Author's Note: Well, it entered my mind, and it wouldn't leave until I wrote it, and what else was I supposed to do while my teacher in CPR tested everyone on caring for an unconscious choking child? Anyway, I hope you like it. Hmm, I think it sounded better in my head than it did on paper. Oh well, I suppose it could have turned out worse.

Epilogue: Shooting Stars

I was standing on a balcony, staring down at the city of Theed, which was again filled with the pleasant sounds of beings enjoying the nightlife of the theater and meals at fancy eateries. Even though I was delighted that Naboo was out of the clutch of the Trade Federation, my mood, which otherwise might have been festive, was dampened by the fact that my Master, who had sacrificed so much for these people, couldn't be here to witness our victory. He, of all organisms, deserved to be here, and yet he wasn't.

Unable to study sentients who were so joyful, I tilted my head upward to gaze up at the stars burning brightly in the cold heavens above. Somehow, the sight of the stars comforted me. Those blazing celestial bodies reminded me that nothing endured― not sorrow, not guilt, and not pain. Yes, almost every star I beheld would outlive me by centuries, but in all of eternity, a few centuries amounted to barely a minute, whereas my entire existence would probably only equal a second or two. In the scheme of things, I was nothing, but that thought was a solace, not a taunt, to me. It meant that there was some great, incomprehensible plan governing the course of this universe, and nothing someone as insignificant as me did could mess it up.

Looking up at the stars reminded me of the conversation I had with Qui-Gon on the outset of the mission in which we had discussed the nature of death and attachment, and standing on this terrace prompted me to remember the last time my Master and I had stood on a balcony together, staring out over a glorious sunset on Coruscant. Although that was by far not our best time together, I still found that I regarded it with more than a little nostalgia. Wonderful, any memory that held Qui-Gon in it was already well on its path to becoming sacred in my eyes. Well, at least that ensured that I would never forget them, and the lessons they contained. There was a price to be paid for wisdom, after all, and mine was the pleasure― and the agony― of revisiting a million moments in which my Master and I had interacted.

"Master?" Anakin's voice was soft and almost hesitant as he exited the sleeping quarters that we shared, since I had convinced Queen Amidala that Anakin and I would benefit from some bonding time together and Ambassador Jar Jar Binks would appreciate the larger room he received when he moved into Anakin's suite instead.

As Anakin crossed over to lean beside me on the balustrade, I recovered from the shock that still shot through me every time he addressed me in this fashion. It always required considerable effort not to blurt out, "Youngling, I think that you should see a medic immediately, because I am not your Master and you have clearly sustained a severe mental injury if you believe as much."

I mean, it was challenging enough to accept that my Master was dead and that I was really a full-fledged Jedi Knight without the added responsibility of a Padawan who relied upon me for guidance, a commodity that I was afraid that I wasn't very adept at providing. Force knows, I still thought of myself as an apprentice. After all, it was practically as if I had awoken one morning as Qui-Gon's Padawan and had become Anakin Skywalker's Master by that evening. How exactly this had transpired was still something of a mystery to me.

Then, after the surprise at being addressed as "Master" had worn off, there would be second of dull comprehension, of "Master, oh, that would be me― sort off."

Once I had recovered enough to speak, I inquired, "Do you have all of your belongings packed?"

It was an important question since we were leaving tomorrow morning, now that the peace between the Gungans and the Naboo had been cemented with a formal celebration this morning of the pact drawn up between the two civilizations. The Jedi Council had already departed this afternoon after the festival had concluded, and Anakin and I couldn't dawdle here much longer. The Naboo mission had been accomplished at last, and Anakin and I had to return to the Temple soon so that his training could begin in earnest.

"Yes, Master." Anakin nodded in assent as I had expected that he would. After all, he was a former slave, which meant that he probably had less possessions than I did, and that was quite a feat. In a more excited tone, he pressed, "Where are we going, anyway?"

"Home," I answered, forgetting for a second that, unlike most Jedi, Anakin did not regard the Temple as his home, at least not yet. To him, home was still the slave quarters on Tatooine.

"We're going to Tatooine?" The boy's enthusiastic tone deflated abruptly, and the excitement that I could discern glittering in his eyes in the light afforded by the glowsticks attached to the palace wall to illuminate the terrace dimmed considerably.

"No, we're not going back to Tatooine, Anakin," I educated him. "Actually, we're going to be returning to Coruscant tomorrow. We'll be staying at the Jedi Temple so that you can start your training."

"Oh." Some of the sparkle was resurrected in Anakin's gaze.

"The Temple is your home and the Jedi are your family now," I added quietly. He nodded dutifully, but I could tell that there was no feeling behind the emotion. Yet, I didn't know what else to say to explain to him that this was so. After all, home and family were things that were rooted in individual emotions, and nobody could dictate another's feelings. When Anakin had adapted to his life as a Jedi, he would come to perceive the Temple as his home and the Jedi Order as his family, but until then my telling him that it was so would be of minimal use.

An awkward silence would probably have lapsed between us then, as it had every time we had been alone together for extended periods of time after Qui-Gon's funeral, if Anakin hadn't exclaimed, pointing at a flickering trail of light that was searing its way against the velvet black sky, "Look, Master, a shooting star!"

"It's very beautiful," I murmured. This was true. There was something incredibly lovely about a dying star putting up one last valiant struggle before surrendering to the inevitable and winking out entirely. Perhaps it was the tragic glamour of a noble lost cause, or perhaps it was simply the fleeting glory of a shooting star, which could never be surpassed by the constant light of a healthy sun that had centuries more to live.

"An old space pilot told me that all stars are suns," remarked Anakin.

"He was right."

"And most of them are bigger than Tatooine's suns, even though they seem so much smaller, but that's only because they are light-years away," he continued. "He claimed that Tatooine's suns were relatively tiny ones, but I found that hard to believe."

"They are rather small, as is the sun Coruscant orbits," I replied. "Tatooine is all desert because it is so close to its suns, not because its suns are massive."

"Basically all the stars have planets orbiting them," rambled on Anakin, only half-listening to me in his excitement about chattering on about stars.

"And a majority of those worlds are inhabited, many of them by humans," I contributed.

"On Tatooine, we had a story about shooting stars," stated Anakin. "We told each other that dragons dwelt inside the suns, and that was how they were able to emit heat and light. When night came, it was because the dragon was resting and didn't feel like working."

"Suns are fueled by fusion reactions like starship engines are," I explained as gently as I could. Although I was reluctant to disabuse the child of his myths when he had already been forced to abandon just about everything pertaining to his old life, I couldn't allow him to remain ignorant, either, when it was my job to train him. "You know how that works since you're a pilot."

"But engines can burn out." Anakin's eyes expanded in incredulity. "Are you saying that stars can burn out, too?"

"Yes, after many centuries, they burn out once they lose the energy to perform the fusion reactions that make their existence possible," I affirmed. "Small and medium stars, like Tatooine's and Coruscant's suns, will be transformed into nebulae or shooting stars when they reach the end of their existence, just like the shooting star we just witnessed did. Large stars, however, become giant dead stars that are so frigid that they hover a quantam fraction of a degree above absolute zero, or become black holes that swallow up everything in their grasp."

"Stars can die?" Anakin stuttered, wearing a horrified expression. If I had told him that he was enslaved to Watto again, he couldn't have been more appalled.

"It's the way of the universe, which is just another way of saying that it is the will of the Force." I laid a hand upon his shoulder in an attempt to soothe the anxious lad. "Everything dies. In time, even the stars flicker out. That is the reason why Jedi form no attachments because all things pass, and to hold onto something― or someone― beyond its time is to set your selfish desires against the Force. That is a definite path to misery, Anakin, and the Jedi do not walk it." After all, it was foolish in the extreme to seek out misery when one of the certainties of this particular universe was that unhappiness would always find you, so you needn't waste valuable time tracking it down.

"So every shooting star is a dying one, Master?" demanded Anakin, his eyes wide. At my nod, he whispered, "Then, I don't think that they're so beautiful anymore. Death isn't pretty in the slightest. There's absolutely nothing pleasant about it."

Making a mental note to discuss the importance of avoiding absolutes with him, I responded, "Don't be so hasty in your judgments. Death is a crucial part of life, since without death there could be no birth. After all, if a population always increased through birth and that influx was never countered through a decease in death, the population would become too extensive, and there would not be enough resources to allow the organisms to survive. Then, they would all perish through deprivation. It is better this way. Besides, the fragments of dead stars become the materials from which new stars are constructed, just as the remains of dead animals are returned to the soil by decomposers, and that soil permits plants to grow, so that other animals can eat. Death has a very critical role in the circle of life, and you would do well to remember that."

However, Anakin appeared unconvinced by my contention, but there was no time to expound upon this notion since it was getting late in the evening now, and he would require all of his energy tomorrow. Jedi training was intense, and he had a considerable amount of lost time to make up for.

"Get to bed now," I ordered before he could place any more inquiries that might result in us having a question and answer session that lasted until dawn. "It's late, and you have a busy day ahead of you tomorrow."

Sighing, he spun on his heel and shuffled reluctantly toward the door that lead back into our sleeping quarters. As I watched him affect his somewhat despondent exit, I had a surge of inspiration and shouted at his retreating back, "By the way, you can fly the starship tomorrow, if you want."

The words had an instantaneous impact, for Anakin whirled about to face me, his cheeks aglow and a grin splitting his features. "You mean it?"

"Of course I do. Jedi don't lie." As I established as much, I waved a hand in dismissal, hoping that Anakin would bear in mind that he was piloting a ship, not a Pod in the Boonta Eve race. If he didn't, I would never let him fly again. "Now, go to bed."

"Yahoo!" Anakin whooped and dashed into our bedchamber, enlivened once again by the prospect of being pilot tomorrow.

As he departed, I felt my lips quirk upward slightly. Since flying was not on my list of one hundred favorite activities, I was more than happy to relinquish the task of navigating spacecraft to my new Padawan, especially because he had a skill that would benefit from the honing of it. With enough practice, he might even become one of the best pilots not only in the Order, but in the whole galaxy. After all, not many humans could have survived, nonetheless won a Podrace.

Gazing up at the stars, which I saw in a whole new light after my exchange with Anakin, I thought that Qui-Gon had provided me with more than a responsibility when he had handed the training of Anakin over to me― he had given me a gift. That is, something about Anakin's spontaneity and his flair for the dramatic reminded me of my Master, and, although that caused a pang of hurt to flash through my heart, it also raised my spirits somehow, because I knew that I needed someone around to soften my clenched-jaw insistence on complete correctness as Qui-Gon had done, and now I had Anakin to do that for me.

Yet, I had to be careful, I warned myself, because the fact that Anakin reminded me so much of my Master could create numerous complications. After all, since he was so like my late Master, I could very well end up turning a blind eye to flaws I should chide out of him. However, there was also the equal and opposite risk that I would scold out attributes that I shouldn't have just because they had aggravated me in Qui-Gon.

I would have to tread very carefully indeed, I noted, as I walked across the balcony and back into the sleeping quarters I shared with Anakin. When I entered, I discovered that I must have been reflecting for longer than I had imagined out on the terrace, for my Padawan was already crumpled upon his sleep couch in the dark room. Obviously, his dreams were more of a torment than a sweet release if his flailing legs and frantic muttering of, "No, Mom― I don't want to leave you" were any indicators.

Studying the fitful slumber of the boy, I wondered briefly what to do. Should I wake him up or let him sleep and work through his emotions that way? When Anakin emitted an anguished shriek, my indecision was terminated abruptly, and I hurried across the room.

"Anakin, wake up," I commanded, shaking his shoulder when I reached his sleep couch. Like me, he must have been a light sleeper, unlike Qui-Gon, who could snooze through my rearranging half the furniture in our quarters if I didn't create a disturbance in the Force while doing so, for he jolted upright instantly.

"What's going on?" Anakin demanded as he sat up, looking around our quarters as though he was certain that we had been attacked by an enemy in the middle of the night.

"You had a nightmare," I informed him.

"It was about my mother." His moist blue eyes locked on mine, Anakin's fingers began fiddling with his sheets. "I miss her so much." Now his chin quivered as the tears in his eyes trickled down his cheeks. "And I miss Qui-Gon, too. I can't let them go even if that's what Jedi are supposed to do, Master."

"Yes, you can," I told him firmly. "By saying 'can't' you limit yourself, and Jedi don't do that."

"Maybe I can, then, but I don't know how," Anakin maintained stubbornly.

"Then I shall teach you," I educated him, stifling the urge to grin. Regaining my seriousness, I admitted, "I miss Qui-Gon too, because he was basically my father as well as my teacher."

"He was the closest thing I had to a father, too," whispered Anakin. "He answered all my questions and didn't yell at me or beat me like Watto did."

As I realized how much this boy must have lacked a male role model to admire and strive to emulate if he had clung like a drowning being would to any piece of timber no matter how frail to the first man who had treated him with any semblance of kindness, I swallowed and went on, "We both loved him, but the point is that we must go on living. After all, he wouldn't wish for us to wallow in grief. Instead, he would want us to continue on without him. It will be difficult at first, but once you get started, it will become gradually easier."

I paused long enough to shoot him a significant glance before resuming, "Your mother would want you to work to achieve your dreams as well. Since she really loved you, she wouldn't wish to be the one who held you back from reaching your full potential."

Although he eyed me dubiously, as though he doubted that I truly understood what he was enduring, Anakin didn't argue. Instead, he just flopped back onto his sleep couch. Watching him curl up in a fetal position, it hit me that he really must be chilled on this watery world when he was accustomed to life in a sandy and sunny desert, and I grabbed a blanket off my own sleep couch and threw it over him. Sheets never benefited me much anyway, since I always ended up rolling out of them, so they would doubtlessly be better employed warming a shivering Anakin.

"Good night, my young Padawan," I said softly as I rose from his sleep couch. It was the first time that I had ever referred to Anakin as my Padawan, but the term emerged from my lips naturally. Remembering that I had been addressed in the exact same fashion by Qui-Gon even during the Naboo mission, I amended, "My very young Padawan."

That sounded better since it was more precise, I thought, but Anakin disagreed.

"I'm nine," he scowled.

"Which makes you very young," I clinched, as I crossed over to my sleep couch and pulled my nightclothes out from under my pillow. Anakin snorted, but made no further protest, and soon our sleeping quarters was filled with the sound of his slow, deep breathing.