Chapter Text
Part One
All was a great fog of biting ash, embers floating in the dark grey haze obscuring sight and scorching his face.
Through the haze a galaxy began to spin faster, gaining momentum.
Clouds of nebulas swirled past, and one fell into his focus, false lightning crackling within. Countless stars born and burning and dying again. The ash and embers swirled into the nebula. Two new stars—twins—were born and began orbiting a third.
He was sucked back into his own navel, compressing down through the tube of his spine. Pressed down down down, forced back into bones and skin and blood and sinew, staring up at a cloudless sky with countless stars in their billions. A dark new moon slowly moved across the zenith and the lights stuttered out from it in a spread of ink and the night started screaming in his ears.
A tired voice, a ghost standing at his left shoulder though he was alone in the desert. 'There is no death, there is the Force.'
A second voice, at his right. 'There is no death.'
He spun, dizzy and out of control as the earth heaved under his feet-the stench of sulfur and flames. Light crackling out in a widening net of static sparks to defy the shadow.
The marching drum of countless feet, plastoid crunching and clicking in unison. The tsunami's tide rising higher and higher, unbearable, unstoppable, the terrible momentum cresting before disaster.
Then a sudden riptide of cold, moving crosswise, cutting out the foundation and forcing cold air into his lungs and shocking Sifo-Dyas awake.
A grumble rumbled at Sifo-Dyas’ jaw, whiskers scratching lightly at his shoulder before the arm around his ribs tightened briefly. “Seef?” Sifo-Dyas let himself relax back into the familiar hold and intimate nickname, nuzzling his cheekbone against Yan’s brow.
“I’m alright, go back to sleep.”
Yan grumbled but fell back asleep as soon as Sifo-Dyas stroked reassurance down their bond that he didn’t need Che or Jocasta. It was certainly a vision, as dark as any that had been haunting him the last ten years. And yet. The ending had changed. That cold riptide had only begun appearing after Dooku’s lineage knights had stood before the High Council and championed the will of the Force with such conviction that none of the assembled Masters could deny it. Uncomfortable and cold the riptide might have been, but it was a pain that was also a relief; the pain you can only feel when you get that first breath after nearly drowning.
Sifo-Dyas rubbed a hand over his face; no cold sweat which was a pleasant change, it meant he could roll back into his cuddle and skip the midnight fresher that used to be his norm. He’d have to see if he couldn’t wrangle himself an invite to Dooku’s next little lineage dinner, maybe tea and Breggle too, if he could get away with it. Yoda had had a notorious sulk after Yan had very politely, and very firmly, informed his old master that he had no need of extra assistance teaching the game.
Untroubled by any further dreams Sifo-Dyas woke to the smell of strong black tea with bergamot, rising from the overly indulgent nest of bedding to follow the siren’s call. A piping hot cup was pressed into his hands, prepared with a citron slice and a drizzle of honey sweetening it to perfection. “Thank you.” Sifo-Dyas barely even bothered to open his eyes as he inhaled the fragrant steam before sipping, careful of the heat.
“Your hair is a disaster.” Sifo-Dyas rolled his eyes at this observation, then nearly purred when confident fingers—slightly cool at the tips—started working through his long hair. “I already commed Jocasta, she’ll have the holocron ready by the time we get down to the Archives.” It was always a little surreal and slightly giddy when Yan showed his capacity for patience with this gentle sort of care, working out the tangles and twisting the length of dark hair up into Sifo-Dyas’s preferred bun, secured with a simple hairstick. A calloused thumb pressed gently into his nape, “Was it different this time?”
Ever since Kenobi had made his declaration the Council of First Knowledge had been trying to quantify just what had shifted so dramatically. Mace sat through no less than three rounds of interviews before he bit someone’s head off and they left him alone. In his defense, a shatterpoint hardly gave any context at all, and very rarely evolved or developed in subtle ways. If there was a change he would keep them informed over comms, thank you very much.
“It was the nebula, and then the march.”
Yan shifted away to get his own cup, unsweetened though he kept the slice of citron. “Damn. We’d all hoped that the march might’ve been thwarted.” The frustrated disappointment was all too familiar. How could all these portents of destruction have stayed the same and yet the tenor of the ending be so changed?
“The great wave was stopped by a riptide,” Sifo-Dyas opened his eyes, taking another sip to watch Yan’s reaction. “All that momentum undercut in a flash.” Sifo-Dyas leaned his elbows on the table, both hands cradling his cup as he let his eyes go a little unfocused. “Cold, but the kind of cold you want after feeling claustrophobic. That’s what woke me, that cold push of air.”
“Interesting.” To most, Sifo-Dyas supposed, that cool distant tone would mean that Yan had lost interest, but he knew Yan better than anyone. Maybe Jo could make an argument that she was a close second, and she’d have to fight Yoda for it. The way Yan let himself cross his legs at the knee, one finger touching the lip of his cup, this gave away that despite his tone and expression of unbreachable calm, he was turning it over, looking for moves within moves, strategies and layers of meaning on a dejarik board most didn’t consider. “Are there any clues as to who or what the riptide might be?”
Sifo-Dyas hummed, stretching out his legs to bump their ankles. Yan always defaulted to stiffness, but the casual physicality helped ease his lover, producing the slightest smile to curve his eyes and Yan finally tasted his tea. “Two voices spoke, though the message is cryptic at best, and unhelpful at worst.”
Even so, Yan’s eyes sharpened on him. “Rare to have such a direct message.”
“Hmm. There is no death.” Sifo-Dyas paused, knowing Yan would finish the line, a call and response old as their friendship.
“There is the Force.” Yan sipped slowly, “Encouraging or concerning, a shame such communication must needs always be so cryptic.”
Sifo-Dyas chirped a little laugh, smirking, “Now I know you’re fully awake. You and your grand-padawan make quite the matched set.” Yan’s sudden burst of pride swelled in the Force between them, and Sifo-Dyas smirked. Yan was too dignified to even pretend to be ashamed, taking their empty cups to wash them.
“There’s no shame to be had in observing a true fact.” With his prissiness at maximum, Sifo-Dyas really wanted to leave a bite mark high enough that Yan’s collars couldn’t hide it, maybe muss his carefully coiffed hair. Alas, such delights would have to wait.
“You’re going to make Yoda cry.”
“A little difficulty is good for him.” Laughing, Sifo-Dyas tucked his hand into the crook of Yan’s elbow when he offered it and the two masters began their walk to the Archives. Although it was rather early in Coruscant’s day cycle, the temple was buzzing with activity, the diurnal Jedi did prefer to start their days early.
Jocasta looked up over her spectacles when they strode in together, steel grey eyes immediately checking that neither was so impudent as to smuggle in a beverage. Appearing innocent of such an offense so far, she slipped her readers off her nose to rest on the circulation desk.
“Sifo-Dyas. Yan.” Her tone went from pleasant to curt respectively, as she greeted them. The Seer raised his hand in a cheery greeting, as ever amused by Jocasta and Yan’s ongoing rivalry. From the créche, to padawans, to knights, to masters, the two would probably still be bickering after they passed into the Force.
“Jocasta,” Yan straightened the cuff of his robe and barely inclined his head. “Which booth have you prepared?”
She huffed and Sifo-Dyas recognized when she was resisting the urge to roll her eyes and just offered her a little noncommittal grin. He liked Yan’s fussiness, especially when he got to be the one to muss him. Still, she rose and curled her fingers to beckon them to follow, they had the first booth and she pointedly refused to look at Yan. “You still remember how to operate the interface?”
”My sense of where I am in time is stronger than it’s been in years, JoJo. I’m fine.”
Jocasta bristled like a cat and stalked away, Yan taking the narrow seat by the door while Sifo-Dyas stepped into the circle carefully picked out in blue tape.
”You’re going to get something terrible added to your shampoo if you keep provoking her like that.”
”Me, provoking her?” Sifo-Dyas grinned at Yan, reaching to check the holocron was placed correctly and the system was prepared to record new information rather than overwrite his previous visions. “I’m sure I don’t know what you mean.” Sifo-Dyas and Jocasta might be on gentler terms than Jo and Yan, but that didn’t mean he loved to rile her up any less.
Yan just sniffed, too dignified to even repeat Jocasta’s despised childhood nickname as the blue light of the recorder came on and Sifo-Dyas straightened. Hands folded before his chest, Sifo-Dyas’ voice gained a rhythmic cadence as he recounted the events of his vision and Yan stroked a finger over his mustache.
By the time Sifo-Dyas was satisfied with his recording, the muted chaos of a crèche clan had descended upon the Archives. Yan reached over to straighten the line of Sifo-Dyas’s tunic, and ignored the smile that earned him. They stepped out of the holocron cubicle to see an older Korun, his hands folded into the wide sleeves of his robe and a placid, almost sleepy expression. His grey goatee twitched briefly before his low voice chided, “Manners, younglings.”
Five mismatched younglings all in initiate beige fell quiet and scampered back to the Crèchemaster’s side. He tilted his head to indicate the Council Members, but before he could prompt them there was a wave of little gasps and Sifo-Dyas needed all of his training to keep his face placid at the excited squeals of ‘Master Dooku!’. He flicked a glance at Yan from the corner of his eye, and slapped away the equivalent of a pinch in the Force for his amusement at his lover’s expense.
Yan’s expression suddenly went through a change, softening and his eyes growing warm as he noticed the little near-human at the end of the line. Sifo-Dyas knew he was gawking a little bit when he noticed the slight curve of Yan’s smile, and chanced a second look at the youngling. She had coppery red hair tied high in a nerf tail, pale skin, and there was something uncanny and familiar in the shade of blue-grey to her eyes.
Yan lifted one eyebrow expectantly and the little one twitched, hands coming up to mimic her Crèchemaster and bowing at the waist, setting off a small wave as the other four followed suit. “Good morning, Masters,” came the little chorus. Sifo-Dyas sent a question over his bond with Yan, and felt the gentle impression of ‘mine’ come back. He looked again and suddenly the resemblance was all he could see. This was Kenobi’s youngling, his future padawan, young Kira-Lin.
The Crèchemaster looked quietly amused at the unsubtle hero worship, explaining, “Wolf Clan is at the Archives today for a lesson in research. Perhaps if they are very well behaved and impress Master Nu we could impose on your good selves to join us for some Breggle in the Room of a Thousand Fountains after mid meal?” Another round of gasps, and the sense of held breath, quivering in hopeful anticipation. The master let his smile curve into a smirk. “It seems some of us have been rather inspired by their elders, and it’s become quite a popular topic with our clan.”
Yan didn’t even pretend to hide his ‘ smug-pride-smug ’ impression in the Force. Jocasta looked up from the circulation desk to scowl at him as Yan glanced over to Sifo-Dyas, who sent a positive press across their bond. “We have no previous engagements, Crèchemaster, that would be most agreeable.” There was a burst of ‘ happy-delight-grandmaster’ in the room from Kenobi’s youngling that tickled Sifo-Dyas to no end and the Crèchemaster inclined his head in thanks.
“Let this be an incentive to mind your manners and obey all the rules in the Archives, my little loth-wolves. Come now.” He reached down to tap the very top of the little girl’s head and the troop of five fell in line.
First was a young Tholothian girl, Lina, her tendrils twitching as she glanced around the archives with curious eyes. Next was Lar’tan, a male Nautolan with bright cyan skin and huge green eyes, these first two held hands, apparently paired up in their buddy system.
A male Togruta named Lascol stepped up to take Kira-Lin’s left hand, the skin of his face a light, cool shade of gray though his baby montrals were streaked with a rich terracotta red. He stared hard at the fourth, the tallest of their group. The Twi’lek girl had carnation pink skin and she blinked slowly back at the stare until the Togruta sighed. “Kiri.” He drew out the syllables and wiggled Kira-Lin’s hand at her ‘til the Twi’lek gasped ‘Oh!’ and stepped to take Kira-Lin’s free right hand.
The Crèchemaster smiled, letting them feel his approval and pride in the Force. “This is the circulation desk, if you wish to take anything out of the archives you must stop here first. As Initiates you will not need to remove any materials from the Archives until you are taken as padawans, everything you will need can be downloaded to your datapads when you receive them in the future. For now, you will work on your assignments from the Initiate’s wing, where a padawan of the Archive will be on hand to assist us all.”
He drew their attention to a pattern in the tile on the Archive floor, a streak of light green the color of new shoots in the gardens. “Pay close attention, this color will lead you to where we are going.” Little heads cocked, lekku curling as they nodded and tracked the streak to a nearby door, the entirety of which matched that shade of new-life green. “Follow the path, seekers of knowledge.”
Lina and Lar’tan exchanged twin grins and trotted along towards the bright green door. Both of Kira-Lin’s hands were occupied but she didn’t mind, giggling because Kiri wanted to walk on the green line like a balance beam and Lascol was huffing to himself. Kira-Lin just grinned, dimpling up at him. He heaved an absolutely monumental sigh and waited for Kiri to catch up along their little youngling chain.
Master Ezak ran a hand over the top of Lascol’s head. “Opportunities to practice patience will only make you stronger.”
Lascol nodded, heaving another great sigh before settling down. “Yes, Master Ezak.”
Kiri caught up to them, and blinked, glancing between Lascol and Kira-Lin. Kira-Lin squeezed Kiri’s fingers. “Kiri is ready?”
The little Twi’lek stared at Lascol for a moment, then smiled sweetly. “Yes, I’m ready. Thank you Lascol.” She squeezed back at Kira-Lin’s fingers and continued at Lascol’s pace, to his palpable relief.
Ezak let his tidy goatee hide his smile, bringing up the rear while his charges caught up to their peers. Wolf Clan was small, smaller than usual. These children had been born in a year where admissions to the crèche was particularly rare. It had been a fight to keep them together rather than have them divided amongst the other crèche clans, as none of the others had room for all four. The recent addition of the little Stewjoni had helped firm up their legitimacy in the eyes of the crèche structure.
He touched the access panel to the Initiate’s Hall, smiling over the exclamations of wonder and overly loud shushing. An archive padawan trotted over to them, wreathed in smiles and happily taking over the tour. “Here we have the rows of shelves that Initiate’s have permission to explore, but please don’t put pads back on the shelves, they must go into the return, here.” They waited until they’d gotten five solemn little nods of understanding this sacred rule, before continuing.
“No food or drink is ever allowed in the Archives, as it could damage the collection, and it is important to have clean hands and clothes for the same reason.”
Eyes rounded in astonishment, Lascol blurted out, “You have to take baths to go to the Archives?”
“Indeed so,” the padawan grinned at them, “just as Healers must be clean to do their duty, and Consulars to represent diplomacy, cleanliness is very important to an Archivist.” They came upon a series of long tables, half with youngling-proofed holoterminals and half open workspace. “Here is where you will take your lessons and do your work.”
The padawan turned, bowing very correctly, “My name is Tieka, they/them and as my specialization is in archival maintenance, I’m going to be available to you all alongside your master when you come here for class. Please feel free to ask me any questions you might have.” They turned to point to a desk similar to the circulation desk in the main hall. “That’s my workstation, and if you ever need me and I am not there, there is a touch pad here that will summon my comm.” Tieka showed them the square panel at a height that just about any initiate ought to be able to reach.
Ezak offered the padawan his own bow, setting off a little wave of echoes in his students. “Thank you very much for your good guidance, Padawan Tieka. I believe our next goal is to learn how to use a holo terminal.”
Tieka grinned, all enthusiasm. “Then let us begin!”
Mid-meal for most initiate crèche clans was a raucous affair, but Ezak was too disciplined a Jedi to let his smug superiority show on his face or past his shields in the Force. With only five younglings in his charge, all of whom were pleased well enough with his buddy system, he found it infinitely more manageable.
As they stepped into the refectory he rearranged them slightly, Kiri going to buddy up with Lar’tan and Lina, while Lascol took Kira-Lin’s hand. Lascol was finding it edifying not to be the only one being issued a different tray than the others. Poor Knight Kenobi looked like he could’ve been knocked over with a feather when Ezak had explained Kira-Lin needed an adjusted dietary plan.
Obi-Wan had approached Ezak after Kira-Lin’s assignment to his clan, mentioning his grandmaster had encouraged osteophagy for the youngling, and wanted to insure there wouldn’t be a problem. Ezak was politely confused, before confessing that he was already aware. Kira-Lin’s file had her indicated as ‘Stewjoni’ instead of ‘near-human’, afterall; which meant most days she should eat from the carnivore menus. While she could eat the heavily grain and vegetable based near-human menus, they shouldn’t be her standard.
How nobody had ever mentioned this to the man before was a mystery, and it painted an infuriating picture of Obi-Wan’s youth.
Obi-Wan Kenobi had been raised in their crèche, but it seemed he’d never noticed Master Ali-Alann nudging him towards the carnivorous plates. Obi-Wan had explained that as a youngling he’d been very adventurous, constantly sampling the differing diets of his rather diverse group of crèchemates, so that sort of encouragement wouldn’t have made a memorable impact.
Apparently his master had looked at Obi-Wan, decided he was near-human enough, and that was that.
Ezak kept his tone and body language open, and non-judgemental when he declared a standard near-human diet to be ‘survivable, but not sustainable’ for Stewjoni biology. And would Obi-Wan like a copy of Kira-Lin’s dietary plan? He had, actually. Ezak felt the warm triumph of being able to right an old wrong, the satisfaction of providing the correct care, regardless of how late it was offered.
And so, his two little carnivores trotted together through the line to accept their trays and troop back to Wolf Clan’s assigned table. His three bolder little ones chattered happily back and forth, Kiri and Kira-Lin a duet of contrasting silence. In lieu of sweet treats, Kira-Lin cracked a bone in her teeth, much to Lascol’s admiration. Their marrow bones came pre cracked, and he watched as she ate the whole thing, cortical bone included. Ezak discouraged him from trying it, as Togruta were closer to true predators, rather than facultative scavengers, like Stewjoni.
This set off an impromptu lesson on dietary classifications; a rediscovered favorite with a new youngling in their clan. This led to Kira-Lin offering to share her marrow, though Ezak nipped that in the bud. “Yes, as omnivores they can eat marrow, but it should be cooked first. Your second liver gives you an advantage when it comes to raw animal products.”
Lascol bounced in his seat, leaning forward, “I can have it raw though! So long as it’s fresh.” Kira-Lin perked up at that, and promptly offered him a portion of her treat, much to his delight.
Ezak sipped at his tea, having finished his mid meal with the practiced alacrity of his profession. He smiled and let his charges feel his approval when they bussed their trays without prompting. “Well done, my little loth-wolves. I do believe we have a Breggle lesson to get to.” A cheer went up and he grinned to himself. “Come along then, buddy up.”
The younglings clasped hands, and as they walked along the halls Lina started up a little walking song, the other three answering the call and response rhymes.
“Loth-Wolves, Loth-Wolves!
Marching in time !
Loth-Wolves, Loth-Wolves!
Walking in line !
“Paws on the pathway,
Tails held high !
Ears to the wind,
Noses to the sky !
“Sniff, sniff, sniff!
What do we find ?
A secret! A shadow!
No friend left behind !
"Quick, like a tooka!
Sharp as a blade !
We are the Loth-Wolves!
We’re Jedi and brave !”
They ended up crossing paths with Bear Clan, who responded with their own walking chant, and it devolved into a great deal of play growling and a few rather good howls before the Crèchemasters calmed everything down again. A passing master and their padawan chuckled with fond memories, a great deal of bowing and apologies for the noise and they arrived at the Room of a Thousand Fountains.
Ezak smiled down at their newest little Loth-Wolf, “Kira-Lin, perhaps you could lead us to where Masters Dooku and Sifo-Dyas are waiting?”
She perked up and nodded. Unlike other younglings, she didn’t close her eyes to focus, instead she cocked her head as if listening for something. He felt her reach out into the Force, then turn a little and start pulling her two buddies along. The two council members had made themselves at ease in a section of the garden that had been manicured with an open green for games, and several small tables and chairs for playing smaller games like chess, or taking tea.
Sifo-Dyas smiled and offered Ezak one of the chairs at their table while Dooku looked over Wolf Clan with a discerning eye. He pulled a bag out of his pockets and produced several sets of Breggle beads strung together on strings and passed them out to each of the initiates. Kira-Lin blinked, puzzled, and glanced back up at him and he finally allowed himself to smirk. “Crèche Breggle keeps the stones on a string until you’ve enough control that we aren’t risking the windows.”
And thank the Force for that , Ezak thought, watching as his initiates all sat down in a semi circle before Dooku and watched him demonstrate a basic snake technique with a longer beaded string. The gentle clicking of wooden beads kept steady rhythm as it ‘slithered’ through the air and along the ground, the ‘head’ of the snake rising up to accept excited pets before circling back to the beginning.
“First you must lift your Breggle stones, then you can begin to move them. In time, with patience and focus you will begin to learn the snake patterns. Kira-Lin, you’ve already had a few lessons. Would you demonstrate for your crèchemates?”
Sifo-Dyas smiled and played mum to refresh their tea, savoring Yan’s pride and pleasure across their bond as his almost-grandchild demonstrated her skill.