#reconstructwrites

Mace nursed his third cup of caff as dawn’s rays crept into the Council chambers specifically to lay siege upon his eyeballs. Whichever old Jedi said dawn was wiser than dusk ought’ve kept that thought to themselves. Truly, he loved being a Jedi – except this part. Dawn was too sleep-addled to be wise. He had, upon being ‘promoted’ to the Council, advocated for crack of noon meetings instead.

Which had failed seven to five. Yoda and Dooku were traitors.

“Petitioned for Republic aid, Mandalore has,” Yoda said. Just as Mace took a sip, the old troll. Used to dramatic announcements while drinking, Mace didn’t inhale his caff. Shaak Ti, their newest member, had yet to manage their grandmaster’s particular proclivity and choked on her tea. As well she should. The words ‘Mandalore’ and ‘Petition for Republic aid’ had never, in all the galaxy’s history, been in the same sentence unless another planet or people and the word ‘against’ were involved. Tera Sinube and Jocasta Nu cleared out their ears, certain they hadn’t heard correctly. To counter the disbelief that reverberated like an opera singer‘s, Yoda projected the petition for all Council members to see.

Which, yes, that was Mandalore. The planet name. On a petition for Jedi assistance. Mace had fallen asleep in a Council Meeting again. “Somewhere the Sith Hells are building an ice-skating rink,” Oppo remarked.

One of those weird shared dreams.

Tera Sinube snickered, then frowned. “Duke Kryze?” the old Crechemaster tapped his cane in thought. “I was unaware Mandalore has united under a single leader.”

“It certainly hasn’t,” Jocasta Nu straightened, a lecture at the ready. Mace would dream of many things but not one of Jocasta’s lectures. “A terrorist leader claims to be the ruler as well.” The worst ones always did. “By way of the Darksaber,” she added with an edge. Few were the successful robberies of the archives. Mace pitied the terrorist Mandalore-claimer. “And,” her voice dripped with disgust. “Jaster Mereel.”

Mace had no idea what Jaster Mereel had done to earn greater ire than a thief of an archive artifact but Dooku, closer to her, was up on the latest gossip. “Pestering you with more requests?” he smirked.

“Three leaders at least then, yet only one asks,” Yoda commented.

And there lay the complication. “Do we have the right to interfere then?” Shaak Ti asked the needed question. “Mandalore has not joined the Republic nor agreed to its laws and if we become the sort of people who burst into everyone’s home to lay down our chosen law – where will we stop.”

“As a student of history, we wouldn’t,” Jocasta said.

“Contentious, Mandalorians and Jedi have been,” Yoda spoke with hard-earned experience. “Harm not the unarmed, our code says. Accept the surrender of all, our oaths demand. Yet never unarmed the Mandalorians are. Surrender, dishonorable is seen.”

Add in intermittent conquests and bouts of Jedi-hunting and you had the seed of every Jedi-Mandalorian conflict in their shared history, Mace thought. “A shatterpoint looms over this mission, I sense that well enough. Should we break it? Mandalore’s fate will be decided on this mission, whether we take it or not. And if we do take it, who would we begin to send?” The experts of Mandalor were few and far between and many would be obviously unwise to send there.

“That sounds like a political travesty,” Dooku said, “Requiring a skilled negotiator. I would recommend my own Padawan. Qui Gon Jinn has made Master.”

“I disagree,” Yaddle spoke up at last.

A flicker of gobsmacked rippled through the Force before Dooku’s face and presence settled to forbidding impassivity. This did nothing to deter someone who had leapt straight from Padawan to Master centuries ago. “Shaak Ti is right, and Grandmaster Yoda speaks wisdom,” Yaddle paused, an unspoken ‘for once’ lingered teasingly. “Three rulers at least and no simple choice, previous Jedi-Mandalorian conflicts aside even the best diplomat would struggle not to add further conflict to such a mess. We can act but should not act openly.”

“You suggest the Shadows,” Councilor Piell stated the obvious. “One of your undercover agents.”

Yaddle gave Yarael the same look Mace often gave Depa for her teatime conversation topics but made no answer.

“Well, the poor soul will at least avoid Jaster’s obsession – if they keep their cover,” Jocasta said.

“There is one minor problem. About going undercover,” Tera Sinube brought up a picture. “Death Watch would be difficult but nothing your Shadows couldn’t handle. Jaster Mereel’s supercommandoes will be easy enough to infiltrate, however may I present a general indication of Sundari’s population.”

The picture was nothing that wouldn’t be snagged off a public site. A random section of the city, clearly during rush hour traffic with all the people milling about everywhere – people who were all human, all blond-haired, all pale-eyed.

“All of them?”

“Do we have any Jedi who fit?” Jocasta asked. Mace nodded in agreement. He dimly remembered one Padawan who would fit but that would be an even worse idea than Dooku’s.

"Feemor strode deep into the archives’ paperwork, its mundane collection of datapads, flimsi and even actual paperwork that denoted twenty thousand plus years of button-pushers – and the hidden office of the Master of Shadows. Councilor Yaddle, to most of the Jedi Temple, was a cross between an accountant and the kind of fond relative who sat you down for tea and cookies. Certainly, she did exactly that with Feemor, though he knew better.

Rare was a mission so important to the Shadows, so critical to the Republic, so vital to the Force that the Master of Shadows had to deliver it personally. Knight-Shadows typically worked in cellular groups: a handler Master with one to four field operatives under their management. Handler Masters most often reported through information drops or other distant communication to the Master of Shadows who kept track of the vast intelligence network generated by hundreds of operatives.

So Feemor’s bow was a little too deep, like that of a Padawan to a Master rather than a Knight-Shadow to the Master of them. But then, after Qui Gon…a little seed of fear still whispered – not good enough, not good enough. Not for Master Qui Gon. Not for any Master.

“Master Yaddle, you honor me.”

“Sit Feemor. Have a cookie.” She handed him an almond butter cookie with a smear of lemon in the middle. Truly, she was as personable and kind as her cover, just…more. Feemor ate the cookie and let himself breathe through his disaster-lineage worries, whatever Master Yaddle chose to reveal, worrying about it would help nothing, nor would internal speculation. “What is this about?”

The secret, gnawing worry that he would be kicked out even here was a baseless fear. He’d done well in his training and like many shadows had unique talents to assist him. In his case, his natural friendliness made him excellent at integrating himself while his Force ability – an ironically forgetful presence, finally under tight control – made him invaluable.

Master Yaddle was not Qui Gon.

“We have a mission for you. Mandalore has called for aid.” Feemor stared. Surely he hadn’t heard right, “…or at least one fraction of it has.”

“Ah,” his disbelief broke, “That makes more sense. Will one fraction seek to play us off against the others?” That would be an excellent reason to send an undercover agent instead of a diplomat.

“That is one possibility,” she pulled up a holo of a Mandalorian city, “Either way the Jedi Council has seen fit to make this a Shadow mission. By all appearances we will be holding this mission in debate. Neither the Republic nor Mandalore will have confirmation a Jedi is being sent.”

“But without declining the mission outright my presence can still be justified.” If he had need to reveal himself.

“Well, one of the other two main fractions may debate it.” That was Mandalore for you, Feemor thought. He had been on missions near Mandalorian and if only two other fractions debated a Jedi’s presence he would hail that as a new and impossible step forward in Jedi-Mandalorian relations.

“My handler?”

“You will not have one. The mission itself will require great adaptation in its operative and no handler can go undercover amongst the New Mandalorians as well.” Feemor straightened, eyes wide. Only Jedi Masters went on missions without a handler, but before he could object, Councilor Yaddle added, “You are ready for this Feemor.”

He bowed deeply, fraught with the weight of the mission, shaky with the relief of acceptance. “Yes Master.”

“As you can see Sundari’s population is…rather odd.” Feemor saw.

“All human?” He could blend in, provided no one took too close of a look at him. He would have to source his own healing there as a doctor would see through his humanoid appearance in an instant.

“You are the closest we have, who is skilled enough for the mission. Three declare themselves ruler of Mand’alor. This is, despite what this Duke would say, an internal dispute. However, one of the declared leaders is terrorist Tor Vizsla – who holds the stolen darksaber.”

“Ah,” Feemor considered the blade, “It would be quite inconvenient for the blade to go missing, wouldn’t it.” Or quite convenient for his mission parameters.

“Indeed. Beyond making sure a terrorist and conquering fraction does not force or coerce their way into power over an entire system of planets, your mission is rather open-ended. This will require much judgement from you and rely deeply upon your connection to the Force.”

A Master’s mission indeed. “Then I will prepare myself.”

“Good. Sadly we have little intel upon the Mandalorians and most of what is available is on the Duke’s fraction. Study them. Integrate yourself. Keep your eyes open and connection to the Force strong.”

“I will, Master Yaddle.” Feemor bowed.

Darth Inferno’s ever-present smile widened, a wicked toothy thing, “Why Tyrannus,” he teased, glass-brittle, “I thought we were friends.”

The other Sith hesitated. No one sowed misery like Darth Inferno, even – treasonous the thought – the Sith Master. He rarely drew his blade. Needn’t resort to the lightning Darth Tyrannus so preferred. No, Darth Inferno Haunted. Like an Oracle of the Ancients he would prophesier doom upon some insignificant foe and watch them tear themselves apart to prevent the inevitable – only for the fruits of their labors to bring about what they futilely sought to avoid.

Not even a fool asked Darth Inferno for their future.

Yet, knowledge was power, and...“I have observed,” he began carefully, “That you never hesitated to foretell a terrible future before.” Always relished it, and sometimes Darth Tyrannus would join him in supping the resulting suffering. “You once said being an Oracle your only delight as a Seer.”

Something in Darth Inferno’s wicked expression took on a waxy parlor, as if there truly existed some futures too horrible for even a Sith Lord to give voice. Darth Tyrannus couldn’t take back the words now.

“Yes, Darth Tyrannus, your future,” something agonized twitched through Darth Inferno’s expression. “To speak it would be your death. Perhaps, you would prefer that fate, to your future?”

Carefully, Darth Tyrannus said, “I had thought the future inevitable,” Once, as a young apprentice, before he was Darth Inferno, he had tried to change a future. His Master had taught him otherwise.

Darth Inferno said nothing, he jabbed a finger at the rubble of the Jedi Temple – a thousand years and no one dared touch it, “Never ask me Dooku, never.”

Darth Tyrannus froze, his voice stolen. He glanced between his, between Darth Inferno and the rubble he pointed at. What in the Galaxy did he mean? He dared not ask again.

Darth Inferno was beyond the reach of words anyway, eyes fixated upon the rubble of the Jedi, paying no mind to a fellow Sith's retreat. “It can’t happen,” he said. “A thousand years. It’s been a thousand years. They can’t rise like revenants – those poor fools would never want to.”

Yet never had a vision failed to pass, whether Darth Inferno waited for the right moment or not, whether he whispered in the right ears or stayed silent. But this? Darth Tyrannus slew his own father with a five hundred mile bolt of Sith Lightning.

He could never Rise to the Light.

Darth Inferno turned away from the grave, yet that terrible future never foretold – the revenant of the Light – remained.