Archive of Our Own

“Bring the boy to the Temple for training, you may not. Forbid it, I do!” Yoda snapped at Qui-Gon, thumping his gimmer stick against the marble floor of the Nubian palace.

“He is the Chosen One. He will bring balance to the Force,” the younger master said calmly. “We cannot leave him untrained.”

“Too old. Too full of fear, he is,” Yoda was shaking his head. “Understand and feel compassion, I do, but jeopardize the Order, I cannot.”

Qui-Gon sighed, closing his eyes where he knelt before the aging Grandmaster, reaching for the Force that was his constant ally. It settled around him, humming with what he already knew, what he had known the instant the boy casually spoke of his impossible pod racing, had selflessly offered his help. Anakin Skywalker had the potential to be the Jedi of Jedis, the greatest light the galaxy had ever known. There was risk, as was always the way with power, and he could feel the Dark rustling at the edges of the Light draping the boy, but it was a distant hiss, a murmur, no more than a susurration, its victory or even significant presence by no means assured.

Qui-Gon understood Yoda’s hesitation from an academic viewpoint, knew the ancient master was weighing Anakin’s individual talent against potential fallout for the Order, but the Grandmaster’s assessment on Coruscant was also true: the Dark Side permeated the galaxy now, tendrils extended to run oil-slick over their meditations, clogging the Force. What true Jedi could claim to walk a path wholly untouched by the Dark? Every single one of Qui-Gon’s peers had confessed their own brushes with it in choked, hushed tones late in the Temple’s night or over a secure comm line, the only real defense against that test of faith the love and caring of their fellow Jedi. To deny Anakin simply because of his age, due to his present and constant low-level fear for his mother was…foolhardy. At best.

At worst, it would turn into a victory for the Sith. If the Jedi left Anakin to his own devices, there was no chance that the Sith would not take advantage. The Zabrak had been the apprentice, not the master, and that master either already knew of Anakin or would, shortly. Qui-Gon had not brought this brilliant, selfless child out of servitude to surrender him to slavery to the Dark.

Anakin was more important than his training, his life, his vows to the Order. The Temple had no monopoly on either the Force or what it meant to be a Jedi. The Living Force crooned, low and soft, a sweet melody guiding his choice. Decision made, he rose to tower over his first teacher, determination flexing between them. “I will train Anakin Skywalker, Master Yoda. Obi-Wan is ready to be knighted. In addition to the Rite of Knighthood by Combat, his skill when we faced the Sith together made it obvious that he has surpassed the need for my tutelage. The learning is lifelong, but there is no need for him to do so constantly at my side. I will knight him here, and resign from the Order when that is done.”

Yoda narrowed his large eyes as the Force reacted in a strangely complicated way around them and then the ancient Jedi smiled quietly. “Good.”

Qui-Gon blinked down at his diminutive grandmaster, completely wrong-footed as the tension bled away, Yoda’s expected disapproval nowhere in his aged visage, his presence a cool, placid well in the Force. “Good?” Qui-Gon stammered.

Yoda tilted his head decisively. “True, it is, that in the Order, Skywalker does not belong. But with the Force does his destiny lie. Training, he deserves. Much good, could he do. But not within the Temple’s walls or confined to the Jedi code. Trained to the Light, he will be, by one strong in the Living Force. That will be good for the boy and the Order.” Yoda’s dark eyes narrowed, weighing Qui-Gon with an incisiveness the younger man hadn’t felt since his own knighting ceremony as a young man. He unconsciously straightened his back and drew his shoulders to their full breadth under that stare, earning a thoughtful hum.

“Ready, are you, for this?” the aging voice cracked almost gently against the marble walls. “To be cut off from the Order, to no longer be a Jedi anywhere but in here?” The point of Yoda’s gimmer stick gently shoved on Qui-Gon’s chest over his heart.

The greying man could feel the shape of loneliness, sorrow, a sense of forever-missing wisping along the path in front of him and part of him baulked. To never again meditate in the Room of a Thousand Fountains. To know that another knight would occupy his quarters, his few possessions stripped from their comfortable places. The sting of knowing he would never again sit at the rough-hewn table and sip tea, Obi-Wan’s exasperated-fond-puzzled-affectionate eyes meeting his in the dawn.

Past, he told himself sternly. That is in the past. Difficulty curved its branches over a future with Anakin like the spindly trees on dozens of worlds, but the way forward itself was clear, a warm assurance of right so strong he could almost feel the nine-year-old’s hand in his own as they forged their path.

“I am.”

“Hmmm. So you are. Always for you, this path was. Tread it, no other could.”

The tall Jedi stared at the ancient master who had, once again, outmanoeuvred both him and the Council. “Did you plan this?”

Yoda snorted. “Plan a Sith, you think I would?” and both sobered with the weight of this realization they had only half-absorbed. Obi-Wan had sliced their unnamed opponent in half while Qui-Gon had successfully decapitated the Dathomiri Zabrak, but his death did not alleviate their concern: the Sith had returned.

“No. Plan, I did not. But the Force whispers to all of us, Qui-Gon Jinn. Merely…anticipate events, I had to.”

“You could have just told me,” Qui-Gon grumbled.

“And remove your chance for self-reflection, I should? Humph,” he snorted and made for the exit. “Come. Your Padawan, long has he deserved to be knighted. And anxious, young Skywalker will be, to learn his fate.”

Anakin held himself very still, as Obi-Wan instructed. “Patience is an important part of being a Jedi,” the young man had told him wryly as they sat down in a richly-appointed room. The boy had received the strong impression that Obi-Wan’s own patience was a work in progress. “You’ll spend a lot of time waiting for Qui-Gon as his Padawan. You might as well get used to it.”

Anakin was grateful that Obi-Wan seemed to take the outcome of their adventure on Naboo for granted. He had lived in the Temple all his life, surely he knew how it worked? He wouldn’t be so casually assured of Anakin’s acceptance as Qui-Gon’s student if it were impossible, would he?

He was also glad that his ersatz tutor had chosen for them to sit crossed-legged on the floor, facing each other. The chairs looked far too fine for a boy like him to be allowed to breathe on, much less sit in. Hopefully no one felt the same way about the soft carpet.

“When we meditate, we still our bodies to still our minds,” Obi-Wan said quietly. Anakin breathed lightly, holding his limbs quietly rigid. Still like a sand viper when Le-yah, the krayt dragon, is near. Still like noon on the dunes, heat pressing every surface. Still like a slave stretched silently to reach the water tank when Gardulla has not permitted anyone to drink all day—

“Stillness is not the same as burying yourself,” Obi-Wan breathed. With his words, a presence wrapped around Anakin’s, pressing that familiar sixth sense like-and-not-like his mother’s heavy blanket on freezing desert nights, soothing away the cold fear that lurked at the edges of his heart, a trap ever-ready to set its teeth in his wounds. Obi-Wan’s saber-callused hand lifted his small one and placed Anakin’s palm against the Padawan’s chest, his heartbeat strong and sure underneath.

Life, it seemed to say. Not fear. Life. Anakin was free, and had freed others in turn. Rain-bringer, the desert within rustled, a quiet reminder of his traditions, the silent source of his strength. Slave Who Makes Free. Naboo was safe. He had helped make it so. The Trade Federation was gone. Depur had no place here.

He took a deep breath, fingertips tightening on Obi-Wan’s tunic briefly, as if he could reach through the young man’s ribs and wrap his hand around the beating reminder. Life. Anakin wondered if he should be reaching for the heartbeats of others he was not touching, if meditation was to feel the gift of existence through those around them.

The return was instant and overwhelming. Hearts beat everywhere. With so many emotions. Swift with adrenaline from the young pilot training with her teacher. Slow from grief as the Minister of Arts read the report of a museum curator’s death at the hands of the droid army. Steady with determination from the captain of the queen’s guard. Qui-Gon’s brilliant, surging beat overlapping with Yoda’s slow, aged one. Padmé, hers drumming the cadence of firm justice, a light more muted than the Jedis’, but one he could already identify at any time on any world.

Broken, whole, sorrowful, light with joy, searing anger, blackened hatred, poisoned envy, fluttery excitement—

—“Hey,” Obi-Wan’s breath on his face made Anakin’s eyes snap open on reflex, and he was halfway to his feet, wrenched out of the seething mass of feeling saturating the world around them. “It’s all right,” the Padawan reassured him gently, rising slowly as the boy gulped great breaths of air and tried to fit back into himself.

“I’m not sure I’m very good at that,” Anakin offered finally, hanging his head in shame. Obi-Wan already didn’t like him, thought he was dangerous, he’d heard them before they’d left Coruscant. Now he would know Anakin was a failure too, unworthy to be a Jedi.

“Not good? Anakin…” Obi-Wan’s hands fluttered around his shoulders before he said quietly, “Look at me. Please.”

Anakin lifted his desert-sky-blue eyes to meet Obi-Wan’s grey-blue gaze. They shone with sincerity, and there was none of the oil-slick feeling that accompanied a lie in his words. “That was amazing. Your connection to the Force is very strong. We’ll need to work on your internal shields to keep you from getting overpowered by the world around you. But I wouldn’t say you’re ‘not good’ at it.”

“Oh.” Oh. Obi-Wan didn’t think he was a failure. He seemed…surprised? But in a good way, like his surprise was edged with starlight. “It was…a lot,” Anakin said shyly.

Pounding footsteps, and the surge of worry-what’swrong-what’shappened and Qui-Gon skidded into the room, clearly out of breath. “What—?”

“Sorry, we were waiting and I thought…I thought it might be good to show him meditation,” Obi-Wan said sheepishly.

“That was meditation?”

“Right, I was,” Yoda announced, thumping into the room at his slower pace. “Not for the Temple, are you, Anakin Skywalker.” Anakin’s face fell. “But strong with the Force, a great advocate of the Light, will you be.”

Anakin glanced at Obi-Wan, obscurely relieved that the older Padawan didn’t look like he knew what Yoda was talking about either.

“Training, you will receive. Your master, Qui-Gon is.” He cocked an ear at Obi-Wan. “As soon as knighted his Padawan, he has.”

Qui-Gon emerged from another session with the Queen’s Board of Advisors (brief though the occupation had been, the Trade Federation had wasted no time in wreaking havoc in Theed, brutalizing the surrounding counties and many Gungan villages near the rich underwater plasma vents. The clean-up and re-settlement work would take at least two years. For those mourning their dead, the scars would last a lifetime) and frowned as he realized he could feel neither Obi-Wan’s matured mind nor Anakin’s unshielded sun-burst presence anywhere in the palace complex.

Closing his eyes to block out unnecessary distractions, he stretched his senses, reaching into the Force. Obi-Wan’s Knighthood Ceremony the previous evening had marked the formal end to his training, but their bond remained strong as ever, and Qui-Gon narrowed his focus down to the bright thread that still bound him to the younger Jedi.

They were in the city, surrounded by a seething mass of others. The master dimly admitted that it was fortunate Anakin had learned little of hiding himself in the Force from one who knew how to look. The rainbow of his emotions against the general population’s muted hues threw their location into relief as Qui-Gon’s presence pinged against it like sonar.

He was vaguely aware of settling into one of the many speeders that was forever available to the visitors of the palace and providing paltry instructions to the cheerful cab driver, too focused on the ripples of the Force to mind overly where they were going.

“Ah. The Resettlement Center. Here you are, Master Jedi.”

“My thanks,” Qui-Gon replied distractedly as he disembarked, smiling faintly. Their successful fight with the Sith apprentice had settled some unruly knot in his former Padawan. Far from “another pathetic life form” and “the boy’s dangerous”, Obi-Wan had been using their hectic days on Naboo to take Anakin firmly under his wing, certainly wasting no time in engaging their charge in the work of the Jedi.

For a moment, the Living Force fractured around Qui-Gon and splinters of a different future peppered his sense of reality—

—Obi-Wan, drawn and grieving, Qui-Gon’s own body laid on a pyre—

—Anakin’s fear thick enough to taste as he asks, “What happens to me now?”—

—the heaviness of resentment as two men destined to be brothers are forced awkwardly to be Master and Padawan—

—he was inside the centre before he came fully back to himself, shaking aside the darkened vision of that-which-was-not-to-be. The dispossessed broke around him like a river splits around a large boulder as Qui-Gon swept the scene incisively…of course. Obi-Wan was mediating a dispute between two equally angry-looking men.

“…if there’s plasma running under your farm, it’s running under mine!” one snarled. “And I deserve an equal share of the profits!”

“There aren’t going to be any profits!” the second yelped back. “Plasma mining ruins the ground. I know you’ve seen the holos of what happened out near Golgunga way. Wrecked!”

“Gentlemen, I would like to remind you that both of your farms were flooded by the Trade Federation in an attempt to redirect the Woollona river,” Obi-Wan said calmly, none of the exasperation Qui-Gon could feel over their link making an appearance in either his voice or expression. “Perhaps we should stay on topic and discuss what restitution you’ll be requesting?”

“No pushing, Arlo, that’s not kind,” Qui-Gon heard Anakin’s piping voice gently scolding from a different direction. Attention drawn, the older Jedi turned his head to see the youngster surrounded by even younger children who were crowding him and a big metal tureen containing some kind of liquid, metal cups thrust under his nose as he ladled.

The Jedi carefully wound his way through the throng, surprisingly deft and graceful for a man so large. “I see Obi-Wan has wasted no time in introducing you to a life of service as a Jedi,” Qui-Gon said warmly, eyes crinkling as he smiled.

Anakin cocked his head and treated Qui-Gon to the first of many looks that betrayed his origins, and the toll such a life took on its victims. It was a glance simultaneously aged with wisdom and naively startled, saying both of course while asking what else should I be doing?

“This is tzai,” he said instead. “It’s not quite how Amu makes it, but I did the best I could with what the Naboo have.”

“It’s de-de-li-cious,” a four-year-old announced carefully, slurping at her mug.

“And what is tzai, aside from de-li-cious?” Qui-Gon asked the little girl with a smile. She shrugged and went on drinking, swinging her legs merrily on the too-tall stool she’d cribbed when an older boy stood for his portion.

“Tzai is a desert drink,” Anakin said solemnly, his hands never stopping as he filled mug after mug. “A gift from Ar-Amu. The First Tzai was made from the tears She shed for Her children, enslaved by Depur. Her tears were heated to boiling by the Suns, and spiced by the breath of Le-yah, the Elder Sister. She brewed it for seven days and nights in a sarlacc's cauldron, stirred with the red tail feather from her youngest, her secret son, the Flight Hawk.” Anakin’s voice rose and fell with a song-like cadence, and Qui-Gon noted the silence around them as the Force-woven story compelled his audience to listen, stilling the twitching feet of even the smallest and most restless.

“In the First Tzai, Ar-Amu brewed Her hope as well as Her sorrow,” the former slave boy continued, smiling quietly at the Nautolan child who held up his cup with eager dark eyes, “that Her children might always remember that even their tears give them strength, for the chain has never yet been forged that can hold them all.”

“You’re not returning to the Temple?” Obi-Wan asked quietly. He reached reflexively for his now-severed braid, a habit for many years since it had grown long enough to play with the beads on the end, and arrested his hand halfway to his shoulder.

“No. You heard Master Yoda. Anakin requires a different guidance than what we offer at the Temple.” Their days helping with Relocation Services had reinforced the wisdom of Master Yoda’s decision. “There’s something about this boy,” he remembered his own vague, intangible thoughts at their meeting and barely kept himself from snorting aloud. Something indeed. At the time, he’d thought Anakin’s abnormally high midichlorian count and corresponding raw power explained it, but it was abundantly clear there was more to this child than any youngling the Jedi Order had taken on since the Reformation. The Temple, with its creche, clans and initiates raised in peace and succored in safety from birth, was no place for a child grown in the twisted darkness of slavery. His age mates at the Temple would never understand him. His power would make him a target for their jealousies and his differences a victim of the insecures’ cruelties.

“He would be unhappy there,” Obi-Wan agreed with his thoughts, doubtless picking up their edges in their bond. “He was raised with his mother. He needs a father, as much as a master.”

“Indeed. That’s why the next part of my journey lies with him. I have had many good years as a Jedi - the last twelve with you have been among my best,” Qui-Gon smiled at his no-longer-apprentice. “I am content with what I have accomplished under the banner of the Order.”

Obi-Wan sucked in a long breath, permitting himself to feel pride at his master’s honest compliment even as the uncertain pain of separation reared its head. “I’ll miss you,” he admitted. “I was…resentful of you wanting to take on Anakin, but it is easy to see his heart is pure and I swear he’s already steadier just for spending a few days around you. They are singing his praises at the Resettlement Center.”

He hesitated, uncertain how to give voice to his faint awe at how much power resided in the nine-year-old. A twenty-thousand-plus midichlorian count was one thing on a data readout and quite another to experience second hand. “And his connection to the Force is…insane. He needs training, if only to keep him from accidentally hurting himself.”

“That he does. Thank you for meditating with him - your gentleness set him at ease, even if it was overwhelming. We will both be sorry to see you leave, but…” Qui-Gon sighed, shook his head ruefully. “You have long been ready for your Trials. I delayed out of selfishness more than anything. And fear. That I would fail you, as I failed…” Xanatos. He still could not say the young man’s name, the weight of his Fall, of Qui-Gon’s own part in it, a wound never fully healed. “Forgive me for my part in making you feel slighted - the truth is, you should have been knighted months before we were ever sent here to negotiate with the Trade Federation.” He clapped the new knight on the shoulder. “However, I cannot say I am sorry for the delay. Facing that Sith on my own would have been…a challenge.”

Obi-Wan snorted, but had no teasing retort to volley back. Qui-Gon had barely stumbled back in time from what would have been a fatal gut wound as it was. For a heart-stopping half-second, the knight had been convinced he was about to lose his master to the vicious attack. “I am glad I was here, too, Master. It is as you’ve always said. If the Force wills it—”

“—then so will it be,” Qui-Gon finished with a smile. He gazed warmly at his newly-knighted student. “This will not be goodbye, Obi-Wan. Anakin will still be your brother Padawan, for all that he will not be Temple-raised. You will always be welcome with us.”

Obi-Wan’s face broke in a smile a touch too relieved to be the dignified, detached expression of a Jedi Knight. Qui-Gon didn’t mind in the least. “I appreciate the open door, Master. I will always be glad to visit, and hopefully I can talk the Council into assigning me missions with you once Anakin reaches the right age.”

“Mission? Another one? Already?” Anakin’s young voice pitched beside them as he hurtled from a side corridor. He looked up at Obi-Wan with wide eyes. “Where are we going? Do we get to go back to the center to say goodbye?”

Obi-Wan threw a panicked glance to his former master. Qui-Gon settled his hands on Anakin’s shoulders, quieting his barrage. “We are not going anywhere. We’re saying goodbye to Obi-Wan. He has to return to Coruscant.”

“You’re not staying?” Anakin blurted. “But you have to. What about Arlo and Gena and all the other kids? We promised we’d help get Jer-Ret back to his village. And if you leave, who is going to teach me to meditate?” He crossed his arms, taking a deep breath as Qui-Gon gently squeezed to calm him. “Family sticks together.”

The young knight’s smile transformed into an open and delighted grin as Anakin artlessly offered what no one in the Temple would voice aloud. “I’m glad to hear that bit of Tatooine wisdom. Can I tell you a secret?” Anakin nodded eagerly, and Obi-Wan lowered his voice. “Qui-Gon is actually quite good at teaching meditation. He taught me how to do it properly.”

He gave his master a cheeky grin. “But I shall look forward to seeing you often, just to make sure he’s doing it right.”

“As a defender of our sovereignty and our person, you are cordially invited to remain on Naboo for as long as you might wish, Master Jinn,” Amidala announced proudly from her throne. “You and your student, Anakin Skywalker, to whom we also owe a great debt.” Anakin was next to him, his expression schooled to propriety, though Qui-Gon could feel in their fledgling bond amusement at Padmé’s stiff public demeanor.

“Your offer is much appreciated, Your Majesty. I believe we would be quite happy to remain here for a time?” he made the statement a question, cocking his brow at his young companion. Anakin nodded enthusiastically before remembering the diplomatic lessons they were already working on.

He turned back to Amidala and bowed (a shade too shallow and energetic, but it was the gesture that counted), “Thank you, Your Majesty. We appreciate your kindness.”

“We will not, however, be idle in our time here,” Qui-Gon took over, pleased with the awkward efforts of his Padawan. “What services may I offer you in recompense for your hospitality?”

“We appreciate the help that the Jedi have offered in resettling our people after the Federation’s invasion. You owe us nothing, Master Jinn. The Naboo will forever be indebted to you and yours. However, if you wish,” she continued before he could protest what appeared to be a dismissal, turning her hand gracefully to invite Captain Panaka to step forward. “Our guard would be delighted if you would be willing to train us in blade work.”

Sabé moved forward from her queen’s other side. “And our diplomats will benefit from your expertise in negotiation.”

Qui-Gon bowed his head to each of them. “I would consider such duties an honor.”

“...and so Diaphina returned the Queen’s sister to the palace. The Queen’s joy was so radiant it thawed the frozen oceans and rivers, and all of Naboo rejoiced as the land grew green and flourishing once more.” Saché smiled at Anakin as he slowly opened his eyes, recognizing the cadence of a story’s ending. He burrowed deeper into the nest of blankets they had piled on his bed. A child of the desert and her unrelenting suns, he shivered incessantly once the sun dipped close to the horizon on the water planet.

“Would you like some hot chocolate before sleeping?” she asked him brightly, gently smoothing his hair.

“No, I’m all right,” he immediately demurred. The handmaiden cocked her head at him, surprised.

“I thought all younglings liked hot chocolate.”

Anakin gave her a reassuring smile that was too old for a face so round and seemed to…diminish before her eyes, buried in his quilts. “You need not go to any trouble.”

Saché’s gaze sharpened critically. It was Padmé who had discovered Anakin one night after Obi-Wan’s departure, tears silently tracking down his cheeks as he lay in bed and gotten the boy to haltingly explain that his mother had spent every night of his life at his bedside telling him stories. The new knight had been doing so since the Liberation, occasionally assisted by Qui-Gon, but the Jedi master was in much demand until well after a child’s bedtime, and Anakin’s quiet need had slipped through the cracks.

In the immediate aftermath of the his part in the end of the Trade Federation’s occupation, Anakin’s excitement in learning new Jedi techniques, his exultation in being allowed to help with maintaining droids in the palace hangar, it was easy for the rest of them to forget that the Tatooine native was not just another not-quite-ten-year-old who had yet to hit his pre-teen growth spurt. When he wished, he could fold in on himself like a water lily in a drought, becoming a closed, tiny thing, barely noticeable. It was a slave trick, a quiet, insidious reminder of the conditions in which he’d lived his life until less than a handful of months ago.

He certainly never asked for help, even while he seemed determined to offer it to all who crossed his path.

“It is no trouble,” she said slowly, keeping her dark eyes locked on his. “You are no trouble. Anakin…” they had all tried so many times, with so many different words, to help him internalize his freedom, “you are your own person. You are allowed to like anything you wish.”

Anakin closed his eyes, tilting his head against his pillow in a quiet nod. The detonator had been removed the instant the celebrations had finished and the palace had emptied of its visitors. But he often forgot his new reality, and when he called Qui-Gon ‘Master’, both man and boy winced over the layers they could feel in that word.

“I want hot chocolate,” Saché announced. “And if Eirtaé is bringing me one, she can bring you one as well.” Anakin smiled shyly at that and did not object, slurping the treat happily when it came.

Later, as Saché slid out of the room with two empty mugs, her heart felt lighter as she looked at the boy sprawled across his pillow, a pronounced chocolate moustache painting his upper lip.

“Anakin? Come with me,” Qui-Gon ordered, rising to answer another summons.

Anakin, hydrospanner in hand as he fixed yet another faltering palace droid, rose immediately. “Yes, Master.”

The Force snapped between them, and Qui-Gon dropped back into his chair as if slapped. Anakin’s voice had been cheerful, acquiescent, instantly obedient…

Everything a slave needs to be to keep from getting in trouble. His touch on the Force curdled with disgust. Anakin no longer had an implanted explosive, and Qui-Gon had given him the detonator to destroy himself, but that word…

“The strongest chains are the ones you don’t even know you’re wearing,” a long-ago lecture from a now-forgotten Jedi master surfaced. “The greatest challenge of the Sith, that which places them beyond redemption, is that they don’t know they’re slaves.”

He could not train Anakin as he had trained Obi-Wan. Or even, he steeled himself to think of the bright boy who’d Fallen so far, Xanatos. Those boys had been raised to understand that ‘Master’ meant teacher, or occasionally father. One who cares. One who would always come for them, no matter the trouble or the danger.

Anakin’s ‘Master’ is one-who-must-be-pleased. One who holds life and death.

Qui-Gon had no interest in being seen in that way, even if it appeared on the surface that Anakin himself didn’t resent it. At least, not yet.

“Please sit,” he invited his ward.

Surprise flickered in the blue eyes, and Anakin sat promptly, feet tapping as he held his upper body still, focus entirely on Qui-Gon.

“I am not your master, Anakin. Not like Watto was.”

The boy gave him a look like he was crazy. “I know that, sir,” he said, and Qui-Gon could feel the careful shape of the thought Anakin was allowing to escape. “You took out the bomb.”

“Well, the surgeon did,” Qui-Gon clarified with a smile that he knew didn’t touch his eyes, “and yes, the bomb is gone, but that doesn’t mean you owe me anything. Not one minute of your time. Not a fraction of your life. Do you wish to learn to use your gifts?”

Anakin nodded furiously, and the older man could feel panic swelling between them, the boy’s fingers gripping each other tight enough that the ends were turning white. Qui-Gon kicked himself. He wasn’t doing this right. He reached out and closed his large hand over both of Anakin’s small ones, sending reassurance-comfort-love down their still-forming bond.

“It is my pleasure to teach you, a free child, what I know of the Force,” Qui-Gon continued quietly. “Without any obligation on your part. You may choose another path any day you wish. Tomorrow, a year from now, ten years from now. The training will be challenging, and if you wish to excel, you will have to work every bit as hard as I told you when we met, but not for me. For yourself. You are your own master, and all that you learn is your choice. I do not wish to share a title with those who have caused you nothing but pain. I would be honored if you would grant me another name.”

Anakin stared at him, disbelief written on his face and in his Force signature. “Another name?”

“Not ‘master’. A name you choose. The name you want to call me, as a free child of Tatooine.”

“May I think about it?” he asked shyly.

“Of course. For as long as you want.”

Later, after they had attended a briefing with Captain Panaka and a grinning Anakin had helped a mechanic by crawling into the tight place under the belly of a Nubian starfighter to solder a severed wire back together while Qui-Gon asked interested questions, Anakin had a name.

“Pashir, ” he told Qui-Gon, yawning as he scrubbed engine grease from his hands.

“Are you willing to tell me what that means?”

“‘Revered teacher’.”

“Master Jinn, I am told you plan to leave us.”

“We are, Your Majesty,” he bowed. “Your hospitality has been much appreciated.” They had already spent more time on Naboo than Qui-Gon had originally planned. But the stability of their year here had been important for Anakin, the queen’s handmaidens and palace staff providing his new apprentice with a vast network of teachers and loving encouragement to replace what Anakin would not receive at the Temple.

If his Padawan had learned a little less of the history of the Sith and the Jedi, and a little more of the rich Nubian mythology and mysticism, well, that was only to be expected.

“You and Anakin are welcome to return at any time,” the queen continued in her regal voice.

“Your Majesty is very kind. I think I speak for both of us when I say that we would like nothing better than to return to Naboo one day.” Beside him, Anakin nodded faintly before executing his own bow.

Padmé, dressed as one of her own handmaidens, was waiting in the hangar. “The queen would like to emphasize that you forever have a place here on Naboo.” She met Qui-Gon’s hazel gaze firmly. “That includes citizenship, Master Jinn, should it be wanted.”

Qui-Gon took a long breath as he held her serious dark eyes, acknowledging the importance of her offer. He was a registered citizen of Coruscant, as well as a member of the Jedi Order, his place in the Republic assured. But a slave born on the Outer Rim had no citizenship, no birth records, no confirmed existence in any kind of database. Their masters ensured that even if the Republic—

—or the Jedi—

—attempted major reforms, there were millions who could be disappeared because, as far as public record was concerned, they didn’t exist at all.

“Your generosity is boundless, my lady,” he said, forgetting for a moment, to play the game that separated Padmé Naberrie from Queen Amidala. “I am certain that we will be glad to take you up on that offer when we return.”

“I am grateful to hear that you plan to do so,” she said, and she smiled now at Anakin, who bowed a bit less awkwardly than he had the first time.

“I have a lot to learn, Padmé,” he said solemnly. “But I will miss you while we’re gone.”

“We will miss you both, Ani. Ocean and Moons preserve you both until you’re safely home.”

Home. She saw her words impact in two pairs of light eyes, and Qui-Gon’s hazel filled with gratitude as Anakin’s blue brimmed with emotion.

“May the Force be with you as well, Your Majesty.” This time, Anakin’s respectful bow was perfect.

Anakin practically vibrated with the unasked question in the co-pilot’s seat. Qui-Gon let the boy’s curiosity simmer until he was quite certain his student required prompting. Setting their course in the navigation computer under Anakin’s sharp and eager eyes, the Jedi moved them into hyperspace and turned to face his charge as the white-blue radiance of the stars streaked past them.

“Do you wish to ask a question?” he queried, sending acceptance and a faint amusement down their bond. Wry embarrassment flared momentarily as the former slave recognized his pashir’s prompting.

“Can I ask a question?” Anakin asks, trepidation saturating their bond. Qui-Gon glances up, notices his apprentice’s nervousness, his position near the door so that he can flee if…if what? If Qui-Gon is displeased? Yet again, the Jedi master silently curses the cruelty of a galaxy where children are enslaved, fearing to express that most natural of childhood characteristics: curiosity.

“Please. Always. There is no such thing as a wrong or stupid question,” Qui-Gon says gently. “There are many I can’t answer, but none that are wrong.”

Anakin had eventually relaxed and opened up but, clearly, permission to ask questions was still a behaviour the former slave was growing accustomed to.

“Remember, you don’t have to wait for me to tell you you’re allowed,” Qui-Gon reminded him gently.

“Where are we going?” the question burst out of him in a rush.

“Ah. An important thing to know. We are going to Ilum. Specifically to the Kyber Caverns, where you will get your first lightsaber crystal.”

Anakin didn’t have to say anything more, the eager jerk of his head to the front viewport combined with the excitement saturating their bond gave him away. Qui-Gon smiled, grateful that in this, at least, Anakin was not so different from any youngling the Temple sent to the caves.

Qui-Gon reminded himself never to make another assumption as they dropped out of hyperspace over Ilum only for Anakin to clap his hands over his ears, screwing his eyes shut. Cacophony echoed down their connection, and Qui-Gon swiftly blocked his own mind, lest the sudden influx of bombastic sensation cause them to crash.

“It’s so loud, ” Anakin whispered. Qui-Gon carefully extended his senses to mute the song of the world as it rejoiced in their arrival. Anakin was right. It was loud. A lot louder than its usual greeting for the Initiate Clans.

As his student sat up cautiously, hesitantly dropping his hands and focusing intently on the swirling patterns of ice crusting the rapidly-approaching surface, Qui-Gon wrapped a mental shield or two around Anakin’s nascent ones. “What is it?”

“The planet herself,” the Jedi said with a faint smile, initiating the landing sequence. “Kyber is highly Force-sensitive. It possesses its own…not sentience, but deep connection to the Force and to those of us who wield it. It is why we build our lightsabers with kyber.”

Anakin eyed the ice nervously as it crunched under the struts extended for landing. “Will it…will it always be so noisy?”

“I can do my best to help shield you, but this problem is unique in my experience. Your connection to the Force is strong, Anakin, much stronger than mine, stronger than any Jedi’s. I would hazard a guess that your strength is why its song is…overpowering.” Anakin eyed him sceptically, so Qui-Gon continued. “Imagine you built two light-sensing droids. One is built to operate using the light spectrum visible to the Human eye. The other is built to see all light, from infrared to ultraviolet.”

“Both see light, but the droid with the greater range of vision would see a lot more,” Anakin finished. “So…I’m like a droid that sees infrared and ultraviolet?”

“And has to process all that extra information as a result. As metaphors go, yes. We’re both seeing light – or in this case, hearing the kyber song – but I hear a pleasant tune that I know how to integrate into my senses while you hear a symphony on full volume.”

The boy hesitated. “But you said I have to go alone. How will you be able to help me if you’re outside?”

“We won’t go in today,” Qui-Gon said decisively. “You’re meditation technique is much improved. We will spend today enhancing your shielding. When you feel like you can hear the kyber without being overwhelmed, then you can enter the caves.”

In the end, it was three days, not one, when Anakin felt that he had synced himself sufficiently to the planet to enter the caves without buckling under the weight of enthusiastic kyber. Qui-Gon was still nervous, but Anakin’s natural strength and his well-developed instinct to hide served him well in blocking out the kyber song.

“What’s in there? Aside from the kyber crystals?”

“Only yourself. Be mindful of the Living Force, Anakin. It flows strongly through you. It will guide you to your crystal.”

“You’re sure you can’t come?” It was meant to be a joke, but Qui-Gon could sense the genuine worry flashing underneath it. He flooded their bond with certitude in Anakin’s abilities.

“This is your journey. Not mine. Have faith in what you have learned, and in yourself. Use your head,” he brushed the boy’s temple with one gentle finger, “and mind your heart.”

With that, Anakin faced the huge opening in the ice, squared his narrow shoulders, and ducked inside. He did not look back.

The teacher settled to meditate as he waited at the entrance, scolding himself for his worry as the shifting shadows told the passage of time. He had guided plenty of Initiate Clans through finding their lightsaber crystals and learning to listen to the kyber, to allow the Living Force to flow through them and guide their steps in crafting their supremely unique, ideal instrument in service to the Force.

But Anakin was alone in the frozen, glittering world. There was no Initiate Clan, no friends who were equally nervous and excited to find their crystals.

The day was waning, the creeping ice three-quarters of the way to the floor, and, masked as Anakin was, Qui-Gon could not sense him over the singing of the crystals. He reminded himself to have faith.

Anakin breathed deeply, allowing the icy air to bite his lungs and focus his thoughts from within the sandstorm-shield that protected his mind from the overwhelming, if joyous, cries of the kyber embedded in the ice walls around him. He used the cold to remind himself of the Living Force, of the here-and-now in the face of the fear that loomed within, wearing Depur’s snarling face.

He was not scrambling through a greater krayt cave, breathing shallowly to keep himself from swallowing sand and praying that Le-yah would not take offense at his thievery as Gardulla’s overseers sneered at the entrance, sending him after the pearl of the (hopefully) long-deceased behemoth.

He was here with his…pashir, teacher, not master, never ‘master’... to find his very own kyber crystal. Thinking of the brilliant green blade focused and energized him. He’d been fascinated by Qui-Gon’s lightsaber the instant he’d laid eyes on it. First in a wistful, half-acknowledged yearning that he hadn’t allowed to become fully conscious because slaves did not own weapons. And the whole galaxy knew that only Jedi carried laser swords.

Then had come freedom, and the muted excitement of knowing that now he could have one, and, if he were to be a Jedi, must have one. The desperate, Dark-and-Light-snarling-rage-hate-protection-commitment-determination fight between Qui-Gon and a monster from Anakin’s nightmares, a vision of the worst of Depur made flesh and blood, had been shocking, a warning that a weapon is a weapon, meant to maim and kill - even in self-defense. That had been the only time he’d seen his teacher actually wield the blade.

Their year on Naboo had been peaceful, full of quiet diplomacy lessons as the Gungans and their human counterparts strove to live together for the first time in centuries, as the Resettlement Center filled, emptied. and disbanded, their purpose accomplished. He had worked up the nerve to quietly ask Qui-Gon somewhere around six months into his new life (a handful of days after he’d renamed Qui-Gon ‘pashir’) whether he still would be allowed to have one, since he wasn’t training to be a real Jedi?

Qui-Gon’s face twists briefly at the question, and he sits on the comfortable sofa in their quarters to look Anakin directly in the eye. “You are going to be a real Jedi, Anakin. All I know myself is the life and faith of the Temple, and that is all I can teach you. Master Yoda was right that the Temple itself is not the right place for you, but I believe he is looking forward to the day we can work together to help the galaxy.”

That had reassured Anakin a little, and when Qui-Gon had started them on the katas that very evening, it had raised his hopes a little more. So far, they practiced empty-handed, and Qui-Gon had warned him that, even with the necessary components to build a lightsaber, they were likely to practice with the thick, short staves favored by Nubian Security for a time before progressing to sparring with sabers.

Even through the difficulty of guarding his mind from this planet, of knowing he would be expected to wait to actually use his saber, Anakin was eager to find his crystal, to start building. He’d always excelled at making, at fixing, at creating new things. It was what had made him useful enough not to sell on, but more importantly, it had granted him a form of freedom under Depur’s eye. He had friends who learned the dances, those who were already talented at carving japor, others who wove tinpur grass mats and dyed Bantha yarns in the traditional patterns of the Quarters. But Anakin built droids. Droids to help bake halum, with hands of thick-set durasteel that could reach directly into the clay ovens. Droids with fine motor function, to create even stitches at the grandmothers’ direction. Droids sold to Depur with programs that allowed Anakin to track where they went and who they spoke to, to allow those who dared to attempt escape, to rescue infants before they could be chipped.

“I did not come to free slaves.” Amu had told him that Qui-Gon had said that, sounding regretful but resigned.

“I will return to free you,” Anakin promises, voice quiet and settled with the weight of the Desert. “All of you.”

Building his lightsaber was the next step on that path, on keeping his vow to his mother, to the friends he knew still labored under Tatooine’s unforgiving sky and even more unforgiving masters. And now…

Now he was lost inside the massive tunnels, every exhale clouding the air while every inhale stuck sharply in his lungs. All day he had been able to feel…moments. Time shifting and sliding around him through the singing, frustrating teases in the Force that flirted with him, demanding he follow them.

An older Obi-Wan is shaking his head as he’s led into an arena on a hot, sandy world, Padmé at his side. Anakin’s own voice is deeper as he says, “We came to rescue you.”

“Good job,” the other man riposts sarcastically and Anakin feels the tearing frustration-fondness-vexation-love that his master always evokes—

But Obi-Wan was not his master, nor his pashir. Anakin rejected that vision as he pushed forward, maintaining the whirling sandstorm within that shielded his deepest self.

“You wouldn’t make it as just anyone’s Padawan,” that same older-voiced self is saying to a young Togruta who is all fire-life-Light in the Force. She intrigued him, and Anakin almost reached for that vision before a too-eager ripple at the edge of his consciousness warned him.

“The cave will test you.” Qui-Gon had warned him. “Everyone’s testing is different, but your journey to your kyber crystal reflects the deepest realities of who you are.”

He re-centered himself and set the unfamiliar and energetic Togruta from his mind. She might be written into his future, or it might be no more than a trick of that-which-is-not-to-be, like Obi-Wan as his master. His mother’s steady reminder beats like his heart: What is, is, what will be, will be.

The deepest reality of who I am. He drew a deep breath, pushing out his awareness of the stinging cold, releasing his conscious self and the ever-creeping fear of not-good-enough, his dread that after all this, he would not find a crystal, he was not worthy to free his mother, and Qui-Gon would see him as a failure—

The deepest reality, he reminded himself, closing his eyes. A breath and the cold retreated. “I will return to free you.” Another and his mind quieted. “All of you.” The kyber fell silent, quivering in thousands of shards. His mother’s face appeared before him, the lines around her mouth drawn with exhaustion, her dark eyes brilliant with pride.

“Sky-Walker,” she says softly, and Anakin feels her gentle hand ruffling his hair. “This is not just any slave name, Ani.”

It is night, and they are lighting tapers at the shrine Amee carefully conceals beneath her fruit stall, a sacred place for the Mother and Her children disguised by Depur’s pallies and jawa fruit.

“It is Ekkreth’s own name,” Anakin continues the well-known ritual, lighting his own taper and settling it next to a carefully-pressed cactus flower left as an offering.

“The Slave Who Makes Free,” his mother agrees, settling her hands on his shoulders.

With the abruptness of a dream, the shrine and his mother are gone, and Anakin is staring into the desert. Though he has never been here in life, his bones know where he’s standing. He is past the Dune Sea and the Jundland Wastes, in the Deep Desert where Depur does not build his cities and even the children of the Mother must tread carefully. This is where Ley-ah reigns, fierce and proud, and shares her dominion only with her brother, Lukka, the ferocious desert storm.

The sand rumbles beneath his feet, betraying the presence of the Greater Krayt Dragon, but Anakin will not flinch from what Ar-Amu is choosing to give him. Ley-ah bursts from the earth, and as she sheds sand, it whips around him, Lukka come to play.

“Skywalker. Ekkreth’s legacy.” She is-and-is-not speaking, the rumbling of her deep voice vibrating in his bones.

“Anakin,” Lukka is whispering in his sandpaper voice. “The Bringer of Rain, the Maker of Balance, the Reckoner of Depur Depuran.”

“Ar-Amu gifted your life,” Ley-ah growls. “For Her children, Ekkreth.”

“For the Desert. Bring the Rain,” Lukka skitters.

“Deny Her not,” the siblings command, and then Ley-ah dives beneath the sand and Lukka’s fierce wind vanishes and in the desert there is nothing but the night and a single, burning candle.

And the singing. His mother’s lyrical songs tripped over Kitster’s quick rhymes and Amee’s cheerful rhythms. The kyber no longer wove a thousand headache-inducing separate harmonies. They blended together in triumphant homecoming, the song filling the caves familiar in his bones as the drumbeat to the Quarter dances, chasing away the cold and pouring strength into his freezing limbs.

With a gasp, Anakin opened his eyes. All of the crystals had vibrated at the edge of his shields with a low-level hum that settled in his bones and blood the instant he set foot inside, but those singing now wanted to be found. He looked down, and saw glowing under a thin layer of frozen water, bright enough he nearly shielded his eyes. He would have to crack the surface to retrieve them.

Carefully preparing himself to slide down the ice face, Anakin seized the multi-tool he always kept at his belt (he never knew when he’d need to fix something), and committed.

Anakin scraped under the re-freezing door with seconds and centimetres to spare and opened his belt pouch, jubilation flooding the Force around Qui-Gon, who opened his eyes with a smile for his student’s rare, completely unrestrained enthusiasm.

When he looked down into the pouch Anakin excitedly thrust under his nose, the smile vanished in shock.

“Three crystals?”

Anakin was meditating, eyes closed. The pieces of his lightsaber floated at nose-level, his hands settled on his knees to keep them from accidentally interfering in work only the Force could do even as his fingers twitched, the mechanic in him itching to play with the delicate mechanisms.

Qui-Gon sat across from him, and his eyes were open as he contemplated his unusual apprentice, bolstering the boy’s energy with his own unceasing flow borrowed from the Force. Making one’s first lightsaber was always a challenge. Creating one with three kyber crystals…finding two was astonishingly rare, and usually indicated an Initiate bound for mastering Jar Kai. Qui-Gon had never heard of an Initiate returning from the caverns with three.

But then, there was little point to ever measuring Anakin against the standards of the Temple-raised. He was simply too…different. From his mysterious origins ( “There was no father. I can’t explain it.” ), to his unforgiving childhood, to his unconditional selflessness, to his midichlorian count…Yoda’s wisdom in encouraging Anakin’s training outside the Order grew clearer by the day as he surpassed his peers in sheer capacity…

…while struggling with tasks most Initiates found boringly easy. Like centering himself during meditation. Qui-Gon could sense the tension within his student, a silent struggle taking place just beneath Anakin’s skin. Closing his own eyes, Qui-Gon reached across their bond, offering support—

—to find himself standing under a brilliantly star-studded sky, his feet planted on the shifting sands of Anakin’s home planet.

Anakin stood some meters distant, a small shadow illuminated only by starlight. The air around him seemed to shimmer, and as Qui-Gon set aside his surprise at this unusual (vision? Memory?), he honed his senses on the boy and realized the disturbance was a fine mist of sand whirling about Anakin like a miniscule tornado.

“You have taught me that the Force is energy binding the galaxy together. That it connects all living things and can even extend to the non-living.” Anakin’s voice was small, his back to Qui-Gon. The Jedi attempted to move closer, but though he could lift his boots and stride forward, he never seemed to close the distance between them.

When Anakin twisted to look over his shoulder, Qui-Gon froze. Anakin’s eyes whirled with the turn of the galaxy, the perfect reflection of the night sky. As he gazed at Qui-Gon, the stars in his gaze seemed to merge until they were the fierce blue of Tatooine’s relentless sky, no whites or pupils to relieve the intent stare.

“But here, amongst my people, the Force is the Desert, the will of Ar-Amu. She Who Gives and Takes. Gifter of Life, Messenger of Freedom and Death. Ar-Amu willed my birth, and so I am.” The sand rustled around him, picking up speed and grains as it whirled higher. Qui-Gon could feel it acknowledging the truth of Anakin’s claim.

“I…did not know how to tell you what the kyber sings for me,” the boy continued and his voice was firm, for all it was quiet. “I am not sure…not sure I even want it to be true. But I am not a Jedi, pashir. I will never be one. I am Anakin Skywalker, and Ar-Amu did not give me to my mother that I might abandon Her people.”

He turned to fully face Qui-Gon, and in his hands was a fully constructed lightsaber that gleamed even in the meagre starlight—

—Qui-Gon jerked his eyes open to meet Anakin’s startling blue…over the rotating shape of an assembled lightsaber floating between them in their shipboard quarters.

“‘Anakin’ means ‘Bringer of Rain’ in Amatakka,” his student continued, as if they had not just returned from the kind of Force vision Qui-Gon had never even heard of, much less experienced. “And ‘Skywalker’ is Ekkreth’s name, the Slave Who Makes Free.” He held his pashir’s gaze as he reached for his completed weapon. “My duty – my reason for being – is to free slaves.”

All of them? Qui-Gon wondered stupidly as the Force crystalized around them, affirming Anakin’s choice.

“How do the Sith build their empires, Padawan?” Master Dooku’s voice echoed loud across the decades.

Slavery, he answered then and now. The Sith build their empires using slaves. Slaves the Republic has continued to turn a blind eye to in the name of peace.

“I will help you.” The words left his lips without routing through his brain, and Qui-Gon knew a burning certitude that filled him from the tips of his worn boots to the roots of his hair. It was absolute, a law unto itself, stamped into the Living Force as surely as gravity held the galaxy together.

Anakin’s hand closed around his saber hilt, and despite the seriousness of his demeanor, the look on his face was one of almost comedic surprise as he hefted it. “It’s heavier than I thought it would be.”

Says the boy who is about to launch an all-out war on the Hutts and the Syndicates. Qui-Gon cracked a tired, if genuine, smile. “Most responsibilities are, my dear Padawan.”