Chapter Text
I imagine if my entire consciousness had settled any time prior to age four, my squishy little brain would’ve imploded from overload. That said, I do remember snapshots of this life, in the short time I’ve been alive in this part of the galaxy -- a mother’s warm embrace, a language using chirping trills and lekku twitches, a kind figure reaching out to hold my hand, and arriving via spaceship to a world of concrete and durasteel.
A name presses so deep into my brain that I almost see it written out in my retinas.
Ahsoka Tano.
There’s irony in rebirth -- there always is -- and mine might be the greatest irony in this offputting second life. From a perfectly average human with high-reaching wants and dreams to a Force-wielding alien with desperate hope to avoid the world.
Maybe I can’t process the information overload yet, or my child brain has better compartmentalization skills than most war veterans, but I carry on my days living in a typical schedule. Maybe it’s easier to block out the memories of a first life, block out information I shouldn’t possess, block out a fictional story of Jedis and Sith. Maybe everyone else has been reincarnated once or twice but fights to forget how painful and lonely the memories can make them, and subsequently lives a normal, fulfilling life free from the guilt of knowledge.
It’s also easy to lose myself in the familiarity. For the past year, I’ve been living normally in the Jedi creche, keenly attuned to my surroundings. There are fellow younglings I’ve grown close to, architecture I see everyday, and a new language called Galactic Basic that now comes easier than Togruti (and English and all those other languages from Earth ). I don’t want to remember.
It hurts to remember.
I shove the memories of the person who is not-Ahsoka into the deepest corner of my mind so I can smile with blue eyes that shouldn’t be blue, reach out to play games with hands that shouldn’t be sunset-orange, and attend nursery classes with datapads so technologically advanced they shouldn’t exist.
For a while, I can forget. In a couple of years, I might be able to forget entirely. By the time the Clone Wars roll forth, the memories of not-Ahsoka won’t pollute the mind of the real Ahsoka. Even then, it will be cutting a little close -- I’ll still instinctively flinch at the sight of people who haven’t turned Dark yet, unconsciously act coldly toward Barriss despite being creche-friends, and mourn an unusually long time for people I shouldn’t even know. Still, the benefits outweigh the risks -- I’ll play my part, Anakin Skywalker will play his, and Luke and Leia will protect the galaxy in the end.
There’s a treacherous, treasonous part of my mind that whispers how I can save all these people I shouldn’t know. How, if I just let myself remember , I can build a plan greater than Darth Sidious’ game, then take a leap of faith into the dark unknown. It’s okay to veer off script , it says, seductive, wanting, alluring, hopeful, because you can be a hero. You can save millions. Jedi. Civilians. Clones.
I try not to pay too much attention to that line of thought.
When the news of the Trade Federation distressing the peaceful mid-rim planet of Naboo hits all major media outlets in the galaxy, I can barely keep my thoughts from rolling off in waves off tense shoulders and shaky nerves. The creche’s nursery classes for my age group are geared towards building foundations for a Jedi education, which means every morning a creche master guides us through an hour of meditation.
Blockade on Naboo , I think. My stomach churns in forgotten anticipation.
“Ahsoka, focus,” the creche master, an elderly Tholothian, says for the second time this session. I feel the curious stares of my peers burning into the back of my head.
But I can barely breathe. Blockade on Naboo, Blockade on Naboo, my mind repeats over and over again. The current news shouldn’t bother me to this extent. I know distinctively how the events play out: Qui-Gon Jinn dies, Obi-Wan Kenobi takes the chosen one as his apprentice instead, and the Jedi Council are made aware of the emerging Sith presence. Meditation class seems infinitely unworthy of attention compared to the earliest warning signs of the cogs of war.
Togrutas don’t have ears in the way Humans do; Togruta montrals sense vibrations in the environment by way of echolocation, and our temporal lobe expands into the crown of the lekku base. I hadn’t realized how far I could hear when my entire outer head is essentially one giant sensory organ until recently -- so I hear how the creche master sighs and shifts slightly as I bleed turmoil into the classroom.
The fear of being questioned overrides the fear of knowledge, and I force myself to breathe with a slowing heartbeat, eyes closed as if in a peaceful trance.
The next class is more of assigned pretend-soldier time than anything. The games the creche masters and older initiates teach us secretly train instincts, reflexes, and engagement level. Clapping patterns alongside a partner, twisting string between our fingers to create a funny shape, and tossing different types of balls into a target -- these games improve hand-eye coordination and dexterity, prepping us to wield lightsabers or other dangerous weapons. Certain species excell at different exercises, as we all have slightly different physicalities. Togrutas are inborn hunters, so I lose myself in the mindless joy at playing tag games and throwing suspiciously bomb-shaped rubber balls to avoid the taunting mantra of Blockade on Naboo.
Being a kid again, even an alien kid, has its perks. The lack of stressful responsibilities, the time to run around wildly, and how all the other kids don’t expect much from each other (except for ball toss games -- the pressure is insane). The downsides all stem from a physical source; the body of a small child can’t focus too long on intense subjects, can’t prevent crying if anything prickles at the emotions, and can’t stay up all night. So in no time at all, because I lack the ability to grasp the passage of time while playing and learning all day, a new kid arrives at the Jedi Temple.
I manage to catch a glimpse of a nine year old Anakin before Barriss grabs my hand and drags me back into our nursery group walking through the halls of the temple.
“Don’t wander off,” the little Mirialan whispers conspiratorially, tugging me back into the fold. She’s at the older end of our creche group, a few years older than me, but not as old as Nadhar -- the Mon Calamari age slower than humans and near-humans while in infancy.
I’ve earned a reputation as a wanderer, accidentally (on purpose) breaking off from the nursery groups to explore the temple in that stolen time. I don’t try to look for trouble, but the adventure of discovering new parts of the temple becomes exceedingly fascinating with every new secret nook and cranny. There’s no real danger if I ever do become lost in the endless halls and training rooms, dangerous people don’t just sneak into the temple without getting caught by the highly trained temple guards.
Barriss, as an older peer, has been unofficially assigned to be on the lookout for my silly truancy. She pretends to grumble about it, but I know she’s secretly impressed by my ability to flat-out disappear in a moment’s notice despite my bright appearance.
The rest of the schedule for our creche group follows a more normal nursery curriculum. We learn numbers, Basic, and pieces of our heritage culture through a heavily tailored guide separated by age and species. As far as religious cults go, the Jedi aren’t too bad, and are open to individualism, especially in respecting cultural traditions.
But the downfall of the Jedi is fast approaching, with the politics of an impending war dooming the peacekeepers to become standardized warriors and --.
Bad thoughts. No.
As always, I fling the dooming piece of information I should not have into the depths of a mental cavern.
I’m four years old , I think, staring at my soft little baby hands. This isn’t my place. I’m Ahsoka Tano. I’m not -- I don’t know anything else. Why would I?
Our creche group finishes up for the day, and spends the evening playing in an outdoor courtyard on the lower levels. Despite what everyone else believes, I am of the firm opinion that the temple is not the most beautiful place ever. The ancient stone architecture, the solid, thick infrastructure, and the pyramidic build contrasts too heavily with my idea of beauty -- luscious waves of summer green flora, pillaring mountains of grandfatherly trees, cerulean blue skies, the taste of pine and ozone from recent rainfall, the blessing of nature to encroach upon her lands and give life to weedy cracks and shadowy cool corners. Coruscant’s polluted city atmosphere shines pale golden and grey-white over the temple building. All the plants are secluded to garden areas, and the constant Force presence is almost cloyingly thick instead of being a warm, familial presence.
But the temple -- my home -- is still a sight to see, especially amidst the concrete jungle of blaring neon billboards, metal pipes lining streets, and the fast life of fuel-powered speeders running through the rest of Coruscant.
I dream of nature that night. I dream of how beautiful the oceans are, how bright and blistering the sun reflects on azure waves, how breathtaking the smell of salt and sand is. Frothing tides lap up on sandy shores, the sound of crashing water rings through my senses, and the headiness of lazy heat and ocean-breeze cradles me throughout the night. But I’ve never seen a body of water larger than a valley lake, not on Shili nor Coruscant, which means --.
Which means --.
I’m remembering . More and more. Not-Ahsoka crowds my thoughts too often these days, indulging in guilt.
“I am Ahsoka Tano,” I repeat to myself whenever I’m alone. Hearing my airy, high-pitched voice cements the claim further. “I’m four. I’m four. I’m four .”
Four, learning how to meditate in the Jedi temple.
Three, reaching out to hold the hand of a kind Jedi master.
Two, enjoying the warm embrace of a mother I’ll never see again.
One, being cared for by a family, a tribe.
Zero, birth.
(Twenty-one, hit by a car on the way to visit family for the holidays. Dead on impact.)
When I clear my mind, I stumble back into the fray, furiously running around and laughing with the other children. Larger crowds make for even better games, so whenever different creche groups coincide with our curriculum for the day, we all jumble together for massive games of freeze-tag, handball, and more.
The blockade of Naboo ends.
Master Jinn dies.
The temple mourns the loss of a revered Master. The entire council is solemn, and it bleeds into the rest of the Jedi. I wander off in the early morning to the Archives, drawn to a shaded nook in between two towering electronic shelves. I should be sleeping, the sun is still rising up the horizon, but a prickle in my neck and an instinctive curl in my gut draws me to this particular hall, right at the part of the day where I’m allowed to be awake but rarely anyone else is.
Maybe it’s the Force, maybe I just want to escape the snoring children of the creche.
I sit in my little nook, burrowed in a chair at just the right angle where the records keeper, Master Nu, can’t immediately spot me. The datapad of advanced Togruti grammar (definitely not taken from nursery class) showers my face in a soft electronic blue glow as I mindlessly scroll through different passages. There’s a slight disconnect with Shili and Coruscant, and I don’t want to lose whatever memories of my homeworld -- memories I should have.
Walking.
I hear heavy footsteps approaching, and my blood curdles despite knowing I’m technically not doing anything wrong. I just don’t want to talk to people right now.
My lekku curl tighter around my neck, as if that will make me less visible to anyone approaching right past the nook. And at this age, the two front head-tails just barely poke each other when curled inwards, which adds as little comfort as a simple scarf “hiding” me from view.
The person storms through this section of the hall, as if with doubtless purpose, but he stops right in front of the nook right when I look up to see who is passing by. An older male human, white hair and a grey beard, wearing a face of grief. I know I’ve seen him around the temple before, but I can’t pinpoint a name to face at the moment. Not every Padawan, Knight, and Master are eager to introduce themselves to a screaming, snot-nosed group of babies.
“Hello,” I say.
His nose scrunches up in a sneer, before sliding into a more pleasant facade. “Shouldn’t you be elsewhere?”
I hold out my datapad, where the screen shows images of lekku twitches and their meanings. “I’m learning about my home,” I respond, hoping the big doe eyes and babyish voice will make him buckle and walk away without tattling to Master Nu.
At the mention of home , a scowl instantly appears. He seems at least a decade older now. “The temple ,” he says, voice dipping deep and lavishly, “is your home. Not… Shili.”
What’s his problem?
“Shili is my home,” I insist. “And the temple. And maybe somewhere else. ‘Home is where the heart is.’”
Where is that quote from?
Home is where the --.
The Jedi master stands there, not menacingly, but tall and sturdy in a way that demands attention be drawn to him. He doesn’t feel angry, but there’s a strong emotion twisting his lips and narrowing his brows that radiates don’t touch me .
He’s hurting.
From what, I don’t know. This master might’ve been close to Qui-Gon or a particular Nabooian soldier or someone else who recently passed.
He doesn’t say anything, just stands there staring at me like I’m a puzzle or a particularly annoying insect, so I say, “Home isn’t a place -- it’s people. But… I guess you’re right, master. Shili might not be home anymore. My mother gave me away. I don’t know if I have a home there; I don’t know if she loves me anymore.”
I can hardly even remember her face.
Why did she give me up? To learn how to use the Force? To fulfill a manipulative destiny?
“Nonsense,” The master cuts in harshly. “Parents love their children. There is no substitute, no excuse. Because she loved you, she sent you to be with your kind, the Jedi.”
He’s still standing there, straight-backed and clenched. I can lock my hurt away, but the older man cannot -- his wounds are too fresh, grief gripping into his soul, desperation gnawing at his edges. Force-sensitive individuals can sense the forefront emotions of other force-sensitives, and all I feel from him is a massive, oozing gash of Why? Why?
The old master wasn’t this aggravated a minute ago when walking down the aisle. His pain grew when finding me.
Oh.
He’s lost a child.
Qui-Gon’s master lost the padawan he nurtured into knighthood. Count Dooku mourns, so human, so despairingly. He doesn’t want to accept the pain and release his sorrows into the Force without justice.
Maul. Sith. War. Hatred. Undead.
Except he’ll never get justice because the council has made no moves to announce the presence of a Sith. There will be no hunts for him.
“A parent loves their child,” I agree. “Just like a master loves their padawan?”
And that cavernous pit in my mind roars and wails because I’ve said the absolute worst thing possible -- and I can’t take back the slip. It splits my thoughts in two, not-Ahsoka and Ahsoka finally emerging and thrashing around that the key, the glue, slips away. Because Count Dooku smiles bitterly, an epiphany in his gradually warming eyes and a forlorn look of curious retrospect. He’s now ancient and weary, but softer and kinder with the new outlook on his grief. He has lost his child.
“Yes,” he says, subdued. And then, suddenly, “What is your name, child?”
The key has slipped away. Not-Ahsoka is Ahsoka.
“Ahsoka Tano,” I say. “And you’re Master Dooku.”
Yan Dooku. Jedi Master. Sith lord. Darth Tyranus. Separatist leader. A frightening, imposing figure, a man of nightmares and treachery. A politician, searching for answers, getting what he wants for his own version of justice. A man who’s lost his child, and won’t be finding answers with the Jedi. I don’t know everything about this galaxy, but I read through the lines and finally see how this pinnacle master must’ve fallen into the Dark side: love .
I don’t want to patronize him, so I keep the pity to myself and try to project childish emotions of curiosity, playfulness, and hope. It’s not hard to do.
Master Dooku stays quiet for a long time before finally saying, “Young Tano, come. I’m afraid you’ll have to continue your reading in class, but it is truly time for you to head back; the sun is rising and your creche masters may be searching for you.”
His tone is lighter, softer. I wonder why he has so dramatically become kinder to me when I’ve barely said anything. He reaches a hand out.
Sith Lord, Sith Lord , my mind hums. Murderer. Jedi Killer. Clone Killer. Sith. Sith. Sith.
“Yes, master,” I say, and take his hand.
He doesn’t smile, but his emotions swirl into something resembling serenity and maybe a tiny splash of hope. His hand is cold and toughened with callouses, but the enveloping grip is gentle. I can really only hold two of his fingers with my tiny baby hands, and I have to waddle faster than normal to match his slightly slower pace, but it works. I know more about Master Dooku than he knows himself, but for the first time, I’m okay with that. Ahsoka is not-Ahsoka.
Maybe it’s worth the risk.
In his grief, there might be a piece of desperation begging to stay in the comforts of the Jedi. I can use that.
Hand in hand, Master Dooku walks me through the vast halls of the temple to the creche. With the sun fully risen, more people are up and about. A few passing Jedi pretend not to pay too much attention to our pair, but I pay them no mind. The old master doesn’t appear to be the type to willingly engage with snot-nosed brats.
He drops me off at the door, much to the unamusement of the creche master.
The elderly Tholothian says, “Wandering again, little one?”
I smile cheekily at the two masters. “I’m exploring . You always say to keep on learning! Exploring is learning.”
I turn to look up at Master Dooku’s carefully composed face. “Thank you for walking me back, Master.”
A separatist force without an experienced Jedi master is a weaker army. A weaker army means the clone wars won’t drag on endlessly. Darth Sidious would have to find a different apprentice, but anybody else he chooses to corrupt will never be as strong as someone like Master Dooku. The extra downtime between battlefronts means extra time to figure out a cure for rapid aging, for political issues, for everything coming ahead.
So I smile, let the enthusiasm and wonder bubble to the surface, and wave goodbye with heartfelt sincerity.
Stay! Don’t fall!
(Dooku leaves the Order by the end of the week)
He visits during a wandering session the morning before the official departure, when I haven’t heard the news yet and the sun barely rises over the horizon. The garden courtyard on the first floor of the temple houses large, leafy deciduous trees large enough to climb, and a gentle warmth tickles the back of my head right before I jump down onto a lower branch and come face-to-face with a familiar Jedi.
“Exploring again?” He asks, in that typical posh drawl befitting of a noble.
I smile, showing off the little canines still growing in. “For educational reasons, Master.”
Small children don’t talk like this, but I made my decision -- not-Ahsoka will not be hindered by simple linguistic skills. Besides, advanced language and pattern-recognition development raises no red flags in a creche filled with dozens of differing species with their variety of growth milestones.
Master Dooku seems charmed by the bubbly attitude despite being the direct opposite of his own, so I keep it up regardless. He drones on a bit about my cheekiness, but I automatically tune it out in pure habit -- I’ve been at the end of too many smarmy lectures recently. Then he clears his throat and says --.
Anything to keep him here.
Anything --.
“I’m leaving the Jedi Order, young Tano,” he says.
I feel my legs buckle slightly, so I swiftly move to sit on the branch to digest his words. Leaving. The surprise bounds outwards, but at least it’s an emotion I don’t have to worry about concealing through the Force.
“Oh,” I say. “Why are you telling me?”
Master Dooku is still leaving the Order. I haven’t changed that -- but he has absolutely no reason to approach a youngling about this matter.
What did I do?
He sighs, an old, aching noise that sounds suspiciously like defeat. “The Force guided me here,” he says simply. “Perhaps, in another life, I…”
And then he stares at me, broken.
My front lekku curl slightly outward, a sign for questioning, instinctively. The former Jedi’s eyes latch onto the movement, and he continues his track of thought without looking at my face.
Is he… scared?
Even I can sense the uncertainty in his sturdy Force presence, in my measly one year of training.
“My values do not align with the Jedi’s anymore,” he says instead.
“And you’ve decided to inform me, personally, because I am of the least biased opinion in the temple that you know of,” I add. He doesn’t reprimand the brazen conclusion. “Because I’m a child who still remembers life outside the temple and the Order.”
After a pregnant pause, Master Dooku nods imperceptibly. His gaze wanders back to my face.
“You’re bright for your age,” he remarks.
Bright for a four year old, sure. As a twenty-something nobody? Not really.
“You’re leaving the Order for personal reasons, and I am not going to try to convince you to stay. You’re perfectly entitled to your own beliefs, and believing in a different path to take other than the one set out for a Jedi is within your own right.”
Now that he’s set on leaving to throw his own political campaign, there’s nothing I can do other than soften the blow. The sickening fear-hatred-death-war sticks into the base of my throat, but I swallow it away before it reflects upon my Force signature. The Separatists have a right to break off from a corrupt governing system, their voices gone unheard, independence withheld -- but if Master Dooku can color his last days at the temple on a not so sour note, maybe, maybe, the looming war will carry more autonomy.
And Master Dooku appears to enjoy my words, his personal reasons finally voiced out loud.
“In another life,” he continues at last. “I might’ve taken you on as another padawan.”
I’ve said enough now, so I keep my mouth shut and try to take the compliment with a toothy smile. I can barely digest his words -- padawan? Me? Why me? -- but I eagerly greet the departure of the serious topics with the emotional agility of a young child.
He smiles plainly. “So the Force brought me to this courtyard for a reason. Stay sharp, young Tano, and perhaps I’ll meet you again in the future. It is now time for me to leave.”
I take several seconds to stare stupidly at the former Jedi’s retreating back before jumping off the tree and scurrying after him. He doesn’t pause or look back, which is good for me because everything I’ve been planning to tell him cuts off at the tip of my tongue. War, war, war. I want to say something witty, something smart, and influence the future Darth Tyranus to use his independence for anything other than moral justice.
Clones. Slavery. Corruption.
Destroy the Hutt system! Overturn Ryloth’s corruption! Go against the Republic’s willful ignorance! Stop! Don’t be manipulated into losing the war! You have the power to do so much good as an independent agent!
You’re going to die because you grow so broken you turn Dark. And Palpatine will use that.
I watch Count Dooku board a space shuttle. He glances behind -- I wave timidly instead of choking out the burning desires pulsing through my veins -- and walks ahead.
The shuttle escapes into the atmosphere.
Darth Tyranus.
I created a cushion, but nothing else. I hate my sudden lack of voice from preventing me from talking any further. Count Dooku is gone.
From the hangar to the creche, I muse on my efforts. For all the drama and intensity, I didn’t put too much effort into charming the future Separatist leader. Two short conversations won’t affect a single person too much. If I truly wish to embody not-Ahsoka’s memories, then I have to build from the roots a monumental tree.
The creche masters berate me for wandering again. Barriss sighs when I recount my morning tree exploration. Nadhar whispers something mean-spirited to Knox after breakfast. Caleb pokes a montral during playtime to get my attention because he wants to borrow a toy.
I start to plant.