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When Ahsoka turns thirteen she is given a rock. Her montrails droop for a moment, until Obi-Wan stammers that it was Qui-Gon’s gift for his thirteenth Name Day and she realizes the precious history behind it.

She shows it to the Harbinger and he cups it with a look of pure wonder that makes her ashamed of her first response.

“It’s a memory stone,” Harbinger whispers, running thin fingers down the smooth finish. He closes his eyes and breathes deeply, and there’s a pure rush of the Force that makes every droplet of the waterfall seem alive and precious and Ahsoka dares not breathe lest she shatter the moment.

Harbinger sighs as he lets go and suddenly the waterfall is just water and Ahsoka feels the void in the Force where he’s sitting, and she wonders if everyone else feels like the galaxy is crying.

“Obi-Wan is a good master,” Harbinger says softly, giving her back the rock. “He just doesn’t know how to behave like one. His master wasn’t always kind.”

Later on Ahsoka will learn about Force signatures imprinted on objects, and she wonders what memories Obi-Wan buried in the stone. She wishes she could see them.

The Jedi have a code of honor and they know how to keep good slaves. Every slave has only one master and the chance to earn their own padawan, but they all answer to the Council and some of them don’t come back from their assignments.

Anakin already knows that showing ignorance will get you killed, but he can’t understand the symbols that translate to Basic. Master Nu finds him huddled in the corner of her library one night, trembling as he traces the most rudimentary markings. She takes away his datapad and gives him a biscuit, and then she sits down with him for hours until he can repeat back the marks. Once he can read a whole textbook page on his own she takes him down to the meal hall as a reward. For the first time he is served a heaping plate and eats at the table, and the few bleary-eyed masters don’t say anything. 

He hopes from that morning that Master Nu will pick him to be her padawan. He’s good at picking up languages, and so he sits in the archives every evening, teaching himself new words and symbols so that she’ll see how useful he can be for her work.

Sometimes Master Nu lets him stay until the stars are singing above them. More often than not she tuts at sunset and sends him to his room for the night. She doesn’t take him to the meal hall again, but she always slips a tart or stuffed roll into his hand when she sends him away.

Anakin thinks he might like linguistics almost as much as lightsaber practice. There are plenty of useful words in the database, and if he makes the other younglings angry enough to hit him first then the Jedi aren’t as cross when he gets into fights. And slavers always prefer showing off multilingual sentients instead of translator droids.

He finds a database on Binary code and learns to chirp like an astromech droid. Ahsoka grumbled once that her master told her that if the Queen of Naboo could clean an astromech then she could certainly sweep under her bed. It makes him think that such a gentle face must belong to the kindest heart in the galaxy. He wonders if Padme would like a slave who could translate for her droids. Maybe one day he’ll see her again.

When Ahsoka is thirteen, she sees her first podrace. She thinks that Obi-Wan meant it to be fun, or maybe the Force was pulling him there, but it’s a terrible, bloody event. One of the racers goes in with a hurt leg to try to free his sister, only for his pod to explode in flames.

He cheated anyways, the onlookers grumble, and they move on without caring if he had a name.

“I’m so sorry,” Obi-Wan fumbles out, identical horror stiffening his frame as he guides Ahsoka to a venue and orders her something for her that’s sweet and tangy and just a bit numbing. His own drink makes his eyes water and he orders another one. “Qui-Gon went to the races before he… and I thought….”

“You thought the rumors were overstated,” Ahsoka says dully.

Obi-Wan’s shame swarms the Force. “I only heard about the winners. I never should’ve brought you here.”

There’s a void in the Force like something good might have come from the race if it wasn’t her sitting next to Obi-Wan. Ahsoka finishes her drink and asks for a frosty, because she’s old enough to see a slave market but she still wants to hide in the creche with a comfort blanket.

She doesn’t tell the Harbinger what she’s seen, but he sits with her all the next day after his classes are finished, his shields relaxed just enough that she can lose herself in the pull of the stream and the swish of Life as fish and frogs dart below the surface. 

“You should listen underwater,” Harbinger tells her. “It’s quieter.”

“I can hear it fine right here,” Ahsoka murmurs, not wanting to lose this fragile shell of peace.

He doesn’t suggest it again, but he does let his shields down a little more, and the melody of sorrow and understanding and a hint of bitterness wraps around her wounded soul and she lets herself fall into melancholy until the brilliance of Obi-Wan’s presence shatters the stagnant pulse and she runs to him with silent tears, shaking off the hurt and letting him tug her back into the light.

Hurt and envy snap in the Force and a longing rips deep into her bones before Harbinger shutters down. It’s unsettling, how the very air sings and shudders to his rhythm. Ahsoka burrows into her bond with Obi-Wan to wash away the taint.

Later on she will wonder how she could’ve been so blind.

When Anakin is five he learns how to grip a wrench with his left hand. The Jedi give him a new right arm, which means they must think he will be very useful if he’s worth replacement parts, so he has to prove he’s earned it or else they’ll let it rust away. It’s months before his muscles attune to mechanical fingers that have minimal sensation, so when they put a training saber in his left hand he practices until his tunic is drenched and he feels dizzy with hunger. 

While the other younglings go to meals he uses his left hand to close mechanical fingers over the cylinder and keeps going until his shoulder knows how to cooperate with bits of metal and exposed wires. One day maybe the Jedi will cover it with plating like a protocol droid. He just has to prove it’s a worthwhile investment.

He’s soon considered exceptional for his age range. They only have to walk him through his exercises once, and then he perfects the drills until his muscles burn while the other younglings are still figuring out their footwork.

The Jedi give him a glove to cover his arm. He knows better than to ask for more.

When Ahsoka is fourteen she is introduced to war. A team of scientists is stranded on a planet seeped with blood, and it seems like the very rocks crave death.

She sees a figment in the Force — a flash of a boy her age colliding with another Padawan to reach the last blaster bolt — and she’s so startled by fierce blue eyes that she stumbles. The bolt ricochets off of Darra’s lightsaber blade and Obi-Wan cries out as red blooms on his right arm.

The dart is toxic.

Ahsoka starts to cry and Master Soara scolds her for losing her focus when she’s needed here and now. She feels Darra’s shock and guilt and knows that this moment will bind them together like no other friendship. 

They string together a travois with the help of the scientists, and return to the Temple in time to save Obi-Wan’s arm. He will wear a sling for weeks and finally Ahsoka thinks she can share her Djem So like he taught her Soresu.

But the Harbinger sneaks into the Halls of Healing on the first night Obi-Wan is awake. He takes off his right glove and shows Obi-Wan what he can do, and for the next month Ahsoka will have to share her training time as a boy five years her junior teaches her Master a fancy new trick.

Obi-Wan is the first Jedi to care about Anakin’s name. The other Jedi call him Skywalker, or Young One, but Obi-Wan addresses him on even terms, as if the slave isn’t used to being the master.

He first runs into Obi-Wan when the Knight is still red-eyed and bleeding abandonment into the Force, but there is a kind smile despite the pain when he leads Anakin to the kitchens and they both sit down in the back hollow with sweet pastries and cocoa.

The encounter builds a fierce, desperate hope that Obi-Wan will pick him. Something feels right. Balanced. Temperance to his impatience, kindness to his calloused heart. Anakin is new, and untrained slaves are never picked, but he starts learning Soresu on his own and tells himself that if he learns fast enough he‘ll have a chance.

But Obi-Wan doesn’t want to wait. He picks the Togruta with her sparkling impatience and quick wit, and Anakin counts the years between padawanship and knighthood. An apprenticeship often lasts ten years, or longer if the padawan displeases the Council. In ten years he will be too old to be chosen, and then they will ship him to other slave colonies to grow crops for the trade routes.

When Obi-Wan is injured in his assigned task, Anakin fears they will send him to the colonies unless he learns to fight better. So he shows Obi-Wan his failure and how he perfected his weakness, and when the healers finally take off the sling Obi-Wan starts to teach him how to use both arms in Form V. 

Anakin feels Ahsoka’s insecurity and he knows that something about this is wrong, but he doesn’t know how to stop. This is where he was meant to be. Maybe the Council will let Obi-Wan have two slaves, and then he and Ahsoka can protect each other.

Obi-Wan recovers quickly, though, and then he doesn’t have time for two padawans. He’s off on another mission soon enough, and Anakin starts seeing other masters watching him spar.

He thinks he will soon have his chance, and he is afraid.

When Ahsoka is not yet fifteen she is paired off with Ferus karking Olin to find a missing student. Ferus is three years older than her, two feet taller and infinitely more boorish. They fight about everything. She feels like Ferus has to prove he’s the best in every academic avenue. He thinks Ahsoka doesn’t listen. She asks why Ferus can’t be like a normal student and keep his nose out of the air. He thinks Ahsoka is too sensitive and picks fights because she’s insecure.

The mission is a disaster, and not just because Ferus disappears for hours and Ahsoka breaks the school rules trying to find him and Obi-Wan has to rescue them both. No, then she has to sit through a lecture about teamwork and pride and she’s the one blamed for not working with her fellow padawan.

It’s all leeching out of her — betrayal and disgust and angry words she can never say in the moment — and Harbinger doesn’t even ask her what’s wrong. He takes her hand and they both sneak out of the Temple, down the muggy streets and to a lovely apartment where a motherly woman with blond and silver hair bundles them inside and hugs Harbinger like she hasn’t seen him in years.

“This is Jenna,” Harbinger says, tension releasing from his shoulders like a heavy blanket hitting the floor. “She’s safe. She won’t tell anyone you’re here.”

There’s something wrong in the Force, but Harbinger feels safe and Ahsoka trusts his instincts. They’re soon seated on lavish cushions with biscuits and fruity tea, and Jenna’s questions are sweetly innocent.

“I’ve heard about the Jedi and everything they do for the galaxy. You’re very lucky to be trained by Qui-Gon’s apprentice. But how does it feel to touch the Living Force?”

Ahsoka has never heard such a question before. “It’s….” Like breathing. Always there. Elusive, like a tool she can’t fully understand. Beautiful and sad, like Harbinger making whirlpools in the pond. “Harbinger can probably explain it better.”

Immediately Ahsoka chokes up, her montrails burning with horror, and Jenna sets down her teacup with a look of polite bewilderment. “Oh. Well, maybe you can introduce me to Harbinger?”

“I need to go,” Ahsoka whispers, setting down her rattling saucer before tea can stain the ornate rug. Oh Force, she needs to go bury herself under thirty feet of duracrete and never be seen again!

Harbinger — not Harbinger, how can she be so stupid — the Chosen One sets down his teacup with a blank expression and nods at Jenna. “I can ask him. We’ll come back.”

“I hope so, little one,” Jenna says with a thin smile. “I love hearing your stories.”

She sweeps them both into a hug and sends them off with scones in their pockets, and they walk back to the Temple in silence.

“I’m sorry,” Ahsoka blurts out at last. “I never asked your name.” She’s known about him for years and she’s never once made the effort.

The boy doesn’t answer her right away. “Tomorrow,” he says at last. “Ask me tomorrow.”

Ahsoka lays awake that night wallowing in shame, a life marker she will never forget. Years later, when she commands her own battalion, it’s a rule she writes out and demands until all of her troopers get used to the idea.

Everyone has a name. If they want to earn a better one for their bravery, fine, but they start with a proper title from day one.

She’s never assigning anyone a denigration again.

When Anakin is nine he is chosen by his first master. Ki-Adi-Mundi is a father and a patient teacher, and he tutors Anakin for weeks before making his decision.

The bonding ceremony is so startling that Mundi calls it off and walks out, shivering.

“I cannot train him,” he apologizes to Master Windu when he thinks Anakin cannot hear. “His power alone is overwhelming, and there is a darkness beneath it all. You must be wary with him.”

Anakin realizes that day that no matter how well he’s bottled up his light, he knows very little about the vulnerability of a master-padawan bond. How much he will be exposed. How much it can hurt if he gets it wrong.

Master Windu trains him for a while, without creating a bond. He tries to teach Anakin how to let go. How to feel. He won’t let him rest until he can move rocks without lifting his hands, but Anakin still won’t lower his shields. It’s safer that way, like a shadow where yellow eyes won’t find him. 

Master Windu gets tired of his stubbornness and moves on, and it’s another year before a master decides that Anakin is worth the trouble. Pong Krell is a four-armed blade master who’s convinced that a sharp learner like Anakin will make a suitable padawan who won’t slow him down.

The Force bond sears like a brand in Anakin’s mind, tethering him to his master’s thoughts and baring every insecurity for him to ruthlessly dig up and drill out until Anakin feels like a battle droid, battened down and hardened like plated durasteel. He can’t sneak out to see Jenna anymore and he doesn’t have time to read in the archives. He eats when Pong Krell remembers to feed him, and he doesn’t dare hide pebbles in the Besalisk’s shoes because the bond will reveal him. He drills and listens and sleeps less and works harder, and he forgets that he once had a light he was hiding, because he forgets that he once had a voice.

When Ahsoka is sixteen she learns that Granta Omega is a terrorist, and the Jedi helped him escape to Coruscant with a team of pseudo scientists. A peaceful planet is wiped out with a bioweapon and Master Yaddle dies with it. During her Life Ceremony they stare at a ceiling of lights studded like stars, watching until one central star flares brightest and then winks out.

Ahsoka sees Anakin standing by his new master with shorn hair and a padawan braid, his eyes as shielded and empty as a droideka’s visor.

They don’t visit each other in the garden anymore. He’s always too busy.

“Again.”

Run at the wall, spring off, let the Force cushion his fall so that he can swipe out to take out his opponent’s legs. Repeat.

“Do it again.”

The sun is setting and Anakin’s legs are shaking so badly he stumbles on the landing. Master Krell’s disdain is an electric lance through their bond.

“War won’t let you rest. Do it right!”

His master is not dismissive like Watto, or gentle like Obi-Wan, or even stern like Mace Windu. He is ruthlessness curling in Anakin’s brain like slow malice, poisoning his memories of the light. He pushes himself through the routine, again and again, and when he stumbles a third time Master Krell seizes his arm.

“Don’t play stupid with me, boy. You’ve got that fire in you, so use it!”

The bond crackles like flames on Anakin’s skin. This time when he throws himself at the wall he hears the taunts of the other younglings flickering in memories that Mace Windu told him to let go, and suddenly the same savageness fills him, clearing the fog of exhaustion and honing his senses on the karking wall. He lands perfectly, triumph thrumming in his limbs because he knows it was perfect and they can’t ask him for anything more. Master Krell smiles like this was the result he wanted all along.

“Again.”

When Ahsoka is sixteen she learns that Anakin’s best friend is also a bioengineer who experimented on Qui-Gon. She learns this after she is found in a laboratory by Master Tachi and her apprentice. Several Jedi are killed when bad intel is leaked through the datachip Ahsoka was charged to protect.

It’s weeks before she wakes from a drug-induced haze. 

She doesn’t want to touch the Force. Abrasive memories of a woman charting her abilities degrade the purity of the Jedi Way. 

She doesn’t want to look at the needle scars, adjusting her arm bands to cover them from wrist to shoulder.

She doesn’t know how to speak to Obi-Wan. The roped scars from the Gundark nest will mar his face for the rest of his life, and she wasn’t there to protect him.

“It wasn’t your fault, but if you must hear it, I forgive you.”

Obi-Wan holds her as her last tears of childhood soak his neck. She is sixteen and tired of falling behind.

She takes out her blades and runs katas until late in the evening. By chance she runs into Anakin, who looks equally drenched and ready to drop on the nearest surface to sleep it off.

There are no words between them anymore. Ahsoka nods and Anakin looks away.

His eyes are always empty.

Anakin remembers rage. He remembers fire slicing through his arm and erupting in his belly. He remembers Mom’s dark eyes, her cold face, her lips parted like she was about to cry for help. He remembers curling up by the shell that was still warm, begging for her to wait for him until he caught up with her spirit.

Then the Jedi tore him away from that silence and he woke to a piece of machinery and a heart that was empty. At least when he thought about the red Zabrack, he felt something. Some reason to keep living, if only so that he could tear out those yellow eyes and hear him scream the same way Watto did.

But Obi-Wan killed the Zabrack, and Anakin has nothing left to fight.

He fights Master Krell instead. Not openly, because that would be stupid. Not even subtly, because he can’t hide it and sometimes if Master Krell is angry enough he’ll leave bruises. But every time he’s asked to fight another padawan he pictures the Besalisk’s face and he wins. The victory is hollow, because to win he must be ruthless and he knows that the other masters think he is violent, antipathetic, savage even, but they must expect this behavior because otherwise they wouldn’t have given him to Master Krell for his apprenticeship. A slave who learns a craft is ten times more valuable, and Anakin doesn’t need to repeat lessons. He is here because they need warriors who can kill, just like Obi-Wan killed the Zabrack. 

Anakin thinks he could have learned to kill just as well under Obi-Wan’s scrutiny, but it has never been about his choices.

Sometimes he still thinks about Padme. He used to wonder if she would want a slave who could fight like a Jedi for one of her soldiers.

Pong Krell finds that memory and poisons it, too.

When Ahsoka is seventeen she helps save the Chancellor. She’s barely spared a second glance, as Ferus Olin gets all the credit.

Curiously, Master Krell and his padawan are there when the Chancellor publicly thanks the Jedi teams. An ugly feeling creeps down Ahsoka’s spine. The Chancellor is paying too much attention to the pair despite their lack of cooperation in his rescue. Obi-Wan senses it too, fidgeting by Ahsoka like he wants to intervene.

Anakin’s face is like a Naboo statue, but his hands are trembling.

“Master, I do think I’m going to faint,” Ahsoka whispers in warning, and she does the first clever thing of her apprenticeship. She collapses gracefully, pillowed by her Master’s sudden lunge, and Obi-Wan shouts dramatically enough to reel in all of the press. 

The oily attention shifts off of Anakin and she feels Master Krell’s flash of displeasure before he shields it.

Anakin seems amused, a ripple of delight flickering in the Force. It’s instantly crushed as Master Krell snatches his wrist and yanks him away.

“I saw it, too,” Obi-Wan whispers.

When Anakin is twelve years old his second bond is severed. He no longer belongs to Pong Krell — in fact, it’s very unlikely that the Besalisk will be allowed to keep another slave. The Council is furious. Like Watto, they pride themselves in mastering without beating their slaves, and Master Krell has shamed their good name.

“You will not be given another master,” Master Windu tells him gravely. He means for a period of time, but Anakin hears none at all.

If he doesn’t get another master before he’s fifteen he’ll be sent to the colonies and he’ll never have a chance to be his own person.

“I can do it!” Anakin entreats, crossing the taboo line of interrupting his betters. “Look, I can fight! It doesn’t even hurt!”

He pulls up his sleeves to show the bruises he’s learned to ignore, proving that he can fight and overcome his own weakness, and Master Windu’s horror steals the words in his throat.

He doesn’t know that his wrists are gaunt, all wires and bone lined with purple handprints. He doesn’t know that he’s short for his age or that his eyes are shadowed and his hair is coarse and slow to grow back. He doesn’t know any of this, because no one ever told him that slaves are supposer to be treated better than droids.

Master Windu swallows purposefully, and when he speaks again he is gentle but firm. “We are going to the Houses of Healing. You will not train until they believe you are fit.” Softer, he adds, “You’re not in trouble.”

But he still failed. Failed to honor his master, failed his apprenticeship. Anakin drops his eyes and follows the master to  soft white halls where Master Allie tuts over him soothingly and shoots startled looks at Master Windu when she thinks Anakin isn’t looking. He’s undernourished, apparently, and he has chronic exhaustion. He can fight off those weaknesses with the Force, he explains, and Master Allie says firmly that he’s not allowed to. 

He’s not allowed to do much, in fact. He’s pinned to the bunk by Master Allie’s instructions and her firm, sad stare. They bring him more food than he’s been allowed in a whole day, and then a datapad when he starts counting ceiling tiles. When it’s clear he won’t sleep, Master Allie lets him roll bandages until his mind is settled. 

One of the other padawans, Barris, shows him how they use the bandages to make slings and splints and stop bleeding. Anakin thinks maybe he wouldn’t mind being useful in these skills. 

If he works hard enough, maybe they’ll consider letting him try one more time as a healer’s apprentice.

When Ahsoka is eighteen years old she is caught in an energy trap. She feels helpless, trapped in her own thoughtless blundering, and the ghosts of Korriban sing when she tears herself free in a red flash of outrage. 

The Jedi chase Granta Omega down into grounds of his choosing, and they pay for it in blood. The Sith Tombs radiate with triumph as bodies are laid to rest:

Tru Veld, whose lightsaber lost power halfway through the first battle; a fault that should have been addressed early in his apprenticeship.

Ferus Olin, caught in the myriad of blaster fire.

Siri Tachi, defending her padawan to the last.

Whispers of ghosts paint another picture for Ahsoka; one where seven Jedi come back alive, and Obi-Wan is not blind in one eye from the gundark snare. She sees flashes of blond hair and a kaleidoscope of blue energy, proud and vindictive and arrogant and free, and she feels the crush of life that is still lost in these tombs that crave sacrifice.

Granta Omega is dead, but only two padawans return.

The Council declares that the Knight trials are unnecessary. Both Darra and Ahsoka have proved their worth. They are now Jedi Knights.

The victory is as hollow as the face staring back at Ahsoka from her mirror. She tries to share Obi-Wan’s smile when he tugs off her padawan braid, and she senses his pride.

All of her life she’s dreamed of this day. No one ever warned her what it would cost.

She thinks she understands why Anakin’s gaze is so empty.

When Ahsoka is eighteen years old the people of Naboo beg for aid. Nine years after the Trade Federation was incinerated along with half the capital a Separatist fleet tries to wipe out the rest. Queen Amidala approaches the Senate in robes of mourning, but pride laces her voice as she censors the Republic for ignoring the cries of a dying people.

She is nearly assassinated twice. Chancellor Palpatine declares that the Separatist faction is to blame, and he calls for a grand army to be deployed at once to defend Naboo.

Before Ahsoka is nineteen the Clone Wars has begun.

She is not yet a Master, yet she is experienced enough to be given her own batallion. The first thing she does is assign each of her soldiers a name.

She doesn’t repeat past mistakes.

Anakin is almost thirteen years old when he is allowed to have another master. Master Tiplar is quick, decisive and kind. The first thing she does is march him into the meal hall, where she slides him a giant slice of cake and tests his potential by asking what he likes to do, what is his routine, how does he like to train?

(He can speak fourteen trade languages, he can adapt to any routine and learn whatever techniques are most important. She doesn’t seem to like those answers, but she still passes him the rest of her own cake.)

Sensing the scars of a severed bond, Master Tiplar doesn’t force Anakin to accept her ownership. Instead she weaves two bright green beads into his braid and says they will form the bond when he is ready.

It’s his first choice in seven years.

When Ahsoka is eighteen she realizes that the Queen of Naboo is absolutely devious. Padme may have carried an entire civilization’s fate for ten years, but she knows how to help others find laughter in the darkest times. They spend hours giggling like children, leaving paper scraps to confuse the mouse droids and coloring the rim of Captain Panaka’s field scope and assigning names to all of the Queen’s personal Clone security force, until Rex and Obi-Wan are fidgeting with terror at the sheer force of female ingenuity.

Their talks take a serious turn all too quickly. Padme questions the justice in creating an army to serve without consent. Ahsoka has never known a life where choices were ultimate and orders questioned. It suddenly strikes her how unfair the galaxy plays out— questionable as their roles may be, the clones and the Jedi alike still receive better rations than the “free” refugees on Naboo.

“I’m not arguing that it’s slavery,” Padme says, although her eyes declare that’s exactly what it is, “But we’re creating millions of lives just to service a war. When the war is over, what happens to them?”

Ashoka never thought about life past the war. All those names, all those numbers reporting to the Jedi… what is their future?

“I’m sure the Chancellor has a plan,” she presumes hopefully.

Padme’s polite smile freezes into something dangerous. “That mentality was our first mistake.”

The first time Anakin wins a duel, Master Tiplar looks troubled. She corrects his form and tells him to lean into the Force and leave his feelings behind.

After his second win she pulls him aside for the rest of the day to meditate. The inactivity writhes inside of him and his master makes a sly comment that she can see the steam curling out of his ears.

Anakin forces himself to find that patch of nothing and lose himself inside of it, because he can’t afford to botch his last chance.

Master Tiplar calls off meditation early and leaves him to tinker with his lightsaber while she speaks to the Council. Anakin tosses the lightsaber aside when she leaves, troubled by the corrosion he senses in the crystal’s core, and he scours the apartment with brush and sponge until he falls asleep against the wall.

The next morning he’s assigned meditation with Master Yoda.

It’s as boring as every padawan has ever feared.

As more Jedi are called to the frontlines, more dark warriors appear. Count Dooku. General Grevious. Asaj Ventress. Darth Maul. Battle droids are plated in grey; faster and more precise. Droids with bostaffs can match the average Jedi in saber combat. Buzz droids dismantle ships mid-flight. The Republic falters, buckling under cunning enemies that seem to know the trade routes and codes better than its own soldiers.

“Someone is operating on the inside,” Obi-Wan tells the Council while a third of his battalion is recovering from blaster wounds and shrapnel. “How else do they know where every squad is stationed before we land?”

“Darkness clouds everything,” Master Yoda observes.

“That’s the understatement of the year,” Ahsoka mutters. Obi-Wan hushes her, but he doesn’t make her apologize.

They all want to shake sense into the Senate. What’s the harm in a little dark humor to keep up their spirits?

Anakin improves in his saber training. He keeps his feelings bottled in and his rhythm monotonous and gets lost in the flow of block and charge. Sometimes he forgets where he is, and that round is counted as a loss. Master Tiplar frets at the end of every round regardless of its outcome, and Anakin wishes she would just say what she wants him to do. At least he knew where he stood with Master Krell, even if his head ached for days on end. In this silence without a bond he’s floundering to understand what kind of padawan Master Tiplar is looking for.

It all comes to a jarring head in a fateful duel, six weeks into Anakin’s apprenticeship. Bariss is always a cheerful fighter. She makes jokes to try to distract him while dancing around his blades. Anakin doesn’t give her an opening, but he isn’t pushing to beat her, either. It’s a confusing balance but it seems to keep Master Tiplar happy.

The creep of a familiar presence clams up Anakin’s palms before he registers who is watching the duel. He looks up and stutters, nearly losing an ear before Bariss swears and pulls back. Master Krell watches from the shadows of a pillar with folded arms and a glib sneer.

Fear of failure dredges Anakin’s calm and he barely catches the next swing. He dodges like a drunken Gungan, all wobbly legs and flailing arms, and in the scarred nerves of a severed bond he feels Master Krell’s scorn.

That’s all it takes to bring back two years of training. Anger flares hot and sharp in Anakin’s throat and he shoves forward with brisk, cutting strokes. The padawan he’s fighting stumbles in surprise and he presses his advantage. Someone starts shouting to end the duel, but it’s not over until his enemy is down and she isn’t giving up yet, just swinging frantically like a cornered womp rat. There’s a sharp retort between two masters and Anakin knows it means he’s taking too long. He bears down once — twice — disarming his opponent, and spins his lightsaber around to touch her neck.

“Just stop!” The padawan shoves his hands to the side, wiping her sleeve over her face to hide tears of frustration and … fear. She’s afraid of him.

Bariss is afraid.

“You’ve won, okay?” Bariss rails as Anakin steps back in numb discomfort. “You don’t have to rub it in!”

“Anakin, stand down, now!” Master Tiplar calls out, marching up to stand between them.

“But I… I thought that….” Bewildering thoughts crash on one another too many for Anakin to center himself, and the most blunt, irrelevant thought claws its way to the surface. “Why are you crying?”

Stand up. Be strong. You won’t get a chance to die twice, so never be the one to fall down. Master Krell’s orders are the same code as surviving Tatooine’s street thugs, so why isn’t Bariss getting up and fighting back?

“Anakin,” Master Tiplar says, tight and controlled and furious. “Go to your quarters.”

He doesn’t argue or ask any more questions, but he wonders what he did to disappoint his master this time, and if she’s going to bring the Council into it or punish him herself.

Sitting vigilant on the edge of a chair, Anakin reminds himself that he can handle it. Nothing the masters have done can ever be more painful than lying in the sand with lightsaber burns in his arm and chest, trying to implore life into dulled eyes where love used to call him home every night.

He can’t show them fear.

When Master Tiplar returns her appearance is calm, but the taint of nervous sweat overwhelms her perfume. She pulls up a chair and sits in front of Anakin, folding her hands as if searching for something to hold onto.

“Tell me what happened,” she says quietly. “Why did you need to win?”

Anakin doesn’t understand the question. Why would she want him to lose?

“I need an answer, Anakin,” Master Tiplar says, tension bleeding into her tone. When he hesitates, she reiterates, “What was so important about winning that duel?”

“I’m… supposed to win,” Anakin answers uncertainly. “That’s why we duel. To show who’s the best.”

“The best? You want to be the best?” Master Tiplar gives a sharp, astonished laugh. “Is that really what matters? We are Jedi, not gladiators.”

“She should’ve fought back,” Anakin says, confused. “If I was her enemy, she would be dead.”

“That is not what we’re trying to prove here,” Master Tiplar declares. “This was a friendly sparring match to help you learn about each other’s strengths and styles, so you can guard your fellow Jedi in this coming war.”

Anakin blinks, unfamiliar with the thought that a padawan would guard him, and Master Tiplar misinterprets his confusion.

“Yes, Anakin. War. It won’t be long before every Jedi team is called up to fight and I need you to be ready.”

Sympathy softens blue eyes and Master Tiplar reaches out carefully, resting her hand featherlight on Anakin’s left wrist. She doesn’t dig in her fingers, but he stiffens anyways and she pulls away with a sad smile.

“Okay. Maybe we just need to start over. Lay down some ground —“

“I can do it!” The terror is fresh and raw and hopeless because he needs this, he’s too old for another foulup. “I understand! I’ll — I’ll say sorry to Barriss and I’ll learn the right way to fight and — and I won’t win anymore if that’s what you want. I promise won’t disappoint you again, I can still —“

“Ani — Ana — Anakin!” Master Tiplar startles him into silence as she kneels down, gripping his hands, and he sees a strange reflection in her eyes as water splashes off his chin. Why is … he — he can’t remember the last time he cried, not even when Mom died. Tears waste water and dishonor the dead. The wash of salt matches the heaving in his chest, and before he can make it stop he’s tugged off the chair and settled gingerly into warm arms that smell like sage and spices.

“Is this okay?” Master Tiplar asks cautiously. “Can I hug you?”

It’s almost like stepping back home with bruises on his cheek and sand in his boots and the promise that the other kid got it worse. He nods and hides in her shoulder, because he can’t breathe and if he closes his eyes it feels like Mom is holding him one more time.

“It’s okay,” Master Tiplar says, running a hand through his shorn hair with even, gentle strokes. “It’s going to be okay. We can do this.”

“I’ll do better,” Anakin chokes out. “I can do it!”

“No. No, you’ve done enough,” Master Tiplar says, and when he sobs she holds him tighter. “I’m the one who needs to be better. I wasn’t listening to what you need. We’re going to work this out.”

What — what he needs? She’s supposed to know that. The master always knows how far to push and what methods to use and where he needs to go.

“I don’t — what do you want me to do?” Anakin pleads. “I can’t — I don’t know what you want.”

It’s a terrible omission. Slaves who survive are the ones who get it right without being told twice, but he’s so tired of guessing wrong.

“Oh, Tiplar, what have you opened up,” the Mikkian sighs. “Okay. Crechling steps. Cocoa, blanket, cuddles. Come on, Kiddo. I promise the sofa is way more comfortable than the floor.”

She’s nimble and decisive and Anakin is limp huddle of raw nerves, but somehow she gets him bundled onto the sofa, leaving “two seconds quick” and returning with a purple knit blanket and two frothy mugs. She tucks Anakin into soft wool like he’s two and sits close enough that their shoulders touch, and that’s how they stay until the cocoa is gone and Anakin loses touch with the miserable world that is somehow a little less lonesome.

“I want to give all the Clones names,” Padme announces in the security council. 

The only sound for ten seconds is the sweep of the window washing droid. 

“They’re fighting for us,” Padme states. “They deserve to be remembered.”

Chancellor Palpatine makes an awkward croak. “Your Majesty, it may be an exhaustive use of our resources to —“

“To give someone a name?” Padme huffs. “We name ships all the time. I’m not asking for battle monuments or medals. Find a random database and send out a single message to the battalion commanders; let them delegate names for their own squadrons. We created the Clones. They deserve to die with honor.”

Ahsoka shuts her mouth with a click and watches diplomacy unfold. She thinks Obi-Wan might be a little bit in love.

When Anakin was three, a few of the slaves on their street shared slices of fruit and bits of bright, folded paper to celebrate “Life Day.” It happened once a year and there was always something to make it feel special.

He learns at the Temple that every youngling has their own version of Life Day, called their “Name Day,” and the thirteenth is the most significant. Padawans who have a master are given a special present. Those who don’t have a master…

Well, the last padawan who was that old without a master was shipped off to Bandomeer before the Council changed their rules. The younglings still scare themselves to tears when they reach their twelfth year without a master.

Anakin is no longer twelve. Slaves don’t have a Name Day, but the Jedi mark his age by the date he was brought to the Temple and the years he already had. That means it’s only two days after Mom died, and he wouldn’t feel like celebrating even if Master Krell thought it was important.

This year is different, though. Master Tiplar has been busy since she caught Anakin crying, which means he’s been left to himself for large portions of the day. She leaves a list on the counter labeling out his schedule, which includes his katas, a few chores, meal times and huge spaces of time that say Do what you want! :)

Anakin doesn’t know what he wants, or what Master Tiplar really means for him to do, but he’s felt strangely lethargic since the botched duel and he can’t bring himself to worry about it. That’s a dangerous place to be — slaves who aren’t focused wind up dead in an alley — but Master Tiplar isn’t here to notice so he thinks he can get away with sliding a little bit longer.

He spends time in the archives again, teaching himself Geonosian because the clicking rhythm is sort of like binary and it’s fun figuring out how to curl his tongue and throat to mimic the sounds. Master Nu fetches him right at the scheduled meal time and he’s handed off to Master Koon, who eventually stops asking what he wants to eat and just piles a tray that they both pick over, until Anakin starts figuring out that he can say what he likes best and they’ll give it to him without any scold about wasting food.

After that he has classes — fewer since he became a padawan, and focused more on planetary diplomacy and cultural appreciation than galactic history — and then there’s ‘saber training with Master Tiplar or her sister. It’s less like katas and more like a dance as he learns how to move with his opponent and not like an unstoppable force. 

Meditation is next. Anakin makes a genuine attempt, but he focuses better when they’re dancing their katas and so when he’s ordered to sit he finds himself mentally retracing those steps, changing the rhythm and adding another form until he thinks he could almost formulate a new style. (Slaves were never meant to teach, but he has the dream of sharing his creations. Maybe one day, when he has his own padawan, he’ll make them a holovid of his own techniques.)

After meditation is another meal, which Master Tiplar picks for him because the last time she tried to make Anakin choose he got so flustered the ceiling lights shattered. He notices she tends to get the same things for him that he eats with Master Koon, which means that the master is reporting to her and it’s a relief when they share a plate the same way so he can’t be blamed if he doesn’t eat more. (He should eat more, Healer Chen fusses. He’s still fifteen inches short according to his bone grafts.)

Evenings are marked “Quiet Space.” Master Tiplar makes cocoa and asks him questions about his day, and says there are no wrong answers. (There are always wrong answers. Sometimes Master Tiplar looks sad, and sometimes the air trembles with displeasure, but she never punishes him.) Sometimes she reads aloud and sometimes they play holochess, which brings in a new skill of wit that’s rather like saba’ac.

The routine is useful, always keeping Anakin in the right place at the right time, but on his the day of his eighth year at the Temple, two months into his apprenticeship, Master Tiplar meets him for morning tea and doesn’t give him a list.

“Happy Name Day,” she says, beaming as she nudges over a slice of frosted sweet cake and a parcel wrapped in blue and yellow paper.

All thought and reason snuffs into dumbfounded silence as Anakin stares. It’s not… it’s not for him, surely. He didn’t say anything about his chosen colors, or when his thirteenth Name Day was coming, or how he liked the swirly cream frosting best, or —

Or did he?

Every “Quiet Evening” filled with strange questions. Every escorted meal. Everything he thought was a trick.

Maybe it’s still a trick.

He doesn’t want to know.

“Anakin?” Master Tiplar probes softly, and he realizes he’s fisted his hands under the table where she can’t see his turmoil. “Do you want a few minutes alone?”

“I can do — I’m fine — I — yes,” Anakin admits, ducking his head.

“Okay,” Master Tiplar says genially, leaving her tea so he knows she’ll come back.

He stares at the package forever, fighting down precious water that seems to flood his eyes too often and too easily these days. The blue ribbon is soft and silky and the yellow paper is hardy enough that he could keep it under his pillow and it wouldn’t tear for a long time.

He has a present.

It’s his Name Day.

Suddenly the day feels worth celebrating after all.

“Okay,” Anakin says, taking a deep breath. “I’m ready.”

He waits until Master Tiplar is seated before tugging off the ribbon and suddenly he’s not ready anymore, fighting off a wave of disbelief. Two brass combs are nestled at the top, carved with swirls like a japor charm. He never said anything about the padawan cut and what he missed about the days before he earned his braid.

“That was Tiplee’s idea,” Master Tiplar says with impishness dancing in her smile. “I never liked the old-fashioned styles. Imagine cutting off your head-tails just to keep them out of your face!”

“Thank you,” Anakin says, low and husked. He can’t bring himself to touch them and smudge the bright brass. 

“There’s more,” Master Tiplar sing-songs, compelling him to keep digging.

Every new treasure is better than the last. Mikkian-carved yellow beads for his braid and a steel blue cylinder for his lightsaber hilt. A protection amulet that he immediately recognizes as a krayt dragon tooth. His very own sabaac deck. A tiny tool kit for the most intricate droids.

When Anakin palms the last gift he stops breathing.

“I know, it’s a rock, but Ahsoka insisted you’d like it,” Master Tiplar says with an awkward chuckle. “Happy Life Day?”

The memories swirling around the stone wrap Anakin into a phantom dance, from the man who plucked the stone from the riverbed to the boy who clutched it and kept his memories safe, to the girl whose dream was to learn Soresu. A cold, elusive wash of displacement sullies the flow, and for an instant he sees himself giving the rock to Ahsoka and laughing when she tries to act appreciative while she’s 99% sure it’s a prank.

The feeling fades and Anakin holds his treasures with loose, trembling hands. “This is my Life Day,” he establishes. And these are mine.

He won’t say it out loud — not yet. Slaves have no ownership, and what is given can be easily displaced.

But for today, these are his gifts and it is his special day. Master Tiplar smiles her approval and Anakin starts to believe it. 

She never tells him that the Chancellor also sent gifts: custom robes in red and blue with armor plates and a new ‘saber belt. Tiplee returned them with thin-lipped gratitude, asking that the Chancellor kindly refrain from singling out her sister’s padawan who is struggling to find his place among the Jedi. 

Perhaps it was unkind of her to deny Anakin any gift, especially one of such practical comfort, but the omen of blood-red robes is not something Tiplar wishes to acknowledge.

The next morning they’re called to the warfront.

“Word out is you’re giving your Clone troopers names.”

“Yeah?”

“And you’re advocating for reasonable pay.”

“Look, are you here to kill the Queen or talk politics?”

When the blue and silver Mandalorian holsters his blaster and removes his helmet, Ahsoka doesn’t know what to think.

“I’d like to make a bargain with you,” says the man who looks like every single one of her war charges.

“Sorry, we don’t negotiate with assassins,” Ahsoka says shakily, stepping back as the door to the Queen’s quarters opens a sliver.

“What about defectors?” the Mandalorian proposes.

“Ahsoka, stand down.” Stepping from the room (which is stupid, how can Ahsoka protect her if she’s always running headlong towards her would-be-killers?), Padme folds her arms loosely so that the ELG-3A in her hand is pointing just right of the Mandalorian’s armor seam. “What are you proposing?”

“I can give you information,” the Mandalorian says. “In exchange, I want full rights for my charges; citizenship, education and protection from the Republic.”

Nodding thoughtfully, Padme waves the pistol in a casual beckon. “Leave your weapons out here and we’ll talk. Do you like deychin tea?”

Anakin learns that the galaxy is full of slaves and they all answer to the Jedi Council. His rank is padawan now, which means that the Clones sometimes look to him for simpler things, and he doesn’t like it. He’s answered to his betters for so long that he doesn’t know how take control. Commander Doom picks up on his inexperience pretty quick, but instead of shuffling him off with the rest of the new batch he gives him things to do. 

Analyze the maps so they can choose the safest route where the droids can’t bottle them in. Translate binary recordings picked up from scout patrols. Teach the Clones how to time fractional shots to pierce past a red lightsaber. When Doom catches Anakin memorizing Kaminoan in a dark corner once he’s run out of assignments, he sends him straight to the armory to coach him through the harder words while Anakin takes apart every weapon and puts it back together, until he knows when the strike calls for a blaster carbine versus a sniper rifle and he can say it in a proper dialect that the droids won’t understand.

When they meet their first skirmish and the rear guard is separated by an ambush, Anakin doesn’t have to be told twice. He picks up Axle’s blaster and fires three times for attention, then forms a tight circle facing out, keeping his lightsaber between the foot soldiers and the electroguards. He follows Master Tiplar’s training, finding that empty space in his mind where he feels nothing and the battle is merely a dance in the Force filled with darts of red and blue, and he keeps dancing until Commander Doom shakes him and yells at him to snap out of it.

Then he throws up and is carried to the medical tent in an exhausted faint, and Master Tiplar is scolded for sending children out into the field without proper battle armor.

Turns out the Republic isn’t funding durasteel plates for pint-sized Clones, so they collect scraps and solder them together to fit a boy’s growing frame. They let him choose his own squad colors.

He picks yellow and blue.

The days fly past for Ahsoka, and not in the normal passage of an occupied mind losing time. It seems like everything is moving together faster than it should. The Republic is scrambling to maintain diplomacy as one planet after another joins the Separatist movement. Now pirates are choosing sides because the Republic can never pay them enough to win their firepower.

“You’re a little savage for a Jedi, aren’t you?” Hondo grumbles when Ahsoka gets tired of rampant chases and rips off his speeder couplings. “That sort of temper will get you nowhere.”

“It’ll stop you, won’t it?” Ahsoka snarls.

Mockery is her answer, because she loses precious seconds cutting away the boulas that pins her arms to her sides, and the next second Hondo is gone.

The Republic might have founded an army of Clones, but the civilians are tired of blaster fire ripping through their homesteads. They feign ignorance and muddle the search until Ahsoka is forced to give up and report back to her squadron.

She thought they were the good guys, but every tired face in that town stares her down as if she is the one responsible for the growing clusters of fresh earth and wilting flowers. 

When Anakin is thirteen and a half a blaster bolt grazes his right eyebrow and he spends three weeks with a patch over that eye, wondering if he’s damaged goods and if the Jedi will still let him fight if he’s half blind.

(Obi-Wan lost an eye to a gundark, but he’s a master and that must have given him some sanctum.)

Master Tiplar thinks it’s a wonderful opportunity to teach him the finer arts of the blast visor. Anakin doesn’t get it right the first time, or the second, or even the fifth. He’s concussed, he learns, and he spends two days wallowing with a piercing headache and nausea, wondering if he’d rather the bolt was a little better centered.

It feels unnervingly like the time Krell’s bond was severed. Anakin still hasn’t asked Master Tiplar to take his place. He doesn’t want to feel that kind of pain ever again.

Fives starts seeing Kix for headaches and the Force screams wrongness to Ahsoka. She’s not a medic, so she leaves it to the experts.

They’re due to regroup with another battalion soon. It’ll be nice to have backup.

Maybe Anakin isn’t a master yet, but the Clones call him Commander Skywalker and he takes his role seriously. Good masters look after their Clones (he won’t call them property, it doesn’t feel right) and that means it’s his duty to make sure they are all strong and safe, even if they don’t tell him what they need in order to fight well.

So when Pug holds onto his stomach but says it’s just a cramp, Anakin sends him back to camp.

Pug goes into surgery hours later and wakes up with a scar in his abdomen.

“You’ve got the eyes for it, you should learn it,” Needles says when Anakin returns layered in soot and sweat. He brings Anakin to the healing tent and shows him how ointments and injections and a little needle and thread can stave off infections. 

Anakin starts bringing a kit to battle with him so he can get a head start. The Force dances with his hands, soothing and directing like it knows how to put everything back together, but when he loses the next Clone he holes himself away with a datapad and all of Needle’s research, trying to understand what he did wrong.

Master Tiplar tracks him down and hugs him until he drops the datapad with a sob.

“You can’t stop people from dying,” she soothes, combing her fingers through his hair until all the blood is smoothed from its snarls. “You can only do what you can and then let them rest.”

“What if they want to live?” Anakin chokes. “Why can’t I save them?”

“Can you stop the frost from killing the grass?” Master Tiplar poses. “Death is only one cycle in life. Winter will give way to spring, and each of us will live out our time. Do not try to understand the will of the Force — you might as well try to stop the rain.”

Many years later Anakin will the challenge to heart, and for a split second all life on Kamino pauses in fear as the cycle of rain is disrupted.

Then the water slaps back down like a clap of cold reality, and he realizes the futility of infinite power.

It does not stop the rain from coming back to wash away the land.

And it does not bring back the dead.

When Ahsoka sees Anakin for the first time in a year, she doesn’t recognize him. His hair is growing out again, all mischievous springy curls, and he wears the armor crafted from makeshift blue plates as proudly as a pampered astromech. He’s chattering in a language that perks Rex’s ears, and she knows she’s lost her captain’s attention for the rest of the week.

“Not the same kid as the one who shadowed you in the garden, is he?” Tiplee observes, grinning when Anakin’s prattle notches two speeds faster as he exclaims over Echo’s blue stripes. He’s still a void where Ahsoka expects brightness, but she can feel the Force hovering around him like a delighted parent.

“I never knew he could smile,” Ahsoka agrees.

Tiplar gives a noncommittal hum. “I still can’t get him to tell me what he wants, and war is not the place to find oneself.”

“If he couldn’t find friends at the Temple he can’t be worse off here,” her twin surmises. “Now he’s just like everyone else.”

“Chosen One,” Tiplar explains when Ahsoka gives her a puzzled look. “The last thing he needs right now is a reputation. Titles tend to give one a wide berth.”

Ahsoka looks at the teenager wearing makeshift armor, bantering in the Clones’ familiar language and fretting over Tup’s bandaged arm, and she understands why Obi-Wan wears the same armor as his men. There’s safety in finding someone who stands on your level; an instinctive sense that you will not be easily betrayed.

She talks to Rex later in the evening about commissioning her own armor. Nothing too inhibiting, just enough to associate her with the 501st.

Bedecked in creamy white and blue and red, Ahsoka thinks she might have found another way to breach the gap of selective ignorance between the Clone Troopers and the Republic.

Padme is all for the idea, and has her own armored plates set with a white gown and headdress. 

It starts a fashion revolution that floods the Inner Rim with black market demands for leather and durasteel. Hondo could cry with joy.

When Ahsoka and Obi-Wan spar it’s a challenge of wit and dexterity. Ahsoka is a whiplash, darting in with quick strikes while Obi-Wan twirls around her like the ocean’s tide, just within reach and impossible to grasp.

Ahsoka never sees Tiplar and Anakin sparring. They swirl alongside one another with smooth, defensive strides, always guarding and never switching to offense.

“Anakin’s early training was… lacking,” Tiplar explains with a reluctant sigh, when the evening meal has started and Commander Doom is practically sitting on Anakin to make sure he doesn’t wander off without finishing at least half of his portion. “I imagine he could tire Master Yoda if he tried, but he needs to learn how to defend his partner.”

Blue eyes glint in the sunset like flickers of a Force ghost. “Would you work with him, Ahsoka? I know we don’t have much time, but if he could practice with other Jedi —“

“He’ll adapt better on the field when he’s on his own,” Ahsoka finishes. “Of course I’ll help.”

Tiplar’s smile is weary and disillusioned. “I can’t bear to think of something happening to him. I know I shouldn’t be attached, but… I want him to have a future. He’s too young to know war.”

Ahsoka thinks of ten long years passed, of a planet in disarray and a child with a severed arm, and she thinks this is all they’ve ever known. 

Maybe it will be over by the time she chooses her own Padawan. Maybe she can tell the stories that make children sigh and be glad they live in happier times.

She hopes those days are years away. She couldn't possibly be responsible for a child’s dependence on her wisdom right now.

She still doesn’t know what she’s doing. 

When Ahsoka shares Tiplar’s request with Obi-Wan, he is delighted. He’s still hedging about taking on a new Padawan, but Ahsoka has seen him watching the initiates more closely. Sparring with Anakin brings him back into teaching mode without making that full commitment. 

She watches her former Master weave in tune with Anakin, matching steps and compensating for height as if they were born under the same star, and she squashes a pang of envy. Of course Obi-Wan was different with his first Padawan. He had to be stricter. He was still mourning Qui-Gon. They never could have shared this — this — ballet that is neither Djem So nor Soresu, but a beautiful ebb of water and fire. 

She leaves them to their practice and goes to bed early, telling herself that it’s because their scouts report a large force ahead and she needs to be rested.

Meditation would do a better job clearing her head, but for some prickling reason she doesn’t want to open herself to the Force with Anakin laughing close by.

Everyone just feels so loud, and she senses again that loss of time. The Force itself seems to be holding its breath like it can smell the blood of the battle ahead. 

“I can’t bear to think of something happening to him,” Tiplar’s worries echo in her head.

Ahsoka vows that she’ll make sure they all make it home. 

She tosses for hours before falling asleep, and tells herself that it won’t be one more broken promise.

Fives clutches his head just as they’re starting to win. 

He shoots exactly like Anakin showed him — in that fractional second before Tiplar can raise her blade.

Anakin responds exactly like Pong Krell taught him, launching from a fallen tank and cutting off the Clone Trooper’s legs.

He screams and kicks out as Tiplee holds him, the Force convulsing and betrayed and furious. Pulsing darkness topples over the nearest Clones. The rest stagger, clutching their heads as the screaming and cursing goes on and on, until Needles runs up with a sedative and stabs it so deep that it breaks in muscle. The boy spasms with a choked cry and flops, silent tears running from deadened eyes.

He doesn’t speak to anyone in the days following. His shields are shattered, broken fragments of ambiguousness floating over a sea of hurt and loneliness and anguish, and even Obi-Wan fears the signs.

This is an implosion that, once unleashed, cannot be stopped. Will not be controlled.

They can’t keep him here like this.

“I can’t take on a Padawan right now,” Tiplee says, still red-eyed and heart-stricken for her twin. “I promised her I would — but I can’t — I don’t — I don’t know how to fix this.”

“Then don’t,” Commander Doom interjects softly from where he hovers inside the tent. It’s none of his business, but he’s not the only one listening in. “Leave him here with us. If he can’t be a Jedi, he can still make a bloody good medic.”

“He needs a mind healer, not a new assignment,” Obi-Wan says carefully. “He’s too dangerous to leave the Jedi Order untrained.”

“The Council needs to know,” Tiplee agrees.

The Council recalls Tiplee and the orphaned Padawan, and Ahsoka is left to scour the medical records with her troopers and try to find a correlation between Fives’ headaches and his bout of madness before the Republic sentences him for murder.

What she discovers will bring new fire to Padme’s demand for the Republic to stop braying about hostilities from the Separatist movement and start addressing the cruelty pouring into their streets one batch after another.

It’s no longer about ending a war. They’re crying out for justice.

Anakin is two months shy of fourteen when he loses his third master. He’s shipped back to the Temple where he’s escorted to the meal hall three times a day, whether he eats or not. They take him to a mind healer who talks softly and is easy to block out. They give him training sabers and datapads and books and blankets and he stares at them dispassionately, trying to stuff the gonegonehurtswhyhatethem back into the jumbled mess where he ought to feel nothing. He can’t find that space now that that he needs it the most.

He’s moved to new quarters where a master is always just outside. The Council has chosen the best out of what is left to them — experienced Jedi who trained the next generation and understand the steps of healing when a bond is shattered — but Anakin doesn’t know that, because he can’t feel their peace reaching to his chasm. He’s sinking in emptyabandoneddespair and he wants to scream until the pain stops. He tries it once, muffling his voice in the pillow and then listening in terror (hope?) for someone to check in, but he’s left alone with the echoes of his own voice frightening in the silence. That loss of fragile control shakes him more than the bitter revelation that he doesn’t feel any better for it.

He doesn’t waste tears, because they won’t save him or bring Master Tiplar back. He knows he ought to throw himself into work so that they think twice about sending him away, but he’s fast running out of time and he can’t bring himself to care. He lies in the space between the wall and the bed and waits to fall asleep.

The hours passes in a thick haze (six days, he doesn’t know it) and finally Master Windu decides he’s had enough time to wallow.

“On your feet, Skywalker.”

It’s an order. He isn’t given a choice. 

He’s led to the Room of a Thousand Fountains where the pattering water dulls the screams in his head. (He doesn’t know the room is seeping with his own despair. He doesn’t know how to make it stop.)

“Form I,” Master Windu instructs, and they drill the most basic katas until Anakin’s mind catches up to the stupidity of the practice. He’s mastered The Way of the Krayt Dragon; he doesn’t need to review children’s lessons.

“Again, Skywalker,” Made Windu orders.

They repeat the form in slow, chaffing paces, until Anakin’s breath comes in angry puffs and he’s dragging his feet because he’s not allowed to stop and he hates every minute of it.

“Again.”

Back and forth, pathetic sweeps that teach strength and coordination for more advanced forms. He taught himself Form II from a hologram; he doesn’t need to relearn the basics.

“Again.”

“No.”

The croak of sound startles Anakin more than Master Windu, who frankly looks like he was expecting it. There’s a short burst of panic when he realizes he just refused a command, but the rush of control that follows sings through his crushed spirit.

“No, what?” Master Windu states. It’s a last warning, he’s lucky to get a second chance, but Anakin is done caring.

He drops his stance savagely and marches away, shaking after the first two strides because he knows he’s going to be punished and he’s turning his back on a Council Master and he thought he’d lost everything but he’s suddenly aware of his blue lightsaber hilt and his growing hair and the Force rock and there’s so much they can still take away.

The splash of cold water slapping his neck stuns him and he stands there frozen, dripping and baffled and very aware that he’s just been punished like a mischievous tooka.

“No, what, Skywalker?” Master Windu repeats.

Spinning on his heel, flushed fever bright despite the cold slap, Anakin meets the dark-eyed challenge and everything crystalizes in one dark and pure moment. Lying helplessly as Mom gasped out and yellow eyes stared down pitilessly. The squeals and taunts of the other padawans because he didn’t speak Basic right. The rising panic of growing too old and losing his skills. The futility and fear as Master Krell stripped away everything he thought he’d achieved until he was afraid to sleep because it was always too late or too early and he was wasting time and he wasn’t good enough and he was embarrassing his master in front of the Chancellor and then when he finally felt safe and he had something good she died and she didn’t leave any plan in place for what should happen to him.

“No, what?” Anakin snarls back. “Why does it matter? It’s not going to make a difference anyways!” The words are hot and venomous and freeing, and he’s going to get thrown out in seconds but he feels alive and empowered and it’s gotta be worth losing every frivolous trinket that wasn’t really his to own.

“And why not?” Master Windu threatens.

It’s all the challenge Anakin needs. “Because I know you’re going to send me away anyways and there’s no point in bothering because I won’t even need a lightsaber and if I did I wouldn’t take one, I’d throw it at your karking head!”

He does just that, but it’s wild and uncoordinated and Master Windu catches it with a bemused expression. Anakin stands his ground, chest heaving and head aching, until Master Windu extinguishes his lightsaber and tucks it away, sweeping forward with dispassionate strides as if he doesn’t see Anakin flinch when he gets too close and herds him back down the hall.

“I told Che I’d get it out of you in one session. She bet me ten credits I was a fool.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Anakin snaps, pattering to keep up with the master’s loping strides. “I know you’re angry, so stop kriffing around and do something about it!” She hit her padawan and then sent him away. I know what happens next. 

“Oh, you’re in trouble,” Master Windu declares, “But don’t flatter me to lose my temper over something petty like a flying blade. Besides, you’re not lying around staring at a wall anymore, are you?”

No. He’s right. Some of the apathy has faded, but the crushing weight remains.

“We’re going to set some new rules for you, Skywalker,” Master Windu declares. “Stuff like talking out loud when you got a problem, and letting go of that smolder you keep inside before it explodes onto everyone around you.”

“And if I don’t?” Anakin snaps, because he hasn’t been told to shut up yet and it’s disorientating not knowing where he stands right now.

“Let’s focus on the part where you hate Form I katas and getting splashed like a fussy nexu, and appreciate the fact that I have more patience than Master Kenobi when it comes to theatrical tantrums,” Master Windu parries. “You can decide if you’d rather talk to me or the mind healers, but we are not leaving this matter unresolved.”

It’s a new form of healing — a push and a shove and a choice of its own — and it leads to many angry duels with Master Windu and ensuing rants as it all spills out; the anger and the uncertainty and the frustration that everyone who cares will leave. Master Windu doesn’t quote the code or rebuke him for his lack of control, but he doesn’t sympathize, either. His favorite retort is “So, what is really the problem?” because Anakin can’t not scramble for an answer and it dredges out deep set fears that no slave should ever reveal.

“Because I always get it wrong.”

“Because I can’t control my own feelings.”

“Because feelings make you weak, and only strong padawans survive.”

He uses proper terms, master and padawan instead of master and slave, and Master Windu looks increasingly befuddled with his answers.

“Why does a Padawan need to be strong, Skywalker?”

“So we don’t humiliate our masters,” Anakin says quietly.

Master Windu looks at the star-painted ceiling with a deep set sigh, as if the heavens will lean down and speak wisdom over the tangled muddle of their conversation. “You really know how to turn the Order inside out,” he gripes. “If it takes me the rest of the war, I’m going to teach you the Jedi Path.”

The rest of the war must end very soon, because Master Windu calls off their lessons three weeks later. There’s a distress call on Geonosis that warrants his attention, and Anakin is left to wander with solo katas and chaperones and a flagging appetite, until Chancellor Palpatine drops a hint and the Jedi Council makes a decision without several of their key members around to object.

“Sending you to Christophsis, we are,” Master Yoda announces. “A Jedi Master, you must have. Familiar you are with Knight Tano? A Padawan learner is what she needs.”

Anakin isn’t safe enough to argue with the whole Council, but he clenches his hands into fists and imagines reinforced durasteel sealing off his battered shields. 

“Something to say have you, young Skywalker?” Master Yoda poses.

“No, Master,” Anakin answers, bowing proper and stiff like a perfect subservient padawan.

“A probationary charge this is,” Master Yoda tells him. “A training bond you will not need. Listen to the Force. It will guide you.”

The Force is turbulent in the Council Room, wicked and sharp and full of shadows. Anakin shuts it out and bows again, hoping they will let him leave before he blurts out what he really thinks. Master Windu isn’t here and no other master will answer insubordination with So, what is really the problem?

He ducks out of the room as soon as he is released and unleashes the tension in his palms with a flurry that rattles the lights and sends a mouse droid scurrying. Good. It should’ve known better than to get in his way.

Stalking down the hall, Anakin fights down a rising panic. Not for the first time he wonders what Ahsoka and Obi-Wan will think of him. The Clones will already associate him as the one who hurt their brother. Ahsoka probably won’t even look at him. 

Anakin wishes he was still small enough to hide under the waterfall, for back then he had no master but at least he had a friend. He’s so tired of proving himself. He’s got to do it one more time; face the Clones and the soldier he hurt and the shadow of Obi-Wan’s hidden fear, and he has to tell himself that it doesn’t matter every time he sees a blaster and knows that he taught the 501st how to kill Master Tiplar.

There’s so much darkness swirling around to choke him that Anakin can’t remember how to bolt down the light that Mom told him to hide. He wonders if he finally extinguished it. 

When Ahsoka is not even twenty-one she is assigned a Padawan. There’s no ceremony or choice or even a chance for her to observe the Initiates while reflecting on her own strengths and inexperience.

The Force teems with anxiety as Anakin stiffly bows and announces himself. He’s changed so much in the last six weeks. (Weeks that feel like years.) There’s a fire in his eyes, bitter and sharp, and a jaggedness to his step like he’s forgotten how his arms and legs work. His navy tunics have been traded for a light cocoa shade, much like Mace’s preferred style. He used to glide in the Force like a soft shadow, but now Ahsoka can feel him like a sharp pin; constantly prodding the edge of her consciousness like a storm seeping into her peripheral vision.

She shakes her head, affronted that they would throw this responsibility on her like she’s a rookie desperate for the chance to be considered a Master. “I’m not training anyone.”

The twitching smile she receives is sardonic and pained. “Master Yoda thought you’d say that. I’m assigned to your battalion until they call me back.”

“Is that so?” Ahsoka knows she can’t refuse a military order, but it doesn’t mean she has to comply with a long-term relationship. “Well, you can tell Master Yoda that you’re assigned to the medic’s tent.”

It’s a childish punt, but the truth is she doesn’t trust Anakin not to go berserk in the front lines if something triggers him like before. A Jedi does not seek revenge, no matter how deep the wound. As if the weight of guilt wasn’t enough, Fives is still getting used to a new set of legs. He’s lost the sparkle in his eyes and that’s not something Ahsoka can quickly forgive.

Besides, Commander Doom did say Anakin could pull as neat a row of stitches as any of their medics. Kix could use the extra help.

Anakin’s smirk is practically feral. “Pretty sure it’s your job to communicate with the Council, General Tano.”

Oh, these next few weeks are going to be insufferable. Obi-Wan is going to hear about it the first chance she gets.

The distant, melancholic echo that Ahsoka buries deep can’t help but remember the boy who hid himself in the lake because the world was too loud, who shared his sweets and kept her secrets and put pebbles in Obi-Wan’s boots. The kind of friend she might have enjoyed getting to know better; maybe even passing down the wisdom she learned from her own Master.

Whatever happened to him?

When Anakin is dismissed to the medical tent (with the mental note of disgruntlement that Ahsoka might have been insecure and kinder for it, but General Tano turns threats into reality), he keeps his eyes down lest the sight of blue stripes pulls him back to that day when he realized that no one was safe from betrayal.

He hears helmet-filtered murmurs and can’t stop the flush that burns his cheeks. Master Tiplar’s troops were wary when he started picking out bits and pieces of their familial language, but once he earned his armor they started including him with growing enthusiasm. Now he wishes he could tune it out.

He doesn’t need their sympathy.

Ducking into the medical tent, Anakin does a mental shake off and asks himself Master Windu’s favorite catch phrase. So what’s really the problem?

The problem is he’s still raw and aching and he wants to find that blaster and shoot every blue trooper in the head before they kill someone else.

But. That’s not the Jedi way.

“Well, look what the tooka dragged in.”

Anakin relaxes marginally at the familiar tone, safe for a flickering moment, but when he looks up it’s the 501st medic and not Needles sorting the most recent shipment. Right. New assignment, new commanders. Only this time he’s operating with the same medic who patched up an impromptu lightsaber amputation. Anakin steels his face and tries for nonchalance, fervently hoping that nobody hears the crackle when his voice drops a full tone halfway through. (They said his voice would probably finish changing after the first couple years, and he still sounds like a broken flute.)

“General Tano told me to report to you.”

Kix gives a pensive sigh, jotting a note in his datapad. “She did, did she? Nice of her to give me prior notice.”

“Look, I don’t make the rules,” Anakin snaps. “If there’s a problem you can tell her yourself — I’m nobody’s messenger droid.”

It’s not unusual ground — two slaves fighting for command, but he’s never challenged the Clones before and he doesn’t know their territory. That’s his first mistake.

Kix quirks a solitary eyebrow and lays it straight. “First of all, this is my infirmary and that means I make the rules. I suggest you wise up fast or request reassignment to cleanup duty.

“Second,” he says before Anakin can breathe, “The Jedi Council backed Queen Amidala’s proposal and voted to withdraw all military support if the chips weren’t deactivated and removed — which had an astonishingly unified response from the Queen’s fanbase, I daresay — so all of us are now here on a voluntary basis. I know you’re new to this, but I’m telling you now: we answer to rank and experience, so unless you’ve got those on your docket I suggest you revise your aspirations and make yourself useful.”

The room takes a moment to settle properly, and all of Anakin’s fight drains with it. “You got your chip removed?” he breathes.

“Uh huh.”

“A-All of you?” Millions of Clones indentured to the Republic with no base value except a body count, and they released every single one. “You’re… you’re free?”

Shrugging uncomfortably, Kix grunts, “If that’s how you want to call it.”

Oh.

Clearing his throat, Anakin drifts to the supply shelves and stares, hoping that the labels will stop spinning long enough for him to catch his bearings. “So what do you want me to do?”

He knows his place.

“I was going to choose my own Padawan when I felt the time was right! They’re treating me like a child! What about Tiplee? Tiplee trained with him. Where is she when the Council starts handing out apprentices?”

“I am concerned that the Council sent him here.” Obi-Wan is gracious enough to let her rant, as always, and Ahsoka can rely on him to find the heart of her worry. “Losing someone to war is difficult enough without being assigned to the same division that caused the rift.”

“I know!” Ahsoka exclaims. “And Fives was just starting to get back to himself. You know how he buries himself in guilt; the last thing he needs is to see the evidence every karking day.”

“I don’t like that the Chancellor was involved,” Obi-Wan considers. “The Senate has no business making decisions for the Order.”

“This is because of the Freedom Movement, isn’t it?” Ahsoka snarls. “Palpatine lost his “grand army” because we chose sides, so now he’s foisting a castoff on me to —“

“Ahsoka, that isn’t fair!”

“You can sense it too, Obi-Wan!” Ahsoka’s montrails quiver, her frustration and disappointment recoiling off her former Master’s calm approach. “He shouldn’t even be here. He’s insubordinate, he clearly won’t listen to me, the Force is swarming with negativity —”

“I was no better off when I lost Qui-Gon,” Obi-Wan rebukes her softly.

“But why is he here?” Ahsoka snaps. “Give him to Plo! Let someone with experience take care of him! This is the worst place and the worst possible timing and I don’t have time to deal with the Council’s charades!”

The shuffling of evening chores outside their tent pauses and then deliberately resumes. It’s hardly like a tent can offer them any privacy. Hugging herself, Ahsoka admits softly, “We’re the last people who can help him, Obi-Wan.”

“Perhaps you’re right.” There is only gentleness in Obi-Wan’s approach, but Ahsoka slaps away his comforting hand lest she crumple or scream or stab something. “Perhaps someone else should step in. I wasn’t there when Master Tiplar died, and my troops will not be associated with the situation. I should be the one to train him.”

“Yeah, well, we can’t all have what we want,” Ahsoka mutters.

“I mean it, Ahsoka.” Obi-Wan mimics her stance, leaning back against the table with folded arms in quiet solidarity, like he did when she used to scrub her arms raw from pockmarked needle scars after Zen Arbor’s experiments. “I was already thinking about taking on another Padawan. I’m familiar with Anakin’s history and I’m prepared to commit to his training, just like I did for you.”

“Wait, you — you actually mean that?” Ahsoka realizes, a rush of conflicting emotions chasing through her thoughts. Relief, uncertainty, defiance, failure. If she accepts the offer, it will be like surrendering before firing a shot. But if she holds her stance and it doesn’t work out…

No. That wouldn’t be fair to either of them.

“I think… that would be better for both parties,” she admits. “But I don’t want to —”

“It’s not a burden, Ahsoka,” Obi-Wan reassures her without hesitation. “Tiplar was well loved by the Order. It would be my honor to finish what she started.”

Ahsoka smiles tentatively and squashes the anxious flutter in her chest. It’s not wrong to pass on a responsibility that she’s not equipped for. Obi-Wan has the experience and compassion to guide Anakin back onto the Jedi path, and she’s both grateful and relieved.

Even if the overthinking part of her brain tells her that she is refusing herself the chance to learn and grow from someone who is very like herself.

When Obi-Wan proposes the solution to Anakin, the orphaned Padawan drops a jar of bacta salve and looks at Ahsoka with a flash of panic that he instantly smothers with insubordination.

“You said I would be helping Kix!”

“And I see you’re doing your job very well,” Obi-Wan praises him, clearly flummoxed by the rebuke. “I just thought that perhaps —“

“You and Obi-Wan got along so well when he hurt his arm,” Ahsoka interjects, hoping a flash of memory will soothe the boy’s ruffled pride. “We want to give you the chance to make that decision yourself.” Instead of the Council throwing him into an apprenticeship like an abandoned kit who needs a good home.

A conflicted look twists Anakin’s expression before it shutters down. “My choice,” he says cautiously.

“I won’t force any decision on you,” Obi-Wan affirms. “But I would be pleased to finish your training, if that is what you would like.”

Anakin doesn’t move, but there’s a twitch of eye movement and a probe in the Force like he’s assessing everything in the medical tent from every angle all at once. “Then I choose to stay here.”

Oh. That isn’t — that’s not at all possible, Ahsoka can’t even think of what it means to put a braid on —

“Kix showed me what to do,” Anakin states, giving her a firm glare. “I know this is a temporary assignment anyways, so. I choose to stay here.”

“As a medic?” Ahsoka blurts out. It’s a preposterous choice, she’s not even sure if he’s trained in Force healing and he was a commander before, so why limit himself to bandages and bacta? “But why?”

“What’s… really the problem?” Anakin asks, wavering on the question. 

“There isn’t one,” Obi-Wan hastily interjects, equal perplexity drifting through the lingering Master-Padawan bond. “We just thought that you would like to continue your training.”

“But I don’t.” The answer is soft but determined. “Kix gave me a job. If it’s my decision, then I choose to stay here.”

“That’s… perfectly fine,” Obi-Wan says. His stance is relaxed, but the Force teems around him with unanswered questions. “I’ll communicate your request to the Council, then. If you should… ever change your mind… you know how to reach me.”

“I’m staying here,” Anakin says in a small voice, tucking in his chin like a brick wall. 

There’s no reasoning with obstinacy. Ahsoka shrugs at Kix, who’s watching the exchange with subtle concern, and nods to Obi-Wan that they might as well leave.

“That did not go as I expected,” Obi-Wan admits.

“He just lost his Master and he’s been thrown back into the battlefield,” Ahsoka guesses. “Of course he’s not ready for another bond.”

“I understand he never bonded with Tiplar,” Obi-Wan corrects her. “There’s something else he’s not telling us. I have a bad feeling about this.”

Ahsoka nods. The Force is increasingly shadowed when she meditates, until sometimes she can’t even find Obi-Wan’s light across the battlefield. How is she supposed to sense what Anakin needs when he‘s standing in front of her and she can’t feel anything but fear?

Once the masters leave, Kix helps Anakin clean up the glass and slaps a bacta patch onto his sliced finger. “You’re really going all in?” he establishes. “You want to be a healer?”

“They said I could choose,” Anakin declares mulishly. “I want to stay here.”

“I’ll have dig up a few databases,” Kix grunts. “If you’re going to be my assistant you need to know the finer points of medicine. It’s not going to be as easy as smearing on a little bacta.”

“I know, Needles taught me,” Anakin verifies. Here in the medical tent, surrounded by Clones and far away from the glaring lights of Jedi entrenched in the Force, it’s a little easier to find that quiet spot where he can forget how he feels. He can hide away.

“It won’t be any better than the battlefield,” Kix warns him. “You’re going to have to move fast. Soldiers will die and you can’t stop it.”

Soldiers collapsed when he was on the battlefield. Master Tiplar was shot in the head. He couldn’t stop it then.

“Where do you want me to start?” Anakin asks.

He gets a funny look, but Kix runs him through the supply kits a second time even though he’d memorized it the first. He talks slower, as if he expects Anakin to forget everything when chaos hits. He doesn’t believe that Anakin can do this. He doesn’t understand what it means.

The Jedi masters are growing tired of passing around an unwanted padawan. Anakin needs this chance. The chance to prove himself and stay with a free squadron and be something.

Because if Padme made it law to free the Clones, he has a better chance of earning his freedom staying here. All he needs is for them to realize that they need his help more than the Jedi, and then they’ll have to make a bid. He can do this. He can make himself a prize which they can’t afford to lose.

He just has to prove he’s good enough before the Jedi get antsy and take him back. He only has two weeks before he’s fourteen.

Maybe they’ll at least decide he can serve better in the war zone than in agricorps.

“I need to talk with him.”

“You didn’t know what you were doing. It’s not your fault.”

“You don’t get it! I knew what I was doing when I put that bolt in her head. I saw how the kid reacted. I have to talk to him.”

Ahsoka can’t convince Fives to lay off blaming himself, but it’s her responsibility to try. “You had a chip in your head telling you that the Jedi were the enemy. Any one of your brothers could have done the same thing.”

“But I was the one who did it,” Fives insists. “I was fully cognizant of the moment and I will carry that knowledge for the rest of my life. I need to tell the kid that I’m sorry, even if we both know it won’t fix a kriffing thing.”

Ahsoka gives in because she can’t convince him otherwise, and she hovers at the medtent entrance when Fives shuffles inside.

It goes as well as Ahsoka expects.

Which is to say, the Force has a panicking hiccup and Anakin deliberately does not fall apart.

“I’m sorry.” He’s the first to apologize, stark blue eyes flickering from Fives’ cybernetic legs to his face to Kix and back to the datapad in his trembling hands. “I wasn’t aware of myself. I hurt you. I can’t fix it.”

Fives visibly loses his planned speech. He searches Kix uncomfortably, but the medic only shrugs. Taking a deep breath, Fives tries a second take.

“I’m the one who needs to apologize. There was an error in my — in the coding, but it’s no excuse. I’m sorry for what happened. If I could go back and keep myself from going into that battle I would. I can’t fix what happened, and I’m not asking for forgiveness, but I am… myself now, and I swear that I will protect you.”

The words are deep and heartfelt and do nothing to touch the bland dismissal in hard blue eyes. Anakin shrugs one shoulder as though shaking off the uncomfortable moment.

“The Jedi protect free beings. It’s our — I won’t hurt you again.”

“It’s all right,” Fives says, looking to Ahsoka to salvage the moment. “I forgive you. You weren’t yourself at the time.”

Consternation gives the orphaned Padawan pause, before revelation stills his twitching fingers. “You said you were also… not yourself,” he says slowly. “Because of the chip.”

“We all had one,” Kix says, hastening to abbreviate lest someone let slip exactly what Order 66 entailed. “Now that they’re gone, we won’t have any more mistakes.”

“Can these mistakes… happen to a Jedi?” Anakin asks slowly.

“We don’t have chips.” Ahsoka’s answer is neat and precise and it drains Anakin’s face of color. 

“Oh.”

The Force does a funny flip-flop and abruptly shuts down.

Little kriffing acklay found his shields after all.

“I’m worried about —“

Ahsoka and Obi-Wan say it simultaneously with completely different inflections. 

“Anakin —“

“The Council —“

“Go on —“

“You go first —“

“Please,” Ahsoka insists.

Obi-Wan is as tightly wound as a converter coil, needling Ahsoka’s attempt to balance herself. He paces, arms folded stiffly, his soft voice tumultuous. “The Council wishes for Anakin to return. Master Windu will complete his training.”

“Well, that’s….” Optimistic? Prudent? Mace created his own lightsaber form, so of course he would be suitable for Anakin’s skill level. “… unexpected.”

“It’s not appropriate,” Obi-Wan insists. “They can’t send him here without a bond and then recall him not even a week later. He has no stability or say in the matter —”

“Sounds like their first page on Kidnapping Force-Sensitives 101,” Ahsoka mutters.

“— And there’s no explanation why they assigned him here in the first place. Something is wrong here, Ahsoka.”

“So… do we keep him?” Ahsoka’s proposal is only half cheek, and Obi-Wan is startled enough that he walks smack into the holotable. “I mean, the Council is all the way over on Coruscant. We could just… not get their message.”

“Ahsoka.”

“Look, we’ll take him back with us when we regroup,” Ahsoka reasons. “Or maybe Mace will get bored and swing by himself. Did they give us a deadline?”

“You know very well that the Council… did not,” Obi-Wan acknowledges, distress melting into cynical collaboration. “And we are very far from Coruscant.”

“And we are in need of another medic,” Ahsoka adds.

“Don’t push it,” Obi-Wan mutters. “I think it unwise, however, for Anakin to return unaccompanied. There’s much he can learn from two Jedi Masters while he is here.”

“Oh, goody,” Ahsoka hums, realizing that she’s basically signed herself up for one Class A broody apprentice. “So, when is Mace coming to get him?”

Anakin is disturbingly compliant when he receives the news. Whatever Force shields he lost are now clinched so tightly that even though Ahsoka is looking right at him she could almost believe he’s already left the planet.

“I will be trained,” he establishes. “And I will be fighting with the Jedi.”

“Not on the front lines,” Ahsoka interjects. No way is she taking that risk. “You’ll still help Kix, but Obi-Wan and I will teach you until we all return to the Temple.”

A nod, a twitch of the lower lip, and those cold eyes go a little deader. “Yes, Master.”

Curling her fingers into claws, Ahsoka agitatedly beckons for Obi-Wan to follow her out of the tent. What did I say wrong this time?

Anakin makes sure he speaks first so that Kix can’t distract him. So that he doesn’t lose the words that he needs the Free Clone to understand. Before Kix can voice his puzzlement Anakin announces, “I need to know if the chip has a contingency in case it happens again.”

With a defeated sigh, Kix repeats, “Kid, we all had them remov—“

“I need to know that if something happens to me, nobody’s going to die.”

“Nothing is going to happen to you,” Kix insists. “I know it’s hard to believe after what —“

“I need you to tell me that if something goes wrong I won’t kill anyone.” The admission sparks Anakin’s eyes hot and bright, because he knows what a contingency is and it’s usually flashy and short-lived, and he can’t believe he’s giving them permission to trigger the detonator but the alternative is too terrible to consider. He could kill Obi-Wan. Ahsoka. Doom. He wouldn’t even be able to stop himself.

“What.” Wariness deepens Kix’s tone and brings on its own metamorphic storm. “Are you saying.”

“If my…” he’s trying to keep a straight face, he’s trying, “… If my chip goes — wrong — I need — I need someone to detonate it, I don’t want —“

“Kid.” Kix goes white, a roll of bandages falling from his hand to trail across the dirt floor, like the metaphor of every good thing that’s ever come into Anakin’s life. He can’t lose this again. He can’t control it, so they’ll have to do it for him.

“You have to promise!” Anakin’s skin is hot and too tight and he doesn’t know when Kix got there, pale and shouting for someone to get the Jedi and gripping Anakin’s shoulders until it hurts, but he can’t stop now or he’ll lose the words in silence and panic all over again, and Master Windu isn’t around to stop the noise this time.

“You have to stop me!” he implores, tearing at the hands that try to pull him close, to trap him, to quench the Force like they did on the battlefield when he couldn’t move but he could still breathe and every heartbeat screamed that he was aloneemptybetrayed. “I can’t — I won’t kill them! You have to promise you’ll detonate it if there’s no other choice!”

“What detonator?” Kix demands. “Kid, you don’t have a chip, General Tano already said —“

“They never took it out!” He’s screaming and clawing, as rabid as the day he was plucked from Tatooine with one arm and an empty soul, and all of his disappointments have led up to this.

The Jedi are not slaves.

The Clones are free.

And he is still a monster waiting to be unleashed.

“What happened?” Master Kenobi’s voice breaks into the haze, soothing and full of irritating reason, and the panic balks at such unnatural calm. It flares in Anakin’s head, agitated and furious, and he flings out with the only weapon he knows.

The medical tent implodes, crates scattering and glass shattering, fabric fluttering on the cyclone of his fear. They can’t — they’re going to take him back and he’ll be locked away because they don’t know what to do with him and he doesn’t even know what they want anymore because he’s not one of many, he’s the only slave and they’re not going to kill him or fix him so what do they want what do they want what do they —

“Just do it!”

“Ahsoka, that’s inhumane!”

“Trust me!”

He’s plucked up from behind, Obi-Wan’s hands and the Force strangling his struggles, and he kicks and claws and shrieks before he’s slapped down into lukewarm wetness that swamps his voice and fills his ears and takes away the —

Silence.

Everything is quiet. 

There’s movement outside the glass box; muffed colors and distorted images that are almost like a dream. He trails his fingers along the glass (gooey, soothing, wet — bacta), and he feels like he could lose himself in the stillness.

The Force settles like an exhausted parent who’s finally put a toddler to sleep.

He has to breathe, lunging up for the terrible seconds of reentry into the real world, but the bacta in his ears muffles everything so that the voice next to him is just a drone.

“It’s okay. It’s okay, I’m here. Let me help you.”

Something is pressed to his face — breathing mask — and he lets sleek orange fingers strap it on before ducking under again. (The hissing sound feels prophetic but he quickly loses that under the surface.) Movement is disjointed by the bacta as shades of orange, blue and cream settle down beside the bacta tank and a hand presses against the glass. Anakin finds himself tracing it absent-mindedly, fascinated with the breath of contact when he feels nothing at all, and he lets himself go blank.

There’s a light coming from Ahsoka, soft and bright and welcoming, and he wishes he could find his own so that they could share together. He thinks… maybe… if she gave him another chance… he would accept her braid after all.

He lets himself pretend that it’s all true. He can have this moment at least. This perfect gleam of belonging. For an instant he feels a spark inside of himself. Something he thought had died.

He wonders if she feels it, too.

Ahsoka is furious. The took a child — a child with a slave chip in his head — and put him in the warfront where he thought it was his duty to fight and possibly die for the Jedi.

“The Council couldn’t have known,” Obi-Wan tells her. “It’s not something we scan for. They would have deactivated it at the very least, and now we have the technology to remove it safely.”

Anakin’s fingers are pressed to the glass against her hand, blue eyes still and blank, like he’s far away and dreaming of something better than this unspoken tragedy. There’s a twinkle of light buried deep — a laughter that would brighten the stars if it was only unleashed — and the savage part of Ahsoka’s ancestry gnashes out, Mine. The Council wants to take him back — well, joke’s on them, because they assigned Anakin to her and she’s keeping him. She’s keeping this misunderstood, tortured boy who hasn’t changed at all since the days under the waterfall, who craves silence and has been trained all his life to follow the nearest command.

Kix will see to the chip’s removal, and then it will be Anakin’s choice, whatever comes next. But Ahsoka won’t let him out of her sight again.

“Ahsoka, are you even listening to me?” Obi-Wan sighs.

“I’m going to train him.” There’s little consideration for whether Anakin wants it or not — she knows from the press of his hand, the peace of the water and his secrets that are hers to keep — that this was always meant to be. In whatever time or life, she was always meant to find him. 

“Ahsoka….”

“I know. It will have to be his choice. We can’t force this on him again.” But he will choose her. She’s certain of it. “I’m ready for this, Obi-Wan.”

She was ready from the day she saw him duck under the waterfall to escape the world. She just didn’t understand it then.

“But is he ready?” Obi-Wan chides gently.

There’s a shift in the Force, subtle and sighing; a longing that sparks Ahsoka’s soul. Like she already belonged with Anakin in some other life and the Force was waiting for them to find each other again.

“It’s his choice,” she repeats, because that’s the right thing to do.

She already knows it’s time.

“You will not be sent away,” Master Windu tells him. They’ve reassured him of this multiple times in the last few months, but they say it publicly to make a point. He is now a free being, allowed to choose his own path, and he will not be rejected simply because he is too old to be chosen a fourth time. “There are several Jedi Masters who are willing to train you. It is your choice whom you will accept.”

There is hope in Master Windu’s spirit. He wants to be the one. There’s kinship and patience and understanding. But he will always be there when Anakin needs him, and he knows that in the years to come he can trust the sternest face on the Council to break down his consternation with a question and a wise retort.

There is acceptance with Master Mundi, that he will listen this time, and accept what will not be. He once allowed fear to speak his path, but he will still walk beside this shattered youngling and teach him the way of light.

There is sadness with Master Tiplee. She stands by to support him, but she is still hollow inside. She will accept him, but it will always be the question of obligation or free will. They can never weave together like stars in the brightness of the Force.

There is anticipation with Obi-Wan, although the Jedi has squashed it as a fool’s hope. His spirit sings and Anakin wants to join with it, to dance with him like winter meeting the first spring thaw. But Anakin will not be his first Padawan, and he cannot live up to Ahsoka’s brightness. Maybe in another life they could have shared this moment. For now, Obi-Wan’s expertise as a Grandmaster will have to be enough.

“I have already made my choice, Masters,” Anakin says.

Ahsoka gleams behind him, inexperienced and unsure and determined to do her best, and he knows he is safe with her. Ever since the chip was discovered she has scarcely left his side, smuggling him sweets and tugging his clawed fingers out of his hair and humming a lullaby he used to sing to himself when the stars were bright and cold and he missed his mother’s voice. Ahsoka is young, and they ought to be friends and not Master and Padawan, but she knows him better than he knows himself and they can still grow and learn together. With her at his side….

He feels like he could shine.