Chapter Text
It was a stupid maneuver.
Stupid and desperate.
The transparisteel buckles, but Darth Vader, incandescently angry in the Force, lets the torrent of ocean water rush into the hallway, holding a bubble of energy around them all now that Cere’s has faltered in her shock. His armour is already beginning to spark dangerously in the ankle deep pool that’s forming inside the pocket of air, even his supernova strength in the Force not enough to hold back the weight of an ocean completely, but Vader doesn’t seem to notice or care. It's enough for now. For the few seconds it will take Vader to kill them. Cere has staggered, and Cal is too busy holding her up to block the strike, so Darth Vader's lightsaber slips easily into Cere’s chest and keeps going through her and through her until he’s going through Cal too, until he has both of them speared like insects on a skewer, and all three of them still into silence, barely breathing, perched on a needle-point.
Cal’s gloves are ripped to shreds, from dragging himself through the ship or his fight with Trilla, it doesn’t matter, but he can feel Cere dying in his arms, her shock and pain writing themselves into the fabric of her clothes, the very air around her, and Cal feels torturously doubled, his own death fast approaching. Darth Vader is a cataclysmic event, and Cal, delirious with pain, scrambles to catch the hilt of his saber as he begins to drag it out their corpses – and that’s what he and Cere are, corpses, with only a last few seconds of misfiring neurons left in them, no matter how much BD-1 trills and punches stim after stim into his arm – they are tipping past that point of no return now, and Cal needs to do something right now before it’s too late for – for what?
Too late for what?
The lightsaber drips with memories, of screaming and killing, but Cal knows that’s not what he needs even if he doesn’t know what he does, so he pushes harder, finds the scraps of metal older than the others, like tearing at layers of tree bark with his bare hands. There’s mechanical rebirth, the immolation of a person whose broken pieces Darth Vader built himself out of, jagged and wrong.
But before that there was -
There was Anakin Skywalker.
***
Cal screams back into startled, painful consciousness - and keeps screaming. He can't stop himself, can't think at all, beyond the facts: That he's dead, he's dying, he's going to die.
The Healers sedate him, when they can't calm him down from his embarrassing hyterical fit. The second time he wakes up, he has a much quieter panic attack, as his mind threatens to buckle under the weight of what the Force sings to him is true. Eventually, a Healer notices his emotional distres and detangles themselves from other work to come to check up on him, and though they are speaking Galactic Basic, the strain of holding back another breakdown doesn't let Cal process even a single word.
He manages some semblance of order in his thoughts while they keep directing meaningless gibberish at him, mostly through the sheer necessity of packing it up and away before they diagnose him with brain damage:
He’s in the Jedi Temple.
Order 66 has not happened yet.
The Empire doesn’t exist.
The Force is alive.
That, more than anything, helps him calm down, feeling his unbroken connection to the thrumming sentience of Force users all around him, and he slips into a meditative trance without thinking, allowing himself to turn away from the stone of panic still lodged in his throat and the Healer staring at him expectantly to bask in the all-consuming joy he feels at so many Jedi alive, alive, alive. A few others meditating notice him and give a mental wave of cautious greeting at what, to them, must feel like an alarmingly extreme reaction on the other end of the scale to his screaming terror only a few hours previous.
Cal draws hastily back into himself, embarrassed. He brings his shields up reluctantly, unwilling to close himself off even an inch now that what he hadn’t even been aware he was missing is returned to him. bBut he has frankly embarrassed himself enough, and leaking all his feelings into the Force for all and sundry to sense is not acceptable but for the youngest of younglings, especially not now that Cere and Merrin aren’t the only ones around to notice him doing it.
The Healer is still there typing away on a datapad. They glance up and raise an eyebrow at him expectantly when he shifts, dazed, trying to remember where he is.
“Finally back with us?”
Cal gives them a weak smile and tries to apologise, but nothing emerges from his throat but a wheezing croak. He settles for nodding instead.
Unfortunately, his breakdown had been very public, with all his crechemates present to witness, and the disturbance in the Force drew half the Masters in the Temple to his location before they managed to hold him down long enough to sedate him - naturally, the news has spread like wildfire.
From what Healer Essi says, they seem to have taken it as a sign of growth in his psychometry, assuming he was overwhelmed during his group mediation with the creche by a large group of injured troopers entering the Temple for healing, carrying with them the echoes of a particularly bloody battle. This is a better excuse than ‘I’m from the future’, or ‘I slightly lost my entire mind’, so Cal makes a lot of noises that could mean anything whenever Healer Essi asks anything particularly pertinent, and if that fails widens his eyes and sighs soulfully, like just thinking about answering hurts him.
It's a wildly successful strategy, that would never have worked if he was anything but what he is now, which is ten years old and, horrifyingly, cute. It's awful, though he could have managed if the handicap only extended so far as robbing him of any scraps of dignity he had managed to scrounge together by age eighteen. But the main problem becomes apparent whenever he tries to walk or move in any major way and keeps expecting the range and weight of his eighteen year old limbs; even sitting up makes his stomach swoop terrifyingly for a moment before he can reassure himself that, no, his arms haven't been amputated at the elbow while he was asleep - they've just gotten much shorter and lighter.
He's worried Healer Essi will comment on this, but it’s well known that psychometrics, especially untrained ones, usually see their visions from the point of view of the being making the memories, and considering the intensity of his assumed one was enough to almost send him into a seizure, some disorientation is to be expected and they let the matter lie. He sort of wished they would, if only so he could get some relief from the skin crawling wrongness of his tiny unscarred fingers – there must some sort of pill, or treatment - but Cal has dealt with worse, will deal with worse if he lets himself be distracted from his goal by something so inconsequential as discomfort.
Eventually, he's left alone to eat and sleep, to be kept overnight for observation. They’ve given him a private room, thank Force, which means he can drop immediately into katas. Or, more accurately, his own bastardised movement exercises, formed out of any and all lightsaber forms he can remember from his padawan days, chopped into tiny little pieces and jammed into patterns that are more random ordering that they are well considered transitions. He's still got his lightsaber, though it's the one he lost on the Albedo Brave rather than the one he built. Seeing it sends an automatic pang through his heart, but he's no longer attached to this weapon as he once had been. He misses his own blade fiercly, illegal and vaguely heretical as it was. The modifications had been worth the versatility, the freedom, even if he feels guilty thinking so in the presence of his childhood saber. The weight sits oddly in his hand, the grip too smooth and too wide - he can't be sure if the changes are more pronounced because he is so changed, or because the lightaber is truly so different. He does not dare light it, not even to check if the colour is the same as he remembers.
The katas are torturously slow going. Cal finds himself constantly readjusting, having to acclimate to his reduced reach and height. Even the most basic forms are challenging. Maybe it’s a good thing he has his saber restricted to one blade. He’d probably stab himself with two. Even such a meagre effort exausts him within an hour. He crawls back into bed, frustrated and wildly uncomfortable with - everything. Absolutely everything.
He tries to sleep, eats the bland nutrimash instead, attempts to sleep again. It's no use. He's still awake hours later, even when he's too tired to move. Cal's mind runs in circles, gnawing at the problem of his own death.
Anakin Skywalker. The Hero with No Fear. Darth Vader. Something must be done about him. Even if Cal fails in preventing Order 66, even if the Empire forms – Darth Vader must be stopped at any cost. Cal can access him easier than he can access the Separatists, easier than he can access Emperor Palpatine, and Darth Vader was a force unto himself, the right hand and enforcer. Just the mention of him demoralised rebel forces.
Cal had met him once when he was still Anakin Skywalker, when Master Tapal had had to speak with him about something or other, and Cal had trotted along at his elbow, a quiet shadow. He doesn’t remember what they spoke about anymore, and it had only been a brief chat, but he still remembers how he'd felt, looking up at the face he's seen repeated in a thousand propaganda holos, in the flesh. Mostly, he remembers having to fight the urge to squint in the face of his blinding Force presence, immense and star-bright. That much power shouldn’t have been possible to store in a flesh body, he had thought then, and Cal got the feeling that if were to try to touch Skywalker skin on skin, it would burn Cal from the inside out before he could read a single echo off of him.
Could he be killed?
Master Tapal would be horrified. That his padawan, so soft-hearted, would ever seriously consider the thought of cold-blooded murder.
Cere would probably understand, though. Surviving the genocide, the loss of Trilla to the Inquisitors, the Empire - it had given her a pragmatism that Jaro Tapal had never been forced to develop. But neither of them are Cal’s masters. Their opinions have no bearing on his decision, and they can't stop him. They don't even know who he is, and he pushes down the ache that thought causes.
It's better this way. They’re both alive and well – or as well as anyone can be when fighting a war. As painful as it is to admit, they are both better off without him, and if all goes to plan, they will be alive to build lives without him in them. The others, too: Merrin still has her fellow Nightsisters on Dathomir, and Greez is… Force know where, but probably happily gambling his savings away in a canteena somewhere. BD-1 is still with Eno Cordova, going on adventures and exploring planets, and Cal won’t take that from him.
Cal will do many things to keep his friends, his family, as happy as they are – but does that include murder? Cal has killed, sure. But out of neccessity, against enemies who fought him head on, knowing the risks.
But could he kill someone just for a potential future? There’s half a dozen excuses and reasons ready in his mind – but with the smell of his own cauterised meat fresh in his memories, they all feel mealy-mouthed.
He can't do it. At least, not yet, not befire trying something else. There has to be something to Anakin Skywalker that made him a hero first, before he fell. He can't act rashly with this, when all he would achieve with Skywalker's murder is his own sick satisfaction and a blow to the Republic Forces.
But if he cannot be killed, he must be stopped some other way. And Cal is useless to him here, stuck in the crèche whilst Skywalker and Kenobi fight the Separatists at the front. What reason would a ten-year-old have to – wait.
Cal is a youngling again.
Padawans can be apprenticed early in extenuating circumstances.
***
Cal wakes still tired.
He’s used to this – sleep for him has rarely been fulfilling or particularly restful, and always full of odd dreams. Healer Essi brings midday meal (yet more nutrimash, joy of joys) and runs the same tests from yesterday all over again.
“Your levels look much better now,” they trill, “but you must keep your hands gloved now more than ever and refrain from using your psychometry for at least another week. Such experiences can leave your shields thin, and make you more susceptible to another fit.”
They hold out a pair of gloves someone must have retrieved from his room, and the healer’s hand engulfs them completely. It’s one of the few remaining pairs he has left from Stewjon, pale green and embroidered with simple, looping patterns. Cal waits to feel discomfort at the reminder of his birth family – but nothing comes. He’d grown out of these by the time he was twelve, and with them any memories he may have had of his parents. They’d given him up willingly, and Cal was, is, better cared for in the Temple than he could ever have been on Stewjon, where Force users were outcast. The gloves mean they must have loved him once, enough to try and make sure he was warm – but they hadn’t even named him before they gave him away.
He puts the gloves on. They’re soft and supple and painfully childish – the echoes are of someone else completely, glee and indignation and training with creche mates he barely recognises.
“May I-” Cal winces and clears his throat at the hoarse rattle his throat makes, all the screaming from yesterday still messing with his vocal cords. “May I leave, Healer Essi?” There, that sounded like something approaching a language his throat is capable of producing.
Healer Essi looks at him appraisingly for a long moment, during which Cal checks his shields and tries his best to convey ‘all better, promise’ through facial expression alone. He must do something right because they give a gusty sigh and says, “Yes, you may. I’ve spoken to your crèchemaster and have excused you from lessons for today, and vigorous exercise for the next three days. If the disorientation persists for longer than that, come and see me again.”
Cal only staggers a little bit standing up, much improved from yesterday, and makes an uncoordinated bow before turning to leave. Healer Essi calls out again.
“It is recommended, but not required, that you visit a mind healer –”
“No!” Cal and the healer blink at each other, both startled by his vehemence. “No,” he repeats, much calmer this time, and hopes desperately Healer Essi will let it go unremarked, “no, thank you.” The very, very last thing he needs is someone in his head. Memories like his, they'd have to be reported to someone, and then word would spread regardless of whether anyone actually believed what they saw in there or not, and Cal can’t risk a leak to Palpatine, not before he has a plan. Healer Essi draws in a breath as if to speak, but changes their mind and nods cautiously at him. Cal is out of the door and trotting through the hallways as fast as he can without tripping over his own clumsy feet.
The Temple is wonderful.
Cal can’t help taking off a glove and running his fingers along the wall as he walks. The first touch makes him twitch, the nerve endings raw and exposed, but he pushes past it, and it's worth it to let the soothing noise of thousands of Force sensitives over thousands of years wash over him. He can’t stop marvelling at how clean and pure his connection with the Force feels, the simple joy of the memories of day to day a balm to his anxious mind. The echoes are leading him somewhere – they’re all of movement, all in the same general direction. The Force is playful, he realises with a start – and how long has it been since he felt the Force itself show active direction rather than just the projected currents and eddies of those moving through it? How could he have forgotten this, how could he have ever thought his connection to the Force had healed completely before now?
Cal steps into the Room of a Thousand Fountains almost without realising it, and jolts completely out of his thoughts when a young voice yells, “Cal!”
It’s a group of three younglings. The one who yelled hunches their shoulders slightly at the barrage of reprimands they receive from everyone else in the otherwise peaceful chamber, but just projects a distracted sense of apology before taking large strides towards him from the fountain the group had been sitting on the lip of.
“Hello,” she greets him in a much more reasonable tone of voice. Now that the group is closer, Cal can see her ceremonial jewellery; Cereans wear something like a that few months before and after coming of age, he thinks. “How are you – woah.”
She’d sent out a tendril of welcome-hello-curious and probably been shocked by his immediate and instinctive stonewalling, shields closing around his mind like a clam. Cal regrets the action before it’s even complete. He remembers, vaguely, that this form of greeting had been the norm amongst the Jedi, when there'd been enough of them to greet regularly. These kids probably know – knew him, and he can’t imagine he’s acting at all like he actually did as a ten year old.
Wincing, he drops his shields and gives her a mental handshake, and to the human and the Tarc behind her, for good measure. Suddenly, he remembers her name – Te-Sora-Dani. “Hi,” Cal returns lamely.
Immediately, Cal can tell that wasn’t the right thing to do. Te-Sora-Dani and the human are gaping at him now, and even the Tarc, averse as their culture is to any display of emotion, twitches their antennae.
“What happened? I thought you had a weird vision! Nobody told us you swallowed a Kyber crystal!” The human pushes forward to get a better look at him, maybe to physically open his mouth to check. Cal steps back and puts up his hands.
“Hey, woah! What are you talking about? Everything is fine.” Everything has to be fine. Everything absolutely has to be fine. His crechemates do not look like they believ things are fine.
“Your Force signature feels… different. Not entirely unbalanced, but almost. The Force is interacting with you strangely.” The Tarc intones. “Have you begun growing a shell?”
Cal starts to sweat. The fact they can sense a change, a growth, is alarming. It could be worse, probably. At least Healer Essi, someone who could actually make decisions over his life, hadn’t known him before treating him, and so don’t have a baseline to compare adult-Cal-in child-body’s signature to actual-child-Cal.
“Uh, no. Humans and near-humans don’t do that.”
“You feel stronger now. More solid.” Te-Sora-Dani frowns and starts prodding at him lightly in the Force, feeling his edges. Sith hells, Cal really hopes she doesn’t have any latent psychic abilities he’s forgetting about.
“Uhh, have any of you heard anything about Masters Skywalker and Kenobi? Wasn’t there, um, something that happened with them recently?” As distractions go, it’s a terrible attempt, but during the war, it often felt like they were involved in a major historical event every day, so maybe they'll take the bait.
They eye him suspiciously for a moment, with the exception of the Tarc who just looks at him impassively, back under emotional control. The human whose name he still can't remember falls for it.
“Yeah, announcements were made this morning, actually. Ahsoka Tano is being assigned to Anakin Skywalker as his padawan leaner.”
“Ahsoka Tano?”
"What, do you know her?"
Cal schools his face into polite interest while he releases a stream of curses behind his shields. Ahsoka Tano! How could he have forgotten about Ahsoka Tano! She’d been the stuff of legends in the creche – never mind Cal’s own embarrassing crush ages twelve through fourteen.
“Nope, never met her.”
The stares again. Cal stares back, trying not to wince. This is a disaster - he needs to get out, before he does something really stupid, like ask for the date.
“Hey, any of you know when the next council meeting is?”
“There is one currently ongoing. I do not see how that was relevant to our–”
“I’m so sorry, but I have to leave immediately. Bye!”
Cal turns on his heel, trips, and breaks into a dead sprint.