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Feemor sat bolt upright, and swore under his breath when the same scarlet-plumed jay flew across the window a few moments later.
This was the seventh morning.
Fumbling for his clothes, he liberally used the Force to get everything on properly with one arm in a sling. His first attempt at today had been spent in a healing trance to get the fracture mended and the strained tendons eased. Waking up expecting a much-improved arm only to find it worse than when he’d gone to sleep had been disorienting and more than a little horrifying, but it had at least meant he immediately knew something was wrong. Toprawa was mostly rural, and the Antarian Rangers he’d been working with on this mission preferred their own compounds, and he’d planned to stay here for a week or two of decompression before returning to the Temple for the first time in years. He could very well have gone days without seeing anyone and not thought to check his comm.
Comm call to the Temple, kettle, leave a message when no one answered including the closing market value of a random fabric manufacturer on Alderaan, whose business day would end in an hour. Perhaps that would get them to comm him back before midnight reset to him waking up at dawn without ever falling asleep.
Shuddering, because that sensation on day three had been nightmarish and he’d deliberately entered a trance state fifteen minutes before midnight every night thereafter, he dropped to his knees by the stove and sank into meditation while the water heated. He had little time to waste, and had spent all of day five meditating as he tried to place that clawing displacement and wrong wrong all is wrong feeling that greeted him every morning. It hadn’t made much difference, so far as he could tell, and yesterday he’d dove deep into the records of Toprawa, wondering if he’d stumbled into some sort of very strange Force nexus or Sith trap during his mission and just not noticed it.
None of what he'd found had felt right, had rung as important, in that sense of the Force he’d honed over his first few years as a freshly repudiated Knight.
Being a Watchman had been good for him. But it left him rather disconnected from the bulk of the Jedi Order, and he had no idea who he could try and comm and get an immediate response instead of the general line. There were emergency protocols but this didn’t seem like an emergency...
Ten days. His health wasn’t deteriorating, at least, and he woke up feeling rested every morning, so he could do ten days trying to figure this out himself before throwing in the towel and raising a true and proper fuss about things. That gave him today and two more to work on this. Likely only one more, the ninth day would be spent collating everything he’d gathered so far so he could throw every possible iteration of information at the Council when he made that emergency call.
But that was getting ahead of himself. He was going to enjoy the last serving of this local fruit for the seventh time, and then hop on the speeder the Rangers had lent him. He had some caverns to poke at.
The Ansharii Caverns had been the site of a betrayal and a massacre in the Great Sith Wars. There were plenty of places like it scattered throughout the galaxy, but according to the locals, the Caverns were strange. Uncanny, in unsettling ways. It was the whole reason the Antarian Rangers had sent out a call to the Jedi Order for an assist on their sting, finding out their trafficking ring was lurking in the Caverns had apparently been rather alarming.
He hadn’t noticed anything unusual though. Not at the time.
He probably should have come back here sooner.
“Knight Feemor!” he heard, turning away from the chasm he’d been peering into and bowing at the head Ranger of the mission.
“Ranger Sarkin,” he greeted, “Apologies for interfering in your cleanup.”
“You didn’t trample through anything,” she scoffed, waving him off, “I’ve had more evidence ruined by my own people than by you. Caverns calling you back?”
“Not so much the caverns,” he admitted, “So much as a Force phenomenon I don’t understand, and can’t think of a source to. This is the most recent Force-saturated area I’ve been in contact with, so I thought it was worth a second look. May I wander?”
“Go right ahead,” she said, giving his arm a worried look before she prompted, “Got a comm?”
“I suspect it won’t work in the deeps,” he replied.
“Probably not, but we can pretend. Give me a holler if you get in trouble,” she said, tapping her temple. He wasn’t the best at telepathy, but the Rangers were trained to listen – if she was on the lookout for his call, he’d likely be able to at least raise an alarm if he messed something up direly. He just had to make it to midnight alive, after all.
Not that he’d tried dying to escape the loop. That seemed a little too desperate for something so relatively harmless.
Besides, he had a whisper to track down.
He’d complained about blindfolded lightsaber training to Qui-Gon as a Padawan, mostly because he could, and it didn’t help that none of his Padawan missions had ended up needing that skillset.
Shame the man didn’t want anything to do with him. Feemor might have had to listen to an ‘I told you so’ or twelve.
He had a decent internal clock, and it told him he’d been descending steadily for at least an hour. The whispers he’d been tracking had grown louder, but when he’d tried igniting his saber for light the singing of his kyber crystals had drowned them out. He’d had to extinguish the blade and meditate in the darkness for a while before he caught them again.
The day in meditation had likely been beneficial, then.
There was no difference in keeping his eyes open or closed, but he let himself peer around anyway, blinking whenever he felt like it, and letting the Force guide his steps. It was surprisingly warm here, though Toprawa was a geologically active planet, so perhaps the caverns were a site of geothermal activity. He’d sidestepped some delicate life forms that he had no idea the nature of, but they were small, interconnected webs he was loathe to disturb. He was the trespasser.
Trespasser. Traitor. Shame he’d never had much talent in Foresight, maybe that would make this mystery easier. Who could have Foreseen this?
Feemor froze mid-stride.
Those hadn’t been his thoughts. And they certainly hadn’t been whispers.
Heat and rumbling rock and screams of shock and the Force was crying Haazen his brother his friend the Sith were back the Sith were rising they should never have assumed they were gone Kyndra stay safe name the baby something with decent nickname options -
The Sith were back -
...heat and rumbling – and screams of – crying – his friend – STAY SAFE
Never have assumed they were gone
never... gone -
The Sith were rising – were back – never assumed they were gone
You were my brother!
Name the baby -
Train the boy...
The Sith!
Who could have Foreseen this?
Feemor sat bolt upright, and swore under his breath when the same scarlet-plumed jay flew across the window a few moments later.
This was the eighth morning.
Had he been caught in that vision until midnight ? Had his sense of time been so very far off?
Stumbling to his feet, he made it to the fresher before he threw up everything he’d eaten yesterday (nine days ago) and wished he’d avoided red-fleshed fruit because there was a burning in his stomach that had nothing to do with what he’d eaten and everything to do with what he’d Seen. What he’d been Shown , more accurately, because he was not gifted in Foresight. Flashes of insight common to any Jedi, certainly, and he’d learned to listen to those whispers as best he could, but proper visions? No. Those weren’t his forte.
That didn’t make nausea and vomiting up brilliant scarlet any less viscerally alarming.
The Sith? Who in all the hells was going to believe him about this?
One name immediately came to mind.
“Oh I don’t want to do that,” Feemor groaned, rinsing his mouth out and staring at the mirror. Yep. Still him. Nowhere near posh enough to pass muster with his Grandmaster.
But the Force was looping him through this day for a reason, and that vision – the death of an ancient Jedi at the hands of a brother padawan fallen to darkness, dying words of himself and of an echo and of a future and a wailing, desperate grief because darkness was swallowing the stars and who could have Foreseen this -
Gagging air, he forced his thoughts aside and got dressed around his sling (again). Honestly, this was the longest he’d ever gone in a sling, not that his physical body registered it that way. Eight consecutive days without slipping his sling once? He might be able to brag about this to the Healers – and never mention the details.
He didn’t meditate while tea was brewing, instead making heavy use of the Force to make sure he was properly clean-shaven, that his robes were folded to hide at least most of the carefully mended tears, that his saber was clean and his boots... well. He could make them shinier, but he’d probably wear holes in them doing it. He was scheduled to return to the Temple for the first time in years after this mission, if it ever ended, so he hadn’t bothered requisitioning a new pair be sent to him. By the time they got to his stationing, he would likely have already moved on.
Master Yan had been a Watchman for years. For decades. He had hardly ever set foot in the temple the years before Galidraan, and afterwards the man had practically vanished. But Feemor still had a private comm code he’d been sent on his Knighting, with one of the most passive aggressive insult-compliments he’d ever received, and while he really, really didn’t want to make this call, he was a Jedi, and he’d do what he had to.
Picking up his mug of tea with his good arm, he found the code in his contacts and dialed. It took the first ping actually connecting for him to realize he had no idea what message he should leave when Master Yan didn’t pick up he should have at least scripted out a greeting what was he doing-
Master Yan picked up. The holographic figure was far smaller than life size, but even at a small scale, Feemor thought he looked bewildered. Well. As bewildered as he could, behind his rock solid composure.
“...Knight Feemor. It seems my old Master is quite desperate, for him to have reached out to you.”
Feemor finished his bow, as was proper, and wished he could fold his arms into his sleeves but at least he had a sling and a mug of tea to keep his hands busy. It had probably lost him points on the bow, to have his hands occupied with anything other than showing respect, but he needed tea after that vision-seeing-nightmare. He also needed tea to deal with whatever the hell this was.
“I haven’t spoken to Master Yoda outside of Council reports since my Knighting, Grandmaster,” he replied, “I’m afraid I have no idea what you are speaking of. I’m reaching out regarding your expertise on Sith history and artifacts. I seem to have run into something strange on Toprawa, and would appreciate your consideration.”
“Hmm,” the man said, tilting his head. “Very well. You may speak.”
Oh thank you so much for your gracious permission, most indulgent of Grandmasters, Feemor very definitely did not say out loud.
“My most recent mission involved arresting a trafficking ring that had hidden in the Ansharii Caverns. Arrests were made, no losses amongst the Antarian Rangers I was assisting or their sentient victims, minor injury on my part. The following day, I woke up and focused on paperwork and a healing trance for my arm. The next day was not the next day at all, and my healing had been undone, my paperwork had never been filed, and to all appearances I had simply dreamed it. This is the eighth such morning. During my subjective yesterday, I returned to the Ansharii Caverns in an attempt to follow the Force’s whispers and found myself in the depths of the caverns. I was presented with a vision, that seems to hint at the re-emergence of the Sith, to say that we were wrong to ever assume them gone, and knowing of your research interests, I immediately thought to reach out to you, as I doubt the Council will believe me if I call in – and even if they do, if I reach midnight local time, I will simply start the day over again.”
“As seeing the vision alone wasn’t enough to break the cycle,” Master Yan agreed, sounding intrigued enough he didn’t come across as pretentious any longer. “Perhaps passing on the message is sufficient? Hmm. I am returning to Coruscant for some final details, I am actually waiting for hyperdrive calculations in orbit above Serenno. You say you are on Toprawa? I can reach the main space-port in... hmm. Four hours, it seems.”
“I will be there,” Feemor said, relief flooding him. The man wasn’t even doubting. Or rather, wasn’t wasting time. He might have help figuring this out. “Do you wish to investigate the caverns yourself?”
“Not at the moment, I’m more intrigued by the possibility of breaking of this loop,” Master Yan said, eyes narrowing before he said pointedly, “Your arm would thank you for it, at least.”
“That’s true, having healing actually last would be nice,” Feemor agreed, recognizing the humor for what it was. Bowing deeply, and holding his mug with the Force so he could offer proper respect with one arm in a sling, he said, “I’ll see you in four hours, Grandmaster.”
“Be at the spaceport. Best not to waste time,” the man ordered, before cutting the comm.
Feemor didn’t even care that the man had been rude. Amazing how a little thing like being listened to could change things. He was actually receiving help.
The Solar Sailor was a gorgeously pretentious piece of pirate-bait. Feemor probably looked ridiculous, dressed with wandering Watchman Jedi aesthetics, a rather pathetically small and very patched bag over his shoulder, one arm in a sling – he'd heal it when he reached tomorrow, why waste the effort? - and staring up at the ship landing in the slip with a stunned expression. He’d seen fancy ships, he’d been on fancy ships back when Master Qui-Gon was dragging him across the galaxy on diplomacy missions, but a Jedi Master was flying this?
“Knight Feemor! We are on a time limit!” his Grandmaster barked from the lowered ramp.
“Ah, yes, sorry, Master Yan!” he called back, briskly walking over and shaking off his shock. He was a Jedi, and a Watchman. Slack jawed shock shouldn’t get to him so easily. “I was... not expecting something so fancy. Your family is lending it to you, Grandmaster?”
“It is mine,” his Grandmaster replied bluntly, turning on his heel and striding up the ramp, “I sent in my resignation from the Jedi Order a week ago, and am returning to Coruscant to finalize the process. It is why I assumed Master Yoda asked you to contact me.”
“You - you resigned?!” Feemor demanded, slack jawed shock making an unfortunate reappearance.
“A time limit, Knight Feemor, we can speak in hyperspace! Strap in before your arm properly breaks on atmospheric departure!”
Feemor had never had tea this nice before, and he’d been on swanky diplomatic missions. And the pastries! They were so fluffy! They had made a very nice bribe during his interrogation, because Master Yan – well. Count Yan Dooku, now, though the man had waved off apologetic mistakes of Master Yan and said he understood habits were hard to break and Feemor had better things to focus on – wanted to know all the details. All of them. The only thing they hadn’t done yet was a joint meditation to try and share some of his memories, but that was likely the next request.
He had questions first though.
“You resigned, Gra – ah. Sir?”
“Grandmaster, Feemor, as I will always be that to you,” the man waved off, pouring himself something direly alcoholic into ridiculously fancy cut crystal glasses and leaning back in his genuine wood and leather chair, magnetically anchored to the floor in case of gravity cut outs. It was fancy and pretentious pirate bait, but it was well engineered, Feemor had to admit that. The tour had taken an hour in itself, and the ship wasn’t that big.
“And yes, I resigned. Between Galidraan and the mishandling of Komari...”
“Komari?” Feemor parroted, feeling so very behind the times but that was nothing new, when he spoke to other Jedi. Well, except Master Antilles, then Feemor felt very up to date, but he’d met the man all of twice in the past decade and a half so it really didn’t count for much.
“My last padawan,” Grandmaster Yan said, raising an eyebrow at him.
“I know, sir, Komari Vosa. But what happened? Is she – is she all right?”
The man swirled his alcohol, staring into the liquid, before he finally said, “She’s dead. I’m afraid. I found her body a week ago.”
He also resigned a week ago. Feemor had never had a Padawan, but he’d had a first-row seat to seeing how losing one could break a man, and it seemed Master Yan had suffered a just as irrevocable loss as Qui-Gon.
“I’m so sorry, Grandmaster,” Feemor whispered.
“She was strangled to death,” his Grandmaster continued as if he’d never spoken, and Feemor winced, but listened. The man needed someone to speak too, and Feemor was it. He had listened to Feemor, it was only fair. His younger somewhat lineage aunt was dead, and he’d never even had the chance to meet her.
“A bounty hunter was chasing her. Multiple bounty hunters. She ran off, you see, because I informed the Council I couldn’t raise her to Knighting, she needed time under someone else, and she found a dangerous mission to attach herself to and she vanished. She took over the Bando Gora in the mean time, and bounty hunters chased her down, and she died struggling to breathe,” Master Yan said, evidently understanding Feemor’s somewhat frozen expression because he sighed, saying, “She would have been a good Knight. But she was evidently romantically and sexually attracted to me, and I was not comfortable remaining her teacher.”
Feemor couldn’t help but give the much elder man a once over. He’d seen far uglier sentients, and he didn’t actually find sex desirable at all, but really?
“Yes, thank you for your blatant judgment, Knight Feemor,” Grandmaster Yan drawled, downing his alcohol like it was way cheaper than it actually was and rising to his feet, “Shall we meditate together and attempt a memory viewing? We have some hours before Toprawa-midnight.”
“Of course, Grandmaster,” Feemor agreed, standing and following the man to other seats for some reason. Maybe these were more comfortable or something? Maybe it was rude to meditate at the same table you’d eaten at? Who knew, it couldn’t be that – Sith.
Feemor twitched at the whisper, looking aside when Master Yan opened the door to his preferred meditation room or wherever they were going. Master Yan turned to look at him, raising an eyebrow and waving him through with one hand. The other was on his hip, near his saber - red so red - hilt. Feemor had an arm in a sling, and a mug of tea in his hand. Why did that – listen! - matter? It shouldn’t matter – traitor– they were just about to meditate, he was stepping through the door -
“Hmm. It seems you couldn’t remain ignorant long enough to be properly useful. Naturally.”
A snap-hiss and screaming crystals too fast to even hurt red through his chest so red Komari was dead!
Feemor sat bolt upright, saw the same scarlet-plumed jay fly across the window, and dissociated so hard his next memory was sitting up to the same damn bird.
It was horrific, what his Grandmaster had become. What he’d done. But Feemor knew now what he had to do. It was just a matter of doing it. He had four hours to healing-trance as best he could, and then get to hyperspace and safely locked into their route. And then he had a gamble to make – red through his throat -
Wrong gamble. Try again – arm gone leg gone shame he couldn’t hire the same hunters as Komari red swinging for throat.
Wake up. Choke back scream. Make the call. Skip the trance. Try again.
Neck snapped against wall – AGAIN! – eye for an eye but cauterized gut stabs aren’t worth it (“My Master has a vision, Knight Feemor, and we will see the Senate called to heel, the dogs the Jedi have let themselves become learn a lesson at long last – perhaps it is mercy, letting you escape that culling...”) red skewered limbs severed and gone.
Throw up red-red-red in the fresher, meditate, heal as much as you can while you wait, send a message to the Council because why not, they won’t answer, they don’t know. Enjoy the tea this time, it was very good tea. Fling the table, clutch his saber, parry leap twist that chair is sturdy that chair is not break the bottles just to hear him shriek about it fling the broken crystal through the air red that didn’t burn but red red all the same, Dooku stumbled while Feemor bled out, horrified and dismayed as he whispered, “Qui-Gon”– the Force was crying or maybe it was just him, he would do this, he could do this. Again.
Dooku and Qui-Gon only cared for one of their Padawans at all, it seemed. At least Qui-Gon had never hired bounty hunters to track him down before strangling him to death and using that tragedy as leverage -
Reckless savagery and grief were not winning strategies, as he already knew. Feemor stared up at the ceiling of his Toprawa apartment, and felt so very tired.
No one believed his emergency message, and he was reprimanded for rumor-mongering. His Grandmaster had already heard about it when he boarded, and this time the man didn’t even wait for them to reach hyperspace.
Feemor gritted his teeth around a scream, and tried again.
He’d done it.
He’d lost a leg at the knee, couldn’t quite see out of one eye after hitting the walls with his head a couple times, and was definitely sinking deep into shock, but he’d done it. Sith Lord Tyrannus was dead. His Grandmaster was dead.
He’d killed him.
He should be more upset, but as he dragged himself into the droid-operated medbay, he was giggling. He’d done it.
Feemor sat bolt upright, saw the same scarlet-plumed jay fly across the window, and every breakable object in the room shattered.
“That - that wasn’t it?” he panted, staring at himself in the mirror and distantly worried about the wild look in his eyes, “That wasn’t enough?!”
He still didn’t have anyone else to contact!
“Perhaps I should write a report for Master Nu – I really should get her comm code myself at this point, I run into archaeological digs and gaps in the records all the time,” Feemor laughed, pulling a pastry closer and taking a sip of alcohol spiked tea. He wasn’t going to be fighting today, why not enjoy it?
“Jocasta takes edits to her archives very seriously,” Master Yan said, sounding far too amused for there not to be a story. If the story was from Jedi Master Yan Dooku or Darth Tyrannus, Feemor didn’t know. But he’d check, if this day ever ended. “But if you care to risk it, I have her private comm. I’m sure she won’t mind me passing it along to my only Grandpadawan worth interest.”
It was almost flattering. Too bad he was decapitated a few hours later.
“Master Nu please don’t hang up!” Feemor begged, the Head Archivist blinking at him before raising one elegant eyebrow in a far-too-similar-to-Yan gesture before she said, “Very well... Knight Feemor, isn’t it?”
“Yes Master Nu, I have absolutely no idea what is happening but I’ve lived today over twenty times and I can prove it Master Dooku filed for his resignation last week he said his once Padawan Komari Vosa died she was strangled he hired bounty hunters to kill her the market value of Sunsinger and Starflowers Fabrics Unlimited on Alderaan will be 18.74 credits per share when Alderaanian markets close, I had a vision in the Ansharii caverns about a resurgence of the Sith and shared it with Master Yan and he killed me he’s a Sith, please, please listen to me I don’t know what to do.”
He inhaled, gathered his tension, his anxiety, and exhaled to let it go. He then did that a few more times while he waited for Master Nu to respond, because he had a lot of anxiety and tension to let go of. He had no one else to call but he could do this. He would figure this out.
“A Sith, you say?” a different voice asked, and he felt the blood drain from his face. The view of the holofeed widened, and Master Eeth Koth stepped into the field, inclining his head politely and saying, “Knight Feemor. My apologies for eavesdropping but I didn’t exactly have a chance to get a word in edgewise.”
“Please listen to me,” he whispered.
“We will,” Master Koth promised calmly, “Alderaanian markets close in half an hour. That will give us some independent verification. You say this day repeats? Can you take anything physical with you or only your mind?”
“Only my mind,” Feemor said, hardly daring believe it. He’d been scolded for rumor-mongering. He had no one else to call. They were listening.
“Then our first order of business is you memorizing an urgency code phrase. Loth cats and Chandrilan Ribbon Dancing, is the phrase,” Master Koth said, waiting for him to repeat it back a few times before nodding and continuing, “I’ll be changing it tonight, but if today dawns again, you can comm us here and we will know to take you seriously at once, rather than waiting for Alderaanian markets to close. Now. Jocasta is ready to take notes. Tell us what you know, sense, and even guess. But first sit down. And put a kettle on! You’re clearly exhausted.”
He talked till his voice went hoarse, added the local equivalent of honey to his next mug of tea, and talked some more. Finally he’d passed on everything he researched, every scrap of information and guesswork he’d teased out of his far too many attempts at killing Darth Tyrannus, and was left staring at the two very grim elder Masters. He had been able to see when they’d gotten the figures for Alderaan’s markets closing, their already dire mood had gotten even darker. Hard not too. He’d just been confirmed, after all, and what he was saying was horrifying.
The Masters had gotten their own tea, and the angle had changed so he could see the desk they were sitting at, evidently in Master Nu’s private office. She had multiple datapads open so she could consult and transcribe at the same time, and she had already informed him she recorded everything in her office. If tomorrow came, she’d have a record of today.
“Hmm. Stopping the reset is critical. You retain your knowledge, but without stopping the reset no progress can be made,” Master Nu said, scowling.
Master Koth nodded thoughtfully, leaning back in his chair as he admitted, “I do find it interesting that the Sith resurgence seems to be a key, but killing Tyrannus is not sufficient... and you say Qui-Gon appears to die later on today?”
“Approaching Toprawa-midnight, yes, Master Koth,” Feemor agreed, scrubbing at his face tiredly and not willing to think about that too much. He had enough emotional upheaval to be dealing with right now, “I don’t know the timing for certain, I was bleeding out, but it was close.”
“I had best tell you of his mission then. Know that if you reach tomorrow, this is in strictest confidence – but if you come back to today, this will be more fuel in getting us to listen to you promptly,” the Council member said, not even waiting for Feemor to acknowledge it before launching into Qui-Gon's latest adventure.
Damn. He’d thought the missions he’d dealt with as a Padawan were bad. He should have taken the claims of Qui-Gon taking on a new padawan more seriously, or at least not let his own awkwardness at not realizing those rumors were actually real until Obi-Wan was sixteen and off on some long-term mission keep him from reaching out. Though it was good to hear that Qui-Gon was healing -
“I’m sorry, Qui-Gon said what?” Feemor demanded, cutting off the Council member and wincing, but not taking his words back. He had to be wrong. He had to have heard that wrong.
“He declared Padawan Kenobi ready for the Trials, and said he would therefore take young Skywalker as a Padawan learner himself,” Master Koth said, sighing heavily, “If Padawan Kenobi had completed his requisite course work I think we would have all jumped on it, he’s certainly readier than some I’ve seen pass the trials, but as it stands...”
“I’ll take him,” Feemor said firmly, knowing exactly how hard it was to complete coursework on time when studying under Qui-Gon Jinn, forget whatever long term missions were actually assigned, just the detritus of their usual missions were hard. He also knew exactly how terrifying it was to find that the support structure you were supposed to be able to rely on for contact with the Temple outside of official news was gone and never coming back. He’d been Knighted for years when Qui-Gon had renounced him, and he had still been terrified that his Knighthood would get called into question. Obi-Wan didn’t even have that comfort, and a renounced Padawan finding a new Master to see him to Knighthood? Feemor’s first master had died and he’d struggled.
“I’ll take him on as my Padawan Learner. You can’t even call it bias, because I’m not in his lineage anymore. I’ll take him, and he can finish his coursework, and be properly Knighted,” Feemor said.
“Good!” Master Nu snorted, “He’s going to be an excellent Knight, and he could use the support from someone who understands what he’s experiencing at least a bit. Also, your records actually have a preferred mind-healer on them, which means you not only make appointments you keep them, thank the Force."
“You might have a bit of a fight on your hands, I suspect some of the Councilors plan to make an offer if Qui-Gon follows through on this,” Master Koth warned, before smiling, “But I will back your offer. Now. Back to the report - “
Feemor had to take some long draws of tea when it was over, refilling his kettle and nodding absently at the orders to grab some food, they’d comm him back after they had the chance to research things, oh and do meditate.
He did need to meditate. He could let someone else do the work today. Even if they were deleting everything they’d recorded and ignoring him, he could let today pass him by. He’d died. A lot. His Grandmaster had killed him and never even hesitated. Half the time, more than half, the man had struck the first blow! He had been a Jedi! Some of their conversations were even pleasant! Were ones he’d like to continue, if only his Grandmaster hadn’t decided to not only resign, but become a Sith Lord.
Yes. Meditation was a good idea.
He resurfaced after sunset, still a few hours from local midnight, and his comm unit had a message from Master Nu, telling him to call her back as soon as he could.
She was in her quarters, and no longer dressed in her formal robes, but she still looked every inch as terrifying as she said, “As someone who beat Yan in spars regularly – let me offer some advice.”
Feemor sat bolt upright, and gave a relieved sigh when the same scarlet-plumed jay flew across the window a few moments later.
Morning twenty-two.
Master Koth and Master Nu had each advised him to contact Dooku first, get him en route, then message them with the pass phrases they’d each suggested while he waited. Not to waste time on dialogue and just send recordings, which he agreed with. Then the healing trance for as long as he could. Then walk to the spaceport and look a Sith Lord in the eye.
He had people who would listen, advice from Master Nu to try, and a Padawan-brother to adopt.
Was it an improvement if he and Tyrannus both died because their fight tore the ship apart?
Whatever. Dark side assassin involved with Naboo was named Maul. He got something out of it.
Now. Again.
Feemor honestly didn’t know for certain how many attempts it took to get him here, staggering away with all his limbs, quite a few burns, a pair of red lightsabers at his belt that should have been blue with a shimmer hint of green but had been bled – by Komari, by Tyrannus, he didn’t know. But they had been Komari’s once, and the man who should have raised her killed her. He didn’t deserve to touch them, no matter how loudly they were screaming – with his own blue one in his hands, and his Grandmaster in pieces behind him. He picked up his spilled teacup, and poured himself another out of the pot. He could let himself have this, before he worried about getting the ship redirected to Naboo.
Fortunately, whatever security measures Tyrannus had planned hadn’t been enabled yet. Feemor was able to get the control codes from the droid pilot with a simple request and his official Jedi Business mandate from the Republic and deactivate it before taking over.
He dropped out of hyperspace, set the new route to calculating, and commed Master Nu.
She answered immediately, and had definitely heard his recorded message.
“Master Koth acknowledges your offer to take over Obi-Wan Kenobi’s padawanship,” she opened, “Your summary of what we know regarding current affairs on Naboo is accurate. Master Koth is already en route to Naboo, he left as soon as we heard your recording. The Sith is dead?”
“Yes Master Nu. Your advice on winning sparring matches was invaluable,” he said, so very relieved still, that whenever he spoke to her she believed him.
“Excellent news. Force be with you, Knight Feemor. Get yourself medical treatment. If my assumptions on transit times are accurate, you’ll be cutting it very close at Naboo.”
He offered a bow, signed off, and reentered hyperspace.
Master Nu’s estimates were accurate. He was cutting it very close at Naboo. But he dodged the few ships of the blockade that weren’t focused on the attack on their central command ship and made a beeline for Theed. The fact he landed it without crashing was a miracle, and he heard lightsabers clashing, could feel the Force roiling, and he ran -
Master Qui-Gon's blade swung for him, and he barely deflected in time what was he doing he was here to help -
“Your own Grandmaster!" he heard, any attempt to lower his shields and reach Qui-Gon, assure him it was all right, he hadn't Fallen, not him, it had been Yan his own Grandmaster-
Green light burned just as badly as red.
Feemor didn’t need to see the bird. His arm was the only thing that hurt, and he recognized the ceiling.
Rolling over, he buried his face in the pillow and wept.
Again.
Red saber through his ribs.
Again.
Mutual kill via airlock. Creative.
Again.
Dismantled fancy chairs made decent skewers, he’d have to try that next time.
Again.
His second time to Naboo. To Theed. He had waited for Master Dooku to attack him first before responding. He had choked out an explanation to Masters Koth and Nu during his recordings waiting for Darth Tyrannus’s arrival. But whatever message had made it to Qui-Gon, the man ignored it. Assumed he was there for the Sith, and flung him away from a horrified Obi-Wan and toward his so-called ally.
He tried but he was tired. He was sloppy.
He couldn’t tell if it was the fall or the blades that killed him this time.
He staggered into the cockpit, giving orders to drop out of hyperspace and requesting a comm to Jocasta Nu and thankful that for whatever reason the droids took his orders like he was their owner instead of a now crushed to death Tyrannus.
To his surprise, both Master Koth and Master Nu answered. Whenever he reached this point before, one or the other was sprinting for Naboo.
“You, Knight Feemor, are taking a mental health day,” Master Nu said sternly. “I know very well Yan has a ridiculously luxurious ship. You will direct it to someplace with pretty nebula views, drink his wine, and perhaps spit on his corpse for me.”
“Master Nu!” he spluttered, though Master Koth only looked amused.
“He became a Sith Lord,” she sniffed disdainfully, “He deserves it. I’ll grieve him when you’re free of this loop mess. Mental health day, Knight Feemor. As many as you need."
The nebula was very lovely, and the pastries and tea and cocktails were excellent, and there was even a ridiculously fancy water bath. Using all the scented oils and what-not would have risked infection on his wounds something terrible if he’d actually had to live with this going forward, which was a very dangerous mindset to have, but as Master Nu said. He needed a day off. He’d already killed one Sith Lord today, and apparently his Force-given mission was to kill two.
Death via catastrophic decompression was unpleasant, but the slow skewered death while Tyrannus practiced his pretentious asshole speech? Absolute worst. Ugh. He’d actually spent a few hours liking this man!
Again.
“Padawan Kenobi’s comm code?” Master Nu repeated, sounding bemused.
“I’m taking a mental health day today,” Feemor admitted frankly, ignoring his missing leg thanks to the wonders of very well stocked drug cabinets, “It took me hours to die last time. I need a day off, but I thought I could at least try and warn him. Maybe I just need to speak with more people, not kill all the Sith myself.”
“Of course, Knight Feemor. Perhaps offer to take over his apprenticeship to him even, rather than declaring it before a Council member and sprinting away?”
Feemor nodded agreeably, and took the offered comm code, gave a farewell, and levitated his one-legged self out to a comfortable chair with a good view. He was almost getting comfortable in this pretentious pirate-bait ship. At least until he ran out of pastries and mysteriously fantastic tea. Or painkillers. Running out of those would be rough.
Now to call his Padawan-brother.
“Little brother!” he greeted cheerfully. The blue-tinted figure blinked at him.
“Apologies, Knight...?”
“Feemor!” he supplied, grimacing, “I... well. Qui-Gon's never mentioned me, then? I was his first Padawan. Xanatos was his second, and – well. Now you. Or were you. I heard about what he said to the Council. If he meant it... I’ll take you on until you’re Knighted. I already got it approved by Master Koth and Master Nu, if you accept.”
“What’s he talking about?” a much younger voice demanded, “Got what approved? Are you leaving?”
“No, no, Anakin. But I haven’t finished all my classes yet, and if Master Jinn really wants you as his Padawan right away, I’ll have to... find somewhere else to be. To finish. Knight Feemor is saying he’ll sponsor me for it,” Obi-Wan explained, so very mildly. So very kindly, to the boy who must be the one Jinn was tossing him aside for.
Feemor had spent a few weeks after confirming Obi-Wan's existence being bitter about it. He had felt terrible about it pretty quickly, but it had still taken some time to work through. His Padawan-brother was so very kind.
“Thank you for the offer, Knight Feemor,” Obi-Wan said, focusing on him again and so very composed. So very posh and polite. Shame Tyrannus was dead. This might have been his second Grandpadawan worth approval. Maybe he’d have just sliced off a limb instead of a head after delivering the compliment!
“...Knight Feemor?”
“Is he okay?”
Feemor was having a very hard time stopping giggling. He might have hit a bit of a high dosage on those painkillers...
Ugh. He couldn’t possibly be hungover. That same scarlet jay was outside the window.
His little padawan brother was so big!
Komari Vosa was murdered by her Master.
He could take as many mental health days as he wanted. Master Nu said so, and Master Koth agreed. He was going straight back to sleep.
Wake up. Start voice recording while he dressed. Send to Master Nu and Master Koth, code phrases attached. Drink tea, brace himself, call the Sith. Banter and smile and play nice, because you are nice, because this man is your Grandmaster (traitor). Enjoy the view of the pirate-bait ship you almost feel at home in. Enter hyperspace.
Get to work.
Tranquilizer add some dirt throw things and redirect dodge clash keep close quarters turn and – red sparking and humming and screaming – catch on hilt not blade – the powercell!
Again!
Dust and sparks and scalding tea – limb two three – red.
Again.
Ag ai N.
Again!
...again...
Feemor gritted his teeth around a scream. It was a good thing he’d decided to keep his sling as a decoy this time. He needed it for his now practically sliced open arm. It probably would be less painful if it’d just been cut off in its entirety, but he wasn’t quite able to do that to himself. How he was going to fight Maul like this...
Landing in the same hangar as the last two times, he staggered down the ramp and heard lightsabers clashing. He should take today as a mental health day too. But he had all his limbs, or at least had both his legs and his saber arm, and he'd made it to Naboo. Master Nu hadn’t answered him when he dropped out of hyperspace, nor had Master Koth, but his message had been sent (he’d double checked) and hopefully they were busy trying something new.
He was getting to the point of having to remind himself that eventually he’d solve this and have to live with consequences. His first mission after this was going to be rough. He was also hopefully never going to set foot on Toprawa again.
Closing his eyes, he focused. Drawing on the Force for strength and speed wasn’t safe to do long term, especially not after his extremely draining round of Kill Tyrannus take Force Knows, but he had to try. He was here, he had to try. Breathe in, and breathe out. Now run.
Catwalks, why was it always catwalks?
Obi-Wan kicked off an edge and Feemor lurched forward, clawing at the Force and almost sobbing in relief when the younger man anchored on his solidified air construct and bounced back into the fight. He’d learned to do that fighting Tyrannus. Nothing like intensive day after day combat training with extremely painful consequences to accelerate your fighting style’s development!
But he couldn’t actually fight right now, and Qui-Gon flipped over Maul and spun on an attack and saw Feemor and froze what was he doing -
Red to the gut – not his that wasn’t him! He wasn’t hurt! Those weren’t his screams!
“You call yourself a Sith?!” he shouted, he sneered, striding along the catwalk above the fight until he was at just the right angle to distract Maul from Obi-Wan dragging his Master’s body away. Gritting his teeth against the screaming, he murmured apologies to the poor crystals, and activated one of Komari's blades.
Komari, he thought, I am so sorry, little sister-aunt.
“It seems Lord Tyrannus’ assessment was correct,” he sniffed disdainfully, hating the way burning crimson light played against his robes, scrambling for scraps of dialogue and ranting and manifestos he’d heard over the years (days it had only been days) (it was one day one damned day over and over again and again), “Nothing more than an attack dog Sidious broke to heel. Disappointing. Here I thought a fellow discarded apprentice might be worth allying with.”
He was always the discard, wasn’t he?
Komari had died at her Master’s hands. Dooku had criedwhen Qui-Gon had died. Obi-Wan had been cast aside for a prodigiously talented child, forget what the child in question actually wanted.
He needed so many mind-healer appointments after this.
“But no,” he scoffed, ignoring the snarls Maul was issuing. Oh he really hoped the Zabrak was actually capable of speech and just not doing so right now, that would be... that would be awful. Ha. Everything was awful who was he kidding?
“No instead, here you are, chasing down two Jedi with all the drama of a fool , at your precious Master’s orders,” Feemor snorted, extinguishing Komari’s saber and sneering again, “Go on then, dog. Beg for scraps, let those old fools cripple you.”
He might have thrown up a little in his mouth when he said that, but needs must.
Oh, no. That was blood, not bile. Whoops.
If he was about to actually watch Qui-Gon and Obi-Wan die because his bluff got called and he couldn’t do anything about it, he would cry. And fling himself off this fucking catwalk, to be honest, but also cry.
Master Eeth Koth burst into the room and bounded across catwalks and levels to slam into place beside Maul, saber clashing against the Sith Apprentice’s and the red-and-black skinned Zabrak screamed, before leaping over Obi-Wan's attempt at a leg swipe and flipping over the attempt at a double-team and Feemor braced himself, asked the Force for just one more bit of aid, and shoved.
If Maul wasn’t Force trained, he’d never have managed to dodge as well as he did. As it was, he ended up flung into empty space and tumbling, screaming, into the chasm. Somehow he’d lost an arm while Feemor was distracted? Only an arm though, and you could do a lot with only one arm missing. Feemor would know.
He wasn’t free yet. Either Maul’s escape or Qui-Gon's death started the cycle, and he was so tired . Master Koth was explaining something to Obi-Wan, his padawan brother looking conflicted, but nodding nonetheless and making a beeline for his – their – direly wounded Master.
“I’ll pursue!” Master Koth called over, Feemor waving an acknowledgment and watching the man leap into empty air. If he were any more capable right now, he’d be following. But if he followed at the moment, he’d be a liability, and best not risk it.
Decision made, Feemor threw himself off his own catwalk and let the Force carry him to Obi-Wan's, staggering when his feet hit solid ground but managing to avoid going to his knees. Qui-Gon was staring at him in horror and terror, and Obi-Wan was reassuring him with words definitely relayed from Eeth Koth and with absolutely no idea how Feemor was connected to them both.
Fine. He knew where he’d do more harm than good.
“Just let him heal you Jinn,” Feemor rasped, feeling blood trickle out of his mouth. He dropped to his knees and groaned, because that last round of painkillers was definitely wearing off. The twelve hours he’d spent in hyperspace had been one hour of intense cat and mouse combat, two combined hours of medical treatment and piloting, seven hours of sleep and two hours of meditation. He hadn’t dared give himself a fresh dose of narcotics before landing and entering potential combat, so he was about due for them to burn off.
It was only a quarter hour to Toprawa midnight, if his time zone calculations were right. He didn’t want to be awake through that transition again, and he couldn’t do any more to help.
“Listen to Master Koth,” Feemor told Obi-Wan, “Or Master Nu. I reported to them.”
Then he flopped down on his good shoulder and practically flung himself into the Force.
He didn’t recognize the ceiling. There were other voices in the room.
It was over.