Chương 9: Truth and Reconciliation

61 BBY – 939 ARR – Coruscant Order is not imposed, it is grown. It must be tended with care, guided in its reach, and pruned where it strays. Left wild, it chokes itself; shaped with patience, it endures. — Collected Sayings of Master T'ra Saa ~*~*~*~ In the weeks following the clan's journey to Ilum, Rann began to make tangible progress. As a newly minted Senior Initiate, his next milestone was clear: to garner the attention of a Knight or Master and convince them to accept him as a Padawan.

Alongside this, he faced the daunting task of discerning where his aptitudes lay within the vast life of the Jedi: an academic, a warrior, a diplomat? The decision would not only shape his training but also the kind of Master he might attract. And beneath these considerations lurked a deeper concern: which path would best equip him to stand against a millennium of Sith plotting. He soon realized that, in his voracious reading, he had neglected one crucial subject: the Jedi Order itself.

Twenty-five thousand years of revisions, reforms, and forgotten traditions had rendered the institution a labyrinth of quirks, contradictions, and anachronisms. The deeper he read, the more tangled it became. Librarians and historians, for instance, were distinct roles yet both sometimes styled "Lore Keeper."

But that same title was also applied to the Caretaker of First Knowledge, who presided over the Council of First Knowledge, which had the somewhat eclectic portfolio of overseeing the archives and holocron vaults, designing and proscribing curriculum, and managing the Jedi Shadows. The Chief Libarian/Archivist/Historian was also in charge of the archives and holocron vaults, which was not surprising.

Additionally, they were the head of EduCorps and chairperson of the Librarian's Assembly, meaning that the Chief Librarian had seats and responsibilities to both the Council of First Knowledge and the Council of Reassignment. Such overlaps seemed endless. Thus, Rann found himself spending ever more time in the Archives, attempting to untie the Gordian knot of Jedi bureaucracy. That, however, brought him to his most immediate obstacle: approaching Master Jocasta Nu.

The Chief Librarian was a figure both respected and feared. In her first year of office she had torn through cases of archival misuse and, if rumor was to be believed, shaken the EduCorps to its foundation. Her reputation was formidable enough that even minor infractions seemed to invite dire consequences. For Rann, avoiding her ire had become an exercise in precognition – his talent in sensing currents of the Force sharpened by the necessity of keeping out of her path. Today, however, avoidance was not an option.

Closing his eyes, he extended his awareness into the Force. As usual, the future offered only half-truths: trivial details gleamed in crystalline clarity, while events of true consequence blurred into mist. Still, the sense he received was reassuring. This encounter, at least, would not end in disaster. The Archives stretched before him like a sea of knowledge, endless rows of shelves converging upon a single point: the Chief Librarian's desk.

From there, Jocasta Nu could observe the whole vast chamber like the warden of a panopticon. She could hear every noise in this silent domain. The faint hum of the cataloguing droids, hushed whispers of Jedi, and every footstep seemed to reach her ear. She sat immersed in an actual parchment scroll – rare beyond measure – her posture radiating concentration. Few Initiates saw actual parchment, much less touched it. Her fingertips brushed across ink older than entire star systems' governments.

To her, even "rest" meant study. Rann approached quietly but did not conceal his presence in the Force.

"Yes, Initiate Crys. I had wondered when you would decide to make your presence known." She did not look up. A ripple of anticipation ran through the nearby Padawans and Knights. Their piqued interest could be felt in the swirls of the Force as clearly as their hushed laughter in these still halls. They leaned in, certain they were about to witness an Initiate's undoing.

"I brought some candy I thought you might like, Master Nu." He held out the neat, crinkling package. Mace had warned him that it would never work, a Master could never be swayed by something as simple as toffee. Rann felt the hint of amusement in the Force.

"Food in the Archives is strictly forbidden, Initiate. You know this." Her tone was crisp, eyes still on the scroll. Then, almost as an afterthought, she took the candy delicately between two fingers.

"However… exceptions can occasionally be made."

"I didn't open it," Rann said earnestly.

"Besides, the Head Librarian decides who eats in the Archives, and she hardly seems the type to discipline herself." That earned the barest flicker of an eyebrow.

"Is that so?"

"Yes, Master." A nearly imperceptible curve touched her lips as she popped the candy into her mouth. The faintest sound of approval escaped her, and Rann knew he had chosen wisely. Even the sternest guardians of knowledge, it seemed, had their indulgences.

"Well, Senior Initiate," she said at last, the honorific pointed just enough to make him squirm, "what matter brings you to my desk?"

"I had some questions about lightsaber forms, Master Nu." Her brows lifted.

"Lightsaber forms? An unusual request to lay before the Chief Librarian. One might consult the relevant holocrons on such a matter, but ordinarily, such matters lie with your Crèchemaster. Why do you not ask him?"

"We've had a… disagreement," Rann admitted cautiously. Nu glanced toward the watching Padawans and Knights, their disbelief plain. The infamous "Holocron Hag," spoken of in whispers, was conversing with an Initiate as if he belonged there. With a sigh, she rose.

"Very well. Let us continue in my office." Her office, perched above the central chamber, commanded a sweeping view of the Archives. From this vantage the endless shelves resembled rivers of knowledge flowing outward, framed by cathedral-like walls and lit by mosaics overhead that captured moments of Jedi history in muted, reverent hues. The quiet hum of cataloging droids seemed distant here, as though even sound deferred to the sanctity of the space.

Within, the room bore the unmistakable stamp of Jocasta Nu herself: parchment scrolls lay beside holopads, antique star charts curled with age, and a stone artifact of unknown origin rested in a transparisteel case as if daring scholars to solve it. Everything was neatly arranged yet clearly used—the desk marked by careful stacks of files, a stylus resting exactly parallel to a datapad.

A single chair for visitors was plain and uncompromising, while her own seat was high-backed and austere, more functional than comfortable. Only one indulgence softened the severity: a small flowering plant by the window, thriving under the glow of a UV bulb, its careful tending revealing a rare glimpse of the woman behind the custodian of all Jedi memory.

"Initiate Crys," she began once seated, "enlighten me: what possible quarrel could you have with Master Zucul? The man is endlessly patient, and speaks of you in terms bordering on glowing." Rann hesitated, startled by the revelation. Then words spilled out of him.

"When Master Braylon graded my Jedi Code exam, she gave me a low score. I asked Master Zucul for a re-evaluation. He asked if I was certain. I said yes… but Master Braylon was listening. She came in and tried to dissuade me. She was harsh. And Master Zucul said nothing." His voice wavered.

"He said nothing." Nu's expression remained reserved, though her eyes softened. She came around the desk and placed a hand on his shoulder before drawing him into a rigid, awkward embrace.

"Compose yourself, Initiate. You need not bear such slights in silence, nor should you allow them to unmake you." Rann fought down the storm of emotion, centering himself in the Force. His young body betrayed him more easily than his mind did. Nu released him, but her hand remained firm on his shoulder.

"Tell me, Crys – how much do you truly know of the Miraluka, beyond what you have been told?" He recited quickly: "They are blind, but with vestigial sockets they cover. They see through the Force. To be Force-null among them is a grave disability. And they lack a homeworld."

"Correct, though far from complete." Her voice carried the weight of a lecturer correcting a bright but over-eager student.

"Their world was lost, yes, but the consequences reach further. Without a homeworld, they have no representation in the Senate. Attempts to settle elsewhere have often been… less than welcome. Thus, most find belonging only in the Jedi Order." Rann frowned.

"But if most are Jedi… how do there continue to be more? Family is forbidden."

"Exceptions exist," she replied.

"An endangered lineage may petition to take a spouse, though children are always surrendered to the Order. In this way the species endures, though attachment is denied." His eyes widened. She gave a small, humorless smile.

"The Miraluka petition frequently. It has created tensions. And Master Zucul, Rann, is the highest-placed Miraluka in the Order. The last of his people to rise so far was Shol Bestros, who sat on the High Council more than thirty-six centuries ago. Since his time, their voice in our governance has been absent, their influence reduced to whispers. Zucul's position is no mere honorific. It carries with it the hope of restoring what his people lost.

He does not bear only his own duties, but the weight of an entire race."

"How?"

"Zucul is Head Crèchemaster, responsible for every Initiate's care. That post grants him a seat on the Council of Reassignment, as well as chairing the Council of First Learning. And as Crèchemaster of the Mighty Bear Clan, he is advised directly by Master Yoda." Rann exhaled. He had known the titles but never their weight.

"So," she continued, tightening her grip, "when Master Zucul makes choices, they carry the weight of his people's future. I regret that he did not defend you, and I know the wound it caused. But Master Braylon was, until recently, among the most influential voices of this Order. In that moment, he was forced to weigh your grievance against the fate of the Miraluka." This story originates from a different website. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.

"Do you think he made the right choice?"

"I am not convinced there was a right choice at all. Only decisions, each with their own price. That is the burden of every Master." Her gaze lingered, steady and solemn. Then, more softly: "But while your clan was on Ilum, Master Zucul labored without rest to have your scores re-evaluated." The sharpness in Rann's anger ebbed. He nodded, then, on impulse, gave her a quick but proper hug. Jocasta Nu froze, caught utterly unprepared, before returning to her usual poise as he hurried from the office.

The conversation had enlightened him, though it left his original problem unresolved: he still needed someone to discuss saber forms with. ~*~*~ Feeling drained and like he needed some time away from the Temple and the questions it gave him, and the sometimes even more undesirable answers, he decided to go visit his friends in the midlevels. The corridors beneath the Temple grew colder as Rann descended. Few Initiates wandered here, and none were permitted without purpose. He did not falter.

The tunnels were familiar now. Once, he had stumbled through them in panic, overwhelmed at once by the sea of thought and feeling that awaited outside. This time he walked with care, his shields firm, his breath steady. The same door awaited him, its frame marked by age and neglect. He pressed the panel, stepped through the passage, and emerged into the midlevels. The city pressed around him with its usual clamor.

Lights cast uneven glow across narrow streets, voices blended in a hundred languages, and the hum of traffic rose like surf against stone. Where once such currents had drowned him, he now held them at bay, letting the noise pass like water over rock. Avoiding the thicker crowds, he made his way to the shop. The small bell above the door chimed as he entered. Inside, the air was warm and smelled of solder, oil, and old fabric. The shelves were cluttered with scraps of droids, coiled wire, and half-repaired devices.

At the back corner, a space had been softened with bright cloths stitched in patient hand. Tina looked up from her bench, pushing a strand of hair back with the back of her wrist. She was not tall, but the way she set down her tools gave her presence. Her voice, touched by an off-world accent, clipped her words in a manner that made them seem sharper than she intended.

"Well now," she said, eyeing him, "look who finds the time to stop by. Taller than last time, I think."

"Not much taller," Rann answered, uncertain but honest. She studied him for a moment, then gave a short nod.

"Straighter in the shoulders. That counts more." Before he could reply, Ryuni pushed through the bead curtain, lekku curling forward with curiosity. Her Basic was still halting, the rhythm of Ryl shaping her words, though she had improved a lot. She held a small bundle wrapped in plain cloth and came to stand before him.

"We made this," she said, offering it with both hands. Rann opened the cloth. A pendant lay inside, strung on cord, with a small polished stone at its center. The gem was a deep cerulean, bright even in the dim shop light.

"You spoke of oceans," Ryuni explained carefully. She touched her chest and then the stone.

"If you cannot go, you carry it. Here." Rann stared at the pendant. For a moment words failed him. Tina crossed her arms, her tone softer than before.

"We have little, boy, but sometimes a stone can carry a story. Stories endure. Longer than you or me. Wear it, and you'll remember what matters." Rann slipped the cord over his head. The stone rested against his chest, cool at first, then warming to his skin. He closed his fingers over it and felt a steadiness he had not expected.

"Thank you," he said quietly. Ryuni grinned, her lekku curling back in satisfaction. Tina only gave a small nod, but her gaze lingered on him, weighing something she did not speak aloud. For a long moment they stood in silence, the sounds of the city outside muffled by the shop's walls. Rann looked around at the clutter of half-repaired machines, the bright fabrics, the life stitched into every corner. It was not the Temple, not ordered or grand, but it carried its own strength.

When he left, the bell chimed once more, and the city greeted him with its clamor. The pendant pressed warm against his chest as he made his way back toward the tunnels. For the first time in weeks, he did not feel the ache of loss quite so sharply. The crystal he had been given had been taken and returned, the Council had weighed him, and Master Nu had measured him with her keen eyes. Yet here, in a small shop among the midlevels, he had been given something without condition.

He descended again into the tunnels, carrying the weight of the stone and the memory of their kindness. ~*~*~ Later that day, Rann Crys stood in a quiet corridor before a blank durasteel door. This sector of the Temple reminded him far more of the Archives than the Crèche, even though both were living quarters. The Crèches were bright, loud, and noisy in the Force. The Masters' Dormitories, on the other hand, were calm and quiet. He pressed the chime and waited.

After a muffled commotion inside, the panel slid open to reveal Padawan Qui-Gon Jinn, belt and tabards absent, surprise etched on his young face.

"Rann?"

"Qui-Gon." Rann smiled.

"What are you doing here?"

"I had some questions I was hoping to ask Master Dooku." Qui-Gon blinked.

"Wait – how did you even get here?" Initiates weren't allowed in the Masters' dormitories.

"Walked." Another guileless smile. Qui-Gon rolled his eyes but stepped aside.

"We've a visitor, Master," he called toward the interior. Inside, Master Dooku sat in a high-backed chair, absorbed in a holopad. The room radiated Serennian elegance: soft light from hand-carved lamps, a crimson rug underfoot, every detail meticulously chosen. The sheer opulence pricked at Rann's forming Jedi sensibilities. Much of the color and life of the Crèches came from children's drawings or books, the trappings themselves quite utilitarian.

Rann knew Master Dooku's tastes were particularly aristocratic but wondered if other Masters practiced the austerity of the Crèches. He put those thoughts aside.

"Initiate Crys." Dooku's eyes lifted, his patrician features tightening in mild disapproval.

"This is most irregular."

"Yes, Master. I apologize for the intrusion. I've brought tea as recompense." He held up a small box. Dooku was a stickler for formality and wouldn't be likely to turn down an invitation for tea, even if it was sprung on him.

"A variety I doubt you've ever tried." Dooku arched a brow and rose.

"We shall see. Padawan, prepare the tea." Qui-Gon accepted the box with a reluctant sigh and disappeared into the kitchen. Dooku gestured toward a lavish couch worth more than most starships, then settled opposite him. In the background, Rann could hear the faint hiss of boiling water and clicking of ceramic.

"What brings you here, Initiate?"

"I had questions about lightsaber forms, Master." Dooku inclined his head slightly, waiting.

"I first chose Soresu as my form," Rann said, inhaling.

"But I don't think it suits me."

"No," Dooku replied at once, cool and decisive. Rann faltered.

"Oh. Well. I hoped you might advise me on a better fit." Before Dooku could speak, Qui-Gon returned, balancing mugs. Oil swirled at the top, and steam that smelled strongly of ginger reached his nose.

"This particular tea is called Shig," Rann explained, "very heavily spiced." Dooku sipped, then studied the mug with interest.

"Remarkable. I have not encountered this before. Shig, you say?"

"Yes, Master." Qui-Gon tried his and immediately sputtered.

"Sith hells! You call this tea?" He hacked and coughed, to Dooku's lightly concealed amusement. Rann fought a smirk.

"Technically it's a tisane, but yes." Qui-Gon muttered darkly, "What sector produces this abomination? I must know so I may never travel there again."

"Mandalore," Rann said lightly.

"Quite popular there. Sometimes mixed with a liquor called tihaar."

"A Mandalorian tea?" Dooku's gaze sharpened.

"And how does an Initiate come by such a rarity?" Rann cursed inwardly. The Temple's black market, run largely by Padawans selling to each other and Younglings, was hardly a secret. But tea from Mandalore stretched plausibility, as most goods were rather mundane; holodramas deemed too profane, candies, and the like. Lying to a Master who had studied under Yoda was suicidal.

"I found it in Kih'Keldabe, Master."

"Oh?" Dooku's eyes glinted.

"A most curious place. Where in the Temple is it located?" Rann sighed.

"It means 'Little Keldabe,' it's the Mandalorian quarter on Coruscant."

"Fascinating." Dooku sipped again, clearly amused.

"I was thirteen when I first escaped the Temple, you know." Rann blinked.

"No, Master. I didn't know."

"Yes. It is something of a rite of passage."

"I never escaped the Temple," Qui-Gon muttered suspiciously. Dooku's gaze softened as it fell on his Padawan.

"Oh, I know." The conversation meandered from there, Dooku dropping hints of secret tunnels in a way calculated to vex his apprentice while savoring the Shig with exaggerated relish. Rann remained quiet, studying the strange warmth between Master and Padawan, and wondering how such a man could one day become the cold figurehead of the Separatists, a Sith Lord. At last, Qui-Gon, exasperated, announced he was off to meditate, leaving Rann and Dooku alone. Rann seized the moment.

"Master Dooku, about my saber form—""Shien."

"…What?"

"Shien will suit you best. Makashi is too technical, Juyo too reckless, and Soresu – as you have discovered – too passive. In most cases, I might recommend Niman. But its open-ended nature would ill serve you. You hesitate at openings; Form V is designed to create and exploit them, reducing the mental burden. Efficiency wins battles, Initiate." Rann sat back, absorbing the words. Private counsel from one of the foremost masters of lightsaber combat was no small gift.

And the reasoning made sense: it mirrored his own nature. He was not eager for conflict, but neither could he stand idle before it. Calm until pressed, yes; but when pressed, he would strike back, not blindly, but with clarity born of timing. Perhaps that was why Soresu had always felt wrong to him; it smothered his instincts, asking him to endure without ever answering. Shien, instead, gave him structure, a balance between restraint and response, a way to make his hesitation an asset rather than a weakness.

"Thank you, Master Dooku."

"Of course. And thank you, Initiate, for the gift of Shig." Dooku rose and ushered him to the door. Rann slipped past the Temple Guards and back into the Crèche, his mind alight. His decision was made. ~*~*~ It was now evening, and Rann was frayed at the edges. It had been a very busy day, and his time outside the Temple has strained his shields. He had carefully calculated his previous approaches to Masters, but not this one. He hadn't wanted to come.

He lingered outside the door, the shadows of the corridor pressing on him like an unspoken judgment.

"Come in, Initiate Crys," called Master Zucul. Of course. He had probably been sensed the moment Rann approached. The office was dim, almost austere compared to the others Rann had visited: a single lamp glowed faintly, more for visitors than for its occupant. Shelves lined the walls, arranged not for symmetry but for ease of reach, filled with tactile objects; a carved meditation focus, star maps raised in relief, a small fountain whose trickling sound softened the silence.

Zucul himself sat with his adaptive holopad, the glow illuminating his lined face, his covered sockets turned unerringly toward Rann. Rann remained standing. The last time he had sat here had not been comfortable.

"Master Zucul."

"Initiate Crys." The air between them carried the weight of weeks. Zucul had apologized before, and Rann had replied with the correct words, but words had not bridged the distance. He had not sought the Master out for meditation, not lingered here for counsel. This was the first time in over a month he had entered this room.

"I want to change my saber form, Master Zucul."

"Oh?"

"Yes, Master. I've decided Soresu isn't a good fit, and Master Dooku suggested Shien might suit me better."

"Where did you meet with Master Dooku?" Zucul's tone carried a hint of humor.

"Around," Rann replied too sharply. At once, he felt the Miraluka's presence in the Force stir, a ripple of hurt at his defensiveness. He winced inwardly.

"I see. So you wish to change classes as well?"

"Yes, Master." Zucul inclined his head, thoughtful. Rann hesitated, then let himself voice what had been forming inside him since his talk with Dooku.

"When I use Soresu, I feel like I'm hiding. Waiting for someone else to make a mistake before I can breathe again. But Shien… it feels different. It feels like meeting the storm with both hands. Not rushing into it, but not cowering from it either. It gives me a rhythm, a way to turn patience into action. That feels… more honest to who I am." The Miraluka's presence in the Force deepened, quiet but attentive.

"Very good," he said at last.

"Shien is patience given spine. If it lets you answer without haste, then you have chosen well. Many of your clanmates are already in Knight Bondara's class. I am sure he can fit one more. You will need remedial tutoring to catch up."

"Thank you, Master."

"Of course, Initiate. It is my duty." This time, warmth threaded his tone, carefully but sincerely. Rann bowed slightly and turned to the door. He hesitated. The silence stretched, and with it, the chance to repair something.

"Master?"

"Yes, Initiate?"

"Could I trouble you to meditate with me tomorrow?"

"Of course." The Force hummed with quiet harmony.