Final Days

Author's Note: Well, this was supposed to be both short and funny, but turned out to be neither. :) It failed completely to be the challenge entry I'd intended it to be, but I'm grateful to have been inspired by the challenge nonetheless. So then, on to the elderly...

Final Days

His Master was dying.

Acknowledging the possibility of death came to him easily; he'd had a lot of practice. But it surprised him, as he stood alone on the small veranda of the house in which he had lived now for the last four years, that here at the end, for the first time in all those years, the word Master had come unbidden into his thoughts.

He was even more surprised, on reflection, to realize that the sentiment behind the thought had been honest.

He had never thought to have a Master, not in the way the Jedi defined it. And Jolee had certainly taken pains to emphasize, over the long and sometimes desperately frustrating years, that he wasn't anybody's Master, despite any titles the Council might have given him.

'Certainly not to some insolent firaxa spawn of a boy. So you can stop snarling at me, I'm not impressed.'

There had been times, in those first difficult months especially, when he'd truly had to restrain himself from killing the old man. Or at least from lashing out to hurt. He had lashed out with words instead, many times. But somehow all of his most vicious insults and condemnations just bounced off that weathered skin. It wasn't until much later that he would realize how many of his barbs had indeed struck home.

He realized now that he'd never apologized to Jolee for those early days. He didn't know if he could bring himself to do it even now. He'd changed a great deal, but some lessons were difficult to unlearn.

Besides, he didn't want to start spouting off gibbering apologies now, kneeling at an old man's death bed. He'd rather do something to help, to prevent the seemingly inevitable from coming to pass.

The problem was, he couldn't think of anything else to do. Jolee had adamantly refused to leave their mountain retreat to seek out medical help, and even the old speeder parked in their shelter with a preservation web thrown over it would take at least two days to make it to the nearest city. If he left now, it could be three days or more before he could bring back help, and he didn't want to leave Jolee alone for so long, no matter how many times the crotchety old bastard had told him peevishly to leave and let him die in peace and quiet.

'You're not dying, old man. But I might kill you if you keep this up.'

'That's gratitude for you. I spend four years trying to beat some sense into your thick head, sacrificing the last golden years of my life -- spare me the snorting, boy -- and this is how I'm repaid.'

'Look, it's just a passing thing. You ate some bad borka or something.'

'Are you trying to imply that you've been poisoning my food, eh?'

'When's the last time I cooked for you?'

'See what I mean? Ingratitude.'

'You eat your own food because no one else can stand your cooking. It was only a matter of time.'

Only a matter of time. Maybe he'd spoken truth, there. Jolee was old, so much more susceptible to disease now, despite his strength in the Force. His long exile in the Shadowlands of Kashyyyk had made him hardy, tough as old dewback leather, and four years ago the possibility of disease creeping into that wiry old man's muscles would have seemed impossible. But four years of relative peace and isolation had aged him in unexpected ways.

And spending those four years dealing with the spiritual stress of trying to reform a recalcitrant and dangerous student in the use of the Force probably hadn't helped.

Guilt gnawed at him. Would Jolee have isolated himself in the wilderness like this again, if not for his efforts to tutor an unwilling apprentice?

Maybe. The old Jedi had quickly lost patience with the workings of the Order on Coruscant, and most of his old comrades were endlessly busy, scattered on quests both dangerous and often secret. And there had been some incident in the days of struggle after the Star Forge - an incident whose details Jolee even now refused to share - which had left him with a game leg, and the injury seemed to have leeched him of some of his fire.

'I'm slowing. No use putting others in danger, making them hang back to cover for old Bindo.'

None of his old comrades saw it that way, of course. But no one could convince him otherwise.

And now Jolee's old comrades might be his only hope. Whether or not this illness which had come on him so quickly was truly fatal, or just a passing weakness of the spirit, he clearly needed a sort of urging that his student couldn't provide. There was no point feeling bitter or frustrated at the thought. If there was one universal constant in this unlikely academy for one, built out of a mountain hut and a need for redemption, it was that honesty must prevail. Hiding from the truth accomplished nothing. They had both done that for far too long.

And so.

His Master was dying.

Not an overlord, not a Sith master, which had been the only sort of master he had previoulsy known. But a teacher. A guide.

A Jedi Master.

Head bowed, standing alone overlooking the lake spreading between the mountain slopes, hands folded in the sleeves of robes he had always, until this moment, told himself he wore just for comfort against the cold, Dustil Onasi thought of himself as a Jedi for the first time in his life. A Jedi about to lose his Master.

He knew that he probably ought to meditate. Meditating still came hard to him, at least in the way Jolee had been trying to teach him. As a Sith, he had been taught that meditation was a way to focus more keenly on his own desires, to bring out his inner strength, making it easier to tap. Jolee himself didn't meditate much, but he had at least tried to explain about letting go of the self, of all desire or need. 'Assuming you even can,' he'd always add with a snort. 'Or you can just go out and run up and down the mountain a few times until you're too exhausted to think about anything but breathing. Might work just as well for the likes of you. Too much restless energy.'

He couldn't meditate now. Caught between the desire to jump onto the speeder, distance be damned, and the desire to go back into the house and Force choke some sense into the old man's muddled head, all he could do was stand here and hope that the messages he'd sent off had reached their intended recipients by now.

The priority access codes his father had given him had insured that at least that message had made it through in excellent time. But his father was holed up somewhere in the Outer Rim, on a secret mission of one sort or another with Revan. He usually was. Dustil never asked what the mission was about. There were still too many barriers to break down there. It was ironic how many more opportunities he'd had to get close to his father's friends than to his father himself.

Carth had been deeply concerned to hear of Jolee's illness, and said that they would leave the Outer Rim as soon as possible. 'Three days,' he'd promised. 'And then I start blasting our way out.' But it would take many more days to reach Alderaan, and Dustil wasn't really expecting him to make it in time.

There was only a small twinge of bitterness in that old thought now.

As for the rest, Dustil figured Juhani was an even more hopeless case. She was somewhere on the Outer Rim too, last he'd heard, still buried deep in leading the struggle to wipe out slave trade from the face of the Republic's fringe planets. Her fame in the Order was growing, and though she came by to visit whenever she could, she never stayed for long. It had taken Dustil some time to warm to the Cathar woman, but at the very least she was always a good sparring partner, and a welcome change to Jolee's predictable testiness.

If anyone was in a position to bring real help, it would probably be Bastila Shan. But he had heard nothing in reply to that message, and Dustil never knew quite what to expect from Jedi Bastila. The last time she'd come there had been an argument, and though he'd been careful to attend to his rock climbing in an attempt to stay as far from the house as possible, he'd still caught one too many words of it. Bastila clearly thought that it was time for Jolee and his apprentice to leave Alderaan and return to Coruscant. Dustil privately thougt she was just jealous of the freedom their isolation gave them. Oh, he'd heard plenty of stories about how nightmarish it had been for Shan to work toward her own redemption in the Order, and he believed it. There was something in her eyes still, even after all these years, that he recognized all too well. And he was absolutely certain that the mirror reflection she could no doubt see in him was most of the reason that she visited so seldom. Sure, she was one of the Republic's most famed negotiators these days, and probably had countless demands on her time. But Dustil knew the truth.

A sudden tug on the Force pulled him from his thoughts and turned him round in a rush.

He was running back into the house before his reason could catch up with his senses enough to note that it was only a small tug, with no sense of urgency behind it. He could just be levitating a glass of water, with a touch that light. But Dustil didn't stop his running. If he couldn't browbeat Jolee into fighting this thing, then he would guilt him into it. He had no qualms about tactics. Not even four years could weed that entirely out of him.

He burst through the door to Jolee's small room, slamming it back as loudly as he could, glad for the first time, since he'd first looked skeptically on the tiny house, that it lacked properly mechanized doors.

He half expected to have to deflect some improvised projectile heading for his face, or at the very least some vehement curses. But whatever Jolee had been trying to accomplish with the Force, there was no outward sign of it. The lump under the blanket, on the bed by the window overlooking the garden, didn't even move.

Dustil stood in the doorway for several moments in silence, more frustrated than ever. Finally he let out a loud sigh.

'Fine,' he said. 'Fine. Do you want me to just put you out of your misery, then? A swift lightsaber stroke should do it. Or I could put you in the ground right now, save some time. You want to be buried in the garden, or should I just drop you off the mountain?'

'Don't try to be clever, sonny.' The voice came weakly from the bed, but sharp with annoyance. 'It doesn't suit you.'

'And this wallowing doesn't suit you. Some example you're setting.'

'I've never been here to set an example, as you well know. Just to smack you around a bit.'

'What a pathetic excuse for giving up without a fight.'

'Don't talk to me about giving up without a fight.'

'All right. Let's talk about running away like an old coward.'

'Do you see me running?'

'You will be in a minute, if I have to put up with this much longer.'

Jolee started to growl a reply, but coughed instead. He coughed for a very long time.

Dustil could feel nothing on the Force that might help him understand what the old man was feeling. No pain, no fear. Nothing. Jolee was always extremely difficult to read, with the Force or otherwise, but this utter absence of clues was disconcerting.

After some time the coughing fit passed, and the sound of Jolee's labored breathing was loud in the small room, even over the distant, mournful howl of cloudhawks passing low over the mountains, just as they did every evening over Alderaan's peaks.

Dustil decided right then that he could never forgive himself for doing nothing.

He couldn't work Jedi healing; such a use of the Force remained beyond his power, beyond his teaching, beyond the corruption that still lingered in his understanding of the Force. He had already tried medpacs, injectors, stimulants, and even mixed some of the herbal concoctions Jolee always insisted could cure any ailment, despite the fact that they looked like mud, smelled like bantha droppings, and seemed to want to leave the body as traumatically as they went in.

No, he would have to leave, to go for help, even if it meant leaving Jolee alone for a few days.

'You've got about three days to shape yourself up, old man,' Dustil announced. 'If you're still in that bed when I get back, I'll send an emergency message straight to the Jedi Council.'

'Taking a little trip, are you?'

'I'm bringing back a medic.'

'You're enough to make any teacher despair,' Jolee growled. 'Send a message half-way across the galaxy, will you? When you could just send one down to the capital?'

Dustil clenched his teeth, barely choking back a retort with too much anger in it. Whenever he replied in anger, his words always came out crueller than he intended. Too much practice.

'Of course, why wouldn't I have thought of that, I wonder? Maybe because some decrepit old Jedi broke the short-range transponder four months ago, but insisted that a few months of utter isolation would be a good thing rather than bothering to have it fixed?'

'And I was right, too. Far too many orders of delivery Corellian cuisine coming up the mountain these days.'

'Yes,' Dustil said dryly. 'Right behind the traveling speeder salesmen.'

'Damn tedious.'

'Of course.' He sighed again, then stepped back out of the doorway.

Jolee still did not move. Only the back of his bald, dark head was visible above the blankets as he stared out on the garden.

Dustil paused, his hand on the door handle, and said quietly, 'This is one lesson I never expected to learn from you.'

He almost missed the reply, as it drifted back in a rough mutter through the closing door.

'Give it forty years, boy. Maybe then you'll understand.'

Dustil pondered the words as he walked slowly back into the main rooms of the house. He understood more than Jolee thought he did. But that didn't mean he was going to give up without a fight. It wasn't Jolee's time, no matter how tired old bones and old memories might feel. Dustil knew it in his gut. If he was going to trust in the Force for anything, he was going to trust it in this.

And the Force rewarded him with a sound he had been hoping against hope to hear -- the proximity sensors were beeping an alert.

Dustil leapt to the central console and tapped up a sensor display. The archaic machinery buzzed busily at him for several eternal moments before spitting out a staticky holo image. The silhouette of a small ship was coming in low down the valley trench. He didn't recognize the make, but as the sensor zoomed in on the craft, pulling its hull scan into larger display, he was at least convinced that it had lightspeed capability, despite its small size. It would fit only a handful of crewers, but that handful had clearly spent a lot of time slapping upgrades onto an already sleek little ship. The gun turret could easily have served a battleship ten times the size.

Dustil hastily keyed in a hailing code, but he wasn't even able to speak a preliminary greeting before a comm came through from the other end.

'Stormcry to the house on the hill -- is anyone down there? Better break out the party treats, because we're coming in. I hope you've cleared more of a landing pad since the last time.'

Dustil smiled. There was no mistaking that cheerful voice.

'Thanks for coming, Mission,' he sent in reply. 'Go ahead and pick any spot you can find.'

'Will do.'

A gruff voice whose words Dustil couldn't quite make out, but whose presence he had been expecting, spoke in the background.

'Um, Canderous says he might have to blast a few rocks out of the way.'

Dustil winced, wondering just which rocks the Mandalorian might mean. The formations immediately around the house had long since ceased to present a challenge to him -- he did most of his climbing across the valley these days -- but he didn't want to see the familiar stone faces all melted down.

Still, at the moment he'd consider it a fair exchange.

'Just try not to hit the house.'

Canderous Ordo's voice picked up volume, rumbling through the transceiver. 'I'll pretend you didn't just question a Mandalorian's aim, and you'll pretend your kneecaps are safe when I get down there.'

'Copy that,' Dustil replied easily, and shut down the comm.

He'd sent the message only to Mission, of course, but it was to be expected these days that a message to Mission Vao would reach Canderous Ordo as well. His father often shook his head and said that he didn't understand that strange partnership, but Dustil thought he understood it a bit better. His father hadn't been there, over three years ago now, when Canderous brought Zaalbar's body back to Kashyyyk with a weeping Mission at his side.

Everyone else had come to Kashyyyk eventually, to participate in the mourning rituals that lasted several days. But only Jolee had been close enough to come in time for the arrival of the body, with his new student in tow. Dustil had felt awkward among the Wookiees, unable to communicate, and even more awkward standing witness to a grief he had no part in. So he had spent most of his time wandering the village walkways and exploring a bit of the Shadowlands, where he had learned to respect Jolee for the first time. The Shadowlands were no place for a weak old man to hide.

But between his solitary explorations he had seen a lot of Mission Vao, and heard a lot of stories from Canderous Ordo about the bounty hunting he had been doing on the Outer Rim for the last several months. On the Republic payroll, no less, with Zaalbar and Mission at his side.

Dustil couldn't say he liked the Mandalorian, but Canderous was at least an easy man to read, chiefly because he was usually unconcerned with hiding his feelings. Whatever else Canderous might think about his young companion, there was no doubt that the energetic Twi'lek girl who had tramped onto the Star Forge with the rest of the Hawk's crew had earned his trust, and the right to fight at his side.

Dustil tried not to feel envious of the close bonds these people shared with each other. With his father. He would never be part of that bond, and even though he wasn't entirely sure he wanted to be, it could still sometimes sting.

That it only stung now, when before any thought of bonds with his father had brought the blackness of old pain and hate crashing down on him, was at least an improvement.

Feeling a renewal of hope, Dustil hurried out into the open to watch the Stormcry come in. He didn't really take Ordo's threat seriously, but he did reassure himself of his lightsaber's presence at his belt.

The ship's landing downdraft pushed back his hair and robes in a roar of sound; the golden glow of Alderaanian evening flashed on the few patches of unscarred hull. Despite the warning, no shots were fired to clear space, and after a few minutes of careful maneuvering the landing struts finally touched ground. The engines were still powering down when the ramp hissed open in a cloud of pressurized release gas. Mission came bounding down it in a flash of blue and brown.

'Hey there! Looking taller.'

She said that every time, though at twenty-three Dustil was under no illusions about continued growth.

He had few illusions left at all.

At first he hadn't known quite what to make of Mission's attitude, but he'd learned over time to appreciate its charm. It had taken him a while to realize that the innocent vibe she exuded was as much an act as it was an indicator of the true gentleness of her nature, but he'd felt much better about it once he had. Innocence in others frightened him; he could never entirely predict how he would react to its presence.

Of course, reacting to Mission in any capacity was always something of a... challenge.

She strode up to him now and stopped in close, putting her hands on her hips and cocking her head up at him, one sleek headtail drooping forward over her shoulder. 'Looking very Jedi-like, too. Got the serious expression down and everything.'

He smiled. 'Thank you.'

'That's better. At least with Jolee as a teacher you shouldn't turn out as boring as some.'

What a vote of confidence.

'Where is he, anyway?'

'Inside. Still in his bed.'

Mission's cheerful expression cracked. As her smile smoothed away, a pale scar became visible along the blue skin of her cheek. Dustil wondered what she'd been up to this last year, but now was not the time to ask.

'It's that bad?' she asked quietly. 'Your message said, but...' She shook her head. 'It's hard to believe. Can I see him?'

'Please.'

'All right, let's go. Canderous will be running routine checks on the weapons systems for hours before he comes out of that thing. He always does.' But she turned back to the ramp anyway and called out, 'Hey, T3! Come on! I'm sure Padawan Onasi can find a power socket down here for you somewhere.'

'I'm not a Padawan,' Dustil murmured.

'What?'

'I'm not a Padawan,' he said more clearly, but he did not meet her eyes, looking instead to the ramp where T3 was making a cautious descent.

Mission's smile was practically audible. 'Too old, are you?'

'Something like that.'

He really ought to resent her. To be angered by her casual disregard for his past. But for some reason he could no longer muster the heat for it.

He said nothing as they walked up to the house, and at the door Mission reached out a hand to lightly touch his sleeve.

'Just a sec,' she said in a low voice. 'What am I going to... what can you tell me about him first? Do you recognize the illness?'

'No. And if he does, he hasn't said. I've read through the databanks repeatedly, but nothing really matches up. I think...'

He frowned, staring over her head at the lake view beyond. There was still some winter snow coating the higher altitudes of the opposite mountains.

'What?' she urged him.

Dustil sighed, closing his hand restlessly over his lightsaber hilt. Things had been so much easier, in a way, when a display of strength through violence could solve most of his problems.

'He started having dreams last month.'

Mission scrunched up her nose in puzzlement. 'Dreams?'

'Yes. About...'

Nayama. Forgive me.

'... about the past. Bad memories for him, I think. And his leg's been bothering him more this last year. I don't know what the disease really is, but I know that he...'

'He thinks he's too old and beaten up to fight it,' Mission supplied grimly. 'Right?'

'Yes.'

'What an idiot.'

'Well, that's precisely what I was hoping you might tell him. I think he... he needs to hear it from someone other than me. I'm not... not exactly a friend.'

'Oh, please.'

'It's not the same. I'm here because my father asked him to help me.' He suspected that Revan had had more to do with it than his father, in the end, but that wasn't something he needed to think about right now. 'In a way, I'm just another burden. He's my... he's my Master. I'm not saying he doesn't care. But it's just not the same.' He hesitated, then finally spoke the deepest truth. 'I can't freely give what he needs right now.'

'What, and you think I can?'

'I don't know. But I think he'll be happy to see you.'

'I guess we'll see about that.' But she patted him on the shoulder reassuringly, peering up into his face with a deliberate smile. 'I don't know if I ever said this before, but you've really changed from that time on Coruscant. I like it.'

Dustil tightened his jaw, trying not to wince. On Coruscant... for those months when he'd rebuffed the offers of both his father and the Jedi Order... he'd tried to find a place for himself, one that was totally his own. And he'd ended up down in the shadows, caught in old patterns, running from everything in the only way he knew how -- with the edge of his anger forward. It hadn't been a pretty meeting, with Mission that day. He strongly suspected she'd never told anyone about the things he'd said. But the memory of that meeting, of that failure even after all the other failures of his life, had been the one to finally drive him to accept Jolee's instruction.

After mucking out a dirty living in Coruscant's undercity, the thought of hermiting in the Alderaan wilderness had had its undeniable appeal. It was certainly a life far different from any he had previously known. And there was no doubt that it had changed him.

'Thank you for coming,' he said now, with honest feeling.

'Hey, you can't just leave your friends in need. Canderous might try to tell you otherwise, but just ignore him. He's been grouchy ever since that last mark got away from us on Ord Mantell.'

T3-M4 suddenly interjected a whirring string of beeping opinion, and Mission thunked the droid lightly on the head unit with a gloved fist. 'That wasn't my fault! Go find a power socket or something! Geez.'

This time, as he led Mission to Jolee's door, the shift he sensed in the Force was clear and easy to read. And happily familiar. Plain old ornery irritation. Dustil was almost surprised to see that the door opened easily at Mission's touch, half expecting to see it slammed shut by an invisible hand.

'Landed your ship right in the middle of my garden view, I see. No consideration for the small pleasures of the feeble and bed-ridden.'

Dustil smirked and beat a hasty retreat, leaving the battle to Mission, who met it with a quick bound into the room. The door closed on the echo of her swift reply.

'Feeble minded, I'll buy. I always said you were crazy.'

He returned to the main rooms to find T3 already jacked in to their house's central console, his optical scope flashing.

'Um, that's not exactly a power socket.'

The droid beeped excitedly at him, but Dustil couldn't make much of it. He'd never had much experience with droids, and certainly not with any as erratic as the droids his father's friends had gathered. At least he didn't feel like he had to watch his back when T3 was around. The few times he'd shared the same space with HK-47, he could have sworn the droid was targeting him up for swift evisceration. He had no trouble at all believing that the Revan of old had built that thing. The number of times he might have been able use a droid like HK in the Academy...

'You're not going to get much out of that system, I'm afraid,' he went on, nodding toward the console. 'It's probably older than Jolee.'

T3 whistled a disapproving sort of agreement that was easy to decipher, then extended another interface jack and started fiddling about with the ports. The console beeped and hummed as though in conversational reply, and Dustil just shrugged and let the two machines have at it. Whatever T3 was doing couldn't possibly make the old thing any worse; most likely it would be an improvement. If hooking the droid up to Jolee would have had a similar effect, Dustil wouldn't have hesitated to suggest it.

Unfortunately, that thought conjured up images best swiftly buried, and Dustil smothered a wicked laugh with his hand as he made his way to the kitchen.

Neither he nor Jolee could stomach their own cooking with good grace, and certainly their guests would feel no differently, but at least putting together something in offering would occupy him for a bit, while Mission worked her wiles.

But she came back out sooner than he'd expected, catching him in the middle of his typical kitchen exercises. He'd learned to call lightning at the Academy more easily than moving simple objects, and so employing the Force in daily activity was still a good opportunity for practice. When he was especially bored -- and there was no denying that he often was -- he would move various food stuffs into orbital patterns, swirling vegetative solar systems about his head as he worked. But his concentration this time was broken by the look on Mission's face, and several makeshift planets met a terrible plummeting fate as his attention left them.

'What is it?' he demanded, his voice slipping, by old habit, into harsh command in his sudden anxiety.

Mission was crying.

'What is it?' he snarled, leaping over the worktop in a rush.

'He just... he looks so... old.'

Dustil forced himself not to grab her by the shoulders, forced himself to draw several calming breaths.

There is no emotion...

Jolee had not taught him the Jedi Code, but Dustil had studied it for himself. He didn't really believe it, but sometimes it helped to recite it, just to remind himself that there was another Code whose tenets he should no longer be following.

'What did he say to you?'

'He... he wants something to drink.'

Dustil gave a humorless snort. 'He wants Alderaanian wine, he can come out and get himself. He knows that perfectly well.'

Mission wiped a hand across her cheeks and straightened hers shoulders in a visible attempt to collect herself. If she'd shown this face to Jolee and he still felt unmoved, then maybe it was all useless after all.

Maybe he really was too weak to fight anymore.

'Did anyone ever tell you how we met him?' Mission asked, but she didn't wait for his reply. 'He was fighting a herd of katarns all by himself, just wandering around the Shadowlands with his lightsaber. The Wookiees used to think he was a forest god, you know.'

Dustil snorted again. 'No offense meant to the Wookiees, but...'

'No, they really did. Because he would help people who got lost down there, or were hurt. That chant they sang when he left after... after Big Z's rites... they know he's not a god now, but they still honor him. For being so strong. It just... it just doesn't seem right that someone so strong... can end up... can end up so tired and small...'

Dustil looked away. He had nothing to say that might comfort her. She was right. It didn't seem right at all.

Suddenly the outside door slammed open, and with a flash of armor and a heavy thud of combat boots on antique wooden flooring, Canderous marched in.

'All right,' the Mandalorian growled, swinging his rifle back over his shoulder and tossing his helmet down on a nearby chair. 'Where is the old fool? If he's not dead yet, he'd better be on his way. I didn't come half-way across the galaxy just to play nursemaid to a case of Dejorian swamp flu.'

'Canderous, he's -- ' Mission began, but Canderous took one look at her face and grunted.

'Guess he's dying, then. So where is he? Preparing for his final battle run?'

Dustil only watched Canderous and decided to stay out of the conversation for a while. When a man like that walked in with a weapon in hand, it was best to sit back and anaylze. That, ironically, was something he'd learned only in recent years, though it would have served him far better in the past. But being in Ordo's presence inspired a bit of caution.

Dustil wasn't sure how old the Mandalorian was, and he didn't know much about average Mandalorian lifespans. He doubted if the Mandalorians knew it themselves; religious pursuit of warfare tended to cut averages short. Though Canderous's long battle years had definitely left their mark on him, he seemed unchanged from the last time Dustil had seen him -- just as scarred and just as large.

But as Ordo stepped forward now, Dustil noticed something new -- a prounounced limp that he either made no effort to conceal, or could not control. The grim set to his face didn't even flicker, though a limp like that, no matter how old the wound, had to be causing some pain. And it certainly couldn't be helped by the weight of full Mandalorian armor.

But Dustil figured there was as little chance of getting Canderous to shed that armor as there was of getting Jolee to use a walking stick for his own limp.

'Battle run?' Mission echoed incredulously. 'He may be older than you, grandpa, but at least he's not as crazy. He's in his bed, moaning about the dist -- '

But the look on Canderous's face went suddenly from grim to black, and he began a slow and menacing advance across the room.

'You're telling me that he's lying in a bed waiting for his death?'

'Maybe I can get T3 to clean out your ears for you.'

Canderous turned his glare on Dustil.

Dustil struggled to keep his hand away from his lightsaber.

'What kind of student do you call yourself, boy? Why haven't you given him the option of an honorable death?'

Dustil smiled wryly, his fingers straining to close around the familiar hilt of a weapon he'd made himself, in this very house. 'Given him the option? Belive me, I've threatened the option on numerous occasions. He does what he wants, as usual.'

'What he wants, is it? Well then I'll just have to go and... disappoint him.'

Mission's hands flew to her hips. 'Now listen here, Canderous, you can't just -- '

Canderous hefted his rifle again. 'Out of the way, joygirl.'

Dustil's eyebrows rose, but Mission looked entirely unfazed by the insult, or the nickname, or whatever it was between two strange partners.

'You're not going to shoot him, Canderous, so stop posturing. I think we should take him straight down to the city for some medical att -- '

'Go on thinking it.' Canderous marched right past her.

Dustil laid a restraining hand on her arm, but to his surprise, despite her frustrated expression, she made no move to follow.

'He won't,' Dustil said, though it occured to him to wonder whether he was trying to reassure Mission or himself. He hadn't sensed any hostile intent from the Mandalorian, but then again, with Mandalorians that didn't mean much.

'No... no, of course he won't.'

Canderous limped heavily around the corridor corner, and then the sound of Jolee's door slamming open yet again echoed through the house. The softer sound of it swinging closed again followed.

T3 beeped suddenly at them, masking any echo of the conversation from the other room.

'What's he saying?' Dustil asked irritably, fighting the urge to creep closer to Jolee's door and eavesdrop.

'He says that you've got a message coming in from Coruscant.'

T3 beeped again, and Mission smiled.

'He says it's from Bastila. She's on her way, and...'

The beeps continued in an excited trill, and Mission's smile widened.

'And she's got Juhani with her! I knew they'd come! Once everyone's here to cheer him up, he'll snap out of it, just wait and see. He -- '

The sound of a heavy blaster rifle firing ripped through the house.

Dustil's lightsaber flashed into his hand, its faint blue glow spilling through the room. Mission stood gaping, and Dustil pushed her back with one hand as he gathered himself for a leap into the hallway --

But he never got the chance.

The were was a sudden surge in the Force, and then the sound of a door exploding as Canderous Ordo's large armor-clad body was flung backward into the corridor amidst a shower of splintered wood. Where he hit the wall it cracked, and the sound of his gauntleted hand smacking against the floor to prevent a total sprawl was like a second rifle shot. His teeth were bared in a grin as he pushed himself heavily up to his knees.

Jolee limped into the corridor afer him, wiggling the fingers of one outstretched hand in an absurdly threatening manner. There was an unhealthy pallor to his dark skin, and his eyes looked more than a bit bloodshot, as wild as the flattened angles of the white beard he'd left unattended for the last several days. But at least he was standing on his own two feet again.

'I would have to be dead already before a stunt like that would take me by surprise, I'll have you know.'

'Heh,' Canderous grunted a laugh as he clambered back to his feet, running a hand back over his short hair to tap experimentally at the back of his head, where it had struck the wall. 'Good to see there's still a man hidden away somewhere in those ancient bones.' His smile suddenly faded, and the muzzle of his rifle rose. 'But I meant it. I'll kill you myself before watching you accept a meaningless death without a fight.'

'Everything is always a fight with you young people,' Jolee snapped back testily. 'Though I suppose it's just what one should expect from a Mandalorian, yes?'

'Expect just what they promise.'

'Oh for pity's sake, would you two stop staring!' Jolee turned suddenly on Dustil and Mission, waving his hand threateningly at them in turn. 'And you, boy, you can stop grinning right now. Smugness doesn't become you.'

Dustil realized his lightsaber was still ignited, and he switched it off. But he made no effort to turn off the smirk.

With another wiggle of his wrinkled fingers, Jolee summoned his robes to him, and shrugged into them with slow and obviously pained movements. But he donned them nevertheless.

Dustil tried to put a damper on his emotions, but knew he was failing utterly. And it didn't matter. The only person here who could sense them had a right to know just how relieved he felt.

'All right, boy, go make yourself useful. I don't have an apprentice just so that he can stand about gawking at me in my dotage. Go make me some dinner for once.'

'I'll help!' Mission declared, practically bouncing on her toes with sudden cheer and energy. She was a woman grown now, and looked every inch of it, but some things never changed.

Dustil watched Jolee for another moment, but the old Jedi was locked in some sort of staring contest with Canderous, two old warriors on an inescapable battlefield, and he decided to leave them to it.

Everything was all right now. He knew it in his gut.

'We might need these,' Mission was saying cheerfully as she rescued a few fallen vegetable planets from the floor. 'That's some cooking technique you've got.'

'We all have our talents,' Dustil said dryly.

He joined her in the kitchen, absently levitating items at her request, his thoughts barely focused on her happy chattering or even on using the Force for the task. His thoughts were on Jolee, and the old man's sudden willingness to recover. He was glad now that the messages he had sent had been guided as they were. He had no idea what Bastila or Juhani or Revan might have said to Jolee, or even what his father would have said. But he suspected that no one's words would have had quite the same impact as a good volley from a repeating blaster rifle.

And he was grateful. Deeply grateful.

The time perhaps had only been delayed, but for now it was a compromise he was willing to accept.

When Jolee limped into the kitchen, Dustil didn't look up from his work. He wanted to keep a stern face, to make it clear, despite the emotion he knew he couldn't hide, that he might be grateful, but that it didn't mean all things were forgiven.

'So it looks like you're not rid of me yet.'

Dustil raised his eyebrows, but continued silently feeding kresh roots into the sonic cutter.

'Don't get too disappointed all at once.'

'I'll do my best.'

'Hmph. You should be grateful, you know. You've still got a lot to learn, and someone has to be fool enough to teach you.'

The roots, neatly sliced, fell into a layered stack on the hovering serving tray as it passed beneath the cutter. Dustil raised a hand and pulled a plate to him with the Force.

'And someone has to be fool enough to be your student,' he said.

'Is that kresh root?' Jolee sniffed. 'Gives me gas.'

'What doesn't?'

'There you go, proving my point again. No respect for the elderly these days. It's a tragedy, I tell you. Here I am, with a head full of deep wisdom to impart, and all I've got to impart it to is a young buck with no concept of respect for benificent age.'

'Maybe you should go sit down and take a breather. All of that sermonizing must be exhausting for someone your age.'

'Quiet, you,' Jolee muttered, and turned away doing the most pronounced impersonation of a tottering grandfather that Dustil had ever seen him perform, intentional or otherwise.

He smiled. 'Whatever you say, Master.'

Jolee paused. Without turning back to look at the student who had spoken a title aloud for the first time, he let out an exasperated harrumph, and moved on.

But the Force felt suddenly pure to Dustil Onasi, purer than it had ever been, and in the sudden clarity even Jolee Bindo was not difficult to read.

Someday, inevitably, in one way or another, master and apprentice had to part.

But not as the Sith would.

And not today.