Chapter Text
As Anahkeen bows low to the council of masters, eyes fixed firmly on the tile below him, he remembers the tale of the desert-wanderers.
So his people call the Tuskens, the “Sand People” of Tatooine. The covered ones , they whisper, eyeing the contraptions of metal and cloth that hide them from Lukka’s justice. They linger in the desert without surrendering, making camp on the path of an angry god. It is anathema to the Amavikka, for the desert is a place of change, is change. Its sands are ever-shifting, dunes ever-wandering, its only landmarks protrusions of rock and bone. Even the Depur call it what it is—the Dune Sea— a place of movement, not stasis.
What have they done, the Amavikka wonder, that not even Lukka can touch them? For He is the equalizer, the scouring kindness of being made new. To ignore Him, reject Him, shield themselves from His judgment—do they not know? Have they merely forgotten, or do they hide their faces because they know, and think themselves beyond reprisal?
Because the desert is where you go to die and be reborn. It is not where you live. What could those that linger in the land between life and death be but ghosts lingering where they ought to have passed on?
He had thought Qui-Gon’s stillness in the Aether was like his own caution, the fear that any movement would draw prying eyes. Sensible, especially on Tatooine, surrounded by the greedy gaze of Depur.
But ever since he entered the Temple, the unnerving stillness of the Aether has put his hair on end, dripped danger down his spine. It is wrong, wrong , unnatural and Anahkeen cannot help but be reminded of the silent terror servants fall into in the presence of a cruel Depur. The uneasy anticipation of violence, the desperate efficiency of those trying desperately to not draw attention.
They do not walk like that here, no jerky movements or subtle twitches, and yet the eerie quiet in the Aether is somehow worse, because he is suddenly, acutely aware that here, even his deepest self is not hidden.
He is exposed , soul stripped bare to be judged and evaluated. He can feel their eyes on him, on him and him , more vulnerable than any auction with nothing but the memory of his mother’s words of how to fold his Gift to cover himself with.
Of the Jedi, only Obi-Wan is tucked into himself, and even he is making efforts to unfurl. The rest all sit there, open and still with so little emotion it makes his skin crawl.
Above him, master Qui-Gon is speaking, his voice ordering distant and fuzzy to his ears, collections of sounds that he can’t quite parse. He is adrift, curled so tight that he feels himself float in his own depths.
“Much fear I sense in you.”
A small, green elder addresses him suddenly. Anahkeen jolts to awareness, and it is only Ar-Amu’s calming murmur in his ear that calms the shudder that encompasses his branches. He breathes, long and deep, and lets the Aether guide his words.
“Yes,” he says simply. The other masters startle back, and he stares at them, at the them nestled in branches and leaves. “But it is my fear, and I am Free.”
The Aether sings with the word, and his Aether-crown of leaves blooms bright, wind caressing him with free-my-child-you-are-my-child-and-you-are- free . His delight dances among its currents, even as the beru-blossom that is his mother is too distant to be more than an echo.
One of the elders, a Kel Dor, leans forward in his seat. “Free you are,” he agrees, and his hands move with a motion familiar-yet-not as he touches his lips and pushes outwards. Amavikka he is not, but Ar-Amu is the mother of all, and he can taste the devotion-sincerity in the actions that come from a freeborn trusted deeply enough to be welcomed into their circles, gifted knowledge sacred and hidden from all Depur.
Anahkeen catches it and holds it to his chest; touches his lips in a motion so swift as to be invisible and yet no less sacred. He studies the other elders closely, notes the stillness and placidity of their branches, the ways they are near silent in the wind. He frowns, and the Aether shivers around him, Ar-Amu whispering ask-ask-you-shall-know .
“Who’re you hiding from?” he asks at last, voice small but strong with the Aether guiding it.
The room stills, tightens with outrage-offense-surprise- fear - anger , and Anahkeen curls into himself reflexively, closed tight as a desert-bloom against a sandstorm. The Aether curls soothingly around him, whispering calm-calm-safe and so he tucks himself inside and stares back at the elders ( masters , they call themselves) with a confidence that he does not feel.
The green elder leans forward, hand gripped tight on his cane, and is coated in apprehension-worry-denial as he speaks. “Hidden, do we seem, to you?”
Anahkeen stares. “Isn’t that what you’re doing?”
One of the others blusters, tight with outrage-patronizing-fear that colors his face and voice. “We do not hide ourselves , youngling, we are shielded—”
“Shielded from what?”
The room shifts, elders murmuring amongst themselves, as he wonders what this could mean, that these people are free yet hide as he did from Depur. It is not quite the same; they are there, present in a way Anahkeen and their mother did not let themselves be, and yet their grip is so tight he wonders how the Aether could even stir their branches.
It is the elder sitting at the head of the room that answers, a dark Korun whose presence is all-at-once familiar and alien to him; there is a bright-hot core to him of something that Anahkeen cannot see. “We shield ourselves from each other and the emotions of the world, so that we do not blind ourselves to our duty.”
Anahkeen tilts his head and nods slowly. This he understands, for to take on the pain of the galaxy is to go mad, is to wrap yourself in the chains of others until your actions are no longer your own. But something rings odd, there, and he cannot tell—
Beside him, Teacher Qui-Gon stirs, alight with curiosity-fascination as he speaks. “What is it that we are hiding, from you?”
Anahkeen blinks, considers, and even with the Aether guiding his tongue does not know how to explain what he sees-knows of the Jedi. It is vast, it is simple, it is—“You do not—you are not allowed—do you let yourselves feel?”
The room stirs with warning, with wary-careful-fear . “There is no emotion, there is peace,” the Koruan says, and his tone is that of recitation. “There is no passion, there is serenity.”
Anahkeen blinks at them. “But there is emotion,” he says. “There must be emotion, because that is what makes us alive.”
More murmurs, and the wary-hostility shifts slightly to wary-curiosity .
“Another code, we teach, to our younglings,” says the green being. “Emotion, yet peace. Passion, yet serenity.”
“Why?”
That startles them, and it is only the Aether rooted in his bones and Ar-Amu’s voice in his ear that keeps him from flinching, from retreating into himself as he stares at these elders that call themselves Masters. It is an instinct he cannot quite ignore, but Ar-Amu assures him that they are trusted-elders that are her silly-forgetful-children and does not allow him to shrink back.
“Why what?” asks one of the elders at last.
Anahkeen struggles with himself, because the answer is everything and yet—“What is it that you teach?” He bites his lip and it grounds him, somewhat; he realizes that his pool had been restless with his agitation and he lets the sand-storm settle, sand slowly falling as the wind swirling it disappears. “With this code? Why do you teach it?”
An elder makes an interested noise and leans forward. “Fear leads to anger, and anger to the Dark,” he says. “The Dark is dangerous, young one.”
“Then shouldn’t we be afraid of it?”
That causes a reaction: the room swells with emotion and Anahkeen staggers back, hands on his ears and branches woven tight around him as the elders erupt into noise, both in voice and soul-speak. Beside him, Student Obi-Wan winces and his hand comes down on Anahkeen’s shoulder in a vice grip as his anxieties choke him—Anahkeen shudders as he sees how Obi-Wan has pulled himself too tight and is strangling himself; reaches out and pulls so that he can breathe.
Obi-Wan blinks at him, wildness fading from his eyes, and stares down at Anahkeen in awe. “What—What did you do?” he breathes.
Anahkeen shrugs, because the answer is that he helped . He struggles for a moment before explaining: “I—You were tangled, I think? And too tight to untangle, so you couldn’t breathe, so I…um…loosened it.”
The elders are calming themselves, and Anahkeen notices the prickle-attention of eyes on him. Teacher Qui-Gon, especially, stares at him with something like fascination-excitement- vindication that is close enough to greed that he wraps himself and Obi-Wan in notice-this-not-nothing-special- look - away without thinking. To his surprise, Obi-Wan adds his own strength to it so quickly that it must be unconscious, weaving in his own flavor of I-am-no-one-ignore-me-ignore- him so seamlessly that Anahkeen is in awe.
Qui-Gon does not seem to notice. “His midichlorian count is the highest we have on record,” he informs the elders. “And his mother told me there was no father.”
The room quiets, and their focus slides from the three of them together to Qui-Gon alone as Anahkeen’s silent prayer to the Aether is granted, he and Obi-Wan as forgotten as they can be in a conversation that revolves around them.
“You speak of the prophecy of the Chosen One,” the Cerenean elder says flatly.
Qui-Gon nods, and he flares with conviction-certainty-zealotry bright enough that Anahkeen winces. He gesticulates wildly as he speaks. “You have felt him, have you not? And you hear how he speaks of the Force, how he—” He stops himself, hands stilling and falling to his side as solemnity-urgency fills him. “And masters, we encountered a Sith on Tatooine.”
Dread , thick and suffocating, fills the room, snaking around all the branches until they choke . Danger-danger-danger sings the Aether, crown twisting into thorns, warnings dripping down his brow where points pierced skin. Enemy-corrupter-defiler- DEPUR .
“A Sith,” drawls an elder, voice strong with the disbelief-denial-fear shaking its branches in an attempt to dislodge his dread. “The Sith are extinct.”
“Over a millennium, it has been, since the Jedi have encountered a true Sith,” says the green elder. “Darksiders, however, we have seen.”
“There are many Dark Side cults across the galaxy,” agrees the Cerenean. “And Jedi teachings do escape the temple.”
“These were not temple teachings,” Qui-Gon insists. “His aura…was like nothing I have seen before, and his form in our duel—I recognized Juyo, but there was another mixed in. A form we have no record of.” He looks pointedly at the Koruan master, whose hand is on his pinched forehead. His presence stirs with indignation-incredulity as he glares back at Qui-Gon.
In the space where they are twisted together, Anahkeen pushes ‘ Sith’-questioning-confusion . Obi-Wan pulses with startlement-shock , bond pulling taut as he yanks back reflexively before calming and poking it with awe-curiosity , exploring it until Anahkeen pulses with apology-question-reminder . Obi-Wan pauses, swirling in thought, and finally pushes evil-Dark-nightmare-danger , followed by old-story-dead-forgotten . Anahkeen frowns, because the Aether pricks him with no-no-no- hidden and he passes the feeling to Obi-Wan.
“That’s…no, no, that’s not right. Who told you that, Anahkeen?” Obi-Wan speaks aloud for the first time, and the cloak of shadow-invisibility that had covered them shatters.
“What’s not right?” asks the Korun elder sharply. “What did he—are you two bonded ?”
Obi-Wan flinches. Anahkeen does his best to wrap him in the comfort-love of his mother, and he rallies. “I was—Anahkeen asked what the Sith are, and then said that they are…hidden?” He shoots a questioning glance at Anahkeen, who shrugs. “I told him they were extinct, but—”
“If this youngling didn’t know what the Sith were, how could he possibly know that?” asks the Cerenean elder with a hint of condescension coloring his words. Anahkeen winces.
Qui-Gon, on the other hand, has rounded on him and fixes him with the same conviction-zealotry from earlier. “See? He was there as well, with the Sith—”
“ I didn’t say it,” Anahkeen cuts in. “It’s just…true. It’s—it’s like how I knew the images and numbers when we were guessing. It’s just true .”
“The Force, told you this, did it?” asks the green master. He has leaned forward on his cane and looks ready to jump out of it and approach Anahkeen directly. “Hear it, do you?”
“Can you not?”
The silence following this statement is deafening.
The Aether shudders, and Ar-Amu weeps.