Well, that had been...that had been something. Orran wasn't even entirely sure how to process it just at this moment. But one thing he was sure of?

His niece had survived where his sister had not.

And she was now in the custody of the Alliance. Indefinitely. Oh, it had been agreed that after she had fulfilled her end of the bargain that had been struck, she'd be set free, but even as absolutely stunned and dazed as he was over the revelation of the Dark Lady Obscura's true identity—she was Neva's daughter! Her daughter!—Orran Adyé knew better. Athara would be lucky to ever be freed. Even if she were to serve up the Emperor on a silver platter.

All because of a few of his comrades and their irrational conviction that her former affiliations made her irredeemably evil. If there was one thing Orran had come to learn in the long, hard years since the Empire had been formed, it was that no one was irredeemably evil just as no one was pristinely good.

Save perhaps the Emperor. And Tarkin, while he'd still been alive. They were likely wholly irredeemable.

And Darth Vader? Well, it wouldn't be politic to admit it, but given what he had heard back in the Council room? Orran couldn't help a tiny flicker of doubt.

But there were those, like General Draven, who had latched onto the idea that those in the Emperor's inner circles, including Athara thanks to her proximity to Vader—years ago, now, Orran realized with a jolt—were anything but redeemable.

Orran couldn't think like that. He was Nabooian. They believed in an inherent good in all. Save a select few who had proven themselves unworthy, of course...

His thoughts were interrupted then, and he was not at all pleased to recognize the voice calling out to get his attention.

"So. You and Obscura share a last name." Orran bristled at Draven's comment, turning back to the Intelligence Officer. The General stood with his arms crossed, staring intently, even accusingly, at the Nabooian Officer.

"I believe she made it clear that she doesn't like that name," Orran said calmly back, deflecting the question. He had no interest in sharing his family history with the man. What was Draven expecting him to say, anyway? Naturally, Draven ignored the comment.

"It is curious, isn't it," he said, his tone nearly theatrical even as it was patronizing. Orran took a step toward Draven, his temper beginning to rise. The General merely sneered. But Orran didn't back down, meeting the other man's resolved gaze head on.

"Do you have something to say, Draven?"

"I don't know. Do you?" A sneer of his own threatened at his colleague's tone, Orran's self-control quickly becoming strained.

"Gentlemen?" They both turned at the mild, knowing voice of their Leader. Mon Mothma looked between the two of them, her gaze thoughtful and measuring. "Is this really the appropriate place?" Orran's eyes dropped from the mildly admonishing gaze of hers. Draven too had the sense to look abashed, though his features had grown slightly pinched. With a graceful gesture, Mon Mothma motioned them on to the meeting room just on down the corridor. Reluctantly, on both their parts Orran noticed with a grim sort of amusement, both men complied. No sooner had the door slid shut behind them than Mon Mothma had fixed both of them with a penetrating look.

"Now," she said softly, her tone faintly hard with displeasure as she took a seat at the ovoid table, "would either of you care to explain to me why two of my high-ranking council members were at each other's throats?" Orran breathed in deeply, further reining back his temper even as he was carefully formulating what to say in response; old habits die hard. Draven, however held no such compunctions. He straightened, his expression bordering on defiant as he clasped his hands behind his back.

"As head of the Alliances' Intelligence division, it is my job to gather intelligence that could provide us with any advantage we can get as well as to ensure to our security. Unfortunately, Commander Adyé, here, has little interest in cooperating." Orran nearly scoffed at the level of self-importance Draven was demonstrating. How the man's ego remained so inflated considering how many times he had been reprimanded by Alliance leadership was beyond him. But he had better self-control than that. Mostly. Draven caught sight of his poorly hidden aggravation.

"You have something to say, Commander Adyé? I take my duty very seriously."

"Oh, I know you do," Orran said, unable to entirely hide the scathing thread to his projected deference. Out of the corner of his eye, he was sure he saw Mon Mothma subtly concealing a grin.

"Orran," Mon Mothma admonished gently, causing both men to glance to her. She spared both a pointed look before turning to Draven. "Just what was it you were hoping to learn?" Draven's eyes glinted, and Orran bit back yet another scathing comment. Though Draven's lips were still pressed together in a stern line, the man was practically smirking. He straightened further.

"His connection to Obscura." At the declaration Orran was once again bristling, his jaw clenching lest he snap at the General again. "Surely," Draven continued, "it cannot have escaped your notice, Ma'am, that they share a rather uncommon family name unique to Naboo."

'How presumptuous of you," Orran couldn't resist muttering...not that the man was wrong...it was the principle. Mon Mothma shot him another of her effective admonishing looks, but she did level Draven with a look that quickly had the General hesitating.

"He does have a point, Davits," she said. "A shared last name does not automatically make him complicit with her." This time it was Draven bristling.

"Ma'am, I made no such assumption," he objected, only for his mouth to snap shut as Mon Mothma's brow rose in silent challenge. She was not stupid, their leader, and after so many years, she knew Draven too well. But then the General was recovering, the look he leveled on Orran just barely short of an outright glare before he looked back to the former Senator.

"Ma'am, his unexplained sympathy toward Obscura cannot have gone unnoticed by the rest of the council," Draven declared hotly, gesturing toward Orran. He straightened, his own temper once again rising. The presumptuous, suspicious, conceited, arrogant—

"And he was not the only one, General," Mon Mothma said, her tone far more sharp than Orran had ever heard. "I myself am convinced of the truth in her story and the merits of her continued presence. Indeed, the value of her knowledge is not something we can easily dismiss. Do you consider me to be complicit with the Empire because of it?" Draven flinched, shame-faced for a split-second, though his eyes still glinted angrily. But he recovered quickly enough.

"Of course not, Ma'am," he acknowledged, his voice only nominally contrite thanks to the bitterness that lingered, "but sharing a family name with the Dark Lady Obscur—"

"That is not her name," Orran snapped, the words out of his mouth before he'd even realized they were there on his tongue. Draven's eyes flashed as he rounded on Orran.

"You refuse to answer simple questions on your relationship to a top-level Imperial agent and yet you insist on defending her. And you wonder why that causes doubt?"

"Draven," Mon Mothma cut in crossly, but the General paid her no notice.

"Is my loyalty in question," Orran demanded, growing more irate himself by the insinuation. "Because if it is, stop beating around the bush and say it, Davits!"

"Perhaps it is," Draven sneered back. "Why else would you side with Vader's lackey over the Alliance unless you were in league with her?"

"I didn't even know her real name until today; I've never even spoken to the girl."

"Then why would you defend her, Adyé?"

"Because she's my niece, Draven," Orran finally blurted out in a fit of frustration. Draven and Mon Mothma froze, both looking to him in astonishment. The former Senator was the first to recover.

"Your niece?" she asked, the faintest of wavers in her voice the only indication of how shaken she was by his declaration. Orran nodded, his temper cooling in the face of his lingering heartache at thinking of his sister rising in his chest.

"My sister Neva—you may have known her, Ma'am; she was Senator Padmé Amidala's Aide when the Republic fell." Mothma nodded absently, recognition flickering briefly across her face. "She came back to Naboo a little over a standard year and a half after her disappearance following Amidala's funeral. She had a newborn daughter with her...named Athara."

Draven had the nerve to scoff. "And you think Obscura is that baby?" Orran fixed him with a hard look.

"Yes," he bit back with obvious aggravation. Mon Mothma held up a placating hand.

"How can you be sure," she asked, not unkindly. Orran sighed, his sorrow fighting with his anger at Draven, who was still staring at the Nabooian with narrowed eyes.

"It all fits. Neva was allegedly killed by a Jedi, but everyone on Naboo knew Vader was the true culprit responsible for her death. Our family all believed Athara killed too, but..." he hesitated, looking to the Alliance's Leader, "...but if she was Force-sensitive? It stands to reason that Vader might take her. Force-users were rare enough before the Jedi were wiped out; she'd be a tempting pawn for him or the Emperor." Draven made an unsatisfied sound, his face broadcasting his skepticism.

"Circumstantial reasoning at best," he dismissed. "We have no way of—"

"I recognize her," Orran interrupted conclusively, his tone brooking no argument. "She looks uncannily like my sister," inadvertently he smiled as his thoughts turned toward memory, "and she has the same spirit Neva did when she was angry." Mon Mothma couldn't seem to help the smile that came to her face at the admission.

But Draven wasn't convinced, determined, it seemed, to test Orran's certainty by picking apart his words.

"How could you know it was Vader who killed your sister?" the General challenged cynically. Orran scoffed.

"The Empire claimed it was Obi-wan Kenobi who killed her. Completely ridiculous. There was no way. Certainly no one on Naboo believed it, though it's never said aloud. Many of my people believe the Jedi were incapable of doing the things the Empire claims they did. Even those who have known nothing save the Emperor's rule are not taken in by his propaganda. And certainly nothing the Empire said about Kenobi was believed. He's a hero to us, and that will never change. We still remember what he and his Master Qui-gon Jinn and his apprentice Anakin Skywalker did for our people during the Trade Federation Invasion when I was a child. We are indebted to him. My people still love him." A faint frown marred the Chandrilian's brow as a thought struck her. She looked thoughtfully up to Orran.

"But why Kenobi?" Orran frowned in return until she clarified. "Why would the Empire claim it was Kenobi specifically who killed her?" Orran shrugged.

"Perhaps because of his status as a hero on Naboo? Trying to turn popular opinion against him and the Jedi by claiming he was the one to kill a formerly elected Queen? It can't have been a secret that our planet—Palpatine's planet—hadn't turned so decisively against the Jedi as the rest of the Galaxy had...not that it worked, if that was the intent.

"Besides," Orran added, "he was one of the most prominent Jedi of the day, if not the most prominent one left unaccounted for after the Jedi Purge, and he just vanished. It's rumoured that Darth Vader had it out for him in particular. Perhaps they believed him hiding on Naboo because of his status there and they hoped it might flush him out." Mon Mothma nodded thoughtfully, her hand rising so a curled finger could tap lightly against her lips. Draven, on the other hand, looked incredulous.

"Ma'am, really. This is not the issue at hand." But the Alliance's leader paid him little mind, looking back to Orran.

"It is a logical explanation," she mused softly, "but not the only one..." she trailed off, but then another thought seemed to hit her. "Correct me if I'm wrong, but Kenobi was a dear friend of Senator Amidala, was he not?" Not entirely following, Orran nodded. That had been well known both on and off Naboo; they had fought together to liberate Orran's Homeplanet and their names had commonly been connected during the course of the Clone Wars until Amidala's death and Kenobi's disappearance. Off to the side, Draven scoffed, his features nearly petulant and he gave up trying to redirect the conversation.

"And did your sister also know Kenobi?" Mon Mothma continued. Orran paused, fixing the Alliance's leader with a sharp look. What was she implying...

"Yes," he admitted hesitantly after a conflicted moment of thought, "she worked with him during the Clone Wars when he was on a mission to Naboo, right before she was elected Queen. He also saved her life during an assassination attempt when she won. It's another reason the claim that he was the one to kill her is so ridiculous." Mon Mothma leveled him with a searching look.

"Were they close?" Orran frowned, bewildered. Surely she wasn't suggesting...

"She always spoke very highly of him," he murmured almost automatically, his mind spinning, examining every time he could recall Neva mentioning the Jedi. She'd always seemed rather fond of Kenobi, yet she had always insisted they were no more than acquaintances whenever anyone in their family, Orran included, had teased her on what they perceived to be her infatuation with the famous Jedi.

Though, in retrospect, perhaps she had insisted just a little too strongly...

"Is it possible?" the Chandrilian pressed gently. It was asked so quietly he nearly didn't hear her over the ambient noises of the busy ship around them or the volume of his own thoughts. It couldn't be, could it? It was well known that the Jedi foreswore attachments like that...and yet...many people believed Luke Skywalker could be Anakin Skywalker's son; why couldn't Kenobi have sired a child as well? Mon Mothma was looking at him like she already read the answer on his face. She knew he'd caught on to where her own train of thought had gone. This woman was not one of the greatest politicians and leaders in the Galaxy without reason.

He sighed heavily, massaging the bridge of his nose as he thought it over.

The truth of the matter was he just didn't know...but it was indeed possible.

"She refused to tell us about her husband—though I distinctly remember her calling him as much; I was fifteen at the time. She insisted it was for his protection as well as hers and her daughter's that she keep his identity from us. 'Ben' was the only name we got. Nothing else. No more clues. Nothing. That alone..." The older woman frowned, looking thoughtful.

"Commander Skywalker refers to Master Kenobi as 'Ben' in conversation," she murmured thoughtfully. Orran started. He hadn't known that. She looked back to Orran, her expression sympathetic. "It would make some of the more murky details of your theory far clearer if Kenobi and your sister's 'Ben' were on and the same," she said gently. Slowly Orran nodded, still trying to reconcile the idea with the already astonishing realizations he'd been confronted with about Vader's shadow.

"It's not a theory," he objected automatically, barely even realizing he'd said it. The more he thought about it, the more plausible and even probable it seemed. The more logical it seemed.

In those weeks before the Election all those years ago, every time he and his family had spoken to Neva, her face had always lit up in the most curious way whenever she'd spoken of Kenobi; his parents had always exchanged sad, knowing looks when the communications ended that he hadn't understood then. And after she'd been injured and he'd left Naboo? Even after she'd gone to Coruscant with Senator Amidala? That light had faded, his sister instead carrying a trace of sadness with her instead. Orran had barely noticed it then, but he remembered hearing his parents talking about it when they thought they were alone.

But when Neva had appeared at their door—months after disappearing without a word or a trace once the Empire had formed and Amidala had been buried—with a newborn daughter in her arms?

The light had been back.

Could she have really been in love with—married to?!—Obi-wan Kenobi?

His head was beginning to ache.

To say nothing of his heart.

And as he met Mon Mothma's eye, he knew he didn't need to say a word.

She understood.

A/N: Thanks for reading!

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