FicWad

Additional Author's Note: Be warned: although this work primarily concerns itself with Obi-Wan and Anakin, it also somewhat unobtrusively pairs two Force spirits - Jedi Master Qui-Gon Jinn and the redeemed Jedi Master Dooku. Within the physical plane, Dooku - who was Knighted at a very young age and then received his first Padawan at an extremely young age - was only ten years older than Qui-Gon. Within the embrace of the Force, things like age tend to matter very little indeed. And love is an extremely powerful force that can never truly be ignored.




A small corner of Obi-Wan Kenobi's heart is immensely satisfied with the vision Anakin has had of the outcome of their mission, fiercely rejoicing at the thought that Dooku will, at long last, be brought to justice, and that the loss of him as their leader will inevitably - and probably sooner than later - force the Separatists to end this war. For himself, he does not feel pride at the notion that he will be a part of the team that finally brings the Separatist leader to justice. But for Anakin's sake, there is a very small, intensely private corner of Obi-Wan's heart that exults with an almost predatory joy, brightly singing with an intensely pleased satisfaction for his former Padawan, all but overflowing with pride at the thought of what Anakin is about to accomplish. The rest of Obi-Wan is so entirely focused on the task at hand - reaching the General's Quarters, where Chancellor Palpatine is being held hostage and Count Dooku is, most likely, lying in wait for them - that only the occasional rushing flash of pure exhilaration, rejoicing at the progress they are making towards fulfilling that task - despite balky turbolifts, pursuing droids, and the occasional distracting shift of yet another flux in gravity, as the damage to the ship makes itself known - flooding along the old training bond that binds him and Anakin together, reveals his anticipation, his desire to finally see an end to Dooku. Like Anakin, Obi-Wan has had more than his fill of the seemingly endless game of hide-and-seek that they have been playing with the Sith Lord, for over three years now. He is just more practiced at hiding it than his overeager young partner, who keeps trying to rush ahead with a single-minded ferocity that would be far more disturbing, were they in pursuit of any other goal than that of securing the Chancellor's safety and nullifying the threat of Count Dooku.

If it were not for the lingering feeling of uneasiness in the pit of his stomach, the looming sense of danger from the trap that they are knowingly springing, Obi-Wan would simply abandon himself entirely to the future-impacted blazing pleasure of the now, to the adrenaline-fueled rush of successful battle and the feverishly building pitch of Anakin's pure joy with and pure need to not just battle but to win. Yet, because one of them needs to remain calm, to remain centered enough to keep the both of them firmly grounded, Obi-Wan determinedly restrains himself, resisting giving in to the temptation of abandoning himself to the familiar fierce pleasure of doing a job not just well, but perfectly, absolutely right. The droids can easily be dealt with; the turbolifts bypassed, if necessary; the gravity shifts simply ignored, with the help of the Force. All these things are endlessly, effortlessly accomplishable. But to best speed them on their path to the Chancellor, to best protect them and conserve their energies for the inevitable battle ahead, with Dooku, requires a bit more patience, a bit more planning ahead, than the consuming blaze of the now, of Anakin's present exaltation, can provide. So when Anakin leaps to cut through the roof of a turbolift that has inexplicably stopped, mid-level, Obi-Wan shakes his head and gently reminds his overeager partner that they don't want to get out, they want to get moving, teasingly remarking on Anakin's need to always be on the move before using his own comlink to contact Artoo about getting the turbolift moving again. When, several passageways later, his former Padawan points out the imminent arrival of a squad of destroyer droids, Obi-Wan calls his attention to the floor, and they use their lightsabers to cut their way through the relatively flimsy grating to escape.

After awhile, Anakin steadies enough that he is the one who pauses to use his Force-skills, rather than automatically falling back on his warrior skills, to secure their safety, allowing them to escape from a sealed off generator room filling so rapidly with leaking fuel that drowning (as well as perishing in an explosion, if they were to be caught by a blast or ignite any kind of stray spark) has rapidly become the likely outcome of failing to escape. After they've escaped through a vent shaft into an adjacent hallway leading back to one of the main throughways of the ship and Anakin has used his lightsaber to melt shut the pressurized hatch they have just slammed behind them, Anakin confidently reassures Obi-Wan that, when the leaking fuel hits the power dischargers, the blast will break the hull and, since the side they're on is pressurized, they will be safe. While Obi-Wan is skeptical, there's not enough time for them to flee any further. Afterwards, Obi-Wan simply stands for a moment, staring at the bulge that has appeared in the wall around the sealed hatch in the aftermath of the thunderous explosion, before grinning easily, self-deprecatively, and admitting, "Alright then, you win! I still have much to learn," and laughing a little bit before moving them onwards. And as they move rapidly down the deserted hallway, Obi-Wan's heart kindles with a steady warmth and glow of pride that completely overwhelms the persistent sensation of warning - I've got a bad feeling about this - that has been weighing him down. He is so proud of Anakin that he is almost bursting with it.

Anakin truly has become a great Jedi. There is not a single doubt of this in Obi-Wan's mind. When they have completed this mission and returned to the Coruscant, perhaps the High Council and the Order will finally be forced to admit this truth, and will give Anakin the simple respect - not to mention formal acknowledgment of his Mastery, by giving him the seat on the Council that's currently open - that his former Padawan so manifestly deserves.

***

Eventually, the final set of turbolift doors whish open. Slightly the worse for wear after a bewilderingly fast series of events that have somehow managed to get them to this point without being captured, Anakin presses himself against the wall, a litter of saber-sliced droid parts at his feet. Beyond is what appears to be a perfectly ordinary lift lobby: pale and bare and empty.

Made it. At last!

Anakin's whole body hums to the tune of his blue-hot blade.

"Anakin."

Obi-Wan stands against the opposite wall. He looks calm in a way that Anakin can barely understand. As Anakin looks at him blankly, his very posture indicating confusion, Obi-Wan gives a significant stare down at the lightsaber in Anakin's hand.

"Anakin, rescue," his former Master reminds him, his voice soft, gentle. "Not mayhem."

Anakin stubbornly keeps his weapon right where it is. "And Dooku?"

"Once the Chancellor is safe," Obi-Wan replies with a razor-thin ghost of a smile, "we can blow up this ship. If Grievous has been foolish enough to remain on board, our success here might very well remove two targets with one blow."

At the thought of both Dooku and Grievous, Anakin's mechanical fingers tighten until the grip of his lightsaber creaks. "It would be good to be rid of them both. But I'd rather make sure of it with my own hands."

Obi-Wan slips cautiously through the turbolift's door. Nothing shoots at him. No one comes at him. After another moment, he beckons to Anakin. "I know this is difficult, Anakin. I know it's personal for you on many levels. You must take extra care to be mindful of your training here - and not only your combat training."

Heat rises in Anakin's cheeks. "I am not - " your Padawan anymore snarls inside his head, but that's just the adrenaline talking, so he bites back the words and instead says, " - going to let you down, Master. Or Chancellor Palpatine."

His smile surprisingly gentle, Obi-Wan quietly affirms, "I have no doubt of that, Anakin. Just remember, please, that Grievous can wait until after we've dealt with Dooku and fulfilled our mandate towards the Chancellor. And don't forget that Dooku is no mere Dark Jedi, like that Ventress woman: he is a Dark Lord of the Sith. The jaws of this trap are about to snap shut, and there may well be danger here beyond the merely physical. We must both be very mindful or we might very well still tumble into the Sith Lord's trap, regardless of our foreknowledge of its existence," he warns.

"Yes." Anakin lets his blade shrink away as he moves past Obi-Wan into the turbolift lobby. Distant concussions boom throughout the ship, and the floor rocks like a raft on a river in flood, but Anakin barely notices, distracted by his own anguished thoughts, his conflicted emotions, and the nearness of his adversaries. This is an old battle, a familiar struggle, one that Obi-Wan has helped him with many times over the years. Anakin feels the pain of others too greatly. He knows it and his Master knows it. The Order - especially the High Council - has always behaved as though it is one of his worst flaws, but Obi-Wan has always reassured him that it is a source of strength, like his honesty. His empathy, his compassion, his sheer inability to allow evil or injustice to stand or to willingly, knowingly, do anything that is not right, is not just, is a potential distraction, but it is also a spur, and an invaluable moral guide, and a source of focus, of determination, that gives Anakin immense strength. With Obi-Wan with him, to help him conquer his rage, to lead him away from hatred and transmute his anger into a righteous need and desire to act, to right that which is wrong, Anakin, like Obi-Wan, becomes an implacable force for good, for the Light. But Anakin knows that first he must find the strength to resist giving in to the lure of a much simpler, much easier hatred. That, after all, is the Jedi way. Infinite compassion - and relentlessly unyielding justice. "I just - there has been so much - what he's done - what they've both done - not just to the Jedi, but to the galaxy - "

"Anakin . . . " Obi-Wan begins warningly.

"I know, Master, I know! Please, don't worry. I'm not angry, and I'm not looking for revenge. I'm just - " He lifts his lightsaber a little bit, shrugging, before finally admitting bluntly, honestly, "I'm just looking forward to ending it."

"Anticipation - "

" - is distraction. I know. And I know that hope is as hollow as fear." Anakin lets himself smile teasingly, just a little bit, at Obi-Wan. "And I also know everything else you're dying to tell me right now. Master, I will be careful. I will be mindful. I even promise you that I won't lose my lightsaber this time."

Obi-Wan's slightly rueful smile and bow of acknowledgment is as affectionate as a hug, and Anakin's heart swells with pride and contentment. The hand that, surprisingly, momentarily alights on the crown of Anakin's head before sliding down to brush gently along one cheek is so much better than any kind of verbal acknowledge of affection that Anakin's face presses forward against that butterfly-light caress, instinctively seeking more - more contact, prolonged contact. Anakin's former Master has never quite been as easy or free with touch as Anakin wishes him to be. This touch feels like a gift, like confirmation of a blessing, and Anakin is reluctant to relinquish it even so much as a heartbeat before he absolutely must. "I suppose at some point I will eventually have to stop trying to train you."

Anakin's smile broadens toward a soft chuckle. "I think that's the first time you've ever admitted it."

Together, they advance until they reach the door to the General's Quarters. They pause momentarily before that huge oval of opalescent iridiite chased with gold.

Anakin stares at his ghostly almost-reflection while he reaches into the room beyond with the Force and simultaneously allows the Force to reach into him, knowing that Obi-Wan is doing the same if he hasn't done so already. "I'm ready, Master."

"I know you are."

They stand for one moment more, side by side.

Anakin doesn't look at Obi-Wan. Instead, he stares into the door, through the door, searching in its shimmering depths for a hint of an unguessable future, a future without war.

He can't quite imagine not being at war.

"Anakin." Obi-Wan's voice has gone soft, and his hand is incredibly warm on Anakin's arm. "There is no other Jedi I would rather have at my side right now. No other man. /No one/."

Anakin turns to find within Obi-Wan's eyes a depth of feeling such as he has only ever rarely been allowed to glimpse in all of their long years together. The emotion in Obi-Wan's eyes is almost fierce in its purity. And the pure uncomplicated love that rises up within Anakin then feels like a promise from the Force itself. "I . . . wouldn't have it any other way, Master."

"I believe," his onetime Master says with a gently humorous look of astonishment at the words coming out of his mouth, "that you should get used to calling me Obi-Wan."

"Obi-Wan," Anakin smiles dazzlingly, "let's go get the Chancellor."

"Yes," Obi-Wan smiles back, equally brilliantly. "Let's."

They go in together.

***

Dooku, Darth Tyranus, Count of Serenno, may have once been a great Jedi Master and he may very well now be an even greater Dark Lord of the Sith, an evil colossus bestriding the galaxy - nemesis of the corrupt Galactic Republic, oriflamme of the principled Confederacy of Independent Systems, and the very personification of shock and awe - but there are other things, other far more important things, that Dooku currently is as well, and those things are doubtful/, /duped but swiftly wakening/, and, most importantly of all, /wavering in his allegiance to the Dark Side of the Force.

Once one of the most respected and powerful Jedi in the Order's twenty-five-thousand-year history, at the age of seventy Dooku's unbending principles would no longer allow him to serve a Republic in which political power was so obviously for sale to the highest bidder. After several years in which a simmering discontent continued to grow and fester as his frustration with the Republic Senate, his disdain with the ineffectual Supreme Chancellor Valorum, and his growing anger with the shortsightedness of the Jedi Council members themselves gradually grew less and less possible to dismiss, Dooku began to question outright. Discontent, eager for a better way and craving prestige, after the needless death of his former Padawan, the remarkable Jedi Master Qui-Gon Jinn, in the political cesspool of the debacle of the Trade Federation's attempt to enslave the whole of Naboo, Jedi Master Dooku decided to make his farewells to his closest friends within the Order, and then he had bid farewell to the Jedi Order itself. Dooku became numbered among the Lost, the Jedi who have renounced their fealty to the Order and resigned their commissions of Jedi Knighthood for service to ideals higher than even the Order itself professes. These Lost Twenty, as they have been known since Dooku joined their number, are remembered with both honor and regret in the Jedi Order. Their images, sculpted in bronzium, stand enshrined in the Temple archives, serving as melancholy reminders that some Jedi have needs the even Order cannot satisfy.

After formally leaving the Jedi Order, Dooku retired to his family estate, the planetary system of Serenno, where the assumption of his hereditary title as its Count made him one of the wealthiest beings in the galaxy. Amid the unabashed corruption endemic to the Republic, his immense wealth could have easily bought the allegiance of any given number of Senators. He could even, perhaps, have bought control of the Republic itself. But a man of such noble heritage, such inflexible principle, could never stoop to be the lord of a garbage heap, the chief of a horde of scavengers squabbling over scraps, and the Republic, to him, was no longer anything more than this.

Instead, Dooku - having been deliberately sought out by Darth Sidious as soon as he left the Jedi Order and having undergone a true meeting of minds rather than meeting in combat - used all the enormous power of his family fortune - as well as the vastly greater power of his unquestioned and apparently unquestionable integrity - to begin cleansing the galaxy of the festering corruption of its so-called democracy. He recast himself as the image of a new movement, a new cause, and, thus, became the very icon of the Separatist movement, its public face. To the Confederacy of Independent Systems, Dooku is, without question, what Supreme Chancellor Palpatine is to the Republic: the living symbol of the justice of its cause. And this is the star of destiny to which he has clung for many years - a government clean, pure, direct, with none of that messy scramble for the favor of ignorant rabble and subhuman creatures that make up so great a part of the Republic he so despises. The government Dooku would serve would be authority personified. True authority. For it is, of course, no accident that the primary powers of the Confederacy of Independent Systems are Neimoidian, Skakoan, Muun and Gossam, Quarren and Aqualish, Sy Myrthian and Koorivar and Geonosian. At war's end, they would be crushed, stripped of all they possessed, and their systems and their wealth would be given into the hands of the only beings who could be trusted with them. Force-sensitives.

Dooku would serve an Empire of the Force.

And he would serve it as only he could. As he was born to. He would smash the Jedi Order in order to create it anew, unshackled by the corrupt, narcissistic, shabby little beings who called themselves politicians, and free to bring true authority and true peace to a galaxy that so badly needed both. The Order reborn would not negotiate, would not mediate, but would, rather, enforce. Those who survived the ultimate destruction of the Jedi Order would willingly join this new Order, or they would not continue to survive. They would be the new Empire's Fist. And that Fist would become a power beyond any Jedi's darkest dreams. The Jedi are not the only users of the Force in the galaxy; on many, many worlds, powerful Force-capable humans and near-humans have long refused to surrender their children to lifelong bound servitude within the Jedi Order. But they would not so refuse the Order reborn. They would not have the choice. And their numbers would swell the new Order.

Or so Dooku has long told himself.

So he has convinced himself.

So he allowed Darth Sidious to talk him around into believing.

Lately, though . . .

Lately, Dooku has found himself falling prey to a sudden, unexpected, overpowering, and entirely distressing bad feeling about all of this . . .

Lately, he has been observing signs of mistakes, of failures, of blind arrogance, in the one to whom he has given his allegiance. And he has been growing steadily more and more troubled because of this. So troubled, in fact, that many of the things he once learned as a Padawan within the Jedi Order - first as an apprentice to Jedi Master Thame Cerulian and later as the protégé of Master Yoda - have been haunting him, flashes of his distant past suddenly assaulting his heart and leaving him momentarily breathless. More and more often, a hard truth that he would rather not recognize has been resurfacing from its place of banishment within the darkest recesses of his mind. Dooku, who had never been so paranoid among the Jedi as to know the fear of betrayal that has recently begun to continually flood his heart whenever he is face to face with his new Master, is afraid. Put quite plainly, Dooku fears his Master, so much so that every day he seems to find cause to consider more and more seriously how, on Vjun, Master Yoda had implied that the Jedi Temple would always be open to Dooku's return . . .

Once upon a time, Dooku had regarded General Grievous and other such unknowingly shaped and duped tools of Darth Sidious as pitiful creatures, as limited and faulty instruments, and simply shrugged unthinkingly, accepting their pitiful defects and limitations so long as they still proved useful as tools, and knowing that with Grievous, at least, some of that limited nature was the result of his own error in teaching, since Dooku had allowed himself to wrongfully assume that hate could substitute for true dispassion. Because he had not yet begun to doubt Darth Sidious' hold over the eventual outcome of events, it simply hadn't occurred to him to pursue this thought to its logical conclusion. Instead, it had taken him many years to realize that, even as he thought of Grievous, Sidious might very well be thinking the same thing of him, namely: This is where I failed poor Dooku. Pitiful creature . . . If Grievous was all instrument, then what was he, Count Dooku of Serenno, to Darth Sidious, Dark Lord of the Sith and Dooku's own evil Master? Especially a Sidious who could allow events to get so far away from him that it would become necessary to stage this ridiculous mock abduction in order to distract the Jedi Order from their hunt for him within the tangle byways from The Works up through the Senate District all the way to 500 Republica Way?

Once he had begun to doubt, Dooku swiftly found that he could not stop himself from doubting, from wondering, worrying that the entire elaborate structure of manipulations and lies could all come crashing down, with just as much unexpected ease as young Anakin Skywalker called down the ceiling of the dome on Tythe with no more than the power of his voice. And as he became steadily more and more unsure, he also found himself remembering, more and more, the cardinal rule of the Sith: treachery. And so he also began to think, more and more, that Darth Sidious is just using him, that he has been using him all along, with an eyes towards discarding him the moment a more powerful tool came within his grasp.

Thus, Dooku is afraid that, as Darth Sidious' apprentice, he is expendable. After all, it is the ancient Sith Lord who is important in this equation. With the Sith, there are always two: a master and an apprentice; nothing more. Yet, as the increasing number of Jedi tempted to the Dark Side over the course of the war proves, there will always be many who are willing to become the Sith Lord's apprentice, should the seat ever fall vacant. Dooku has been accused of being many unsavory things, but ignorant has never numbered among those charges. He knows how things work in the world of power. This is why Dooku fears that any Jedi in whom Sidious displays an interest might potentially represent a threat to his position.

Thus, Dooku is now all but convinced that Anakin Skywalker, with whom Sidious has long been fascinated and of whose predilection towards anger Sidious has often spoken in the most unctuous and gloating of tones, is meant to replace him.

Thus, as Dooku watches (with regretful pleasure) as Anakin Skywalker slides along the bank of chairs on one side of the immense situation table dominating the center of the General's Quarters' main room while Obi-Wan mirrors him on the opposite side, Dooku knows, with a sudden clarity that strikes him down to the depths of his soul, what it is that he must do.

His Master wants him to believe that he is supposed to kill Obi-Wan Kenobi.

He knows that his Master intends for Anakin Skywalker to kill him in cold blood.

What Dooku must do, instead, is to find a way of preserving Obi-Wan Kenobi's life and passing on to these Jedi enough hints for them to inevitably discover the true nature of the man that they are attempting to "rescue," the alter ego of the most evil and brilliant Sith Lord that the galaxy has known in thousands of years, without first being struck down by that same entirely too dangerous man. Or allowing the very angry, very powerful young Anakin Skywalker to simply murder him where he stands, either.

If his situation were not so desperate, Dooku might be tempted to laugh.

Instead, as Kenobi and Skywalker carefully approach the chair that holds the shape of the man they know only as Supreme Chancellor Palpatine, Dooku recalls the teachings of his past, and he impresses half a dozen vastly important thoughts with desperate haste and power onto a small object currently cradled in his left hand, an object that he will, with any luck, be able to slip to Obi-Wan without the young Jedi Master or his former Padawan or Dooku's own Dark Master being the wiser. Afterwards, he stands, looking down from the balcony into the room below, there the motions of the play Sidious has so carefully orchestrated are beginning to unfold in earnest . . . and are about to be considerably edited and rewritten, if Dooku has anything to say about it.
Obi-Wan Kenobi burns luminously bright within the Force, a truly transparent being, a window onto a sunlit meadow, a pure and untainted vessel of Light. Anakin Skywalker, on the other hand, lowers like a storm cloud spreading rapidly across a horizon, flickering dangerously bright with lightning but also building up towards the rotation that threatens a tornado. He is not transparently pure, but he is undeniably powerful . . . and, for whatever reason, that power is so obviously grounded in Kenobi's luminosity that it is entirely possible that a single soft-spoken word would be enough to becalm Skywalker's threatening rage.

Then, of course, there is Palpatine, he who is beyond power, he who lets show nothing of the power that lies within. Seen through eyes opened to the Dark Side of the Force, Palpatine is as an event horizon. Beneath his entirely ordinary surface there is absolute, perfect nothingness. Darkness beyond darkness. A black hole of the Force. Yet, still, he plays his helpless-hostage role to exquisite perfection, so perfectly that, as it turns out, it is almost too easy.

In the end, all Dooku must do is allow Palpatine's words to fuel Anakin's rage, and then separate the two Jedi long enough to plant his message on Obi-Wan. After that, the actions of the two Jedi take care of everything else. For Skywalker's Shien ready-stance turns out to be no more than a ruse, as does his Ataro gymnastics. The boy's a Djem So stylist, quite possibly the most skilled master of this form Dooku has ever seen. Dooku's own elegant Makashi simply does not generate the kinetic power necessary to meet Djem So head-to-head. Especially not while also defending against a second attacker, a second attacker whose Ataro and Shii-Cho also almost simultaneously reveal themselves to be ploys, since Kenobi has become a master of Soresu. In the end, simply out of a need to survive, Dooku is forced to cheat, to call on the droid guards for distraction, and to then lash out, while Kenobi is covering a fallen Skywalker and rather neatly taking out the attacking droids, with a blindingly fast Force-assisted wheel-kick ending with his heel up against the point of Kenobi's chin with a crack like the report of a huge-bore slugthrower, knocking the Jedi Master down the stairs with a noise that sounds as if it might've broken his neck and which hopefully ought to convince Sidious that Dooku is indeed trying to kill Kenobi. The surge of Force-energy that Dooku sends rushing after Kenobi's bonelessly limp body as it is still tumbling towards the floor far below simultaneously cushions his body (this unfortunate young Jedi Master is, after all, in essence his grandchild, as the former Padawan of Dooku's own beloved former Padawan, Qui-Gon Jinn) even as it causes his fall to suddenly accelerate like a missile burning the last of its drives before impact, so that the Jedi Master strikes the floor at a steep angle, skids along it, and slams into the wall so hard that the hydrofoamed permacrete buckles and collapses down onto him. Through all of this, the light of Kenobi's life remains steadily bright in the Force. This Dooku finds exceedingly gratifying.

As for Skywalker . . . well, Anakin, in his pain, screams a wordless denial, and then, in his rage, almost takes off Dooku's head with the kick he tears loose with. Over the course of the battle that follows, without Kenobi's grounding influence, Skywalker grows steadily stronger, as though there is a thermonuclear furnace where his heart ought to be and its fire is finally burning steadily through the last of the firewalls of his Jedi training. He holds the Force in the clench of a white-hot fist, and it is obvious that the boy is half Sith already, though he doesn't even so much as suspect it, yet. Perhaps most importantly of all, Skywalker has the gift of fury, though he keeps that fury banked admirably well behind walls of will, walls that have been hardened by some uncontrollable dread - a dread, Dooku surmises, of himself, of what might happen if he should ever allow that furnace he uses for a heart to go supercritical. At last, as the battle between Dooku and Skywalker pauses just for one instant - one almost eternal moment of realization - their blades locking together as they stare at each other across a sizzling cross of scarlet against blue, Dooku sees in Skywalker's eyes the promise of hell, and he feels again the sickening presentiment that he already knows where this is leading to. For, first and foremost, treachery is the way of the Sith.

This, of course, is the moment in which Sidious decides to intervene. "Don't fear what you're feeling, Anakin, use it!" he barks in Palpatine's voice. "Call upon your fury. Focus it, and he cannot stand against you. Rage is your weapon. Strike now! Strike! Kill him!"

***

This, then, is the true entrapment: the final few moments of Count Dooku's life.

A starburst of clarity blossoms within Anakin Skywalker's mind as he discovers that the fear within his heart can be a weapon, too, and he says to himself, Oh. I get it, now.

It is that simple, and that complex.

And it is final.

Dooku is dead already. The rest is mere detail.

The play is still on, the (for Anakin, unknowingly) preplotted, micromanaged (and at the last minute, for Sidious, unknowingly reedited by Dooku) comedy of lightsabers flashing and snapping and hissing. Dooku and Skywalker, a one-time-only command performance, for an audience of one. Jedi and Sith and Sith and Jedi, spinning, whirling, crashing together, slashing and chopping, parrying, binding, slipping and whipping and ripping the air around them with snarls of power. And all for nothing, because a nuclear flame is consuming the last of Anakin Skywalker's Jedi restraint, and fear becomes fury without effort, and fury is a blade that makes his lightsaber into a toy. The play goes on, oh, yes, but the suspense is over. It has become mere pantomime, as intricate and as meaningless as the space-time curves that guide galactic clusters through the measureless cosmos. Dooku's decades of combat experience are irrelevant. His mastery of swordplay is useless. His vast wealth, his political influence, impeccable breeding, immaculate manners, exquisite taste, all the pursuits and points of pride to which he has devoted so much of his time and attention over the long, long years of his life, are now chains hung upon his spirit, bending his neck before the axe. Even his knowledge of the Force has become a joke, for it is this knowledge that shows him his death, makes him handle it, turn it this way and that in his mind, examine it in detail like a black gemstone, so beautifully cold that it burns him. Dooku's elegant farce has degenerated into bathetic melodrama, and not one shed tear will mark the passing of its hero.

But for Anakin, in this fight there is only terror - terror and rage.

Only Dooku stands between death and the two men Anakin loves best in all the world, and he can no longer afford to hold anything back. That imaginary dead-star dragon tries its best to freeze away his strength, to whisper to him that Dooku has beaten him before, that Dooku has all the power of the Dark Side of the Force at his disposal, to remind him how Dooku took his right hand and most of his arm, too, with a cho sun move, and how Dooku could strike down even Obi-Wan himself seemingly without effort so that now Anakin is all alone and he will never be a match for any Lord of the Sith -

But Palpatine's words - rage is your weapon - have given Anakin permission to unseal the shielding around the furnace blazing in his heart, and in its flame all of his fears and all of his doubts shrivel away to nothing. When Count Dooku flies at him, blade flashing, Watto's fist cracks out from Anakin's childhood to knock the Sith Lord tumbling back. When Dooku tries to weaken and dominate him with dun möch - with spoken taunts, jeers, and jests meant to expose Anakin's inner weaknesses and prey upon his hidden doubts - the echoes of Obi-Wan's screams and Qui-Gon's murder drown out the cruel and spiteful words. When, with all the power that the Dark Side can draw from all throughout the universe, Dooku suddenly and rapidly hurls a jagged fragment of the broken durasteel table at Anakin, Shmi Skywalker's gentle murmur I knew you would come for me, Anakin smashes it aside. Anakin's head has been filled with the smoke from his smothered heart for far too long; it has been a darkness clouding his mind in moments when he has most needed clarity of thought. On Aargonar, on Jabiim, in the Tusken camp on Tatooine, that smoke had clouded his mind, had blinded him and left him flailing alone in the dark, a mindless machine of slaughter; but here, now, within this ship, this microscopic cell of life in the infinite sterile desert of space, his firewalls have opened so that the terror and the rage are out there in the fight instead of in his head, and Anakin's mind is clear as a crystal bell.

In that pristine clarity, there is only one thing he must do.

Decide.

So he does.

He decides to /win/.

He decides that Dooku should lose the same hand that the Sith Lord once took from him. Decision is reality, here: his blade moves simultaneously with his will and blue fire vaporizes black Corellian nanosilk and disintegrates flesh and shears bone, and away falls a Sith Lord's lightsaber hand, trailing smoke that tastes of charred meat and burned hair. The hand falls with a solid bar of scarlet blaze still extending from its spastic death grip, and Anakin's heart sings for the fall of that red blade. He reaches out and the Force catches it for him. And then Anakin takes Dooku's other hand as well, just because he can - a double /cho mai/, exemplifying Anakin's skill and mastery if not his mercy - and Dooku crumples to his knees, face blank, mouth slack, and his weapon whirs through the air to the victor's hand, so that Anakin finds his vision of the future happening before his eyes: two blades at Count Dooku's throat.

But here, now, the truth belies the dream, the precognitive image in which Anakin saw himself and his Master holding Dooku at bay. Both lightsabers are in his hands now, and the one in his hand of flesh flares with the synthetic bloodshine of a Sith blade.

Dooku, shivering and shrinking with dread, still cherishes hope within his heart that he might yet find some way to live through this. Until, that is, he hears the hissing, gloating cry, "Good, Anakin! Good! I knew you could do it!" and registers that this is Palpatine's voice, feeling within the deepest depths of all that he is the approach of the words that are to come next. Then, "Kill him," Palpatine says. "Kill him now."

In Skywalker's eyes, Dooku again sees only flames.

"Chancellor, please!" Dooku gasps, desperate and helpless, his aristocratic demeanor gone, his courage only a bitter memory. He is reduced to begging for his life, as so many of the victims of his own darkness have been. "Please, you promised me immunity! We had a deal! Help me!" And of course his begging only gains him a share of mercy equal to that which he has himself dispensed.

"We had a deal only if you released me," Palpatine replies, cold as intergalactic space. "Not if you used me as bait for a trap intended to kill my friends." The smile on Palpatine's face is the same smile that Dooku has so often observed on Sidious' face while contemplating the fulfillment of his ultimate goal, and it terrifies him utterly, so completely that Dooku's fear is no longer simply for his own life. "Anakin," Palpatine says, very quietly indeed. "Finish him."

Years of Jedi training make Anakin hesitate; he looks down upon Dooku and sees not a Lord of the Sith but instead a beaten, broken, cringing old man. "I shouldn't - "

But when Palpatine barks, "Do it! Now!" Anakin realizes that this isn't actually an order. That it is, in fact, nothing more than what he's been waiting for his whole life. Permission.

And Dooku -

As he looks up into the eyes of Anakin Skywalker for the final time, Count Dooku knows for sure and certain that he has been deceived and not just today but for many, many years. He knows that he has never been the true apprentice. He knows that he has never been a true heir to the power of the Sith. He has been only a tool. His whole life - all his victories, all his struggles, all his heritage, all his principles and his sacrifices, everything he's done, everything he owns, everything he's been, all his dreams and grand vision for the future Empire of the Force and its Fist - have been only a pathetic sham, because all of them, all of /him/, add up only to this.

He has existed only for this.

This.

To be the victim of Anakin Skywalker's first cold-blooded murder.

First but not, he knows, the intended last.

And in that final frozen moment of clarity, a vast sense of calm, of peace, unfurls from somewhere deep within Dooku, from a place that has never, for all his recent years of wallowing in darkness, forgotten the cleansing touch of the Living Force, the illuminating fire of the Light Side of the Force, the ever-present sense of overwhelming peace that is the Unifying Force. Dooku's heart quiets as his mind ceases to struggle, and, with a vast yielding, his spirit bows within him, and, as the floodgates fall crashing away, the Force floods him with strength and goodwill, and his soul, his spirit, quietly flares white within him, burning away the taint of darkness that has, for so many long years, clouded his mind and weighed down his soul.

Rage and fear may have almost completely consumed Anakin Skywalker's Jedi nature, warping the boy's nature more and more with the darkness of the Sith, but acceptance and serenity have now utterly restored Dooku's Jedi nature, cleansing the man of every last lingering taint of the Sith.

When Dooku speaks from out of this moment, all of the Force speaks through him.

"If you willingly strike me down now, Anakin Skywalker, you will only succeed in surrendering one of the keys of your soul into the foulest grip of Darkness imaginable. You will not kill me. You cannot kill me. There is no death: there is only the Force. And if you strike me down now, the Force will embrace me and I shall become more powerful than you could ever imagine."

Anakin Skywalker gapes at the suddenly serene and luminescent features of Jedi Master Dooku, framed within the crosspieces of two brilliant lightsaber blades as if caught between two lines of fire, and he is, for once in his life, shocked into the complete calm of utter inaction. Not even Anakin's chest rises or falls to break that spell. His mind is so absolutely blank with shock that it is thrown entirely free of the confusion of both the treacherous directives of that dead-star dragon, scratching away at the back of his mind, and the betraying allure of the power of that fury-fueled fusion/fission reaction, eating away at the walls of his heart. He is, for lack of a better word, washed clean in the gentle glow of Dooku's incredible - inexplicable and sudden though it may be - whiteness.

When, into that singular moment of utterly serene calm, onto the tabula rasa of Anakin Skywalker's emptied and grounded but unfortunately wide open mind, there comes a howling whirling dervish of hatred, a shrieking storming tornado of rage and darkness and maleficence, an overwhelming outpouring of screaming evil that commands and demands, with an imposition of will that cannot be denied, "What utter nonsense/! Anakin Skywalker! /You will not listen to this nonsense! Kill Dooku immediately! I order you, as Supreme Chancellor of the Republic, to kill Dooku /at once/!" it overpowers one mind even as it frees the soul of another.

The blades crossed at Dooku's throat slide together like the blades of a giant set of scissors - snip - in a sai cha move so that all of him should become nothing at all. Except -

- except -

- except that by the time the lightsaber blades are jerking together under the pressure of Anakin Skywalker's Force-raped and mind-controlled hands, Dooku is already gone.

***

Once again wrapped entirely around and shot all throughout the space currently being occupied by his former Master in an incandescent, incorporeal wash of all-permeating light and love, the Force ghost of Qui-Gon Jinn can observe Dooku's beating heart and watch the blood flow through a body whose every cell is monitored and understood - the fantastic bodily control that inevitably accompanies experience and the gain of a certain amount of wisdom and power, and which thereafter enables the Jedi to live healthily for many lives of men (if, of course, they are not slain first), refined by Dooku to a system of shocking power and complexity. Instructed by Darth Sidious in at least some of the more rudimentary techniques for drawing off the life-force of other beings as well as absorbing the natural energy residing within living and nonliving objects, Dooku has taught himself how to become both a loadstone and natural sink for Force energies. Thus, a part of Dooku knows - and so Qui-Gon is aware, too - that every breath Dooku takes into his lungs is composed of a cloud of sparkling, living particles. Just as casually and thoughtlessly as a man might drum his fingers upon a tabletop, Dooku can strengthen himself by imbuing the rudimentary minds of those tiny sparks with a single essence and then breathing in and absorbing that essence. The knowledge is akin to the natural perception of Force spirits. If he were only free of the crushing presence of Sidious' evil, Dooku would have time and energy to devote to things other than the preservation of his own life, his own will, despite his Sith Master's intentions, and he would then discover wisdom and powers that fall squarely into the purview of Force spirits.

Swirling beneath Dooku, whirling sparks make up the material of the floor, whirling in eternal dance; by changing the figures of the dance, the metal alloy could be changed to marble, or gold, or even polished wood planking. Dooku is almost aware of those patterns, almost able to influence their configurations with the power of his will alone. It is entirely extraordinary. The Shamans would be stunned. Even fettered fast by the deep-sunk hooks driven into him by Darth Sidious, bound tight and half-smothered by the Sith's evil influence, Dooku has still managed to work more than halfway through the complex maze of knowledge and power, understanding and intent and will, that normally comprises the space between life as a being of flesh and existence as a being of Force energy. What Qui-Gon accomplished with instinct and need alone, in dying and becoming a Force ghost, Dooku has almost managed to puzzle out for himself, piecing it together from fragments of understanding and bits of experience of the Force - its working and its will - itself. All he lacks is enough time, enough space, to put everything together for himself, a bit of support to help give him the impetus needed to finish his work and arrive at the inevitable conclusion - unity with the Force itself. If Qui-Gon could only give that to his former Master . . . if Dooku could truly be given the opportunity to win freedom from his Sith Master, by becoming a Force ghost, formed because of and grounded within love, and therefore Light, and so well on his way to becoming a Force spirit, like Qui-Gon . . . and if Qui-Gon and Dooku were to be able to pool their knowledge, their experience, their energy . . . A radiating net of possibilities spreads out before them, the future fanning out in all directions, many of the probable paths suddenly springing free of the weight of darkness and evil of the Sith.

The time-strands are shifting again. Qui-Gon can feel them, the braided currents that knot destiny, as an upwelling of calamitous wonder, an awesome and terrifying love, as he has known many times before in the thick of battle, a calmly precise zeal and passionless fury, an intensity as perfectly refined and razor-edged as air. The timewind is blowing and it is changing course, the platinum-fine filaments of fate tightening, knots of destiny that have long since slipped into place suddenly twanging under immense strain, some of the organic densities that form the cores of their crystalline filaments loosening, unraveling, flying apart. Something is obviously coming, something immensely important, something so unimaginably powerful, so vastly influential . . . He cannot think beyond the mounting certainty that something lethal is about to happen, and that there is a thing that he must do, or else all will fall away into darkness. Time surges and eddies like the wind, and sometimes it can go still and glassy and carry mirages, but this . . . this he is sure of. If he does nothing, if he does not act, if the timewinds are simply left alone to calm and the fateful silver knots of destiny are merely allowed to turn into quicksilver, draining away in dark shimmers, then the darkness and the evil that will come will make all of the madness of the Sith look like the harmless pranks of schoolchildren.

So Qui-Gon acts. He gives Dooku what he needs the very instant the opportunity presents itself. And, igniting to a blaze of white Light, Dooku and Qui-Gon tumble together, falling free of the trap Sidious has woven into the absolute love and surrender that is the blinding glory of unity with the Force.

For what seems like a long time, then, they simply fall together, end over end over end, plunging down into a sparkling river of energy that flows upwards, from out of the ship, into the sky, a deep current pouring up away from the planet, all argent and blue-white so bright that it is almost blindingly pure. This river-like flow of the Force swirls around them as they plummet within it, its currents pooling around them, swift and powerful, surging out amongst the stars and carrying them away with it. Qui-Gon is so utterly shocked at what he has done, what he has somehow managed to accomplish, that at first he hasn't even enough sense to protest the fact that they are being taken away from the ones who need them. The stars shine brightly as they fly out towards them, away from Coruscant, gaining a luminescence with a steely white light at its core. There is a low, delicate thrumming, as of vibrating harp strings, that accompanies their light, hovering just upon the edges of perception, an eerie music that is far more pulse than melody. It is the soul's breath of the stars, he knows, and it is good that Qui-Gon already knows this, or else he might be tempted to believe that he is only hearing things. Shining rivulets occasionally spring rapidly away from the main current of the Force flow, so that the ribbon of power itself becomes a labyrinth of light winding upwards and outwards, away from them. Stunned senseless with joy, Qui-Gon lets himself fall, lets the river of Force sweep him and Dooku onward, together, as they blaze with light, and love, and acceptance, burning together until the purity of the fire within them, the light driving them, is the same as the Light, the energy, without, cradling them in its bright embrace.

In the totality of the Force's embrace, they tumble together, blazing, wrapped around one another, for an eternity or perhaps just for an instant. Upon the nearby currents of Force energy, insubstantial figures of blazing light - shaped in vaguely human form but no longer composed of any merely mortal, material element - appear to waltz in the fields of darkness through which those brilliantly bright rivulets run, turning from out of the midst of their enraptured dances with the energy of the Force to face them with blindingly bright eyes, holding out their arms towards them in welcome. They are the Force spirits who have been teaching him, humanoid wraiths with minds swifter than the most inexorable strike of lightning and souls as brilliant as diamonds cut and polished to razor-edged sharpness, their bodies little more than the intangible breath of incandescent stars coalesced into mind and will, blazing in pitiless splendor. Qui-Gon can feel their utter amazement at what has happened as well as their honest happiness, for him and for Dooku, and it washes over him like breakers of pearlescent foam, bathing him in a warm glow of surprised acceptance. With a sudden shock, then, Qui-Gon realizes what has happened, as well as what is happening to them now, and that knowledge propels them out of their wild fall, bringing them to a dead halt in the center of the river of Force energy.

Dooku! Master, you are -

Qui-Gon means to ask his old Master if he is all right, just then - if he understands what has happened and accepts it enough to know what it is that they must do, what they are meant to do, now that they are back together again - but before he can find enough of the words, he feels the familiar and long missed touch of his former Master's powerful mind. Qui-Gon! We mustn't leave them! Obi-Wan will be well enough, but Anakin - /There is a sense of a shudder then, just the briefest frisson, followed by a sharp flare of fear, and then a sudden steeling of resolve, a sharpening of focus to a point as sharp and unforgivingly brilliant as a cut diamond. /Force, Qui-Gon, that child will be no match for him. Palpatine -

- is Sidious, Master. Yes, I know.

You know? /How? /And if you know - if you have known - then /why have you allowed - /

I have allowed nothing that was within my power to prevent, Master Dooku. You of all people should know that.

Qui-Gon . . . Of course, you were my Padawan, and I trust you, I have faith in your judgment and your ability, but . . . Force, Qui-Gon! That boy is already half Sith, if not more! This Chosen One of yours -

Half ensnared by the Sith, perhaps, but he is still all Jedi, in his heart. Despite all that Sidious has done to him, that boy is a creature of light. His love will hold him in the Light. And in any case, Anakin Skywalker is not the Chosen One. He is the Sith'ari. Obi-Wan Kenobi is the Chosen One of Jedi prophecies.

. . . ? . . . !

Yes, Master, I know. It was a great shock to me, as well, at first.

You /will /explain this - /all /of this - to me! I /must know - /

You will know all that I do and more, Master. Come. We cannot afford to miss this.

But how - What - Qui-Gon, why -

The unfinished question is a rising wail of horror, and Qui-Gon knows that Dooku is remembering - recalling all the evil deeds that he has done, while under the sway of Sidious - and weeps, aching, for his beloved former Master's pain. Enough! Let your soul weep its fill, if you must, but whatever you do, do not allow yourself to fall into the trap of self-hatred. Sidious is /not your Master now. The Sith no longer has you. I have you, beloved, and I shall never let go of you, again./

For a moment, Dooku's entire being shivers, wavering upon the edge of falling, as fury and anguish rise off of him, like heat. Yet, soon afterwards, that shimmering heat mirage seems to spread, and widens, and grow calm, like water collecting and deepening, stilling as it deepens. There is a fleeting sense of looming violence, of gathering deadliness, of things both terrible and awesome taking shape far below that stilling surface - things that stare with madly whirring kaleidoscopic eyes of crystalline fire deeply into an unreflective darkness - and then, abruptly, all that pain falls back in upon itself, collecting in one place before vanishing utterly, as though through a hole ripped in the fabric of eternity, away from Dooku. A moment more, Dooku trembles, and then -

He stole the life from me. Dooku is so still, his light so bright, that he blazes like a star driven mad with anger. He stole the life from me and he drank the Force from me - ME, Dooku of Serenno, last member of the Lost Twenty and the one Jedi Master who fearlessly spoke for the disenfranchised of the Republic, and there was nothing that I could do against him, no hold upon him that my power or my knowledge could find to take.

Seeking to counter that terrible fury, Qui-Gon merely agrees with the words of his former Master. The Sith Lord is a thing of utter abomination, a thing of illness and insanity, spreading and devouring all freedom, all life, all Light. This is nothing less than a thing that swallows the core of Light that is the Force and then fills that empty place with madness, death, and darkness. Yet, though it is with understanding, and not sympathy or accusation, that he has responded, Dooku reacts as though he has been struck.

Qui-Gon - beloved - O, Force! Forgive me!

Forgiveness is not a thing of the Force. The Force - the Light - cares for balance and growth, not for punishment or suffering. Each deed and each event exists forever within us as what it was and is. What you speak of, when you ask for forgiveness, is only a part of what you were and are, Dooku, and what you will be. For years, after Naboo, I clung to my suffering and therefore fruitlessly chased after and sought to understand things that are not of the Force, not of the Light. Yet, in those years, I also sought to do and to be as the ancient beings of Force-light tried to teach me, hoping that in the achievement of their power I would find relief from grief, from my pain and my anger. Yet, the grief itself grew no less, until at last I found the wisdom to stop clinging to my suffering. Let the pain, as well as the anger, go. It is not as it was, Dooku. You have no need for grief for my sake or any other. In this moment, as I see you, I find that indeed I feel differently than I once did, and I am glad for it, though once, in my foolishness, it was my hope not to feel for you at all.

But - !

No. Things are as they are, Dooku. Let go of these past misdeeds: the darkness has passed from you now and forever, so long as you do not go chasing after it again. Do you not understand? You are free of it and free of him, now, free to counter his derangement and his disease with the growth of your own light. Seek balance, not suffering. It is not a thing of the Force or the Light. /You must let go of it now, love. /Can you not understand that? All of your power, all of your knowledge, all of the many paths you have trod and the roles you have taken on in this galaxy, they have all led you here, and now, to this: a black knot that cannot be unraveled, save for by the severing of it. If you cannot put by your suffering, then you will fall away from the Light. And if you fall, you will no longer exist as a being of the Force. You will dissolve into darkness and the Force will swallow you whole. You will cease to exist. Is that what you desire, Dooku? To cease? Because I will not let go of you willingly, now that I have found you. I love you, Dooku. I have loved you for many, many years, though I have foolishly and fearfully sought for many of those years to deny it. You are the other half of my soul and the truest wish of my heart. I came to you because I want you here, with me. I want you to stay with me. I want to keep you safe from the darkness. Will you not let go of your pain and your anger, Master, and allow me to help you, now? There are only two ways, from here: the easy road leads into darkness, but I have chosen a pathway in the Light. Will you stay with me, Dooku?

There is so very, very much that hinges on Dooku's response, the decision that he will come to, and not just for Qui-Gon, personally, or even for Dooku himself, but for the galaxy of the Republic and the greater cosmos, itself. Qui-Gon is well aware of the importance of the next few moments, the next declaration Dooku makes. He has seen the shape of the future far too many times before now and the burning wreck of the Jedi Temple at Coruscant far too often to not know just how vital a pivot this point is, how many lives hang in the balance on the outcome of this challenge. Almost, Qui-Gon would rather simply cease, himself, than to have to look upon the destruction of the Temple even one more time . . .

And as if Qui-Gon's foreknowledge of what will happen, given an unfavorable response, were not enough, there is also the behavior of the timewinds themselves - vibrating like strings on an instrument that have been pulled so tight they will inevitably break, under the next pressure - strong proof indeed of the importance of Dooku's reply. At this point, the breaking of the strings is inevitable: the only question is which direction they will fly in, when they shatter.

Time flexes like a lens, wavering upon the image of Dooku, who is frozen in place - shivering with tension and fear, like some wild animal snared within the tangling mesh of a net and restrained by a hunter's capturing leash, as yet undecided as to whether it will balk and break the bounds of its own heart, in a wild effort to win back its freedom, or acquiesce and bow beneath a taming hand - and there comes a moment, into the thick of this tension, when Qui-Gon is certain that he has failed, sure that Dooku will turn and fall away from him and that he will be left behind, standing alone among the dead and the bitter ashes of the razed Temple, and he trembles, himself, upon the edge of panic, but then -

Time breaks backwards and the tension snaps, falling away into an uplifting blue quiet. This azure silence fills Qui-Gon with an incomprehensible peace, something like the serene joy of wild things, a motionless clear immensity in which everything has already happened and his brief history as a man and a Jedi and a Force ghost and even a Force spirit are little more than so much spindrift. In the midst of this vast quiescence, all of Qui-Gon's troubles fade away into tranquil acceptance. The plight of the galaxy, of the Republic, of the Jedi Order, all the dark confessions of war, even the death of hope and personal desire close down around this one eternal instant of blissfully enraptured acquiescence. For no matter what happens, no matter what Dooku may say or do, the Force is, and the Force wills, and there will be a balance - of course balance will come - regardless. And then -

Dooku's indecisive shivering stills into a determinedly passionate and furiously rapid flame of pure energy, pure light, a blaze of /whiteness /that is somehow nevertheless wrapped in all the colors of all the suns and stars that have ever been and will ever be.

Qui-Gon . . . yes. /Yes, beloved. I - I understand. "The shape of the container is not the nature of that which is contained: illumination cannot be communicated. Those who err without understanding shall die without comprehending. Enlightenment shatters the illusory realities of the world, for the world is but a mirror lit by consciousness: in the darkness, it is empty." The recitation of one of the central premises of a familiar quintessentially Jedi philosophical treatise blazes with overtones of glorious laughter, of rapturous understanding, and Qui-Gon knows, then, that Dooku has indeed made - in the fullness of understanding - his final choice. /I will endure. I will seek growth. I will trust in the Force, as we all must if we wish to truly grow. This - this is what I am now. It is not a thing of the Dark, to serve, and to risk, and to sacrifice for others. These are all things of the Light. They are ways by which one serves the will of the Force, in the seeking and the bringing of balance. Help me remain here, with you. Tell me of how you came to be here. Keep me anchored in the /now. /I have no desire to fall away into darkness.

Good. That is . . . so incredibly good, Master. Come, then. Let me tell you about what happened to me, on Naboo . . .

***