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“What are you doing?” Vos asked.
Alor Obi-Wan Kenobi had entered the barracks, scuffled with Vos, and then sat on top of him while Vos was pinned in a supine position.
“Stopping you.”
“Stopping me from what?” he asked through gritted teeth. The bastard. The absolute bastard.
“Not sure,” Kenobi replied. “Care to share?”
“Oh I’ll share,” Vos growled dangerously. He pushed up and the two scuffled again. Once again Kenobi came out on top. Literally.
In Quinlan’s opinion, Soresu Masters were the worst. It took ten times as long with every issue and every fight as they wore you down, sucking up your energy like a mynock until you surrendered. The mynock currently on top of him was an expert at sucking up Vos’ energy until he said mercy.
“It’s a free galaxy,” Vos tried. He was prone this time. Kenobi was sitting cross-legged on his back like… he couldn’t remember. Maybe he knew someone who once did that. A familiar weight that anchored to no familiar face.
“Actually, most of it is fascist military states and autocratic dictators,” Kenobi countered.
“You’re always a joy, Kenobi.”
Vos admitted defeat and lay on his stomach with Kenobi’s solid weight on top of him for a while.
“Speaking of autocratic dictators, what would your husband say, finding us like this?” Vos poked. He didn’t like Jango Fett, and was still trying to figure out why the man on top of him did. There had been rumours about coercion he didn’t like. When he asked Fett about it, Fett didn’t deny it. When he asked Kenobi about it, the mynock shrugged and said the situation was solved amicably.
“He would probably grumble about you taking up time that could be spent with him,” Kenobi replied. “If he was home. He’s on a hunt right now.”
“Hunting Jedi?” Vos asked sourly.
“Separatists,” Kenobi corrected. “Jango doesn’t hunt Jedi anymore.”
Because he was too good at killing them, he didn’t add, but Vos finished for him mentally. Jango Fett was the Jedi Killer, which added to the mystery of why Kenobi was actually in love with him.
How could you love someone like that? That killed their people without regret.
But when Vos reached for the memory of those people there was nothing there. Just ghosts with no personalities, no emotional resonance. Like his entire life had been performed by empty puppets in monotone voices. Even he didn’t really care for them beyond knowing he should . Feeling the absence.
“I need to be doing something,” Vos finally said. Why did he bother trying to outlast a Soresu Master in the first place? “The Mandalorians said if we were good we could do something, and we’ve been very good, haven’t we?”
A sigh. “We are doing something,” Kenobi said, although he knew it wasn’t what Vos wanted.
“I’m not talking about negotiations. I’m not talking about minor labour disputes.”
“I know,” Kenobi sighed.
“Dooku.”
“Dooku,” Kenobi acknowledged.
“You don’t understand.”
“No?” Kenobi asked.
“I still feel them. Under my skin. In my blood. I can’t remember them, but I know them. I know they’re missing.”
Kenobi sighed. “They’re lost, Vos. One way or the other, they’re lost. You must accept it.”
He lurched, hoping to take Kenobi by surprise, but he only flailed when the bastard shifted his weight holding him in place.
“I don’t have to accept anything.”
“Attaching yourself to ghosts will only lead you to a grave, Quinlan.”
“Dooku’s.”
“Your own,” Kenobi said, voice hard and firm. He finally shifted, letting Vos pull himself up into a sitting position. His blue eyes met his firmly.
“We aren’t Jedi anymore, Kenobi,” Vos said. “What gives you the right to uphold their values and lessons when you abandoned them?”
Kenobi wasn’t ruffled. He remained steady. The light of him didn’t flicker for a moment.
“That’s the way that I make my peace,” Kenobi said. “That’s how I honour them. I let them go, and I move forward with the people still here. I live. The Jedi are dead and dying, but I live and I hold on to what I can so they aren’t forgotten.”
Vos laughed bitterly. “What a choice of words.”
Kenobi answered his scoff with a tired smile, because Kenobi understood his frustrations despite not letting him act on them. Vos wondered if he wrestled with them too. Somehow he doubted it. Kenobi, the mynock. He was stubborn. He would hold a boulder on his shoulder for twenty years if he had a mind to do it. No matter the pain or the weight or the itch. Once his course was decided, he would stay true.
He didn’t feel the same feeling as Vos, but he grieved. Vos had no doubt of that.
“Dooku is a traitor.” Vos said. They sat side by side now, but faced different directions. Vos stared at the wall. He hadn’t done much to decorate his corner of the barriacks. The wall was as white as the robes he wore. “A slaver. A sith. Misery itself. The galaxy would thank us for his death.”
“Perhaps,” Kenobi said. “And what’s the price of his hunt? It will be your light, Quinlan.”
Vos shrugged. “Maybe that’s a fair trade. The Mandalorians believe in vengeance, and aren’t we Mandalorians now?”
Kenobi shook his head. “Vengeance isn’t part of any code or creed of our people, loyalty is. We fight, we guard, we educate, we stand in loyalty to one another. And vengeance can come with that, yes, but you seek vengeance for your own suffering, not for your people, new or old. Not from loyalty. This is fear.”
“You don’t understand a fucking thing,” Vos growled. He stood up and this time Kenobi didn’t stop him. Vos felt his calm attention in the Force. He turned and met star-grey eyes.
“It will be out of loyalty that I hunt you down, Vos, just remember that,” Kenobi said.
There was something in his blood that told him all he had lost. No names, no faces, not even emotions.
The mind forgot, but the flesh hadn’t. The Force hadn’t.
Was it his psychometry? Was it something broken inside of him that made him dream of Dooku’s blood?
Stealing the ship wasn’t hard. Getting out of Mandalorian space was a challenge, but one he was equipped for.
The darkness weighed on his shoulders, but it wasn’t cold. Its fire licked at his flesh, fueling the furnace inside of him. It was freedom.
He would be the hunter now. No more Mandalorians or Clones or droids or Sith. He would be the one that brought death.
It was harder and harder to imagine why he wouldn’t gladly set himself on fire, lose himself in darkness. Hadn't he already done that after all? Blotted out his past. Made his heart a void.
The entire galaxy had murdered his people. Through betrayal, blasterfire, inaction, plots. The Jedi had stood in front of the darkness; shining starlight and they were eaten whole.
But now he was the darkness.
What good was the light when it was extinguished so easily?
What good was the light when it didn’t protect them?
What good was the light when it didn't save him from the yawning expanse of loneliness and grief?
How was this not loyalty? How was his rage not for them?
“Quinlan Vos,” Dooku said. Knowing him on sight.
He sat behind a rich man's desk in a rich man's office. Everything was done in black and red and there was no subtilty to it. He wanted anyone on the other side of the table to know he was powerful. Wealth that could crush tiny lives.
The old man smirked a little. “Here to complete your lessons then? Or did you just have nowhere else to run to?” He stood, pushing aside his chair and moving around the desk. He brought his hand down to his saber, but waited for Vos to explain himself.
“Lessons,” Vos repeated. Horror rose in him. Was this man the one that trained him? No, that couldn’t be. Not this vile creature who spoke of peace as he saw millions burn in droid blaster fire.
Dooku paused and took him in. “White armour… the Mandalorians brainwashed you?” he tilted his head in consideration.
“They took in the ones that survived your schemes,” Vos finally spoke. He lit his saber.
Dooku laughed. He elegantly drew his own curved hilt. “And survived their fire. After the clones they are responsible for the most Jedi deaths. You’re misguided and ill-informed.”
Their sabers sizzled on impact. Makashi, and that felt good. That felt right, no more Soresu. No more slow exhaustion steeped in grief. No more Kenobi sitting on his chest to the point he couldn’t breath through his anger at the galaxy for letting all of them die.
Letting the people he loved die.
The people he couldn’t remember, but still felt the loss of.
“You created the clones,” Vos said. That was all he needed to know.
“I did, on Sidious’ order,” Dooku said calmly, easily pushing his furious attacks to the side.
“He’s next,” Vos promised.
Dooku sighed like Vos was a child giving him a rather dull answer. He swiped his blade across Vos’ shoulder and leg and stomach. Shallow marks meant to offend. To show how much better the old man was than him.
“Did they take your skills along with your sense?” Dooku mocked. “Such a shame. Master Windu held you in such high esteem.”
Windu? Was he his Master? He knew of some of the famous dead Jedi. Their names and accomplishments, but nothing of their personal lives. Nothing of the people they were. Just merits. And even that was wiped away by the Galactic Empire. The G.E. had a short memory.
Dooku pushed his advantage. “You came to me before, you know. I think you had almost understood what I was trying to accomplish.”
“All you’ve accomplished is the death of our people!” Vos spat.
Dooku hardened. “Sacrifices had to be made for a greater purpose. I am not a mere Sith. I harness the darkness for a good. Something the Jedi were too weak to do. I aim to make a fair and just galaxy. Not under the yoke of the Sith Empire, or the Slavery of the Galactic Empire, or the military dictatorship of the Mandalorians. Mine will be a galaxy of equality.”
“With you in control of everything?” Vos snorted. “Sounds very equal.”
Their blade’s seared against one another. Vos pushed hard, using his superior strength, but Dooku was still fast and precise and got out of his saber locks. Stepped out of the way of his harder swings.
“But doesn’t it appeal to you, Master Vos?” Dooku countered. “The one responsible for your Padawan’s death was first Sidious, and then the Senate of the Republic. Those that made his order perfectly legal. Happy to let the Jedi die if only to hold onto their wealth and power. Yes, I saw to the clones’ creation, but none of them would have ever had to pull the trigger if Sidious had not been duly elected into office by an overwhelming majority of toadies and sellouts. Aayla Secura would still be alive if her murder wasn't agreed to with the utmost democracy."
The name was supposed to invoke something in him.
But it meant nothing.
Which was the worst thing. The name that was supposed to make him gnash his teeth and scream in grief.
But it was nothing. A song he had never heard of. A poem he had never read. A person he had never known and now, never would.
Dooku knew him. Knew what he lost, knew why and how and who.
Vos sped up his movements, his own rage growing hotter.
Loss. It was all loss without the good memories, without the affection. It was just incompleteness and not even knowing the shape of what was missing.
Dooku was cool and calm. He darted away from his forceful swings. He was old, but the Force was strong with him, and his skills exceptional. If Vos let this be a short battle he would lose it.
He changed stances.
“Soresu was never your art, Quinlan,” Dooku said, speaking to him like he was an ill-behaved padawan. Dooku’s quick blade tested at Vos’ shield. Feeling for holes. “You don’t have the patience for it.”
“I have the stubbornness,” Vos countered. “And I’ve learned from the best.”
“The rumours about Kenobi are true then.” Dooku looked disappointed, even as he continued to pick at Vos’ form. “Yes, I can see him now in your stance. Makashi is the perfect counter to Soresu. You would be better off with any other form. Just as the Jedi would have been better off if they had only had the nerve to strike and not stand as shields for a rotten corpse of government.”
“That’s not what we were protecting,” Vos said, but it was hard to believe his own words. He hated the Republic too after all. How unworthy it had been. How much it had taken from him.
“You could join me again. You did it once.” Dooku offered. He effortlessly poked into his shields, showing where they were weak, but not striking him, not yet. “You’re strong in the darkness. I could teach you how to use it, instead of letting it use you. I could help you remember them and we could avenge them, you and I. You may not believe it, but I mourn every single one of them. The Jedi were my family.”
“And you killed them!” Vos screamed, falling out of stance. It was enough and Dooku was done with playing. He held his saber at Quinlan’s neck, holding him in place.
Dooku’s own anger came off of him in waves. But it was the waves of an icy lake. Freezing at every ripple. “Sacrificing them will be worth it if we can destroy the rot that has taken hold of the galaxy. What I aim to do is what the Jedi could only dream of. Balance. Order. Don’t you see that? It will be worth it.”
“I don’t think so.”
What?
Dooku didn’t move his blade an inch from Vos’ neck, but turned in surprise.
It was Kenobi.
He didn’t wear armour save for Fett’s vambrace on his off-hand. Otherwise he was in the Cin’Ciri white robes. His only embellishment to them was silver embroidery. Silver for grief. The threads were made from the beskar Kenobi had earned.
Perhaps because he was very likely about to die he found himself focusing on the glittering silver, the way it wove around his sleeves. He noticed a small dot of orange in the inner sleeve and wondered if Kenobi ate lunch before he came here. A dot of tiingilar staining that pure white. He found it terribly funny the little out of place dot. Like the out of place feeling inside him.
And it was unlike Kenobi. The Alor of Cin’Ciri didn’t like armour, despite the old holos of him resplendent in it in front of countless rows of clones in the propaganda that the Galactic empire scrubbed away at furiously. He was always so put together. Now some of his hair had fallen in his face. Had he run here?
“Master Kenobi, how surprising,” Dooku held his stance firmly. The lightsaber at Vos’s neck remained steady. “We’ve had enough conversations in the past for me to know you will never see sense, but perhaps your circumstances have changed your tune. You can’t enjoy being a Mandalorian war prize.” The last said with a mocking sneer.
Apparently that rumour had gone far. It didn’t make it truer, but Vos felt angry at himself. Like all his echoes. Like he should have been able to save Kenobi as well as everyone else, at least from that.
“I’m not here for you, Dooku,” Kenobi said, looking past the Count straight at Vos. “Let him go.”
“And why would I do that?” Dooku asked. “He came to me, and we were just beginning to understand each other.”
“Because he is a member of house Cin’Ciri,” Kenobi said simply. “If you make an enemy of me, you make an enemy of Clan Fett, and if you’re an enemy of Fett then you’re an enemy of—”
“Mereel,” Dooku snorted. “Really, Master Kenobi, I expect far more from you. Qui-Gon would be ashamed.”
Kenobi wasn’t moved by old names he had no reference for. “You don’t want more attention on yourself than you already have, do you, Count?” Kenobi asked. “The Mandalorians after you are hired by the G.E. just a job. Palpatine’s contract keeps things clean. Do you really want to make this personal?”
Dooku laughed. “Personal? My dear Master Kenobi, It was personal the day your Master was slain on Naboo. It was personal the day you refused my friendship on Geonosis. It was personal the day your Padawan caught my Master’s eye. Everything between us is personal, Obi-Wan. Have you really forgotten?”
Kenobi smiled politely. “I have,” he confirmed. “And none of it means a thing to me. So let’s look at this logically, Dooku. Both of us lose more than we can stand if you hurt one of mine. If we all walk away we can scheme and fight another day.”
“Maybe I want to stay,” Vos said. He didn’t, but he was willing to lie to get another shot at Dooku, and something terrible in him felt glee when those judging star-grey eyes were on him again.
“Perhaps you do,” Kenobi said. “Fine.” His blue blade was drawn at last and he fell into his Soresu salute. A solid line. No breaks in defense. The Force built up around him. He met Vos’ eyes again.
And Vos knew exactly what he was about to do. In a flash of insight and understanding. He knew exactly how Kenobi thought. How Kenobi would act.
Dooku was perplexed by the move without regard to his hostage as Obi-Wan’s attack moved towards Dooku’s head,calling his bluff. If the Sith removed Vos’ head he would also lose his own by the speed at which Kenobi moved.
Vos’ green saber blocking him was the only thing that saved the Count.
“Don’t you dare,” Vos growled.
Kenobi smirked at him. “Oh? Why not?” He spun, making another attempt on Dooku. Dooku was in balance again and stepped back into a more defensive manoeuvre. He looked to Vos.
“Kill him, and we can—”
Dooku had misjudged the situation.
Vos attempted a stab through Dooku’s gut. Kenobi knocked his lightsaber up and Dooku was able to step back.
“What is this?” he demanded, drawing up his own blade in defense.
“Very simple,” Kenobi replied, trying to turn the guard into a lethal slash that Dooku fended off. “Vos wants to kill you. I’m not going to let him. So instead, I’m going to kill you.” He laid it out matter-of-factly with a lilt of humour that didn't quite fit the situation, but that Vos found pleasing anyway despite his rising anger.
“You don’t kill,” Vos said. He locked Kenobi’s blade with his, but they had to break apart to avoid Dooku’s own flurry of attacks.
“For you, I’ll make an exception,” Kenobi said. “If only to piss you off,” he added with an infuriating wink.
The Soresu Master was definitely pissed off.
“Whatever game the two of you are playing,” Dooku began, “I want no part of it!” He sent his large desk careening toward the two of them. Obi-Wan went low and Vos went high, dodging the projectile.
“He’s mine, Kenobi!” Vos yelled. He tried to get at Dooku, but Kenobi blocked him at every turn. Force-forsaken mynock!
“What does it matter who gets his head?” Kenobi asked, oh so reasonably. “If the Galaxy is better off with him dead, why does it have to be you?”
“You know why!”
“I do,” Kenobi sneered. He elbowed Vos in the nose and sprinted towards the retreating Dooku.
“Fuck!” Vos ran after.
“Because you’re angry.” Kenobi continued, but didn’t turn, his attention still on Dooku’s back. He sommersaulted as Dooku sent a statue in his path. “Because you hate him. Because the darkness feels easier than the light. Because so many Jedi are dead and you can still feel the echoes. You want revenge.”
Kenobi caught up. He and the Count exchanged blows. Vos threw himself into the fray again, trying to kill Dooku or push Kenobi back, and also protect Kenobi from any lucky strikes Dooku got in because…
Because Kenobi was one of the people he lost.
He knew the moment their skin touched.
They had met. Kenobi introduced himself. They shook hands and he had felt the bubbling under his skin. The anger and grief of eyes that should seem familiar. The Force’s tenderness. The severed bonds sparking between them. Friends? Lovers? Brothers?
Both of them were ghosts to one another. But Vos knew, bone deep, that they had been important to one another and Kenobi didn’t.
Vos didn’t just hate the Sith and the clones and the senators. He hated the Mandalorians too. He hated his new people that took away his memories.
And most of all, he hated himself for ever agreeing to it. Couldn’t understand how he could make that choice.
In a burst of triumph he had Dooku on the ground, saber at his neck. He just needed to press forward. He just needed to kill him.
Dooku threw out a bolt of sith lightning, but Kenobi raised his blade and absorbed it.
“Why does it need to be you?” Kenobi repeated, a little more desperate this time.
And Vos finally answered. “Because he took you from me. And he took someone called Aayla. And more people that I don’t have names for anymore.”
“Master Vos—” Dooku tried to speak, but Vos pressed his blade close enough to burn skin.
“And how would I feel? The one you don’t remember. How would I feel seeing you like this?” Kenobi asked. “And Aayla? And all the others that you miss? How would they feel seeing you become nothing but a killer. Empty but for darkness and bloodlust? Feeding your hatred. Using it as an excuse.”
“I don’t care! He deserves to die!”
“Then he’ll die,” Kenobi promised. “But not because you hate him. That’s not a good enough reason.”
“So I have to have a noble purpose to kill him?” Vos demanded. “Only the pure can pass judgement?”
Kenobi sighed. He extinguished his blade, looking from Vos to Dooku and back.
“The Cin’Ciri are protected by Mandalore as its citizens. One of us going mad and killing the leader of the Separatists will put eyes on us, and eyes on the remaining Jedi out in the galaxy. Your actions will have consequences for the living. They will suffer because you want to make yourself feel better.”
“Don’t act like I’m being a child! He’s a terrible man! A murderer of millions!”
“But you are!” Kenobi spat. “Because you don’t have to be the one to do it. If you want justice for those you lost, then let’s get them justice! But this? This is a tantrum while you burn your life to the ground. This is selfishness. This is for you and no one else. Because you’re angry. Don’t you realize I’m angry too? All of us are! We were slaughtered and forced to give up everything just to keep the embers of a dying fire lit. The padawan I don’t remember became a monster! The man I love married me because he failed to kill me! Now I have to hunt you while you hunt without your vod. Without a plan. I’m angry watching you forsake life and give in to death, so yes, you’re a child. A spoiled child that thinks they’re allowed to give into the darkside because they feel terrible." He was worked up now. "You brooding idiot! How many times am I going to have to jump into a river after you or run blindly through caves? You might want the darkness, but I won't let it have you! Now move!”
A river?
A cave…
The memory was clear and incomplete. Brooding in a cave, but then there was light in the Force. The same steady light of Kenobi. No face, or words. Just the dark pulling back as the light shone in.
And Quinlan stepped aside.
As easy as that.
It felt like the furnace inside him exploded. He was ripped apart, warring with himself as he watched Kenobi approach Dooku, who was still on the ground, glaring up at Obi-Wan.
“This is not the Jedi way,” Dooku said, the blue blade holding him in place now.
“No,” Obi-Wan agreed. “Count Dooku. You are responsible for the children of my husband living lives of violence and slavery. You took part in the murder of the Jedi Order. You ordered your droid armies to kill citizens when it benefited you. You are demagolka. All of this is grounds for your execution by Mandalorian law.”
“We are not on Mandalore,” Dooku said quickly. “Killing me will complicate the landscape. I keep Palpatine in check. Without me—”
“Without you,” Kenobi said with a sigh. “The galaxy will be a better place. Killing you is for the greater good. I don’t know why you’re upset by it. This is what you wanted after all. The Jedi didn’t use their power to shape things, but the Cin’Ciri do.” Kenobi raised his blade.
“Stop!”
Obi-Wan brought his blade back to Dooku’s neck to hold him. He looked at Vos, relieved despite the steady killing intent he had moments ago.
“Second thoughts?” Kenobi was perplexed. Like he hadn’t expected Vos to be swayed by his pleas.
And he hadn’t. Not really. It was only that he thought of something better. Something far crueler.
Something that Kenobi would probably go for.
Because Kenobi didn’t remember him and he didn’t remember Kenobi. But they still had the river and the cave between them, in the Force, under the skin. In their bones. A bond that hadn’t been severed despite the ache of phantom limbs Vos felt everyday.
Kenobi was a good man.
But it didn’t mean he was always kind.
And if it didn't work, he could always kill Dooku later.
“The weight of it is still suffocating,” Du’car said, staring over the frozen lake.
“It is,” Obi-Wan agreed.
They had been meditating in silence for an hour. The first dawn Du’car felt ready to face. Obi-Wan sat by him. He was one of his people after all.
“A twisted gravity. A universe without stars,” Du’car continued. “And I did that.”
“You did,” Obi-Wan said mercilessly, but not heartlessly.
“I know exactly why I did it,” Du’car said. “I know the reasons. I can list them off, but every word feels hollow. None of it feels worth it. I don’t remember any of them, but it doesn’t matter. I wanted the galaxy out of hubris. My understanding eclipsed by my own ego. How easily I stomped out lives for the sake of power, telling myself it was for good. For order.”
“Perhaps it means you’re a good man at heart,” Obi-Wan suggested. "A misguided one."
Du’car gave a snort of disgust. “More likely I was an idiot. I was swayed by people. Whether it was manipulation, or pity, or guilt, I can’t say. I was so sure that the darkness would unlock power. I couldn’t admit I was afraid.”
“Were you?” Obi-Wan asked with a distant kind of interest. The kind you get learning of a political leader’s inner life. That they could be so ordinary when all the trappings were removed.
“When you are afraid, control feels like the perfect fix,” Du’car glanced at him, Obi-Wan met his gaze. “I sense you know what I mean.”
Obi-Wan nodded. “I see our similarities, yes.”
“But not too similar,” Du’car mused. “You lack my ego. Unchecked you are an arrogant creature. A stubborn thing. But it’s always a wolf’s arrogance.”
“A wolf’s arrogance?” Obi-Wan raised an eyebrow.
“The arrogance of one that protects and is protected by the pack. I’m more of a fox myself. Too much faith in my own cunning to rely on others. Too much focus on my own survival to work with other hunters.”
“Not anymore,” Obi-Wan said.
“No,” Du’car agreed. “Not anymore.”
The disappearance of Count Dooku of Serenno was a mystery only Obi-Wan and Vos knew the reason for. Bundling the Count up in Obi-Wan’s stolen ship after disposing of Vos’, sneaking back into Mandalorian space, getting Dooku to the White Halls, it was difficult, but not outside the skills of two of the Cin’Ciri’s best.
It was so clean no accusations could be accurately thrown.
Vos knew how to cover their tracks. Obi-Wan had the skill to get them through.
Dooku would be the only forced Snow White. An execution, an extended suffering. It was, in truth, a compromise for Vos’ sake. Obi-Wan was no longer a Jedi, but forcing suffering for suffering’s sake left a bad taste in his mouth, even when it was Count Dooku.
Just as Vos predicted, wiping away Dooku’s ties to the people of his past also gave him a new perspective.
Obi-Wan hadn’t thought it would work. After all, Dooku was happy to crush countless nameless individuals under his boot for the ‘greater good,’ and now everyone he had ever known was nameless.
But instead, he had woken up feeling horror for his actions. He remembered who he was. What he had done. He didn’t remember who he had murdered, just the rivers of blood on his hands.
He tried to kill himself. Vos was too bloody pleased to be of help, so it was Obi-Wan’s task, getting him to a stable condition, getting him a reconstruction droid to change his face.
“There’s a stain on your robe,” the older man said, pulling Obi-Wan back to the moment they were sharing. Obi-Wan looked to where he pointed.
“No, that’s not a stain. It’s intentional.”
He wore a robe of white, like all the Cin’Ciri did. It was embroidered with the beskar he had earned as a negotiator and an alor. The only colours he wore was the vambrance that matched his husband’s, and a small orange starbird embroidered inside his sleeve. It was small, but he could slide his fingers over it when he tucked them in his robes.
Lust for life.
There was a spark of him that felt a wonder in each moment of living. He wondered if he naturally saw it, or if someone had shown him how to see it.
But it was something he wove into this new order of Force Sensitives. A lust for life. Stubbornly continuing on, even when they had to change to do it. Even when they had to hide under mounds of white snow. They forgot the people, but they felt the ghosts. Some more than others.
He wished Vos didn’t have to suffer it so strongly. And young Cal. And the others that spoke of echoes. Of the body remembering what the mind had forgotten.
Dooku, now Du’car, named for the lateness of his understanding, lived, because there was no use in dying, and Cin’Ciri were the ones that lived on. Obi-Wan wasn’t sure if it was fair Du’car carried Dooku’s sins, or if it was perfect justice.
Were they really the same people they had been without the connections of their pasts?
It had been foolish, doing this for Vos, but Vos was right. They were Mandalorians now, and that meant loyalty to comrades without the detachment the Jedi once held.
Which would make things messier. Perhaps Du’car’s understanding of the darkside would help prevent others from falling into its embrace. They must find a new balance between letting go and holding on.
"It's time you met my husband," Obi-Wan decided, standing up.
Du’car shared all the insider information he had with Jango, who surely suspected, but didn’t question this new member of Obi-Wan’s house. He only gazed at Obi-Wan, stroked his cheek, and nodded. Then sat down and listened to Du’car’s testimony, not pressing against the half-truths that Du’car spun to hide who he truly was.
Maybe it wouldn’t have mattered to him anyway. Du’car was given his fresh start, and Jango solidly adhered to the concept. To an annoying degree sometimes.
Du'car accepted that he too would carry on, and live, and do good and suffer the weight of his guilt, and perhaps even let it go. It was a softer ending than perhaps what Quinlan Vos intended, but Obi-Wan decided that it didn't really matter.
Count Dooku for all intents and purposes was dead, and the galaxy could celebrate that fact.
And Du'car felt the grief that all Cin'Ciri felt. If that was enough for Quinlan, then it was enough.
The separatists didn’t collapse without Dooku, but there was a large power vacuum that would need filling. It would be bumpy.
Obi-Wan added his suggestions during the council meeting Jaster called about it. Jaster was grumpy with him for a few months after, so he probably knew too, but also never said anything. It was most likely, for the sake of his son, and maybe for the continued loyalty of the new house that followed him.
“The Cin’Ciri is your business now,” Jaster grumbled when Obi-Wan hinted at having the conversation and coming clean. “Let’s leave it there.”
“Thank you.”
“You’re not welcome,” Kenobi… Obi-Wan told him with a raised eyebrow.
Quinlan grinned. “But thanks all the same,” Quinlan took the opportunity to tackle the mynock to the floor and sit on him.
There was a plaintive sigh from below.
Quinlan only felt the smallest bit of sympathy for putting him in such a position... but mostly he felt smugness.
“I just wanted him to get it.” He admitted. “To understand what I—what we were feeling.”
“In some ways he does,” Obi-Wan said. “He understands far more than we possibly could, the extent of his crimes. But I’m surprised.” Kenobi twisted his leg up and leveraged Quinlan off. He didn’t take the high ground though, for once, he let them both land, side by side, staring up at the ceiling. “This is a fresh start. Cin Vhetin.”
“A snowfield. It’s a good metaphor,” Vos said. “Because it’s all still there, buried underneath it all, and there’s a chill to it. A coldness. An absence.”
“But new footprints get made,” Obi-Wan said. He could go from annoying ass to wise companion so fast. “Forgive and forget.”
“That’s become a complicated phrase with us, hasn’t it?” Quinlan snorted. He sobered. “I don’t know if I can forgive that level of evil.”
“You don’t have to,” Obi-Wan said, nudging him. “You forgive the man in the moment, not the man of the past. If he is worthy of it you’ll continue to forgive him.”
“Do you think he’ll stay worthy?”
“I don’t know,” Obi-Wan replied honestly. “It’s a gamble. He’s a powerful man. He still has his training and political knowledge. He could become a greater monster than he once was. But I have faith.”
“Why?”
“Because he misses them, even though he can’t remember them. It’s both sad and comforting.”
“He had no qualms about killing them.”
“For a cause. Neither did my husband,” Obi-Wan pointed out.
“I don’t like your husband.”
“I know, he’s an acquired taste.”
“He’s the sentient form of tiingilar.”
Obi-Wan laughed and something in Quinlan’s heart lifted in response.
He hesitated. “Forgetting them… if it makes him a better man, then what does that mean?”
“Are you asking if we’re better for not knowing?” Obi-Wan hummed. “No. I think we ran. That’s why we did it. We ran, so that something could keep living. It doesn’t need to be better or worse. It’s just where we find ourselves.”
“And the ones still out there? That won’t run? That will always be Jedi?”
“I hope that they hide well. That we can meet them again. That the New Jedi will understand why we ran, and that we’ll understand why they hid.”
Quinlan nodded silently.
“When you leave this time,” Obi-Wan said softly. “I won’t follow.”
Because of course he knew. Quinlan’s heart squeezed, how dare this near stranger know him so well.
But that wasn’t true. They were friends now. Had been from the beginning of these new lives they walked in. There was no one he liked better to frustrate and spend time with. That he thought of him as anything but was only him clinging to the loses he still couldn't remember.
“You have to be here,” Quinlan sighed. He wished there was some way he could convince Obi-Wan otherwise, but their people were here, and Fett was here, and the boys. Quinlan had faced his darkness. He would move out of loyalty now. The Cin’Ciri loyalty. Love yours, but love others too.
He would find the Jedi and protect them. Who better than a hunter to find the hidden? He could never be one of them again, but he didn’t have to be a Jedi to know helping them was the right thing. He would make paths in the dark forest for them to follow. To somewhere safe. Somewhere free from snow.
“I’ll visit,” he promised. “You’re still my alor.”
“Good hunting,” Obi-Wan replied.
“Oya."