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Part 13 of Crashing Down
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2024-09-27
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The Age of Icons

Summary:

The Senate think the Jedi are little more than attack dogs held by a gilded collar and silver chain. Yan Dooku proves them wrong, even if he doesn't understand why the Force is so intent on the True Mandalorians surviving, but when the Force speaks, it's best to listen.

Notes:

I'm so terribly sorry for the long hiatus. I started this series just a few days before we had a loss, and now it's been a year. It's an odd time, nothing had went right in that time, and I apologise to all of my dear readers who have been waiting for this instalment. I promise you this series has not been abandoned and there is more coming.

(See the end of the work for more notes.)

Work Text:

Yan Dooku sighed warily as he read through yet another report from the Senate Oversight Committee. It had been six months since he had been named director of their strike force, six months since he had conscripted the service of his brothers and sisters, his own Padawan, to become the Senate’s own attack dogs.

 

It caused revulsion to stir in his stomach to know that they were being used in such a way and get there was nothing they could do about it. There were no chains to be broken, no service they could refuse, no act they could not undertake on the orders of their invisible masters.

 

Jedi did not hate, but Yan was so very close. The arts he had dabbled in, that seedling of hate that he tried so very hard to not feed, still lived within him. It was a throbbing pustule, something that he had spent countless hours meditating on in the mossy-scented airs of Yoda’s rooms, in battle-meditation with Cin (who just clapped a hand on his shoulder in silent support.) and with Jocasta as she prattled on about pain samples. That only happened after she smacked him upside the head for being such a fool, but they three threaded a bridge of enduring light that staved off some of Yan’s darker thoughts.

 

He could not lean upon Sifo in the way he could with them, he would not risk infecting his best-friend with even a tendril of darkness when Sifo was already so susceptible to it. They did, however, continue to talk, to work through Yan’s moods and his distrust with the Senate, his revulsion at the acts they wished the Jedi to undertake, and what the future may look like…

 

But Yan did not wish to think too heavily upon the future when each day it grew darker and darker. He could feel it, oily and thick as it slithered overtop his skin and its talons slashed at his heart, infecting it. He knew it would not end well. Mace knew it would not end well. The Council knew it would not end well.

 

It seemed that everybody but the Senate, reviled little worms that they were, were of the opinion it would not end well.

 

Case in point was the action the Senate were building upon. It countered Mandalorian dealings, lawful and legal and in correspondence with every treaty that had ever been signed and decried them as an attempt to destabilise the surrounding systems. It spoke of their escalating civil war between two rival, blood-thirsty factions, and of the powerless, innocent third who faced annihilation if it were allowed to continue.

 

Even a fool could see the Senate’s game, and Yan wondered when they had become so messy as to allow their hand to be over-extended. It was clear that they were happy to allow Mereel’s faction to deal with the zealots within Death atch, and then when the dust was cleared and the True Mandalorians were ravaged by years of civil war, they, the Senate would intervene. It wouldn’t be Mereel’s side they interceded on, however, but that of the pacifistic New Mandalorians.

 

There was a reason young Obi-Wan had that vision all those years ago, Yan knew, a reason that the Senate would scoff at because it did not exist within their democratic edict. Yet the man still believed in it, believed that the Force had spared Mareel for a reason, and it would only do that to stave off the darkness Mace saw building in his mind’s eyes.

 

I wish you could speak to me, Yan thought, opening his mind to the light of the temple. It sunk deep into his bones, easing the ache of age that had settled into his knees, and he huffed out a disbelieving noise. His mind was not dark with thought as it so usually was, but rather, it was alive with a wash of gilded ivory. He wanted nothing more than to reach for it, to grasp it in his hands and hold it close to his heart just so he could remember that light would always strive.

 

But he was unsure he deserved its careful rapture, unsure as to whether his person, dripping with carmine and bronze would sully the ivory of innocence that was his family’s home. All he had ever wanted to do was protect them, save them, even if that meant he had to save them from themselves, save them from the crystal chains that were coiled around their throats, those very same chains that grew tighter and tighter as the years passed by.

 

The Force shall set me free.

 

That was the final tenant of the Sith Code. That had been what Dooku had sought in his youth, in those ill-thought moments of peace and protection through power. Funny how it was a Sith-spawn hellion whom Jan had grown so terribly fond of that was the anthesis of the very beings that created him.

 

The universe worked in mysterious ways.

 

Perhaps that was why, days later, after an emergency communication from the Senate that the Strike Force was to mobilise because the True Mandalorians were attacking Galidraan, that Yan listened when Obi-Wan Kenobi spoke through the haze that had tortured poor Sifo for years.

 

“Master please. Please just talk to him. I don’t-. Jedi Killer, he killed six with his bare hands…”

 

“And that gives me reason to save him, youngling?” Yan had asked with a tilited head.

 

“His family were massacred. He had nothing left only hate. Hate leads to suffering, are we not so prevent suffering?”

 

And Obi-Wan, eleven years old and without a Master still, had looked so earnest, so terrified and so hopeful that Yan could do nothing but promise to try his best. He had known things were already different because the boy’s father still lived, knew that Mandalorian honour was as fierce and unyielding as their beskar.

 

The Force could not speak to Yan, but it spoke through Obi-Wan and so Yan Dook would listen.

 

Visions were nothing less than a curse and yet they were a blessing all the same. Yan wondered, deep in the orchidite hues of hyperspace, Komari fitfully meditating beside him, why the Force seemed so insistent to keep these Mandalorians alive.

 

Twice now, it had been. Yoda had told him that the Mand’alor had sent his thanks after that business of Korda Six. Still none of them knew how exactly he had sliced into the Temple’s secure network, but there was much they did not know, more still that they would never learn.

 

“Master?” Komari’s voice drifted through his eyes and Yan blinked open an eye. “Will I have passed my trials before it is time for Obi-Wan to be chosen?”

 

“Possibly.” Yan said, definitely. “But you will not be his Master, Padawan. You know where your future lies.”

 

With the Shadows and with Tholme. You, my last Padawan, will see the horrors of the galaxy in the way our brothers and sisters can only imagine, but you will do it well.

 

“His crystal makes him an outcast.” Komari hummed. “And he has anger, annoyance and sarcasm in abundance. The other Masters are confused by him.”

 

“His crystal is his crystal. When Master Windu plucked a purple kyber there too were whispers, and when he developed Vapaad there were even more. Young Kenobi will learn in time to do what must be done.”

Komari nodded, understood what it meant. Most would assume it was a warning to disregard the words, but Yan did not disregard anything. He watched and waited and learned, slow and creeping like the vines of damnation. He couldn’t help but wonder what type of Jedi Obi-Wan Kenobi might grow into, for the child’s origins did not matter, for where the children of the Jedi came from never mattered for they were the children of the Jedi.

 

But young Kenobi was different in that regard too. A child who never should have been Found, a child of the Force so bright and burning, a star that guided the path through the growing, inky shadows of the Darkness that was rising.

 

A child, who in mere moments, would save the life of Jango Fett, son of the Manda’lor, a warrior of great renown who would become the progenitor of the Jedi’s brothers and sisters through twisted mind control and long lost Sith Arts.

Sith Arts because the Sith were not dead, even if the Jedi did not know it, but the Force did.

 

And the Force spoke through Obi-Wan Kenobi because he was the child who had survived when so many had been lost to the rush of the river. He was not their Chosen One, but he was their hope.

 

But nobody knew that yet.

 

The ship landed eventually, and they found the Governor who insisted that the Mandalorians were attacking his people, hunting them for sport. Dooku did not believe him, could scent the lies and greed a parsec away because he had been dealing with suspicious politicians and grasping hands for decades.

 

So Dooku went to the Mandalorian camp, but in this universe there was no hate in his heart, and so there were no lightsabers raised. The Mandalorians eyes them wearily, their presence in the Force muted by the beskar they wore, but Yan had learned how to read body language well.

 

It was easy to spot Jango Fett. He removed his helmet, his dark eyes narrowed upon the sight of Dooku at the head of the strike force, Komari a half-step to his left. Dooku was proud of his padawan’s restraint, knew that he owed some of it to the peace and serenity that exuded off the child she had claimed as her brother.

 

The very same child, soon to be an initiate, that would one day lead their people to freedom from the silk and crystal chains of the Senate.

 

“Have you come to kill us, Master Jedi?” Jango Fett inquired with an amused drawl.

 

“We have come by order of the Senate.” Dooku answered. “And because you are in terrible danger. Did your father tell you of Korda Six?”

 

“Your youngling seems to have a vested interest in my people.” Jango snorted.

 

“The Force does, because you and yours are the only chance of stability. Young Kenobi saw our people, mine and yours, dead, and you alone. He spoke and it saved the life of the Manda’lor, he spoke now to see you live. So, tell us why the Governor of Galidraan would want you dead.”

 

Jango shook his head, cursed. Komari snicked, but Yan could feel her tenseness leak into the Force, could feel her muscles ripple and shift ready to pounce on her prey if her Master gave the signal. The other jedi were similar, unaware of the truth of what had transpired when Obi-Wan had ran to them, Vos forever beside him, an anchor to the mortal realm when the Force wished to snatch him into the crashing waves.

 

“Death Watch is here. It is they who attack the people. My father survived, and it is by his word and his word alone that I tell you this: Mando'ad draar digu.” Jango walked forward, hands nowhere near his weapon but that did not mean he was not a threat. “We are here to root out Death Watch.”

 

And Yan’s mind raced. The Senate had made it very clear that it was Mereel’s particular band of Mandalorians that were causing trouble, but they made no mention of Death Watch, and they were forever sympathetic to the pacifistic third-side. Yan knew the Senate would much rather have them come out on top, wished to remove the fangs from Mandalore, but what he didn’t understand was why.

 

He'd learn eventually.

 

“Death Watch is a plague.” Yan agreed, because he had read the reports, had seen the damage they had done not only to Mandalore but also other planets. “We would be glad to assist you.”

 

“Assist us?” Jango said blithely, a dark eyebrow raised, bisected by an old scar.

 

“You know them better then us.” Yan smiled and he held out his hand, waited with bated breath to see if Jango Fett would take it. He did. “We will provide defences, not all of your people have beskar, but a bolt is a bolt to a lightsaber.”

 

“Your Senate will not be happy.” Jango hummed with a wry smirk, his gloved grip crushing but Yan simply returned it with a sharp smile.

 

“Perhaps not, but the Force will be, and we Jedi serve the Force.”

 

Jango’s grin was a feral thing, sharp canines and amused, flinty eyes. He nodded once, released his grip and motioned for Yan and the Jedi to follow him toward the command centre.

 

It was the first time Jedi and Mandalorian worked together, but it would not be the last. Yan Dooku was the first Jedi he had met, and once the Death Watch squad was removed with righteous fury, it would be another few years before he met another, but the second was a child Jango would forever be indebted too.

 

A child of light born in darkness, and it was him who began to unravel the chains of servitude and damnation and Darkness. It was he, and the child that would one day be born to the sands and the Force, that would see them undone for perpetuity.

Notes:

As always, please feel free to leave your thoughts below. My favourite part of writing is interacting with my readers, and know that I am grateful for each and every one of you.

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