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A long time ago in a galaxy far, far away…
i.
“Are you sure about this?” Kaveh asks as he gingerly approaches Al-Haitham’s side.
It’s not the first time the mechanic had voiced his uneasiness. Not the first time Al-Haitham sensed the hesitancy beneath Kaveh’s sharp, crimson gaze when Nahida had first proposed such a plan.
Flitting close by Al-Haitham’s left shoulder is a young convor—a small, owl-like avian with white and pink feathers, and large, gold-flecked eyes. She trills lightly, clawed feet finding purchase against the dark green fabric of Al-Haitham’s cloak as she unconsciously mirrors the same nervous energy from Kaveh. Their apprehension bleeds to the surface far too readily, too easily for Al-Haitham’s Force-enhanced senses to pick up; a quivering meld of emotions, a flurry of thoughts.
—Anxiety, concern, frustration, fear…! Is this really necessary? Outlanders don’t understand it, the risk, the danger!—
Al-Haitham doesn’t reply; doesn’t turn his head to look at Kaveh, so focused as he is on observing the sandy race circuit that trailed ahead into the shimmering horizon before him. Loud cheers swell from the grandstands of the arena, adrenaline and excitement from a multitude of species mingling with the roar of engines from the track, rising like a thunderous wave around them.
Before Kaveh can speak again, Al-Haitham paces forward, vaulting up over the Podracer’s Radon-Ulzer twin engines, and into the cockpit. The convor flaps her wings, taking flight, and hastily follows after him.
“This would hardly be a race for you, Paimon. You already have the advantage of flight over most,” he remarks drily. But the convor only ignores the jibe and chirps again, her telepathic voice ringing bright like a bell—“Paimon is coming along to help!”—before she settles herself adamantly by his lap, claws clinging tight to the seat.
“Ah, Al-Haitham!” Kaveh calls over the engines’ mechanical rumbling as Al-Haitham flicks a percipient gaze over the controls. “Remember to mind the hydraulics. This old girl’s reliable and hardy, but she’s also been through her share of rough patches in the last couple of races. I’ve reconfigured the control panel last night and updated the telemetry software, so she should be able to run and calculate faster pressure/temperature algorithms, and—”
“Kaveh.” Once he’d fastened his hamlet and secured the crash harness around himself, Al-Haitham finally lifts his eyes and glances over. He meets the concern that’s flushed over Kaveh’s pinched features with the faintest glimmer of a smile; a steady reassurance.
Kaveh blinks, caught off guard by the unexpected smile. Then, he releases another breath, and asks, once more: “Are you certain about all this? You don’t have to be the one to race. I’ve worked with Wanderer for all his races, and I’m the one who designed and built this craft, so I’m more than familiar—”
“Much more certain than you are.” Al-Haitham replies. “Besides, did you forget that I have to be the one to win this race? That’s part of Nahida’s bet with Sangemah Bay. There’s no need to worry—I’ll be fine.” He pulls the goggles over his eyes as he nods at the mechanic, a glint of wry amusement in his gaze. “Jedi reflexes are a lot quicker than most, after all.”
“You…” Kaveh’s expression sours at that, his concern morphing into indignation. “Who said I was worrying about you!? It’s the Podracer I’m really concerned about! I’ve just about perfected the engine efficiency and thruster stabilisers, so don’t you go crashing it beyond repair!”
Horns blare abruptly across the arena. Overhead, the lights flashed green, signalling the start of the race, and the spectators’ booming cheers surge upwards into another crescendo. Al-Haitham shoves the thruster bars forward, the twin engines pulsing into overdrive with a whirring roar before Kaveh can add another retort in edgewise.
The race begins in earnest, and the Jedi speeds ahead in a whirl of blue and yellow, leaving a trail of glittering sand in his wake.
ii.
The negotiations were supposed to be short and relatively straightforward. At least, that was what Nahida had assumed once their Republic ambassadorial cruiser landed in the docking bay of the Trade Federation’s control battleship, The Harbinger.
Jedi Master Nahida Kusanali is neither tall nor imposing in stature, standing merely at a height similar to an average Human child twelve years of age. Her features are soft and open, her long pale hair pulled into a side ponytail, adorned with loose plaits and leaf-and petal-shaped accessories; benevolence and a boundless wonderment for the living Force all around are etched into her bright crystal gaze.
Nevertheless, what she lacks in physicality, she more than makes up for with confidence, sensibility, and an unwavering tenaciousness bordering on obstinacy. And while her decisions may oftentimes seem unconventional and at odds with the Council’s dictates, Al-Haitham inherently still respects and trusts his Master’s wisdom and judgement—even if he disagrees with some of her methods—and in her connection with the Force that has guided them time and again through various missions.
So, he trusts her now, even when he feels a near-imperceptible ripple in the Force, the barest flicker of a warning; when he senses Paimon’s sudden uneasiness from where she’s hovering high above. Master and Padawan exchange a glance at the approaching mechanical rumble, before they find themselves rapidly surrounded by a circle of destroyer droids. Unfurling from their ball-shaped armour to stand upon claw-like legs, the destroyers swivel blaster cannons at the Jedi, blocking their escape from the conference room they had been led into earlier for their meeting with the Federation’s representatives, the Fatui.
Presumably, said meeting is now adjourned. Indefinitely.
Al-Haitham furrows a brow and raises his lightsaber. Well then.
“Steady, my young Padawan,” Nahida says, her tone serene; she slowly releases an electromagnetic pulse grenade to the ground, her gaze still trained upon the destroyers.
And steady they remain as the destroyers close in for the kill. The destroyers don’t last long against the Jedi, however. In a flash, Nahida and Al-Haitham leap upwards to avoid the flurry of blaster fire just as the EMP grenade detonates and releases a burst of energy, disabling the destroyers’ shields and movements. Bright azure and emerald green hum fiercely in a whirlwind of blades as the Jedi cut the destroyers down with calculated efficiency, scraps of metal and sizzling circuits trailing in their wake. They work their way easily from the conference room and through the long corridors back towards the battleship’s hangar bay.
By the time the alarms are sounded, blaring incessantly through the battleship, and the Fatui realise their mistake, the Jedi and the convor are nowhere to be found. As more droids scurry about in a fruitless search aboard The Harbinger, a lone escape craft rockets further away from the battleship and deep down into the lush rainforests of the planet below.
※
The people of Nabu Malikata remain steadfast and brave in spite of the Trade Federation’s droid invasion of their peaceful homeworld. But stripped of both their weapons and communications, they are now rendered defenceless, the Queen and her Court held captive as they are ushered out of the throne room to a detention centre. Even their fiercest warriors and the Queen’s Guardians—Sir Rahman, Lady Candace, and the Flame-Mane Dehya—are hesitant to risk an all-out fight to escape, outnumbered as they are by the endless troops of droids swarming through the capital city and the Theed Palace grounds.
“Are you her Highness, Queen Amidala of Nabu Malikata?”
The prisoners halt at the new, unfamiliar voice. They look ahead at the two robed strangers who stand now before their droid captors, blocking the path—a short, youngish-looking woman with pointed ears and long, pale hair tied to the side, her eyes bright with an unwavering smile; a tall young man with tousled ash-grey hair and an asymmetrical lock worn in a braid along his left jawline, his sharp, stoic gaze a verdant oasis. A small convor is perched upon his shoulder, its long prehensile tail curled around his bicep.
The Queen hesitates, then speaks: “Who are you?”
“My name is Nahida Kusanali. This is my companion and apprentice, Al-Haitham al-Sumer. We’re Jedi Knights, and ambassadors from Supreme Chancellor Valorum.” Nahida inclines her head in a polite bow. “We seek an audience with you, Your Highness. But first—”
The Jedi Master abruptly ignites her lightsaber just as the droids finally realise the two Jedi are intruders, aiming their blasters to shoot. Nahida easily cuts their weapons down while Al-Haitham sends the remaining droids smashing into the nearest wall with a wave of his arm.
“We need to leave and get you to Coruscant.” Nahida continues as she passes the fallen droids’ weapons to the Queen’s Guardians. “It’s obvious now with this droid invasion that the Trade Federation and their representatives, the Fatui, are not intending on further talks.”
The Queen remains silent for a moment, conferring with her Guardians and handmaidens in low tones.
“We are brave, Your Highness,” asserts one of the handmaidens at the end. Then, the Queen turns to the Jedi once more, her expression set in grim determination. “Help us find safe passage to Coruscant—I will plead our case to the Senate.”
The Queen’s Guardians lead the small group through the city’s many passageways and back alleys, blasting and easily cutting down any patrolling droids they run into. As they race towards a hidden section of the main hangar where the Queen’s Royal Starship is parked, and then up the ship ramp, Al-Haitham gives Nahida a sidelong glance.
“You were right about one thing, Master,” he says, lips lifted into a wry smile. “The negotiations were short.”
Nahida lets out a soft laugh, just as the starship begins to take off.
iii.
The small, pockmarked blue and yellow Podracer skims across the desert flats, its lean Radon-Ulzer engines blazing ion-blue and its metal hull a glowing beacon under Deshrett’s twin suns. All of his senses, his being now immersed within and one with the living Force, Al-Haitham manoeuvres the Podracer swiftly through deep canyons and overhanging rock arches, past stone formations and shimmering dune rises.
He swiftly gains on the stragglers, whipping past their bigger, stockier engines as he rounds the Canyon Dune Turn. By the time he whirls past the grandstands again and begins the second lap, Al-Haitham has already caught up with the leading group, weaving the Podracer this way and that between the narrow spaces, going from fifth place to fourth, to third; and then to second—
—And suddenly, he is just twenty metres short of racing right next to long-time Boonta Eve Classic champion and master saboteur, Sebulba the Dug.
“Beware of Sebulba—he never wins any race fair and square.” The echo of Kaveh’s warning rings clear in his mind when Al-Haitham recalls what the mechanic had told him yesterday as they’d put the final touches on the Podracer, anticipation and excitement keeping both wide awake into the night. “Nothing’s beneath him and he’ll never hesitate to send you careening into the nearest cliff face. That is, if he doesn’t set fire to your Podracer or blow up your engines first.”
Al-Haitham keeps his grip on the thruster bars steady, swaths of copper and gold sand flashing by. His senses are focused on every inhale, every exhale of breath; on every stream of colour and rush of sound, every minutia of his surroundings with pin-point precision. He and Sebulba zip through another series of bends and arches, rocketing past columns of protruding stone ruins until they’re tied for first place, racing almost engine-to-engine.
When they begin the third and final lap of the race, Al-Haitham nearly succeeds at surging ahead past Sebulba, gaining momentum. But then Paimon bounds up to his shoulder, trilling anxiously.
Something’s wrong. The Jedi frowns, his senses on high alert. Glancing out the cockpit to his right, he sees Sebulba’s Podracer dipping and pulling away from his side. Already foreseeing the move, Al-Haitham tightens his hold around the thruster bars, calculating his timing.
Instinctively, he veers away as the Dug’s bulkier craft rams violently against his, metal clashing against metal and raining sparks. Still, Al-Haitham continues to keep pace, driving more power to the Radon-Ulzer engines, all while he dodges Sebulba’s attempts to hit his Podracer again.
A sudden, ominous ripple of danger is Al-Haitham’s only warning—he jerks at the controls, banking aside sharply. But a hidden vent in the side of Sebulba’s craft had already opened, blasting streams of pulsating flames and hot exhaust over one of his Podracer’s engines. Multiple warnings flash wildly across his control screens, and a quick glance at the readouts only fills Al-Haitham with more concern and dread. Black smoke billows around the Podracer, the right Radon-Ulzer engine half-shot from Sebulba’s blast and now leaking coolant. Without enough coolant to circulate, the right engine is rapidly overheating, reaching crippling temperature levels.
Al-Haitham releases a calming breath, flicking through a series of switches, even as his mind races to find a workable solution. Losing now isn’t an option he can even consider—there is far too much at stake. The hyperdrive generator parts they need to fix the Royal starship. The Queen’s safety and the occupation of Nabu Malikata. Wanderer’s freedom.
“—Haitham! Al-Haitham!”
A sharp voice wrests his attention back from his whirling thoughts. Al-Haitham senses Kaveh’s presence before he spares a glance over his shoulder again. He sees the mechanic speeding alongside him in what looks like a modified speeder bike made from a refurbished Podracer turbine engine, its hull gleaming a dark crimson and bronze.
“Why are you here?” Al-Haitham asks, his surprise coming out a little more tersely than he’d intended.
“To stop you from smashing into a cliff face and wrecking my precious Podracer, of course!” Kaveh snaps back just as heatedly, even if Al-Haitham doesn’t miss the glint of smugness in Kaveh’s bright-eyed grin.
Al-Haitham stares blankly at Kaveh for several heartbeats. He frowns, as if perplexed. “Is that… allowed in the Championship?”
Kaveh snorts a laugh. “Sebulba literally blasted flames at you and you were very nearly sent crashing into an exploding wreck. And you’re asking if having me fix the engines now is allowed? Seriously?”
When Al-Haitham doesn’t reply, giving him only an impassive stare, Kaveh realises with incredulity that Al-Haitham is, indeed, serious.
“Ugh, we don’t have time to argue about this! You can thank me later for being the best Podracer mechanic and pit crew on the planet! All right, Mehrak—let’s do our thing!”
Kaveh’s astromech droid warbles an affirmation. Activating its jet thrusters, Mehrak hovers nimbly from Kaveh’s side to perch on the overheating engine. The magnetic lock beneath its legs keeps it steady against the billowing gusts of smoke, grit, and sand as it works to repair the damaged circuits and wiring. Al-Haitham watches silently, almost transfixed with awe, as Kaveh checks Mehrak’s progress on the holo-screen projected from his wrist-computer while he issues a series of commands, guiding the droid through the repairs.
Then, after several nerve-wrecking seconds, Mehrak lets out a triumphant beep and the black smoke finally clears away. Al-Haitham looks over his control screens, the Podracer’s sensors and alarm signals gradually switching from glaring red to cool green again.
“Hah! All right, Mehrak! We fixed it!” Kaveh shouts in relief, beaming wide as the twin suns. Only to realise that Sebulba had already surged several metres ahead of them towards the finishing line, trailing dust and grit in his wake. “A-Ah! Al-Haitham, Sebulba is—!”
But Al-Haitham is already shoving the thruster bars to the maximum, gunning the engines into overdrive, and rocketing forward once more in a whirling rush of blue, gold, and yellow. There’s nothing to it now but to place his full trust in the Force, all of his senses coalescing, intermingling as one with the world and the living Force surrounding him—the burning air; the cloudless skies; the mechanical roar and whine of the Radon-Ulzer engines; Paimon’s nervous, fearful cries as she presses close; the dazzling streams of golden sand rising and falling in waves around them.
Al-Haitham blazes ahead, bright and brilliant, flashing easily past Sebulba, and across the desert flats like a comet, unwavering, unchallenged, until he finally clears the finishing line to a crescendo of cheers and trumpeting horns.
He can hardly process his victory through the cacophony of noise and celebration around him, his heart still thrumming, his ears still ringing from adrenaline when he unstraps the harness and pulls off his helmet and goggles. A sudden weight latches onto him, and Al-Haitham turns to see Kaveh throwing an arm around his shoulders as he cheers alongside Paimon and the celebrating crowd.
“You actually did it!” Kaveh hollers with joy. “You beat Sebulba and won Dori’s bet! You won the Boonta Eve Championship!”
Al-Haitham tries to pull away, momentarily disconcerted by Kaveh’s hold around him and the loud, uproarious cheers. But his eyes finally find Nahida’s proud gaze and Setaria’s grateful nod of thanks amidst the approaching crowd, and he breathes a sigh of relief.
“Yes,” he says, breaking into a smile. He lifts his arm and bumps his fist lightly against Kaveh’s knuckles, teal eyes mirroring the delight and triumph in Kaveh’s own bright crimson gaze. “I suppose I did.”
iv.
They first meet the boy behind Sangemah Bay’s junkshop, out in the salvage yard. He sits atop a large assortment of transport parts and scrapped metal, looking out ahead at Deshrett’s glittering dunes. Fiddling at a broken transmitter cell in his palm, he ignores the newcomers even when Kaveh calls out to him, unwilling to acknowledge them.
When the Jedi Master steps forward and asks for his name, he simply scoffs. “Why name something that has already been discarded away?”
Nahida smiles, undeterred by the boy’s coldness, and presses on. “Ah, but you do go by a name, do you not? Wandering-Child is what they call you. May we address you as so then?”
The boy doesn’t look away from the landscape, his lips twisted into a self-deprecating sneer. “It doesn’t matter what you call a slave. If Dori sent you, then state your business quickly. I don’t have all day.”
Despite his earlier suspicions, Al-Haitham still finds himself surprised at the boy’s own flippant confirmation. “You’re a slave?”
Kaveh throws a withering scowl at Al-Haitham, seemingly affronted on the boy’s behalf. “He is a person.”
“Evidently so, as a person can be many things at once,” Al-Haitham says flatly, frowning back at Kaveh. “I never implied otherwise.”
He would’ve added another caustic retort, but thinks better of it when he catches his Master’s knowing look. So instead, he dips his head in deference (to Nahida, not Kaveh) and holds his tongue.
“All right.” Nahida nods at the boy. She taps a graceful finger against her cheek, as if in contemplation. “You seem like a Rudra or an Ankur. Or perhaps something gentler… Ā-mào…? Oh!” Her eyes grow wide with that faint roguish glimmer that Al-Haitham recognises as his Master’s way of gentle teasing and earnestness. “I suppose Kasa’tchi does have a nice ring to it too.”
The boy grimaces, finally pulling his gaze away from the dunes to stare down at the Jedi Master. He’s silent for several moments, eyes searching Nahida’s bright crystal gaze, and lips pursed into a thin line. Then—
“… Tch. Just ‘Wanderer’ will do. No need to complicate things.”
“Very well,” Nahida says, her voice light with mirth. She bows in greeting. “Pleased to meet you, Wanderer. I am Nahida Kusanali, and this is my Padawan, Al-Haitham al-Sumer. I hope we can all get along.”
Wanderer’s glare is still frosty with suspicion; he continues to size them up wordlessly. Al-Haitham almost believes the boy would change his mind and send them away, but he finally settles his gaze upon the Padawan instead. Or rather—
“The bird,” Wanderer bristles from his perch of metal. “Who is she?”
Al-Haitham tilts his head slightly. He doesn’t miss the quiver of interest beneath the boy’s waspish tone. He smiles then, coaxing Paimon gently from his shoulder to stand on his left arm instead.
“This is Paimon, my friend.” Al-Haitham holds out his arm towards Wanderer. Paimon fluffs her bright feathers and warbles a greeting. “She’s a convor I had rescued as a fledgling from a black market on the moon Ormos.”
The wariness from the boy’s eyes gradually turns to open curiosity when Paimon takes off from Al-Haitham’s arm and flies up to the boy’s shoulder. She nips playfully at his hair, and begins to preen his dishevelled strands into place. And despite Wanderer’s indignant protests, he doesn’t push her away, the faint ghost of a smile upon his lips now.
Nahida gives her Padawan an appreciative look, and Al-Haitham only nods in return.
With luck, perhaps even Nahida’s bet with the Lord Sangemah Bay to secure both the hyperdrive generator for the Queen’s starship and Wanderer’s freedom will proceed as planned.
v.
Al-Haitham finds himself in a rightful dilemma when Nahida had requested him to stay close to Kaveh. The Queen’s Royal starship—now repaired and functioning with the new hyperdrive generator they had successfully won from Sangemah Bay—glides smoothly through hyperspace, but it would still be another eighteen Galactic standard hours before their small company arrives at Coruscant.
Mildly vexed, Al-Haitham opens his mouth to suggest otherwise, only to have Nahida refuse his offer to accompany her as she takes her usual spot standing guard outside the Queen’s Royal Quarters. He abruptly notices that Wanderer is standing beside his Master now, having trailed after them. The boy’s face is schooled into a look of boredom, but the glint in his eyes reveals his curiosity and wry amusement as he watches the exchange between Master and Padawan.
“I believe now is a good opportunity to practise other aspects of your training,” Nahida says, still observing the three handmaiden-guardians as they shepherd their Queen away. She turns an expectant gaze at Al-Haitham once the doors to the Royal Quarters slide shut. “Wouldn’t you agree, my young Padawan?”
Al-Haitham has known and trained with Nahida long enough to understand what is left unsaid. He furrows a brow at her innocent smile, his expression betraying little more than cautious pensiveness. His thoughts, however, are tinged with a near-childish petulance when he replies steadily through the Force: “Master, with all due respect, I do not think I require further socialisation. We’ve already spent the entire day interacting with all manner of people, both sentients and droids.”
But Nahida’s voice only bubbles with mirth and rings brightly in his mind as she replies, her smile growing ever wider: “And this is why you still have much to learn, little one.”
Al-Haitham sighs then. Despite her good-natured teasing, he knows Nahida would brook no further arguments. So, he bows his head respectfully and does as his Master requests.
※
Except, this time, he doesn’t really, choosing instead to hide away in a quiet corner of the forward station lounge.
Most of the crew is fast asleep in their quarters, worn and weary from the series of events—the droid invasion and the Jedi’s rescue of the Queen; the ship’s faulty hyperdrive generator and emergency landing on the planet Deshrett; Sangemah Bay’s bet and the Podrace; the surprise Sith attack that Nahida had fought off and barely managed to escape from—since they had first left Nabu Malikata.
“Ah, there you are! I’ve been looking all over for you.”
Al-Haitham switches off the hologram glowing from the pendant in his left palm. He’d already sensed Kaveh’s presence moments before he heard the mechanic’s voice. By the time Kaveh approaches his side, Al-Haitham is already fastening the pendant back around his neck, the emerald gemstone—a familiar, comforting weight; a fierce, lingering affection—resting neatly at the hollow of his throat, the muted gold and metal backing of the pendant cool against his skin in contrast to the soft, black velvet cord.
Kaveh stares pointedly at him, as though he’s expecting the Jedi to respond. Al-Haitham only remains silent, however, his gaze focused on the streaming lines of starlight out the viewport. Kaveh sighs, shaking his head, and sinks into the empty seat next to Al-Haitham.
For a moment, there’s only an awkward silence between them as they watch the stars flashing by in long, parallel streaks of blue, red, and gold.
“I’ve always dreamed of space,” Kaveh abruptly says, his voice low. “Of venturing past rock, sand, and grit to other worlds. Of flying through the stars and seeing for myself what lies beyond even the galaxy. But now that I’m here, I didn’t think space would be this cold.”
“Your planet is scorchingly warm,” Al-Haitham agrees. “And temperatures do drop drastically in space. It’s understandable if it takes some getting used to.”
“Haha, I guess so. Nahida tells me that you’ve both been to many different worlds together. Are your Jedi missions always as… eventful as this one?”
Kaveh keeps his tone cordial and collected. But Al-Haitham knows he’s also brimming with the same awe and wonderment that Wanderer had, perhaps with even more intensity and inquisitiveness. He lifts his eyes from the stars to watch Kaveh’s profile instead.
“Every mission comes with its own challenges and experiences. Though, admittedly, this one has become much more complex than we'd initially anticipated. Well, this, and that one other mission where Master Nahida had me pose as a disc jockey.”
“Sounds like Jedi really have their work cut out for them, huh... Wait. What?”
“I was gathering intel on an assassin hiding out at the Outlander Club in Lower Coruscant. It’s not exactly an exclusive club but the management aren’t particularly fond of Jedi." Al-Haitham only shrugs. "Considering the club’s colourful clientele, Nahida figured then that a disc jockey would be less conspicuous.”
“You, a disc jockey? Are you actually serious—Oh, of course you’re serious. Archons."
The sheer incredulity that flits across Kaveh’s expression brings a smile to Al-Haitham’s lips and he lets out a huff of amusement. Kaveh scowls, still looking mildly exasperated at Al-Haitham’s reaction. But before long he too caves and chuckles along.
Another lull dips in their conversation, the silence that settles between them much more relaxed and comfortable with the earlier tension now dispelled. Starlight streams endlessly overhead, glowing through the viewport and casting shadows, then—
“Was it… Wasn’t it lonely?”
Al-Haitham doesn’t answer for a time. He knows the question has been bubbling beneath for a while; knows what Kaveh is asking, without actually asking. Like Wanderer, Kaveh has always been much more perceptive and intuitive than the others, after all. More sensitive to the emotional turmoil of those around him, and far more attuned to the ebb and flow of the living Force than Kaveh himself even realises.
“Why would it be?” Al-Haitham replies, dancing around the question instead. “I’ve been apprenticed to Nahida for a long time.” He looks down at the sleeping convor curled on his lap. “And Paimon has been a good companion these past few years.”
“I meant before all that—before the Jedi. I admit, I was overly curious before, when Nahida said she took you in as a child because you were all alone. Then I saw the hologram from your pendant… Your parents. Are they also…? Ah—!” Kaveh drops his gaze, suddenly red-faced and self-conscious. “Sorry… I’m being much too forward. It’s not my place to pry into your affairs like this.”
A sudden realisation dawns on Al-Haitham then, when he finally senses the other faint emotions flitting beneath Kaveh’s curious persistence; beneath the waves of sheepish embarrassment radiating from him now.
—Loneliness and a wistful longing; a yearning for camaraderie, for companionship. For a cherished home—
Emotions that, despite all appearances and Al-Haitham’s cautious stoicism, resonate as intimately within him; that Al-Haitham’s own heart is inexorably, inextricably drawn to, alongside the tug and pull of the Force.
Kaveh must have felt it even more so for the longest time, the solitude that comes from living all alone. And now, once again, he’s uprooting himself—upending his entire world once more—from what little comforts of familiarity he’d cultivated for himself on a harsh planet like Deshrett.
It’s a solitude, a quiet yearning, that Al-Haitham recognises all too well.
“I never knew my parents,” he says at length. “They died in an accident before I was old enough to remember.”
“I see… I’m sorry. So, the woman in the hologram from your pendant.” Kaveh glances again at the emerald gemstone reflecting fractals of light over Al-Haitham’s collarbone. “Was she your grandmother?”
Al-Haitham thinks then of a distant memory, of the crack of an old leather spine and the flutter of creased pages; the sharp scent of nutmeg candles and spiced coffee—a pinch of crushed cardamom and star anise, stirred with a stick of cinnamon—wafting around him as a low, gentle voice recites passages from his favourite book.
“Yes,” he replies simply.
Kaveh regards him with another look of sympathy. Finding an unexpected sense of kinship with the Jedi, he begins to share parts of his story as well:
“My father passed away just after I turned eleven. I was going to sign up at the Akademiya to be an engineer and pilot, but Mother was all I had, and I couldn’t just leave her alone. It was difficult, but we still had each other, at least. Then… Well, then it was just me and Mehrak for another long while. After that, I started looking out for the kids who worked for Dori. I’ve always loathed having to do business with dealers like her for parts and such. But the reality is that you can’t afford to be choosy with resources or the company you keep when you live in a place like Deshrett. At the very least, working with her meant I could check in on the kids from time to time. Make sure they get some treats and are rightfully paid their dues, you know?”
Kaveh pauses, lowering his eyes to study the calluses on his hands. “I didn’t realise it at that time… But I’d let myself get so caught up with everything else—with work, with Dori and the Pod Races, the kids—just to fill that void, I almost forgot about my own dreams entirely.”
“And yet, here you are, nevertheless,” Al-Haitham remarks, the corners of his mouth twitching ever so slightly upwards. “Flying through the stars and shivering like a leaf in space.”
“Ugh. I could definitely do without the cold.” Kaveh groans, shivering from the bone-deep chill. “These blankets are just barely keeping me warm. Huh? Hey, what are you—?” He stares, wide-eyed and puzzled, when Al-Haitham moves to stand before him.
“For the ‘best Podracer mechanic and pit crew on the planet’, you seem woefully inefficient at looking after yourself,” the Jedi chides, removing his thick, dark green cloak. Then, as he wraps the cloak around Kaveh’s shoulders, he says softly: “This is a little overdue but… Thank you. Even though there wasn’t any need for you to do so, you undoubtedly helped me with the race and possibly also saved my life. I would not have won the Boonta Eve Championship otherwise.”
“Ha!” Kaveh huffs as he tightens the cloak around himself, immensely grateful for the added layer of warmth. “So, you do actually have some manners.”
“I don’t know what you mean.” Al-Haitham smiles, almost cat-like. “I always have manners. After all, I just naturally have a better temperament than most.”
“... You are seriously the most infuriating Jedi I’ve ever met. Unabashedly incorrigible, as ever.”
“Well, you’ve only really met two. I don’t think that’s a large enough sample size for a logical conclusion.”
Kaveh scowls from between the folds of Al-Haitham’s cloak, looking ready to argue again. But he throws back his head and laughs instead. “Touché,” he replies, grinning wide.
And Al-Haitham thinks then, with the barest of smiles, that perhaps getting along with Kaveh isn’t so bad. It’s difficult not to. Not when Kaveh’s intense earnestness and laughter—radiant, and as captivating as the glimmering stars—resounds just as brightly in Al-Haitham’s heart.
vi.
Disappointed by the culture of political inaction pervading the Senate and finding no help despite her pleas, Queen Amidala chooses to return to Nabu Malikata to fight for her people’s freedom.
The newly-elected Supreme Chancellor Zandik is seemingly dismayed at her decision. But while he promises to end corruption and bring democracy back to the Republic, he does not try to stop her from leaving Coruscant.
Trudging now through the marshes of Nabu Malikata, deep into the heart of Lokapala Jungle, Al-Haitham is intrigued by the Queen’s renewed fervour and her latest plan. There’s a single-minded focus and determination emanating not simply from the Queen herself, but from her Guardians and handmaidens alike, their faces grim and shrouded by their crimson-orange hoods. By order of the Council, Nahida and Al-Haitham could not intercede or fight a war on the Queen’s behalf, but they would still protect her as much as they’re able to.
“But what does she hope to find out here in the wilderness?” Kaveh wonders, concern flitting across his features.
He walks close by Al-Haitham’s side, their shoulders almost brushing as they move through the dense foliage. Behind them, Mehrak warbles complaints as it trundles through the difficult terrain, while Paimon hovers close with encouraging chirps.
They continue past towering trees and overhanging veils of vines and leaves; past grassy knolls, and fallen branches and stones blanketed by lichen and silver-green moss. Then, the Queen brings her company to a halt beneath a grove of old bodhi trees, standing amidst the ruins of an old, abandoned temple and crumbling statues.
Al-Haitham observes wordlessly when a wizened Elder, flanked by several of his own guards, emerges from within the temple. More guards appear to surround the Queen and her company, their weapons poised and ready at the Elder’s command.
“Nabu Malikata was once home to many indigenous clans for thousands of years before,” Al-Haitham tells Kaveh, watching as the Queen begins to address the Elder. “The two remaining clans we see today are the Aaru and the Dharma. But due to their clashing views and centuries of war, their rivalry and distrust of one another still continues. More so when the Sage-King, the Mad Scholar, was ousted from power for the plot of assassination, and he and his followers were banished by the old Goddess-Queen into the wilderness to seek enlightenment.”
“So that old man, the Elder? He’s the Mad Scholar?”
Al-Haitham shakes his head. “No, the Sage-King passed centuries ago. Azar is merely a descendant, but his influence within the Dharma clan runs deep.”
“This is indeed getting more complicated.” Kaveh sighs, before frowning at the Jedi. “Wait, how do you know all this?”
“Nabu Malikata is my grandmother’s homeworld,” Al-Haitham says, almost fondly then, his eyes bright with memories. “She’d raised me here herself in the mountain woodlands of Sumeru, before I was taken in by Nahida and the Jedi.”
The Queen continues to entreat the Elder for aid against the Trade Federation’s occupation. But Azar remains unimpressed, his thick, white brows set in a narrowed frown, his lips pursed in disdain. The young Queen falters for a second, tries again, then—
“Grand Sage Azar! Please allow me to speak.” A voice sings out, and the handmaiden Setaria abruptly moves to stand before the Queen, her poise graceful and dignified.
“Who are you?” Azar demands, his weathered gaze scrutinising her.
“I am Queen Setaria Amidala of Nabu Malikata,” Setaria replies steadily. “Dunyarzad is one of my handmaiden-guardians who serves as my decoy. Forgive my deception but considering the circumstances, it was necessary to safeguard my true identity until this moment.”
Setaria’s revelation comes as a surprise to even Nahida and Al-Haitham. But Al-Haitham understands now why he’d felt something different about the young handmaiden, about Setaria—Queen Setaria Amidala—ever since their time on Deshrett.
“Long have we had our differences,” Setaria continues, her voice unwavering. “Nonetheless, even before the age-old rivalries and centuries of wars—We, the Aaru and the Dharma, were once one people blessed and granted three Gifts from the three God-Kings themselves: Divine Knowledge, the Fruit of Wisdom, and Hearts of Compassion.”
She pauses for a moment, glancing over her Guardians and her handmaidens, and then back to the Elder Azar and his gathered clansmen. Her eyes soften before she speaks again:
“Now the Trade Federation has invaded our planet, destroying our homes. They have trampled over your marsh Kingdoms, driving your people into hiding, and they have burnt my cities in Theed, placing my people into camps. So, I come to you now and beseech you, for us to put aside those differences. To extend our Compassion to each other, to entwine our Divine Knowledge and Wisdom together instead so we may fight together against the Trade Federation, against the Fatui and their droid army. Or both Aaru and Dharma will surely be enslaved and Nabu Malikata will fall into ruin once more.”
For a moment, there is only a long, contemplative silence. Azar casts a gaze over his clansmen, taking account of all they had lost since the droid invasion. Then, the frost over the Grand Sage’s wizened expression thaws and he signals at his guards to lower their weapons.
“We have much to discuss,” he says at length, inclining his head in agreement with Queen Setaria’s words. “Perhaps, it is indeed far wiser to stand and fight together as one—much like how the three God-Kings did when they too fought against the Abyss and the poisoning of their lands.”
Relief sweeps over both Aaru and Dharma, and soon, the Queen and Grand Sage begin conferring together with their advisors for their next strategy.
Despite the people’s rising spirits, the Jedi remain cautious of the battles that are to come, of casualties and the anguish they may not wholly prevent.
Al-Haitham only exchanges a pensive look with his Master, unable to shake off the vague unease still flitting from the shadows.
“Concentrate not on your fears, my Padawan.” Nahida sends comfort and reassurance wordlessly through their bond. “Ever-changing the future is. Our focus determines our reality, so trust in the living Force we must.”
She lifts her gaze past the foliage and crumbling ruins, to the first gleaming of stars in the horizon, her eyes suddenly distant as though seeing a vision.
“That is all we can do now.”
vii.
Al-Haitham watches helplessly from his perch, trapped in place by the deflector ray-shield and away from rushing to his Master’s side—
(He can deactivate the entire shield system completely, surely the main command switch is within reach somewhere! If only his command of the Force is stronger, his range of control wider and more precise; if only, if only—!)
—Watches, screams in distraught and anger when the Sith whirls in a malevolent flash of red and black, his scarlet blade now thrust violently through Nahida’s lower torso as she goes rigid with shock.
Hovering beside him, Paimon wails at the sight. But Al-Haitham pushes the convor’s flustered cries and the rippling waves of panic from his thoughts, his heart; concentrating, reaching out desperately with the Force, he must—
The deflector ray-shields snap off abruptly with a sharp hiss then, and Al-Haitham’s path ahead is clear once again.
“Stay here, Paimon!” Al-Haitham says, and he rushes down the walkway before she can protest. As he approaches the platform, he meets Nahida’s calm gaze, and his heart wrenches in two at the realisation.
He knows what she is asking; knows that this is the only way, and yet—
Master, I cannot do this… Please do not ask me to…!
And yet, Nahida only smiles through the pain. She tightens her hold around the Sith, pulling his blade deeper into her, just under her ribcage, as she traps him within her embrace.
Master Nahida, please. Al-Haitham tries again, his eyes already misting with growing despair. There has to be another way…
Even as he still raises his lightsaber and flicks the surging green blade to life. Even as he uses the Force to propel himself forward and leap several jumps ahead, his teal eyes flashing fire, his aim sure.
The Sith struggles in Nahida’s hold, screeching and thrashing about in a fitful rage, but her grip is iron, steadfast amidst his violent uproar.
You know what you must do, little one. Protect the Queen and Wanderer… Protect Kaveh.
Nahida’s voice is soft and contrite; bowed with humility, with trust.
Even as her smile folds into agony once more when her Padawan’s lightsaber flashes bright and true, a kaleidoscopic mirror of lights bursting before her sight.
Even as Al-Haitham’s meticulous strike hits his mark and cleaves a fatal blow through both Master and Sith alike.
Nahida’s robes are drenched in blood when Al-Haitham’s deactivated lightsaber clatters to the ground and he finally kneels by her fallen form. Beside her, the Sith lays unmoving, a crumpled puppet with his spine and back split open—like her own chest—from her Padawan’s unwavering blade.
“Thank you…” Nahida says, her voice soft and faltering; the whispering echoes of an approaching dusk.
Al-Haitham cradles her close, his expression now crumbling with grief. Unable to find the words for this sudden parting, for the near-unbearable sorrow and loss that is to come, he buries his stricken face into her hair instead, desperately reaching out and holding on to his dying Master’s fading warmth within the Force.
Nahida lifts a cold hand towards her Padawan, before her trembling fingers gently pulls Al-Haitham's Padawan braid loose, the ash-grey strands now curtaining along his tear-streaked face.
Farewell, Al-Haitham… I know you will be a great Jedi someday.
Jedi Master Nahida Kusanali smiles then as she breathes her last.
And Al-Haitham—no longer a Padawan but a Jedi Knight, and alone once again—weeps silent tears into the lilac dusk.
viii.
Outside of Theed Palace, the people of Aaru and Dharma rejoice as one, their cheers of victory resounding from the streets.
With the Viceroy finally subdued and the Fatui driven off, the Trade Federation’s control over Nabu Malikata has now broken.
Strewn across the capital and battlefields, the droid army has thoroughly collapsed, defeated and unmoving, entangled wreckages of bone-white metal and singed circuits glinting in the bright sun.
ix.
“What happens now?”
Wanderer is the first to speak when the flames of the funeral pyre flicker down and the mourning crowd gradually begins to disperse.
Balanced on Al-Haitham’s shoulder and curled against his neck miserably, Paimon is still weeping with grief. Al-Haitham brushes a comforting hand against her feathers.
“We must let her go, Paimon. Nahida is one with the Force now.”
“Paimon knows that...! But—But it doesn’t make it any less sad! Paimon misses her already…”
“I know,” Al-Haitham says softly, swallowing back the wedge of emotion, the tremble of heartache from his own voice. “I miss her too.”
“What will become of me?” Wanderer asks again, sounding almost unexpectedly forlorn now.
Al-Haitham’s expression turns rueful as he glances over his companions. Wanderer’s eyes are still fixed upon the pyre, distant, with just a flicker of hesitance. Kaveh, on the other hand, continues to bare his heart openly, lines of sorrow and regret etched over his features. His right arm is placed over his chest, his head lowered in gratitude and a silent farewell.
“I cannot take Master Kusanali’s place,” Al-Haitham says to Wanderer. “Nor can I assume I would be the right Master to train you as a Padawan learner in the future. But I had promised her that I would aid you and bring you into the protection of the Jedi Order, at the very least. The Sith always work in two, and we still do not know if the one slayed was Master or Apprentice… But whatever you choose to do after all this, whichever path you wish to tread next—it is your decision in the end, Wanderer.”
“Such wisdom from such a young Jedi Knight.” A familiar voice sounds from behind them. One of the Jedi Council members had approached their little company, her bright, viridian gaze reminiscent of Nahida’s.
“Master Rukkhadevata,” Al-Haitham bows his head.
“There’s no need for such strict formalities, little falcon. ‘Master Yani’ will do just fine.” The woman chuckles lightly. “I can see my sister’s wisdom and resolve in you. She trained you well.”
To Wanderer, Master Yani nods and says: “Al-Haitham is right. This is a choice that only you can make. While the Council had previously rejected Nahida’s request to train you, they have changed their stance after taking account of recent events. If you wish to continue on the path of the Jedi, I would be more than willing to take you as my Apprentice.” Yani’s smile turns wistful then, a hint of grief within her eyes. “It’s the least I can do for Nahida.”
Wanderer stays so still and silent for such a long time that Al-Haitham wonders, momentarily, if he would choose to return back to Deshrett instead, on the account of ‘I can look out for myself, thank you very much’.
But the boy only clicks his tongue, before he says, curtly: “Kasa’tchi.”
“Hm?” Master Yani tilts her head, slightly bemused.
Al-Haitham remains impassive, but he holds Wanderer’s sharp gaze with a tentative look of his own.
“Kasa’tchi,” the boy says again, unflinching now. “It was a name freely given to me when I never had one. So… I will honour it.” He inclines his head just a little to Yani. “And I will honour Nahida’s last wishes. I want to be trained.”
“I will honour it, as I would honour her… With her old Padawan’s permission, of course,” is what he doesn't voice aloud, and what Al-Haitham reads with the Force alongside the meld of tremulous emotions—uncertainty, fear, defiance, determination—flickering within the boy’s heart—within Al-Haitham’s own heart—as he continues to hold the Jedi Knight’s placid gaze.
Al-Haitham exhales a soft laugh, the corner of his mouth curved into the slightest of smiles. “It was never my permission to give, little one.”
“Of course,” he says aloud instead. He lifts a hand to ruffle the boy’s hair in reassurance.
Kasa’tchi hisses in irritation at the touch, even if he doesn’t move away, and Al-Haitham laughs gently again. He smiles, his eyes bright as dappled leaves in the sun now. “Nahida would agree—it is indeed a good name.”
Master Yani invites Kasa’tchi to walk with her then, wishing to speak and learn more about her new apprentice.
“Go with him, Paimon,” Al-Haitham says to the convor. “Kasa’tchi could use a familiar face. Master Yani can be a little… forthright.”
Alone with the silence again, and with only Kaveh beside him now, Al-Haitham finally turns back to the funeral pyre.
Tomorrow, the people of Nabu Malikata will celebrate their victory at winning back their planet’s sovereignty, and Queen Setaria and the Grand Sage Azar will usher in a new era of peace and alliance between the Aaru and Dharma. Al-Haitham doesn’t know what Kaveh would do next, but it’s likely the mechanic would choose to stay in Nabu Malikata, to offer his help and engineering expertise with reconstruction works to fix parts of the Palace and cities damaged during the droid attacks.
And although the Council did not explicitly reject the notion of Kaveh perhaps being trained as a Jedi someday, they did not fully encourage it either.
(“Strong in the Force, your friend Kaveh is. And his ideals and righteousness are indeed admirable. Still, he is far too old, too set in his ways.” Master Yani had decided then, alongside Master Apep and Master Simurgh, after Kaveh’s first test with the Council. “It would be a difficult, most arduous path for one such as him. Much consideration he should give before making his decision, if he so chooses to walk the path of a Jedi.”)
Yes, Al-Haitham thinks. It’s probably best for Kaveh if he stays in Nabu Malikata instead, surrounded here by a community he can help, and still fulfil his dreams of becoming a full-fledged pilot.
There’s a sudden brush at his left arm, and Al-Haitham feels Kaveh's fingers reaching for his hand tightly, as though he’s holding on to a life-line.
Al-Haitham doesn’t turn to look at Kaveh, who also continues to keep his eyes fixed on the pyre.
Kaveh lets out a soft breath then, his expression suddenly flushed, his crimson eyes bright with fervour. “I’ll come with you. Wherever you go next—we’ll go together.”
It takes several more poignant seconds before Al-Haitham finally lifts his gaze away from the wisps of smoke, from the lingering ash and ember, the ghost of his old Master’s words a whispering reminder once again.
“Luminous beings are we, little one… And back to the living Force we all will return someday. The Force that surrounds us and binds us; that we feel here, between you, me, the tree, the rock, the stars, the people around us, everywhere… So always be mindful of the living Force, of the here and now.”
To Kaveh, Al-Haitham only smiles as he laces their fingers together, teal eyes glowing in the fading sunlight. “I would like that.”
Kaveh’s expression softens at that, and they both watch silently as the last of the ash and embers rise with the wind into the glimmering night sky.
—End—