C O R U S C A N T | 37 BBY
| 911 Years Earlier
The bronzium statues of the ancient heroes reared far above the young Twi'lek's head.
The short head-tails dangled just at shoulder length. A thin, beaded padawan chain looped around one of the
lekku, draping over one shoulder of the gray and white youngling tunic that the boy wore.
The procession stairs were behind him, with the magnificent view of the grand Jedi Temple filling his eyes as he craned his head back, as though trying to take it all in at once.
A short hop into the air brought an airborne Anzat to collide with the Twi'lek's backside, as the sudden arrival of a tow-headed, near human boy with a bowl haircut delivered a
butt check to the gawking Twi'lek tween -- who went stumbling forward with a yelp of surprise.
"Sleamo! What are you waiting for?" the Anzat boy chirped. He also wore a youngling tunic, rather than the more elaborate robes of older Jedi. His was dyed a deep green. Aside from the variation in color, the only distinction of note was the lack of a padawan braid and a utility belt that was far better equipped than one could ordinarily find on a youngling. Even a padawan.
Sor-Jan Xantha was arguably the most unique Jedi Knight in the Temple. When he was in the Temple, anyway. Even then, most mistook him for one of the Jedi Hopefuls, rather than recognizing him as the padawan -- or former padawan -- of Master Gol. Which was an understandable mistake. Slightly shorter than the Twi'lek, at thirty-two years of age, Sor-Jan might have passed for a boy of ten.
At first, when Sor-Jan had asked the Twi'lek youth to be his padawan learner, Dilandau had accepted without reservation. For one, it was every Jedi Hopeful's dream to be taken as a padawan by a Jedi Knight. And, two, for that Jedi Knight to be another kid seemed like it would be
fun.
Now, on the eve of departing the only home he'd ever known, the Twi'lek seemed less certain.
"I'm..." the boy began, as his eyes found their way back to the temple. When he finally found his voice again, he looked at the smaller boy and confessed,
"I've never left the temple before."
That was why they couldn't stay. But Sor-Jan couldn't say that out loud. Instead, the boy kicked his head to one side, knocking some strands of tawny-colored hair from out of his gray eyes.
"Trust me," the impish Corellian boasted instead. Putting an arm around the Twi'lek, the Anzat turned the other boy around toward the processional stairs.
There, looking out over the vastness of Galactic City, the Jedi opined,
"You get tired of looking at this place."
The look of confusion on the Twi'lek's face was more than apparent. Whatever he had expected Sor-Jan's pep talk to be,
that hadn't been it.
"Come on," Sor-Jan urged, bounding down the steps.
Drawing in a deep breath, Dilly took his first step outside the temple. As he did, his eyes found the retreating back of the green-clad monster.
"Master, where are we going anyway?"
Stopping in mid-dash, the young Anzat seemed to skip forward several steps as he skidded to a halt. Then, spinning around to face his blue-skinned padawan, seemed to consider the question as if for the first time.
"Well, there's a trade dispute on Socorro," the tow-headed boy remarked, before casually shrugging and admitting,
"I thought we'd start there and then... just see where the Force takes us."
The taken aback look on the Twi'lek's face made clear that Dilandau was skeptical that this was how the Force worked.
"Socorro?" the Twi'lek echoed, as the planet's history started to connect for him. It was a Corellian colony. Frowning, the Twi'lek asked,
"Master, you're not going to play sabaac again, are you?"
Hopping playfully down the steps, waiting for his
slackalackin padaway to get his butt in motion, the Anzat spun around again. Then, popping tall, he planted his hands on his hips and, in his best impression of Master Qui-Gon, remarked,
"I will do what I must, padawan."
With that, the Anzat's face seemed to melt into a mischievous smile, as bubbly laughter followed him as he started bounding down the steps again.
"Mas..." the Twi'lek began, reaching out with one hand even as he realized it was too late. He was starting to lose sight of the Corellian Jedi. With a sigh, the boy starting running down the steps as he called after the other boy,
"Wait!"
A purse connected with the side of his head.
It had the benefit of rousing the tow-headed boy from his reverie. Startled, the gray-eyed youth looked up at the same time a Pa'un woman was looking down. "Oh, I'm sorry," the woman remarked, hand on her chest as she admitted, "I didn't see you,"
Not an uncommon remark. For him, anyway. Now eighty years old, Sor-Jan was about the same height that Dilly had been -- roughly a thousand years ago. He no longer wore Jedi attire, but a short cape of deep green draped his shoulders.
Perhaps, for that reason, when the woman asked, "Are you here with your parents?" he got the impression that she had mistaken him for one of the senator's children.
"Yes'm," the boy lied glibly.
"I should find them," he added. A convenient excuse to end the conversation and slip away from the Pa'un.
"Excuse me."
With that, the small Anzat tried to blend back into the crowd that had gathered for the ceremony. The usual political remarks, he imagined. To be honest, he had little idea what the pomp and circumstance was about this time. War, was a given. Heroes lauded. Policies championed. Changes promised.
Time and time again. It was the same.
No, he was here because he always came back here. This place. This...
home.
How many times had it been destroyed? How many times had it been rebuilt?
The people who filled its halls came and went. Some of them heroes. Some of them villains. Many of them just ordinary Jedi, living their lives, making a difference, and then... forgotten in the cruel annals of time.
History was unforgiving in that aspect. Those who had not lived it were doomed to forget it. No matter how good the archives, no matter how robust the education, there was always some kind of event that seemed to send the galaxy spiraling back to square one.
...and if he was this cynical at eighty, he feared for what he'd be like once he'd reached
Tiland Kortun
's age.
Raising his pale eyes, the boy looked up at the familiar spires. In truth, he'd lied to his padawan all those hundreds of years ago. He never got tired of looking at this place.
The great Jedi Temple was...
sacred.
Even still, for all his connection, Sor-Jan tended to stay away. The New Jedi of this era didn't need him under foot, and he certainly didn't quite understand many of their ideals. And perhaps that was good. For all their hopes, all their dreams, all their supposed morals -- the Jedi of the Old Republic had been blind at stopping the Sith from inflicting pain and death on the galaxy on a scale no one had imagined. A Galactic Civil War, because the guardians and peacekeepers, in their hubris, had helped usher it in.
He had helped to usher it in.
Still, an opportunity to tour the new facility was one that the Anzat found he couldn't miss. A stroll through memory lane. A poignant reminder of all that he had lost. And maybe a few memories he'd only thought he had.
...plus, if the senator for Corellia were to show, then maybe they could talk. Sor-Jan rather liked
Aerarii Tithe
's financial policies as Chancellor of the Alliance. The notion of Chancellor
Auteme
was met with a healthy skepticism of what taxes or other financial changes may be coming for Alliance businesses.
After all, while Sor-Jan could never forget his past, he still had to live -- and work -- in the present.