Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The first thing I noticed was the smell—hot metal, sand, and something faintly sweet. It wasn’t the sterile tang of a Star Destroyer or the damp, lifeless air of the Emperor’s throne room. No. This was home. Home from so long ago, it almost didn’t feel real.

I cracked my eyes open, expecting the hazy reds of Mustafar or the cold greys of some Imperial corridor. Instead, sunlight streamed through a small, dust-covered window, casting stripes across a rough, uneven ceiling. The sound of a market chattering beyond the walls pulled me fully awake.

My heart hammered in my chest, too fast, too young. My body felt different—lighter, smaller. Too small. I sat up so quickly I almost fell out of the cot. My feet barely touched the ground. I looked down at my hands—too soft, too smooth. No scars, no burns. No black gloves hiding mechanical fingers.

"Banthas take it," I muttered, my voice catching me off guard. It was high and thin. A kid’s voice. My voice. From before.

I stumbled to my feet, the cot creaking under the shift. The room wasn’t much—bare walls, a rickety workbench shoved against the far side, covered in half-built droid parts. My old workspace. I recognized every chipped edge and rusted tool. My head spun. The weight of two lifetimes slammed into me like a runaway podracer.

Memories flashed—of fixing a broken protocol droid, of welding scrap together to build a pod, of... choking a man with the Force. My stomach twisted. I pressed a hand against the bench to steady myself. This wasn’t possible. This couldn’t be possible.

"Okay," I said aloud, trying to make sense of the madness in my head. My voice trembled, though I tried to make it sound steady. "You’re... you’re eight. Again. Great."

I pushed off the workbench and took a step, legs wobbling like I hadn’t walked in years. The floor was gritty under my bare feet. I made it to the small mirror hanging crooked on the wall. My reflection stared back—bright blue eyes too wide, sandy blonde hair sticking up in all directions, a face that hadn’t seen war or felt the heat of a lightsaber blade. A face full of innocence.

Except I wasn’t innocent anymore.

My chest felt tight. I balled my fists, trying to focus, to ground myself. The Force buzzed around me, sharp and clear, free of the suffocating darkness I’d grown so used to. But there was something else—like a crack running through me, where the light and dark couldn’t quite settle. Guilt and hope fought for space in my head.

I heard the door creak open behind me and spun around so fast I nearly tripped over my too-small feet. A familiar voice broke the silence.

“Anakin? You awake? We’ve got to—whoa.” My mother stopped in the doorway, one hand holding a small basket of fruit, the other raised mid-gesture. Her eyes scanned me, head to toe, and I realized how ridiculous I must’ve looked—standing in the middle of the room, barefoot, staring at her like she was a ghost.

“Uh, yeah,” I managed, scratching the back of my neck. My hand froze mid-scratch. It hit me—she’s alive. Shmi Skywalker. My mother. The one person I’d failed above all others. I swallowed hard, suddenly unable to meet her gaze. “I’m awake.”

She tilted her head, a small smile playing on her lips, but her brow creased with worry. “You okay, Ani? You look like you’ve seen a womp rat with two heads.”

“Just—uh—dreams,” I said quickly, waving a hand like it didn’t matter. My voice cracked. I cleared my throat, trying again. “Weird dreams. That’s all.”

“Hmm,” she said, stepping fully into the room. The basket hit the table with a soft thud. “You’ve always had a wild imagination. Maybe too wild.”

I forced a laugh. It sounded hollow to my own ears. My mother’s hands busied themselves sorting the fruit, but her eyes kept darting to me, sharp and knowing. She always saw more than I wanted her to.

I grabbed a small hydrospanner from the workbench, just to give my hands something to do. I spun it between my fingers, letting the motion ground me. “So, uh, what’s the plan today? Need me to fix something? Or are we working on the pod?”

She narrowed her eyes, leaning on the table. “You sure you’re okay? You’re acting... strange.”

I froze. For a split second, I considered telling her everything. About Vader. About Luke. About how I’d ruined everything and everyone I’d ever cared about. But what was the point? What could she even do?

I forced a grin instead, hoping it looked natural. “You know me, umi. My dreams keep me up at night sometimes. They can be scary.”

“That they can be,” she frowned, before smiling softly. “But since when has anything scared you, Ani?”

The words hit me harder than they should’ve. My grin faltered, and I ducked my head, pretending to examine the hydrospanner. “Since now, I guess.”

Shmi sighed, brushing her hands on her skirt before crossing the room. She crouched in front of me, her hands gentle but firm as they rested on my shoulders. “Listen to me. Whatever’s bothering you, you don’t have to carry it alone, all right?”

I nodded, biting back the lump rising in my throat. She pulled me into a hug, and I froze for a moment before melting into it. Her warmth, her steady heartbeat—it was too much. Too good. Too real.

When she pulled back, she ruffled my hair. “Now, go wash up. The galaxy won’t wait for you, and neither will Watto.”

As she left the room, I sank back against the workbench, the hydrospanner slipping from my hand. My fingers pressed against my temples as I tried to process the impossible. The galaxy might not wait for me, but it would have to. I had no idea what I was supposed to do—fix my mistakes, change the future, or just survive another day as a kid who already knew too much.

I sat there for a while, gripping the edge of the workbench like it might keep me from falling into the mess of emotions swirling inside me. My mother was alive. Alive. Every memory of her—the soft way she said my name, the quiet strength she carried even in the face of slavery—was vivid, sharp as a lightsaber. But so were the memories of her dying in my arms, her voice breaking as she tried to say my name one last time. The thought sent a shiver crawling up my spine.

I clenched my fists, breathing hard through my nose. I couldn’t let that happen again. Not this time. This was a second chance. Somehow, some way, the galaxy had given me one impossible chance to make things right. And I wasn’t going to waste it.

The door banged open, snapping me out of my spiral. I flinched so hard I nearly knocked a box of bolts off the workbench.

“Oi, Ani! What’re you doing, staring at the wall?” Kitster’s voice was loud enough to wake the dead, and just as annoying as I remembered. He strolled in, grinning like he owned the place, and slapped a grimy hand onto my shoulder. “We’ve got a pod to fix, or did you forget?”

“Good to see you too, Kitster,” I said, rolling my eyes and brushing his hand off. The familiar sass bubbled up without thinking, a relief compared to the crushing guilt from a moment ago.

“Don’t start with that tone,” Kitster shot back, crossing his arms and leaning against the doorframe. “Watto’s already grumpy, and I don’t feel like dealing with him because you decided to play hooky.”

I turned back to the workbench, snatching a wrench and pretending to examine it. “Relax, I’m not playing hooky. I just got... distracted.”

Kitster snorted. “Distracted by what? This junk pile? I know you love your scrap, but even you need to get out once in a while.”

I smirked, spinning the wrench in my hand before setting it down with a sharp clink. “Funny. I was distracted by thinking. You should try it sometime.”

“Oh, thinking. Big word for you,” he quipped, but there was no bite to it. Just Kitster being Kitster, all snark and sunshine. His grin softened, though, as he studied me more closely. “Seriously, you okay? You look... I dunno. Different.”

I froze for half a second, then forced a shrug. “Yeah, I’m fine. Just had a weird morning.”

Kitster didn’t look convinced, but before he could press me, my mom’s voice called from the other room. “Ani! Are you going to help Kitster or make him wait all day?”

“I’m coming!” I shouted back, grabbing a rag to wipe the grease off my hands. Not that it needed doing, but it gave me something to focus on. I avoided Kitster’s gaze as I moved to the doorway, tossing the rag onto the workbench. “Come on, we’ve got a pod to fix.”

He followed, though not before muttering, “Weird morning, huh? Try weird Anakin.”

The suns outside hit me like a slap. Bright, hot, and blinding. I blinked rapidly, adjusting to the light, while the chaotic hum of Mos Espa buzzed in the background. Shouts from merchants haggling, the screech of some kind of beast of burden—I could even smell roasted meat from one of the food stalls nearby. For a split second, I just stood there, taking it all in. It was noisy, messy, and everything I remembered from growing up here. I hated it. I loved it. My head was a mess.

Kitster nudged me in the ribs. “You’re spacing out again.”

“Maybe you’re just too impatient,” I shot back, striding forward before he could get another jab in. My feet kicked up little clouds of sand with every step, and I could feel the grit between my toes. Familiar, annoying. Somehow comforting.

We wound our way through the cluttered yard toward the pod. My pod. It sat under a makeshift tarp that barely kept the sand off, gleaming faintly despite the grime. Seeing it again sent a rush of nostalgia straight through me. I reached out and ran my hand along the engine casing, fingers brushing over the dents and scratches like they were old friends.

“Still think it’s gonna hold together?” Kitster asked, crouching beside one of the engines and poking at a loose wire. He didn’t even wait for my answer before muttering, “This thing’s a death trap. Will we even make it in time for this year’s Boonta’s Eve?”

“It’s not a death trap. It’s precision-engineered chaos. There’s a difference.” I said automatically, crouching beside him and batting his hand away. “And we will make it in time to compete!”

I thought about the original timeline, in which I was less knowledgeable and had less experience in mechanics. In that timeline, we did not manage to finish the pod until the following year. However, this time, I had decades of technological revolutionary breakthroughs. I knew how to make the most of the few scraps we could get our hands on.

“Sure, Ani,” he said, rolling his eyes. “Tell that to the guy who ends up as a smear on the canyon walls.”

I grinned, grabbing the wire and twisting it into place. “That guy won’t be me.”

“Big words for a little kid,” he muttered, but there was no real heat to it. We fell into a familiar rhythm, bickering and working, our hands moving over the pod like it was second nature. But even as we worked, the weight of everything pressed at the edges of my mind. My mother. The future. The fact that, for all my memories and regrets, I was still just a kid in a galaxy that had chewed me up and spat me out once already.

But not this time. This time, I’d do better. For her. For me. For all the things I’d broken the first time around.

“Hey,” Kitster said suddenly, breaking me out of my thoughts. He was holding up a burnt-out power converter, his brow furrowed. “This thing’s fried. You got a spare?”

I snatched it from him and studied it, frowning. “No, but Watto might. Or we can cobble something together.”

Kitster groaned. “Great. More scavenging. My favorite.”

I smirked, tossing the converter back to him. “Come on, Kitster. Where’s your sense of adventure?”

He grumbled something under his breath but followed as I headed toward Watto’s shop. The suns beat down overhead, the sand crunched underfoot, and for the first time in what felt like forever, I let myself smile. It was small, fleeting, but it was there.

Because no matter how heavy the past felt, I had a second chance. And I wasn’t going to waste it.

By the time Kitster and I got back to the yard, the suns were higher in the sky, baking the sand and making the air shimmer like a mirage. It was the kind of heat that clung to your skin, the kind I hadn’t felt in years. I squinted against the glare and wiped the sweat from my forehead with the back of my hand. Kitster, as usual, was full of complaints.

“This place is a furnace,” he grumbled, kicking at a rock. “We should be swimming at the oasis, not roasting out here like meat on a spit.”

“Then go swimming,” I said without looking at him. I leaned against the pod’s engine, inspecting the converter we’d stolen from Watto. It wasn’t the best—we could only take those things he would not notice or care missing—but it’d do for now. “I’m not stopping you.”

“Yeah, right.” He flopped onto the ground with all the grace of a bantha, crossing his arms and glaring up at me. “You’d just mess something up without me.”

I smirked, glancing down at him. “You keep telling yourself that, Kitster.”

He was about to fire back, but we both turned at the sound of a familiar voice. “Hey! Ani! Kitster! What are you doing?”

I looked up to see Amee bounding toward us, her loose tunic flapping in the wind. Behind her trailed Wald, his tiny Rodian legs struggling to keep up, and Seek, who was tossing a ball up and down with an air of disinterest. Amee had a way of pulling everyone along with her, whether they wanted to follow or not.

“Working,” I called back, holding up the converter like it was a trophy. “What does it look like?”

“It looks boring,” Amee shot back as she skidded to a stop in front of me, hands on her hips. “You’re always working. Don’t you ever take a break?”

“Not when I’ve got a race to win,” I said, setting the converter down carefully.

Wald huffed, flopping down next to Kitster. “You mean a race to crash.”

“Thanks for the vote of confidence,” I said dryly, wiping my hands on my already-dirty tunic.

Seek finally wandered over, still tossing the ball. “Why don’t you play with us for once? You’re no fun when you’re always stuck under that hunk of junk.”

I hesitated, glancing between the pod and my friends. The logical part of me—the part shaped by years as Vader—wanted to stay focused, to keep working, to prove that this time I could do everything right. But then Amee grabbed my hand, tugging hard enough to make me stumble.

“Come on, Ani,” she whined. “It’ll only be a little while.”

Her grip was warm and insistent, and before I could stop myself, I was grinning. “Fine,” I said, throwing my hands up in mock defeat. “But if I win, you all owe me credits. Or sweets. Your pick.”

“That’s a big if,” Seek said with a smirk, chucking the ball straight at me. I caught it on reflex, the Force guiding my hand before I could even think about it. The weight of the ball was oddly grounding, pulling me out of my own head.

“All right,” I said, tossing it back to him with a little extra spin. “Let’s see what you’ve got.”

The game started off like it always did—chaos. Amee and Kitster were yelling at each other over who was cheating (spoiler: it was both of them), Wald kept tripping over his own feet and Seek was way too smug about being faster than everyone else. I found myself falling into the rhythm of it easily, my body moving without hesitation, my laughter mixing with theirs like it had never been gone.

But then there were moments—brief, sharp moments—where the duality hit me. Like when I caught the ball mid-air and tossed it to Amee, only to hear her laugh and feel a pang of sadness so deep it stole my breath. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d heard laughter like that—pure, carefree. It wasn’t something the Empire left room for.

“Earth to Ani!” Kitster yelled, waving his arms in front of my face. “What’re you doing, daydreaming? We’re losing, thanks to you.”

I blinked, shaking my head like I could physically clear the memories away. “I’m not daydreaming,” I shot back, snatching the ball from his hands. “You’re just slow.”

“Oh, you’re asking for it now,” Kitster said, lunging for me, but I dodged easily, taking off at a sprint.

The heat was unbearable, the sand got everywhere, and my tunic stuck to my back like a second skin. But for the first time in a long time, I felt like a kid again. Like maybe I wasn’t carrying the weight of two lifetimes.

Still, it didn’t last. As the game wound down, the laughter faded, replaced by the buzz of the market and the distant roar of a podracer engine being tested. I found myself sitting on a crate near the pod, watching the others argue over who had really won. (Spoiler: it was me, but good luck convincing them of that.)

I took a moment to myself. I closed my eyes and took a deep breath. My fingers traced patterns in the sand, the lines crisscrossing like hyperspace lanes. The Force was everywhere, and for the first time in what felt like forever, it wasn’t suffocating me. It wasn’t cold and sharp, twisting like a knife in my gut. It wasn’t screaming for control or clawing at my thoughts. It was... light. Warm. Gentle, even. It hummed around me like the desert wind, brushing against my senses instead of trying to crush them.

I didn’t realize I’d stopped moving until Kitster’s voice broke through the haze.

“Uh, Ani? You’re just gonna stand there, or are you planning on helping?”

I blinked, turning to find him halfway under the pod, grumbling while he wrestled with a stubborn panel. His legs stuck out awkwardly, kicking every few seconds as he fought with something I couldn’t see. Nearby, Wald was sitting cross-legged in the sand, fiddling with a tool he probably didn’t know how to use, while Amee and Seek were locked in yet another argument over something dumb.

“Yeah, yeah, I’m coming,” I said, shaking my head to clear it. My voice sounded distant to my own ears, like I was talking through water. I crouched next to the pod, grabbing a hydrospanner out of the toolbox, but my hands weren’t steady. The warmth of the Force still wrapped around me, buzzing just under my skin like it was alive.

Kitster’s muffled voice floated out from under the pod. “Took you long enough. What, you forget how to hold a wrench?”

“No,” I said, a little sharper than I meant to. I tightened my grip on the hydrospanner, the metal cool against my palm, and shoved the tool toward him. “Here. Try not to break anything.”

He slid out from under the pod just enough to grab it, shooting me a look. “Someone’s touchy today.”

I didn’t respond. Instead, I leaned back against the pod’s engine, staring up at the sky. The Force was still there, still pulsing gently, but it wasn’t just around me—it was in me, too. Like a light I hadn’t realized had been snuffed out until now. I could feel the way it connected to everything: the heat radiating off the sand, the sharp, metallic tang of the pod, even the faint emotions flickering from my friends. Kitster’s mild frustration. Wald’s boredom. Amee’s excitement.

It was overwhelming, but not in a bad way. Just... a lot.

I closed my eyes, letting the sensation wash over me. It was so different from what I’d gotten used to as Vader. Back then, the Force had been a weapon, an endless pool of raw power that I’d used to bend the galaxy to my will. It had been suffocating, consuming, and yet... addictive. It whispered to me, promising strength, control, the ability to fix everything I thought was broken. But it had lied.

This—this was nothing like that. It wasn’t about control or strength. It just... was. A quiet, steady presence that didn’t demand anything from me.

“Anakin!” Amee’s shout jolted me out of my thoughts, and my eyes snapped open. She was standing a few feet away, hands on her hips, glaring at me like I’d just insulted her entire family. “Are you gonna help, or are you just gonna sit there staring at the sky?”

I opened my mouth to reply, but Wald beat me to it. “Leave him alone, Amee. He’s probably thinking about how bad you are at games.”

“Hey!” Amee stomped her foot, spinning to face him. “I’m not bad! I almost beat him!”

“‘Almost’ doesn’t count,” Seek chimed in, tossing the ball from hand to hand with a smug grin.

I couldn’t help but laugh, the sound bubbling out before I could stop it. “You’re all terrible,” I said, pushing myself to my feet. “Except me, obviously.”

“Obviously,” Kitster muttered from under the pod.

I ignored him, brushing sand off my tunic. The warm hum of the Force was still there, a quiet reminder of everything I’d lost—and somehow, everything I still had. It was strange, feeling so connected to it again. It reminded me of when I was little, before everything went sideways. Back when I didn’t overthink every action, when the Force was just part of me, as natural as breathing.

For a moment, I let myself lean into it, let myself remember what it felt like to be that kid who believed he could fix anything, build anything, save anyone.

But then the weight of my memories crept back in. Palpatine’s voice, smooth and poisonous, echoing in my mind. The choices I’d made. The people I’d hurt. My hands clenched at my sides, and I took a deep breath, trying to shake it off.

Not this time. This time, I wasn’t going to let the darkness creep back in.

Amee was still glaring at Wald, who had decided to start poking her with a stick for no reason other than boredom. I stepped between them, grabbing the stick out of Wald’s hand and snapping it in half. “Okay, enough,” I said, tossing the pieces into the sand. “Go bother someone else.”

Wald pouted but didn’t argue, scurrying off to join Seek. Amee shot me a grateful look, though she didn’t say anything.

Kitster finally crawled out from under the pod, wiping grease off his hands with a rag. “All right, genius,” he said, nodding toward the engine. “Your turn.”

“Great,” I said, kneeling beside the pod and grabbing the hydrospanner again. As I worked, the Force flowed around me, steady and constant, like it was trying to remind me of something I hadn’t figured out yet.

I didn’t have all the answers. Not yet. But for now, the light was enough.

As I tightened the last bolt on the pod’s engine, I let out a breath I hadn’t realized I was holding. The work always helped—something about the rhythm of it, the way the pieces fit together when you just kept at it long enough. It was simple, mechanical. Nothing like the chaos in my head.

I sat back on my heels, wiping grease off my hands onto the already-filthy rag draped over my knee. The others had wandered off for the moment—Kitster was hunting for something in the scrap pile, probably muttering about how he did all the hard work while I got to “look important.” Amee had dragged Wald and Seek off to do who-knows-what, probably another game I’d get roped into later. It gave me a rare moment of quiet.

Quiet, of course, meant thinking. And thinking... well, that was complicated.

I tilted my head back, staring up at the twin suns burning high overhead. The light was blinding, the kind of brightness that made it impossible to hide. No shadows, no cover. Everything out in the open.

Luke and Leia. Just thinking of their names sent a pang through my chest. My kids. My kids. I still wasn’t used to it, even with everything I remembered. For years, I hadn’t even known they existed. And then, when I did—when I’d stood across from Luke, lightsabers clashing, knowing he was my son—I’d been so wrapped up in my own pain and anger that I hadn’t really seen him. Not until the end.

And Leia... stars. She’d been right there, in front of me so many times, and I hadn’t even known. Not until it was too late.

I squeezed my eyes shut, feeling the grease-sticky rag twist under my grip. That wasn’t going to happen again. It couldn’t. Whatever this second chance was—this insane, impossible chance to do things over—I wasn’t going to waste it. I wasn’t going to fail them. Not this time.

But how? How was I supposed to protect them when they weren’t even born yet? When I was just a kid on a backwater planet, trying to scrape by like everyone else? The Force hummed around me, warm and steady, but it didn’t offer any answers. It never did.

I let my hands drop into my lap, the rag slipping to the ground. The memories of Vader were a constant weight, a shadow that clung to me no matter how bright the suns shone. Every decision I’d made, every person I’d hurt—it was all there, clear as if it had happened yesterday. But so was Luke’s face, lit with that stubborn hope he’d carried even when I’d been at my worst. So was Leia’s fire, her unshakable will to fight for what was right, even in the face of impossible odds.

They were stronger than I’d ever been. Stronger than I deserved. But that didn’t mean I couldn’t try to live up to them now.

“Thinking again?” Kitster’s voice broke the silence, and I nearly jumped out of my skin.

I turned to see him standing a few feet away, holding up a tangled mess of wires like it was some kind of prize. His eyebrows were raised, and his smirk was firmly in place. “You’re gonna hurt yourself if you keep doing that, you know.”

“Doing what?” I asked, forcing my voice to sound normal as I leaned back against the pod’s engine.

“Thinking so hard,” he said, flopping down onto the sand beside me. The wires landed in a messy heap between us. “It’s not your strong suit.”

I snorted, grabbing the nearest piece of wire and examining it. “Says the guy who thought duct tape was a permanent fix.”

“Hey, it worked for a while,” he shot back, grinning. “Besides, if you’re so smart, why’d you let me, do it?”

“Because I like watching you fail,” I said, tossing the wire aside and crossing my arms.

“Sure, you do.” He leaned back on his hands, staring up at the sky. After a moment, he said, “You’ve been weird lately, you know that?”

I tensed, my fingers curling against my arms. “I’m not weird.”

“You are. You’re all... quiet. Like you’re thinking about stuff that doesn’t even matter. What’s up with that?”

I hesitated, the words catching in my throat. How could I explain it to him? That I wasn’t just Anakin Skywalker, eight-year-old slave kid from Tatooine? That I’d been a Jedi, a Sith, and somehow found myself back here, trying to fix everything I’d broken? That I was trying to figure out how to keep my kids—my future kids—safe in a galaxy that seemed to chew people up and spit them out?

Instead, I shrugged, letting the tension roll off me as best I could. “Maybe I just grew up.”

Kitster gave me a long, skeptical look. “Grew up? You? Nah. You’re still the same annoying little brat you’ve always been.”

“Thanks, Kitster,” I said dryly, kicking a bit of sand in his direction. “Always good to know you’ve got my back.”

“Anytime, Ani.” He grinned, brushing the sand off his pants.

I turned my attention back to the pod, running my hand over the engine casing. The metal was warm from the sun, solid under my fingers. It was a good distraction, grounding me in the moment. I couldn’t fix the future—not yet—but I could start here. I could work, learn, and grow. And maybe, just maybe, that would be enough to make a difference when the time came.

Because the time would come. It always did.

And when it did, I was going to be ready. For Luke. For Leia. For the future we all deserved.

Chapter Text

The twin suns of Tatooine scorched the barren landscape, their relentless heat radiating through the sands. I steadied myself against the jagged hull of my downed starfighter, my hands tightening on the curve of the wing for balance. Smoke wafted from the ship’s cracked engines, tendrils of gray smudging the otherwise stark blue sky. The mission, thankfully, had concluded before this unfortunate turn of events; yet, even without the pressures of time or combat, I could not ignore the inconveniences of being stranded in such a hostile environment.

The sand shifted beneath my boots as I set out toward Mos Espa, the nearest settlement I recalled from my charts. My cloak trailed behind me, heavy with heat, and I adjusted it around my shoulders to shield myself from the relentless sun. The Force rippled faintly, a reminder that I was not alone in this galaxy—even on this desolate world. The comforting notion allowed me to steady my breathing as I pressed forward, one step after another.

My mask, a constant presence on my face, felt heavier than usual. I did not dwell on it, assuming the oppressive heat was simply another cruelty of Tatooine. My breaths were steady but shallow, each inhalation through the rebreather sounding louder than usual in my ears. Perhaps the crash had jarred it out of alignment, but I did not yet sense any immediate danger.

The journey was arduous, the dunes deceptive in their endlessness. As the hours dragged on, I allowed my thoughts to wander. I reflected on the galaxy’s absurdity—its persistent chaos. Wars that never truly ended. Planets caught in the crossfire of politics, greed, and ancient vendettas. And here I was, trudging through sand like so many others before me, simply trying to reach a place where the simplest repair could be made. Such is the will of the Force, I thought, a faint wryness creeping into my mind.

By the time Mos Espa’s gates appeared on the horizon, I was weary. Yet, there was satisfaction in seeing them: low, curved structures rising from the ground like stubborn weeds in the desert. The city buzzed faintly in the distance, a mix of speeders and voices blending into an audible hum that promised relief. But as I drew closer, something shifted.

My stride faltered, a weakness spreading through my limbs. I stopped, my boots sinking slightly into the sand. My hand instinctively rose to adjust my mask, fingers brushing the cracked edge of the rebreather. A low hiss escaped as I realized its integrity had been compromised. The thought should have alarmed me, but it arrived too late.

The edges of my vision darkened, the suns overhead blurring into twin smears of light. I staggered forward, each step heavier than the last, until my legs gave out entirely. The sand rushed up to meet me, warm and unyielding. My consciousness flickered as I collapsed just outside the city gates, my body still and unmoving in the relentless heat.

The Force, however, is not so easily silenced. Even in this state, it reached out—a lifeline in the storm.

Consciousness returned like the slow lifting of a veil. My first awareness was the muted hum of a power converter, its uneven rhythm accompanied by the faint crackle of sparks. A metallic smell mingled with the sharp tang of sand, a reminder of Tatooine’s inescapable grit. My body felt lighter, the searing weight of exhaustion replaced by a cool, numbing relief. Slowly, I opened my eyes.

The ceiling was low and worn, its surface a patchwork of mismatched panels and exposed wiring. I turned my head slightly, the movement slow and deliberate. Beside the bed, a golden droid stood half-constructed, its torso and head complete but its limbs missing or splayed out nearby like a dismantled puzzle. A faint glint of light reflected off its glossy plating, and I noted the careful craftsmanship of whoever was working on it.

A noise outside the room drew my attention: muffled voices and the occasional clang of metal. My fingers brushed the smooth material of the blanket covering me, and I tested my strength, sitting up cautiously. My mask felt intact, the familiar weight reassuring but also curious. I raised a hand to touch it, running my fingers along the repaired edges. Whoever had tended to me had skill—and an intuitive understanding of the device’s necessity.

Pushing aside the blanket, I swung my legs over the edge of the bed. My boots touched the cool floor, and I rose slowly, steadying myself. The Force lingered here, faint but present—like a flame held carefully in cupped hands. Untrained, untamed, but undeniably powerful. I moved toward the door, guided by the gentle tug of that presence and the voices beyond.

The main room was modest but warm, a small space filled with makeshift furniture and signs of industrious hands. A woman stood near a counter, her sleeves rolled up and her movements brisk as she wiped a small tool. Her face was worn but kind, her gaze lifting to meet mine as I entered. At a nearby table, a boy with sandy hair leaned over a bundle of parts, speaking animatedly as he worked on some mechanism. His hands moved with confident precision, but it was his presence in the Force that caught my attention. It was not subtle; it shone like a sun breaking through clouds.

The woman noticed me first, setting down her work and stepping forward. “You’re awake,” she said with a mix of relief and maternal concern. “We weren’t sure how long you’d be out.”

The boy looked up from his work, his face lighting up with excitement. “You’re the one I found!” he exclaimed, practically bouncing in his seat. “I thought you might—uh, you looked bad. Real bad.” He gestured vaguely, then added with a hint of pride, “I fixed your mask. You’re welcome.”

I inclined my head, a slow and deliberate motion. “I owe you my thanks,” I said, my voice even but warm. “Both of you.”

The woman smiled faintly and gestured for me to sit. “Please, rest. My son—Anakin—brought you back from the desert. He said you’d collapsed near the gates.”

I glanced at the boy, Anakin, studying him as he leaned back in his chair. His Force signature was unlike anything I had encountered—raw, boundless, and brimming with potential. “It was no small task to bring me here,” I remarked, my tone measured but curious. “You must be quite strong.”

Anakin shrugged, a mix of pride and shyness crossing his face. “It wasn’t that hard. I mean, I had to... um, push a little.” He made a vague motion with his hands that did not go unnoticed. The Force, of course. Even untrained, a child like this could accomplish what most could not.

The woman—Shmi, as I would later learn—offered a faintly apologetic smile. “He’s always been strong,” she said, brushing a strand of hair from her face. “Sometimes too much for his own good.”

Anakin shot her a grin before hopping up from his chair. “I’ve got to go! The pod’s not going to fix itself, and I’m already behind.” He rushed toward the door, then paused, turning back. “Oh, and—your ship? I think I can help with that too! Later!” Without waiting for a reply, he darted out, leaving a faint breeze in his wake.

Shmi watched him go, shaking her head with a mix of exasperation and fondness. “That boy,” she said softly, her voice carrying both pride and worry. She turned back to me, noting my curious expression. “He’s been working on a podracer with his friends. They want to enter the Boonta Eve Classic. He thinks... he thinks if he wins, he can use the prize money to buy our freedom.”

Her words settled heavily in the room, though she delivered them with a calm acceptance. Slavery. The boy’s strength in the Force suddenly felt all the more poignant—a gift trapped in chains.

I remained silent for a moment, observing her closely. Despite her circumstances, there was no bitterness in her tone. Instead, there was hope, faint but unyielding. “You have raised an extraordinary son,” I said finally, my voice low but firm. “His kindness speaks to yours.”

She smiled faintly, though it didn’t quite reach her eyes. “We do what we can with what we have,” she said. Her hands fidgeted with the tool she had set down earlier, her fingers turning it over and over. “He wanted to help you the moment he saw you. It’s just who he is.”

The Force hummed faintly, a quiet acknowledgment of the truth in her words. It was not lost on me that even in their scarcity, they had offered me aid without hesitation. I felt both gratitude and a twinge of sorrow. The galaxy’s cruelty had made their generosity all the more remarkable.

As I sat there, the golden droid humming faintly nearby, I allowed myself a moment of peace. The Skywalkers had little, but their kindness was immeasurable. It was a rare gift in a galaxy often consumed by darkness.

Shmi’s invitation to share a meal was both humbling and a quiet testament to her character. She set out simple wooden bowls, her movements precise but unhurried, the faint clink of utensils breaking the silence as I watched from my seat. The small home had a comforting warmth, the kind born of care and resilience, rather than luxury. She placed a steaming bowl in front of me and then another at her own spot, the food’s aroma earthy and nourishing.

The hum of Tatooine’s midday heat pressed faintly through the walls. I dipped my head in gratitude, cradling the bowl in my hands. “Thank you. I do not take your generosity lightly, given the circumstances.”

She smiled softly, a flicker of humor behind the expression. “You don’t have to say that. If there’s one thing I’ve learned, it’s that kindness doesn’t cost us as much as we think.”

We ate in companionable silence for a few minutes, the scrape of utensils and the murmur of the distant city filling the gaps. The Force swirled gently in the room, its presence entwined with the woman sitting across from me. She wasn’t Force-sensitive, not in the traditional sense, but her connection was undeniable—a warmth that radiated from her, deliberate and nurturing.

Shmi set her utensil down, her fingers lingering on its worn handle as her gaze turned reflective. “Anakin’s special,” she said, her voice low, as if she were confessing a secret. “I’ve always known that.”

I paused, lowering my bowl slightly to meet her eyes. “He is,” I agreed carefully. “The Force surrounds him in a way that is... rare.”

Her fingers tightened on the utensil before releasing it, her hands folding on the table. She hesitated, searching for the words. “He doesn’t have a father,” she began, her tone measured but unwavering. “I—” She exhaled, brushing a stray hair from her face, her expression steady but thoughtful. “It’s hard to explain. I got pregnant, but there was no man. I’ve always believed he was a gift, that he came from our Goddess.”

Her sincerity hung in the air, her faith in her words palpable. My mind stirred with thoughts of ancient prophecies and temple teachings. The Chosen One. I studied her carefully, her posture relaxed yet resolute, her words unadorned by doubt. The Force had indeed brought Anakin into existence; of that, I felt certain. Yet my thoughts did not leap toward reverence, as Qui-Gon’s might. Instead, they lingered on practicality, the quiet hum of inevitability weaving through the possibilities.

Shmi misread my silence as skepticism, her hands fidgeting slightly. “I know it sounds strange,” she added, her tone softer, almost apologetic. “But there’s something in him... something greater than just a boy. Everyone feels it.”

I placed the bowl down gently, leaning forward slightly to meet her gaze. “It does not sound strange,” I assured her, my voice steady but paternal. “Anakin’s connection to the Force is extraordinary. What you describe is... entirely possible. Perhaps he is part of something larger. The Force moves in ways that we cannot always comprehend.”

Her expression softened, the tension in her shoulders easing. She seemed relieved, as if my acknowledgment carried weight, she hadn’t realized she needed.

“How old is he?” I asked, my curiosity piqued.

She smiled faintly. “Eight. Just turned, not too long ago.”

I inhaled deeply, the weight of her answer settling in my chest. Eight. Too old by the standards of the Jedi Temple. Even if he had been born under different circumstances, the code would not permit his training now. But how could one deny his potential—or the danger of leaving it untrained?

I exhaled slowly, leaning back in my chair. “Anakin would not meet the criteria to join the Jedi Order,” I said gently, choosing my words with care. “The Temple has strict guidelines. However,” I continued, my tone firm yet encouraging, “his gift should not be left untended. It is not only his strength that makes him special, but his capacity for kindness and connection.”

Her brow furrowed slightly, her lips parting as if to protest, but I raised a hand, a small gesture of reassurance. “I am not saying we abandon him to chance,” I clarified. “If you would allow it, I could take both of you to Coruscant. There, we could find a way to support him—to ensure he learns to understand his abilities and the responsibilities that come with them.”

Shmi blinked, her surprise evident. “You’d do that? You’d take us? But...” She trailed off, glancing around their humble home, her fingers grazing the edge of the table. “We don’t have anything to offer in return. I can’t imagine what that would cost.”

I straightened slightly, my voice soft but resolute. “I do not ask for repayment. The galaxy thrives on connections, on the strength we lend to one another in times of need. You and your son have shown me generosity when you could have easily turned me away. Let this be my way of honoring that kindness.”

“You are the one who is kind, Master Jedi. I can see why Anakin brough you here.” Her lips pressed together, her expression wavering between gratitude and uncertainty. “I will trust you as well. Allow me to guide you to our Master.”

I inclined my head, as I followed her outside of her humble home. The streets of Mos Espa bustled with noise and movement as Shmi led me through its winding alleys. The heat was oppressive, and the scent of spice, oil, and sweat hung heavy in the air. I walked a step behind her, my cloak pulled up to shield my mask from curious eyes. Every so often, she glanced over her shoulder, her expressions both cautious and apologetic.

“Watto’s shop is just ahead,” she said, gesturing toward a squat, domed building with a battered sign hanging askew. The sound of clanging metal and muffled grumbling escaped from within. “I... I don’t know if he’ll listen, though. He’s—” She hesitated, choosing her words carefully. “—stubborn.”

“I am accustomed to difficult negotiations,” I replied, my tone even but reassuring. The truth was, I had no illusions about the kind of person we were about to meet. The Force hummed faintly around her, a mixture of hope and nervousness. I could feel her discomfort at bringing me here, but also her determination to see it through.

Inside, the shop was cramped and chaotic, with shelves overflowing with mismatched parts, buzzing droids, and tools strewn across every available surface. The air was thick with the acrid tang of burning circuits. Behind the counter, a small, blue-skinned Toydarian hovered, his wings beating with a rhythmic hum as he inspected a datapad.

“Watto,” Shmi said carefully, her voice steady but polite.

The Toydarian looked up, his bulbous eyes narrowing as they settled on her. “What d’ya want, Shmi?” he asked gruffly, though his tone wasn’t entirely hostile. His gaze shifted to me, and I could feel the instant calculation in his demeanor. “And who’s this? New buyer? Got creds?”

I stepped forward, inclining my head slightly. “I am Plo Koon,” I said, keeping my voice calm but firm. “A traveler in need of parts to repair my ship.”

Watto grunted, his eyes narrowing further as he sized me up. “Repairs, huh? Well, I got parts. But they ain’t cheap. Credits up front, or no deal.”

I let the silence hang for a moment before speaking. “I am also here to discuss another matter—one that involves Shmi and her son.”

Watto’s wings faltered for a moment, and he snorted. “If you’re here to buy them, you can forget it. They’re mine. Good workers, that boy especially. No amount of creds is worth what he can do.”

Shmi flinched slightly but held her ground. I placed a hand on her shoulder—a small, steadying gesture—before stepping fully into Watto’s line of sight. “I am not here to haggle over their value,” I said, my tone cool but firm. “I am here to make a wager.”

Watto blinked, then let out a sharp laugh. “A wager? Ha! What do you think this is, podracing? I don’t take wagers unless I know I’m gonna win.”

“That is precisely why you should consider my offer,” I replied smoothly. “You have debts, do you not? Enough to make the thought of repayment... difficult.”

His wings buzzed sharply, and his grin faltered. “What do you know about my debts?” he snapped, his tone defensive. “Doesn’t mean I’ll gamble away my best workers!”

I reached into my cloak and pulled my lightsaber from its hidden fold. The polished hilt caught the light, gleaming with a quiet promise of power. Watto’s eyes widened, his wings pausing mid-beat.

“This,” I said, holding the saber carefully, “is my wager. A Jedi’s weapon. Priceless to the right buyer.”

The Toydarian’s gaze locked onto the lightsaber, his greed practically radiating through the Force. “A Jedi’s weapon, huh?” he murmured, his fingers twitching as though he wanted to grab it right then and there. “That’s... that’s worth a lot.”

“More than your debts, I imagine,” I said evenly. “You can use this to settle what you owe—or sell it for a profit.”

Watto’s expression flickered with hesitation, his avarice warring with his stubbornness. “And what’s your side of the bet?” he asked, his voice tight. “What do I have to lose?”

“Shmi and Anakin’s freedom,” I said simply. “If I win, they are no longer slaves. You sign the papers, and they are free to go.”

The silence that followed was thick and heavy. Shmi glanced at me, her eyes wide with a mixture of hope and disbelief. Watto hovered in place, his wings buzzing softly as he stared at the lightsaber. Finally, he let out a grumble, his fingers scratching his chin.

“Fine,” he said at last, his tone grudging. “But you better win, Jedi. That boy’s podracer better finish first, or this deal’s off. And if you lose, I keep him, her, and your fancy weapon.”

I inclined my head. “Agreed.”

As we stepped outside, Shmi exhaled sharply, her hands trembling slightly. “I don’t know how to thank you,” she said, her voice soft but fervent. “That lightsaber... it’s part of you, isn’t it? To risk it like that—”

“It is,” I said, cutting her off gently but firmly. “A lightsaber is important to a Jedi, yes, but it is not irreplaceable. Lives, however, are.”

She blinked, her eyes glistening faintly, though she quickly looked away, brushing at her face. “I hope you’re right about Anakin,” she said quietly. “That he can do this.”

I turned to face her fully, my voice steady with conviction. “I do not gamble lightly, Shmi. Trust in your son, as I trust in the Force.”

As I watched Shmi square her shoulders and prepare to face whatever came next, I felt the Force ripple faintly, a quiet acknowledgment that this moment, small as it seemed, could ripple through the galaxy in ways none of us could yet imagine.

After bidding Shmi goodbye for the day, I returned to my ship in the fading heat of Tatooine’s afternoon, the air shimmering slightly as the twin suns began their slow descent toward the horizon. The starfighter was still where I had left it, its scorched hull bearing the scars of my earlier misfortune. Tools were spread out on the sand where I had hastily unpacked them before heading into Mos Espa. I knelt beside the ship, tracing the jagged edges of the damaged components with my fingers. The work ahead would be slow, but I found comfort in such tasks. Mechanical repairs had a clarity to them—a puzzle to solve, one piece at a time.

I reached for a hydrospanner and set to work, the rhythmic sound of tools against metal filling the silence. The ship hummed faintly under my touch, and the Force stirred around me, guiding my focus. Yet, as I worked, a new sensation rippled through the Force—faint at first, then growing stronger. A presence. Familiar.

I paused, setting the tool down and turning my head toward the source. Moments later, Anakin emerged over the dune, his small figure silhouetted against the blazing sky. He moved with purpose, though there was hesitation in his steps. His hands were tucked behind his back, his shoulders slightly hunched as if shielding himself from invisible scrutiny.

“Anakin,” I greeted, my voice carrying over the distance. I rose to my feet, brushing the sand from my cloak as he approached.

He stopped a few feet away, looking up at me with wide, searching eyes. “Master Plo,” he began, his voice quiet but steady. “Can I ask you something?”

I nodded, lowering myself to one knee so that we were at eye level. “You may ask me anything, young one.”

He hesitated, shifting his weight as if the words were heavy. Finally, he spoke. “Umi informed me of what you did for us. Why did you... why did you bet your lightsaber? Isn’t it—” He faltered, then tried again. “Isn’t it... your life?”

His question was so earnest, so vulnerable, that it gave me pause. I studied his face, noting the mix of curiosity and fear, as if he were bracing himself for an answer he might not fully understand. I let out a slow breath, placing my hand lightly on my knee.

“A lightsaber is important to a Jedi,” I began, my tone gentle. “It is a tool, yes. A symbol of our connection to the Force. But it is not our life, Anakin. A Jedi’s life is not measured by their weapon, but by their service. By their willingness to protect others—even at great personal cost.”

He frowned slightly, his brow furrowing as he processed my words. “But... you could lose it. And if you did, you couldn’t be a Jedi anymore. Could you?”

I tilted my head, my voice softening further. “Perhaps. But life is worth more than a lightsaber, Anakin. Your life. Your mother’s. That is the duty of a Jedi—to place others before themselves. To serve, even when it means taking risks.”

His eyes glistened, and he looked down, scuffing the toe of his boot against the sand. “Nobody’s ever done something like that for us before,” he said quietly. “Why would you?”

The question, simple as it was, carried an emotional weight that made my chest ache. His voice was so small, so raw, that it was impossible not to feel the depth of his pain. The galaxy had been cruel to this boy, yet he remained unbroken, his spirit resilient in a way few could match.

I placed a hand gently on his shoulder, feeling the Force swirl faintly between us. “Because you deserve it,” I said firmly. “You and your mother. You have shown kindness in a galaxy that too often forgets its value. That is something worth protecting.”

He looked up at me then, his eyes wide and bright. In that moment, I saw not just a boy, but a soul that carried the weight of potential—potential to create, to change, to uplift. He was open and unguarded, and it broke my heart to think of the path that might await him if left to chance.

If the Jedi Council would not mentor him, I thought with resolve, then I would. Even if it meant stepping away from the Order, even if it meant navigating uncharted territory. This boy deserved guidance, not rejection. And I would not abandon him.

Anakin’s gaze shifted, his expression softening into something shy but hopeful. “Can I help?” he asked, gesturing toward my ship. “With fixing it, I mean. I’m good with machines.”

I arched an eyebrow beneath my mask, my curiosity piqued. “Are you now?” I asked, my tone light but intrigued. “Very well. Let us see what you can do.”

His face lit up with excitement, and he immediately knelt beside the ship, his hands moving with practiced ease as he inspected the exposed circuitry. “The power converter’s fried,” he muttered, half to himself, as he grabbed a hydrospanner from the toolkit. “And this relay—yeah, it’s not gonna work either. But if we reroute the power here...” He trailed off, already lost in his thoughts, his small fingers working with remarkable precision.

I watched in silence, astounded by his intuitive grasp of mechanics. He spoke as he worked, explaining his adjustments in terms that were both technical and childlike, his enthusiasm bubbling over as he solved problem after problem. The ship responded to him as if it recognized his touch, its systems humming faintly to life under his guidance.

“You’ve done this before,” I observed, my tone laced with admiration.

He grinned up at me, his face smeared with a bit of grease. “I fix things all the time! Droids, podracers, you name it. Mom says I’ve always been good with machines.”

“Good is an understatement,” I replied, my voice warm. “You have a gift, Anakin.”

He beamed at the praise, his earlier hesitation replaced by confidence. As I watched him work, the Force swirled around us, its presence strong and steady. This boy—this remarkable child—was more than just a prodigy. He was a beacon of potential, and I knew in that moment that my path and his were now irrevocably intertwined.

As Anakin worked, his small hands moved with fluid precision, each adjustment purposeful and practiced. He barely glanced up, his focus honed so sharply that the world around him seemed to fade. The hum of the tools in his grip was steady, interrupted only by the occasional click or hiss of a part fitting into place. I knelt nearby, watching his progress, but also studying him. There was something extraordinary in the way he worked—not just talent, but a kind of unspoken rhythm, as though the Force itself moved through him.

“Your focus is impressive,” I said, my tone calm but approving. “You may not realize it, but you are already using the Force.”

Anakin paused, his brow furrowing as he looked up at me. “What do you mean?” he asked, tilting his head in curiosity. His fingers still gripped the hydrospanner, but his attention was fully on me now.

I gestured toward the ship’s exposed components. “The way you work—so precise, so sure. It’s more than just skill. The Force guides you, even when you’re not aware of it. It’s why your reflexes are sharp, why you see solutions others might miss.”

His eyes widened slightly, and then he blinked, his expression skeptical. “I just... fix stuff,” he said, shrugging. “I don’t think about it.”

“That is the beauty of it,” I replied, my voice soft but steady. “When you allow the Force to flow through you, it becomes instinct. You don’t need to think—it becomes part of you.”

Anakin seemed to consider this, glancing back down at the part he was adjusting. “So... it’s like a feeling?” he asked, tightening a bolt with a few deft twists.

“Yes,” I said. “A feeling, a flow. It can also aid you in the podrace. When you’re in the cockpit, let the Force guide your movements. Trust it to sharpen your reflexes, to help you anticipate what’s ahead.”

He perked up at that, his excitement unmistakable. “You think it’ll make me faster?”

“Not faster,” I corrected gently. “More aware. Faster isn’t always better. Precision—being in the right place at the right time—that is what wins races.”

Anakin nodded, his hands resuming their work as he mulled over my words. His movements were almost hypnotic, and as I continued to observe, I noticed something remarkable: he was falling into a natural rhythm, his breathing steady, his focus unbroken. It wasn’t the rigid stillness of traditional meditation, but rather a dynamic, living flow.

“You’re doing it now,” I said after a moment, a faint note of curiosity in my voice.

“Doing what?” Anakin asked, not pausing in his work.

“Motion meditation,” I explained, gesturing to him. “It is a form of connecting to the Force. Not all Jedi sit cross-legged in silence, you know. Some find their clarity in movement—in action.”

Anakin stopped mid-tweak, turning to me with a skeptical laugh. “Motion meditation? That’s a thing?” He grinned, shaking his head. “Because I’m terrible at the other kind. Sitting still makes me itchy.”

I chuckled softly, a rare sound for me but one that felt natural in his presence. “It is indeed a thing,” I assured him, nodding. “For some, stillness is the key to centering themselves. For others, motion unlocks their connection. You, it seems, are the latter.”

He looked genuinely relieved by this revelation, his grin widening. “Well, that’s good. I tried meditating once—I was bouncing off the walls. I lasted about thirty seconds before I got bored.”

“And what did you do instead?” I asked, folding my hands in my lap as I leaned back slightly to observe him.

He shrugged, wiping grease from his hands onto a rag. “I took apart one of our droids. Put it back together better than before.”

I nodded thoughtfully, the corner of my mouth lifting beneath my mask. “That, too, was a form of meditation. You simply didn’t realize it.”

Anakin tilted his head at me, his expression half-teasing but wholly curious. “So, I’m meditating when I’m fixing stuff? That’s... way better than just sitting around doing nothing.”

“It is not ‘nothing,’” I said, raising a finger in mild correction. “Stillness has its value. But for you, motion speaks louder. The Force is not limited to one way of being. It adapts, just as you do.”

He grinned again, his energy infectious. “So, I don’t have to sit and hum or whatever?”

I chuckled again, shaking my head. “No, Anakin. The Force is not so rigid. You will find your own way, in time. For now, let this be enough.”

Anakin returned to his work with renewed vigor, the confidence in his hands mirroring the clarity in his expression. As he adjusted the circuit and tightened a casing, the ship let out a faint hum, its systems slowly coming back to life.

“I think this’ll do it,” he said proudly, stepping back to admire his work. “You should be good to go.”

I inspected his repairs carefully, running a hand along the newly installed components. The craftsmanship was impeccable—far beyond what I would expect from an eight-year-old. I turned to him, my voice warm with gratitude. “You have a gift, Anakin. One that will take you far if you choose to nurture it.”

He looked up at me, his grin softening into something more thoughtful. “Thanks, Master Plo,” he said. “For everything.”

I inclined my head, a quiet acknowledgment of the bond forming between us. As the ship’s systems powered up and the fading suns cast long shadows across the sand, I felt a flicker of hope in the Force—a sense that, even in this chaotic galaxy, the smallest moments of connection could ripple into something far greater.

The days leading up to the Boonta Eve Classic passed in a blur of activity. Anakin split his time between fine-tuning his podracer and talking excitedly about the upcoming race, his boundless energy infecting everyone around him. The Skywalker home, though small and humble, buzzed with an undercurrent of hope. I spent much of that time helping where I could—repairing small appliances, assisting with errands, or simply offering conversation.

Shmi, ever kind and resourceful, welcomed me without hesitation. Her warmth reminded me of the Jedi Temple at its best: a place where calm and connection created a sense of belonging. For the first time in many cycles, I felt... home.

Anakin’s friends came and went throughout the days, their youthful exuberance filling the house with life. They crowded around his podracer in the evenings, laughing, teasing, and occasionally offering a hand when he needed it. I stood on the sidelines, observing them with a quiet sense of joy. Their spirits were untouched by the galaxy’s hardships, their bonds pure and unguarded. It was a reminder of the resilience of youth—a light the galaxy so desperately needed.

The morning of the Boonta Eve Classic arrived with the first rays of Tatooine’s twin suns spilling across the desert. The city was alive with noise and color, the streets thrumming with the energy of spectators and racers preparing for the event. The scent of roasted meats and spiced beverages mingled with the dry heat, and the air hummed with anticipation.

We arrived at the arena early, a small group making our way through the bustling crowd. Shmi walked beside me, her hands clasped nervously in front of her. She kept glancing at Anakin, who marched ahead with a determined set to his shoulders. His friends trailed close behind, chattering excitedly and jostling each other as they craned their necks to see the preparations underway.

“He’s so confident,” Shmi said softly, her voice tinged with worry. “More than I ever was at his age.”

I glanced at her, noting the way her fingers fidgeted with the edge of her shawl. “His confidence comes from you,” I replied, my tone steady but warm. “Your strength has shaped him into who he is.”

She offered a faint smile but didn’t respond, her eyes fixed on her son as he checked the straps of his helmet. I reached out and placed a hand gently on her arm, a quiet reassurance that I could sense she needed.

We found a spot in the stands near the starting line, the crowd already pressing close as the excitement built. Vendors shouted their wares nearby, and children darted through the throngs, laughing and shouting. Shmi and I stood shoulder to shoulder, her worry radiating through the Force like a faint tremor. I felt her hand brush against mine, hesitant but seeking comfort. Without thinking, I took it in mine, our fingers entwining briefly. She looked up at me, startled, but I offered only a slight nod.

“Hope is a powerful thing,” I said, my voice low but firm. “It binds us, even in the darkest times.”

She squeezed my hand lightly before looking back toward Anakin, who was now standing beside his podracer. His friends surrounded him, their cheers and words of encouragement carrying faintly on the wind. Anakin grinned, though I could sense his nerves beneath the bravado. He adjusted his helmet and waved at them, his youthful pride shining through.

Nearby, a human boy clambered onto a crate for a better view, his voice carrying over the din. “You’ve got this, Ani!” he shouted, cupping his hands around his mouth. “Just don’t let Sebulba cheat again!”

“Yeah!” chimed in a Rodian boy, hopping excitedly beside him. “Make him eat dust!”

Anakin laughed, a sound both bright and grounding. He gave them a thumbs-up before turning to inspect his podracer one last time. The twin engines thrummed softly, their sleek frames glinting in the sunlight. I couldn’t help but admire his handiwork—the machine was a testament to his ingenuity, crafted with care and precision far beyond his years.

Shmi’s grip on my hand tightened slightly. “He’s so young,” she murmured, her voice almost lost in the crowd’s noise. “Too young for this.”

“His youth is not a weakness,” I said gently, glancing at her. “It is his strength. He sees the world with hope, not fear. That is what sets him apart.”

She nodded, though her worry didn’t fade entirely. Her eyes followed Anakin as he climbed into the cockpit, his small frame dwarfed by the racer’s towering engines. He tested the controls, his movements confident but deliberate, and I could feel the Force swirling faintly around him.

The announcer’s voice boomed over the arena, calling for the racers to line up. The crowd roared in response, the noise vibrating through the stands. Shmi exhaled sharply, her free hand pressing to her chest as she watched her son.

I turned my gaze to Anakin, studying him closely. His presence in the Force was steady, a glowing ember ready to ignite. He caught my eye across the distance, and for a moment, the noise and chaos around us faded. I raised my hand, a simple gesture of encouragement. He nodded, his expression firm but open, before returning his focus to the controls.

Around us, the crowd continued to swell, their energy palpable. Shmi’s hand trembled slightly in mine, and I gave it a reassuring squeeze.

“Have faith, Shmi,” I said softly. “The Force is with him.”

She didn’t respond, but I felt her grip steady as we stood together, waiting for the race to begin. The anticipation hung heavy in the air, and though the path ahead was uncertain, one thing was clear: this moment would mark the beginning of something far greater than any of us could yet understand.

The roar of the engines at the starting line was deafening, shaking the very ground beneath our feet. I could see the tension in Anakin’s small frame as he gripped the controls, his head tilting slightly as if listening to something only he could hear. Around us, the crowd erupted into cheers and jeers as the racers prepared to launch. Shmi’s hand trembled in mine, her worry nearly palpable, though she said nothing.

“Focus on him,” I said softly, my voice carrying despite the noise. “Not the others. He is ready.”

Her grip tightened briefly, and she nodded, though her eyes never left her son. Anakin’s podracer gleamed in the sunlight, its engines humming with barely restrained power. He shifted slightly in his seat, his helmeted head turning to glance at the racers flanking him. The Rodian beside him sneered, and further down the line, Sebulba leaned lazily in his cockpit, the Dug radiating arrogance. I felt the faint tremor of Anakin’s unease but also the steely resolve that quickly followed. The boy had courage, far more than most his age—or any age.

The announcer’s voice boomed overhead, calling for the racers to prepare. I could feel the energy in the arena shift, the anticipation reaching its peak. Shmi’s breath caught as the starting lights flickered to life, counting down with an ominous slowness.

Three. Two. One.

The racers exploded forward, their engines screaming as they tore away from the line. The force of the launch rattled the stands, and the crowd surged to its feet, a wave of noise and movement. My eyes tracked Anakin’s podracer as it shot forward, holding its own against the larger, more powerful machines.

But it wasn’t my eyes I truly relied on—it was the Force.

As the racers vanished into the desert, the arena’s viewscreens flickered to life, showing fragmented images of the course. My focus, however, extended beyond the screens. Through the Force, I could feel the race unfolding with a clarity that no camera could capture. The chaos, the danger, the raw adrenaline—it was all there, alive and pulsing like a living thing.

Anakin’s presence burned brightly in the Force, a steady beacon amidst the swirling maelstrom. His reflexes were sharp, his movements precise, guided not just by skill but by something greater. I could feel the slight hesitation as he approached the first sharp turn, the subtle adjustment of his controls as he threaded his podracer through the tight canyon. Around him, the other racers jostled for position, their aggression palpable.

“Stay calm,” I murmured under my breath, as if he could hear me. “Trust yourself.”

Sebulba’s presence flared nearby, sharp and predatory. I sensed his intent before the viewscreens caught it: a sudden swerve, his podracer’s massive engines kicking up a storm of sand aimed directly at Anakin. The boy’s response was instantaneous, his podracer veering to the side with a grace that belied his inexperience. The Force rippled with his focus, and I allowed myself a small measure of pride. He was listening—whether to me or to the Force itself, I couldn’t say.

The race continued with brutal intensity. One racer spun out on a jagged rock, their podracer cartwheeling into a fiery explosion. Another lost control in the tight confines of a canyon, slamming into the walls with a sickening crunch. The danger was constant, unrelenting, but Anakin moved through it like water, adapting and flowing with each new challenge.

As the race reached its midpoint, the pack thinned, leaving only the most skilled—or the most ruthless—competitors. Anakin and Sebulba were among them, their podracers locked in a dangerous dance. Sebulba’s aggression was relentless, his every move designed to unnerve or unseat Anakin. Yet the boy held firm, his confidence growing with each passing moment. I could feel it in the way his presence in the Force expanded, no longer just reacting but anticipating, adapting.

The final stretch was a blur of sand and speed, the racers pushing their machines to the brink. Anakin’s podracer screamed down the course, its engines blazing with raw power. The Force surged around him, a tide that lifted and carried him forward. Sebulba made one last attempt to sabotage him, a sharp swerve that sent sparks flying as their podracers collided.

But Anakin did not falter. His hands were steady, his focus unshaken. With a final burst of speed, he surged ahead, crossing the finish line mere moments before Sebulba’s battered podracer skidded to a halt.

The arena erupted into chaos. Cheers, shouts, and roars of disbelief filled the air as the announcer’s voice proclaimed the impossible: “Anakin Skywalker, the first human to win the Boonta Eve Classic in centuries!”

Shmi collapsed against me, her relief washing over her like a wave. Her tears glistened in the harsh sunlight as she looked at me, her voice trembling. “He did it. He really did it.”

I nodded, my gaze fixed on Anakin as he climbed from his podracer, his grin visible even through the dust and grease that coated his face. His friends swarmed him, their cheers and laughter echoing across the arena.

In that moment, he was not just a boy, not just a slave, but something more. He was a symbol of hope, of possibility. And as I watched him, his presence in the Force shining brighter than ever, I knew that this was only the beginning of his story.

The energy of the Boonta Eve Classic still hung in the air as we returned to Watto’s shop, the noise of the cheering crowds fading into the distance. Shmi walked beside me, her shoulders squared and her expression firm despite the anxiety I could sense beneath the surface. Anakin trailed slightly behind, his helmet under one arm, his steps lighter with the victory he had just achieved. Yet, even in triumph, he was subdued, glancing back toward his friends who lingered at the edge of the crowd, still celebrating his win.

Watto was already waiting for us, his wings buzzing irritably as we approached. He hovered near the shop’s cluttered entrance, his expression sour. The sight of us seemed to sour it further. “So,” he drawled, rubbing his hands together. “The boy won. Fine. Congratulations and all that. But I can’t just—” He paused, glancing at me with wary eyes, “—let both of them go. You’re asking too much.”

I stepped forward, placing myself between Watto and the Skywalkers. My presence loomed over him, and the Force flowed subtly around us, wrapping my words in an undeniable weight. “We made a deal, Watto,” I said, my voice calm but carrying a distinct edge. “Shmi and Anakin’s freedom. No more, no less.”

Watto’s wings faltered slightly, his gaze darting between Shmi and me. “But the loss—!” he sputtered. “Do you know how much they’re worth? I’ve got debts, Jedi! You can’t just—”

I tilted my head, keeping my voice steady but firm. “You will honor our agreement, Watto. Or do you wish to test the consequences of crossing a Jedi?”

His eyes widened at that, his wings buzzing faster in nervous agitation. “No, no, of course not!” he stammered, holding up his hands defensively. “No need for threats, eh? I’ll do it. I’ll do it right now.”

He floated toward the back of the shop, grumbling under his breath as he worked at a dusty terminal. A series of beeps and whirs filled the air, followed by a faint crackle of static. Shmi stood beside me, her hands clutched tightly in front of her, her expression a mixture of hope and fear.

Finally, Watto turned back, his face pinched but resigned. “There,” he said, waving a hand dismissively. “The explosives are disabled. They’re free. Happy?”

“Ecstatic,” I said dryly, though my gaze lingered on the Skywalkers, ensuring they were unharmed.

Shmi exhaled shakily, her hands flying to her mouth as tears filled her eyes. She turned to me, her gratitude radiating through the Force like a warm wave. “Thank you,” she whispered, her voice trembling. “Master Plo, I don’t know how to—”

I raised a hand gently, cutting her off. “No thanks are necessary, Shmi. You and Anakin have earned your freedom many times over with your courage and kindness. It was the least I could do.”

Before she could respond, Anakin darted past us, his helmet tucked under his arm as he approached his friends Kitster and Wald, who had followed us at a distance. Their faces lit up when they saw him, their words tumbling over one another in their excitement.

“You did it, Ani!” Kitster shouted, clapping his friend on the back. “You’re amazing!”

“Better than amazing,” Wald chimed in, his green face split by a wide grin. “You’re gonna be famous, Anakin!”

Anakin laughed, shaking his head as he dug into the pouch slung over his shoulder. He pulled out a handful of credits—his prize money from the race—and pressed them into Kitster’s hands.

“Here,” he said, his voice steady despite the rush of emotions swirling around him. “This is for you and Wald.”

The two boys blinked in stunned confusion, their eyes darting between the credits and Anakin’s earnest expression. “For us?” Kitster stammered. “But... why?”

Anakin shrugged, his grin fading into something softer, more thoughtful. “You’re my friends,” he said simply. “And now you can be free too.”

He reached for the pouch again, pulling out more credits and handing them to Wald. “And the podracer,” Anakin added, his voice gaining strength. “You two can keep it. Sell it if you want, or race it to earn more. It’s yours now.”

Kitster stared at the credits in his hands as if they might disappear, his voice a whisper. “Ani... this is too much.”

“It’s not,” Anakin said firmly, his tone leaving no room for argument. “You deserve it.”

I watched the exchange from a short distance, my hands clasped behind my back. The selflessness of Anakin’s actions sent a pang through my heart. He could have kept the prize money, used it for himself or his mother, but instead, he had chosen to give it away without hesitation.

“He’s remarkable,” Shmi said softly, her voice heavy with pride. She stood beside me, her gaze fixed on her son as he laughed and joked with his friends. “More than I ever imagined.”

I nodded slowly, my voice quiet but certain. “He is. Anakin has a heart that few possess. He sees others before himself—a quality many never achieve, not even Jedi.”

The words tasted bittersweet as I spoke them. The Council’s rules were clear—Anakin was too old to be trained, his path too clouded by fear and attachment to walk the Jedi way. But the boy’s potential was undeniable, his kindness a beacon in a galaxy so often consumed by greed and darkness.

He would have made a fine Jedi. A truly great one.

For a moment, the thought of stepping away from the Order lingered in my mind. If the Council would not accept him, I could take him under my wing, train him outside the confines of tradition. But the weight of such a decision was immense, its consequences stretching far beyond the moment.

Still, as I watched Anakin embrace his friends, his laughter ringing out over the Tatooine sands, I could not help but feel a deep, unshakable hope. The galaxy needed souls like his—bright, selfless, and unyielding. Perhaps, in time, the Force would guide us both to where we needed to be.

Chapter Text

The Jedi Temple stood as a monument of serenity and order, its towering spires gleaming under the pale light of Coruscant’s sky. Within its walls, however, the tranquility was often punctuated by the quiet hum of activity—a padawan sparring in the training halls, a knight consulting a star map, or the gentle murmur of voices in the Archives. It was here, among the shelves of ancient texts and holographic records, that I spent most of my time, overseeing the galaxy’s greatest repository of knowledge.

And yet, despite the orderly rhythms of my work, there were moments that stood out, disruptions that left ripples in the carefully curated stillness. One such ripple came in the form of Anakin Skywalker.

I first encountered him not in the Archives, but in the courtyard. He was sitting cross-legged on the ground, tinkering with a broken training droid that had been left discarded by a careless padawan. His small hands worked with surprising dexterity, and his face was a study in concentration—tongue pressed against his cheek, brows furrowed in thought. I had paused mid-step, my curiosity piqued and observed him from a distance.

“You’re wasting your time with that one, you know,” I said finally, my voice cutting through the quiet. I approached with my hands clasped behind my back, my robes brushing softly against the stone tiles. “It’s been decommissioned for a reason.”

He looked up, startled but not alarmed, and offered a sheepish grin. “I know,” he said, holding up a piece of wiring. “But it just needs a new actuator and a connection here. I think I can get it working again.”

“Think?” I echoed, arching a brow. “In my experience, tinkering without certainty is an excellent way to waste time—or break something further.”

Anakin laughed, a bright and unaffected sound, as he pushed himself to his feet. “I’m not breaking it,” he insisted, brushing his hands against his tunic. “I’m fixing it. You’ll see.”

I watched him for a moment, his defiance softened by his genuine enthusiasm, and I sighed. “Very well,” I said, motioning for him to continue. “But if it starts sparking or flying in the wrong direction, you will clean up the mess. Understood?”

“Yes, ma’am!” he said cheerfully, returning to his work.

I didn’t stay long that day—my duties were many, and my time was better spent within the Archives. But it wasn’t long before I began hearing whispers about the boy from Tatooine. His arrival at the Temple had been the subject of quiet debate among the Council, though I had only caught fragments of the discussion. Too old for training, they said. The Code was clear. And yet, Plo Koon, ever pragmatic and compassionate, had made a compelling case for the boy to receive guidance outside of formal Jedi training.

By the time Anakin began visiting the Archives, he had already endeared himself to much of the Temple. I would find him in quiet corners, surrounded by datapads or tools, or trailing after a group of younglings with a wide grin and an eagerness to help. The knights spoke of his remarkable aptitude for machines, the masters remarked on his curiosity, and the padawans—often prone to rivalry—seemed to regard him as a younger sibling.

One afternoon, as I sorted through a stack of star maps recently returned from the Outer Rim, I heard the unmistakable sound of small footsteps approaching my desk. I looked up to see Anakin, holding a broken datapad in one hand and a curious expression on his face.

“Madame Nu,” he said, his voice hesitant but polite. “Do you have a minute?”

“Depends,” I said without looking up, my fingers deftly organizing the maps into neat piles. “Is this about fixing another broken droid?”

He laughed, setting the datapad on the edge of my desk. “No, not this time. I was wondering if you had any holo-records about... ships. Big ones. Like cruisers.”

I arched a brow, finally turning my full attention to him. “Cruisers? You’re not planning to build one in the courtyard, are you?”

He grinned, his eyes sparkling with mischief. “Not yet. I just want to learn how they work.”

“Hmm.” I studied him for a moment, then rose from my seat, motioning for him to follow me. “Come along, then. If you’re going to pester me with questions, you might as well be useful.”

Anakin trailed after me eagerly as I led him through the shelves, my fingers brushing against the spines of ancient texts and the smooth surfaces of holographic storage units. “Here,” I said, pulling a small holocron from one of the shelves. “This contains schematics and records of Republic cruisers dating back several centuries. It’s hardly light reading, but I suspect you’ll manage.”

He accepted the holocron with a reverence that caught me off guard, his small hands cradling it as though it were something sacred. “Thank you,” he said earnestly. “I’ll take good care of it.”

“See that you do,” I replied, my tone stern but not unkind. “And if you have questions—real questions, mind you, not idle curiosity—come find me.”

Anakin nodded, clutching the holocron tightly to his chest as he scampered off toward one of the reading nooks. I watched him go, a faint smile tugging at the corners of my lips despite myself.

You see, there’s a misconception about me, one I’ve never bothered to correct. Many within the Jedi Temple consider me stern, even intimidating. I’ve overheard younglings refer to me as “the scary Madame Nu” when they think I’m out of earshot. And perhaps I am—after all, the Archives demand respect, and I expect those who enter to treat our knowledge with the reverence it deserves.

In truth, I had been skeptical of Plo Koon’s decision to bring the boy to the Temple. The Code existed for a reason, and bending its rules—even for someone as extraordinary as Anakin—was a dangerous precedent. But there is something profoundly disarming about genuine curiosity, especially when it radiates from someone so young and eager. Anakin Skywalker had that curiosity in spades.

The first time I handed him a datapad containing an advanced mechanics manual, I expected him to skim it, grow bored, and return it half-read with vague excuses about wanting something “more interesting.” Instead, he returned it within two days, not only finished but brimming with questions.

“Madame Nu,” he began, approaching my desk with the confidence of someone twice his age, “this part about hyperdrive motivators—it says that power coupling alignment has to be within a five-micron tolerance. But couldn’t you adjust it to seven microns if you modified the energy routing? It’d reduce stress on the power converters.”

I had been sorting star charts at the time, my focus sharp, and his question caught me off guard. I straightened, giving him a long, appraising look. “And what, exactly, makes you think you could alter a system that’s been refined over centuries?”

He shrugged, holding the datapad close. “It’s just math. The system wouldn’t know the difference as long as the equations check out.”

“Just math,” I repeated, narrowing my eyes. “You’ve read one manual, and suddenly you’re ready to redesign Republic engineering?”

He grinned, that infectious, disarming grin, and tapped the datapad. “I think it would work.”

“Show me,” I said simply, folding my arms and leaning back in my chair. I expected him to falter under the weight of the challenge. Instead, he stepped closer, set the datapad on the desk, and began explaining his reasoning with a confidence that would have made a seasoned knight envious.

By the time he finished, I was silent, staring at the equations he’d scribbled in the margins. They were rough but precise, the kind of thinking I would expect from a Jedi specializing in engineering—not from an eight-year-old boy with no formal education.

“Well,” I said after a moment, leaning forward to scrutinize the datapad further. “You’re either a genius or very, very lucky.”

He beamed, his excitement bubbling over. “So, it makes sense? It would work?”

“Possibly,” I admitted, handing the datapad back to him. “But that doesn’t mean you should go tearing apart hyperdrive systems to test your theory.”

“Why not?” he asked, his tone so earnest that it was difficult to maintain my usual severity. “That’s how you learn, right? By trying things?”

I sighed, rubbing my temple. “Trying things without understanding the risks is a fast way to ruin perfectly good systems—and occasionally, lives.”

“I’d be careful,” he promised, and I wasn’t entirely convinced.

From that day on, Anakin became a near-permanent fixture in the Archives. He devoured texts on physics, chemistry, and advanced mathematics with a fervor I had rarely seen, even among padawans. He scribbled notes on anything he could find—datapads, flimsi sheets, even the edges of discarded star maps—and occasionally left trails of grease or stray wires in his wake when he brought small mechanical projects to tinker with while he studied.

And yet, for all his brilliance, he carried an air of humility that was hard to ignore. He never boasted about his abilities, never lorded his intelligence over the other children. Instead, he spent his time helping wherever he could. If a padawan was struggling with a concept, Anakin would offer a simple, straightforward explanation. If a knight needed assistance repairing a malfunctioning piece of equipment, he was quick to lend a hand.

It was his kindness, as much as his intelligence, that earned him the affection of nearly everyone he encountered. Even I, with all my supposed sternness, found myself warming to him in ways I hadn’t anticipated.

One afternoon, I caught him perched on a stool in the corner of the Archives, surrounded by a pile of texts and schematics. His legs dangled as he worked, his brow furrowed in concentration as he flipped through a thick manual on starship design. A droid arm—clearly scavenged from somewhere—lay on the table in front of him, its inner workings exposed.

“You’ve been at this for hours,” I remarked, approaching with my arms folded. “Even the most brilliant minds need rest.”

He looked up, startled but smiling. “I’m almost done,” he said, gesturing to the mess around him. “I just want to figure out how this joint works. It’s fascinating—did you know the servos in this model are tension-based? It’s so simple but so smart.”

“Of course, I know,” I said dryly, taking the seat opposite him. “The Archives are my domain, after all.”

He grinned, unabashed. “Right. Sorry.”

I leaned forward, plucking a schematic from the pile and scanning it briefly. “You’ve made progress,” I admitted, setting it down. “Though I doubt this level of focus is sustainable.”

“I don’t get tired when it’s stuff like this,” he said, his tone light but sincere. “It’s like... everything else goes quiet, you know?”

I did know, though I didn’t say it aloud. The boy’s brilliance was undeniable, but it was his hunger for knowledge—his refusal to let his past define the limits of his potential—that truly set him apart.

“Anyway,” I called, not looking up from my task. “A moment, if you please.”

He straightened immediately, setting down his tools with the care of someone who knew better than to leave a mess in my presence. “Yes, Madame Nu?” he said, with his usual mix of eagerness and caution.

“I’ve been hearing a great deal about you,” I began, my tone calm but pointed. “Your intellect, your mechanical aptitude. Even your supposed mastery of languages.”

He grinned, rubbing the back of his neck. “I wouldn’t call it mastery…”

“No false modesty,” I interrupted, narrowing my eyes at him. “If the rumors are true, we’re going to put your skills to the test.”

He blinked, surprised but intrigued. “A test? What kind of test?”

“The kind that will determine whether you’re as brilliant as everyone says,” I replied, motioning for him to follow me. We moved deeper into the Archives, past the familiar rows of texts and into a smaller, more private study chamber. The room was quiet, its walls lined with shelves containing some of the most complex and ancient works in our collection.

I gestured to a terminal, its display flickering to life as I keyed in a series of commands. “Sit,” I instructed, pointing to the chair in front of the console. “This terminal has access to texts in over a hundred languages. Let’s see how many you can navigate.”

Anakin sat, his posture straight but relaxed, and rested his hands on the controls. “Where do I start?” he asked, his tone confident but not cocky.

I smirked faintly, pulling up a passage written in Amatakka, an ancient and convoluted dialect that even seasoned scholars struggled to parse. “Here,” I said, crossing my arms. “Translate this.”

He leaned closer to the screen, his eyes scanning the intricate script. For a moment, he said nothing, and I began to think I had overestimated him. Then, slowly, he began to speak, his voice steady as he recited the passage with perfect fluency.

I raised an eyebrow. “Impressive. Let’s try something else.”

I cycled through texts in Huttese, Ryl, and Basic, each one more complex than the last. Anakin tackled them all without hesitation, his translations flowing naturally, as though the words had been written for him. I added languages he couldn’t possibly know—Binary, Nubaé, Alda—yet each one was met with the same unerring precision.

By the time we reached Shyriiwook, the guttural and intricate language of the Wookiees, I was no longer surprised. He growled and rumbled the words with ease, his youthful voice bending to mimic the tonal inflections perfectly. When he finished, he leaned back in his chair, grinning up at me.

“How’d I do?” he asked, his eyes sparkling with pride.

I didn’t answer immediately, studying him as I weighed what I had just witnessed. “You’re fluent in fifteen languages,” I said at last, my voice betraying a hint of awe. “At your age. Do you have any idea how extraordinary that is?”

He shrugged, fiddling with the edge of his tunic. “I just... pick them up. It’s not that hard if you hear them enough.”

“Not that hard,” I repeated, shaking my head. “Do you have any concept of how rare this talent is? Most linguists spend decades mastering half as many languages.”

He looked down, suddenly shy under my scrutiny. “I guess I’ve just always liked words. And machines. And, you know... figuring out how things work.”

I sighed, though the sound was more admiring than exasperated. “Your mind is remarkable, Anakin,” I said, softening my tone. “But it’s not just your aptitude—it’s your hunger for knowledge, your ability to connect ideas. That is what sets you apart.”

He glanced up at me, his expression open and vulnerable. “Do you think I could... learn more? About the Jedi, I mean. Even if I’m not—” He hesitated, his voice dropping slightly. “—even if I can’t be one.”

I felt a pang of sympathy but kept my expression neutral. Anakin Skywalker was a force of nature—brilliant, curious, and utterly unrelenting in his pursuit of understanding. It was both thrilling and humbling to witness, and I knew that whatever the Council decided about his future, the galaxy would feel the impact of his mind for years to come.

“The Jedi are not defined solely by their titles, Anakin. Knowledge is a cornerstone of what we are. And you—you are already walking the path, whether you realize it or not.” I assured him.

His face lit up at that, his grin returning as he sat up straighter. “So... what’s next? More languages? Physics? Oh, can you show me that old map of the Outer Rim hyperspace routes?”

I chuckled despite myself, shaking my head. “You’ll have to earn it, young one. But I suppose I can find something to challenge you.”

After sending Anakin off to join a group of younglings playing in one of the Temple courtyards—an invitation he accepted with an infectious grin and a quick promise to return for “more cool stuff to read later”—I made my way toward Shmi Skywalker. I had every intention of delivering the news about her son’s extraordinary abilities with the seriousness it deserved. But as I approached her, I found myself struggling to reconcile the academic astonishment I felt with the sheer disbelief still buzzing in my mind.

Shmi was sitting on a bench in one of the quieter gardens, her hands folded neatly in her lap. She looked serene at first glance, but there was a distant weariness in her eyes that softened only when she saw me approaching. She stood immediately, brushing her skirt nervously, as though meeting an Archivist required formality.

“Madam Nu,” she greeted politely, dipping her head. “Is everything alright? Has Anakin—?”

“Your son,” I interrupted, my tone sharper than intended, “is fluent in fifteen languages.”

Shmi froze, her hands half-raised in the gesture of smoothing her skirt. “Fifteen?” she repeated, her voice carrying equal parts wonder and disbelief.

“Fifteen,” I confirmed, folding my arms and tilting my head slightly, as if daring her to deny it. “Including Shyriiwook. Shyriiwook, Shmi. I’ve seen scholars struggle with it for decades, and Anakin rattled it off like a native speaker.”

Shmi blinked, then let out a soft laugh, covering her mouth with one hand. “My little sun is a bright boy,” she said, her voice warm and full of pride.

I stared at her for a long moment, my disbelief mounting. “A bright boy,” I echoed, my tone almost incredulous. “Shmi, do you understand what this means? He’s not just bright. He’s... he’s a genius! A linguistic savant! A mechanical prodigy! I’ve taught Jedi Knights who wouldn’t know where to begin with the kind of texts he’s devouring.”

She smiled faintly, lowering her hand but keeping her gaze steady. “He’s always picked things up quickly,” she said softly. “Mechanics, piloting—it was all necessary to survive under the service of Mas...” She stopped herself, her lips pressing into a thin line, and her expression darkened.

“Watto,” she finished after a pause, the name bitter on her tongue.

Without thinking, I stepped closer and rested a hand on her shoulder. “You don’t have to say his name,” I said gently, though my voice carried the firmness of someone who brooked no argument. “You’re free now. Both of you.”

She gave me a faint smile, her shoulders relaxing slightly under my touch. “Thank you,” she murmured, though her gaze wandered toward the courtyard where Anakin’s laughter echoed faintly. “As for the languages... the slave community on Tatooine is diverse. Very united, despite our circumstances. We taught each other what we could—languages, skills, anything to survive.”

She hesitated, her brow furrowing as she seemed to search her memory. “I knew Anakin was quick with languages,” she continued, her voice thoughtful. “But I didn’t realize he’d learned so many. I suppose he picked them up from everyone we knew. He’s always been like that—listening, absorbing. Even when he was too young to understand what he was hearing.”

I exhaled sharply, shaking my head in disbelief. “It’s beyond quick, Shmi. This boy has been gifted with a mind unlike any I’ve ever seen. Do you realize what he’s capable of?”

Her smile returned, softer this time. “I do,” she said simply. “But not because of his mind. It’s his heart that I’ve always been most proud of.”

I blinked, momentarily caught off guard by the quiet conviction in her voice. “His heart?”

“Yes,” she said, her hands folding neatly in her lap again. “Anakin has always used his gifts to help others. Even when we had nothing, he found ways to give. To fix what was broken. To lift spirits. That’s who he is. Not just a boy who can speak fifteen languages or repair podracers, but a boy who wants to make life better for everyone around him.”

Her words lingered in the air, grounding me in a way I hadn’t expected. She wasn’t wrong. For all his brilliance, it was Anakin’s kindness and unwavering spirit that had already made him an indispensable part of the Temple in so short a time.

“You’ve raised an exceptional son, Shmi,” I said after a moment, my voice quieter than usual. “Whatever path he takes, the galaxy will be better for it.”

Her eyes glistened slightly, though she blinked quickly and looked away. “Thank you,” she said again, her voice trembling just enough for me to notice.

We stood in companionable silence for a moment, listening to the faint rustle of the garden trees and the laughter of younglings nearby. My mind, however, was far from still. Anakin’s talents, his potential, and the force of his presence all carried weight—weight that felt heavier now that I had spoken with Shmi.

This was no ordinary boy, and though his future was uncertain, I felt, for the first time in a long while, that the galaxy had turned a corner. Whether for better or worse, only time would tell.

The Jedi Council chambers were as quiet and still as a starless void, when I made my way there. The air carried the weight of a thousand decisions made within these walls, decisions that had shaped the galaxy. I stood at the center, facing the semicircle of esteemed Masters. Their calm gazes were trained on me, each expression unreadable, save for Yoda’s subtle narrowing of his eyes, which could have been curiosity—or disapproval. It was always hard to tell with him.

Behind me, a faint hum of activity could be heard from the Temple beyond, the life of Coruscant continuing as if unaware of the deliberations taking place. I straightened my robes, my posture rigid but composed, and began to speak.

“Honorable Masters, I come before you with a matter of some urgency,” I said, clasping my hands firmly in front of me. “It concerns the boy, Anakin Skywalker.”

Mace Windu was the first to respond, his voice measured and calm. “Plo Koon has already spoken on his behalf. What new information do you bring, Jocasta?”

I inhaled deeply, scanning their faces as I chose my words carefully. “I have tested the boy’s abilities extensively,” I said, my tone crisp. “What I have found is... unprecedented.”

“Unprecedented, you say?” Ki-Adi-Mundi tilted his head slightly, his brow furrowing. “Surely you don’t mean in terms of the Force? The Council has already sensed his unusual aptitude.”

“No, not just in the Force,” I clarified, lifting my chin. “His intellect. His adaptability. His sheer capacity for learning. Masters, this child is fluent in fifteen languages. He reads technical schematics as though they were stories. And he is only eight years old.”

A faint ripple of surprise passed through the room, though the Masters masked it well. Yoda leaned forward on his cane, his ears twitching as he regarded me closely. “Fifteen languages, hmm? Skilled, this one is.”

“More than skilled,” I pressed, taking a step forward. “His mind is extraordinary. In my time as the Temple Archivist, I have tested countless padawans, knights, and masters. None have matched his raw intellectual potential. And yet,” I continued, my voice softening slightly, “his heart is as remarkable as his mind. Despite his hardships, he remains kind. Selfless. He seeks knowledge not for power, but to help others.”

The room fell silent for a moment, the weight of my words settling over the Council. Finally, Mace steepled his fingers, his gaze steady. “And what do you propose, Jocasta?”

I hesitated, considering the boy’s circumstances and the challenges that came with them. “I propose we allow the Skywalkers to remain within the Temple,” I said firmly. “At least until their treatment for malnutrition is complete. The child has suffered much, and his mother—while strong—requires time to recover from their years in slavery.”

“Time to recover, yes,” Yoda mused, nodding slowly. “And to observe, we should.”

“Observe what?” Windu asked, his tone skeptical but not dismissive.

“His potential,” Yoda replied simply, tapping his cane lightly on the floor. “Unpredictable, the future is. Clear answers, we may not have. But worth watching, the boy is.”

The other Masters exchanged glances, their expressions a mix of contemplation and quiet agreement. I kept my posture steady, though my hands tightened slightly behind my back. The decision wasn’t mine to make, but I had done what I could to present the boy’s case.

Finally, Fisto spoke again, his voice carrying the quiet weight of consensus. “Very well. The Skywalkers may remain in the Temple while their recovery is seen to. During that time, we will continue to assess the boy and his abilities.”

“Agreed,” Windu added, his tone final. “But no formal training will be offered. We must adhere to the Code.”

“Of course,” I said, bowing my head in acknowledgment. “Thank you, Masters.”

As I turned to leave the chamber, I felt the tension in my shoulders ease slightly. It wasn’t the outcome I had hoped for—not entirely—but it was a step forward. The Skywalkers would remain safe, cared for, and seen. That, for now, was enough.

When I returned to the courtyard, I found Anakin surrounded by a group of younglings, their laughter echoing through the Temple’s stone halls. He was explaining something animatedly, gesturing with his hands as the others listened in rapt attention. One of the children held a small mechanical part, examining it with wide-eyed wonder as Anakin pointed out its inner workings.

“Faster than I thought,” I murmured to myself, shaking my head as I approached.

Anakin noticed me first, his grin brightening as he waved me over. “Madame Nu! Look! I’m teaching them about repulsorlift tech!”

“I can see that,” I said, arching an eyebrow as I folded my arms. “You’ve been here less than a month, and already you’re giving lessons.”

He shrugged, still grinning. “They asked.”

One of the younglings, a Togruta girl, turned to me with wide, curious eyes. “Madame Nu, is it true Anakin fixed a whole podracer by himself?”

“Yes,” I replied, though my tone was sterner than hers had been. “And it’s also true that he should remember to be humble about his accomplishments.”

Anakin’s grin faded slightly, and he rubbed the back of his neck. “Sorry,” he mumbled, though his smile lingered at the edges.

I sighed, unable to suppress a small smile of my own. “Come, Skywalker,” I said, motioning for him to follow. “There’s still much for you to learn before the Council decides your next steps.”

As we walked away, I glanced back at Shmi, who had been watching from a distance with quiet pride. She caught my eye and nodded, her expression one of gratitude and hope. Whatever the future held, it was clear that Anakin’s presence had already left an indelible mark on the Temple—and on all of us.

Six months is hardly a blink of an eye for the galaxy, but within the halls of the Jedi Temple, it proved to be more than enough time for Anakin Skywalker to reshape expectations. I witnessed it firsthand, of course. Not as a Jedi Master guiding a padawan through the subtleties of the Force, but as the ever-watchful custodian of the Temple Archives, a role that lent itself to quiet observation and occasional intervention.

Anakin was a constant presence in the Archives during those months, and I admit, I grew rather accustomed to his visits—though I’m reluctant to admit how much I looked forward to them. Every morning, as the first shafts of light filtered through the grand windows of the Temple, he would arrive with boundless energy that seemed almost at odds with the quiet sanctity of the space. His excitement was always evident, barely contained as he strode through the grand doors clutching a datapad or a scrap of technical schematic he had found somewhere, his expression bright with anticipation.

By the time I settled into my usual work at my desk, I could count on hearing the faint shuffle of his boots as he made his way to a table—usually the largest he could find. He had a peculiar method of spreading out his tools, holobooks, and notes into what I initially thought was chaos but quickly learned was his peculiar form of order. By midday, his corner of the Archives resembled a miniature workshop, complete with glowing datapads balanced precariously on open books and sketches scattered around him like pieces of a puzzle he was determined to solve.

His posture, while not the model of discipline, was one of complete absorption. Sometimes he would sit upright, his small fingers skimming the surface of glowing screens, pausing occasionally to jot down notes with a stylus in quick, messy strokes. Other times, he would lean forward, elbows braced on the table, his brow furrowed in concentration. And then there were moments where he sprawled back in his chair, waving one hand in animated gestures as he muttered calculations or posed theoretical questions to himself, as though the texts he studied were alive and holding a conversation with him.

The Archives were often treated by others as a place of quiet reverence, a solemn space to be approached with care and deliberate intention. But not for Anakin. To him, the Archives were alive—a treasure trove of mysteries waiting to be unraveled, a labyrinth of knowledge where every turn offered the thrill of discovery. He wasn’t just a student; he was an explorer.

For all his enthusiasm, there was discipline too—an unshakable focus that even some of the padawans struggled to match. He would dive into subjects with such single-minded determination that it was almost easy to forget how young he was. He attacked mechanical manuals and engineering treatises as though they were games, dissecting the concepts with the same ease that others his age might take apart a toy.

Still, his relationship with the material wasn’t always smooth, and I often found myself stepping in to guide—or, occasionally, redirect—his efforts.

“Poetry again, Skywalker?” I remarked one afternoon, pausing beside the table he had claimed as his own. His usual vigor was noticeably absent; instead, he sat with his chin propped on one hand, a flimsi copy of an Alderaanian epic open in front of him. The script, rendered in flowing Basic for ease of comprehension, seemed to mock him as he glared at the page.

He huffed dramatically, flipping the page with more force than necessary. “I don’t get why they talk like this,” he grumbled. “Why can’t they just say what they mean? It’s all... pretty words and no point.”

Suppressing a smile, I pulled out the chair beside him and sat down. “Poetry,” I began, “isn’t about saying what you mean. It’s about feeling what you mean. It’s an art form, not a technical manual.”

Anakin groaned, his head falling to rest on the open book. “I hate it,” he muttered into the flimsi. “I’d rather translate it for Mom. She likes all the ‘pretty words.’ I just don’t... see the point of all the flowery stuff.”

“Not everything needs to have a point,” I said, my tone softening. I rested my hands on the table, tapping one finger lightly against the edge of the book to draw his attention. “Sometimes, it’s enough to appreciate the beauty of something. Even if you don’t understand it yet, there’s value in keeping an open mind. You might be surprised by how often the things we resist teach us the most.”

He lifted his head just enough to give me a skeptical look, his blue eyes narrowing slightly. “You’re sure about that?”

“Quite sure,” I replied, meeting his gaze evenly. “But that doesn’t mean you have to enjoy it immediately. Growth takes time, Skywalker. No one expects you to master everything at once.”

He sat back, crossing his arms as he studied me for a long moment. Then, with a theatrical sigh, he said, “Fine. I’ll try to keep an open mind. But only because you said so.”

“Wise decision,” I said, rising from my chair. I glanced at the book, noting the way he hadn’t pushed it away despite his complaints. “And Skywalker?”

He looked up, curious.

“Try not to damage the book if you decide to wrestle with it again,” I added with a faint smirk.

His laugh followed me as I returned to my desk, and though I didn’t look back, I noticed he kept the poetry book on the table long after I left.

In other areas, however, Anakin excelled beyond even my expectations. His aptitude for mechanics and engineering was well-known by then, but it was his understanding of anatomy that truly surprised me—a knowledge, I would come to learn, born not from study but from necessity.

One afternoon, while he was leafing through a medical holobook on humanoid physiology, I noticed the intensity of his focus. His fingers traced diagrams of organs and neural pathways, his lips moving faintly as he muttered to himself. It wasn’t unusual to find him engrossed in technical material, but something about the way he studied this subject struck me as different. His posture was tense, his movements precise but measured, as though he were walking a thin line between curiosity and memory.

I approached quietly, resting a hand lightly on the edge of the table. “You seem unusually invested in this, Skywalker,” I remarked, tilting my head to better see the hologram he was studying.

He glanced up briefly, then back down at the page. “I guess,” he said, his voice low, almost distracted. “It’s just... important to know, you know? Where things are. How they work.”

I pulled out a chair and sat beside him, folding my hands on the table. “Knowing the mechanics of the body is useful,” I agreed, studying him closely. “But this is more than that, isn’t it? You’ve done more than just study these diagrams. You’ve worked with them—on people.”

His hands stilled on the holobook, and he leaned back slightly, his expression shifting. For a moment, I thought he might deflect, but then he sighed, his gaze dropping to his lap. “Yeah,” he admitted softly. “Back on Tatooine.”

I stayed silent, giving him the space to continue. He hesitated, then began speaking, his words slow and deliberate, as though he were testing them for weight.

“It wasn’t anything fancy,” he said, waving a hand as though to brush off the gravity of what he was about to share. “We didn’t have bacta tanks or med-droids. Just... whatever tools we could find. Sometimes it was pliers or old vibroblades. If someone’s chip started acting up—overheating, sending shocks—I’d help take it out. I wasn’t always the one doing it,” he added quickly, his tone almost defensive. “There were others who were better, older. But sometimes, they weren’t around, and...”

He trailed off, his voice tightening, and I saw his hands curl into fists on the table. “Sometimes the chips were buried too deep, and I couldn’t...” He stopped, his gaze fixed firmly on the hologram in front of him, but it was clear his thoughts were far away.

I placed a hand on the table beside his, a steadying presence in the weight of the silence. “What you did took courage, Anakin,” I said firmly, my voice cutting through the tension without diminishing its weight. “No one your age should have had to bear such responsibility, but you rose to the challenge. That speaks volumes about your character.”

His shoulders relaxed slightly, and he glanced up at me, his expression conflicted but grateful. “I just... wanted to help,” he said quietly, his voice carrying the raw honesty of someone too young to mask his emotions fully. “That’s all.”

“And you did,” I replied without hesitation. “Never doubt that. You made a difference, Anakin. A profound one.”

He held my gaze for a moment longer, then nodded, a small, almost hesitant smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Thanks,” he murmured, his voice barely above a whisper.

After a pause, he straightened, brushing a hand across his face as though wiping away invisible shadows. “Anyway,” he said, his tone shifting back toward his usual enthusiasm, “I figured it wouldn’t hurt to learn more. Just in case.”

His grasp of biology extended naturally to his coursework, though it quickly became apparent that his knowledge was uneven. His understanding of humanoid anatomy was startlingly advanced, particularly for an eight-year-old. He mastered lessons on neural pathways, muscular systems, and organ function with ease, often raising questions that surprised his instructors.

“Why do the sensory clusters in the Lekku have higher neural density than a Human limb?” he once asked during a lesson on comparative anatomy, earning a moment of stunned silence before the instructor scrambled to answer.

But his familiarity with biology was grounded in practicality—what was necessary to survive. When the material turned to the natural world—flora, fauna, ecosystems—his knowledge was understandably limited. Tatooine, after all, offered little in the way of biodiversity. His questions about plants and animals often revealed his lack of exposure.

“Do all plants have leaves?” he asked during a lecture on galactic flora, his tone genuine.

“Most do,” the instructor replied with a kind smile. “But not all. Some, like the growths on Tatooine, have evolved differently to conserve water.”

Anakin’s eyes lit up, and I could practically see the gears turning in his head as he jotted down notes. Despite his gaps in knowledge, his voracious curiosity drove him forward, and it was clear that even in unfamiliar territory, he would catch up quickly.

As I watched him tackle each new subject with the same determination that had defined his life thus far, I couldn’t help but feel a deep sense of admiration for the boy. His brilliance was undeniable, but it was his resilience—his ability to carry the weight of his past without letting it define him—that left the most profound impression. For all his rough edges and impatience, Anakin Skywalker was a force to be reckoned with, and I was certain that his future would be nothing short of extraordinary.

History and geography, by contrast, proved to be almost effortless for him. Anakin approached these subjects with an insatiable curiosity, one that seemed to thrive on the sheer scale and complexity of the galaxy’s past. He devoured the galactic timelines as though they were gripping adventure stories, tracing the rise and fall of civilizations, the ebb and flow of war and peace, and the intricate threads of culture that wove the galaxy together. His enthusiasm was infectious, and I often caught glimpses of him poring over holobooks or scrolling through ancient maps well into the evening, his eyes bright with wonder.

The old Jedi-Holocrons, with their holographic projections of historical figures and events, quickly became a favorite of his. I frequently found him in the viewing chambers, surrounded by the flickering glow of blue-tinted holoprojections, his attention riveted to the images of battles, treaties, and speeches recorded long ago. It wasn’t unusual to see him taking frantic notes or muttering to himself as he tried to piece together connections between disparate events.

One evening, as I was sorting through a stack of archival requests at my desk, Anakin bounded up to me, practically vibrating with excitement. He held a datapad in one hand and an old holomap in the other, both of which he seemed eager to show me.

“Did you know,” he began without preamble, “that the Jedi used to have a temple on Ossus? It got destroyed during the Sith Wars, but there are still ruins left!” He paused for a breath, his words tumbling over one another in his excitement. “Do you think we’ll ever rebuild it?”

I set down the document I’d been reviewing and turned to face him fully, leaning back slightly in my chair. “Perhaps,” I said, allowing a faint smile to curve my lips. “But rebuilding is not simply a matter of stone and mortar. It requires purpose. Why do you think the Jedi would—or should—return to Ossus?”

He blinked, his enthusiasm giving way to thoughtfulness as he considered my question. His brow furrowed slightly, and he tilted his head, a gesture that had become familiar during moments when he was piecing together an answer. “Because... it’s part of our history?” he said slowly, almost as though testing the words. “And if we forget where we came from, how can we know where we’re going?”

I nodded approvingly, folding my hands in my lap. “Well reasoned,” I replied. “History is not merely a record of the past—it’s a guide, a foundation. But be careful, Skywalker. The past can inspire us, yes, but it can also trap us if we let it.”

He tilted his head again, this time in curiosity. “What do you mean?”

“Clinging to the past too tightly can make us blind to the present,” I explained, gesturing toward the holomap he still held. “Take Ossus, for example. Its ruins may be a powerful symbol of Jedi resilience, but rebuilding there would require more than nostalgia. It would require intent—a reason for returning that serves the living Jedi, not just the memory of those who came before.”

Anakin nodded slowly, his expression contemplative. “So... it’s about balance? Between remembering and moving forward?”

“Precisely,” I said, smiling faintly. “Now, let’s hope you apply the same thoughtfulness to your next essay on Republic civics.”

He groaned theatrically at that, his moment of philosophical reflection giving way to the boyish energy that was never far from the surface. “Do I have to? Civics is so boring compared to this stuff!”

I raised an eyebrow, fixing him with a look that had sent many padawans scurrying back to their studies. “Civics, Skywalker, is the foundation upon which the galaxy’s governments—and the Jedi’s role within them—are built. It may not be as exciting as Sith Wars or ancient temples, but it is no less important.”

He sighed, his shoulders slumping in exaggerated defeat. “Alright, alright. I’ll write it. But only after I finish looking up more about Ossus. Deal?”

I chuckled softly, waving him off. “Deal. But don’t let me catch you turning in an essay full of half-baked ideas because you spent all night chasing ruins.”

He grinned, his mischievous energy returning in full force as he darted back toward the viewing chambers. “Don’t worry, Madame Nu! It’ll be perfect!”

As I watched him disappear around a corner, I couldn’t help but marvel at his boundless enthusiasm. History, for Anakin, was not merely a collection of dates and events—it was alive, a living story in which he sought to understand his own place. His curiosity was unrelenting, his questions often profound, and his ability to draw connections between seemingly unrelated events was nothing short of remarkable.

And yet, it was his heart, not his intellect, that left the deepest impression on me. His fascination with the ruins of Ossus wasn’t born of a desire to glorify the past—it was rooted in a genuine yearning to understand the galaxy’s struggles and triumphs, to see how they shaped the present and might inform the future.

For all his occasional impatience and penchant for pushing boundaries, Anakin’s love of learning, his hunger for knowledge, and his open-hearted approach to the galaxy’s history made him one of the most remarkable young minds I had ever encountered. And though I would never say so aloud, I couldn’t help but feel that the Jedi were lucky to have him—even if only for a time.

By the end of six months, Anakin had not only caught up with his peers in nearly every subject but had surpassed many of them in areas that required critical thinking and technical skill. Subjects that others found tedious or bewildering—like advanced mechanics, abstract mathematics, and the intricacies of galactic trade systems—seemed to light a fire in him. His instructors often remarked on his ability to connect seemingly unrelated ideas, weaving them into innovative solutions or asking questions so pointed and insightful they left even seasoned teachers momentarily at a loss.

“He sees patterns others miss,” one of his history instructors told me, her tone equal parts amazement and exasperation. “We were discussing trade routes during the High Republic era, and he ended up explaining how one of their deviations might have inadvertently sparked a border dispute. I had to double-check the archives, and... he was right. An eight-year-old.”

The instructors, however, were quick to temper their praise with caution. While Anakin’s brilliance was undeniable, his sheer intensity sometimes unnerved those who worked with him.

“The boy’s potential is boundless,” one Master confided to me in the quiet of the halls, his voice low and thoughtful. “But with such strength comes danger. Let us hope he learns restraint as quickly as he learns everything else.”

Hope, indeed. For all his progress, Anakin was still a child—eager, impatient, and unyielding in his desire to prove himself. He had a knack for asking questions that cut to the heart of a lesson, questions that others wouldn’t dare or perhaps even consider. And while this boldness often earned him admiration, it occasionally put him at odds with the authority figures around him.

“Why does the Code forbid attachment but encourage compassion?” he asked me once, his arms crossed and his expression earnest but defiant. “How can you care for people if you’re not allowed to be close to them?”

It was a question without an easy answer, and I could feel the weight of his frustration as I tried to explain the balance the Jedi sought to maintain. Yet for all his stubbornness, there was a purity to his defiance—a refusal to accept ideas at face value, a drive to truly understand.

That same drive, however, sometimes led him to push boundaries. More than once, I found myself intervening when his curiosity carried him into restricted areas of the Archives or when his tinkering with Temple equipment became... problematic.

“Skywalker,” I said sternly one afternoon, catching him red-handed as he attempted to install a custom modification into a training droid. The droid, wires spilling from its chest panel, emitted a pitiful whine. “What, exactly, do you think you’re doing?”

He froze, his expression flickering between guilt and defiance. “It’s just... it would be faster if it had better sensory calibration. I was trying to fix it.”

I folded my arms, raising an eyebrow. “And you thought the best way to fix it was to dismantle it in the middle of the training hall?”

He winced but managed a sheepish grin. “Maybe?”

Despite moments like these, I saw in him a spark that could ignite into something extraordinary, given the right guidance. His energy, his brilliance, and even his impatience were qualities that, with time and discipline, could shape him into a force for great good—or great harm. It was a delicate balance, one I knew the Council was well aware of as they continued to debate his future.

And yet, for all the challenges he presented, Anakin brought something rare to the Temple—a sense of possibility, of hope. It wasn’t just his peers and instructors who felt it; the entire Temple seemed brighter with him within its walls.

One evening, as I made my way through the courtyard, I paused to watch him playing with a group of younglings. The sky above Coruscant was streaked with the warm hues of sunset, casting long shadows across the stone paths. Anakin darted through the group, his laughter ringing out as he chased after a ball, his movements quick and fluid. The younglings shrieked and giggled; their joy infectious as they tumbled together in the fading light.

I stood there for a long moment, watching him. In that instant, he was just a boy—free, happy, unburdened by the weight of his past or the uncertainty of his future. It was a rare sight, one that reminded me of why the Jedi existed in the first place: not just to safeguard the galaxy, but to nurture those within it, to protect moments like this.

As Anakin paused to catch his breath, he glanced up and spotted me watching. His face lit up, and he waved, his grin as wide and open as the Coruscant sky. I raised my hand in return, a small smile tugging at my lips.

Later that day, during one of our quieter sessions in the Archives, I stumbled upon yet another revelation about Anakin Skywalker. The boy had a way of surprising even the most seasoned Jedi, myself included, though I would never admit as much to him.

He sat at one of the smaller tables that day, his brow furrowed in concentration as he worked through an astronomy lesson on his datapad. The display cast a faint glow across his face, highlighting the intensity of his focus. His fingers danced over the controls as he manipulated a star map, zooming in and out of constellations, planetary systems, and hyperspace lanes with an ease that suggested familiarity well beyond his years.

“Skywalker,” I said, stepping closer and leaning slightly over his shoulder to examine his work. “You’ve jumped ahead three modules since yesterday. I thought I told you to pace yourself.”

He glanced up at me with a sheepish grin, his blue eyes gleaming with mischief. “I already knew most of it,” he admitted, gesturing to the map. “The names, the star clusters... It’s stuff I learned back on Tatooine.”

I straightened, folding my arms as I studied him. “On Tatooine? I wasn’t aware that slavers prioritized teaching their workers the intricacies of galactic navigation.”

His grin faltered slightly, and he shifted in his seat. “They didn’t,” he muttered, glancing back at the map. “I learned it from some... other people.”

I arched an eyebrow, pulling out the chair across from him and sitting down. “Other people?” I pressed, my voice taking on a sterner edge. “Do elaborate, Skywalker.”

He hesitated, fiddling with the edge of his datapad. “Sometimes,” he began slowly, “I’d sneak out at night. To the spaceports.” He glanced at me, gauging my reaction, but I said nothing, allowing him to continue. “There were bounty hunters there, sometimes smugglers. They’d talk about the stars, the routes they’d take. I’d listen. Sometimes they’d let me help, and they’d teach me stuff about flying or the systems they visited.”

“And your mother?” I asked pointedly.

He winced, ducking his head slightly. “She didn’t know,” he admitted. “I didn’t want to worry her. But it wasn’t dangerous! I could... feel it when someone wasn’t safe. If they had bad intentions.”

For a long moment, I simply stared at him, my thoughts churning. Shmi’s reaction was easy to imagine—horrified, of course, as any mother would be. But my own reaction was more complicated. His recklessness was concerning, yes, but the fact that he had so accurately assessed the intentions of those around him hinted at something far more significant.

“And you’re certain they wouldn’t have harmed you?” I asked, my tone careful but firm.

He nodded emphatically. “I just knew. It’s like... a feeling. I could tell who was safe and who wasn’t.”

I leaned back in my chair, my mind already moving toward the implications. “A connection to the Force,” I murmured, more to myself than to him. “Even as a child, untrained...”

Anakin shifted again, his eyes narrowing slightly as he studied me. “You’re not going to tell me I shouldn’t have done it, are you?”

“Oh, I’ll tell you that,” I said dryly, giving him a pointed look. “Sneaking out to mingle with bounty hunters is the very definition of reckless behavior, Skywalker. But,” I added, holding up a hand before he could argue, “your instincts were not wrong. And it’s worth noting that they likely kept you safe when logic and circumstance would not.”

He relaxed slightly, though his expression remained wary. “So... you’re not mad?”

“Not mad,” I clarified, rising to my feet. “But consider this: a wise Jedi does not rely solely on their connection to the Force. Judgment and preparation are just as important. Your instincts are a gift, but they must be honed, not leaned on as a crutch.”

He nodded slowly, his expression thoughtful. “Okay. I’ll work on that.”

I paused, studying him for a moment longer before turning toward my desk. “For now, focus on your lessons,” I said over my shoulder. “If you’re so insistent on mastering the stars, you’d best finish the Astronomy Course properly.”

True to form, Anakin threw himself into the coursework with his usual unrelenting drive. Every day, he arrived at the Archives eager to tackle a new module, his enthusiasm undimmed even by the more technical aspects of celestial mechanics and hyperspace physics. He worked through lessons on gravitational influences, planetary formations, and stellar classifications with the same voracious curiosity he applied to everything else.

By the time the six months had ended, Anakin had not only completed the Astronomy Course but had done so with a level of understanding that rivaled that of older padawans. His grasp of galactic navigation was particularly impressive, a skill undoubtedly bolstered by his time at the spaceports on Tatooine.

One afternoon, as I reviewed his final assessment, I couldn’t help but feel a pang of both admiration and concern. “Skywalker,” I called, motioning for him to join me at my desk.

He bounded over, his usual energy barely contained. “Did I pass?” he asked eagerly, practically bouncing on the balls of his feet.

I held up the datapad, showing him the results. “You didn’t just pass,” I said with a small smile. “You excelled. Congratulations, Skywalker.”

His face lit up, and he pumped a fist in the air. “Yes!”

“Now,” I added, fixing him with a stern look, “let’s see if you can channel that enthusiasm into your next course without any midnight escapades.”

He grinned, unabashed. “I’ll try,” he promised, though the twinkle in his eye suggested he was already dreaming of his next adventure.

As I watched him return to his table, his focus already shifting to a new set of schematics, I couldn’t help but feel a quiet sense of hope. Anakin’s journey was far from typical, and his path remained uncertain, but there was no denying the brightness of the star he was destined to become.

The day the Council finally summoned Anakin Skywalker into the chambers was one I had both anticipated and quietly dreaded. For months, the boy had been a source of wonder and debate, his incredible potential shining brighter with each passing day. His talent, determination, and sheer force of will had made an impression on every Jedi who had crossed his path—many had spoken of him with admiration, though always tinged with caution. Yet for all his growth and promise, there remained the question of what path the Council would choose for him.

As Anakin stood before the Council, flanked by Plo Koon, his posture was equal parts confidence and nervous energy. His hands were clasped tightly behind his back, his blue eyes scanning the faces of the Masters with a mixture of hope and apprehension. Despite his usual boldness, he seemed to sense the gravity of the moment.

I sat quietly at the back of the chamber, observing. The conversation was measured, the questions posed by the Council designed not just to test Anakin’s knowledge but to probe the depths of his character.

Master Yoda, his voice calm but probing, leaned forward on his cane. “Why do you wish to be a Jedi, young Skywalker?”

Anakin hesitated, his gaze flickering to Plo Koon for reassurance before he answered. “Because I want to help people,” he said earnestly. “The way Master Plo helped me and my mom. I want to protect people who can’t protect themselves.”

His answer was simple, but it carried a sincerity that filled the room. Even Master Windu, who often carried a skeptical air, leaned back slightly, as though weighing the boy’s words more carefully than usual.

“Help people, you say,” Yoda continued, his ears twitching slightly. “Selfless, this desire must be. Dangerous, attachment is. Understand this, do you?”

Anakin nodded, though I noticed a flicker of hesitation in his expression. “I understand,” he said slowly, his voice soft but steady. “I know it’s hard... but I want to try. I’ll work hard. I promise.”

The Council’s deliberation that followed was brief but intense, their voices hushed as Anakin and Plo Koon waited in silence. “It’s unusual,” Windo said, his voice thoughtful. “But the boy has proven himself. His connection to the Force is undeniable, and his spirit... well, it’s difficult to ignore.”

“It’s not just his spirit,” I replied, folding my arms as I met his gaze. “It’s his heart. He inspires those around him—younglings, knights, even masters. He reminds us why we do what we do.”

Windu inclined his head slightly, a rare concession. “Let’s hope that heart remains his guide,” he said before the Council continued their deliberation, leaving me to reflect on the quiet truth of his words.

When they finally reached a decision, the air in the chamber seemed to shift, charged with a sense of momentous change. Master Windu addressed him directly, his tone even but not without warmth. “Anakin Skywalker, the Council has decided to grant you the opportunity to train as a Jedi. Your path will be unconventional, but your potential is undeniable. Use it wisely.”

For a moment, Anakin simply stood there, as though the words hadn’t fully registered. Then, slowly, a smile broke across his face—a smile so wide and bright it was impossible not to feel its impact. He glanced at Plo Koon, who placed a reassuring hand on his shoulder, his own expression one of quiet pride.

Shmi was also offered a position as a mechanic within the Temple, her skills more than enough to handle the demanding work of maintaining the hangars and vehicles. I had seen her hands at work before—steady, capable, and patient—and it was clear she took pride in the craft that had once been a means of survival. Plo had left to inform the mother of the good news.

Anakin, of course, was overjoyed—not just at being allowed to train as a Jedi but at the knowledge that he would still be able to visit his mother regularly. The arrangement allowed him to spend weekends with her, a compromise that I knew would not have been easily granted under normal circumstances. But then, there was little about Anakin Skywalker that could be called “normal.”

However, the matter of who would train Anakin Skywalker was a question that carried more weight than most padawan assignments. For all his potential, he was an anomaly—a child brought into the Order well beyond the traditional age, his future fraught with both promise and uncertainty. When the announcement was made that Anakin would be accepted as a padawan, it seemed as though the entire Temple turned its collective attention to him.

It wasn’t every day that a child from outside the Order—and one so clearly gifted—was granted this opportunity, and the decision of his mentorship was not one the Council would take lightly. Discussions began almost immediately, and it wasn’t long before names emerged from the whispers in the halls.

Master Shaak Ti was the first to formally express interest. Her calm wisdom and nurturing demeanor made her an ideal candidate to guide someone as bright and unpredictable as Anakin. I heard her discussing the matter with another master near the meditation chambers one evening, her voice steady and contemplative.

“He needs someone who will be patient with him,” she said. “Someone who can meet his energy with balance and teach him how to temper his instincts.”

To my mild surprise, Master Windu also made his intentions known. His disciplined approach to training and unwavering commitment to the Jedi Code seemed at odds with Anakin’s impulsiveness, but perhaps that was the point. Windu’s name carried weight, and his offer was not made lightly.

Still, as the Council deliberated, Anakin himself remained blissfully unaware of the debate swirling around him. Or, if he was aware, he didn’t seem particularly concerned. The boy had already made up his mind.

When Plo Koon entered the Council chamber to formally acknowledge the Council’s decision, Anakin’s reaction was immediate and unmistakable.

He was seated near the center of the room, his legs swinging slightly as he tried—and failed—to keep still. The tension in the air was almost tangible, the weight of the moment pressing down on everyone present. But the instant Anakin saw Plo, all that tension seemed to vanish.

“Master Plo!” he exclaimed, leaping from his seat with a grin so wide it was impossible not to be moved by the sight. His voice, filled with unrestrained joy, echoed in the quiet chamber, breaking through the careful composure of the gathered Jedi. “Are you going to be my Jedi Master?”

Windu raised an eyebrow, his expression hovering somewhere between bemusement and disapproval. Shaak Ti, seated to his right, tilted her head slightly, a faint smile playing at the edges of her lips.

Plo Koon, ever composed, stepped forward with a grace that seemed effortless. His hands were clasped in front of him, his calm presence a sharp contrast to Anakin’s boundless energy. “That decision has not yet been made, Anakin,” he said, his deep, resonant voice carrying both authority and warmth.

But Anakin’s expression didn’t falter. “But it has to be you,” he insisted, stepping closer. “You saved me. You believed in me before anyone else. Please, Master Plo.”

The sincerity in his voice was undeniable, and for a moment, the room fell silent. The other Jedi exchanged glances, their expressions varying from thoughtful to amused. Even Windu’s stern demeanor softened, his gaze flicking briefly between Anakin and Plo Koon.

Plo Koon regarded Anakin carefully, his head tilting slightly as though considering the boy’s words. Then, slowly, he knelt, bringing himself to Anakin’s eye level. “And if the Council decides otherwise?” he asked gently, his tone low and steady. “What would you do then?”

Anakin hesitated, his brow furrowing as he grappled with the question. His hands, which had been clenched at his sides, relaxed slightly. “I’d... I’d still do my best,” he said finally, his voice quieter now, almost tentative. “But it wouldn’t be the same. I want to learn from you.”

The raw honesty in his words hung in the air, and for the briefest moment, I saw something shift in Plo Koon’s expression. It was subtle—an almost imperceptible flicker of emotion that softened his otherwise inscrutable features.

Plo Koon rose to his feet, his gaze turning toward the Council. “I would be honored to take Anakin as my padawan,” he said, his voice steady and sure.

The decision was unanimous.

Chapter Text

So, a lot has happened since I, uh... came back. “Back” being the keyword, because, well, turns out getting a redo on life isn’t exactly a relaxing vacation. Don’t get me wrong—it’s been great! Really great. Freed my mom? Check. Got Kitster and Wald out of slavery too? Double check. Managed to wriggle my way into the Jedi Order without Qui-Gon’s “Chosen One” speech or the Council looking at me like I’d just offered to blow up the Temple? Oh yeah, triple check that bad boy.

But man, none of this came easy.

For starters, making friends is way easier this time around. Knowing what to say—and more importantly, what not to say—makes a huge difference. It’s like I’ve got this cheat sheet for dealing with people, and honestly? I’m killing it. Ayla? She thinks I’m hilarious. The other younglings? They actually like me. And Madame Nu? Okay, well, let’s not talk about that one just yet.

It all started with Madame Nu. Because, of course, it did. The woman has a sixth sense for sniffing out nonsense, and somehow, despite all my training as the Emperor’s personal liar—I mean, apprentice—my mouth betrayed me at the worst possible moment.

There I was, sitting at a little table in the Archives, minding my own business (well, sort of), working through an astronomy module that was, frankly, way too easy. I’d already jumped three levels ahead because, you know, I actually know this stuff. Turns out, spending years planning hyperspace routes for Imperial fleets gives you a pretty solid understanding of the galaxy’s layout. Who knew?

Anyway, I was zooming in on star clusters and muttering to myself about gravitational wells when I felt a shadow loom over me.

“Skywalker,” Madame Nu said, and I swear her tone had the weight of the entire Jedi Code behind it. I looked up, trying to look innocent—bad move, apparently, because she zeroed in on me like a nexu spotting prey.

“You’ve jumped ahead three modules since yesterday,” she said, leaning slightly over my shoulder. “I thought I told you to pace yourself.”

And, uh, yeah. That’s when I really should’ve just told her the truth—or at least a truth. Instead, my mouth decided it was a good idea to blurt out: “Oh, yeah, that? I already knew most of it. The names, the star clusters... It’s stuff I learned back on Tatooine.”

...Why. Why did I say that?

Her eyebrows shot up so high I thought they might leave her face. “On Tatooine?” she repeated, her tone sharper than a vibroblade. “I wasn’t aware that slavers prioritized teaching their workers the intricacies of galactic navigation.”

Great. Perfect. Just dig that hole a little deeper, Anakin.

“They didn’t,” I mumbled, my grin faltering as I stared at the star map like it might save me. “I, uh... I learned it from some... other people.”

And that’s when she sat down across from me, folding her arms and giving me the look. You know the one—the “I’ve seen a thousand versions of you, and none of them are as clever as they think they are” look.

“Other people?” she said, her voice all calm and terrifying. “Do elaborate, Skywalker.”

I panicked. Full-on, starship-going-down-in-flames panicked. So naturally, I said the first thing that popped into my head.

“Sometimes I’d sneak out at night. To the spaceports. There were bounty hunters there. They’d, uh, talk about the stars and hyperspace routes, and I’d listen. Sometimes they’d let me help, and they’d teach me stuff about flying and systems they visited.”

Now, let me just say: I’ve faced podracers trying to ram me into rock formations. I’ve faced down Sebulba, who fights dirty enough to make a Hutt blush. But nothing—nothing—compares to the sheer power of Madame Nu’s silence. She just stared at me, her expression unreadable, while my brain spiraled into full-on meltdown mode.

“And your mother?” she asked finally, her tone calm but with this underlying edge that made me want to crawl under the table.

Oh no. Mom. My heart sank as I realized how much trouble I’d just dug myself into. “She, uh... didn’t know,” I admitted, ducking my head. “I didn’t want to worry her. But it wasn’t dangerous! I could... feel it when someone wasn’t safe. If they had bad intentions.”

Now, that part was technically true. The Force did let me sense people’s intentions. I just wasn’t sneaking out to spaceports to test it. But Madame Nu didn’t know that, and I wasn’t about to correct her.

She stared at me for what felt like forever, her eyes narrowing slightly. “And you’re certain they wouldn’t have harmed you?”

“I just knew,” I said, a little too emphatically. “It’s like... a feeling. I could tell who was safe and who wasn’t.”

She finally leaned back in her chair, her arms still folded. “A connection to the Force,” she murmured, more to herself than to me. “Even as a child, untrained...”

I shifted in my seat, feeling more exposed by the second. “You’re not going to tell me I shouldn’t have done it, are you?” I asked, trying to sound casual.

“Oh, I’ll tell you that,” she said dryly. “Sneaking out to mingle with bounty hunters is the very definition of reckless behavior, Skywalker. But,” she added, holding up a hand before I could argue, “your instincts were not wrong. And it’s worth noting that they likely kept you safe when logic and circumstance would not.”

I nodded, trying not to look too relieved. “So... you’re not mad?”

“Not mad,” she said, standing with that calm, deliberate grace of hers. “But consider this: a wise Jedi does not rely solely on their connection to the Force. Judgment and preparation are just as important. Your instincts are a gift, but they must be honed, not leaned on as a crutch.”

“Okay,” I said, nodding like a good little Jedi. “I’ll work on that.”

“Good,” she said, giving me one last, long look before turning toward her desk. “For now, focus on your lessons. If you’re so insistent on mastering the stars, you’d best finish the Astronomy Course properly.”

So, yeah. That whole Astronomy debacle? Definitely not my finest moment. When Madame Nu informed my mom about my totally believable, absolutely-not-suspicious story about sneaking out to meet bounty hunters? Let’s just say the aftermath is burned into my brain forever.

It all started the second I stepped through the door that night. I was barely inside when I heard it.

“Anakin Skywalker!”

Oh, no. The full name. I was doomed.

I froze mid-step, my heart sinking as Mom came storming into the room, hands on her hips, her eyes flashing like twin suns about to explode. I briefly considered turning around and walking right back out the door, but before I could make a move, she was already there, glaring at me like I’d personally sabotaged the hyperdrive on her favorite ship.

“Do you have any idea how dangerous that is?” she started, her voice sharp enough to cut through durasteel. “Sneaking out at night? Talking to bounty hunters? You could’ve been hurt! Or worse! What were you thinking?”

“I wasn’t,” I muttered, which, let’s be honest, was at least the truth.

“Clearly!” she shot back, and then she launched into full scolding mode.

I swear, she didn’t even pause to breathe. At one point, she was pacing back and forth like a general preparing troops for battle. There was hand-wringing. There were dramatic pauses. There were heartfelt pleas about “how could you keep this from me?” and “do you know how worried I’d be if I found out?”

I just stood there, nodding and mumbling “yes, ma’am” like a protocol droid set to “apologize mode.” It didn’t matter that none of it was true—Mom didn’t know that, and there was no way I could tell her the real story. So, I just took the scolding like a champ.

Pretty sure my ears are still ringing.

The worst part? I couldn’t even tell her it wasn’t true, because by then, Madame Nu had already started giving me these... approving looks. Like I’d somehow turned this ridiculous, made-up story into proof of my “initiative” or “keen instincts” or whatever.

And yeah, I’ve been through some tough spots in my other life—battles, betrayals, existential crises—but lying to cover up my past timeline knowledge? Turns out, that’s a skill I still need to work on.

Anyway, aside from that one little hiccup, things have been... pretty great. Okay, better than great.

As for the Jedi? They’re actually letting me train. That alone still blows my mind. I mean, I’m technically a padawan now, with a real Master and everything. And yeah, I know I’ve got a long way to go before I’m anywhere near the level I want to be, but this time, I’ve got something I didn’t have before: time.

Time to learn. Time to grow. Time to figure out how to make things right.

And my mom? She’s safe. That’s the part that gets me the most. She’s not stuck on Tatooine anymore, slaving away for someone like Watto. She’s got a job in the Temple hangars now, fixing ships and doing what she’s always been great at. Every weekend, I get to visit her.

There’s this big tree in one of the Temple courtyards where we always meet. We sit under its branches and talk about... everything. The galaxy. The stars. My training. Her new life. She’s so proud of me, and I don’t have to hide anything from her anymore. Well, not really.

It’s funny—after everything that’s happened, after all the mistakes I’ve made, the thing I’m happiest about is seeing her smile again. It’s like a weight I didn’t even know I was carrying has finally lifted.

Another thing that’s different this time? The no-attachments rule. Yeah, that little gem. You know, the one that haunted my entire last life and basically turned me into a walking disaster? Turns out... I didn’t even understand it correctly back then.

It happened during one of those “adjustment talks” they give new initiates, where they explain Jedi philosophy, so you don’t end up wandering the halls confused about why nobody’s hugging (why did no one gave me this talk last time?!). I was sitting cross-legged in one of the meditation rooms, trying really hard not to fidget (spoiler: I failed), when Master Plo and one of the temple instructors started talking about attachments.

Now, my brain was already on high alert because the moment they mentioned “attachments,” I thought, Here we go again. Except this time, instead of dropping some vague, cryptic lecture about suppressing feelings, they actually explained it.

“Attachment,” the instructor began, her voice calm and even, “is not about love, Anakin. It’s about obsession. It’s when your love for someone becomes so consuming that it clouds your judgment. When you prioritize one life over the balance of the galaxy, you risk losing yourself—and them.”

I blinked, my mind racing. “So... you’re not saying I can’t love people? Like my mom?”

“Not at all,” she said, smiling softly. “Love rooted in compassion and understanding is a strength, not a weakness. It connects us to the Force. Your love for your mother, for example, is pure. It’s the kind of love we encourage, not suppress.”

Okay, so that’s when the panic attack hit.

I mean, imagine being told—actually told—that love wasn’t the problem. That it was okay to love, as long as you didn’t let it control you. And all I could think about was... how many people I’d lost in the other timeline. How many terrible decisions I’d made because I thought the Jedi were telling me I couldn’t love at all. Turns out, they weren’t. I’d just... misunderstood.

My chest felt tight, and my breathing got all weird, and before I knew it, Plo Koon was kneeling in front of me, his voice calm but firm.

“Anakin,” he said, placing a hand on my shoulder. “Breathe. Focus on my voice. You’re safe. You’re here. Just breathe.”

I managed a shaky inhale, then another, and eventually, the storm in my head quieted. Plo didn’t ask any questions—he just waited, his presence steady and grounding.

Finally, I managed to say, “All the pain... all the death. It didn’t have to happen.”

Plo tilted his head slightly, his mask hiding whatever expression he might’ve had. “What do you mean, young one?”

“Nothing,” I muttered quickly, shaking my head. “Just... I’m glad you explained it. I didn’t... I didn’t know.”

He studied me for a long moment, then nodded. “Understanding is the foundation of the Jedi way,” he said. “And you are not expected to master it all at once. You are learning, Anakin. That is what matters.”

Looking back now, I realize that moment was kind of the drop that broke the eopie’s back. All the chaos, all the destruction in my old timeline—it wasn’t just Palpatine’s manipulation or my own stupidity. A lot of it was miscommunication. If someone had just sat me down and explained the actual meaning of the Code, maybe things wouldn’t have spiraled the way they did.

But this time? This time, I’ve got a fresh start. No pushy Qui-Gon trying to shove me into the Order like a piece that doesn’t fit. No Council scowling at me like I’m some sort of ticking time bomb. Just... time. Time to learn, time to adjust. And Plo? He’s been incredible.

Plo’s not the kind of master who lectures you for hours about abstract ideals. He’s more of a “show, don’t tell” kind of guy. He’s patient—way more patient than I deserve—and he actually listens. Like, really listens. And he knows when to push and when to step back.

I’ve made mistakes, of course. I still talk too much, and sometimes I ask questions that make the masters rub their temples like they’re regretting everything. But I’m trying. I’m learning.

And the best part? I don’t feel like I have to hide anything anymore. Not my love for my mom, not my excitement about learning, not even my doubts. The Jedi actually want me to be myself.

So, guess who gets their very own Jedi Master? Me. That’s who. Turns out, when you’re the mysterious “new kid with potential,” everyone suddenly has an opinion about who gets to train you. It’s like being the last piece of cake at a party—except instead of fighting over frosting, they’re debating who gets to teach me how to move things with my brain.

Now, don’t get me wrong—I’m flattered. Really, I am. But the whole thing was weird. Apparently, both Master Shaak Ti and Master Windu wanted to train me. I know, I know. Shaak Ti is amazing. Wise, patient, calm—the kind of master who’d probably turn me into a model Jedi if I didn’t drive her crazy first. And Windu? Well, let’s just say discipline is kind of his whole thing, and something tells me he’d make sure I never got away with anything. Ever.

The thing is... I didn’t want either of them.

Don’t get me wrong—they’re great. But when I imagined who I wanted standing by my side, guiding me through this crazy new life, there was only one choice. The one who saved me. The one who freed me. The one who believed in me before anyone else.

High Council Master Plo Koon.

I mean, it wasn’t even a competition. Plo was my Master. From the moment I saw him collapse in the sands of Tatooine one year before I should have met the Jedi, I knew. And yeah, I get it. Powerful Jedi backing and all that. I did learn quite a lot during my time at the Empire about having the right backing. But it’s not just about politics or protection. It’s about kindness.

Here’s the thing: in my old life—back when everything went wrong—kindness wasn’t something I got a lot of. Sure, there were moments, but mostly it was people expecting things from me, pushing me, pulling me in a thousand directions. But Plo? He’s different.

When Plo looks at me, I don’t see judgment. I don’t see expectations so high they feel like chains. I see understanding. He’s patient, even when I mess up (which is a lot, by the way. That’s exactly what I needed to even begin healing.

So, when the Council finally made the announcement, I tried to act cool about it. You know, casual. Like, “Oh yeah, I totally knew this was happening.” Spoiler alert: I failed.

The second they said Plo would be my Master, I couldn’t stop grinning. I mean, I probably looked ridiculous—this tiny, bouncing kid standing next to a literal Jedi High Council member—but I didn’t care.

“Master Plo!” I said, practically running up to him. “Does this mean you’re going to teach me now? For real?”

He tilted his head, his voice calm but warm. “If you are ready to learn, Padawan Skywalker.”

“Are you kidding? I’m so ready!” I said, beaming up at him. “What’s first? Lightsabers? Force stuff? Oh, can we fly somewhere? Please tell me we’re going to fly somewhere!”

I heard a quiet chuckle behind me, and I turned to see Shaak Ti smiling faintly. “Enthusiasm is a good start,” she said. “But remember, Anakin, the path of a Jedi requires patience.”

“Right. Patience. Got it,” I said quickly, nodding like that would make me seem more patient or something. (Spoiler: it didn’t.)

So now that Plo was officially my Jedi Master, I moved into his quarters, and the real lessons began. And by “real lessons,” I mean everything. Meditation (still the worst), lightsaber forms (getting there), and flying (the highlight of every week). Turns out, having a Master means you don’t just learn new stuff—you also figure out how much you don’t know. Spoiler alert: It’s a lot.

Moving into his quarters was... strange at first. For starters, his rooms were way bigger than the cramped initiate dorm I’d been sharing with a dozen other kids. There were no more bunk beds, no noisy younglings arguing about who stole whose datapad or whose turn it was to sweep the floors. Just me and Plo.

And the quiet. That was the weirdest part. I mean, I’m used to chaos. Tatooine wasn’t exactly peaceful, and the Temple dorms were loud in the way only rooms full of kids could be. But Plo’s quarters? Silent. Not the uncomfortable kind of silence, though—it was steady, calm.

He’s not much of a talker, by the way. Plo doesn’t feel the need to fill every pause with words the way I do. At first, it made me a little twitchy. I mean, how do you bond with someone who can sit there, perfectly still, for hours?

But somehow, it wasn’t awkward. Plo’s one of those people who can make silence feel... safe. He’s like a starfighter on a clear course—calm, deliberate, steady. The kind of presence that makes you feel like, no matter what happens, things will be okay.

I couldn’t help comparing him to Obi-Wan. I didn’t want to—I love Obi-Wan, okay? He tried so hard in my other life. He really did. He gave me everything he had, even when I made it ridiculously hard for him. And I know he cared about me, even if he didn’t always show it in the ways I needed. But the thing is... Obi-Wan wasn’t ready to be a Master back then.

I mean, how could he have been? He’d just lost Qui-Gon, and anyone who knew them could tell you how much that hit him. They weren’t just Master and Padawan—they were practically family. And then, right after losing the closest thing he had to a father figure, Obi-Wan got stuck with me—this Force-wreck of a kid with more baggage than a Corellian freighter. He didn’t get a break to process, didn’t get the time to figure himself out. Instead, he got handed the responsibility of training me, a walking storm with no idea how to rein myself in.

Obi-Wan was too young. Too strict. Not because he didn’t care, but because he was scared. Scared he’d fail me, scared he’d fail Qui-Gon’s last wish. He followed the Jedi Code like it was a lifeline, and sometimes that made him feel more like a teacher than anything else. We had good moments, don’t get me wrong. But looking back... he wasn’t what I needed. Not then.

Plo? He’s... different.

He’s like the buir—the father—I never had. And yeah, I know that word’s from Mando’a, but it fits better than anything else I can think of. He’s not just teaching me how to be a Jedi; he’s raising me. Guiding me.

With Plo, there’s no sense of urgency, no unspoken pressure that I have to prove myself or live up to some impossible standard. He doesn’t push me to be perfect—he pushes me to be better. And when I mess up (which happens a lot), he doesn’t get frustrated or disappointed. He just... shows me how to fix it.

Plo listens. Like, really listens. I don’t feel like I have to put on some act around him or hide the parts of myself that don’t fit the Jedi mold. He doesn’t lecture me about my emotions or tell me to “let go” in that vague, frustrating way Obi-Wan sometimes did. Instead, he helps me understand them. He explains things in a way that actually makes sense—like the difference between attachment and love, or why balance isn’t just about the Force but about how I approach everything.

And then there’s the way he handles the little things.

When I get excited and start rambling about podracers or hyperdrive modifications, he doesn’t shut me down or tell me to “focus.” He listens, even if I can tell he doesn’t always understand what I’m talking about. And when I mess up during training—whether it’s crashing a flight sim or fumbling a lightsaber routine—he doesn’t make a big deal out of it. He just gives me that calm, steady look and says, “Try again, young one.”

It’s like he knows exactly when to step in and when to let me figure it out for myself. He’s patient in a way that doesn’t feel patronizing. And somehow, even when he’s quiet, I feel like I can hear everything he’s trying to teach me.

He doesn’t just see me as a Jedi in training—he sees me as Anakin. With all my flaws, my questions, my excitement, my doubts. And for the first time in... maybe forever, I feel like that’s enough.

So yeah, Obi-Wan did his best. I’ll always love him for that. But with Plo? He doesn’t just make me want to be a better Jedi. He makes me want to be a better person. And maybe that’s what I needed all along.

It helped that we bonded over flying almost immediately.

The first time he took me out in a starfighter, I swear I could’ve passed out from excitement. “You’ll observe this time,” he said as we climbed into the cockpit. “Watch how I navigate, how I calculate jumps. Pay attention to the controls.”

“Right,” I said, nodding enthusiastically. “Observation. Totally got it.”

Except... not even two minutes into the flight, I couldn’t help myself. “What’s that button for? Does it adjust the stabilizers? Oh! And the throttle—why does it have those extra markings? Is that for atmospheric transitions? Can I try—”

“Patience, Anakin,” Plo said, his tone calm but firm.

I slumped back into my seat with an exaggerated sigh. “Patience. Of course. My favorite thing,” I muttered, crossing my arms.

He glanced at me, and even with the mask, I could tell he was amused. “You’ll have your chance soon enough. First, you must learn to observe. A pilot who doesn’t pay attention to their surroundings doesn’t stay a pilot for long.”

“Yeah, yeah,” I mumbled, but I watched. I really watched. And as Plo expertly maneuvered through the simulated debris field, explaining each adjustment and decision with that calm, steady voice of his, I realized... he was teaching me to see flying as more than just a thrill. It was about precision. Balance.

Later that week, he let me take the controls.

I’d like to say it was a smooth flight, that I nailed every turn and landed perfectly. But... no.

“Okay, so maybe I misjudged the angle a little,” I said as the training droid recalibrated the sim pod after my third crash.

“A little?” Plo echoed, his tone dry but not unkind.

I turned in my seat to look at him. “Hey, in my defense, the controls are way more sensitive than I expected. You didn’t warn me about that!”

“Perhaps I thought it was something you’d observe,” he said, his head tilting slightly.

Touché.

Still, by the end of the session, I’d gotten the hang of it—or at least enough to pull off a few decent maneuvers. When I finally landed the sim craft without blowing it up, Plo nodded approvingly. “Better,” he said simply.

I grinned, leaning back in the seat. “Better? C’mon, Master Plo. That was practically perfect!”

“Let’s not get ahead of ourselves, young one,” he replied, his voice warm with just a hint of amusement.

Flying became our thing. When I wasn’t in the training room or stuck meditating (ugh), we were in the sim pods or out on short practice flights. Plo had this way of making even the smallest progress feel like a victory, but he never let me get too cocky.

“Confidence is important,” he said one evening as we sat in the cockpit of his fighter, watching the lights of Coruscant below. “But overconfidence blinds you to your weaknesses. Always strive for balance, Anakin.”

I nodded, pretending I wasn’t totally distracted by how cool the city looked from up here. “Balance. Got it.”

He glanced at me, and I could tell he didn’t buy my act. “You’re not listening.”

“I’m totally listening,” I said, grinning.

He sighed, shaking his head slightly. “Focus, young one.”

Plo also praised me for picking up lightsaber techniques quickly, which, yeah, I’ll admit felt good. There’s something about hearing him say, “Well done, young one,” that makes me stand up a little taller. Not too tall though—my balance still isn’t great, and the last thing I need is to trip over my own feet during practice.

But here’s the thing: while my brain seems to have lightsaber combat all figured out, my eight-year-old body? Not so much.

“Your mind is ahead of your movements,” Plo said during one of our sessions, his calm voice somehow managing to not make me feel completely useless. “You understand the forms well, but your body is still catching up. Be patient. It will come.”

Patience. My least favorite word.

I grumbled under my breath, lining up for another pass through the basic Shii-Cho routine. “It’s not fair,” I muttered, gripping the training saber tighter than I probably should. “I know what I’m doing. I can see it in my head—how the moves should flow, how the strikes should land. It’s all right there. But then my legs are like, ‘Nope, not today, buddy,’ and my arms are all wobbly like I’m trying to balance on a podracer going through a sandstorm.”

“Your arms and legs,” Plo said, stepping closer to adjust my stance, “are not the problem, Anakin. Your frustration is. You are attempting to force mastery before your body is ready. That is why you stumble.”

I blew out a frustrated breath and glanced up at him. “Well, maybe my body could hurry it up a little? Just a thought.”

He didn’t laugh, but I could tell he was amused—something about the slight tilt of his head and the way he held the hilt of his own lightsaber loosely at his side. “Your body will adapt with time,” he said, stepping back to give me space. “For now, focus on what you can control. Breathe. Center yourself. Begin again.”

Center myself. Sure. Because that’s easy when you feel like a malfunctioning training droid. But I did as he said—mostly because he was still watching me with that patient, unshakable calm that made it impossible to argue. I took a deep breath, reset my stance, and started the routine again.

This time, I made it through the first three strikes without messing up. My footing was better, my swings were more controlled, and for half a second, I thought, Hey, I might actually have this!

And then my left foot decided to betray me. I shifted too quickly, lost my balance, and ended up stumbling forward.

The training saber clattered to the floor, and I let out a groan, dropping to my knees to pick it up. “Great,” I muttered, gripping the hilt tightly. “I’m officially the worst Jedi ever.”

“Hardly,” Plo said, stepping forward to offer me a hand.

I hesitated before taking it, letting him pull me to my feet. “Yeah, but come on, Master Plo. You’ve seen the others, right? Half of them are like... spinning their sabers around like they’re part of some holo-drama, and here I am tripping over my own feet like a complete nerf herder.”

He tilted his head slightly, his mask giving nothing away, but his voice carried a hint of humor. “The others have been training for years, Anakin. You have been training for six months. Comparing yourself to them serves no purpose.”

“Yeah, well,” I said, brushing some invisible dust off my tunic, “tell that to my bruised ego.”

Plo knelt then, his calm gaze meeting mine. “Do you know what I see when I watch you train?”

“A disaster?” I guessed, my tone half-sarcastic, half-serious.

He shook his head. “I see potential. Determination. The willingness to push through difficulty, even when it frustrates you. Those qualities are what make a Jedi, Anakin—not perfection.”

For a moment, I didn’t know what to say. The way he said it, so steady and sure, made it hard not to believe him. I glanced down at the training saber in my hand, turning it over slowly. “You really think I’ll get there?”

“I do,” he said simply, standing again. “But only if you allow yourself to grow. Do not let your impatience become a barrier.”

Impatience. Yeah, okay, I’ve got plenty of that. But as I reset my stance for another go, I decided maybe—just maybe—I could give this patience thing a shot. For Plo, if not for me.

And yeah, I still stumbled a few more times that day, but by the end of the session, I nailed the routine. Not perfectly, but enough that Plo gave me one of those rare nods of approval that feels like winning a podrace.

And you know what? For now, that’s enough.

Dinner with Plo and Mom was... different from what I expected. Not bad, just different. Plo isn’t exactly a chatty dinner companion, and Mom always likes to check in on, well, everything. So, the whole thing felt a little like being caught between a calm, quiet storm and a warm, very concerned sun.

We were sitting in Plo’s quarters because, apparently, Jedi Masters eat like normal people too—who knew? The food wasn’t bad, though I still miss the spiced flatbread from Tatooine. Mom sat across from me, fiddling with a tool she’d pulled from her pocket (she always has one on her, it’s like a rule or something), while Plo served himself in that slow, deliberate way of his.

“So, Anakin,” Mom started, her voice full of that tone that makes you sit up straighter even when you don’t want to. “How are your classes going?”

I shrugged, trying not to look too smug. “They’re fine. I mean, I’m still ahead in most stuff.”

“Most stuff?” she repeated, raising an eyebrow.

“Yeah, you know, the important things,” I said, taking a big bite of whatever stew Plo had made. It was surprisingly good, by the way—who knew he could cook?

Mom wasn’t buying it. “And what about the things you’re not ahead in?”

“Lightsaber forms,” I admitted with a sigh, poking at my bowl with a spoon. “But that’s only because my body hasn’t caught up yet.” I waved my free hand dramatically, like I was giving some grand explanation. “Master Plo says my brain’s way ahead of my feet. It’s, like, a whole thing.”

Mom looked at me for a long moment, her expression caught somewhere between amused and exasperated. “You’ve always been impatient,” she said, shaking her head. “Even as a baby. Always trying to run before you could walk.”

“Well, maybe walking is overrated,” I said, grinning. “Flying’s better anyway.”

That made her laugh, which felt like a win.

“And your other classes?” Plo asked, his deep, calm voice breaking through the conversation like the hum of a lightsaber.

I looked over at him, trying to gauge whether he was fishing for a specific answer. “Fine,” I said again, leaning back in my chair. “Astronomy’s still my favorite, obviously. History’s not bad, though I might have gotten into an argument with one of the other initiates about galactic trade routes.”

Plo tilted his head slightly. “An argument?”

“It wasn’t my fault!” I said quickly, sitting up straighter. “I just pointed out that the Corellian Run was established way before the Perlemian Trade Route, and then Drel started acting like I was making stuff up. So, you know, I had to prove him wrong. With maps.”

“And did you prove him wrong?” Plo asked, his tone as steady as ever.

“Of course,” I said, grinning again. “But then Madame Nu told us to ‘take our spirited debate outside the Archives.’ Which is her nice way of saying, ‘Stop yelling over maps in my library.’”

Mom pinched the bridge of her nose, muttering something under her breath about “Skywalkers and their stubbornness.”

“And your peers?” Plo asked after a pause. “How are you bonding with them?”

I hesitated, glancing down at my bowl. “Fine,” I said, but the word came out quieter this time.

Mom’s hand stilled on her tool, and she looked at me with that soft, mom-like expression that makes you want to tell her everything but also kind of makes you want to run away. “Anakin,” she said gently, “what’s wrong?”

“Nothing,” I said quickly, then sighed when they both just stared at me. “Okay, it’s not nothing. It’s just... I like the other kids, and most of them are nice, but sometimes it’s... hard.”

Plo set his utensil down, his attention fully on me now. “Hard in what way?”

I shrugged, trying to find the right words. “I guess... I feel different. Like they’re all used to this—being Jedi, following the Code, all of it. And I’m... not. Sometimes it feels like I’m still playing catch-up, even when I’m ahead.”

Mom reached across the table, placing her hand over mine. “You’ve been through so much already, Ani. It’s okay to feel out of place sometimes. That doesn’t mean you don’t belong.”

I nodded, staring at her hand. “Yeah, I know. It’s just... I don’t want to mess this up, you know? This is my chance, and I don’t want to blow it.”

“You won’t,” Plo said firmly, his voice grounding me like it always does. “You are learning, Anakin. That is all we ask of you. The rest will come with time.”

“Patience,” I muttered, trying not to roll my eyes.

Plo tilted his head again, and I swear I could feel the ghost of a smile beneath that mask. “Yes. Patience.”

Mom smiled too, squeezing my hand before letting go. “And maybe a little less arguing about trade routes.”

“No promises,” I said, grinning despite myself.

After dinner was over, as I lay in bed, staring up at the ceiling, guilt gnawed at me like a hungry womp rat. Lying to Mom and Plo—it didn’t sit right. They were my parents now. Mom, with her soft voice and steady hands, always knowing what to say to make me feel like I belonged. And Plo, with his unshakable calm and quiet belief in me, like he saw past all the chaos inside me and still thought I was worth something.

And here I was, lying to them.

It wasn’t big stuff—not really. But every time I faked a struggle in class, every time I played dumb about a concept I could practically teach, every time I let them think I was just some overwhelmed kid trying his best... it felt like I was betraying them.

Because the truth is, I’m not just an overwhelmed kid. I’m a time-traveling ex-Sith who once ruled at the Emperor’s side, doing terrible things in the name of power, survival, and revenge. I’m someone who has seen too much, done too much, and knows more than an eight-year-old ever should.

But I can’t tell them that.

Mom wouldn’t understand—not really. She’d try, because she always does, but the weight of everything I’ve been through would crush her. And Plo... Plo might understand, but it would change everything between us. How could he look at me the same way if he knew what I’ve done? If he knew about the things I can’t take back?

So, yeah, I have to keep up the act. The act of an eight-year-old boy who’s struggling, learning, trying to find his place. I can’t be perfect at everything—not if I want to avoid suspicion. I have to “catch up” in my classes, have arguments with my peers, and fumble during lightsaber practice.

It’s not even hard, honestly. Being the Emperor’s dog made me a great actor. I spent years pretending to be calm when I was furious, loyal when I was scheming, composed when I was falling apart. Acting was survival.

At least this time, I’m putting those skills to use for something good.

But lying to Mom and Plo? It stings. They’ve given me nothing but trust, love, and patience, and all I can do is pile on half-truths and pretend to be someone I’m not. Not yet, anyway.

I sighed, turning onto my side and pulling the blanket up to my chin. Maybe one day I’ll tell them. When the time is right. When I’ve earned the chance to explain.

I’ll keep playing the part. Because if lying means protecting the future, giving myself a real shot at redemption, and keeping the people, I care about safe... it’s a small price to pay.

I closed my eyes, willing sleep to come. One more day down. One more day closer to getting it right this time.

Chapter Text

Waking up felt like crawling out of a Sarlacc pit—slow, painful, and with a lingering sense of regret about every decision that had brought me to this point. My head throbbed with a vengeance, each pulse a reminder that I had severely overestimated my tolerance for Corellian ale. My stomach churned as if trying to throw itself into hyperspace, and my mouth... I couldn’t even begin to describe the dry, bitter taste lingering there. It was somewhere between sandpaper and whatever Tatooine dust storms leave behind in your robes.

With a groan, I pried my eyes open, only to immediately regret it. The faint light streaming through the half-drawn blinds in Quinlan’s quarters stabbed at my retinas like a lightsaber duel gone wrong. I hissed, squeezing my eyes shut again, muttering under my breath, Never again.

The smell in the room didn’t help either. Stale alcohol clung to the air like an unwelcome guest, mixing with the faint, metallic tang of unwashed durasteel armor Quinlan had apparently left sitting in the corner. My stomach rolled dangerously, and I forced myself to take slow, deep breaths, clutching at what little dignity I had left.

This was all Quinlan’s fault.

Well, mostly.

To be fair, celebrating Quinlan Vos’s ascension to Jedi Knight and his inauguration as a Jedi Shadow did feel like a momentous occasion. It wasn’t every day someone survived the Trials and came out the other side with both their mind and limbs intact. And, as Quinlan had so eloquently put it last night: “What’s the point of surviving the Trials if you can’t live a little afterward?”

Naturally, I was hesitant. I am me, after all. But Quinlan had that infuriating charm, the kind that made you feel like you were boring if you didn’t go along with his harebrained schemes. One minute, I was sitting in the Temple debating the wisdom of indulging in any kind of post-Trials debauchery. The next, I was being dragged down to the lower levels of Coruscant, a bemused expression on my face and a drink in my hand.

That’s where things got... fuzzy.

I groaned again, louder this time, as I forced myself into a sitting position. The room spun briefly, and I clutched at my head, willing it to stop. My thoughts were sluggish, like trying to wade through knee-deep mud on Dagobah.

I glanced around, my surroundings slowly coming into focus. Quinlan’s quarters. His private quarters, I noted with some relief. That was something, at least. No waking up in the middle of the lower levels with a smuggler’s blaster pressed to my temple or—Force forbid—a Hutt asking for rent money.

I was on Quinlan’s bed, which was... well, a bit embarrassing, if I were being honest. But given the alternative—collapsing somewhere far less dignified on the lower levels—I supposed it was a minor victory. Small mercies.

The last thing I needed was for Qui-Gon to discover me hungover. He’d probably raise an eyebrow, offer some vague philosophical comment about moderation, and then make me meditate until I wanted to die.

The room was in its usual state of organized chaos. Quinlan’s outer robes were draped haphazardly over the back of a chair, his boots discarded near the door, one of them lying on its side as if he’d kicked it off mid-stride. A pile of datapads sat precariously on the edge of his desk, next to a sketchbook that had fallen open to a half-finished drawing of something vaguely Twi’lek in nature.

I glanced down at myself, relieved to find that I was still fully dressed, albeit rumpled. My tunic was slightly wrinkled, and there was a faint stain on my sleeve that I really hoped wasn’t from last night’s mystery cocktail.

Still groggy, I swung my legs over the side of the bed and stood, wobbling slightly as the blood rushed to my head. “Right,” I mumbled to myself, steadying myself against the wall. “Time to salvage what little dignity I have left.”

I stumbled toward the refresher, wincing with every step as my boots clunked against the floor louder than they should’ve. The bright light in the small bathroom made me squint, and I leaned heavily against the sink as I turned on the faucet.

The cool water was a blessing. I splashed it over my face, letting it wash away the remnants of sleep and some of the fog in my mind. Slowly, I straightened, meeting my own bloodshot eyes in the mirror. “This is why Jedi don’t drink,” I muttered, shaking my head at my reflection. “At least not this much.”

Once I felt slightly more human, I shuffled back into the main room. Quinlan was still sprawled across the couch, his dark hair a tangled mess, one arm hanging off the side. He was snoring lightly, blissfully unaware of the state he’d left me in.

I sighed, rubbing my temples. “Of course he’s still asleep.”

Tea. Tea would help.

I found the small kitchenette in the corner of the room and rummaged through the cabinets until I found a tin of loose tea leaves. Quinlan’s quarters weren’t as Spartan as most Jedi’s—there were little personal touches everywhere, like a half-finished sketchbook on the table and a pair of mismatched mugs next to the kettle.

I set the kettle to boil, the gentle hum of the heating element oddly soothing. As the water warmed, I leaned against the counter, taking slow, deep breaths to center myself.

Focus, Obi-Wan, I thought. The worst is over. Just don’t let Quinlan talk you into another celebration anytime soon.

When the tea was ready, I poured two cups, the fragrant steam rising like a balm for my throbbing head. Balancing the mugs carefully, I made my way back to Quinlan and set one on the low table in front of the couch.

“Quinlan,” I called, my voice hoarse but firm.

Nothing.

I set my own mug down and leaned over, nudging his shoulder. “Quinlan Vos, wake up. You dragged me into this mess, and you’re not sleeping through the consequences.”

He groaned, swatting lazily at my hand like a child refusing to get up for school. “Go away, Obi-Wan,” he mumbled, his voice muffled by the couch cushion.

I raised an eyebrow. “You do realize I made tea, don’t you? And if you don’t wake up soon, I’ll drink yours too.”

That got a reaction. Quinlan cracked one eye open, his expression groggy but amused. “You wouldn’t dare,” he said, his voice gravelly.

I crossed my arms, smirking faintly. “Wouldn’t I?”

With a dramatic groan, Quinlan sat up, running a hand through his tangled hair and wincing as he moved. “Remind me never to take you drinking again,” he said, reaching for the mug.

I laughed softly, sinking into a chair opposite him. “You say that as though it was my idea.”

He grinned, despite his obvious discomfort. “You needed it. You’re too uptight sometimes, Obi-Wan. Loosen up, live a little.”

I sipped my tea, letting the warmth settle in my chest. “If this is what ‘living a little’ feels like, I think I’ll stick to being uptight, thank you very much.”

Quinlan chuckled, shaking his head as he took a sip of his own tea. For a moment, we sat in comfortable silence, the quiet hum of the room a stark contrast to the chaos of the previous night.

As much as I hated to admit it, there was something... grounding about the camaraderie of it all. Quinlan had a way of reminding me that, for all our duties and discipline, we were still people beneath the robes.

I took another sip of tea, feeling the last remnants of my headache begin to fade. “Just promise me one thing,” I said, glancing at Quinlan over the rim of my mug.

“What’s that?” he asked, smirking.

“If I ever let you talk me into something like this again, make sure I don’t have to see Master Yoda the next morning.”

Quinlan laughed, raising his mug in a mock toast. “Deal.”

Preparing breakfast with Quinlan was an exercise in groggy coordination and silent understanding. Neither of us had the energy for much conversation, the throbbing behind our eyes and the queasiness in our stomachs demanding all our focus. The kitchen was small, tucked neatly into the corner of his quarters, but the limited space didn’t seem to matter—there was an unspoken truce to keep movements minimal and noise to an absolute minimum.

I shuffled to the cabinets, squinting at the shelves until I located the tin of tea leaves. Quinlan, still half-asleep, leaned against the counter with a loaf of bread in one hand and a knife in the other, looking as though he couldn’t decide if slicing the bread was worth the effort.

“We will need more tea first,” I muttered, setting the kettle to boil. The sound of the heating element was barely audible, but even that seemed loud in the quiet, hungover haze.

Quinlan grunted in agreement, his head tipping forward to rest against the cabinet above him. “You’re a lifesaver, Obi-Wan,” he mumbled.

“I’ll remind you of that the next time you drag me into the lower levels,” I replied dryly, reaching for two mismatched mugs on the counter. One had a faint chip along the rim, and the other had some kind of Twi’lek proverb scrawled across it in faded Aurebesh.

Quinlan straightened enough to finally start slicing the bread, though the first cut was more of a ragged tear. “You can’t tell me you didn’t have some fun,” he said, his voice hoarse but teasing.

“I’m sure it was fun,” I admitted, setting the mugs down and measuring out the tea leaves. “At least, the parts I can remember.”

He laughed softly, though the sound quickly turned into a wince as he rubbed his temple. “Fair. But next time, we skip the Ithorian ale.”

“Next time?” I shot him a look over my shoulder. “Force preserve me, Quinlan, you’re already planning the next time?”

He smirked, waving a hand vaguely in my direction as he placed the torn slices of bread onto a plate. “Relax, Master Buzzkill. I’ll give you at least a month to recover.”

I rolled my eyes, turning my attention back to the tea as the kettle whistled softly. Pouring the water over the leaves, I let the fragrant steam rise, the soothing aroma cutting through the lingering haze in my head.

“Fruit,” Quinlan mumbled, glancing toward the small bowl of overripe fruit on the counter. He picked up a bruised meiloorun, turning it over in his hands as though deciding if it was worth salvaging. “Do we trust this, or...?”

“Just cut around the bruises,” I said, pulling a knife from the drawer. “And try not to hurt yourself in the process.”

He snorted, setting to work with a little more enthusiasm than I expected, though his cuts were uneven and borderline chaotic.

“Remind me to never let you near a lightsaber when you’re like this,” I said, watching him hack away at the meiloorun like it owed him credits.

“Hey,” he said, pointing the knife at me with mock indignation. “I’ll have you know I’m an artist with a blade.”

“Mm-hm,” I replied, setting the mugs of tea on the small table as Quinlan added his... unique interpretation of sliced fruit to the plate of bread.

The table was set with minimal fanfare—a plate of mismatched slices of bread and fruit, two mugs of tea, and a jar of something resembling jam that we both eyed warily but didn’t comment on. We slid into our seats with the slow, deliberate movements of men trying to avoid upsetting their stomachs any further.

Quinlan slumped in his chair, one leg propped lazily on the seat beside him, his fingers idly tearing at a piece of bread. I sat across from him, sipping my tea and letting the warmth soothe the lingering ache in my head.

“Breakfast of champions,” Quinlan muttered, popping a piece of fruit into his mouth with a grimace.

“Breakfast of necessity,” I corrected, taking a cautious bite of bread. It was dry, but mercifully bland, and for that, I was grateful.

We ate in companionable silence for a few minutes, the sound of the fountains outside Quinlan’s quarters filtering through the open window. It was a quiet moment, far removed from the chaos of the previous night, and for all my complaints, I couldn’t help but feel a faint sense of camaraderie.

“Next time,” Quinlan said suddenly, breaking the silence, “we bring someone else to babysit you.”

I raised an eyebrow. “Me? Babysit me?”

“You’re the one who nearly knocked over a Wookiee,” he said, smirking as he leaned back in his chair.

“I did no such thing,” I replied, though the faint, blurry memory of nearly colliding with a very large, very unimpressed Wookiee surfaced in the back of my mind.

“Sure, sure,” Quinlan said, waving me off. “Just remember, Obi-Wan, next time it’s your turn to lead the way.”

I sighed, taking another sip of tea. “There won’t be a next time.”

He grinned, his dark eyes twinkling with mischief. “Whatever you say, Master Buzzkill.”

I shook my head, but despite myself, a faint smile tugged at the corner of my lips. Breakfast might have been simple, but the company—chaotic as it was—made it a little easier to stomach the aftermath of last night’s... misadventures.

“So,” I began, taking a cautious sip of tea, “what’s your plan for today?”

Quinlan looked up, blinking slowly as though the question required an immense amount of effort to process. “Plan?” he echoed, his voice raspy from sleep.

“Yes, Quinlan,” I said with a hint of exasperation. “That thing where you decide what you’re going to do with your day? You might have heard of it.”

“Very funny,” he muttered, tossing the bread onto his plate. “If you must know, I’m meeting with Tholme.”

“Ah, your illustrious former Master,” I said, leaning back in my chair. “And what wisdom are you hoping to glean from him today?”

Quinlan hesitated, which was unusual for him. Normally, he’d jump right into some quip or sarcastic remark, but instead, he fiddled with the handle of his mug, avoiding my gaze.

“It’s about taking a padawan,” he said finally, his voice softer than usual.

I nearly choked on my tea. “A padawan? Already?”

“I know,” he said quickly, holding up a hand as though to ward off my inevitable protest. “It’s soon. Too soon. But there’s this kid—”

“A kid,” I repeated, my tone dubious.

Quinlan shot me a look, but there was no irritation in it, just a quiet intensity I wasn’t used to seeing from him. “Her name’s Aayla. Aayla Secura. She’s in the crèche.”

I blinked, caught off guard. “The crèche? You’re planning to take on a padawan straight from the crèche?”

“It’s not like that,” Quinlan said quickly, running a hand through his disheveled hair. “Tholme stuck me with crèche duty a few months back—said it would ‘teach me responsibility’ or something. Anyway, that’s when I met her. She’s... incredible, Obi-Wan. Smart, curious, so in tune with the Force it’s like she breathes it.”

I raised an eyebrow, still skeptical. “And you’re sure you’re ready for this? You’ve only just been knighted, Quinlan.”

He sighed, leaning back in his chair and staring up at the ceiling. “No, I’m not sure. That’s why I’m talking to Tholme. But there’s something about her, Obi-Wan. She’s got this spark, you know? And she looks up to me. Trusts me.”

I studied him for a moment, the seriousness in his tone striking. Quinlan wasn’t one to wax poetic about anything, let alone a child from the crèche. But there was no denying the sincerity in his words.

“And if someone else takes her as their padawan?” I asked carefully.

His jaw tightened, and he looked back at me with a determination that bordered on ferocity. “I can’t let that happen,” he said. “She deserves someone who sees her for who she is, not just what she can do. If that means stepping up before I’m ready, then so be it.”

For a moment, neither of us spoke. The hum of the tea kettle filled the quiet, and I found myself nodding slowly.

“Well,” I said, finally breaking the silence, “if anyone’s going to make an impulsive decision like this, I suppose it might as well be you.”

Quinlan smirked, his usual confidence creeping back into his expression. “That’s the closest thing to a compliment I’ve ever heard from you.”

“Don’t get used to it,” I replied, finishing my tea.

“What about you?” he asked, leaning forward with renewed interest. “What’s your big plan for the day? More exciting than mine, I hope.”

I snorted softly. “Hardly. Qui-Gon is at the Senate, which leaves me with a rare free morning. I thought I might head to the Room of a Thousand Fountains. Some meditation would do me good after last night’s... festivities.”

Quinlan laughed, shaking his head. “You really are hopeless, you know that? Meditation? After last night?”

“And what would you suggest, Quinlan?” I countered.

“More sleep,” he said with a grin. “Or, you know, something fun for once.”

“Fun,” I repeated, my tone flat. “Because last night wasn’t fun enough for you?”

“Hey, I’m not the one complaining,” he shot back, raising his mug in mock toast. “Have fun in your fountains, Obi-Wan. Try not to fall in.”

“I’ll keep that in mind,” I said dryly as I stood, gathering my plate and cup.

As we tidied up, I couldn’t help but glance at him once more, his usual irreverence tempered by a quiet thoughtfulness I hadn’t seen before. Perhaps he wasn’t as reckless as he let on.

By the time we parted ways, me heading for meditation and Quinlan off to seek his Master’s advice, the heaviness of the previous night had lifted. For all his unpredictability, Quinlan had a way of grounding me in the most unexpected ways.

And, to his credit, my hangover was almost gone. Almost.

However, as I walked through the Room of a Thousand Fountains, my mind preoccupied with half-formed thoughts, I stumbled—not over my own feet, thankfully, but over something far more profound.

The presence.

It was bright, warm, and so full of life that it nearly stopped me in my tracks. The sensation was like a welcoming fire, blazing with an intensity that seemed almost impossible to contain. It didn’t just tug at my awareness—it demanded it. For a moment, I stood still, letting the sound of cascading water and the faint hum of the Force wash over me.

And then I followed it.

Like a moth drawn to a flame, I let the presence guide me through the verdant room, weaving between fountains and beneath the arching foliage. The air here always had a serenity about it, as if the Force itself breathed gently in time with the streams, but today, it seemed charged.

It wasn’t long before I spotted the source.

A boy—young, perhaps eight or nine, with golden-blond hair that caught the light and eyes as blue and sparkling as the fountains he darted between—skipped across the stones, counting aloud.

“Ninety-seven... ninety-eight... wait, no—was that ninety-seven already?” He paused, tapping a finger against his chin before breaking into a giggle so pure it seemed to fill the room.

I froze where I stood, my breath catching. There was something ethereal about him, something that made my chest tighten with wonder. He was beautiful in a way that transcended appearances, radiant like those depictions of angels in pre-Republic mosaics.

Others in the room had noticed him too, their conversations faltering as they glanced his way. I wasn’t the only one drawn to him, it seemed.

But then my eyes caught something else—something unmistakable. A padawan braid.

Even more surprising were the beads strung beneath the braid. A red bead for piloting, a blue for mechanics, an orange for languages, all tied beneath the yellow band of padawanship. My brows furrowed slightly as I pieced it together. These were marks of accomplishment, a record of skills already mastered. For someone his age, it was impressive—no, extraordinary.

And then it clicked.

This must be Anakin Skywalker.

The rumors about him had swept through the Temple like wildfire—a boy from Tatooine, freed by Master Plo Koon, brought here not just because of his strong connection to the Force, but because of his potential. A potential that had intrigued and, in some cases, unsettled even the Jedi Council.

“Anakin Skywalker,” I murmured under my breath, my voice nearly drowned out by the gurgling of the fountains.

The boy turned as if he’d heard me, his bright eyes locking onto mine for a moment. He offered a small, mischievous grin before resuming his game, hopping across stones and counting anew.

“Eighty-five... eighty-six... wait, no, that can’t be right...”

I couldn’t help but chuckle softly. Everyone in the Temple, at some point, had attempted to count all the fountains in this room. It was one of those unspoken traditions, a challenge with no clear end, as the flowing streams seemed to blend together or defy numerical certainty.

I took a step closer, watching him. The beads on his braid were unmistakable now, as was the way he carried himself—confidence tempered by a boyish charm. This was a child who had faced more in his short life than many would in decades, and yet he carried himself with an almost disarming lightness.

“Padawan Skywalker,” I said, my voice gentle but carrying enough authority to catch his attention.

He stopped mid-skip, turning toward me with curiosity. “Yeah?”

I smiled faintly, bowing my head slightly in greeting. “I’m Obi-Wan Kenobi. I couldn’t help but notice your... determination.” I gestured to the fountains. “Trying to count them all?”

He grinned, his hands going to his hips. “I’m gonna figure it out. Nobody else has, right? That makes it more fun.”

“Well, I admire your resolve,” I said, stepping closer. “Though I must warn you—it’s said that even Master Yoda gave up counting them centuries ago.”

Anakin’s grin widened, a spark of mischief lighting his eyes. “Maybe Master Yoda didn’t try hard enough.”

I laughed despite myself. The boy’s energy was infectious, his confidence so natural that it bordered on charmingly audacious. “I’ll be sure to let him know you said that.”

“Go ahead. He’ll probably just tell me to meditate more.” He snorted at that, his shoulders shaking with suppressed laughter, before he resumed his skipping game.

As I observed Anakin, my attention was drawn to something that hadn’t quite registered at first glance—his clothing. Unlike the standard beige Jedi robes all padawans wore, his attire was entirely different. The fabrics were lighter, the cuts more intricate and flowing, and the colors... well, vivid would be an understatement. The bright white and deep blue stood out strikingly against the greens and grays of the Room of a Thousand Fountains, and, I had to admit, they brought out the blue of his eyes, making them seem even brighter than before.

The robes themselves carried an air of intention, as though every stitch and shade had been chosen with care. They were too deliberate to be a simple alternative to standard Jedi wear. It piqued my curiosity.

“Anakin,” I began, my tone light but inquisitive, “those aren’t exactly what I’d call standard padawan attire.”

He paused mid-hop, turning to me with a grin that could rival the Coruscant sunrise. “Oh, these?” he asked, gesturing to his outfit like it was the most natural thing in the galaxy.

“Yes,” I said, folding my arms and tilting my head slightly. “Unless the Council has recently expanded the dress code without telling me.”

He laughed at that, a bright, carefree sound that echoed against the bubbling fountains. “Nope! These are my robes,” he said proudly, smoothing the fabric with his small hands.

I raised an eyebrow. “Your robes?”

“Yeah,” he said, nodding eagerly as he stepped closer, clearly excited to explain. “They’re my freedom clothes.”

“Freedom clothes?” I repeated, the term unfamiliar but intriguing.

He nodded again, his grin softening into something more thoughtful. “On Tatooine, slaves wear gray and muted colors,” he explained, his voice steady but with a hint of something deeper beneath the surface—pride, perhaps, or defiance. “It’s like... they don’t want us to stand out. Like we’re supposed to just blend into the background, you know?”

I nodded slowly, my chest tightening at the thought. The Force seemed to hum faintly around him as he spoke, his emotions rippling through it like soft waves.

“But when you’re freed,” he continued, his tone brightening, “you get to choose. You start wearing colors—real colors—to express yourself. To show everyone that you’re not invisible anymore.” He glanced down at his robes, running his fingers over the white fabric. “White and blue... those are the colors of the Skywalker clan.”

“The Skywalker clan?” I asked gently, intrigued.

He looked up at me, his eyes sparkling with that same mix of pride and hope. “It’s just me and my mom, but that’s still a clan,” he said firmly. “White’s for freedom. And blue’s for the sky—because that’s where we belong now. Not stuck in the dirt anymore.”

The simplicity of his words struck me harder than I expected, as did the conviction with which he spoke them. Freedom. Self-expression. A rejection of the muted shadows that once defined his life.

I glanced at the robes again, this time seeing them not as a mere deviation from Jedi tradition but as a declaration—a statement of identity, resilience, and hope. It reminded me of Mandalore and the meaning behind the paint of their armors, white for new beginnings and blue for reliability. It suited him, and Lady Shmi as well, from what I’ve heard.

“They suit you,” I said finally, my voice soft but sincere.

He beamed at the compliment, his whole posture straightening. “Master Plo said the same thing,” he said, clearly pleased. “He said the Jedi are about freedom, so it makes sense to wear something that shows it.”

I chuckled softly. “Master Plo is a wise man.”

“Yeah, he is,” Anakin agreed, his grin widening.

For a moment, we stood there in companionable silence, the sound of the fountains filling the space between us. I couldn’t help but marvel at how this boy—this young, radiant child—carried himself with such unshakable confidence, despite everything he’d been through.

“Anakin,” I said after a pause, my tone turning just slightly more serious, “wearing these colors—it means a great deal to you, doesn’t it?”

He nodded without hesitation. “Yeah. It’s like... a reminder. That I’m free now. That I’m not a slave anymore. And I never will be again.”

The certainty in his voice was striking, and I found myself smiling despite the heaviness of his words. “Then keep wearing them,” I said. “Let them remind you of who you are—and who you can be.”

His grin returned, brighter than ever. “Thanks, Obi-Wan.”

As he turned back toward the fountains, resuming his impossible quest to count them all, I stood there for a moment longer, watching him. I was distracted from my task when I felt the presence of a Jedi Knight stepping lightly beside me.

“Padawan Kenobi,” Lissarkh greeted, inclining her head in a gesture of respect. Her calm, measured tone and serene presence were unmistakable, though her sharp eyes carried a warmth that softened the formality of her movements.

“Knight Lissarkh,” I returned, bowing slightly, my curiosity piqued by her appearance. We hadn’t crossed paths much lately, though I remembered her as an exceptional Knight, often balancing strength and compassion with a wisdom beyond her years.

“I wanted to thank you,” she said, her tone steady but genuine.

I blinked, caught off guard. “Thank me? For what, exactly?”

“For your kindness to Anakin Skywalker,” she said simply, her voice lowering slightly. “I’ve heard how you’ve spoken to him. Your words have meant more to him than you realize.”

“I only offered him what guidance I could,” I replied cautiously, “though I can’t imagine I’ve done anything out of the ordinary.”

“You’ve done more than you think,” she assured me, her lips curving into the faintest smile. But then her expression grew more serious. “He’s been struggling recently. With some of the other padawans.”

My brow furrowed. “Struggling how?”

She paused, as though choosing her words carefully. “Some of the children—particularly those raised within the Temple—don’t fully understand Anakin’s connection to his homeworld or the traditions he honors. They see him wearing his colors, celebrating his freedom, and misunderstand. To them, it’s unusual, even heretical. They don’t realize that celebrating one’s origins does not contradict the Jedi Code.”

I nodded slowly, the weight of her words sinking in. “That’s... unfortunate. Have these issues been resolved?”

“For the most part,” she said, though her tone suggested it hadn’t been an easy process. “The children have been reminded that the Code does not erase identity, only attachment. But Anakin...” She hesitated, glancing toward the fountains where laughter and chatter echoed faintly. “He’s still feeling insecure about it. He hasn’t said it outright, but I know.”

The way she spoke of him—so attuned, so protective—caught me by surprise. “You seem to know him well,” I remarked, my curiosity getting the better of me. “Might I ask why you’ve taken such an interest in him?”

She smiled faintly, tilting her head. “We’re family, in a way,” she said simply.

“Family?”

It took a moment for the connection to click. Of course. Lissarkh had been trained by Master Plo Koon herself. That made her Anakin’s lineage sister. The bond between Jedi of the same lineage was often strong, though it depended greatly on the personalities involved.

Before I could reply, a blur of white and blue darted out from the fountains. Anakin had spotted Lissarkh, and before I could even register his movement, he threw himself into her arms with the kind of unrestrained affection that only a child could manage.

“Lissarkh!” he exclaimed, his voice bright and clear as he wrapped his arms around her waist.

She caught him with ease, her smile softening as she looked down at him. “Ani,” she greeted, her voice as warm as the Force itself. “Are you having fun?”

“I was counting fountains,” he said matter-of-factly, pulling back slightly to beam up at her. “But now you’re here, so it’s even better!”

I watched the exchange silently, something stirring in my chest. The bond between them was so natural, so easy. It reminded me of how Jedi lineages were meant to feel—like extended families, built on trust and shared purpose.

And yet...

A pang of sadness crept into me as I thought of my own lineage. My lineage brothers were nothing like this. Xanatos had fallen to the dark side, leaving nothing but bitterness and betrayal in his wake. And Freemor... he resented Qui-Gon so deeply that his apathy seemed to extend to me by default.

The thought lingered, heavy and uncomfortable, but I quickly pushed it aside. This wasn’t about me.

Instead, I focused on Anakin, who had pulled back from Lissarkh but was still standing close to her, his expression bright and open. He deserved this bond, this connection. After everything he’d been through, after all the suffering and isolation he’d endured on Tatooine, he deserved to feel like he belonged.

The boy had endured more in his few short years than most beings could imagine, yet here he was—skipping, laughing, counting fountains in a place he’d never dreamed of being. He was a contradiction, a mixture of pain and joy, strength and vulnerability. And as I watched him, I realized how deeply his presence affected those around him.

This wasn’t just a boy in colorful robes. This was Anakin Skywalker. And he was extraordinary.

Chapter Text

Walking through the grand halls of the Jedi Temple with Depa by my side felt like an oddly fitting reflection of my past and present. The high arches overhead, the soft hum of the Force flowing through the walls—it all seemed to mirror the balance I’d sought to instill in her when she was my padawan. Now, walking together as equals, I couldn’t help the surge of pride that swelled in my chest. Depa Billaba wasn’t just a skilled Jedi; she was a Council member, a leader. The daughter of my heart, though I would never admit that aloud.

“I still can’t believe how sweet he is,” Depa said, her voice tinged with a warmth that made me glance her way. “Every time I see him, he’s either helping someone or making them laugh. It’s as if kindness radiates from him naturally.”

I raised an eyebrow, the faintest hint of amusement tugging at the corner of my lips. “You’ve grown attached,” I noted, though my tone lacked the usual sternness I might have applied to such an observation.

She laughed softly, brushing a strand of hair from her face as she glanced at me. “He’s a child, Mace. A kind, hopeful child. And the fact that he’s endured so much yet still smiles like that? How could I not be fond of him?”

“Hopeful,” I echoed, my steps slowing slightly. “He is... hopeful. And perhaps the Order needs that. Still, he carries much more than hope. His potential is heavy, Depa.”

She stopped walking for a moment, her expression softening. “I know,” she said quietly. “But isn’t that why we’re here? To help him carry it?”

I said nothing, though her words settled somewhere deep within me. As we resumed our walk, her excitement over Anakin didn’t waver. She went on, describing the boy’s antics in detail—his playful teasing, his eagerness to learn, the way he seemed to bring light into every room he entered.

And, I admit, her enthusiasm was infectious. Depa’s blatant favoritism for the boy had softened my stance on him more than I cared to admit.

But then my attention shifted as I caught sight of the boy himself.

Anakin was in the courtyard ahead, playing a lively game with a Twi’lek youngling. They darted back and forth, laughter echoing in the air as they weaved between the scattered stones of the training yard. The Twi’lek girl, her lekku swaying with each step, giggled as Anakin made an exaggerated dive to dodge her outstretched hand.

Off to the side, Obi-Wan and Quinlan stood observing, their postures relaxed but their attention clearly fixed on the children. Obi-Wan had his arms crossed, his expression caught somewhere between amusement and cautious disapproval, while Quinlan leaned against a pillar with his usual air of casual indifference.

It wasn’t the sight of Anakin playing that caught my attention, though. It was the way the others around him reacted.

Jedi knights and masters alike turned their heads as they passed through the courtyard, their gazes inevitably drawn to the boy. Some glanced at him with curiosity, others with faint smiles, but the most telling looks were those aimed at the padawan braid hanging at his temple.

That braid—a simple marker of his status—seemed to carry an unspoken weight.

I didn’t like it.

I stopped walking, my arms folding across my chest as I observed the scene more closely. Depa halted beside me, her own gaze following mine as she seemed to sense the shift in my demeanor.

“What is it?” she asked, her tone quieter now.

“They’re staring,” I said simply, my voice low but firm.

Her brow furrowed as she looked around, clearly noticing it now for herself. “You can’t blame them,” she said after a moment. “He’s... unusual. A slave-turned-padawan, brought in by the Council itself. It’s bound to attract attention.”

“That doesn’t mean he should be treated like a curiosity,” I replied, my tone sharpening. “He deserves more than to be looked at as if he’s a rare specimen on display.”

Depa’s expression softened, though I could sense her hesitation. “I understand,” she said carefully. “But it’s not just curiosity, Mace. It’s awe. They see his potential—feel it, even if they don’t fully understand it yet. And the braid... It’s a symbol of what he’s accomplished, what he represents.”

I exhaled slowly, my gaze returning to Anakin as he spun around, narrowly avoiding being tagged by the Twi’lek girl. His laughter was bright, unguarded, the kind of sound you rarely heard in the Temple’s halls.

“They see his potential,” I said quietly, “but do they see him? The boy beneath the weight of it all?”

Depa didn’t answer immediately, and the silence between us stretched long enough that it almost felt like an answer in itself.

At that moment, Anakin caught sight of us. His blue eyes lit up, and he waved enthusiastically, his movements so full of life that it was impossible not to smile—just a little. I raised a hand in acknowledgment, and he turned back to his game without hesitation, his focus immediately back on the task at hand.

Obi-Wan and Quinlan, however, had noticed us as well. Quinlan gave a lazy wave, while Obi-Wan inclined his head respectfully, his expression curious.

“We’ll need to address it,” I said finally, my tone firm but not unkind. “The stares, the expectations. He needs to feel like he belongs—not like he’s an exception.”

Depa nodded, her gaze thoughtful as she watched the boy. “Agreed. But I think Plo’s doing a good job of that. Anakin looks... happy.”

“Happy isn’t enough,” I replied, my voice softening just slightly. “He needs to feel secure. Supported. The galaxy will weigh on him soon enough. For now, he needs to be allowed to be a child.”

She looked at me, her expression shifting to something that resembled gratitude—or perhaps respect. “You’ve softened on him,” she said, a small smile playing at her lips.

I allowed myself the faintest of smirks. “Perhaps. Or perhaps I’m just being pragmatic.”

Her laughter was soft, but the warmth in it was genuine. Together, we continued walking, the sound of Anakin’s laughter fading behind us as the grand corridors of the Jedi Temple stretched ahead. The sunlight streaming through the tall windows painted the halls with long, golden beams, casting everything in a serene glow that belied the weight of the galaxy beyond these walls.

Depa glanced at me as we walked, her hands clasped lightly in front of her. “You know,” she began, her tone teasing but with an undercurrent of sincerity, “you should laugh more often. It wouldn’t hurt your reputation, Master Windu.”

I raised an eyebrow but didn’t break stride. “A reputation is built on discipline, not humor.”

“Hmm,” she mused, a playful smirk tugging at her lips. “And here I thought the hallmark of a true Jedi was balance.”

I gave her a pointed look, though I couldn’t entirely suppress the faint twitch at the corner of my mouth. “You sound like your Master.”

She laughed again, the sound light and easy. “I’ll take that as a compliment.”

As we approached the Council chamber, the familiar hum of the Force seemed to thrum louder, a soft vibration that resonated in the bones. The two Temple Guards stationed at the entrance stood tall and motionless, their golden helmets gleaming in the light. They stepped aside as we approached, their pikes lowering in silent acknowledgment.

Depa paused just before stepping inside, her hand brushing lightly against the edge of her robes. “Do you think we’re the last to arrive?” she asked, a faint hint of mischief in her voice.

I glanced at her, my expression carefully neutral. “We’re not late.”

She tilted her head, a knowing smile on her face. “But we are last.”

I didn’t dignify that with a response, stepping into the chamber instead.

The circular room was bathed in soft, diffused light, the massive windows offering a breathtaking view of Coruscant’s endless sprawl. The other members of the Council were already seated, their presences filling the room with an air of quiet anticipation.

Depa and I moved to our seats, the soft rustle of our robes the only sound as we took our places. It was true—we were the last to arrive. But we weren’t late, and there was no hint of judgment from the others. If anything, the room had the distinct air of early preparation, a collective understanding that today’s discussions would be particularly weighty.

Grandmaster Yoda sat at his customary spot, his small frame resting comfortably on his chair as his gimer stick leaned beside him. He nodded to us both as we took our seats. “Early, we all are,” he said with a faint smile, his tone as much a reassurance as it was an observation.

I inclined my head in acknowledgment, letting my focus settle on Master Kim, who stood in the center of the chamber.

Master Kim, one of the Temple’s most trusted educators, was a picture of calm authority. Her hands were clasped lightly in front of her, her posture perfectly straight, and her presence radiated the kind of quiet confidence that came from decades of guiding younglings and padawans alike.

The silence lingered for a moment, heavy but not uncomfortable, as all eyes turned toward her. Finally, I broke it with the question that had been on my mind since Depa and I had spoken about the boy.

“How is Padawan Skywalker doing in his classes?” I asked, my tone steady, though I couldn’t entirely mask the genuine curiosity that threaded through my words.

Kim met my gaze without hesitation, her expression calm but thoughtful. “He’s doing incredible,” she began, her voice carrying just enough warmth to soften the formality of the moment.

Her words were measured, precise, but there was a clear undercurrent of respect in her tone as she began to share her observations. The Council listened intently, their attention focused, the hum of the Force within the chamber growing ever so slightly stronger.

“The speed with which he has picked up Kel Dor is outstanding,” she said, her voice tinged with a faint admiration. “He clearly had some vocabulary to begin with—things he must have picked up on the streets—but he had no grammar or structure. Now? He’s utilizing it nearly perfectly for a beginner.”

Her words settled over me like a heavy but necessary reminder. I felt my jaw tighten slightly, a reflex I couldn’t entirely suppress. Tatooine, slavery, the harsh life Anakin had endured—it was difficult to think about without frustration welling up. That a child had been forced to scrape together knowledge in such conditions was nothing short of infuriating.

But I didn’t let my emotions show. A Jedi doesn’t act on anger, no matter how righteous it might feel. Instead, I nodded for her to continue.

“He’s excelling in his biology and basic healing courses,” she went on, her tone lightening. “His eagerness to learn is apparent, and he has a natural aptitude for understanding anatomy. More than that, he volunteers regularly in the Healing Halls, always willing to assist for the sake of experience.”

I sat back slightly, folding my arms as I absorbed her words. That, I had to admit, was heartening to hear. Compassion isn’t something that can be taught in a classroom. For all the boy’s raw power in the Force, it was his willingness to use it to help others that truly mattered.

“His heart is good,” I said, more to myself than to her, though she gave me a small, knowing smile.

Kim continued, her voice carrying a note of pride now. “When it comes to lightsaber technique, his instructors can’t stop singing his praises. They’ve said he shows extraordinary natural skill and discipline for his age—instincts beyond his years. They’ve even suggested that, with time, he could surpass most of his peers.”

I kept my expression neutral, but inside, I couldn’t ignore the ripple of intrigue her words caused. Lightsaber combat has always been a cornerstone of the Jedi way, and as someone who had spent years refining and developing my own techniques, I couldn’t help but pay attention when a prodigy was mentioned.

“They believe that, should you and Master Plo agree,” she added, “he could one day take up Vaapad.”

That brought me up short. Vaapad. My Vaapad.

I narrowed my gaze slightly, leaning forward. Vaapad wasn’t just a lightsaber form—it was a razor-thin line between mastery and destruction, a path only a handful could walk without falling. The thought of a child—any child—treading that path was something I couldn’t take lightly.

“Is that so?” I said, my tone carefully measured.

Kim nodded, her confidence unwavering. “For now, though, he’s taken to Form V like a fish to water. Both Shien and Djem So come to him naturally, and he approaches the forms with remarkable precision for someone his age.”

I glanced at Plo Koon, who sat nearby, quiet but radiating a quiet pride that was almost tangible. Though his mask obscured his face, the Force revealed everything I needed to know. Plo’s joy was genuine, and it resonated brightly, warming the otherwise serious atmosphere of the Council chamber.

For a moment, I let myself consider the boy. The combination of talent, eagerness, and raw potential that could shape him into one of the most remarkable Jedi of his generation—or something far more dangerous.

“I do not mind,” I said finally, my voice firm but calm, “but only after he constructs his own lightsaber.”

I turned to Plo, meeting his gaze—or where his gaze would have been—and saw the slightest tilt of his head in acknowledgment.

“A wise condition,” he said, his voice steady but tinged with gratitude.

I gave him a small nod in return, though my thoughts remained fixed on Anakin. I couldn’t deny that the boy had already proven himself in many ways. His progress was undeniable, his connection to the Force profound.

But I also knew better than anyone that talent alone isn’t enough. The greatest strength can become the greatest weakness without the right foundation.

The boy was Plo’s responsibility, but Vaapad—if it ever came to that—would be mine. I would have to watch him closely, guide him carefully.

Still, as I sat there, I allowed myself a faint glimmer of hope. Anakin Skywalker was a complicated figure, his future clouded by both promise and uncertainty. But if we could nurture him, guide him, perhaps he would become the Jedi we all hoped he could be.

And if not... well, the Force has a way of revealing the truth. All we can do is prepare for it.

“What about his character?” Ki-Adi-Mundi’s question hung in the air, cutting through the flow of the conversation like a vibroblade. I could feel the room shift, a subtle tightening of the energy as his words drew the Council’s focus. “Does he show superiority towards his fellow padawans?”

The question didn’t surprise me—Ki-Adi-Mundi had always been vocal about his opposition to admitting Anakin into the Order. But his pointedness bordered on abrasive, and the disgruntled looks from several of the others showed I wasn’t the only one who thought so.

Master Kim straightened immediately, her back rigid as she met his gaze with a mixture of offense and determination. “Not at all!” she exclaimed, her voice carrying just enough heat to make her point. “If anything, it’s the opposite. He’s always the first to offer a spar, and he doesn’t hold back—but not to humiliate. He uses those moments to help his fellow padawans improve. He never looks down on them. Quite the opposite, in fact.”

I could see Plo’s posture shift slightly, his head tilting ever so slightly toward Master Kim as if to silently lend his support.

“Madam Nu can attest to this,” Master Kim continued, leaning forward slightly. “He often uses the Temple Archives to organize study groups. They prepare for tests and complete their assignments together. And because of that, his entire class has become the top of the year.”

I arched an eyebrow at that, impressed despite myself. Study groups weren’t uncommon among initiates, but to elevate an entire class’s performance? That was something else entirely.

“And those study groups,” Plo added, his voice filled with quiet pride, “aren’t just about academics. They’ve become spaces for them to learn about each other’s cultures. Anakin has made sure of it.”

I caught the faintest hint of a smile tugging at the corner of Yoda’s lips as he nodded approvingly. “Good, that is,” the Grandmaster said with a hum. “Community, it created. Family.”

The weight of Yoda’s praise wasn’t lost on anyone, though I noticed Ki-Adi-Mundi’s expression tightened ever so slightly. He folded his arms, leaning back in his chair as if retreating from the conversation.

“How did it turn out like that?” Master Fisto, undeterred, glanced toward Plo with curiosity. “And why is it that none of us thought to implement study groups like this before?”

Plo tilted his head, his voice calm but steady as he explained. “That’s how he learned so many languages in the slave pits. The slaves shared knowledge for survival—skills, traditions, whatever they could. Anakin seems to have instinctively brought that mindset here.”

There was a brief silence, the weight of Plo’s words hanging in the air. For all his progress, Anakin’s past was never far from any of our minds.

“And it’s working,” Master Shaak said with a small smile, her voice breaking the quiet. She leaned forward slightly, her gaze cutting toward Ki-Adi-Mundi with a hint of challenge. “An outsider’s perspective was much needed in the Order.”

I didn’t miss the way Ki-Adi-Mundi’s expression darkened, his frustration visible despite his efforts to maintain composure. He looked ready to snap back, but before the tension could escalate, Yoda’s voice cut through, calm and deliberate.

“Change, the Order needs,” the Grandmaster said, his tone carrying a weight that silenced any potential argument. His eyes, sharp and knowing despite their age, swept the room, landing briefly on Ki-Adi-Mundi before turning to Plo. “Continue, you must, Master Plo.”

Plo inclined his head, his gratitude radiating softly through the Force.

I remained silent, observing the interplay between the Council members as the discussion moved forward. But my thoughts lingered on what had just been said.

Anakin’s ability to create a sense of community, to bring others together despite their differences, was no small thing. It was a quality many Jedi—myself included—could stand to learn from.

Ki-Adi-Mundi’s skepticism was understandable to a point. Change was never easy, especially for an Order as steeped in tradition as ours. But as I watched Plo, his pride for his padawan evident in every word he spoke, I couldn’t deny the truth of what Yoda had said.

Change wasn’t just needed. It was inevitable. And if Anakin Skywalker was a part of that change, then it was our responsibility to guide him—not out of fear, but with trust.

I leaned back in my seat, my hands resting lightly on the armrests, and let the discussion continue around me. Anakin’s journey was far from over, but perhaps this boy—the Chosen One, as some called him—truly could be the catalyst for something greater.

Plo cleared his throat, a soft sound that barely carried through the Council chambers but spoke volumes about the emotions swirling beneath his composed demeanor. “Right,” he began, his voice calm but touched with something deeper—pride mixed with lingering sadness. “As for sharing their cultures, did you know that many of our padawans do not know much about the worlds they come from or their own cultures?”

That stopped me in my tracks. My eyes flicked toward Plo, studying him closely. He wasn’t one to make sweeping statements without thought, and the weight of his words was clear in the subtle tension on his shoulders.

“What?” Kit Fisto exclaimed, his usual easygoing nature giving way to genuine surprise. “How is that even possible?”

Plo turned slightly toward him, his voice dropping to a tone so steady it almost felt like a reprimand. “It seems,” he said, each word deliberate, “that the confusion surrounding the attachment rule has reached even our younglings. Many of them have come to believe that honoring the traditions of their homeworlds somehow goes against the Jedi Code.”

The room fell into a heavy silence, broken only by the faint hum of the Force resonating between us. I watched the subtle shifts in posture around me—the way Shaak Ti’s brow furrowed in quiet concern, the way Depa’s fingers drummed lightly against the armrest of her seat, and the way Yoda’s ears lowered in sorrow, his ever-present cane tapping lightly against the floor.

“Distressing, this is,” Yoda murmured, the sadness in his tone unmistakable.

Plo’s gaze dropped for a moment, the weight of the conversation clearly sitting heavily on him. “When Anakin first came to me about this,” he continued, his voice softer now, “he was inconsolable. He thought he had done something wrong by celebrating his religion and culture. He believed he was failing as a Jedi because of it.”

I straightened in my seat, the implications of Plo’s words settling over me like a cold shadow. The boy had faced challenges that most padawans couldn’t begin to comprehend, and yet here he was—burdened by a completely unnecessary guilt.

“I remember that,” Master Kim interjected, her tone sharp with a mix of frustration and regret. She leaned forward slightly, her hands clasped in front of her as if bracing herself. “I had to spend an entire civics class explaining that respecting the culture and religion you were born with is not only allowed by the Jedi Order but encouraged. The discussion came up because of Padawan Skywalker’s distinctive garments.”

“His clothes?” Shaak Ti tilted her head slightly, her montrals twitching in curiosity. “They’re colorful, yes, but not so different from the usual Jedi robes.”

“They are more than just clothes,” Plo explained gently, his voice carrying the calm authority of a Master guiding a youngling. “On Tatooine, slaves are forced to wear grey or other muted colors to strip them of their individuality. However, once a slave is freed, they wear saturated colors to express themselves—something they were never allowed to do before.”

He paused, his gaze sweeping across the room, making sure the weight of his words landed. “My padawan wears white and blue—the colors of the Skywalker Clan.”

For a moment, the room seemed to breathe in unison. There was a quiet ripple of understanding, a shared acknowledgment of the significance behind those colors.

“I did not know that,” Depa said softly, her voice tinged with reverence. She sat back in her chair, her expression thoughtful. “That’s a beautiful tradition.”

“It is,” I said, my voice cutting through the growing murmurs. “And it’s one we should respect—and teach.” I glanced at Plo, nodding slightly. “Master Plo, you’ve done well to honor it. But this... misunderstanding among our younglings? That’s on us.”

Depa nodded, her gaze firm now. “We need to ensure that the younglings understand this, going forward. Not just them, but the padawans, knights, and master’s as well. The attachment rule is a vital part of our teachings, but misinterpretation only breeds division.”

The rest of the Council nodded in agreement, the atmosphere in the room shifting from somber reflection to quiet resolve. Even Yoda, who had remained silent for a moment longer than usual, finally spoke.

“Correct, you are,” he said, his tone carrying a weight that silenced the faint murmurs. “Misunderstood, the Code has been. Education, we must improve. Community, we must build.”

“Anakin has already taken steps in that direction,” Plo said, his pride once again evident in the quiet strength of his tone. “The study groups he’s organized aren’t just about coursework. They’ve become spaces where the padawans share their cultures—where they learn to see each other not just as Jedi, but as individuals.”

I inclined my head slightly, letting his words settle over me. For all the chaos and unpredictability surrounding Anakin, there was no denying the boy’s natural ability to connect with others.

“And it’s working,” Shaak Ti said, her voice warm but sharp, her gaze darting toward Ki-Adi-Mundi, who sat rigid and silent, his frustration palpable even without the Force.

As the meeting moved on, I remained quiet, my thoughts focused inward. For all the strides Anakin had made, the challenges he faced—and the challenges the Order faced in guiding him—were far from over. But as I glanced around the chamber, taking in the faces of my fellow Masters, I couldn’t help but feel a spark of hope.

The Order wasn’t perfect. Far from it. But perhaps, with voices like Plo’s—and with padawans like Anakin—there was a chance to build something better.

Ki-Adi-Mundi’s voice cut through the chamber with barely concealed frustration, his tone sharper than necessary. “What about the rest of the courses?”

His interruption earned him a faint frown from Yoda, who turned to glance at him with mild disapproval. But Ki-Adi-Mundi was too focused on the discussion to notice—or perhaps, as I suspected, he simply didn’t care.

Master Kim, to her credit, kept her composure, though I didn’t miss the slight lift of her chin, a subtle but telling gesture of someone ready to defend her position. “Well, it’s quite clear Padawan Skywalker is a science kid,” she said with a chuckle, her tone light but not without substance.

That statement made Ki-Adi-Mundi smirk, as though her words vindicated his skepticism, while Yoda’s frown deepened. I exhaled quietly, already anticipating where this was headed.

Master Kim continued, undeterred. “He is still at the top of his class. The boy absorbs knowledge like a sponge—it’s genuinely remarkable. But,” she added, her voice dipping into a slightly more reflective tone, “it’s clear to anyone paying attention that there’s a lack of... interest.”

There it was. I glanced around the room, noting the subtle shifts in posture among the other Masters. Depa, sitting to my left, leaned forward slightly, her expression thoughtful. “We can’t fault him for that,” she said, her tone calm but firm. “We all have our likes and dislikes. As long as he keeps doing his work and performs well in class, I don’t see the problem.”

Kim raised a hand, signaling she had more to say. “That’s the thing, Master Billaba! I realized I was teaching the class wrong.” Her sudden outburst earned startled looks from nearly everyone present, myself included.

“Wrong?” I repeated, arching an eyebrow.

“My apologies,” she said quickly, bowing her head slightly.

Before anyone else could comment, Plo raised a hand, his deep, resonant voice breaking through with a light chuckle. “Master Kim came to me with her concerns, and together we approached Anakin to understand the root of the issue.”

I tilted my head, watching Plo closely. There was a calm ease to the way he spoke about the matter, a confidence that suggested he had already resolved it—but it still left me curious.

“And?” I prompted, gesturing for him to continue.

“It seems Anakin struggled to engage with the material because he found it... fantastical,” Plo explained, his tone tinged with amusement.

“Fantastical?” Depa echoed, her brow furrowing.

Plo nodded, his gaze sweeping across the Council. “He comes from the Outer Rim. The Republic’s influence doesn’t reach those systems—not in any meaningful way. They have no laws, no structured order, no consistent governance. They live by the law of survival, where strength and adaptability determine one’s fate.”

I exhaled through my nose, nodding in understanding. “So, to him, concepts like centralized governance, galactic trade agreements, and interstellar law enforcement must sound... idealistic. Detached from his reality.”

“Exactly,” Plo agreed. “To a boy who grew up on Tatooine, where survival depends on instinct and resourcefulness, such concepts are difficult to relate to.”

Master Kim chimed in again, her voice more animated now as she explained the solution they’d found. “That’s why we changed his projects. Instead of having him focus on abstract ideas of law and governance, his assignments now center on the social, economic, and legal structures of the Outer Rim planets. Their history, their culture, their struggles.”

“And?” Depa asked, tilting her head with interest.

“He’s much more engaged now,” Kim said with a smile. “The change in his attitude was immediate. He approaches the material with a level of focus and enthusiasm I hadn’t seen before. And his insights...” She paused, shaking her head slightly. “You need to read his essays, Masters. They are not only thoughtful but deeply practical. I believe his perspective could greatly inform our outreach programs—especially when we face resistance from the Senate.”

That got my attention. Outreach in the Outer Rim had been a point of contention for years. The Senate’s reluctance—driven by corruption, apathy, and the pervasive influence of corporate interests—had hindered the Order’s ability to bring stability and aid to those regions.

“His essays might help bridge that gap,” Kim added. “They present solutions rooted in the realities of the Outer Rim, not the idealism of the Core.”

A murmur rippled through the room. Even the Masters, who had remained quiet throughout the discussion, seemed intrigued.

“Read them, we will,” Yoda said firmly, his ears perking up as he leaned slightly on his cane. His voice carried a tone of finality, his gaze sweeping the room with quiet authority.

I nodded in agreement, my thoughts already turning to the implications of what Kim and Plo had shared. Anakin Skywalker was a unique case in every sense of the word, and his perspective—shaped by his harsh upbringing and extraordinary potential—was proving to be as valuable as it was unorthodox.

But as my gaze flicked to Ki-Adi-Mundi, who sat with his arms crossed and a thunderous expression, I could feel the tension simmering beneath the surface. He hadn’t said a word since Kim’s revelations, but the tight set of his jaw and the way his fingers tapped irritably against the armrest spoke volumes.

It didn’t matter. Change, as Yoda had said earlier, was necessary. And if that change came in the form of a former slave boy from the Outer Rim reshaping the way we viewed education, outreach, and even the Code itself, then so be it.

“Next,” Yoda said, his voice calm but laced with purpose, “Force Courses.”

Yoda’s words settled over the Council chamber, carrying a gravity that could not be ignored. His cane tapped softly against the floor as he shifted in his seat, his eyes narrowing slightly as though trying to pierce through the veil of the future.

Master Kim nodded, her composure steady, though I could see a flicker of excitement in her eyes. “The Living Force Philosophy teacher loves him!” she said with a chuckle, shaking her head slightly.

I arched an eyebrow at that, glancing toward her with mild curiosity. “Loves him?”

Kim’s smile widened. “Most students in that class simply repeat the Code verbatim or quote Jedi Masters, but they don’t truly engage with the material. Padawan Skywalker, on the other hand, challenges everything. He’s constantly asking, ‘Why this?’ ‘Why that?’ ‘Why this way?’ It pushes the entire class to think critically and engage more deeply with the philosophy.”

She leaned forward slightly, her voice taking on a conspiratorial tone. “His teacher had to change her entire approach. Now she sends the material for the students to read in advance so they can spend the entire class in discussion or debate. And let me tell you,” she added with a soft laugh, “sometimes I’ve had to go in and remind them that the class is over because they’re so absorbed in their debates.”

The corner of my mouth twitched upward—an almost smile. Anakin’s habit of questioning everything wasn’t surprising, but it was encouraging to hear that it was having such a positive impact.

“Eager to learn, they are,” Yoda said, his voice carrying a warmth that spread gently through the room. “Good. Happy, it makes me.”

Kim’s smile turned more thoughtful, and she folded her hands on the table before continuing. “As for his Precognition Course... well, most students take it simply to fulfill their two required Force-related courses. They treat it as an obligation, something to check off their list. Padawan Skywalker, however...” She trailed off, glancing toward Plo Koon.

Plo tilted his head slightly, his mask giving nothing away, though the Force around him stirred with quiet anticipation. “You knew,” Kim said, her tone almost accusatory, though there was no malice behind it.

“I had my suspicions,” Plo replied evenly, his voice resonant and steady. “Has it been confirmed?”

“Confirmed what?” Ki-Adi-Mundi’s voice cut in, sharp and suspicious as ever.

Kim turned her attention back to the rest of the Council, her expression calm but serious. “Padawan Skywalker is a future seer,” she said simply.

The silence that followed was palpable. I sat up straighter, my gaze narrowing as I processed her words. Around me, I could feel the reactions of the others—disbelief from some, intrigue from others. Shaak Ti tilted her head slightly, her montrals twitching in curiosity. Depa’s brow furrowed as she exchanged a glance with me, her thoughts as unreadable as ever.

“A rare gift,” Kim continued, “and, according to his teacher, exceptionally strong in the young padawan.”

My thoughts sharpened, turning toward the implications of such a revelation. Precognition wasn’t unheard of among Jedi, but to be a true seer—a conduit through which the future revealed itself with clarity and consistency—was something else entirely. It was a rare gift, one that came with as many challenges as it did advantages.

Plo broke the silence, his tone grim but steady. “His mother told me tales of how he would dream of events before they happened. She said he would wake in the night, certain of their truth. And they always came true.”

A low murmur rippled through the chamber, the Council members exchanging glances. Even Ki-Adi-Mundi, who often seemed more eager to criticize than to consider, leaned forward slightly, his expression betraying a rare flicker of concern.

“Important, it is,” Yoda said at last, his voice breaking through the murmurs. His ears lowered slightly as he rested both hands on his cane, his gaze distant and thoughtful. “An eye on Padawan Skywalker we should keep. Less, in the future, he gets lost. Meditate on this, I must.”

The room fell silent once more, the weight of Yoda’s words settling over us like a heavy fog. I leaned back in my chair, my mind already turning over the implications.

Anakin’s precognition explained much—his uncanny reflexes, his ability to navigate challenges with an almost preternatural ease. But it also introduced a new layer of complexity to his training. The line between insight and obsession could be a perilous one, especially for someone as young and untested as Anakin.

I folded my arms, my gaze fixed on Plo. “You understand the significance of this, Master Plo?” I asked, my tone as steady as the weight of the moment required.

Plo inclined his head. “I do,” he said simply.

“Good,” I replied, nodding once. “Because if his gift isn’t nurtured carefully, it could become a danger to him—and to others.”

“I will guide him,” Plo said, his voice carrying an unshakable resolve.

I nodded again, trusting his words but not easing my own vigilance. For all the progress Anakin had made, for all the potential he had already shown, this revelation added a new layer of responsibility for all of us.

“His training must be balanced,” I added, my voice cutting through the quiet. “Precognition is a tool, it cannot be allowed to become a crutch. He must learn to rely on his instincts, his discipline, and his understanding of the Force—not just on what he sees.”

“Teach him balance, we must,” Yoda agreed, his gaze still distant. “For the future... uncertain it is. But bright, it could be.”

As the discussion shifted toward the next topic, I couldn’t help but let my thoughts linger on the boy. The weight of his potential, the breadth of his abilities, and now this... Anakin Skywalker was not just a student. He was a fulcrum, a point on which so much of the galaxy seemed poised to turn.

And for better or worse, we were all a part of that turning.

Chapter Text

Chapter Text

I still find it hard to believe how much my life has changed. It wasn’t so long ago that the thought of freedom felt more like a dream than something I could touch. And yet, here I am, in the Jedi Temple of all places, standing in my own little kitchen, preparing breakfast.

I glanced around the space as I worked, my hands moving almost on their own. The kitchen wasn’t extravagant—it wasn’t meant to be—but it was mine. A simple table stood by the window, where sunlight filtered through and cast soft, warm patterns across the counter. The cabinets were modest, the cooking tools well-used but cared for. Everything about it was practical and unassuming, yet it felt like the lap of luxury to me.

I spread the labneh carefully over the freshly baked pita bread, the tangy scent of the soft cheese mixing with the earthy aroma of the spices I had sprinkled on top. Nearby, small bowls of mezze were neatly arranged—hummus, olives, sliced cucumbers, and roasted eggplant. I caught myself humming as I worked, the simple melody something I’d heard long ago in the settlements of Tatooine.

And then, there was the shai—the tea that felt like home. Its fragrant steam curled up from the pot, filling the kitchen with a soothing, spiced warmth. Tatooine’s tea wasn’t like the blends I’d encountered here on Coruscant, with their floral notes and delicate flavors. No, this was hearty and bold, a tea that stood up to the harsh desert winds and long nights.

As I worked, my thoughts wandered, settling where they often did: on Anakin.

My son.

The boy who, despite everything we endured, never let the light in his heart fade.

Here, he has everything I once thought impossible. He has safety, kindness, a chance to grow into himself without fear. I had always done my best to protect him, to nurture his beautiful mind and his boundless curiosity. But what I couldn’t give him was what he has now: the space to truly flourish.

And Plo.

A good man.

Anakin finally has the father figure he deserves, someone steady and wise, who sees him for all that he is and all he can become. Watching the way Plo cares for him has filled a space in my heart that I never realized had been so empty. And yet...

I smiled softly to myself, brushing my fingers against the rim of the tea kettle as I turned the burner down to keep it warm. No, I couldn’t fall in love with Plo. Not in the way of stories and songs, anyway. But love isn’t always romantic, is it? I can love the way he’s given my son a part of himself that I could never have provided.

Anakin’s laughter echoed in my memory, bright and unrestrained as he darted through the Halls of Healing, serving soup to the younglings with that boundless energy of his. How quickly he has found a place here. How easily he weaves himself into the lives of others, offering kindness as naturally as breathing.

And his mind. Oh, his mind.

Anakin’s curiosity was always insatiable, but here, he has the means to truly explore. The things he tells me—about the archives, the classes, the friends he’s made—they remind me just how extraordinary he is. I’d always known it, of course, but seeing the way others now recognize it fills me with a quiet pride that words can’t touch.

I reached for the plates, setting them neatly on the table, my movements unhurried. Life feels slower here. Not the dangerous, dragging slowness of Tatooine, where every moment stretched under the weight of toil and fear, but a gentle, peaceful rhythm that I still catch myself marveling at.

For so long, I didn’t know what freedom would feel like. Now I know. It feels like sunlight on my face in the mornings. It feels like the aroma of tea wafting through a quiet kitchen. It feels like hearing my son laugh without fear of consequence.

It feels like preparing breakfast, not because I have to, but because I can.

As I set the table for breakfast, my hands moving with practiced ease, my thoughts drifted, dark and unbidden, to a past I rarely allowed myself to dwell on. The pita bread rested neatly in the center of the table, still warm, and the small bowls of mezze glistened under the soft morning light. The tea was ready, its spiced aroma mingling with the fresh scents of roasted eggplant and labneh. It was a meal of care and tradition, one I had made countless times, but this morning, it carried a weight I couldn’t quite shake.

I was so proud of Anakin, so in awe of how much he had grown. But as I placed the last plate on the table, my mind wandered to a part of me that I had kept buried for so long.

Unlike Anakin, I was not born into slavery. My life before that dark chapter felt like a distant memory, faded and frayed at the edges, but there were parts I could never forget. My father’s stern but loving face, my older brother’s teasing laugh as he ruffled my hair, my mother’s steady presence. We were a family, whole and free.

And then we weren’t.

I was young when they came for us, but old enough to understand. They called us “spoils.” My father and brother fought—they couldn’t do anything else. Men like them didn’t kneel. And because of that, they were killed. I can still hear the sound of it if I let myself think too long, the sharp finality of it.

My mother... she wasted away before my eyes, her strength ebbing day by day until she was just a shadow of the woman who had once held our family together. And my sister—oh, my sister. She was beautiful, stubborn, fierce. She resisted in ways I was too afraid of. She refused to adapt, to submit. And for that, they broke her. Again and again, until there was nothing left.

I had learned from watching her, learned the hard way what resistance could cost. So, I adapted. I survived.

The name “Skywalker” wasn’t ours—not truly. It was the name given to me by my first owner, a name meant to mock, to erase. But I clung to it because I had nothing else. I became what they needed me to be, a quiet mechanic, useful and compliant. Grandulla found me too valuable to waste on the horrors my sister endured. And when I came to Watto, I was just labor to him—work, nothing more. I was grateful for that, if only because it meant my body was left my own.

My hands faltered as I placed a small bowl of olives on the table.

That fear was a constant companion, always lurking, always gnawing at the edges of my resolve. And so, I taught him what I could—how to keep his head down, how to stay useful, how to survive. I taught him to adapt because it was the only way I knew to keep him safe.

But now, as I looked at the table set for three, I realized how much had changed. Anakin was no longer bound by the life I had fought so hard to shield him from. He was free. And more than that, he was thriving.

The sound of light footsteps pulled me from my thoughts, and I turned to see Anakin bounding into the kitchen, his face alight with excitement. He carried his padawan braid with such pride, the beads jingling softly as he moved.

“Smells amazing, umi!” he said, leaning over to sneak a piece of pita bread before I swatted his hand playfully.

“Sit down, Ani,” I said, my voice steadier than I felt. “Breakfast is almost ready.”

Moments later, Plo joined us, his presence calm and grounding as always. He greeted me with a slight bow and a kind “Good morning, Shmi,” before turning his attention to Anakin, who was already chattering away.

As I poured the tea and watched them talk, the weight of my earlier thoughts began to lift.

The past would always be with me, a shadow that never fully disappeared. But here, in this moment, with my son safe and free, I found a measure of peace.

As I sat down at the table, placing the last bowl of mezze within easy reach, my hands briefly stilled, and my thoughts drifted again. They went to the parts of my past I tried not to visit too often but seemed persistent today.

I’ve always known I was considered beautiful, even when it brought me no joy. Men would look at me, appraising, calculating, weighing my worth as though I were something to own. Some of them wanted to “free” me—at least, that’s what they claimed. But I knew better. They didn’t want to free me. They wanted to transfer me from one form of ownership to another. A gilded cage is still a cage. Even if marriage was not just another set of chains, I would have never taken their empty offers when they never even thought of doing the same for my son.

But my beauty, though a curse, was nothing compared to my sister’s.

Seda.

Even now, just thinking her name brought a pang of both love and sorrow so sharp it took my breath away. Seda had been ethereal, as if the twin suns themselves had blessed her. Golden hair, impossibly soft and shining, fell in waves down her back. Her eyes were as blue and clear as the Tatooine sky after a rare rainstorm. And her smile... her smile could light an entire room, no matter how dark it seemed.

Her beauty became her prison.

She was a favorite of Grandulla’s patrons, their eyes lighting with avarice every time she entered the room. Seda never had a choice. They took her smile, her laughter, her light. Slowly, cruelly, until there was nothing left but a fragile shell of the sister I had adored.

I swallowed hard, turning my attention back to the tea, pouring it carefully into three waiting cups. The fragrant steam was a small comfort, anchoring me to the present.

And then there was Anakin.

When he was born, I looked at his tiny face, so perfect, so full of possibility, and I swore to myself that he would not suffer as I had. But as he grew, as his features took shape, I couldn’t help but see the beauty that mirrored my sister’s. The same golden skin, the same striking eyes. It terrified me.

Even as a child, his beauty was striking. That bright, infectious smile that could charm even the most jaded of souls. It wasn’t just his looks, though; it was something deeper. There was a light inside him, a warmth that drew people to him, that made them want to bask in it.

Had Grandulla kept us...

I couldn’t finish the thought, my hands tightening briefly on the teapot’s handle. I didn’t need to imagine what would have happened. I had seen it play out with Seda. My boy would have been taken, used, just as she had been. Even as young as he was, they wouldn’t have cared.

But Watto...

For all his faults, and there were many, Watto had no interest in those horrors. To him, I was a mechanic, a worker, nothing more. Anakin was simply another pair of hands to tinker with junk and clean up after the customers. For that alone, I had been grateful, even as I hated the chains that bound us to him.

“Umi?”

Anakin’s voice pulled me from my thoughts, and I realized he was looking at me, his head tilted slightly in curiosity. Plo, too, had noticed, his steady gaze filled with quiet concern.

“Is everything okay?” Anakin asked, his brows furrowing slightly as he leaned forward.

“Yes,” I said quickly, offering him a smile that I hoped didn’t betray the heaviness in my chest. “Just lost in thought, that’s all.”

“What were you thinking about?” he pressed, ever curious, his spoon hovering over the hummus.

“Oh, just old memories,” I said lightly, brushing my hand over his hair as I passed behind him to fetch the tea. “Nothing you need to worry about.”

He watched me for a moment longer, as if trying to decide whether or not to press further, but then Plo’s voice cut in, gentle but firm.

“Your mother has done much for you, Anakin,” he said, his tone calm but filled with meaning. “It’s good to let her have her thoughts, even if she doesn’t share them all.”

Anakin nodded slowly, his attention turning back to the plate in front of him, but I didn’t miss the way he reached out to touch my arm as I sat down. A silent gesture, but one that spoke volumes.

As we settled into the meal, the warmth of their presence slowly began to push away the darker edges of my thoughts. Here, in this moment, I could let go of the past, even if only for a while.

Seda’s light was gone, but Anakin’s was still here. Still bright. Still beautiful. And I would do everything in my power to make sure it stayed that way. 

After breakfast, as I cleared the last of the plates from the table, Anakin hovered nearby, clearly trying to work up the courage to say something. His fingers fidgeted with the hem of his tunic, his eyes darting toward Plo, who was rinsing his teacup at the sink. Finally, he blurted out, “Umi, can you help me with something?”

I paused, setting the plates down and turning to face him with a curious smile. “Of course, Ani. What is it?”

“It’s Obi-Wan,” he said quickly, his words tumbling out in a rush. “He’s sick. The flu, you know, the one that’s been going around the crèche? He caught it, and he’s... he’s really miserable.”

Plo, ever silent but observant, tilted his head slightly as he dried his hands.

“I thought,” Anakin continued, his voice softening as he glanced down, “maybe we could make him the soup? And maybe some pita bread, too? You know, to help him feel better.”

The corner of my mouth quirked upward, and I raised an eyebrow at him. “Pita bread, too? Obi-Wan must be very special if he gets freshly baked pita bread.”

Anakin’s face turned bright red, the kind of blush that spread all the way to the tips of his ears. “I just... he’s nice, and he’s always helping me in lightsaber practice, and—”

I laughed softly, stepping forward to place a hand on his shoulder. “It’s all right, Ani. I’m happy to help.”

Plo chuckled quietly from the sink, a sound so rare that both Anakin and I turned to look at him in surprise. His mask didn’t reveal much, but there was a warmth in his tone when he said, “It seems your son has a generous heart, Shmi.”

“He always has,” I replied, squeezing Anakin’s shoulder affectionately.

The three of us dove into the task at hand, the kitchen transforming into a hive of purposeful activity under my direction. I took my place at the head of our impromptu operation, guiding Anakin and Plo with a steady stream of instructions and gentle corrections. It wasn’t often that I had help in the kitchen, but it was clear they were both determined to follow my lead—and to get this right.

“Anakin, start with the spices,” I said, nodding toward the small ceramic jars lined neatly on the counter. “Measure them carefully; too much cumin, and the soup will overpower itself.”

“Yes, umi,” Anakin replied, his voice bright and focused. He stood on tiptoes, reaching for the cumin, paprika, and a pinch of coriander. With a careful hand, he measured each into the wooden spoon I handed him, sprinkling them into the pot with a level of precision that made me smile.

“Good,” I said, stirring the pot as the spices bloomed in the heat, filling the air with a rich, earthy aroma. “Now the garlic—just one clove. Finely minced.”

“On it!” Anakin grabbed a small knife, his movements deliberate as he chopped the clove into tiny pieces. His focus was endearing, his tongue sticking out slightly as he worked.

Across the counter, Plo had taken charge of the bread, his large hands surprisingly gentle as he kneaded the dough. I watched him for a moment, my lips twitching into a smile as I saw how he approached the task with the same quiet precision he seemed to bring to everything.

“Not bad,” I said, moving to stand beside him. “But you’re being too careful. Bread dough likes a bit of firmness—it’s not as fragile as it looks.”

Plo glanced at me, his mask tilting slightly as if he were amused. “Firmness,” he repeated, pressing his palms into the dough with more force.

“Better,” I said, nodding approvingly. “You’ve got to work it like this.” I reached over, my hands joining his to demonstrate. Together, we pushed and folded the dough, the rhythmic motion a comforting familiarity.

Anakin glanced over from his station, his knife clinking lightly against the cutting board as he chopped. “You’re going to be a bread-making master after this,” he said with a grin.

“I have an excellent teacher,” Plo replied, inclining his head toward me.

I chuckled softly, stepping back to let him continue. “Keep kneading until it’s smooth and elastic,” I said. “Then we’ll let it rest while the soup finishes.”

As I returned to the pot, Anakin brought over the minced garlic, tipping it into the bubbling broth with a flourish. “What’s next?” he asked eagerly, wiping his hands on a towel.

“The vegetables,” I replied, pointing to the pile of carrots and celery waiting on the counter. “Chop them into small pieces—uniform, if you can manage it.”

“Uniform,” he repeated with mock seriousness, grabbing another knife. “Got it.”

While he worked, I moved to check on Plo, who had shaped the dough into neat rounds and placed them on a floured board. “Perfect,” I said, brushing a bit of flour off my hands. “Now we let it rise.”

“And then bake?” Plo asked, his tone inquisitive.

“And then bake,” I confirmed, covering the dough with a damp cloth and setting it near the warmth of the oven.

The kitchen was alive with movement and warmth, the scent of soup mingling with the yeasty aroma of rising dough. “This is going to be the best soup Obi-Wan’s ever had,” Anakin declared.

“That’s the idea,” I said.

Plo stepped back from the counter, his hands dusted with flour and glanced at the rising dough. “How long until it’s ready?”

“About twenty minutes,” I said. “Plenty of time to set the table and check the soup’s seasoning.”

Anakin grabbed a spoon, eagerly dipping it into the pot and blowing on the steaming liquid before tasting. “Needs more salt,” he declared.

“All right, Chef Skywalker. Let’s fix it.” I laughed, reaching for the salt jar. “By the way, did Obi-Wan tell you he was sick, or did you just notice?” I asked as I stirred the soup, its rich aroma beginning to fill the room.

“He didn’t have to tell me,” Anakin replied, glancing up briefly. “He was all pale and sniffly, and his voice sounded like he’d swallowed gravel. I told him to go to the Halls of Healing, but he said he didn’t want to bother anyone.” He rolled his eyes dramatically, a gesture so like his usual self that it made me laugh.

“Well,” I said, “it sounds like he’s lucky to have you looking out for him.”

Anakin’s blush deepened, but he grinned as he returned to his work. “It’s almost like he’s family,” Anakin said suddenly, his voice softening. “You know, like you and Plo.”

I exchanged a quick glance with Plo, who inclined his head slightly, his silent support as steady as ever.

“Well, Ani,” I said, brushing a bit of flour off my hands, “family isn’t always about blood. Sometimes, it’s about the people who care for you, who stand by you no matter what.”

He looked thoughtful at that, his brow furrowing slightly as he considered my words. Then he smiled, a bright, genuine smile that lit up his entire face. “Yeah. That makes sense.”

This was my son. My thoughtful, generous boy, always finding ways to make the world a little brighter. And if Obi-Wan was the one who got to benefit from that kindness today, well... I wasn’t going to say anything. But the way Anakin’s blush lingered, told me everything I needed to know.

As the oven timer dinged and the golden pita bread emerged perfectly baked, Anakin buzzed with excitement. His eyes darted between the bread and the container of soup, practically vibrating with anticipation. “This is going to be perfect,” he said, carefully packing everything into the small bag he’d brought.

Plo handed him the last loaf of pita, his hands deft yet deliberate. “Remember,” he said, his voice calm as ever, “small sips if Obi-Wan’s throat is sore. And don’t let him get up too soon—rest is as important as nourishment.”

Anakin nodded with exaggerated seriousness, the corners of his mouth twitching upward. “Got it, Master. Small sips. Lots of rest. Jedi orders.”

I laughed softly as I tucked a cloth around the container to keep it warm. “Tell Obi-Wan we hope he feels better soon, Ani,” I said, brushing a hand over his hair.

He grinned, slinging the bag over his shoulder. “I will, Mom. Thanks for helping!”

“Go on now,” I said, gesturing toward the door. “And don’t keep him waiting too long. Sick or not, I doubt Obi-Wan’s the patient type.”

Anakin laughed as he bounded out the door, the sound of his footsteps echoing down the hall. Plo and I followed, standing at the threshold to wave him off. He turned at the corner, giving one last cheerful wave before disappearing from sight.

As soon as he was gone, the smile slipped from my face, the warmth of the moment fading like sunlight retreating behind clouds. I let out a soft sigh, stepping back into the kitchen, my movements slower now.

“Shmi,” Plo’s voice was quiet, gentle, but with an edge of perceptiveness that I had come to expect. “What’s troubling you today?”

I hesitated, turning to find him watching me, his mask tilted ever so slightly as though he could see straight through to the weight I was carrying. For a moment, I wanted to brush it off, to offer some polite dismissal. But Plo wasn’t someone you could hide from—not when he truly wanted to understand.

“It’s nothing,” I started, then stopped, shaking my head. “No, that’s not true. It’s... today, I’ve been thinking. Remembering.”

Plo stepped closer, his presence as steady as a mountain. He didn’t press, didn’t push me to continue, but his silence was an invitation, one I found myself accepting.

“My sister, Seda. My brother, my parents,” I began, my voice soft, almost hesitant. “I think about them more often than I let on. About the life we had before...”

I trailed off, busying my hands with the tea kettle though the tea was long gone. Plo reached out, placing a hand lightly on my shoulder, a grounding touch that encouraged me to keep going.

“I wasn’t born a slave,” I said, the words tumbling out in a rush as if saying them faster would make them easier. “We were free once. My family. My father was strong, my brother brave. My mother was... unyielding. And Seda...” I paused, my throat tightening. “She was beautiful. Too beautiful.”

Plo didn’t say anything, but his hand stayed firm, a silent reassurance that I was not alone in this moment.

“They killed my father and brother when they took us,” I continued, my voice steady but distant. “My mother... she didn’t last long. And Seda, she resisted. She fought so hard, even when there was no hope. But it broke her. They broke her.”

I turned away, blinking back the tears that threatened to spill. “I adapted,” I said, almost bitterly. “I learned what they wanted, how to survive. I became useful, because being useful was the only way to stay safe. For a long time, I thought that was all I could be.”

My hands clenched into fists, and I forced myself to breathe, to steady the trembling in my chest. “When Anakin was born, I swore I would protect him. I thought I could keep him safe, that I could shield him from the worst of it. But there were days...” My voice cracked, and I swallowed hard. “There were days I was so afraid. Afraid of what they would see in him. What they would do to him.”

Plo’s hand moved from my shoulder to my arm, his touch anchoring me as the storm of memories threatened to overwhelm. “But you did protect him,” he said, his voice calm but resolute. “You gave him the foundation to endure, to rise above. You brought him here, where he is free to become who he is meant to be.”

I let out a shaky breath, turning to meet his gaze—or what I imagined was his gaze behind the mask. “I just wish I could tell him,” I admitted. “About everything. About where I come from, who I was before... but I can’t. I don’t want him to carry that weight.”

Plo inclined his head slightly, his voice thoughtful. “Perhaps, when the time is right, you will find the words. But for now, Shmi, you have done more for him than most could ever dream. And you continue to do so.”

I nodded slowly, his words settling over me like a balm.

“Thank you,” I said softly, and though the ache in my chest remained, it felt a little lighter.

Plo stayed with me as I cleared the table, his presence silent but steady. Together, we tidied the kitchen, and though the weight of the past lingered, I found myself feeling just a little less alone.

As I folded the last dish towel and set it neatly on the counter, I caught Plo watching me. His presence was as steady as ever, but there was something different in the way he stood—hands loosely clasped, head tilted slightly, as if weighing something unspoken.

Finally, he broke the silence. “Shmi,” he said, his voice as calm and measured as always, “have you ever tried meditation?”

The question caught me off guard, and I couldn’t help but laugh softly. “Meditation? No, I don’t think so. I wouldn’t know where to start.”

“It’s not as complicated as you might think,” he replied, stepping closer. “Meditation is simply a moment to be still. To quiet the noise within and around you. It can bring clarity, peace, or simply a space to breathe.”

I turned to face him fully, wiping my hands on the apron I still wore. “I’m not a Jedi, Plo. I don’t have the Force like you do.”

His mask tilted slightly, and I could almost sense the warmth behind his expression. “One does not need to be a Jedi to meditate,” he said gently. “And one does not need to feel the Force to benefit from stillness.”

I hesitated, my gaze flicking toward the door where Anakin had left not long ago. My thoughts were still heavy with the past, the memories I had shared and those I had not. Maybe...

“What would I even do?” I asked, crossing my arms loosely as I leaned against the counter.

Plo stepped back slightly, gesturing to the small sitting area near the kitchen—a simple arrangement of cushions and a low table that had become a favorite spot for Anakin to work on his mechanical projects. “Sit,” he said, motioning for me to join him as he lowered himself gracefully onto one of the cushions.

I followed, though my movements were less elegant, settling across from him with a soft sigh. The familiar warmth of the room wrapped around me as I tucked my legs beneath me, my hands resting in my lap.

“Close your eyes,” Plo said, his tone soothing.

I obeyed, letting my eyelids fall shut, though I couldn’t help but feel a little self-conscious. “And then?”

“Breathe,” he replied simply. “In through your nose, out through your mouth. Let each breath fill you, then leave you. Let the rhythm ground you.”

I took a hesitant breath, then another, each one slower than the last. The initial awkwardness began to fade as I focused on the steady in-and-out, the gentle rise and fall of my chest.

“Good,” Plo said softly, his voice a low hum in the quiet room. “Now, let your thoughts come and go, like clouds passing across the sky. Do not cling to them. Simply observe, then let them drift away.”

That was easier said than done. My mind, so used to spinning with memories, worries, and plans, refused to quiet easily. Images of Seda, of my father, of Anakin as a small child darted through my thoughts like fleeting shadows.

“I don’t think I’m very good at this,” I admitted after a moment, cracking one eye open to look at him.

Plo’s head tilted, and I could feel his calm amusement. “There is no measure of ‘good’ or ‘bad’ in meditation, Shmi,” he said. “It is simply practice. Each attempt is valuable, no matter the outcome.”

I nodded slowly, closing my eyes again and returning to my breath. This time, I tried not to push the thoughts away but to let them flow naturally.

The scent of baking bread lingered faintly in the air, grounding me. The quiet hum of the Temple in the background became a soothing rhythm, like the heartbeat of a place that had finally become home.

“Do you feel it?” Plo asked quietly after some time had passed.

“Feel what?”

“The stillness within you,” he said. “It is not the absence of thought, but the space between. A moment to simply be.”

I let his words sink in, and as I focused on the gentle ebb and flow of my breath, I began to understand. There was a stillness—not perfect, not complete, but a momentary peace that settled over me like a soft blanket.

When I finally opened my eyes, the room seemed brighter somehow, as if the morning light streaming through the window had grown warmer. Plo was watching me, his posture as serene as ever.

“How do you feel?” he asked.

I thought about it for a moment, then smiled faintly. “Lighter,” I admitted. “Not completely, but... lighter.”

He inclined his head. “Meditation is not a solution, but a tool. Use it when you need it, Shmi. Stillness can be a powerful ally.”

“Thank you,” I said softly, the words carrying more weight than I intended.

Plo simply nodded, his presence as steady as ever. For the first time in a long while, I felt like I had a new way to face the weight of the past. Not to forget it, but to let it rest.

Chapter Text

When Qui-Gon opened the door, I swear the guy was radiating “wise Jedi Master” energy so hard it was almost funny. His frown softened into a smile when he saw me standing there with my food container clutched tightly in both hands. “Good morning, Padawan Skywalker,” he greeted, his deep voice warm and steady.

“Good morning, Master Jinn,” I replied, my smile widening as I held up the container. “I heard Obi-Wan was sick, so I made him my mom’s soup!”

At that, Qui-Gon’s eyebrows lifted in clear amusement. “Oh, the famous Skywalker soup,” he said, chuckling softly. Famous wasn’t half of it. I’d lost count of how many Jedi—younglings, Padawans, Knights, even Council members—swore by this stuff every time they came down with so much as a sniffle. Mom’s soup wasn’t just food; it was practically a legend in its own right.

“Well, it works,” I said, shrugging a little but unable to hide the pride in my voice. “And Obi-Wan needs it.”

Qui-Gon’s eyes sparkled with humor as he tilted his head, his arms crossing loosely. “And what if I need it, hmm? Surely you wouldn’t deny an old Jedi Master a taste?”

“Unless you plan on getting sick, you’re out of luck,” I teased, grinning up at him.

“Oh, the woes of being healthy,” Qui-Gon lamented dramatically, his deep voice carrying a note of mock sorrow as he stepped aside and gestured for me to come in. “Very well. Come in, Anakin. I’m sure Obi-Wan will love to see you.”

“Thank you!” I said brightly, stepping into the quarters and making a beeline for Obi-Wan’s room. The place had the same minimalist vibe as most Jedi living spaces, but there was something warmer about it—something that reminded me a bit of Qui-Gon himself.

Seeing Qui-Gon here, alive, laughing, it was still... surreal. In another life—no, in another timeline—he hadn’t made it past Naboo. The memory of his death had haunted me for years, a stark reminder of how fragile even the greatest among us could be. But now? Now he was here, standing just a few feet away, alive and well. I swallowed hard, pushing the thought aside.

“Obi! I’m here!” I called out as I approached his door, my excitement spilling over despite myself.

“Come in!” Obi-Wan’s voice came through, followed almost immediately by a harsh cough.

I pushed open the door, my grin faltering slightly when I saw him. Obi-Wan was sitting up in bed, his face pale and drawn, with dark circles under his eyes. A blanket was draped over his shoulders, and there was a datapad on his lap, though it looked like he’d abandoned whatever he was working on.

"Hi there, dear heart," Obi-Wan greeted with a warm smile, his voice softer than usual, as if the sickness had dulled his usually sharp edges. His tone, though, was full of fondness—the kind that made you feel wrapped up in the Force like a cozy blanket.

"Hi, Obi!" I shot back, grinning from ear to ear. It hit me again, like it always did, just how much I’d missed him. Not just missed him physically, but the real Obi-Wan—the kind, bright presence in the Force, the unwavering loyalty and care that radiated from him like sunlight. How had I ever thought of him as an enemy? It felt absurd now, almost laughable.

"I made you soup!" I declared, holding up the container like it was some kind of trophy.

"Thank you, dear heart," he replied, his smile deepening as the Force around him hummed with genuine gratitude. I could feel how much the gesture meant to him. Obi-Wan didn’t just appreciate acts of kindness; he cherished them, like each one was a precious gift. “I’m sure it will be tasty.”

“Tasty?” I repeated, puffing out my chest a little. “It’s my mom’s recipe! Of course, it’ll be tasty!”

He laughed, the sound warm and rich despite the rasp in his voice. It made the Force around him shine just a little brighter, like a flickering light reignited.

“And—oh!” I said, snapping my fingers like I’d just remembered something crucial. “I also made you some pita bread! But don’t go telling anyone,” I added, leaning in like it was some huge secret. “I haven’t done it for anyone else.”

Obi-Wan laughed again, the kind of laugh that lit up the whole room. The Force seemed to glow with his amusement, and it made me feel a little lighter too. “Thank you, dear heart,” he said, his voice full of that steady affection he was so good at. “I feel special.”

“You are special,” I replied, dead serious. There wasn’t a hint of a joke in my tone, and I could feel his surprise ripple through the Force like a tiny shockwave. “You’re kind, smart, loyal, strong, and my favorite person. I want to be half the man you are when I grow up.”

The words spilled out of me before I even realized what I was saying, but I meant every one of them. Obi-Wan deserved to know how much he mattered, how much he inspired me—not just in this timeline but in both timelines.

He looked at me, completely stunned, like I’d just dropped some galactic secret on him. But then his smile returned, softer this time, and I felt the Force around him melt into something warm and golden.

“I’m not that good, dear heart,” he said quietly, his gaze dropping for a moment, like he couldn’t quite meet my eyes.

“You are!” I shot back immediately, narrowing my eyes in a little glare because honestly, Obi-Wan’s self-doubt drove me up the wall. “You have four Padawan beads!” I pointed dramatically at the red, yellow, orange, and green beads woven into his braid. “When most Padawans barely get two! With luck and effort, they might achieve three, but you’ve got four! You’re already known as a great negotiator! Not to mention how everyone knows they can come to you and trust you. You’re incredible, and don’t doubt it for a second!”

I finished with a pout for extra emphasis, crossing my arms like that sealed the argument.

Obi-Wan blinked at me, his surprise shifting into something softer—something that felt a lot like awe. “Got it,” he said finally, his voice tinged with warmth and gratitude. “Thank you, dear heart.”

The Force around him shimmered with quiet joy and... something else. Adoration, maybe? I could feel how much he appreciated my words, even if he couldn’t quite bring himself to believe all of them yet.

But that was fine. I’d just have to remind him again. And again. However many times it took.

"You’re welcome!” I replied, flashing Obi-Wan a cheeky grin as I plopped myself onto the floor next to his bed.

I ladled some of the soup into a bowl, and then I handed the bowl to Obi-Wan. He took it with both hands, his fingers curling around the warm ceramic as he gave me a grateful nod. “Thank you, dear heart.”

“No problem,” I said quickly, retreating back a step. “Just, you know... don’t die or anything.”

Obi-Wan snorted into his soup, though it turned into a cough almost immediately. Qui-Gon stepped into the room, his large hand settling on Obi-Wan’s shoulder as he steadied him.

“Careful, Obi-Wan,” Qui-Gon said, his voice full of quiet concern.

Obi-Wan waved him off weakly, his other hand still gripping the spoon. “I’m fine. Just—” He coughed again, wincing. “Just a little under the weather.”

I glanced between them, the familiar dynamic tugging at something deep inside me. In this timeline, they had each other. Qui-Gon wasn’t gone, and Obi-Wan wasn’t carrying the weight of the galaxy alone. And as for the battle on Naboo? This time, I wouldn’t let history repeat itself. This time, I’d make sure Qui-Gon survived.

But for now, I just smiled, trying to keep the weight of those thoughts from showing on my face. “Told you the soup would help,” I said lightly, folding my arms. “It’s like a miracle in a bowl.”

“And modest, too,” Obi-Wan quipped, though his voice was still hoarse.

Qui-Gon chuckled, giving me a look that was equal parts amused and approving. “I see why the Council speaks so highly of you, Anakin.”

“Yeah, well,” I said, trying not to let the praise go straight to my head, “I’m kind of a big deal.” Obi-Wan groaned, but there was a faint smile on his face as he took another sip of the soup. And for the first time in a long while, everything felt... right. “Now help me with my Literature and Poetry homework!” I repeated, louder this time, in case he thought he could get out of it by pretending he hadn’t heard me the first time.

Obi-Wan raised an eyebrow, but the corners of his lips twitched like he was holding back a laugh. He set his bowl of soup carefully on the nightstand, leaning back against the headboard with an air of someone preparing for battle—or in this case, a tutoring session.

“Literature and Poetry, hmm?” he said, stretching the words out like he was savoring them, which immediately made me suspicious.

“Yes,” I said, already bracing for whatever he was about to throw at me. “And don’t act so smug about it.” I crossed my arms and gave him my best pout, which, let’s be honest, probably made me look more petulant than intimidating. “I still don’t know why I signed up for that class! It’s so boring!”

“Because your mom likes the pretty words,” Obi-Wan pointed out, his smile turning downright insufferable now.

“Oh. Right.” I groaned, flopping back against the chair dramatically. “Useless, pretty words. At least in coding, everything has a purpose—something practical. It’s logical. It makes sense.” I gestured wildly, as if that could make him see reason.

Obi-Wan, of course, didn’t look the least bit convinced. Instead, he just tilted his head and gave me that Jedi Master look that I swear was specifically designed to make you feel like you were missing the point. I knew what was coming, but I still let him have his moment.

“The same applies to poetry and literature,” he said, his voice dipping into the kind of calm, steady tone that should have been annoying but wasn’t. “Every word serves a purpose, Anakin. It means something. It conveys emotion, captures moments, reveals truths—things that numbers and logic can’t always do.”

I rolled my eyes, but not before I caught the way his voice softened, like he actually believed this stuff. And okay, fine, it reminded me of the way my old Master Obi-Wan used to lecture me—except this Obi-Wan was younger, less weighed down, and still full of hope.

“You’re telling me poetry’s just fancy coding for emotions?” I asked, leaning forward with my arms on my knees, trying not to grin as I watched him fight the urge to roll his eyes right back at me.

“If that’s what helps you understand it, then yes,” Obi-Wan said, and there was no mistaking the amusement in his voice this time.

“Huh,” I muttered, tapping my fingers against my knee like I was processing some great philosophical revelation. “Fancy coding for emotions. Still seems inefficient.”

Obi-Wan actually laughed at that—an honest, warm laugh that made the room feel lighter somehow. “Not everything has to be efficient, Anakin. Sometimes things are meant to be experienced, not optimized.”

“Spoken like a true poet,” I teased, but I couldn’t stop the grin that spread across my face. And then—because apparently, I couldn’t resist pushing my luck—I added, “I’m guessing you’ve got some tragic poetry hidden somewhere, huh? What’s your flavor, Obi? Star-crossed lovers? Epic battles? Overwrought soliloquies about the meaning of life?”

His mouth opened, then closed again, and I swear he turned the faintest shade of pink before he managed to recover. “That,” he said, voice deliberately measured, “is none of your business.”

“Oh, it’s totally my business now,” I shot back, leaning forward with a gleam in my eye. “I’m going to find it. It’s probably hidden in your quarters. Maybe stuffed under your sleep mat or tucked behind your holobooks. Or maybe—”

“Anakin,” Obi-Wan interrupted, his tone dipping into the “I’m trying to sound serious but failing miserably” category. “If you don’t start your homework, I will confiscate your pita bread.”

I gasped, clutching my bag like it contained the galaxy’s last supply of food. “You wouldn’t.”

“I would,” he said, smiling innocently.

“This is blackmail,” I muttered, already pulling out my datapad and scrolling to the assigned reading. “And extortion. You should be arrested.”

“For what?” Qui-Gon’s voice suddenly cut in as he entered the room, carrying a tray with more tea and a blanket slung over one arm. His eyes sparkled with barely contained amusement. “For making sure you complete your homework?”

“For threatening my bread!” I protested, waving a piece of pita dramatically for emphasis.

Obi-Wan groaned, but there was no missing the fondness in his expression. “I regret everything,” he muttered, though the small smile tugging at his lips suggested otherwise.

“Too late,” I said, already diving into the first stanza of whatever dry, flowery poem I was supposed to analyze. “You’re stuck with me now.”

As I glanced over at Qui-Gon, I caught him watching us with a small, almost secret smile. There was something proud in his expression, something warm and unshakably steady. It hit me then, just how much faith he had in Obi-Wan—not just as his Padawan, but as a person.

Qui-Gon leaned back against the doorframe, his arms crossed loosely as he observed. “You’ll make a fine master one day, Obi-Wan,” he said, his tone carrying the weight of certainty.

Obi-Wan glanced at him, his brow furrowing slightly in that endearingly skeptical way he always did whenever someone complimented him. “I think that’s a bit premature,” he said modestly, though the faint pink dusting his cheeks betrayed how much the words meant to him.

“It’s not,” I said firmly, looking at him with as much seriousness as I could muster. “You’re going to be great at it. Way better than anyone else. Probably the best Jedi Master ever.”

Obi-Wan blinked at me, taken aback by the sincerity in my voice. For a moment, he didn’t say anything, but the Force around him shifted, glowing a little brighter, a little warmer.

“Thank you, dear heart,” he said finally, his voice soft but steady.

“Stop thanking me for just stating facts,” I replied casually, though inside I felt like I’d just done something important—something that mattered.

For the first time in a long time, everything felt right. Obi-Wan, Qui-Gon, the soup... even the poetry homework I still didn’t want to do. It all felt like a moment worth holding onto.

I kept swinging by every day after my lessons, even once Obi-Wan was back on his feet and the flu was a distant memory. I told myself it was to make sure he didn’t overdo it too soon—after all, someone had to make sure he didn’t go straight back to his crazy training schedule. But really? I just liked being around them. Qui-Gon and Obi-Wan had this easy rhythm that felt... nice. Familiar. It wasn’t so different from the bond between me and Plo. It made me feel at home.

Obi-Wan always greeted me with that warm smile, sometimes throwing in a sarcastic quip about how I was probably skipping out on my homework to come bother them. I’d roll my eyes, of course, but the banter was part of the fun.

“Let me guess,” Obi-Wan said one evening as I strolled in with my datapad tucked under one arm. “You’re here to avoid your Literature essay again?”

“Obviously,” I replied, plopping down onto the chair near his desk. “If I have to write one more word about the meaning behind some flowery metaphor, I might actually throw myself into the nearest exhaust vent.”

“That dramatic streak of yours really shines through sometimes, dear heart,” Obi-Wan said with a laugh, though he didn’t look up from the report he was reviewing. “You know, you could always ask me for help.”

“Sure,” I teased. “And then you’d go on a two-hour lecture about the beauty of the written word. No thanks. I’d like to graduate before I start growing a beard.”

From the corner of the room, Qui-Gon chuckled. “You underestimate the power of patience, Anakin,” he said, his voice calm and teasing all at once. “A lesson in literature might be exactly what you need.”

“Patience is overrated,” I shot back, grinning. “Efficiency is where it’s at.”

Despite my grumbling, it became a habit—checking in with them, hanging around for an hour or two, sometimes helping Obi-Wan with small tasks, sometimes just chatting. It felt good, like I was part of something solid, something steady. The birthday was a surprise, though. It had been umi’s idea, but I had my suspicions that it was actually Obi-Wan pulling the strings behind the scenes. Either way, I didn’t see it coming.

It started out as a completely normal day. Plo dragged me out of bed at sunrise for meditation practice, which still wasn’t my favorite thing. Then there was saber training, where I managed not to lose any limbs—always a win. After that, I spent the afternoon tinkering in the Temple’s hangar, helping Shmi repair a malfunctioning droid while Obi-Wan pretended he wasn’t hovering nearby with a list of questions about said droid. Nothing unusual.

So, when umi suggested we go back to their quarters early because she wanted my “opinion on something she was cooking,” I didn’t think twice about it. Not until we got to the door, and I felt something.

The Force practically buzzed with anticipation. It wasn’t danger, though—more like excitement barely being contained. I frowned, glancing at Plo, who just gave me one of his infuriatingly calm looks. I should’ve known then.

The door slid open, and—

“Surprise!”

I flinched back so hard I nearly tripped over my own feet. The room was packed—Masters, knights, padawans, even a few younglings who’d somehow squeezed their way in. Streamers hung from the ceiling in chaotic loops, and the table was covered in food, including Shmi’s pita bread and what looked suspiciously like a cake.

I froze in the doorway. “What—?”

“It’s your birthday, dear heart,” Obi-Wan said with a grin, stepping forward to drape a ridiculous blue and gold sash over my shoulders. “And before you say anything, no, you can’t take it off.”

“My—” I blinked. Right. My birthday. My first birthday as a free person. My first birthday in the Temple.

Shmi appeared at my side, her eyes shining. “You didn’t think we’d let the day pass unnoticed, did you?” She smoothed the sash over my tunic, brushing invisible dust off my shoulders in that mom way that always made me feel simultaneously embarrassed and ridiculously loved.

I couldn’t speak, not yet, so I just shook my head.

Plo stepped forward next, holding out something small and wrapped in cloth. “A gift,” he said simply. “From all of us.”

I took it carefully, unwrapping the cloth to reveal—

“A crystal?” I said, confused at first, until I tilted it and saw the faint shimmer of Kyber within. It wasn’t the right size or shape for a lightsaber, but it hummed faintly with energy, warm against my palm.

“It’s a focusing crystal,” Plo explained. “For meditation, or simply to carry with you. It won’t attune to anyone else, only to you.”

I swallowed hard, suddenly feeling very small and very seen. “Thank you,” I managed.

“Don’t get too sentimental,” Quinlan cut in from the corner, leaning against the wall with his arms crossed and a smirk plastered across his face. “We’ve got a game of sabacc set up in the corner and I fully intend to take all your credits before the night is over.”

“Quinlan!” Aayla tugged at his sleeve, rolling her eyes. “We’re supposed to be nice today, remember?”

“I am being nice. I’m letting him lose in style.” Quinlan grinned before tossing me a wink.

I snorted, finally starting to relax as the overwhelming energy in the room settled into something warmer. It didn’t matter that I hadn’t expected this—hadn’t even thought about celebrating my birthday. They had.

Later, after the cake had been cut and Quinlan had, in fact, lost every credit chip he’d brought, I found myself leaning against the wall, watching as the others laughed and joked around the table. Shmi was talking to Qui-Gon, who had somehow ended up with one of the younger younglings asleep against his shoulder. Obi-Wan was deep in conversation with Plo about saber forms, while Aayla animatedly told Quinlan about her latest sparring match.

And me? I was holding the focusing crystal, turning it over in my hands and letting its energy settle around me.

“Happy birthday, Anakin,” Shmi said softly as she joined me, slipping an arm around my shoulders.

I leaned into her, letting the warmth of her presence ground me. “Thanks, umi.”

Later, when Qui-Gon suggested I bring Plo and Shmi along for dinner one evening, I didn’t even hesitate. The idea of all of us together, like some kind of weird, extended family, made me grin. The night of the dinner, Shmi insisted on cooking. “It’s only polite,” she said as she shooed me out of the kitchen, her tone leaving no room for argument. Master Plo, ever the supportive one, offered to help her. I wasn’t sure how much help he could actually be with those claws of his, but Shmi didn’t seem to mind. By the time we arrived at Obi-Wan and Qui-Gon’s quarters, the air was filled with the comforting aroma of spices and freshly baked bread.

“Welcome!” Qui-Gon greeted warmly, stepping aside to let us in. “It smells incredible.”

“It’s all her,” I said, jerking a thumb toward Shmi. She shot me a look, half-exasperated and half-amused, as she balanced a large pot in her hands.

Obi-Wan appeared from the back room, his hair slightly mussed and his tunic looking like he’d just thrown it on in a rush. “Dinner smells amazing,” he said, flashing Shmi a smile. “And here I thought Anakin’s soup was the height of culinary achievement.”

“It’s all in the spices,” Shmi replied modestly, setting the pot down on the table with Master Plo’s help.

As we sat down, the conversation flowed as easily as the food. Qui-Gon shared stories from his missions, his voice steady and deep, while Obi-Wan chimed in with dry commentary that had us all laughing. Plo added his own quiet humor, and umi? She fit right in, her soft voice carrying warmth and a touch of motherly pride as she spoke about Tatooine and the traditions of the Skywalker family.

And me? I just sat back for a moment, watching them all. There was something about the way Shmi leaned slightly toward Qui-Gon as he spoke, genuinely interested in his tales. The way Obi-Wan’s eyes lit up when he teased me, his Force signature practically hummed with amusement. The way Plo always seemed to have this unshakable calm, like a steady anchor for all of us.

It wasn’t something I’d had before—a group of people like this, so different yet connected in a way that felt... right. It wasn’t perfect, but for the first time in both my timelines, it felt like I had a family.

Unfortunately, we had to miss what would’ve been our last dinner together for a while because duty called—a mission to Naboo that was too important to delay. My insides churned as I thought about what that meant. Naboo wasn’t just a mission to me. It was a point of no return. A place where everything had gone wrong before.

But not this time.

Time to put my acting skills to the test, I thought with a smirk, schooling my expression into something appropriately pained as I all but stumbled into the Halls of Healing. The trick was in the details—shaky steps, a hand pressed to my temple like I was fighting off a terrible headache, and just the right amount of labored breathing. Drama sells, and I was aiming for Oscar-worthy here.

“Healer Che!” I gasped, as though just making it to the nearest bed was a feat of endurance. “Help!”

The reaction was immediate. Healer Che came rushing toward me, her robes billowing slightly with her hurried steps. “Force, Padawan Skywalker! What’s happened?” she demanded, her hands already hovering just above my forehead, scanning with the Force. “You look pale, but I can’t sense any illness!”

“Crash... Tatooine...” I wheezed, letting my legs buckle enough to sell the act but not enough to actually hit the floor. Her hands caught my shoulder before I could collapse entirely. “Queen... Zabrak... gold eyes... darkness—so much darkness!” My voice shook with just the right amount of desperation. “Blood! So much blood!”

Her sharp intake of breath confirmed I had her hooked. Around the room, other healers paused in their work, their attention snapping at me like mynocks to a power cable. The tension thickened, and the room grew unnervingly quiet.

“Death,” I whispered, my voice low and ominous as I shivered dramatically, making sure to let my lips tremble just a little. It wasn’t hard—the memory of Qui-Gon’s death had haunted me enough to channel some real fear into this performance. “Qui-Gon will die in Naboo.”

The room’s temperature seemed to drop. Even the Force itself resonated with an unsettling vibration, lending my words an edge of undeniable truth. Healer Che froze, her wide eyes locked on mine, and I let my head tilt back just slightly, like I couldn’t hold it up any longer. And then, for the grand finale, I allowed myself to “faint,” crumpling just enough for her to catch me.

“Skywalker!” she gasped, shifting her grip to support me. “Master—” a padawan, who had been sorting supplies nearby, turned to her in disbelief.

“Gather the Council,” Healer Che snapped, her tone all steel and determination as she straightened up, still half-holding me. “Now!”

The padawan stumbled out of the room, the Force trembling with the urgency of the moment. I cracked open one eye ever so slightly to watch him go before quickly shutting it again when Healer Che looked back at me. She muttered something under her breath about stubborn, reckless padawans, but I couldn’t help but feel a flicker of pride.

Showmanship, Skywalker. Nailed it.

I’d have to deal with the fallout later—explaining myself to the Council was going to be a whole thing—but if this meant keeping Qui-Gon alive, it would all be worth it. No way was I letting that stubborn, brilliant Jedi throw himself in front of a Sith’s blade again. Not this time.