannot settle between Padmé’s inquisitive face and Dormé’s suddenly thoroughly amused smile), her expression purely incredulous. Her sudden smile and the flash in her eyes shows that she needs no answer, though there is still shock lingering behind that smile.

For just a flicker of a heartbeat, Anakin feels her spirit leap, and he is suddenly so dizzy that he can barely even make himself smile back at her, through the sudden haze.

“Ani,” Padmé repeats, shaking her head a little, clearly still surprised. “Can it be? My goodness how you’ve grown!” She looks down and then follows the line of his lean body, tilting her head back to emphasize his height, and he abruptly realizes that he towers over her, now, whereas before she had towered over him.

That does little to bolster Anakin’s confidence, though, so lost is he in his own sudden dizziness. Her smile widens, a clear sign that she is indeed glad to see him, but he is so distracted with the sudden need to focus on not hyperventilating or staggering sideways that he misses it, or at least the implications of it. “So have you,” he finally awkwardly replies, stuttering a little over the words as he forces each syllable from a mouth that feels at once both far too dry and all but numb, his tongue seemingly grown huge, swollen, clumsy. “Grown more beautiful, I mean.” He clears his throat and stands taller for a moment, pleased with the sudden rush of words and loss of stutter. “And much shorter,” he teasingly adds, grinning crookedly, trying (largely unsuccessfully, to everyone listening) to sound in control of himself. “For a Senator, I mean.”

Anakin winces as soon as he realizes what he’s said, flinching inwardly, feeling as if part of him is curling up and dying from sheer mortification under the combination of Obi-Wan’s disapproving look, Typho’s scowl, Dormé’s rolling eyes, and Padmé’s suddenly quite blank expression. After a few moments, though, Padmé shakes her head and laughs, the clearly delighted tinkling noise banishing any tension away.

“Oh, Ani, you’ll always be that sweet little boy I knew on Tatooine,” she declares, smiling, and, though she clearly means her remark as a compliment, she could not have shortened Anakin Skywalker any more or more thoroughly cut him down to size if she had taken the lightsaber from his belt and sliced his legs cleanly out from under him.

He instantly looks down, his embarrassment so heightened by the looks that he just knows Obi-Wan and Captain Typho are both throwing his way that he feels his cheeks burning so hot that, for once, is fairly (and quite miserably) certain that even his naturally bronzed skin isn’t dark enough to hide the rush of color.

It does not help that, in his last glimpse of Dormé, before his gaze fastens firmly on the carpet at his feet, her expression is one that strikes him as half sympathetic and half impatient.

“Our presence will be invisible, Milady,” he dimly hears Obi-Wan assure Padmé through the rushing of blood in his ears, his embarrassment such that he almost doesn’t notice it when Padmé and Dormé both turn towards the circle of seats at the center of the room, starting like a moon-brained when Obi-Wan turns to pace Padmé’s steps and having to awkwardly hurry to fall in, automatically waiting to pace a softly smiling Dormé’s steps.

“I’m very grateful that you’re here, Master Kenobi,” Captain Typho announces in reply, joining both the discussion and the procession to the comfortably cushioned chairs and couches. “The situation is more dangerous than the Senator will admit.”

“I /don’t /need any more security,” Padmé instantly insists, her head tilting aside so that the retort is addressed to Typho, though she turns back to regard Obi-Wan before she continues, gracefully sitting down in the central seat of one of the longer couches, gazing at the Jedi intently all the while. “I need /answers/. I want to know who is trying to kill me. I believe that there might lie an issue of the utmost importance to the Senate. There is something more here . . . ” she insists, her words trailing off as a frown crosses Obi-Wan Kenobi’s face.

Her slight frown is a question, and he cannot help but sigh before telling her, “We’re here to protect you, Senator, not to start an investigation,” breaking the bad news in calm and deliberate tones. Yet, even as he finishes speaking, Anakin is already contradicting him.

“We will find out who’s trying to kill you, Padmé,” the Padawan fervently insists. “I promise you.” As soon as he’s finished speaking, Anakin recognizes his error – one that clearly shows in the scowl Obi-Wan flashes his way – flinching slightly at his mistake. Unfortunately, he’d been fashioning a response to Padmé in his thoughts, and had hardly even registered his Master’s explanation before he blurted out the obviously errant words. Now, he can only bite his lip and lower his gaze, hoping that Obi-Wan won’t be too terribly upset with his obvious gaff.

“We are not going to exceed our mandate, my young Padawan learner!” Obi-Wan sharply insists, his voice level but firmly and clearly conveying that Obi-Wan is not in the mood to be challenged on this issue.

Anakin, though, stung to be dressed down in such a public forum – especially in front of/ this/ particular audience – misses that warning, and, in hopes of both recovering some of his lost ground (both in terms of his own sense of footing and any credibility at all he might have with Padmé) and maybe even bringing Obi-Wan around, he hastily counters, “I meant, in the interest of protecting her, Master, of course,” though the justification sounds inane even to Anakin.

“We are not going through this exercise again, Anakin,” Obi-Wan declares, voice and manner suddenly become rigid, close-off, distant, cold. “You will pay attention to my lead.”

Anakin – on the one hand unable to believe that Obi-Wan could actually continue to be so harsh in front of Padmé (whose face, at Obi-Wan’s tone, becomes all but equally rigidly cold, closed-off, and distant, her pale features suddenly seeming oddly still, like a mask carved out of ivory) and, on the other, desperately unhappy with his Master’s utter refusal to consider bending their mandate just a little bit, to keep Padmé happy enough to maybe cooperate with them – scowls and, squirming a little in his seat with agitation, demands, “Why?” deliberately turning the question and the debate.

“What?” Obi-Wan exclaims, as taken aback as Anakin has ever seen him, the look of clear shock in his eyes telling Anakin, more plainly than any actual sign of anger could have, that he has pushed too far and too fast.

Carefully taking a deep breath to help steady his nerves (and, hopefully, banish the edge of desperation in his voice), he quietly elaborates, asking, “Why else do you think we were assigned to her, if not to find the killer?” trying to bring a measure of calm back to the situation. “Protection is a job for local security, not for Jedi. It’s overkill, Master, so I’d assumed that an investigation is implied in our mandate.”

“/We/ will do as the Council has instructed,” Obi-Wan counters, his voice quiet but hard, his eyes rather abruptly having shifted from their more normal swirl of blues, greens, and indigos (like living oceans) to a disturbing shade of flat metallic grey. “And you will learn your place, young one.”

“Perhaps with merely your presence about me, the mysteries surrounding this threat will be revealed,” Padmé offers after a few silent heartbeats, ever the diplomat. She smiles alternately at Anakin and at Obi-Wan, her carefully polite manner all but screaming an invitation for civility, and, when they both finally lean back (Anakin taking his cue from Obi-Wan), she adds, in a bright, patently false cheerful tone (shoulders visibly relaxing), “Now, if you will excuse me, I think I have a few details to see to, before I can retire for the evening. I’m sure Captain Typho will be happy to answer any questions you may have.”

They all stand again – Obi-Wan opposite Padmé, Anakin opposite Dormé (who is seated to Padmé’s left, her face a mask of blank stillness overlying a hint of rigid tenseness, her dark eyes betraying a hint of inner storm that makes Anakin flinch), Jar Jar opposite no one (off to Padmé’s right), and Captain Typho seated in a such a way as to act as a bridge between their two parties – bowing before Padmé and Dormé both turn to leave the room, Padmé turning slightly to flash one more small but genuine smile (her expression oddly pleading) at Obi-Wan before quietly slipping away. Then Obi-Wan turns to stare hard at his young Padawan again, clearly not overly pleased with him, and Anakin finds that he’s hunching in on himself, arms protectively crossed around his chest, shrinking away from his Master’s displeasure, forced to blink rapidly to keep himself from becoming teary-eyed over the absolute mess he’s made of things.

“Well, I know that I’m glad to have you here, for what it’s worth,” Captain Typho quietly but firmly offers, breaking the uncomfortable silence as he moves in closer to the pair. “I don’t know what’s going on here, but the Senator can’t possibly have too much security right now. Your friends on the Jedi Council seem to think that miners have something to do with this, but I can’t really agree with that.”

“What have you learned?” Anakin quietly asks, hoping to distract Obi-Wan from his displeasure (and himself from his crushing disappointment) by prolonging the discussion.

Obi-Wan though, immediately throws him a look of warning.

“We’ll be better prepared to protect the Senator if we have some idea of what we’re up against,” Anakin finds himself babbling, desperately trying to explain himself to his Master, hoping that the logic will be strong enough that Obi-Wan will accept his question as reasonable.

When Obi-Wan merely tilts his head slightly to the side, in a listening manner, Typho replies, “Not much,” sighing in frustration over the admittance. “Senator Amidala leads the opposition to the creation of what amounts to either a standing Republic army or navy or both. She’s very determined to deal with the Separatists through negotiation and not force, but the attempts on her life, even though they’ve failed, have only strengthened the opposition to her viewpoint in the Senate. There are many who are afraid to join her, for fear of making themselves targets as well. And others, who were undecided on the manner before, see the attempts on her life as proof that the Republic does need further security, more protection.”

“And since the Separatists would not logically wish to see a Republic army formed . . .” Obi-Wan reasons, stroking idly, thoughtfully, at his bearded chin, distracted enough by the puzzle Typho is presenting that Anakin abruptly finds himself breathing much easier, shoulders sagging with relief.

“We’re left without a clue,” Typho admits, shrugging a little, helplessly. “In any such incident, given her current extremely public political aims, the first questioning eyes turn towards Count Dooku and the Separatists.” A frown crosses Obi-Wan’s face, and Typho quickly adds, “Or to some of those who’re loyal to his movement, if not high in his trust, at least. But why they’d go after Senator Amidala is anyone’s guess.”

“And we are not here to guess, but merely to protect,” Obi- Wan flatly notes, in tones that show he is finished with this particular line of discussion.

Typho bows, hearing him clearly. “I’ll have an officer on every floor, and I’ll be at the command center downstairs.”

Typho crisply turns to leave, then, and Obi-Wan silently begins a search of the room and adjoining chambers, clearly trying to get a feel for the place. Anakin starts to follow him, to do likewise, but he stops when he walks by Jar Jar Binks.

“Mesa bustin wit happiness seem yousa again, Ani,” the Gungun quietly but fairly firmly insists, his voice and manner subdued, for him.

“She didn’t even recognize me,” Anakin only tiredly sighs, unhappily, staring at the door through which Padmé departed, only minutes earlier. He shakes his head despondently and turns towards the waiting (and clearly puzzled) Gungan. “I’ve thought about her every day since we parted, and she’d forgotten me completely. And now she has no reason to think of me as anything but a fool!” he adds, laughing bitterly, rubbing roughly at the nape of his neck.

“Why yousa sayen that!” Jar Jar demands, clearly aghast at the notion.

“You saw her,” Anakin only shrugs, gesturing helplessly back towards the doorway. “She didn’t even recognize me!”

“Shesa happy,” the Gungan immediately insists. “Happier than mesa see’en her in a longo time,” he adds reassuringly. “These are bad times, Ani. Bombad times!”

Anakin shakes his head and starts to try to clarify his distress, but then he notices Obi-Wan moving towards him and decides to hold his tongue, instead, hoping that Obi-Wan won’t have picked up on what they’ve been discussing.

Unfortunately, his observant Master has already discerned the subject of the conversation.

“You’re focusing on the negative again,” he tells Anakin, his voice quiet but no longer cold or distant. “Be mindful of your thoughts. She was pleased to see us – they both were. Leave it at that. Now, let’s check the security here. We have much to do.”

Anakin looks at Obi-Wan for a moment, startled by the inclusive “both,” unsure how to respond, wanting to ask his Master why he’s so certain that Padmé had been happy to see them /both /and not just her old friend, Obi-Wan, and wanting to ask how he could tell that Dormé was happy to see them when she hadn’t said a single word the entire time. But there is a tiredness lurking in the back of his Master’s eyes (no longer hard, no longer metallic, but instead a dark, murky hue, like slate) that wasn’t there before – a quiet sort of exhaustion of both mind and spirit that confuses and frightens Anakin, in its strangeness – and he finds himself swallowing his questions instead, looking down at the square of blue carpet beneath his feet. Bowing obediently, he murmurs an acquiescent, “Yes, Master,” before falling in behind his Master, who’s already turning to depart for the armory.

Yet, though he has outwardly complied with Obi-Wan’s advice, in truth, Anakin cannot quiet dismiss either the pain or the uncertainty lingering in his heart and clouding his thoughts.

*****