Through a Blackened Mirror
Chapter 4: The Brier
Word Count: 9833 Links: Chapter 1, Table of Contents
* * *
“Soon a brier hedge began to grow all around the castle, and it grew higher each year. Eventually, it surrounded and covered the entire castle, so that it was no longer visible. Not even the flag on the roof could be seen. The princess became known by the name Beautiful Sleeping Brier Rose, and a tale about her began circulating throughout the country. From time to time princes came and tried to break through the hedge and get to the castle. However, this was impossible because the thorns clung together tightly as though they had hands, and the young men got stuck there. Indeed, they could not pry themselves loose and died miserable deaths.”
-- “Brier Rose,” translated by Jack Snipes
* * *
Obi-Wan’s wandering thoughts are interrupted when his master joins him for breakfast. The Padawan looks up at him winningly, then frowns. “You are troubled, Master.”
“I sense a most curious disturbance in the Force,” Qui-Gon tells him. Obi-Wan pours him caf from a container on the table. “Thank you, Obi-Wan. I feel as though a great power has fallen into the grasp of the Dark Side.”
“The Dark Side?” The words are strange in Obi-Wan’s mouth.
“Yes.”
“But Master, the Sith are gone.”
“Padawan, the Dark Side is bigger than the Sith. Just as the Light Side is bigger than the Jedi. The Dark Side lives on, even as the Sith do not.”
He drinks his caf.
“... Pirates?” Obi-Wan guesses.
“Yes, partially. It lives on in many places. Far more than the Jedi like to think about. In fact, there are traces of it in almost every living heart.”
Obi-Wan makes a face of disgust and bewilderment. “If you say so, Master.”
Qui-Gon is as charmed as ever by his student. “Maybe not in yours.”
Obi-Wan smiles vainly. “I should hope not. But what are we to do about this?”
“Patience. I shall think more on this. Open your mind to it, too -- see if you can help me.”
“Yes, Master.” He is not sure how to obey, but he will.
* * *
34 Years in the Past
A kniilwasp -- red, shiny, fast, barely a centimeter long but, for its stings, one of the nastiest bugs that lives on Coruscant -- flies through one of the high windows of the auditorium, buzzes idly for a moment, then flies a hundred yards in a rapid, straight line, down to the youngest of the younglings gathered, and stings Mace Windu right on the cheek. And though the little boy is barely two, he does not scream. He gasps a little, and glares at the bug. If looks could kill, the bug would evaporate. They can’t, but Mace can. In a flash he grabs the bug from the air and crushes it between his tiny fingers.
Sheev sits hundreds of rows behind him in the Temple Patrons section, but his powerful 11-year-old eyes can see what happened. He is startled and angry at the baby’s skill, but at least that is preferable to being bored. He looks over thousands of heads to glare at the little one. It wasn’t easy to locate that kniilwasp and compel it toward the Jedi. For all the effort it took, he expected he would be able to sting at least three of the little bastards. At least now his target has narrowed. He stretches out his feelings toward the wasps’ nest again.
Ashla Auditorium seats seven thousand people, and nearly every seat is occupied today. The first two thousand seats are Jedi, an incredible number: most of the residents of the Temple next door, and hundreds more from around the galaxy.
Younglings and their supervisors sit in the very front; everyone is amazed at their good behavior. The few fussy ones are escorted away with such discretion that they are nearly invisible. Behind them, the Council sits in large chairs on their own dais. There are more empty chairs on the Council dais than anywhere else in the room.
Behind them, knights sit with their Padawans and special guests. Sheev ponders the variety of these lucky few. Some are the type he would expect: a princess from Heela, a praetor from Dinto, at least eight Senators and eleven Representatives. They must have befriended the Jedi sent to protect them, or worked with them on some affair of the state. The other guests take Sheev by surprise. A farmboy, barely scrubbed clean minutes before he arrived. An unranked soldier wearing a bulky, humming backpack which powers the barbaric droid arm she uses in place of her own severed limb. A bounty hunter in disguise. Sheev wonders if her Jedi companion is unaware of her true nature, or if she is aware, and this is all some noble attempt to reform her. How did such people as these get better seats than he did -- he, Sheev Palpatine, whose father donated six million credits to the Temple last year and sponsored three Padawans? It just isn’t fair.
The second kniilwasp reaches that black toddler again, but Mace grabs it from the air before it can sting him. Sheev curses under his breath and looks around for an easier target.
He sees the middle row of tweenage Jedi younglings, sitting very still, three or four of them squirming a little. He ought to be among them. He still remembers the day the knight came to his house to whisk him away. He was not quite three, and they had -- of course -- detected his Force sensitivity. But Sheev fooled them. He hid his powers completely, and even his super-senses, strong as they were, were completely unknowable to the knight. He had shushed the Force -- he had censured it, controlled it, forbid it from giving away their secret bond.
At such a young age, most people will adapt to anything, and most Jedi at that age feel compelled beyond their control to follow the knight who collects them. But not Sheev. He did not trust them, and he was not passive. He has kept his powers secret ever since. He wonders if they have stricken his name from their records, or at least forgotten about him. He hopes so.
Three people walk onto the stage to a round of warm applause. Two tall and handsome Jedi -- a bearded, black-haired Master and his youthful Padawan -- and an elderly Twi’lek woman. Though she walks gracefully and proudly, Sheev can tell that she is a vagrant. There is just something in her air. The Jedi obviously dug her off the streets. The three of them sit on plain black chairs on the stage, and the inferior two defer to the knight.
Dooku could project his voice without the use of a microphone, but in order not to frighten or confuse the non-Jedi in the audience, he uses the technology provided.
“Jedi, honored guests. Welcome to class.”
The crowd laughs.
“When my Padawan and I discovered Pearl Yazabi and witnessed firsthand the miracle of a real Oracle, I began to devise in my head a plan to gather all our younglings around to see her. What classroom would be big enough? How could I make room in all their schedules? Little did I know, young Jinn had something far more ambitious in mind.”
The crowd laughs again.
“As so often is the case, the wisdom of the student excelled that of the Master. And so, each and every one of you owes your presence here today to Qui-Gon Jinn.”
Qui-Gon bows his head, smiling, as seven thousand people applaud him.
“Pearl, my lady. How are you?”
“I am fine.”
Sheev supposes that the easy, nonplussed attitude of the Jedi on either side of her is infectious. It is not likely that she is naturally this calm. Dooku gestures at a thin rod suspended horizontally in front of them on stage. Three silver balls are balanced on the rod.
“Which of these balls will fall first?”
Pearl looks at the three balls carefully, and all the Force-sensitive younglings sit up at once -- including, far removed from the others, Sheev. They can all detect a certain crackling, humming frequency in the Force centered around this woman. When she speaks, her voice is layered with an uncountable number of other voices, though altogether they are no louder than a normal voice.
“𝕋𝕙𝕖 𝕓𝕒𝕝𝕝 𝕠𝕟 𝕥𝕙𝕖 𝕝𝕖𝕗𝕥 𝕨𝕚𝕝𝕝 𝕗𝕒𝕝𝕝 𝕗𝕚𝕣𝕤𝕥.”
“I do hope it falls during the course of the lesson.”
“𝕀𝕥 𝕨𝕚𝕝𝕝.” Pearl smiles at him, and when she next speaks, her voice is back to that of one warbling woman. “Don’t worry.”
“Padawan. Speak of how we came to meet Pearl, and how her gift saved both our lives.”
In a soft, peaceful, proud voice that will, from this day on, become greatly sought-after but never again make such a public appearance, Qui-Gon expertly tells the assembled crowd the tale of their latest thrilling adventure. He explains that, as they were rescuing fifty miners from a collapsed tunnel on Kessel, Pearl’s guiding words helped them know who to follow, which direction to turn, and how, in a pivotal moment of terrifying trust, she advised Dooku to destroy a load bearing column which caused a chain reaction that created a narrow path out -- when it could have just as easily spelled doom for them all.
Sheev finds his third kniilwasp far more successful. He stings five middle-grade Jedi and two upper-graders, and he dares to approach the Council dais.
Master Yoda glances at the bug. It seems to blip out of existence.
Sheev holds his hand over his mouth in shock. His father looks at him sideways.
When Qui-Gon finishes his story, Dooku continues, “Of course, like all things in our mortal understanding of the Force -- and here is where the lesson begins, so: younglings, pay attention; honored guests, bear with us; and Padawans, ignore everything I say and do the opposite.”
The Jedi laugh harder at the joke than the non-Jedi.
“Like all things in our mortal understanding of the Force, Oracles are fallible. If the Force created a being who could answer any question, and know any fact about the future, their powers would create such an imbalance that evil would rush in to fill the gaps.
“For example, say an Oracle appeared in the realm of a king, and their prophecies saved many lives. But all kings have rivals, and one of them would inevitably grow jealous and steal the Oracle away for himself, which would lead to a war.
“Or say an Oracle knew a terrible truth about the future, but they were frightened to be the bearer of bad news, and so they lied, which is one of the greatest evils, since it always spirals into something worse.
“And therefore, the Force made it so that Oracles are imperfect, and everyone understands them to be imperfect. This imperfection lessens their desirability to the powerful, and it lessens the burden on their shoulders to always appease. If an Oracle recognizes that there is a chance that even their clearest prophecy is false, then they should have no shame in confessing it, and no desire to lie, no matter how terrible the prediction. The burden of proof is not on the Oracle themself, but on their interpreters. The burden falls on us, the Jedi.”
The crowd applauds, which takes Dooku off-guard. He looks at Qui-Gon with an expression that asks, “Am I rambling?” and Qui-Gon’s face assures him that he is doing fine.
And yet, when Dooku opens his mouth to continue on about the virtues of caution, Qui-Gon interrupts him.
“Pearl, who will be the most important person in the next fifty years?”
The whole audience is hushed.
“What do you mean by ‘important,’ son?” Pearl asks after a moment.
Qui-Gon barely thinks about it. “Who will influence the greatest number of people?”
Pearl looks down at her hands. This is one of those “big questions” that people always throw at her. Such questions often awaken a spring of -- something in her mind, something that isn’t really herself. When she is on her own, she avoids thinking about such things. Not only is it exhausting, but it is a little scary, even after all this time, to feel like something else is sharing your own body and mind with you.
But she knew this was coming. This is why these nice young men took her away from her hovel and gave her things to eat and wear. So she is grateful for her power, for making her worth their while.
The Force-sensitive children lean forward in sync again, as the Force grows hot and sparking around her and within the whole room. This time, even the Masters on the Council cannot hide their fascination.
“𝕀 𝕤𝕖𝕖 𝕒 𝕗𝕒𝕔𝕖, 𝕒 𝕗𝕒𝕔𝕖 𝕥𝕙𝕒𝕥 𝕚𝕤 𝕖𝕧𝕖𝕣𝕪𝕨𝕙𝕖𝕣𝕖, 𝕥𝕙𝕣𝕠𝕦𝕘𝕙 𝕥𝕙𝕖 𝕨𝕙𝕠𝕝𝕖 𝕘𝕒𝕝𝕒𝕩𝕪. ℍ𝕖 𝕨𝕒𝕝𝕜𝕤 𝕠𝕟 𝕞𝕠𝕣𝕖 𝕘𝕣𝕠𝕦𝕟𝕕, 𝕙𝕖 𝕗𝕝𝕚𝕖𝕤 𝕥𝕙𝕣𝕠𝕦𝕘𝕙 𝕞𝕠𝕣𝕖 𝕤𝕥𝕒𝕣𝕤, 𝕙𝕖 𝕥𝕠𝕦𝕔𝕙𝕖𝕤 𝕞𝕠𝕣𝕖 𝕡𝕖𝕠𝕡𝕝𝕖 𝕥𝕙𝕒𝕟 𝕒𝕟𝕪𝕠𝕟𝕖 𝕖𝕧𝕖𝕣 𝕙𝕒𝕤, 𝕠𝕣 𝕖𝕧𝕖𝕣 𝕨𝕚𝕝𝕝. 𝕋𝕙𝕖 𝕓𝕣𝕖𝕒𝕕𝕥𝕙 𝕠𝕗 𝕙𝕚𝕤 𝕚𝕟𝕗𝕝𝕦𝕖𝕟𝕔𝕖...𝕚𝕤 𝕚𝕞𝕡𝕠𝕤𝕤𝕚𝕓𝕝𝕖. ℍ𝕖 𝕚𝕤 𝕚𝕟 𝕒 𝕞𝕚𝕝𝕝𝕚𝕠𝕟 𝕡𝕝𝕒𝕔𝕖𝕤 𝕒𝕥 𝕥𝕙𝕖 𝕤𝕒𝕞𝕖 𝕥𝕚𝕞𝕖...𝕋𝕨𝕠 𝕞𝕚𝕝𝕝𝕚𝕠𝕟...𝕋𝕖𝕟 𝕞𝕚𝕝𝕝𝕚𝕠𝕟.”
“How can this be?” asks Dooku.
“𝕀𝕥 𝕚𝕤. 𝔸𝕟𝕕...𝕙𝕖 𝕚𝕤...𝕒 𝕜𝕚𝕝𝕝𝕖𝕣.”
The children gasp, as do many of the non-Jedi in the back, though the knights and Padawans remain calm.
“𝔸𝕟𝕕 𝕪𝕖𝕥...𝕪𝕠𝕦 𝕨𝕚𝕝𝕝 𝕟𝕠𝕥 𝕗𝕖𝕒𝕣 𝕙𝕚𝕞. 𝕄𝕠𝕤𝕥 𝕠𝕗 𝕪𝕠𝕦 𝕨𝕚𝕝𝕝 𝕟𝕠𝕥, 𝕒𝕟𝕪𝕨𝕒𝕪.”
“What sort of nature is he?”
“ℍ𝕖 𝕚𝕤 𝕠𝕗 𝕒 𝕘𝕠𝕠𝕕 𝕟𝕒𝕥𝕦𝕣𝕖.”
Qui-Gon smiles, quite satisfied, quite proud. His master looks at him carefully, and he could almost forget that there are seven thousand less important people in the room. He can practically see the cogs whirring in Qui-Gon’s head, riddling Pearl’s meaning, thinking of the best questions. He knows his prophecy-loving Padawan will probably never be this happy again. He lets Qui-Gon ask anything he wants. This day is for him.
“What planet does he hail from?”
Pearl looks down at her hands again. She feels that the moment of power is slipping away from her.
“ℍ𝕖 𝕙𝕒𝕚𝕝𝕤 𝕗𝕣𝕠𝕞...ℍ𝕖 𝕙𝕒𝕚𝕝𝕤 𝕗𝕣𝕠𝕞 𝕒 𝕡𝕝𝕒𝕟𝕖𝕥 𝕥𝕙𝕒𝕥 𝕕𝕠𝕖𝕤 𝕟𝕠𝕥 𝕖𝕩𝕚𝕤𝕥.”
Everyone says “Oooooooh,” and Qui-Gon raises his eyebrows. Dooku can barely hold in his laughter at how thoroughly enchanted his Padawan has become. If this woman told Qui-Gon to jump off the Temple’s highest tower, to abandon everything and live as a hermit, to join the Sith Order itself, the boy might very well obey her.
“Can you tell us his name?”
Pearl pauses, and when she speaks, many of the voices have faded away, though more than a dozen still remain, overwhelming her own soft, elderly speech.
“𝔹𝕚𝕟𝕘𝕠.”
“Bingo?!”
The audience bursts into laughter and applause. Dooku joins them. Qui-Gon gestures with his arms to shush everyone before her magic slips away completely. All the Force-sensitives in the audience can tell that she is growing physically weary of this vision, though her spirit remains excited to keep at it.
“Bingo what?”
Qui-Gon has not stopped smiling, even though the time is drawing to a close. His smile has just gotten sadder.
“𝔹𝕚𝕟𝕘𝕠...𝔽𝕠𝕠𝕥.”
“Bingo Foot.”
He starts to applaud, to graciously draw the prophecy to a close. Everyone joins in, including Dooku. Seven thousand people clap and cheer; one of the feistiest Padawans stands up in ovation, and her friends follow suit until the whole audience is on its feet. The thrill of the moment, the rapture of so many thousands, is enough to fill the hole in Qui-Gon’s heart that the end of the prophecy created.
“Incredible. Incredible.” Qui-Gon adjusts his mic and runs his hand through his hair, his heart beating madly, dizzyingly happy. He looks at Pearl and they lock eyes in a perfect moment of deep understanding. They are opposites in nearly every way, but their souls feel so close in the Force. They laugh again, easy, gentle. “I think, perhaps, your gift began to take its leave before you had quite finished.”
Pearl speaks with her own voice. “Oh yes. That always happens.”
“Bingo Foot. Well, I can only call the rest of the vision an absolute triumph. The Jedi shall ponder it with all our efforts. I hope we can figure it out before this mighty man appears.”
A group of mischievous eight-year-old Jedi start to sing, “Bingo Fooo-ot, Bingo Fooo-ot,” Their supervisor, a stern, young Jocasta Nu with long flowing hair and the prettiest robe in the Temple, shushes them with her librarian voice. Two entrepreneurial Muuns lean together, already plotting a new line of shoes called “Bingo Feet.” Astronomers on messaging devices bandy around the names of planets that could be defined as “not existing:” most likely, the prophecy refers to a planet that once existed but exists no longer, such as the recently evacuated Baorp, which will fall into a black hole within the next two years.
Sheev is flabbergasted.
What…absolute…shaakshit!
How can anyone take this seriously? Existing in ten million places at once? A killer who no one fears? A planet that doesn’t exist? Bingo Foot?! The ravings of an old madwoman!
If the Jedi had taken me in, would I be falling for it as they are? Would I be as stupid as they are?
Sheev examines Dooku, relieved to see a measure of sanity in this place. Despite his bland smile, Sheev can tell Dooku doesn’t believe a word of it.
“Do not be so hasty, my young Padawan. Yes, there is a certain thrill in ‘figuring it out’ before it comes to pass. But more often than not, that satisfaction is denied us. Instead, the fun comes from looking back on the past and seeing how the prophecies have already happened.”
“But, Master,” Qui-Gon asks, “what is point of that?”
Dooku chuckles. “What is the point of anything, Qui-Gon? Sometimes all we are here for is to delight in the gifts that the Force has given us. Joy is the way of the Light Side of the Force. Never forget that.”
There is somewhat unenthusiastic applause, but Qui-Gon looks happy with the answer, and that’s all that matters.
“You were wise to begin your questioning with a timeframe. In fifty years time, you and I shall look back on the decades together, and discover the meaning of these words, and feel very clever with ourselves.”
Qui-Gon’s high-strung heart melts at his master’s words. What a wonderful thing to imagine.
“I want nothing more, Master.”
Dooku feels the eyes of the Council on him, judging him for how fiercely he cares for his Padawan. Their judgment makes him angry. If they hadn’t wanted him to form attachments, they shouldn’t have given him such a wonderful pupil, so close to him in age and sentiment.
Pearl speaks up, “Speak for yourselves, whippersnappers!”
The crowd laughs.
“But we owe this all to you, my lady!” Qui-Gon assures her. “We are eternally grateful.”
The crowd cheers the chivalrous Padawan.
Dooku continues, “Now, as I understand it, some of our younglings won a contest for a chance to ask the very best questions to our Oracle. Can the contest winners please line up on stage?”
Everyone coos as three cute little Jedi in their robes and short haircuts walk into the stage lights. The first young Jedi asks Pearl if there will ever be peace in the galaxy.
Pearl’s voices layer up again. “𝕋𝕙𝕖𝕣𝕖 𝕚𝕤 𝕡𝕖𝕒𝕔𝕖 𝕣𝕚𝕘𝕙𝕥 𝕟𝕠𝕨.”
“No there isn’t,” the child says, to more laughter.
“𝕐𝕖𝕤, 𝕥𝕙𝕖𝕣𝕖 𝕚𝕤.”
“Thank you, little one,” Dooku interjects. “The Oracle’s lesson here is to appreciate the peace that we do have, in the here and now. Do you understand?”
“Yes, Master.” The first little one hands the mic to the second.
“Oracle, wh–
Suddenly, the left ball on the rod loses balance and clatters to the ground, followed by the other two. Everyone cheers and applauds and there is a second standing ovation. Sheev wonders if someone pushed it. There are two thousand Force users here.
“Please continue, little one,” Dooku says encouragingly.
“Oracle, what is the best thing I can do with my life?”
Pearl’s voice is the half-layered one – not quite herself nor the other. “𝕀’𝕞 𝕒𝕗𝕣𝕒𝕚𝕕 𝕀 𝕕𝕠 𝕟𝕠𝕥 𝕜𝕟𝕠𝕨 𝕪𝕠𝕦, 𝕔𝕙𝕚𝕝𝕕.”
Dooku clarifies, “My lady, do you mean that prophecies work best if the Oracle is familiar with the subject?”
“𝕐𝕖𝕤, 𝕥𝕙𝕒𝕥 𝕞𝕒𝕜𝕖𝕤 𝕚𝕥 𝕖𝕒𝕤𝕚𝕖𝕣.”
“Do you think, with a short introduction, you could give our little one any prophetic advice, even if it is vague?”
“𝔾𝕚𝕧𝕖 𝕞𝕖 𝕒 𝕟𝕒𝕞𝕖 𝕒𝕟𝕕 𝕒 𝕝𝕚𝕥𝕥𝕝𝕖 𝕓𝕚𝕥 𝕞𝕠𝕣𝕖, 𝕒𝕟𝕕 𝕀 𝕒𝕞 𝕤𝕦𝕣𝕖 𝕠𝕗 𝕚𝕥.”
“What is your name, young one?” Dooku asks the child.
“Kitt Zertel.”
“And what are you most proud of, Zertel?”
Kitt pauses, then lifts up her weapon. “My lightsaber. I made it last week.”
The Jedi applaud and cheer wildly. The non-Jedi follow suit less enthusiastically.
Pearl looks at the lightsaber. “...𝕐𝕖𝕒𝕣𝕤 𝕗𝕣𝕠𝕞 𝕟𝕠𝕨, 𝕒 𝕡𝕚𝕣𝕒𝕥𝕖 𝕨𝕚𝕝𝕝 𝕤𝕥𝕖𝕒𝕝 𝕪𝕠𝕦𝕣 𝕨𝕖𝕒𝕡𝕠𝕟.”
The crowd gasps.
“𝕃𝕖𝕥 𝕙𝕚𝕞. 𝕀𝕗 𝕪𝕠𝕦 𝕘𝕠 𝕒𝕗𝕥𝕖𝕣 𝕚𝕥, 𝕪𝕠𝕦 𝕨𝕚𝕝𝕝 𝕕𝕚𝕖.”
Everyone says “Oooooh!”
“𝕄𝕒𝕜𝕖 𝕪𝕠𝕦𝕣𝕤𝕖𝕝𝕗 𝕒 𝕟𝕖𝕨 𝕠𝕟𝕖 𝕚𝕟𝕤𝕥𝕖𝕒𝕕.”
Kitt trembles. “Thank you, Oracle.”
“And always consult with your Master before rushing off,” Dooku adds.
“Yes, Master.”
“Thank you, Zertel. A very good question.”
Kitt bows shyly and hands the mic to the third Jedi.
“How are you feeling, my lady?” Qui-Gon asks Pearl.
“I am a little tired.”
“Would you be able to make one more prophecy?”
“Yes.”
“Please don’t make it too difficult, little one,” Dooku requests.
The last little Jedi’s contest-winning question was, “On what day will the First Lady’s baby be born?” Everyone on Coruscant is abuzz with the happy news of their glamorous young Prime Minister’s expectancy. But as she holds the mic and looks at the Oracle, she can’t bring herself to ask what she is supposed to ask. She has felt awful all day, and it’s only gotten worse since she’s been in this room. She hasn’t been able to join in any of the applause or laughter. And maybe this wise woman can tell her why.
“Oracle, I have a terrible feeling.”
There are grumbles of confusion in the audience at this sad 11-year-old girl.
“I sense an awful, dark presence in this very room. I sensed it arrive on Coruscant this morning, and now I sense it, here.”
The grumbles rise in volume and fear.
“I’ve never felt anything so frightening. Can...can you sense it? Can anyone else sense it?”
Dooku reaches out to her; she walks to him and takes his hand. “My dear girl, I am sorry you are so troubled. I can’t sense anything of the sort. Padawan?” Qui-Gon shakes his head. “Masters?” Everyone looks at the Council on their chairs, but the Masters shake their heads. All of the assembled two thousand look among themselves, but no one speaks up.
Far above them, Sheev feels lightheaded. He realizes he’s been holding his breath, so he forces himself to breathe. He feels like ice is running down his neck. He should not have come; he is endangering the entire Sith plan by being so close to these Jedi.
Damn this girl! She thinks she is frightened NOW?!
Dooku looks at her kindly. “Most likely, this unfortunate feeling is merely a ghost passing through you. You may be sensing something in your own future. After all, all those with Force sensitivity have some grasp of the future, even if our understanding is of a different nature than an Oracle’s.”
“Yes, Master.”
“Be brave. These terrors happen to all of us. But that is why we live together. We are like a family, in one home.”
“Yes, Master.”
“Oracle, is there something to fear in this room?” Dooku asks, his hand casually resting on his lightsaber’s hilt.
Despite the master’s wise words, the people are on the verge of panic. Pearl sees the truth in her head, but she doesn’t want to cause a riot.
So she lies. But no one can tell. She still speaks in her layered, prophetic voice -- after all, she is still the final master of what comes out of her mouth.
“ℕ𝕠. 𝕋𝕙𝕖𝕣𝕖 𝕚𝕤 𝕟𝕠𝕥𝕙𝕚𝕟𝕘 𝕥𝕠 𝕗𝕖𝕒𝕣 𝕙𝕖𝕣𝕖.”
The little girl breathes a sigh of relief and hugs Dooku’s neck. He pats her back awkwardly, much to his Padawan’s amusement. The people say, “awwww," and many of the non-Jedi feel grateful that don’t get visited by whatever it was that scared the little girl. The privileges enjoyed by the Jedi are enviable, but their tortures are certainly not.
Sheev memorizes the girl’s face and plots his revenge.
* * *
The Present
Ugh -- ughhhh -- uaaaggghh, that dreadful old feeling again -- now that she has tasted life-likeness again, the sweetness of colors, the rawness of real touch -- augh, ughh, ughhh -- this half-life seems more busted than it ever did before -- oh frrreeeuuugghh -- fuck him, fuck that stupid, weak little boy, fuck him with his fucking ham fists, his fumbling grasp -- he’s even worse at awakening her than he is at fucking her -- oh gaaauuggghgg, this is torture -- it feels like he’s gotten worse -- oh -- the difference between the two -- it is like night and day -- ughhh --
The world whimpers into focus, and the first thing she sees is his beautiful, focused face -- for some reason, she finds she can smell much better now -- is Maul improving? Or did Sidious’ superior job knock her sinuses back into focus? She smells the iron of his blood -- she sees his blood dripping on her holo, a little messier even than normal -- Sidious got all his own blood neatly in the slot -- or did Sidious manage to wake her without even a drop of blood? -- she makes a mental note to ask him the next time he wakes her -- he told her that would be in a week -- she wonders how many sessions with Maul she will have to sit through during that week -- if only he would ignore her, then the week would pass in but a moment for her in her holocron.
Maul opens his eyes. They are so lovely. She wishes she could see that glowing yellow without this flickering blue haze.
“It’s my snakewoman!” he says.
Despite her discomfort, Dreela can’t not smile at him. “It’s my monster bitch!”
Looking her up and down in happy confusion, Maul says, “You look -- you look different!”
“I... How?”
“I can’t put my finger on it. You look good! You must be getting better at focusing.”
“Heh.” She looks down. “Thank you.”
The sadness in her voice snaps his attention away from her appearance. “Are you alright?”
“Yes...I’m really happy.”
“Well prepare to get fucking delighted. I got you a present!” He gestures extravagantly at something about 5 feet long under a blanket embroidered with, to Dreela, familiar symbols.
She raises her eyebrows. “How am I gonna hold onto something like that?”
“You’ll more than hold it.”
He lifts the blanket. A cloud of glowing green light dissipates into the air.
While her eyes are dazzled, she hears the familiar sound of belzbugs chirping. Between the bugs and the symbols, she realizes they must be on Iridonia, her favorite planet, Sunke’s planet. They are outside, in an unfamiliar petrified forest. It is the darkest hour of night, especially dark under the planet’s black clouds, even with its two moons of blood-red and deep yellow. A campfire crackles beside them, though she cannot feel its warmth.
As the green light swirls away, she sees the small body of a girl. It isn’t living nor dead; it was carved from the rainbow stone of the petrified trees, with priceless jewels for eyes, and horns for claws--
“You’ll live it. It’s a body I made for you. I’ve learned how to put you in it.”
Dreela’s horrified expression makes Maul a little nervous. He holds up his hands.
“Look.”
He turns and grabs some yowling thing from the ground. It is a large, spiny rodent, a rope tied from its neck to a tree. With his other claw, Maul picks up a branch which has been crudely shaped into a four-legged beast about twice the size of the rodent.
He sits and holds them both on his lap and chants words in a language she has never heard, not even when she lived at the seat of the Empire. Glowing green smoke pours from his eyeballs. The rodent yips and hisses in confusion, then becomes rigid. Simultaneously, the carved branch shivers, and Dreela hears it start to make sounds instead. Its yips sound like they are passing through several feet of water, but they become clearer and clearer, and its little feet start to wriggle –
Maul unties the rope from the neck of the rodent and ties it instead onto the branch, which squirms and howls, aping its former self, its true self. He tosses the still body of the rodent aside, smiles up at her and holds the wiggling wooden beast in both hands. Its plaintive cry sounds -- she must admit -- nearly like its former self -- nearly -- a little deeper, more gravelly.
“Look! I can do it!”
“Kill it!!! Kill it!!!”
“But -- just look!”
“Kill it, Maul!!”
There is nothing in her stomach, but she wants to throw up.
Maul frowns, cracks the creature in half and throws it to the side.
“It was only an animal, nothing to be scared of.”
“I’m not scared. I’m ... offended.”
“Offended?”
“This is witchcraft. This is heresy.”
“What!”
“Where did you learn this?”
“From books, from holos. It’s the stuff they do on Farilin, Nelvaania, Dathomir. I’ve even heard there are covens who do it on Aldera-- what is so -- why are you so upset?”
Dreela has flung her hands over her ears. “Stop it! This is not the Sith way! This is not the way of the Dark Side!”
“Why not?”
“These savages have never even heard of the Dark Side, or the Force, or anything. Ugh, get rid of that!”
She shields her eyes from the girl-body. Maul picks up the stone girl with a grunt and hides it behind a tree.
The bezlbugs’ tinny song fills the silence. He does not recognize their sounds, but she does.
Maul returns, glaring. “It’s still the fucking Force. I’m the one who’s done it. I know when I’m using the Force.”
“It’s false. It’s weak.”
“No. It’s different. And it can do a lot that the Sith can’t. They can be used together. They’re both fueled by our emotions.”
“You defile yourself.”
Maul points at her. “You need to get off your high horse and comprehend the reality of the situation.”
Dreela’s lizard-like eyes are very thin slits, in spite of the darkness. “I won’t sacrifice my pride in our ways, not for anything.”
Maul somersaults over to her and sits so close that their legs overlap. Such closeness would be impossible if she was corporeal. He uses the Force aligned with his hand to touch her hair, and she leans into his touch.
“You don’t have to sacrifice anything, Dreela, baby. It’s not tainted. It’s still the Force. You can still trust in it, just the same.” He uses the Force, unaligned with his hand, to braid her hair. “All it is, is a different point of view. The Sith look at the sameness in all things. We use the connection between us all to rearrange things and sense what’s far. These witches instead look at identities. Names. What makes a creature different from everything else. We blur those distinctions by underst–”
“‘We?’”
“Yeah, why not? I used their magic. That makes me one of them.”
Dreela scoffs and leans away from his hand.
“The Dark Side isn’t enough to bring you back, Dreela.”
“The Dark Side has already saved me!”
Maul grimaces. “You call this saving? I have to drain an arm every time I want to make you real. And then you can’t even touch things with your hands.”
Dreela invisibly smacks him with the Force. “Get that insolent scowl off your face. Don’t you dare insult my master.”
“I’m not insulting your master! I’m grateful to him. I’m just saying, he could’ve made this easier on both of us.”
Dreela throws him back, away from her. The braid he had been weaving starts to become undone. “Don’t speak of what you don’t understand.”
Maul sits up. “I don’t understand? I’m the one who’s done the extracurriculars.”
“Extracurriculars?! You mean blasphemy!”
“But it works!”
“Blasphemy, here, on Iridonia itself!”
She uses the Force to lift the blanket and points at the symbols upon it.
“That first symbol! ‘Unity!’ Unity in the Force! That second symbol! ‘Dominance!’ Dominance by one way of thinking, the Sith Empire! You can’t allow inferior peoples even an inch of their unnatural, corrupted rituals! ‘Allegiance!’ Allegiance to the Sith, to the Dark Side!”
“The Empire is dead! Your ancient ways were the weak ones. Why not reforge ourselves with an alloy of stronger metals?”
“Don’t fucking get literary with me, you ignorant slave!” She throws the blanket onto the fire.
“What did you do that for?”
“You corrupted it by touching it with your savage, foreign magic. Perhaps the fire can purify it.”
“‘Purify,’ sure, that’s one word for it.” He glares at the curling, blackening fabric. “That’s pretty rich to hear you pay such heed to Iridonia. One of us is a Zabrak, and it’s not you.”
Dreela says, after a cruel pause, “You may have the horns, but inside, you don’t have a drop of Zabrakian blood.”
Maul sets his jaw stiffly, and she continues.
“I see your heart. You don’t even care. Your own species means nothing to you. Calling you un-Zabrakian doesn’t even hurt you.”
“Why should it? Why do you care so much? I told you: the Force told me that I wasn’t even born here. Zabraks live all over the galaxy. Colonies, neighborhoods, families, individuals. We don’t all think the same. There are Zabraks in the Jedi Order.”
“No!”
“Yes! We’re people, not symbols.”
“Those Jedi Zabraks are a disgrace. They should be wiped out.”
“All the Jedi should be wiped out.”
Dreela is also staring at the burning blanket. “You said your ‘witch magic’ uses identities. How can you claim that? You have no identity as a Zabrak, nor as a Sith. And you have no name.”
“I have ‘Maul.’ I believe in that.”
“Yes. You do.”
An infinite number of voices layer on top of her own.
“𝕐𝕠𝕦 𝕨𝕚𝕝𝕝 𝕝𝕠𝕤𝕖 𝕖𝕧𝕖𝕣𝕪𝕥𝕙𝕚𝕟𝕘: 𝕟𝕠𝕥 𝕠𝕟𝕔𝕖, 𝕟𝕠𝕥 𝕥𝕨𝕚𝕔𝕖, 𝕓𝕦𝕥 𝕥𝕙𝕣𝕖𝕖 𝕥𝕚𝕞𝕖𝕤. 𝕋𝕙𝕖 𝕗𝕚𝕣𝕤𝕥 𝕥𝕚𝕞𝕖 𝕓𝕪 𝕪𝕠𝕦𝕣 𝕖𝕟𝕖𝕞𝕪’𝕤 𝕙𝕒𝕟𝕕. 𝕋𝕙𝕖 𝕤𝕖𝕔𝕠𝕟𝕕 𝕥𝕚𝕞𝕖 𝕓𝕪 𝕪𝕠𝕦𝕣 𝕒𝕝𝕝𝕪’𝕤 𝕙𝕒𝕟𝕕. 𝔸𝕟𝕕 𝕥𝕙𝕖 𝕥𝕙𝕚𝕣𝕕 𝕥𝕚𝕞𝕖 𝕓𝕪 𝕪𝕠𝕦𝕣 𝕠𝕨𝕟 𝕙𝕒𝕟𝕕. 𝔹𝕦𝕥 𝕖𝕧𝕖𝕣𝕪 𝕥𝕚𝕞𝕖, 𝕪𝕠𝕦 𝕨𝕚𝕝𝕝 𝕜𝕖𝕖𝕡 ‘𝕄𝕒𝕦𝕝.’ 𝔸 𝕟𝕒𝕞𝕖 𝕡𝕦𝕥 𝕠𝕟 𝕪𝕠𝕦 𝕓𝕪 𝕠𝕟𝕖 𝕨𝕙𝕠 𝕙𝕒𝕥𝕖𝕤 𝕪𝕠𝕦. 𝔼𝕧𝕖𝕣𝕪 𝕥𝕚𝕞𝕖, ‘𝕄𝕒𝕦𝕝’ 𝕨𝕚𝕝𝕝 𝕓𝕖 𝕪𝕠𝕦𝕣 𝕠𝕟𝕝𝕪 𝕔𝕠𝕞𝕗𝕠𝕣𝕥, 𝕪𝕠𝕦𝕣 𝕠𝕟𝕝𝕪 𝕙𝕒𝕟𝕕𝕙𝕠𝕝𝕕, 𝕒𝕤 𝕖𝕧𝕖𝕣𝕪𝕥𝕙𝕚𝕟𝕘 𝕖𝕝𝕤𝕖 𝕪𝕠𝕦 𝕔𝕒𝕣𝕖 𝕒𝕓𝕠𝕦𝕥 𝕗𝕒𝕝𝕝𝕤 𝕗𝕣𝕠𝕞 𝕪𝕠𝕦. 𝕐𝕠𝕦 𝕔𝕝𝕒𝕚𝕞 ‘𝕄𝕒𝕦𝕝.’ 𝔸𝕟𝕕 𝕥𝕙𝕒𝕥 𝕤𝕙𝕒𝕝𝕝 𝕓𝕖 𝕪𝕠𝕦𝕣 𝕠𝕟𝕝𝕪 𝕥𝕣𝕚𝕦𝕞𝕡𝕙.”
Maul feels goosebumps down his arms and neck, acid sizzling in his stomach up his esophagus as if to make him vomit. He swallows it down. His voice is one of sorrow.
“Why do you curse me, Dreela?”
Zaster’s heart breaks. Her voice is immediately her own. “It’s not a curse. It’s a prophecy.”
“How do you know?”
Zaster can’t answer. They sit in silence for a long minute.
“He does hate me, doesn’t he?”
“Yes.”
“He hates my body. My earliest memory is of Sidious yanking a horn from within my skull. This one.” He pokes his back left horn. “It was growing slower than the others. It was barely a toothpick, even though I was already four years old. He compelled the rest of it out.”
“This is not the Sith Order I knew,” Zaster tells him, miserably.
“But he keeps it professional. I am what he has. I will inherit his empire, me. Even though he has a biological son and daughter. I am his true son in the Force.”
Tears fall from Zaster’s eyes. A deep growl escapes from Maul’s mouth, then a rushing fountain of words.
“‘Maul.’ ‘Maul’ is not a triumph! You took my words and twisted them. I believe in ‘Maul.’ But you were right the first time. I do have a true name like your Dreela. I have only forgotten it. And what you said in your curse is right too. ‘Maul’ did come from someone who hates me. I won’t... Augh, your curse is pure, pathetic shit. ‘Maul’ isn’t a triumph! It’s a -- it’s a tool. A tool I can use in witch magic. I will have such triumphs. I will be the Sith Emperor.”
“One of us is an Oracle, and it isn’t you.”
“What, do you really believe in that shit?”
“I didn’t before... But now... I think I do.”
“What happened?”
Zaster looks down at her blue fizzling holo-body and shrugs. “I can’t tell you.”
Why is she so fucking sad today? Maul thinks.
“Well, I don’t believe in it. Look, you know what it says on your holo? You know what I have to chant to wake you?” He picks it up and reads it. “‘Oracle, live, Oracle, rise, Oracle, give me your gift, prophesize once more –’” He laughs. “As if that is what mattered about you!”
“Prophecies are valuable.”
Maul pokes his chest with his thumb. “Not to little old lonesome me! I wanted you for two years! You! Not your curses!”
Zaster looks at him blankly. “I know why you have so much trouble waking me up. It’s because you don’t believe in those words. You don’t think I’m an Oracle. You don’t even think I’m Zaster. You think I’m just Dreela.”
“Pah! Of course I know you’re Zaster, the Sith of legend. I love that! And I know you’re an Oracle. I just don’t give a shit.”
“I’m more than just your good little friend. I’m very powerful.”
“I know that! I want to make you more powerful! You’re shackled. I want to free you!”
Her tearful, blank expression unnerves him. He stands and walks around the tree, picks up the stone girl-body and lugs it over to her. “Won’t you even look at it? I’ve spent our entire stay on Iridonia making it. Whenever I had a free moment. Over a month. Time I would normally spend with you, or trying to wake you -- sometimes failing -- instead I spent making this and learning how to put you in it.”
“You spent a whole month on this proud Sith planet ... the planet where your people evolved from fish ... and you could have been traveling your ancestral land, befriending your brothers and sisters, learning your own culture ... and instead you spent it…” She speaks in a furious whisper, “practicing witchcraft?!”
“Yes.”
“I hope when you die you pass straight into the Light Side of the Force.”
Maul winces. “Can you quit being a miserable, petty bitch for one second and just look at it? Just consider?”
Zaster looks at it.
“Don’t you like her?”
“You are a master of beauty. But she isn’t me.”
“She could be.”
“I want my body.”
“Dreela, that’s impossible. Your body exists, somewhere. It’s a puddle of goop and dust at best.”
“It is possible for a true Sith master.”
“It is?” He sits close in front of her again. “How?”
“Neither of us are knights. We are both merely pupils. Our knowledge is limited. Ask your master.”
“I shall think of some ... hypothetical ... scenario…”
“No. Just tell him about me. There is no point in keeping me a secret.”
“Dreela, that’s dangerous. He could destroy you. He is not a true Sith. You said so yourself. He is selfish and he abuses our traditions.”
“Ask his master, then.”
Maul laughs. “He doesn’t know I exist! He would destroy me.”
“You aren’t good enough to save me.” She crosses her arms. “Turn off the holo. Send me to sleep.”
“Dreela!”
“I don’t want to look at you.”
“There’s a human saying on Naboo: ‘Don’t go to bed angry.’ And you can’t even sleep it off. You’ll be just as angry the next time I wake you up.”
“But maybe you’ll be a little less insane.”
“I will find a way to ask him withou–”
Zaster stands and starts to walk away.
“Wait!” He picks up the holo. “Don’t walk too far from the projector! It could lose your information!”
“Then turn it off!” She keeps walking.
Maul turns off the holo projector and stares at where she was. He puts the girl-body tenderly in the tree hollow where he’s been hiding it. He stamps out the fire and goes home to the Temple.
* * *
11 Years in the Future
The Council had sent the pair of them on a mission to Iridonia to see if they could learn anything about the Zabrak who killed Qui-Gon six years ago. No one even knows the Zabrak’s name. Anakin had wondered what this “research-y” mission had to do with defending peace and order in the galaxy; Obi-Wan had known that the Council’s true object was to give the fifteen-year-old his first taste of the Sith.
They should have sent them to do this long ago, but they wanted to wait until Anakin was no longer a child, or at least, until most of childishness was gone. But Obi-Wan knows, even if the Council and Anakin himself do not, how young his Padawan really is, how deeply foolish, how essentially innocent. Despite years of strict diet, vigorous discipline, none of the separation between school and life that other children have, no distinction between teacher and caretaker -- despite the sometimes-brutality and the sometimes-joylessness of Jedi life, and despite his uniquely sudden plunge into it, from a life that was also harrowing -- in different ways, much more harrowing -- despite all these attacks on his immaturity, no force in this galaxy is strong enough to take childishness from a 15-year-old: the wonders and the terrors of being so little, and self-absorbed, and silly, and needy, and angry, and wrong.
Iridonia, nowadays, is a nice planet with a lovely culture, even if it can look a little scary to squeamish Coruscanti who don’t expect such loud music and vivid colors, such celebration of death and brawn. Jedi feel a particular whiplash against the look of everything, since their world is one of gray and brown and bright electric lights, hemmed in by a big, flashy, surly city. Iridonia uses fewer lights since Zabraks see better in the darkness than humans; the aliens can see fewer colors than human eyes, however, so their art and decoration bump up the saturation and contrast. But once Jedi get used to the eye-strain, they can relate to the deeper cultural stuff, like the Iridonian tendency toward aggression -- throwing oneself into a fight when provoked or even just for fun, confident that no matter how you are thrown around and knocked about, you will come out alright. Nice, lovely planet.
Iridonia used to be one of the strongholds of the Sith empire, and there are still traces of that history everywhere, even though it was so long ago and they are a loyal if somewhat unenthusiastic part of the Republic now. Obi-Wan and Anakin had found no leads in the cities -- they couldn’t even find any other red Zabraks -- so they turned to the wilds and the country, and their adventures and meditations brought them finally to the Sith Temple.
It wasn’t until they had crossed the threshold that Obi-Wan realized that the fear -- and the terrible sadness -- that he felt was not Anakin’s, but his own. And then he had wanted to rip an apology from the walls of the Temple for everything that the Sith had done to him, and for making him so frightened, six years later and in front of his Padawan. But Anakin had sensed nothing of Obi-Wan’s fear; he was just happy they had finally made some progress.
The Sith Temple had been just as scary and confusing and frustrating as Obi-Wan had expected. There were many weird rooms, devoted to sins and evil deeds and desires, and many impossible to open doors. Obi-Wan had only allowed them to stay inside for two hours at a maximum; often, just as Anakin thought he was on to something, Obi-Wan would drag him by his hood and insist they make themselves scarce for rest and snacks outside. Anakin had no perception of how deeply and insidiously the Dark Side dwelled in these rooms and tried to touch their noble hearts. Well, maybe some perception -- but not as much as he should have had.
It all culminated in a room far too far into the Temple, in which Obi-Wan had distinctly detected the shadow of the man who had killed Qui-Gon. Their lightsabers had illuminated the silhouette of a person -- they had been startled -- but it was only a statue, a very pretty one of a short but grown-up girl, with two little horns on her head, horns for claws, and jewels for eyes. Obi-Wan had opened his mouth to insist they leave, but Anakin had approached her, as if compelled, and touched her, like the stupid kid he is -- and of course this set off a trap, and sent a great slab of rock to fall on top of Anakin -- and though Obi-Wan got him out in time, the rock had broken Anakin’s right arm. Obi-Wan had immediately declared the mission over.
With his arm in a cast and a sling, Anakin’s training has slowed. He insists that he can learn to write and battle with his left hand, but Obi-Wan can’t make heads or tails of those scribbles or do anything for that backwards fighting technique. There is little to do but sit around. To make it a little more tolerable and fun, Obi-Wan lets them sit on the roof, which is against the rules.
Anakin climbs out of the uppermost window of the tallest tower of the Temple. His master is already sitting on the ledge above. He takes Anakin’s left hand and helps him squirm up to the ledge. Anakin sits beside him and leans against the antennae. It is impossible to be any higher.
“Are you scared of the view?” says Obi-Wan.
“I’m a pilot, Master.”
“Pilots wear seatbelts.”
Anakin smirks. “Sometimes.”
“Oh, Anakin.”
They look out at the city. Ships fly at their eye level. They ignore the drivers but compare the vehicles. A practical family supertug. Clean, dull commuteroids. An extravagant rented morgueboat. A fun speeder with silky-smooth acceleration. A bad speeder with clunky, nearly unusable toggleshifts.
“That Model E needs a paint job,” says Anakin.
“I was just thinking that.”
A bloated, converted gunner with all the weapons torn off. A lovely little blue fleetling. Anakin imagines driving it with the roof rolled down, and Padme as copilot, her hair blowing back as they fly. Obi-Wan imagines buying it for Anakin. Three minutes of happy silence passes, until Obi-Wan breaks it.
“I was looking over Qui-Gon’s notes on the prophecy he linked to you.”
“Oh.”
Anakin feels like a rock has formed in his stomach.
“All this Sith business reminded me of it.”
“Right.”
Obi-Wan digs a holonotebook out of his pocket.
“I was under the impression that it was all made by that ancient Oracle Garinquutor.” He turns the notebook on and shows Anakin a menu with pages and pages of folders and tabs. “But apparently, according to Qui-Gon, it’s one of those prophecies that is a combination of the words of many Oracles. Garinquutor wasn’t even the first, nor the most loquacious.”
“Who was?”
“A simple question with a tricky answer. As everything concerned seems to be. Qui-Gon believed that the very first references were made over a million years ago by an Oracle, from what is now Scarif, whose name has been lost. They said what can be translated to, ‘One shall hold the sun aloft and end the night forever.’ However, the word for ‘one’ could also mean ‘two.’ And the word for ‘end’ could also mean ‘burn.’ And the whole thing could be referring to something else entirely. It is only Qui-Gon’s interpretation that these words should be placed first in the timeline, based on their use of ‘sun’ and ‘night,’ which would become motifs.”
“Okay.”
Anakin feels like he’s eating very healthy, raw, painfully tasteless vegetables.
Obi-Wan continues, “Qui-Gon jotted down his own notes to explain some of these ambiguities. The trouble is, his handwriting wasn’t nearly so perfect as yours or even as generally legible as mine.”
He holds the notebook between them.
“What do you think he meant here, above the ‘one/two’ ambiguity?”
Both Jedi hunch over the notebook, rapt, trying with all their might to decipher the lost master’s word.
“...‘Nerfer?’” Anakin suggests.
“Oh, that could be an ‘R,’ couldn’t it...?”
“Nerfer... Nerfs are often born as twins... Twins? Two for one?”
Obi-Wan, smiling, raises an eyebrow at him. “You think you have a lost twin somewhere?”
Anakin smiles back. “Who knows?”
“Who knows indeed.”
They concentrate on the scribble again.
“I don’t think that’s an ‘F,’ though,” Obi-Wan says.
“‘Needle’ ... ‘Need...R’...’Theed’… um... Maybe it’s an ‘H’, ‘Heed’… ‘Hope’…”
“... ‘Helper.’”
“Oh, it is ‘Helper!’ ‘Helper’ and a question mark,” says Anakin.
“Yes. A Chosen One and a helper.”
“And a question mark.”
“Correct.”
“When was the most recent part of the prophecy made?”
“The most modern part was made 500 years ago, here on Coruscant, by Master Yoda.”
“Master Yoda?!”
Obi-Wan nods. “That surprised me too. But I suppose when you live that long, you can live as many things, including an Oracle. He certainly has the wisdom and the strength with the Force.”
“What did he say?”
“He said, ‘He is the silver student who will separate once, separate twice, and then disarm.’”
“‘He is…’” Anakin bursts into laughter and points at his cast. “‘Dis-arm.’”
Obi-Wan laughs. “It’s coming true!”
“How am I ‘silver?’”
“I don’t know. I feel like gems and metals always symbolize something unexpected in these sorts of things.”
“Yeah, I get that impression too.”
“Qui-Gon wrote ‘old,’ ‘rich,’ and ‘second-best’ above ‘silver.’”
“Hmmm, nope, nope, and nope.”
Anakin thinks, I have already separated once.
“I know. Qui-Gon included it because Yoda told him to.”
“Why did Yoda tell him that?”
“Because Yoda included it 500 years ago. He felt it was part of the greater whole.”
“He can’t tell us why? -- Or what it means?”
“If he ever knew, he wouldn’t remember now.”
“He wouldn’t remem... But he was there! It was his own words!”
“Anakin, do you remember a dream you had even three years ago?”
“But this is more than a dream!”
“Is it?”
Anakin is stunned into silence. He looks away from the holonotebook and blinks at the brightness of the city view.
“Do you believe, Master?”
Obi-Wan also looks away from the notebook, also taken aback by the lights gleaming off the ships.
“It is not useful for me to believe. It is a distraction… To me, Anakin, you are only an ordinary boy.”
“Can you put that prophecy away, then?”
“Yes.” He turns it off and puts it back in his pocket. “I keep it in my room, if you ever want to read it.”
Anakin looks down out of a habit of bashfulness -- but he looks back up quickly, since the view looking down is scary.
“Thank you, Master. I know I should.”
Obi-Wan knows, if Qui-Gon were here, he would start talking about “self-fulfilling prophecies” and “inevitability,” but those words feel sour and false in his own mouth. All he really wants is to give Anakin this measure of control over his own life and decisions. He wants him to listen to his own heart.
“If you do not want to, you do not have to.”
“Thank you.”
Those words feel strange, but wonderful, coming from his teacher.
* * *
The Present
Zaster feels the black water lapping her skin. She splashes her face, curls up and plunges her head underwater. She stretches out to a comfy position in this enormous bath carved from zakrite, a precious purple mineral. She reaches for her itching shoulder and scratches a fold in her old skin. It tears perfectly. She could cry with happiness.
She tears it across, then rolls it down; the old skin detaches from each scale, tugging it up a little as she goes. She moans in satisfaction. She sheds the whole skin off her arm and holds it up; it looks like a translucent, inside-out glove. She tosses it onto the surface of the hot bathwater, and the bubbling currents carry it away from the holoprojector’s photon beams. When it floats out of range, it disappears, and the holoprojector loses its data. The old skin blips out of existence. Good -- she has new skin -- better, brighter, raw, and all because of the man sitting there, in her master’s chair.
“This is it, exactly,” she says.
“I told you. Anything you want,” says Sidious.
“How can you do this?”
Sidious shrugs. “I do not have much of a frame of reference. I far exceed my master. But I do not know how great I am in comparison to other Sith.”
Zaster shakes her head in amazement. “The wisest Sith of my time doubted my master’s plan. You have fulfilled it to perfection. I feel exactly as if I were still alive... I don’t even have to strain with the Force, as I do when I play with Maul.”
“My dear, I am sure that strain reflects only on Maul. Your capacity with the Force is far greater than his. I sense ... that the success of your projection, when you are with me, cannot be attributed solely to myself, as much as I would like to claim the credit. It is the strength of the bond between us that manifests you so well.”
Zaster sits up, reaches for him, and touches his knee. Touching is so easy now. “Take off your clothes and join me.”
Sidious chortles. “I am sorry, my dear, but I do not have to do with aliens, on principle.”
Zaster runs her hand down his calf, blows bubbles into the water, splashes her face again and starts to peel the old skin off her other arm.
“But Maul told me you have a halfbreed bastard.”
“Ah, well, principles are for Jedi.”
“I’ll fuck anyone. I fucked Jedi. I fucked my master.”
“Now there must have been a rule against that.”
“Oh, everybody broke that rule! We were crazy for our masters.”
She tosses the shed skin from her other arm away. She peels the old skin off her face; it comes off in one satisfying piece. She throws it to him and he idly folds it up in an origami crane.
She continues, “I have one principle, in regards to sex: no halfbreeds. Nothing against your bastard specifically, Master.”
“Call me ‘my lord.’”
“My lord. Nothing against him; I’m sure he’s a lovely person. But like with like, you know? It’s criminal to dilute good species with bad ones.”
“Lucky, then, that my student’s sexual aberration has kept him off of your lovely self.”
Zaster stops dead.
“What?”
“Ohhh... dear, dear, dear... You’ve coupled with the beast?”
“But Maul is a Zabrak.”
“His father was a Zabrak. At least, mostly. The strongest in his village. His mother made all the men slaughter each other in a tournament for her. He won and became her plaything. She was a Dathomiran. A ‘Nightsisters.’ A witch.”
Zaster stares at him, agape. “But Maul looks a perfect specimen.”
“Do not trust your eyes, Dreela. Zabrakian genetics overwhelm the weaker Dathomiran ones, but only in appearance. You know his heart. He has already shown you, has he not, his barbarian ways? He doesn’t even know. It is just natural to him.”
Zaster visibly shudders. She feels goosebumps, sensitive on her new skin and itchy where her old skin still remains.
“Disgusting.”
“Come now, be fair, Dreela. It isn’t his fault.”
Zaster takes a huffy breath.
“You’re right.”
She sinks all the way into the water for a few moments, to clear her head and purify a little more. She tears the scales off her legs impatiently; she tears the scales off her middle, all up to her neck. Flakes of scales and skin float away from her and vanish into oblivion. She sits up in the water and looks at him.
“Can I get you anything else, Oracle?”
“I’m terrible at accepting gifts. Just -- come here. Come here.”
She waves him over. He rises from the chair and kneels in front of the bath. She holds the back of his head and kisses him tenderly, in thanks for what he has done for her. She draws a line across his cheek with her wet finger and sees the water clinging to his face. She did that, with her living finger. She kisses him deeply and passionately. She can feel him perfectly, his lips and teeth -- it took two thousand years, but here is a Sith, worthy enough -- she can feel it, the prophecy bubbling inside her -- no, not yet, she wants to make it really good, she wants as much information as she can, and she wants to make him wait for it -- she suppresses the prophecy like suppressing anger, so that he won’t detect the Force working around her.
“But ... if you can ... a real body ... no projection ... a real body of scale and blood, my body, as it should be.”
“I can. The next time I wake you, it will be yours.”
She smiles as he sits back in the chair, swatting the water out of his hair.