Chapter Text
Mace had been passing by the training salles when his temple throbbed painfully, the sensation all the more disorientating when combined with the wave of peace-calm-joy that he felt in the Force immediately afterwards.
Sighing, Mace took a second to confirm the salle’s occupants, then made his way up to the galleries, reluctant but aware that he couldn’t pass up this chance to observe undisturbed: Master Dooku and his new padawan had been the source of many of Mace’s headaches since Dooku had saved the boy from repudiation, and there was something about the two that told Mace to gather as much information as he could.
Especially since he still hasn’t had the opportunity to explain to Master Yoda what had had him so on-edge in the post-Galidraan meeting.
The long and short of it was thus:
Master Dooku had always been connected to multiple Shatterpoints, far more than most of the other Masters in the Order.
His new padawan was a Shatterpoint.
Once he reached the gallery-level, Mace hadn’t been prepared to find Master Drallig already there, nor the smattering of initiates and senior padawans further down from where Drallig stood, watching the Master-padawan duo below with unbridled interest.
Wordlessly, Mace moved to stand a few steps away from Master Drallig and glanced down at what Master Dooku had decided to teach his padawan. Then did a double-take.
“They’ve been at it for forty-five minutes.” Master Drallig muttered, though he didn’t look up from the spar when Mace glanced at him. “And yes, it is exactly what it looks like.”
Mace huffed, then turned to watch the drill-that-wasn’t-a-drill with renewed attention.
Apparently, it would have been too normal, too common for Master Dooku to simply run through katas or ‘sabre forms with his padawan. No, the man was fully sparring, training ‘sabres activated, testing his padawan’s Soresu with a mix of Makashi and Shii-Cho, and Mace hid a wince at the speed and accuracy of the strikes.
Clearly, Master Dooku didn’t seem to believe in the concept of holding back.
A few more minutes of observation had Mace turning to Master Drallig in alarm, only to find the other Master already watching him from the corner of his eye and radiating quiet amusement.
“Please clarify what you meant by your earlier comment, Master.” Mace requested politely, no matter how much he itched to give voice to the far less Council-Member-appropriate exclamation pushing against his teeth. “Because it looks like Master Dooku is running his padawan through a mock-Trial of Mastery.”
Master Drallig smiled, and the amusement he was radiating gained a smug edge.
“That is precisely what he’s doing.” He replied evenly, turning his attention back to the spar. “Like I said.”
“The boy is a padawan.” Mace retorted, dry and incredulous. “A junior one, at that.”
And one that almost hadn’t become a padawan at all.
Master Drallig glanced at him almost as if he’d heard the less-than-kind thought, then gestured absently to the boy who’d managed to last almost an hour against one of the top duellers of the Order.
“Does that look like a padawan?”
So Mace watched the boy some more, and the more he watched, the more he could acknowledge that Kenobi’s skill with his chosen Form far outmatched his peers. Perhaps even some Knights.
But to even pretend at a Trial of Mastery- that was almost insulting.
The boy did something then, a tug at the Force at the same time as he swung his ‘sabre to attack, and Mace watched as Dooku dodged, choosing to spin away from the strike rather than switch to Ataru, putting distance between himself and the padawan with ease.
Still, Mace felt the flicker of amused pride the man released into the Force, though Dooku’s expression was stern when he chastised, “This is not a battle, padawan. Withstand, don’t counter.”
Withstand. Mace huffed, knowing from personal experience that withstanding Makashi was hardly as easy as Dooku made it sound.
“My apologies, Master.” The padawan replied, but while the words were apologetic, the tone they were said in was cheerful, and Mace realised that the boy was grinning, his countenance the most at-ease Mace had ever seen him despite the fact that he was drenched in sweat and visibly trembling from exhaustion. “You’d left yourself open.”
Mace snorted inelegantly, and even Dooku paused briefly at his padawan’s declaration, eyebrow rising incredulously. Then he was on the boy, moving far faster than he had been before, but, if anything, the padawan’s grin only grew.
It was then that Mace realised that the peaceful feeling in the Force he’d noticed earlier wasn’t coming from Dooku, but from Dooku’s padawan.
The same boy who was dripping sweat, whose whole body was trembling with fatigue, and who wore a slightly feral grin on his face, was also an oasis of calm in the Force.
As if withstanding an hour of Makashi was meditative.
“Battle-calm.” Master Drallig murmured, and Mace had no idea how the other had known what he’d been thinking, but he glanced at the Battlemaster in disbelief. “Kid must’ve had a rough start to his padawanship.”
Mace opened his mouth to reply, then reevaluated what he knew of Dooku’s padawan with that offhand comment in mind, and winced.
A slave ring, a Darksider, a civil war, and an almost-massacre in less than a year.
Somewhat chastened, Mace closed his mouth and returned to simply watching the spar, making a mental note to ask Master Nu about the requirements for the Trials of Mastery. After all, despite the occasional grumbling about his friendships with politicians, Master Dooku was not the type for ostentatious displays of nonconformity against the Jedi ways.
Which meant that if he was doing something of the sort, there had to be a reason, and who would know that better than the Head Archivist?