Disclaimer: I intend no infringement on the rights of Lucasfilm and related affiliates by writing this fic. The Maker owns everything. The Jedi Apprentice series belongs to Jude Watson and Scholastic.

Summary: The Republic is in chaos. The Senate is in shambles. The Jedi are in hiding. And through it all, Qui-Gon Jinn will fight to prove that the bonds of love can conquer anything – even the Dark Side. But what happens if he's wrong? The final installment in the Jedi Trials saga.

Turmoil and Sacrifice

By Kekelina

Chapter Ten: Two Sides of the Same Coin

Security forces were en route to Nar Shaddaa within a day of Dementor's transmission. They came in droves from across the galaxy, first from Druckenwell and Bothawui, and then the farther Core Worlds, including Corellia and Onderon. The Hutts balked at their presence, insisting that the Republic forces remove themselves from Hutt Space immediately, to no avail. The Republic guards teemed across the Smuggler's Moon with little regard for the Hutts, vigorously searching for the cunning Sith Lord.

Foolish, pitiful, predictable creatures. He had long since departed the rotting wasteland of greed and deceit and jumped into hyperspace, safe once again from the Republic's diminutive forces. It was almost too easy to avoid them; their minds were unintelligent and weak. They possessed as much knowledge of strategy as a herd of bildogs. They were easily manipulated, and it would work to his advantage.

He would let them chase him, let them believe they were triumphant in frightening him into remission, when in actuality, they were merely pawns in his scheme. For with every painstakingly obvious step he took, with every planet he destroyed, every family he murdered, he would move closer to his true destination: the Core Worlds, specifically Alderaan.

The subtle whisper of the Force, like a lover in his ear, had drawn him to this dastardly plan. To Alderaan, it cooed. To the last of the Jedi.

He had fled foolishly after Coruscant, fearful of retaliation from a dilapidated Order. Self-preservation had gotten the better of him, an echo of the dying Jedi inside of him, feebly trying to crawl his way out. Some nights, in the dark solitude of space, as he reached for the everlasting icy grip of the Dark Side, he could feel him retching, overcome by the vile power. He would thrash against his mind, screaming – pleading – to be freed. Sometimes the quiet voice of the deceased Siri Tachi would encourage the battered, broken Jedi.

It was these nights that Dementor feared, when the lingering traces of Obi-Wan Kenobi struggled to escape.

At first, it had been easy to ignore the mewling Jedi and his cries. They had been frail, hardly peskier than a persistent itch. But his strength had grown over time, emboldened by the Light's desperate effort to renew him, and what had once been nothing more than a passing thought had become a full-scale war upon his psyche.

In his mind, the Jedi thrashed. He lurched against the Dark Side, and struggled to counter-attack it with the Light. Dementor could feel his wretched attempts to draw in the intoxicating righteousness of the Force. The bright white tendrils nauseated him; often, he felt the galaxy spinning, and would have to forcefully stop himself from moving until the vertigo passed. It was then, when he was at his weakest, that the Jedi would begin to beseech him to turn back. Death and destruction is not worth the reward, he would say. Revenge has gained you nothing.

Dementor would smirk then, his wild yellow eyes flaming with passion and emotion, as he laughed away the Jedi's naivety. Revenge had given him the swift deaths of Anakin Skywalker and most of the Jedi. It had brought never-ending guilt-ridden pain to Qui-Gon Jinn. It had created a galaxy ruled by unrelenting fear and destruction. Even now, the capital lay in ruins as chaos ruled its streets. The Jedi were still too shamed by their defeat to rescue the crumbling city and its condemned inhabitants.

Inside, he could feel Obi-Wan weeping in anguish, overcome by grief, despair and guilt. Dementor knew the Jedi blamed himself for everything that had transpired. He relentlessly chastised himself for being weak and succumbing to the delusions of Darth Sidious. The Sith did not disagree, for it had been the Jedi's own feeble, pathetic will that had created the monster within. A proper Jedi, he taunted, would have rather sacrificed himself than become what I have become. Obi-Wan would grow silent then, mournful, and for a few moments there would be peace in his tremulous mind.

But the silence would not last, and their wicked dance would continue, as always ending in an impasse. They were the light and the dark – two sides of the same coin – lost in a myriad of stalemates. Neither could win while the other survived.

Oh, how relentlessly he had tried to destroy the feeble wisp of the decaying Jedi Knight. But Obi-Wan was stronger than he gave him credit for, and he withstood every onslaught of terror that the Sith threw at him. No matter how disgustingly putrefying and vile its rank stench was as Dementor sank into the oozing black pit of despair, the Jedi remained. His stomach churned and his head ached like the pounding of tribal drums, but still he stood fast like a weatherworn statue.

Dementor, for one, was beginning to tire of their cruel symbiotic relationship. He had grown to dread the voice that pleadingly whispered to him in the dead of night, you can change. He resented the memories the Jedi forced him to relive – happy memories of happier times.

Just him and Qui-Gon.

No, Dementor would scream silently, thrashing against the assault. His memories with Qui-Gon had never been happy. Bandomeer. Telos. Melida/Daan. New Apsolon. Worlds haunted by his failure to be the perfect Padawan Qui-Gon Jinn required. He had always been too rash, too angry, too passionate, and in later years, too stodgy and bent on following the Code to the letter. Nothing he did had ever been enough for the man who required everything and gave nothing in return. All he had wanted was Qui-Gon's approval, but when the time had come, he had abandoned him for someone better.

Anakin may have been the best Padawan Qui-Gon had taught, but now Dementor was the best of the worst. Even Xanatos and his great escape could not compare with the wretched destruction he had wrought. If he could not hear his former Master shower him with praise, then he wanted to hear him howl in rage. For he had done this – all of this – to prove one simple thing to the hallowed Qui-Gon Jinn:

He could be the best at something, even if that thing was taking over the galaxy.

The Qui-Gon's expression as he murdered his Padawan and stole his leg had been vindication enough. Heartbreak. Betrayal. Grief. Guilt. All of them deliciously apparent on the usually stoic Jedi Master's face. So, he had whispered to himself. You do feel pain. Too often as a Padawan he had wondered if his Master had cared about anything or anyone. For he had often worn a mask of apathy across his face, and kind words had been few and far between.

Or perhaps it had just been young, vulnerable Obi-Wan of whom Qui-Gon had disproved, his patent Jedi serenity concealing his brutal disdain.

Always more questions to which he did not know the answers. Despite their thirteen long years together, his Master had always been a mystery, and even now, with the power that Dementor held, he doubted he would discover the answers. He wasn't sure he wanted them now; the time for truth had passed, and the time for action leaped forward.

He would destroy the last of the cowardly Jedi right in front of Qui-Gon's cold eyes. He would force his former Master to watch in bleeding silence as he killed his friends and family. This, he imagined himself cooing in his clipped Coruscanti accent, standing atop a mountain of rotten corpses, is your fault, Qui-Gon Jinn. All of it is your fault. Qui-Gon would not argue; perhaps he would pale and shiver, remembering similar words spoken by a similar man.

"You destroyed me because you could not save me. I am your biggest failure. Live with this."

He could feel the time approaching, and the final pieces beginning to fall into place. Surely by now Qui-Gon had sprang into action against him, feverishly searching the throes of the galaxy for the Sith Lord. Perhaps now he scoured Nar Shaddaa along with security forces, aggressively pursuing any thin thread of hope.

Too late. Dementor had already successfully demolished any and all links to himself and his business on the Smuggler's Moon. They were blind nexu chasing a wily bark rat; they would never catch him. But it was the chase that mattered.

He pulled the nearly-forgotten holopic out of the pocket hidden in his black robes and lightly traced the holographic faces with the soft tips of his fingers. The Naberries, the caption read in plain script. The Dark Side sang in anticipation of his evil deeds. He would be stirring up a wild nest of gundarks, going after an innocent family whose only crime had been giving birth to the Supreme Chancellor of the Republic. If possible, it would burn more hatred into the hearts of the people, and secure his place as the most reprehensible man in the galaxy. Hatred would saturate the universe, and the fires of the Dark Side would rage.

No, Obi-Wan; don't.

The Sith snarled, baring his teeth as he turned on his heel. There was no one in sight, as he stood outside the peaceful cottage of Ruwee and Jobal Naberrie. There never was, and yet the voice – her voice – still whispered, pleading to the suppressed Jedi within him to take up arms against the monster and put an end to him. But the Jedi was weak and the Dark Side surge through his veins like a burning virus, contaminating every cell inside him. He pulsed with the dark energy, emboldened by the scalding heat and acute awareness of blood rising in his flesh.

You must stop, she breathed, but the terrified shrieks of his victims drowned out her desperate plea.

Four parsecs away, grim with defeat, Qui-Gon watched as the HoloNet reported the gruesome murders of Chancellor Amidala's entire family, including her two young nieces, at the hands of Darth Dementor. Grief welled up inside him, but he pushed it away, releasing it back into the Force with barely a thought.

Naboo. Obi-Wan was on Naboo.

With grace not expected from such a large man, he leapt from his seat and strode through the city with renewed purpose.