Unexpected Awakening (The Rewrite)

by Rhiw

Summary:

The life of General Kenobi is cut short at the hands of his Padawan, but the sight that greets his eyes upon awakening is not that of blinding light of the Force, but the Jedi Temple he knew when he was still a youth. As he struggles to understand the path laid out before him, Obi-Wan unwittingly captures the attention of a singularly unusual Temple Guard, and that of a reluctant Qui-Gon Jinn.

Chapter 1: Grief, Part 1

The Temple was on high-alert, the hallways and common areas uncharacteristically barren for a building so usually filled with life regardless of the hour. Temple Guards walked the halls with a singular determination, their movements silent despite their layered garb. The Temple's head of security - Cin Drallig, blue eyes hard and shrewd - stalked among them like fortitude manifested.

The hour was very late and the halls were mostly empty, save for the occasional youngling or Padawan that moved under the protective eves of a hovering Master or two, and even the Knights seemed to have taken to traveling in groups. The cause of the unease was an unprecedented attack on the Temple – an EMP strike so strong that it had blasted out half the windows and fried circuitry on the mid-floors. There had been no sign of the attackers, no demands made upon the Temple, and the feeling at whole was that it was some sort of terrorist attack, though no group had come forward to claim it.

From where he stood, tucked carefully into a dark corner where a balcony curved to meet the wall and an oversized potted plant, Obi-Wan Kenobi watched the drawn faces of his fellows, his own expression a twisted composition of unabashed awe and guilt. He was still completely unsure of what was going on, too frightened to put belief in what his own eyes – and the Force – told him.

Because what was before his eyes was an impossibility.

He had seen the Temple burning; burning and littered with the bodies of the only family he had ever known. Dead from the hand of the only boy Obi-Wan had ever called ‘Padawan.’ A boy who, if he was utterly honest to himself, Obi-Wan had called ‘brother.’ Instinctively, Obi-Wan tightened his shields to keep the raging maelstrom of horror and guilt from alerting the shades he watched. He didn’t understand; one moment, he had been flat on his back, the heat of Mustafar sinking through his robes, Anakin standing above him – his eyes a brilliant blazing golden-red, like twin suns, the darkside swirling around him like a physical caress, that once clever smirk now hardened and twisted into something terrifying. “A gift from Padawan to his Master,” his boy had snarled, his lightsaber a bright blur as it descended, and then –

Then, Obi-Wan had found himself on his knees in his childhood room, vomiting until he felt like he had nothing left in his body. His heart had felt like it was trying to sear its way through his chest, and the confused Jedi had clawed at the beige carpet beneath his hands, taking stuttering and desperate breathes in distress and confusion as the lights around him had flickered before exploding violently and throwing the windowless room into darkness. By the time Master Kant had come to check on him, looking hale and whole despite the fact that she had died nearly ten years ago, Obi-Wan was already staring blankly at his youthful visage in the mirror. Thankfully, the Twi’lek had thought his shock and terror was related to the attack and had simply pulled him tightly to her side before ushering him into her personal quarters with the rest of the Boma Clan members.

The sight of the youthful faces of his once-Creche mates had robbed him of nearly all sanity, and only three years of nearly constant war had kept what he was feeling from escaping him. Even now, thinking of how young (young and alive, so blissfully, impossibly alive) his childhood friends had looked made his throat tight and his eyes burn. Even the surly faces of Bruck Chun and Siri Tachi made Obi-Wan’s heart gallop in his chest. He took a steadying breath, trying to calm the panicked emotions and winced, a hand reflexively griped his tunic over his chest. Alongside his whiplash emotions, the strange, aching throb in his heart has been the only constant over the last day. It was a queer burning sensation, one that seemed to spread out and into his lungs and Obi-Wan found himself digging his knuckles into the tunic, as if the kneed would somehow quiet it.

The sensation didn’t quiet though and Obi-Wan turned soundlessly, moving through the upper hall to a nearby sitting room, the sight of the prowling Guards suddenly too much. He should be dead, one with the Force, and yet – and yet –

He stumbled across the empty room and rested his head against the expansive viewing window there. The cold felt like a balm against his heated skin and Obi-Wan closed his eyes in relief at the feel of it, greedily pressing his palms against the smooth glass. He tried to quiet his mind, tried to bring some sort of order to his thoughts, to find his center, and when it would not come he desperately reached out to the Force. Just as it had answered his summons all day, he felt the welcome familiarity of its touch, and basked in the feel of so many Jedi around him even as his mind railed at the incredibility of it all. For so long, the Force had been Obi-Wan’s only comfort; the only friend he knew that he would never lose. It was the never erring guide that kept him moving during the war, that kept his faith when he found himself overwhelmed by the death and destruction around him - a light when all else had fallen to darkness.

It spoke to him now, its voice low and muted, but the words unchanged; this was no trick, no illusion. The impossibility of it still bit at him, but the Force was so clear, clearer then Obi-Wan had ever heard it before. Somehow, this was the past. His fingers curled around the glass, feeling the familiar sting of tears to his eyes. He had cried more in the last day then Obi-Wan could ever recall crying in his entire life; but it was just too much.

Just – Just too much.

Anakin.

He let out a choked sound, the clicking of his throat swallowing loud in the room. Why was here? Why had the Force brought him here? After everything, Obi-Wan just wanted to curl up somewhere and disappear. Death had been almost welcomed when Anakin had brought it to him. Anakin. His Anakin. A Sith. His Padawan, the very boy that he had raised, had spent battle after battle at his side, had watched with pride and fondness as he grew like a weed, who always had a quip or a joke to make Obi-Wan laugh, even in the cruelest of battles, who was the closest thing to blood family Obi-Wan had ever had and –

How had it all gone so wrong? How had he failed his padawan so? Obi-Wan took another shuddering breath, eyes squeezing shut as fought to control himself, but the self-deprecating thoughts would not stop. How had it come to this? How had it ended in the destruction of the Order? Of the death of so many, of the death of poor Padmé? How had he let this happen? How had he ever thought he could train the boy? Why had he ever thought himself ready? Why had he insisted on taking Anakin on as an apprentice the same day he’d been Knighted? It was almost unheard of; most Knights waited at least two or more years before taking a padawan. And to take one so old, so wild and untrained…But Obi-Wan knew why he had done it, and that failure stung most of all. He had wanted to protect his Master’s memory, to fulfill his last wish. So, his mind threw at him bitterly, not only a Padawan did you fail, but a Master as well. Not just a Master, but the Order

He bowed his head, hands sliding over his eyes and over hair shorn short, to clasp his head tightly, fingernails digging in deep. He couldn’t handle this – not this. All this time, Obi-Wan was sure it would be the war that broke him. Either by the death of another friend that finally snapped his spirit, or through the constant death that littered the Force until Obi-Wan swore he could feel its scarring touch on his very soul. And then Anakin – but it was this. It was this that would finally break him, Obi-Wan was sure of it. Before he at least had a goal, a direction. Win the battle, keep his padawan alive, support his friends, protect his men, save the Republic, stop Anakin. But now? He felt utterly lost with no clear path in mind. And how could Obi-Wan face them? How could he face the very people that he failed so utterly and completely?

So wrapped in his own self-hatred, Obi-Wan nearly jumped out of his skin when he felt the prickle of another's approach. He swung around, eyes wide in surprise to find a Temple Guard standing just a few paces behind him. The flare of alarm he felt faded at the sight of stern grey and bronze mask, but even as his mind registered no threat, he was still stunned. It had been years since someone had managed to get the jump on him like that. Had he truly been so lost in his own thoughts?

“Initiate,” the Guard greeted, his Coruscant accent crisp and cool, detached from any emotional inflection. The Jedi Guards were plucked from the best of the Knight ranks – an honor some said, a heavy sacrifice said others – and from the moment they donned their masks, left behind their identities in a study of the ultimate form of emotional detachment. They were allowed no attachments to any in the Order - no friendship or Master-Padawan bond was allowed to remain, nor would any apprentice they ever take. Even their lightsaber pikes were assigned to them, crafted by another, and all bearing the same amber crystals.

“Knight Guard.”

 “You are aware that there is a curfew in effect, are you not?”

“I needed some air.” Obi-Wan said quietly, looking down at his slippered feet. “I am...unsettled. I’m sorry, I know it was wrong of me to leave my room.”

He was unsure of why he was lying; he was unsure of why he had been lying all day, strangely desperate to keep his…secret…from those around him. He had lied to Master Kant, to Bant and Garen, their sweet little faces scrunched in confused concern, to his instructors, to all that had questioned his rattled persona.

But Obi-Wan clung to it tightly, determined to keep anyone from finding out what he was halting coming to believe was true. Time travel. What a madness was he living? Had he lost his mind? Was he still laying on Mustafar, waiting for Anakin to strike, his sanity shattered beyond belief? The Guard watched him for a moment, the silent stillness between them almost startling, and he wondered just what the Jedi in front of him saw. His shields were intact he knew, but what use were they now? Even as he tried to pull himself together, Obi-Wan could feel the staccato beat of his heart, the heavy weight of his swollen eyelids, the flush of his face and neck. The Guard’s head tilted to the side ever so slightly, just enough to make his hood shift and reveal a shock of ash blond hair. Obi-Wan’s lips twitched, but gave no other sign of his surprise.

That one act may be more personality then he’d ever seen from a Guard before.

The odd act seemed to break some of the haze around him, and already Obi-Wan could feel himself rallying, shoulders rolling back, spine straightening, face smoothing out as he folded his arms – only to abort the moment awkwardly when he realized he wore no robe to hide his trembling hands in.

“What Creche do you belong to?”

“The Boma Clan, sir.”

The Guard nodded, stepping back and gesturing towards the sitting room’s open entryway. “Come, I will return you to your Creche Master, youngling.”

Obi-Wan nodded and tried to strengthen the quiver to his knees as he walked, allowing the Guard to guide him towards the nearest turbolift. The return to the youngling living quarters was a long, silent one, and though the Guard was masked Obi-Wan could swear he could feel the weight of the Knight’s eyes. As the last lift’s doors opened to the youngling quarters, Obi-Wan felt a small smile take his lips at the sight of a frantic Master Kant storming down the hallway towards him.

“Obi-Wan Kenobi!” The Twi’lek’s voice was a mix between exasperation and naked relief, “you are determined to drive me to an early grave! I promise you, youngling, you will not be able to feel your legs by the time you finish all the meditation exercises I have…”

Master Kant’s rebuke faded off as she grew closer, her eyes widening as she took in Obi-Wan’s undoubtedly still blotchy face. The irritated lines on her face softened and before Obi-Wan could truly register what was happening, he was being swept into a tight hug. He tensed on instinct, a part of him so unused to gentleness after the chaos of the field, but almost instantly he felt himself go lax. He curled his arms tightly around Master Kant’s form, hands fisting against her back, pressing his face against her breast, and let himself breathe.

She smelled the same; a scent that Obi-Wan had long forgotten with age and yet somehow recognized on a primal level. Kant had been his caretaker since he had come to the Temple at two years old and the center of his world for the first five or so. How many nights had she held him close like this that first month, hushing and cooing to him as he whined and cried for his mother and father, for his brother? As he let her draw him closer, her fingers running comfortingly through his hair, the Force drifting from the pads of her fingers like a soothing blanket, the feeling of maternal safety and comfort her arms gave was so complete - so utterly felt - that Obi-Wan wondered how he could have ever forgotten her touch. 

“My poor little one,” Kant said softly, “this is not just about the attacks today, is it?” Obi-Wan felt a sob try to break through and die in his throat, nodding shakily in acknowledgement. Master Kant sighed, a motion he more felt than heard, as she maneuvered them towards his room. “You still have time before your birthday, Obi-Wan, you may still be chosen. And even if you are not, there is honor to be found in serving in the Corps as well, youngling. I promise you, all is not as lost as it seems.”

Obi-Wan clung tight to her – and tighter even still to her words – and allowed himself this moment of weakness, his tears soaking his Creche Master’s shoulder.

---

From where he stood, the Jedi Guard’s head tilted ever so slightly curiously to the side, watching as the pair retreat down the hallway and into a room at the far end. Master Kant’s voice was low murmurs, the Initiate’s form stiff and still even as he clung tightly to the Creche Master’s robes. He waited until they disappeared inside, the door sealing shut behind them, before turning and making his way back towards the lift. Soundlessly, he retraced his path to the small sitting room he’d found the distraught boy in. The Guard stood in the room for a moment, brows furrowed behind his mask, before approaching the window where’d he’d first spotted the Initiate.

The Force was strange here; it swirled with a quiet anxiousness, a feeling of something off balance, of something that was out of place. He reached out, fingers hesitating for a moment – even as he was unsure of what made him cautious – before touching the glass. A shock of despair and sorrow shot through the touch, a Force echo strong enough to make his breath catch, and the Guard yanked his fingers away. He took a stumbling step back, his hand rising quickly to pull his mask free, feeling all at once stifled behind it in a way he hadn’t since he’d first donned it. He stared at his tingling fingers, the memory of such horrified grief still making his heart pound and his stomach knot. His face twisted in confusion, glancing from his fingers to the glass.

What the kriff had that been?

“Guard?” A voice called from behind him, but the Knight didn’t break from his staring contest with the viewing window. A hand on his elbow shocked him into movement and he turned to find a frustrated Master Cin Drallig standing at his side. “Put your mask back on,” the Guard Captain said with after a moment, sighing. “We’ve talked about this before, Feemor. When not in the dormitory, the mask is always on.”

“Ah, yes, of course.” Feemor Gard cleared his throat, happy to slid his Guardian Mask back on if it hid his far too visible blush. He had been both flattered and surprised when had been offered a position among the Guard; flattered, because it had been unlooked for honor after being so blatantly repudiated by his once-Master, surprised because…well, no one would ever suspect that Feemor was one of the silent, unfeeling sentinels of the Temple. Feemor had always been reputed as a cheerful, easy-going Knight, and one that was generally well liked. But it had seemed like the right route when it had presented itself to him; Qui-Gon had been quite thorough in his sentiments, and his shunning of Feemor and their years of training together had left him as flat footed and unsure as he had felt those first few days after his first master, Locallakk, had been killed. And, yes, maybe the offer also came because he shared a lineage with Cin through Master Yoda, but Cin Drallig was also not the type of man who took anyone on out of pity. 

“Are you alright?" Cin asked after a moment, voice slightly kinder, "I thought I felt something…at unease.”

Feemor paused in his fiddling, the mask only half sealed. He shook his head after a moment, deciding to keep the troubled Initiate’s wandering to himself, and pressed the mask fully on. “Nothing. It was nothing.”

But even as he spoke those words, the haunted look in the boy’s reddened eyes – that flare of crippling sorrow – seemed burned into his mind.

…Obi-Wan Kenobi, huh?

Feemor would keep an eye on the youngling.

Just in case.

Notes:

Short introduction; mainly to see if I still got it in me to write Obi-Wan. Let me know how you guys feel.

Chapter 2: Grief, Part 2

Notes:

Thanks for the reviews, kudos, and comments guys! Good to know I still got it in me to write Star Wars. Enjoy the chapter.

Obi-Wan stood silently, numb legs giving a muted protest. He had been given the day off from his studies like the other younglings, but unlike them Obi-Wan had also been excused from the activities that the Creche Masters had come up with to keep them busy while the Temple was thoroughly searched for other threats. Not that there was a threat; no, Obi-Wan was positive that the electrical disturbance they had felt the morning before was more related to his arrival in this time than any outside threat. He knew little about what that could mean, only that the timing of the EMP blast and his entrance too close together to be anything else but.

He had slept heavily through the night, the sleep of someone completely and utterly spent. Master Kant had held him until his tears had puttered off into a muted, quazi-stare, humming quietly to him until exhaustion had finally taken Obi-Wan. Her soothing efforts were mostly in vain, though Obi-Wan would not deny that it had felt almost renewing to be held so tightly, both physically and in the Force. Obi-Wan had yet to hit the growth spurt that would see him past five feet, and the Twi’lek Master’s body had easily encompassed his own, and her Force signature had been calm and loving. It was the same fond, supporting presence that had stolen all his fear and homesickness away as a tot, a signature that promised welcome, and family, and warmth.

Obi-Wan had never quite lacked such things as a Jedi. There had been more than enough care and encouragement from his fellow Jedi; from his friends and more senior Masters, and at times even through Anakin and the clones that had served under him. But that had been comfort offered between adults, between equals or fellows, and that had been offered by Anakin or the clones were always ruled by the lines of their relationship, that is of Master and General. Such a thing was something that Obi-Wan had once longed for as a young man – the respect and acknowledgement that seemed to come so easily between Knights and Masters – and he had never discounted or belittled it as a man.

Yet as he laid cradled against Master Kant’s chest, Obi-Wan had felt stripped of the very defenses of his adult personage, a child once more. There was no expectation of reciprocity, no understanding that through their very nature, such concern and care should be returned if necessary. Such things were not expected of a youngling of the Jedi; their sole responsibly was to seek comfort and guidance when required and it would be offered with no expectations or requirements. It was a freeing as it was simple and when Obi-Wan had awoken, the clawing weight on his chest had lessened to a degree.

It had been a long, long time since High Jedi Master Obi-Wan Kenobi, Council Member, and General of the 212^th, had simply been sheltered.

He had spent nearly the entirety of the day in mediation, a concerned Master Kant bringing him meals and encouragement, her grey eyes growing more and more worried with each visit. Obi-Wan did his best to assuage her fears and luckily, she seemed to think almost all of his moroseness revolved around his rapidly approaching thirteenth birthday. Obi-Wan had felt a burst of fondness, so strong it had nearly stolen his breath, when she had returned at midmeal with a datapad crammed with information on the Jedi Service Corps.

He had never visited her much after being taken on as a Padawan, to ready to move onto the next chapter of his life, to embrace his destiny as a Jedi Knight-to-be when it had almost been ripped from his hands. Obi-Wan regretted that now, even if he recognized that such unintentional callousness was hardly uncommon in the young. And Master Kant herself could not have been surprised; the Boma clan was far from the first group of younglings she had guided from younglinghood.

Such understanding didn’t keep him from giving her a tight hug when she’d come to let him know he would have to attend the evening meal, her face bright with determination and declaring that some time with his friends would cheer him up. Master Kant had stiffened in surprise before practically melting into the hug when Obi-Wan had thanked her and promised he would attend.

The day in meditation had helped, though the answers to how or why he’d appeared in the past, or what he should do with himself now that he had, had not appeared to Obi-Wan. He’d had more than ample time to learn how to handle grief in his life, and though he couldn’t fully say that he had managed to move past the destruction of the Jedi Temple or Anakin’s betrayal, Obi-Wan could finally breath without feeling as if his heart was going to collapse into himself.

As promised, Obi-Wan joined his fellow clan mates in the hallway, gathered tightly together with the Wolf Clan as both their Creche Master and a handful of Temple Guards accompanied them to the mess hall. He fell into step quietly with Bant, Garen, and Reeft, his childhood friends, and listened with a blend of sorrow and fondness as they acted out – goofier and louder than normal – to try and engage him and raise his spirits.

It was odd to see them like this. Bant had died in the second year of the War, Reeft some years earlier on a negotiation mission which had gone sour, and Garen and his master had both been shot down and killed during one of the first battles of the Clone War. Obi-Wan had years to mourn them; he’d already accepted their loss, had learned to live with it, had learned how to put their memories away in a box in his mind until they no longer hurt so much to review. Grief – especially the loss of a loved one – was a complicated, cruel thing, something that fought and bit like a rabid animal in the first paces, only to become quiet and elusive in the latter ones. Like a phantom limb, a thought would stray – seemingly at random – across his mind and Obi-Wan would find the grief clawing at him, as sharp and poignant as it had been in those first few days of loss.

Obi-Wan felt it now as he watched his creche-mates, expression soft and smile equally so. He was so grateful that they lived, yet somehow the sight of their innocent, childish faces cut deeply. Perhaps it was because Obi-Wan could only remember how they’d looked as adults…or how they’d looked upon the funeral pyres, a stillness about them that could ever be equated through death. Or maybe it was the sheer vulnerability they represented with the delicateness of their features and squeaky high voices, of their lithe frames and small hands.

Obi-Wan pondered at the complexity of what he felt as he stood in line with his tray. He wondered if he should not be more grateful, more joyous, more elated, more…more, then this strange, edged turmoil he felt. Obi-Wan shook his head, a small smile on his face as he looked at the generic food the droids place on his plate. It was perfectly rationed to provide for a growing human boy and for one moment he missed his kitchen so badly that Obi-Wan almost felt like laughing. He’d never been overly fond of cooking, but he had gotten remarkably better at it once he’d had a youngling he was responsible for feeding.

The thought of Anakin made his smile droop and Obi-Wan was quick to push it away, envisioning himself crumpling the thought into a ball and tossing it far away. This was not the time to think of his padawan, not when he was in the open and so exposed. He turned with his now loaded tray and paused. His breath caught in his throat, his eyes tearing as he took in the sight of the full mess before him.

Nearly every Creche was present, save for the Dragon and Clawmouse clan, both whose members were too young to be able to eat the food at the mess, and they were carefully crowded together in the center tables, laughing and talking cheerfully. Knights and Masters were sat around them in the outer tables, far more in number than normally would be, undoubtedly an extra protection for the younglings in case a second attack came.

The mess was filled with the buzz of conversation and the hum of the Force, only slightly tainted by the concern of the older Jedi, and a contented-ness hovered above the group. Obi-Wan felt his hands tighten on his tray, taken by a singular conviction in that moment. Regardless of how he was going to do it, Obi-Wan knew that he would protect the Jedi Order with everything he had. He would not – could not – allow it to fall a second time. It had felt all day as if he was standing on the precipice of a cliff, the edge of a fulcrum that was unsure of which direction it was to fall. But now, even though Obi-Wan felt overwhelmed when he even tried to think of where to start, he was standing on solid ground for the first time. No, he thought with conviction, now matter what it cost, he would protect the Order.

A rough push from behind shook his from his thoughts and Obi-Wan stumbled forward ungracefully even as he threw a confused and annoyed look over his shoulder. Bruck Chun stood there, his hair halfway from escaping his pony tail and frizzy in the warm mess, looking irritated.

“Move, Oafy-Wan,” the boy said sourly, “who just stands in the middle of the line like that? I know your stupid, but come on!”

Obi-Wan stared at him, but obediently stood out of the way. He took in the boy’s face thoughtfully. Bruck was someone he’d almost completely forgotten about, outside of whatever lessons could be garnered from his death for Anakin’s training. There had once been trauma there, Obi-Wan knew, both in the bullying and the rivalry (a rivalry where Obi-Wan tended to loose more than he won) between the two of them that had once been such a blow to his youthful confidence, and in the fact that Bruck’s death had been one of the first one’s Obi-Wan had ever seen in person. He could still recall the way Bruck’s body had laid so disfigured and broken at the bottom of the waterfall in the Room of a Thousand Fountains, brought to death by his own ignorance and Xanatos’ manipulations. But the memory brought no pain; long ago Obi-Wan was able to put that demon away, with no little help from his Master may he add, and he watched the boy now with a strange mix of sympathy and pity.

“Sorry, Bruck." Some of it most have shown in his voice, or perhaps given their tumultuous relationship the even civility of it was shocking enough, because Bruck’s eyebrows shot up in surprise, but Obi-Wan was already turning away. He joined his friends at the table, eating his food lissomely as he tried to focus on emptying his tray, thoughts far away.

---

Obi-Wan’s friends seemed concerned to the point of upset when he left them by his door, and admittedly Obi-Wan knew his muted attitude was doing very little to help calm them. He didn’t really remember what he was like at this age, but he remembered spending much of his time playing pranks and getting in trouble, and generally being rather wild. And while a part Obi-Wan acknowledged that it was not only his friends’ worry that was growing over (what had to be viewed as) his terribly out of character behavior, he could not bring himself to find much of the energy to care.

He felt stretched thin, as if pulled as far apart as he could without unraveling at the seams. Garen seemed to take his inability to cheer Obi-Wan up as a personal affront and had left in a huff, dragging a confused Reeft behind him, the young Dressellian complaining loudly. Bant had remained behind them, watching him with bright, wide eyes.

“Obi-Wan,” Bant said after a moment of hesitation, “I know you’ve got everything handled, but you know you can talk to me right?”

Her words were measured, a comfort offered in a way that would not offend his pride. Obi-Wan smiled at her and could not help but reach out to cup her pink chin. He left his hand there, brushing his thumb over her pronounced chin.

“You’re a good friend, Bant. I don’t think I tell you that enough.” Obi-Wan managed softly, his throat tight.

Bant blinked, first with one set of eyelids then the other, a sign that Obi-Wan had truly surprised her. And then her hand came out to cover his own. “Worried, I am.”

The mimic of Master Yoda’s speech, a thing that both he and Bant had done to each other ever since they were but babes in Master Kant’s arms, made Obi-Wan’s smile grow even wider. “I’m alright, Bant. I have a lot of my mind right now.” He pulled away, squeezing the Mon Calmari’s hand tightly. “I’m just trying to…process some things.”

Bant’s hand tightened into a grip before he could pull away. “Is this about your birthday?”

Obi-Wan felt his smile become smaller as he tried to keep it on. How simple those concerns seemed to him now, yet he remembered how paramount they had once been for them all. “Perhaps.”

“Someone will pick you, Obi. I know it,” Bant said sharply and the single-minded faith in that statement had the depth of his love for his young friend growing even more. For a moment Qui-Gon entered his mind, but Obi-Wan shoved the thought away as quickly as he could, unable to handle his former Master at this moment even in abstract.

“I don’t know.” Obi-Wan found himself answering, voice level despite the raging cavern of hollowness in his chest, the burning beat of his heart. “I’m starting to wonder if I would make a good Jedi.”

It was a gross simplification of a worry that haunted him since his awakening, thoughts which had often stunned Obi-Wan in their strength and erosive-ness. How could he not but view himself a failure? How could he not when he’d played so thoroughly into the Sith Master’s hands? When his own padawan had brought the death to all that he loved? But no, Obi-Wan thought as he tried to reign the disparaging thoughts in, he had not been the only one to survive. The Jedi had been spread all across the galaxy, hardly any in the Temple save for the old, the younglings, the injured, and auxiliary staff.

Obi-Wan had escaped his clones, he had to believe that others had as well.

He had to.

To think otherwise was…

Bant darted forward, startling him in a fierce hug. Obi-Wan let her rest her large head on his shoulder, his own arms holding her just as tightly. “You’re gonna make a great Jedi, Obi-Wan. I promise.”

Obi-Wan chuckled, pressing a kiss to a scaly cheek and pulled away. He squeezed their held hands once more. “Thank you, Bant. I’ll see you in the morning.”

The Mon Calmari youngling nodded and Obi-Wan watched as she walked to her room, smiling every time she glanced behind her. Only once she was in her own rooms, did the smile slip from his lips and Obi-Wan sighed, running a hand through his hair – the movement coming off strange and awkward when there was no real length to it. He turned, intent on entering his own room for a much desired shower. His mind registered the presence of Master Kant, standing slightly to the side and behind a nearby corner, only the edge of a boot visible, but Obi-Wan did not acknowledge her.

With another sigh he entered his room.

---

The Temple halls were somewhat eerie in the night, even as lit as they were from the lights of Courscant. While the Temple lights dimmed to a soft twilight during the night cycle, the brilliant neon of the city burst through the viewing windows like brilliant splashes of brightly colored flowers.

It was Feemor’s favorite time of the day, which was why he was always so willing to volunteer for night shifts. The Guard’s shifts were long by nature of their slim numbers; twelve hours, from six until eighteen hundred hours and vice versa respectively. Feemor was already eight hours into his shift and taking a moment to enjoy some caf in a hidden alcove. While they were hardly forbidden from taking breaks to eat or drink, or use the facility, such things had to be done solely in the highly restricted wing that held the Guard Living Quarters, but Feemor didn’t see the big deal about taking a small caf break, not when he was so well hidden away and the halls still so empty due to the curfew.

This meditation room was also hardly used, almost overgrown with so many thick plants that it could have almost been considered a garden room. There were several alcoves throughout the room for individuals to meditate, but even when the room was in use most seemed to prefer to sit on the low benches in the center of the room. There was an extensive viewing window that took up an entire room and allowed the lights of Courscant in.

He was on his second cup when movement caught his attention and Feemor bit back a curse, hands flying up to secure his mask on a panicked whim, sending his small thermos flying out of his hand to land harmlessly – and thankfully quietly – on a small chair nearby. The Guard froze, watching with a stunned expression as the dark brew sank into the rich blue upholstery of the chair seat. He winced, that was most likely going to stain.

Movement once more caught his attention and Feemor looked up, mask securely in place now, to watch as the Initiate from the night before stepped into the small room. There were no tears tonight, though there was a stoniness about the Initiate's – Obi-Wan Kenobi, his mind corrected – face that was almost as telling. Feemor frowned behind his mask. Had he not been stern enough last night or had the Creche Master not explained the severity of the curfews? To be out wandering twice in a row was an unexpected defiance for a Jedi youngling.

As Feemor debated about revealing himself, Kenobi let out a ragged sounding sigh before shaking his head and dropping to sit on one of the benches, staring out at the cityscape. Kenobi reached out, a flick of his hand lowering the room’s lighting until it was nearly off, a nearby billboard casting the room in a pale blue light. The light played tricks on Feemor’s eyes, or at least he thought so, because all at once the youthful face of Kenobi seemed to grow ancient, a small, almost brittle smile on his lips.

“A feast and yet no appetite.” The youngling said softly into the silence and then an unnatural stillness seemed to fall upon him, and Feemor would have almost called it a meditative trance had the alertness to Kenobi’s gaze had not told him otherwise.

The Guard felt queerly frozen in place, watching the boy, strangely unwilling to interrupt the odd weight that seemed to have filled the air around them. Feemor was struck with indecision, knowing he should bring the boy back to his rooms, yet could find no urgency in the thought. After a moment Feemor relaxed into his hidey hole, crossing his arms. He did not know why Kenobi was seeking the solitary of the Temple over the comfort of his Creche Master or his bed, but Feemor would allow him his peace, at least for a little while.

Until then, he would keep watch over the troubled boy.

Notes:

Obi-Wan is still moving through his process, though he has moved past what I like to call 'hysterical crying and denial' to the depressed state of knowing you still have to function, that the world keeps moving around you, yet you have no idea how to do the same. However, as a Jedi, I'd like to think that his toolbox to handle what he's feeling would be slightly larger then what the military gave me. He's still practicing avoidance of the trauma with a mastery here and a saving grace for Obi-Wan is that he's not aware that nearly all the Jedi were killed. There were over ten thousand Jedi at that time and he has to believe others survived. And Feemor is being Feemor. I'm very fond of him as a character.

What do you guys think? There's a lot of introspection in this chapter, perhaps the only chapter I've ever written with so little dialogue.

Chapter 3: Grief, Part 3

Summary:

Obi-Wan questions and finds an answer in an unlooked for source.

If outsiders had been allowed free range inside the Temple undoubtedly they would have been struck not by the ancient carvings or elegant, graceful art and sculptures, but by the numerous and varied garden rooms. Some were small things – simple enclaves or dips in walls overflowing with lush growth – others were large enough to fit many hundreds of Jedi at once. For a Temple built into one of the largest geo-metropolis in the known galaxies, this was no small feat.

Obi-Wan had missed them dearly. It made sense, their presence, for while Jedi were by their very nature adaptive creatures, they enjoyed being surrounding by the pulsing beacons of life that even the smallest of plants provided. And unlike the masses of signatures that populated the many leveled city, in the Force the plants were as simple as they were pure; no emotions boggled them down, no intentions muddled their profile.

In short, their presence allowed for even the smallest of garden rooms to be a peaceful, quiet place, ideal for meditation and reflection. From where he sat on a grassy knoll, eyes impossibly tender as he watched his friends dip and splash in the shallows of one of the many wading pools placed amongst the garden rooms for just such acts, Obi-Wan allowed that humble and unassuming peace to center himself.

It was a far cry from the scorched battlefields of the Clone Wars and Mustafar. Obi-Wan let out a soft sigh, hands resting – palm up and limp – over his folded legs. He watched as Bant darted up from the deeper end of the pool, dragging a sputtering Garen down by his legs, and felt his lips turn up in a small smile. He has spent much of the last week as such; observing the bountiful life around him, relishing in the safety of the Temple, in the unlooked for boon of its sheltered eves and the moments of calmful peace it brought him.

He was aware, in the almost absent minded, distant way that so often accompanied understanding himself, that he was avoiding. Avoiding his situation, avoiding his past, avoiding everything that was not this artless charade of being a youngling once more. Obi-Wan had not yet come to a decision on whether or not this was healthy or not. On one hand, at some point Obi-Wan would have to face his new reality – he would have to make a decision about what path to take moving forward. On the other…Obi-Wan was hurting and this was a balm to his aching soul. Was it truly so harmful to seek this respite for a little while longer?

The sound of his friends’ giggles and laughter made the tension in his breast lessen, the twists of his stomach smooth, and Obi-Wan was loathed to give it up just quite yet. It had barely been a week and half, surely a little more time would affect nothing. His master would have been pleased to see his padawan living so fully in the moment, shelving his anxieties for even this short period of time.

But just because Obi-Wan did not allow the thoughts to form – to solidify into something real and consequential – did not mean that they were not always there, swirling in the back of his mind or haunting his dreams. And he was aware, very aware, that he felt as if he was existing on borrowed time.

Yet Obi-Wan was determined to take this for himself, to enjoy it, to revel in it, even if every breath he took sounded as if the ticking of a timer.

---

Three nights later found Obi-Wan wandering once again. He knew he shouldn’t, he hardly wished to call even more attention to himself then he already was, but Obi-Wan found his feet traveling the hallways restlessly regardless. He ended up in another out of the way garden room.

It was a gorgeous room, tucked away in the center-east of the Temple, and one Obi-Wan couldn’t recall if he’d ever actually visited before. The center of it was lowered, allowing for a rich octagon filled with plant life and piles of soft and inviting looking pillows to sit upon. One whole wall was taken up by an expansive water feature, the other solid glass allowing for a breathless view of the city. The last wall had small sitting enclaves tucked amongst it, hidden almost entirely from sight by tall potted ferns.

He dimmed the lights, easing the strain on his tired eyes, and made his way to a monstrous potted fern sequestered in the corner where one of the walls met the glass window. Obi-Wan sat quietly, watching the ships as they traveled. It felt like he was in a dream, a queer, endless dream. The feeling haunted his every moment, tainting his interactions. It was as if Obi-Wan was waiting to wake any moment, to return to the War, to Mustafar.

Obi-Wan sighed wearily, feeling every inch his age despite whatever the soft, roundness of his face may project. He was aware that he could not go on like this for much longer, no matter how hard he tried to. His caretakers were more than aware that that something had changed. Oh, they had no idea what it was but Obi-Wan had little doubt that they would only tolerate his odd behavior for so long before intervening.

And then what?

What answers could Obi-Wan possibly give them?

He could no more pretend to be a twelve-year boy then he could pretend to not be a man in his thirties. Obi-Wan didn’t even remember what it was to be a twelve-year old. He was still at a lost of what to do or why he was here. The same questions swirled around that haunted him since he’d awoken in the past. How had this happened? Why was here? What was he supposed to do? Why would the Force send him here? To fix things? Why him? Why not someone else – someone surely more deserving, wiser and kinder then himself. And, most painfully, what had happened to those he left behind?

Obi-Wan stared down at his hands, so soft and unlined, freed of the scars and callouses that had reflected the scarred and calloused man they’d belonged to. He swallowed past a dry mouth.

Obi-Wan was tired. It was a tiredness that he felt in his very bones, in his soul. It felt total, complete, impossible to overcome.

He feared what it was he may have to do. Obi-Wan didn’t know if he had anything left to give.

---

Qui-Gon sat very still and quiet in the shadows of his chosen seat. He’d been recalled to the Temple and he’d come willingly, if a bit begrudgingly, as alarmed as any other Jedi by the attack. It was equally disturbing to hear that the Temple Security had found neither who had planned or how the attack had been completed. No, his annoyance had come from an injury to his knee, which had he remained in the field he could have ignored and healed himself, abet slowly.

As it was, the healers had grounded him for two weeks which placed him firmly in the Temple for the Initiate trials, something that Qui-Gon did his damnedest to avoid. He’d been fairly successful so far despite Yoda’s machinations. But now that he was grounded, Qui-Gon knew that he would be made to attend. Yoda was hell bent on him taking another apprentice despite Qui-Gon’s very vocal objections. But the Grandmaster – and by extension, his youngest former apprentice, Mace Windu – was devious when motivated and neither Jedi seemed willing to give his vows to remain student-less any merit.

It was why he had been here, hiding away in an out-of-the-way garden room in the third hour, his Force signature muted to almost nothing, its echo easily lost amongst the other Jedi. What he had not expected was for the lights to cut out half way through writing his report for his last mission and by a youngling at that.

Qui-Gon had watched the boy in surprise; a human Initiate, most likely nearing his thirteenth birthday, looking soft and very young in the way that those who had yet to hit pubescence so often did. It was very late for a youngling to be wandering about unattended, doubly so with the curfew and the aurora of paranoia the attacks had given the Temple. The boy had done very little other then stare out the window, his features pale in the neon lights. Qui-Gon watched him for a few minutes, torn between his foul mood and his duty to ensure the errant boy ended up where he was supposed to be sooner rather then later. A few minutes turned into five, then ten, then nearly a half hour and Qui-Gon had just saved his report, sending the pad into hibernation when the youngling let out a sigh.

Qui-Gon fingers had frozen on the pad’s face, mouth parting in surprise. The Initiate, who had been sitting oddly primly for being perched on a planter’s rim, suddenly sagged forward. It was if he simply crumpled, shoulders drooping, hands curling limply. The boy’s face remained the same calm, composed countenance that he’d had during the Master’s observation, his Force signature steady, and yet…

The boy’s jaw twitched slightly, lips ticking minutely.

Qui-Gon frowned, hand splaying flat over the pad’s smooth surface. Though he reflected very little of it, Qui-Gon felt – the boy felt…lost.

The youngling blinked, slow and heavy, and the older Jedi eyes widened as the boy’s became glossy, wet and reflective in the light. And yet still, the boy felt of nothing but calm collectiveness. A strange feeling of voyeurism filled Qui-Gon and he glanced down at his hands, brows furrowed, confused by the feeling.

The click of boots on tile caught Qui-Gon’s attention and when he glanced back up to find the youngling’s face seemingly serene once again, the sheen of tears gone completely. A Knight Guard appeared in the entryway and the Guard shook his head before crossing the space.

“Initiate Kenobi, we meet again. For the fifth time, no less.” The Guard’s voice drew Qui-Gon attention. It was familiar, even as muffled through the mask as it was, but he could not quite place it. Like himself, the guard gave only the most muted of Force signatures, easily lost amongst the thousands of Jedi around them.

“So it seems, Knight Guard.” The youngling – Kenobi – greeted, his words soft and well spoken, crisp with the Core world’s accent. The boy’s face turned, lips pulling up in a slight smile. “Come to return me to Master Kant?”

The Guard sighed before – surprisingly – turning to lean against the window, arms crossed. “Would it do any good?”

The small smile on the boy’s face grew before muting once more, his eyes flicking past the Guard to stare out the window once more. “Maybe.”

“…you worry her, you know.”

“I know.” The boy let out a sigh that at once seemed too deep and too heavy for someone his age. “It's not my intention.”

“No?”

“No.” Kenobi affirmed. “We have spoken about this – I know I am in the wrong.”

“And yet still you wander. And with your trials so close. A bit unwise, don't you think?”

The smile on the youngling’s face was a ghost of a thing this time, his eyes distant. “Oh, undoubtedly.”

Silence reigned once more and despite the presence of the mask, Qui-Gon found himself amused to pick up on the Guard’s bemusement. The Guard had quite a personality for one of his station and Qui-Gon found himself almost endeared by the oddity of it.

“Have you spoken with the healers about your insomnia?”

“Not yet,” Kenobi said, “though I’m sure that will be the next step.” The boy hesitated a moment. “It’s not that I’m not tired, nor that I don’t wish to sleep it’s just that…my thoughts are very loud right now. Never more so at night.”

Qui-Gon did not doubt the truth of that statement, given what he’d seen before the Knight’s arrival. The quickness that the boy had hidden that crack in his façade away would have been impressive if it wasn’t so concerning.

“Do you fear you will not be chosen?” The youngling glanced at Knight in surprise, who only shrugged. “I am aware your birthday is close.”

Kenobi gave a short laugh. “I suppose I should be honored that I’ve inspired such interest that you dug up my personnel file.”

The Guard shoulders shook in what Qui-Gon rather thought was muted laughter. “That's one way too look at it. Not many would see the interest of a Knight Guard as an honor.”

Indeed not, Qui-Gon thought. They were a bizarre duo, this overly expressive Guard and strangely collected youngling. It did not fail Qui-Gon’s attention that the boy had side-stepped the question, quite well in fact. Silence settled once more, Kenobi watching the shuttles and ships fly by, the Guard watching Kenobi, and Qui-Gon an invisible observer of both.

“Do you regret the path you’ve chosen?” Kenobi asked after a long moment. The Guard’s head titled in surprise, one that matched Qui-Gon’s own at the question.

“In what manner?”

“The life of a Knight Guard is one that demands quite a bit of sacrifice.”

The Guard hummed. “Many would say it’s a great honor to be chosen.”

Kenobi gave an aborted wave with his hand. “But it is a…humbling, of sorts, is it not? You forsake all else for the safety of the Temple; friendships not made within the Guard, past and future, the chance for lineage. Do you regret it? Do you regret giving so much?”

Qui-Gon leaned back in seat, interest truly stoked now. It was a strange question for a boy of twelve to ask, much less a subject for him to ponder over. But perhaps not, given the stage of life the youngling found himself in. Was Kenobi question his dedication to the Order? It appeared he was, for he could think of no other reason to ask such a question. It could explain why the youngling was so upset; for one raised to be a Jedi, to question his purpose at such a young age would be upsetting. The Knight thought for a moment and Qui-Gon found himself leaning forward slightly as he prepared to speak, interested in his answer.

“I won’t deny that it was intimidating at first. But my master and I are not close, as it was, and I never quite thought of myself as taking a padawan.” The Guard admitted, and his voice held a tender edge to it, one well-hidden but spoke of a deep hurt there. To the Jedi Master’s surprise, Kenobi seemed to pick up on it as well, his expression softening minutely. “But I have been a Jedi all my life, youngling. I know no other, nor can I imagine it. So many of us find their place amongst the stars, striving to bring light to the galaxy where they can. I thought my own was out there once, yet my path found me here.

There are so many evils in the galaxy and the light must be sheltered however and wherever it can. To defend the Temple, to protect that light as it grows, rests, recuperates – that is a calling in itself, worth a sacrifice or two I think. So no, I suppose I don’t.”

Despite himself, Qui-Gon found himself impressed with the answer, the words turning his thoughts on the mysterious sect on its head. He had never thought of the Knight Guards in such a way; was this how all of them viewed their clan? Qui-Gon would readily admit he could never understand the appeal of the Guard, how could someone willing give up the freedoms of the galaxy? How could they choose a life of such routine and groundedness? And yet – though never for himself – he could (at the very least) glimmer an idea why some choose that path through his words.

The Knight Guard straightened, arms uncrossing.

“And what of you, young Kenobi? Where is it that you believe your path will take you?” Ah, so Qui-Gon was not alone in his thoughts about the source of Kenobi’s unease. The boy shook his head with a frown. “The trials land before your birthday, you may still be chosen.”

“And if I am not?”

“Then you are not. The Force will guide you, if you learn to listen. You should not let yourself be so tortured by the thoughts of what is to come. Do not focus on your anxieties so, youngling, focus on the here and now, on what you can do now.”

Qui-Gon agreed, the sentiment was close enough to any advice he himself would have given. But Kenobi’s expression had become unreadable once again, thoughts hidden away behind that placid calmness, his head cocked ever so slightly to one side.

“Come now, Knight Guard. Let us return me to my creche before Master Kant finally makes good on her promise to tie me to my bed.”

“Somehow,” the Guard drawled, sounding terribly amused, “I doubt that would do much good.”

Kenobi laughed – a child’s laugh true and sweet after such a heavy topic. “No, most likely not.”

Qui-Gon watched them leave, tea cold and forgotten before him.

---

The walk back to the youngling creches were as quiet as the other handful of times that Feemor had guided the young Obi-Wan back to them. And as before, Creche Master Kant was waiting before Kenobi’s door, brows furrowed. “Again, Obi-Wan?”

“I got lost.” Kenobi lied glibly, “the Temple is larger then I remembered.”

Kant’s nostrils flared once, before she let out a bone-weary sigh. “To bed, Obi-Wan. We’ll discuss your disobedience – and your cheek – tomorrow morning. At length.” Kenobi’s smile didn’t lessen, bright despite the scolding, and bowed once before disappearing into his room.  “What am I going to do with that boy,” Kant said with a sigh, rubbing forehead.

“Master Kant,” Feemor said voice low, “has Initiate Kenobi ever…questioned…his future among the Jedi?”

Kant’s looked at him sharply, before her shoulders drooped. “No. Obi-Wan has always been dedicated to the Order, much more than most at his age. He never showed the usual signs of doubt. They’re not that uncommon, you know, even if we don’t talk about it much. Younglings are inquisitive things, especially among an Order that teaches one to question and seek as clear an understanding of oneself as we do. But Obi…no, never.”

“But?”

“But,” Kant went on after a moment, almost reluctantly, “he has changed. I have raised Obi-Wan for ten years, Knight Guard, I have seen him at his worst, his pettiest…his kindest. All the things that you see when you raise a youngling. But this? No, I have never seen him like this. I assumed it was his fear over not being chosen yet, but…I don’t know.”

“This can't go on,” Feemor warned, his tone gentle and words equally so, but it was a warning nonetheless. To see a youngling in such a state was disturbing. “Kenobi is a very mature boy, but a sensitive one.”

The memory of that grief – that sorrow – so sharp that it seemed to cut Feemor to his bone haunted him, colored every interaction he’d had with the Initiate. It troubled him to see such a promising youngling in such a state of unease.

“You think I don’t know that?” Kant asked, voice sharp once more. “You think I can’t recognize that?”

“I think,” Feemor corrected, careful to keep the swell of pity out of his voice, “that is important to recognize when help is needed. Needing help is not a reflection of one’s abilities or inabilities, Master Kant. But not seeking it – that is another matter entirely.”

Kant shrunk into herself, hands loose and defeated by her side. Feemor wanted to reach out, to comfort her in some way, but as always, his oath bound him, and the Knight was aware that he toed its boundaries enough as it was. And so he left her there, and vowed to speak with the Training Masters himself if Kant did not.

Obi-Wan deserved that much from him – from them both.

---

Morning found Obi-Wan rising later then expected because even though he had trouble sleeping, he had been tired. To his surprise Master Kant had not come to wake him, so Obi-Wan figured he most likely was in trouble. He took his time in the shower and after, sitting on his bed to eat one of the meal bars he kept stashed in his room. Obi-Wan observed his childhood room with a stilted fondness. While he still thought of his own quarters with Anakin when he picturing home, this room was just as dear to him.

Starships he could still remember constructing hovered around the ceiling and there were various projects mounted on the walls, including a model of the universe projected on one of his walls. He could still remember when his class had made it; they had all been assigned separate sections to complete. They had to pay painstaking detail to every asteroid field and rogue moon and afterwards they had connected the segments and been given copies.

The exercise was done to show them how large the galaxy was and to appreciate how far it had come. Obi-Wan could remember being amazed at the thought that many Jedi Masters had been to a good number of the planets and he firmly believed he would never have a chance to visit even one corner. As one of the few Jedi who had chosen to become a Guardian class – and as a former General of a varied and far reaching war – the irony of that memory did not miss him now.

He thought about the conversation with the Knight Guard from the night before. The nameless Guard’s words echoed in his thoughts, the simple sureness in his choice and vocation. Obi-Wan stared down at the empty wrapper in his hands. After a moment he crumpled the wrapper, depositing it in the small trash chute in his wall. He smiled to himself, “a good answer.”

Obi-Wan was still unsure of how to move forward, the Force was no clearer to him then it had been since he’d first awakened here. He was tired, and uncertain, and afraid, but regardless, Obi-Wan would move forward. He could feel the press of the Jedi around him, their Force signatures humming with life, he heard the laughter and words of the younglings around him, the various creches emptying out as they prepared for their days, childish voices high as they spoke and laughed... A calling, the Knight Guard had called it, a calling.  

A pleasant chime at his door had him moving, the plush carpet giving way under his boots. Obi-Wan could remember each stain, each missing patch as if it had happened only months ago instead of years, and though he still felt exhausted – as if he hadn’t slept at all instead of the handful of hours he’d managed – Obi-Wan feet moved with a purpose they had been lacking.

He palmed the door open, more than willing to face whatever lecture Master Kant had prepared for him, only to raise his eyebrows in unabashed surprise at the sight of not only his Creche Master, but High Creche Master Yani Sook.

Oh dear. Obi-Wan gave the stern looking elder a disarming smile. It would seem that Obi-Wan actually was in trouble this time.

Notes:

And we have Qui-Gon! Thanks for reading. I hope you guys enjoyed their (one sided) introduction.

Chapter 4: Grief, Part 4

Yani Sook was an ancient looking Twi’lek of a pale tan color, his lekku age spotted and wound delicately around his shoulders. Obi-Wan stepped aside to allow the slightly hunched elder to enter, trying – and failing – to look anything other than sheepish at the sharp warning stare he received from Master Kant. More than once since awakening Obi-Wan had missed his old apartment, but never more so than now. He itched to be able to make some tea for his guests, if only for something to do with his hands.

And how odd it was, Obi-Wan thought as he settled obediently on his knees as the Creche Master sat on his bed, to feel so much like a disobedient child!

In his previous life, Obi-Wan had little dealings with the respected elder. No more than any of his age group did, but he knew that Yani Sook had raised more younglings than any other in the Temple save perhaps for Yoda or Yaddle – and even then, they most likely didn’t have the depth of experience as the Creche Master.

“Young Obi-Wan,” Yani Sook said after a moment, eyes bright and intelligent despite his age, “you’ve caused quite the stir lately. Indeed, I believe I have heard your name more over the past week than any other youngling. What do you have to say for yourself?”

“Forgive me, Master,” Obi-Wan answered politely, “I know that my actions have caused Master Kant a great deal of irritation and worry. It was not my intention to do so.”

Yani Sook simply watched him and when the silence grew, Obi-Wan fought a very out of place urge to fidget. Still he waited the Master out, unwilling to give anything away unless he had to. The silence grew, deepened, but it was only when Obi-Wan felt his legs begin to go numb from his sitting position that Yani Sook finally spoke again. The elder leaned forward slightly, arms resting on his knees.

“Tell me, Obi-Wan, how have you been?” His tone was soft, gentle, in a way that it had not been before. There were many ways to answer that, not all of them appropriate.

Obi-Wan’s head tilted slightly in thought, before finally answering with a quiet, if honest, “unsettled.”

Yani Sook smiled kindly, the skin around his eyes crinkling. “Is it this unsettledness that drives you to forsake sleep?”

“I find it easier to think in the meditation rooms.” He answered, keeping his eyes locked on the figure in front of him. “It’s quieter there.”

Yani Sook hummed thoughtfully. “It is hardly uncommon for an Initiate your age to feel such a way. Master Kant tells me your upcoming birthday troubles you.”

“In a way.” Obi-Wan answered carefully, for partial falsehoods were always the best way to go when one had to lie to a Jedi, as they were also half-truths. He had no fear of being chosen as a Padawan, for he could not even imagine the idea of having a Master as he was. What’s more, there was only one man that ever was or could ever be his Master. But no – no. Thoughts of Qui-Gon were too telling, especially under such close observation, and Obi-Wan gently pushed them away.

“You don’t believe you’ll be chosen as a Padawan?” What a probing question and a rather obvious one, clear for any with eyes as the ploy it was. But then again, Master Yani Sook believed he was dealing with a normal Human child, the need for such manipulation was probably thought unneeded.

“I think,” Obi-Wan said slowly, dropping his eyes to study his hands, “that what will happen, will happen. Whether I’m chosen or not, I trust that the Force will guide me to whatever path I need to take. I thought I knew who I was to be, what it was I was meant to be.” A master, a General, a council member, the guide to the Chosen One. “I think I thought I understood it once, the Force, but I see the vanity in that now.” Obi-Wan let out a nearly silent chuckle at that. “What I saw was barely even a corner, a tiny trickle instead of a mighty river, and what I understood was probably even less.”

Silence followed his words and when Obi-Wan glanced up, he was realized that his answer had impressed them. Master Kant looked like she was about to burst with pride and hid it rather poorly, while Master Yani Sook simply looked pleased. I wonder, Obi-Wan thought tiredly, if that is a good thing.  What was done was done, however, and he could no more take his words back then he could change the past few months. Master Yani Sook leaned forward, his hand a grounding weight on Obi-Wan’s shoulder.

“Hold on to that humbleness you feel, too often those in our Order forget it.” The hand tightened gently, comforting. “You stand upon a pivot point, young Obi-Wan, a divergence in your path that you may never find again. But hold tightly to your understanding and your faith, for the Force will guide you.”

“I will, Master.” The promise was a solemn one, because though he could not know how true those words were, Yani Sook all but echoed the turbulence in his soul with them. “Thank you, Master.”

“Now,” Yani Sook pulled away, rising with the help of Master Kant’s arm, “I must ask that you to no longer roam the halls at night. If you can not sleep, please seek out Master Kant or myself. We will gladly sit with you.”

“Of course, Master.”

“And, one more thing.”

“Master?”

“I know you have not rested well over the last few days, but do you still feel up for the challenges?” Obi-Wan’s head snapped to stare at Yani Sook. The Creche Master gave him an amused grin, “for they begin tomorrow.”

---

Qui-Go was in the Temple.

Obi-Wan let out a snort of disbelief, running his hands over his face as he stared listlessly up the ceiling of his room, sleep unable to take him. Out of everything that had happened; the run in with the Knight Guard, the completion of a conversation that had most likely revealed far more of himself then was probably wise to do so, the realization that he faced a crucible – the once defining moment of his young life, once more of importance if only because it would decide Obi-Wan’s path forward – and the only thing that Obi-Wan took from it was that.

Qui-Gon was here.

Somewhere, in the eastern tower and many more floors above him, Qui-Gon Jinn was resting in his apartment. With a groan, Obi-Wan turned and hid his head under his pillow, pressing the spongy foam down against the back of his head. Over the past two weeks that Obi-Wan had been in the – in the past, for Obi-Wan would have to get used to thinking those words if he was ever to accept them, truly – he hadn’t allowed himself to think of his former Master. Not once.

The weight of it, the gravitas of Qui-Gon being alive and whole was…was…so much. So, so very much. An unlooked for gift, a painful reminder. The feelings that fought for room in his breast were as fierce as they were contradictory. The part of him that had always ached, the boy that had never quite left the side of his fallen Master, crowed with delight at it. It wanted to search the Master out, to throw himself into the arms and hold tight.

The part of him that was Obi-Wan Kenobi, Jedi Master, feared it. How could he look upon Qui-Gon’s face? How could he even stand to be in his presence when the very reason Obi-Wan found himself in this predicament was due to his own failure? For what else could Anakin possibly be, if not his failure? Qui-Gon had entrusted the boy to him, had made him swear to train him, to guide him into his position as the Chosen One. And in the end…and in the end, Anakin had fallen, and the Order right alongside him, until even Obi-Wan had been ended by his blade.

Anakin was still such a boy; only twenty-three and in so many ways much younger than that. The Wars had changed him, had made Anakin’s growth slow and then spiral in unexpected ways. The anger, the resentment, how could Obi-Wan had missed it? How long had the Sith had their claws in Anakin? How long had they been whispering in his ear – and how terrible of a Master had Obi-Wan been that Anakin had never once come to him about it? How had he never noticed it?

How could he have failed his only Padawan in such a way? Obi-Wan let out a sniffle, eyes squeezing shut against the burn there. He fought the tears at first, but then with a slump simply let them come. Who was here to judge him? And even if they saw, what would they see? A boy crying before the date of the Jedi Initiate Trials.

And so, Obi-Wan let himself cry. He let himself grieve for the boy he’d once loved like a brother, for the man he’d once seen as a father, and – in the end – even for himself. Because despite the selfishness of it, though he should be mourning the thousands dead due to his own action or inactions, Obi-Wan had lost his dreams and hopes as well. And right or wrong, the weight of it was suffocating. A lifetime of hope – of work and trials and tribulations – gone in one, elegant downward sweep. When he finally had nothing left to give, no more tears to shed, nothing but a dryness in his throat and a tackiness in his mouth, Obi-Wan finally found exhaustion gentling him down into sleep.

---

Feemor felt naked without his mask. It was questionable what he was even doing here; Guards rarely ever came to watch the fights unless they were assigned to them. And even though Feemor had been able to feel the side eyes of his colleges, he’d still shown up – sans uniform – to watch them. He settled into the shadows of a far bench, surrounded by other Knights and Masters, all talking lowly, discussing and exchanging pads of information about the younglings that would be fighting for them today.

The Initiate Trials were divided by age, with the youngest going first, and though Feemor was really here only to see one match, the Guard had showed up to watch them all. He figured he’d draw less attention then coming in halfway or towards the end that way. Loren Flynn, one of his fellow Guards, came to hover next to him, silently judging even as Feemor did his best to ignore him. Finally, he snapped, reaching up to rub at his mouth while simultaneously hissing, “go hover somewhere else, damn’t.”

He could feel Loren’s laugh even if he couldn’t hear it, but the Guard did slowly make his way back around to his original posting. Only moments later, Feemor wished he hadn’t. No, he wished for more than that. He wished he’d hadn’t caved to his damn curiosity, that’d he slept away his day like he normally did, was happily back in his bunk because –

- because Qui-Gon Jinn had entered the arena.

Feemor couldn’t help but stare at his former Master, mouth slack in shock. He had known that Jinn was back in the Temple. He always knew, Feemor made it his business to know. And Master Drallig, bless him, never once questioned why Feemor always requested assignments that would keep him firmly out of the Jedi’s way on the rare times he was in Temple. The sight of him actually hurt. It seemed silly to feel this way; it had been years since Qui-Gon had rejected him and their bond, Feemor should be past this, over it by now, and yet…Feemor pulled tightly in on himself, shields battering down against the torrents of emotions he felt, as fresh and biting as they’d been that first day. Perhaps avoiding his former Master had not been the wisest decision, it was clear now that Feemor had was not as at peace with what had happened as he thought.

Why was Qui-Gon even here? He’d been quite clear in his refusal to take another student and his ability to be a Master, with Feemor’s dismissal and the rejection of their years of training together had been a bright, neon exclamation mark to underly the seriousness of it. But here he was, moving to sit with a smiling Mace Windu and Master Yoda.

A part of Feemor seethed at it, at the easy way the Master sat with his friend and the Grandmaster. Was Feemor even a thought on the man’s mind? Did he even care? Clearly not, not when he hadn’t even cared enough about Feemor to denounce in him person. An email; that’s how Feemor had learned that his Master had all but rejected Feemor and his Knighthood. An email sent from the Council, not even from Qui-Gon, to inform him of his Master’s statement and that through their own investigations they had found Feemor wholly deserving of his Knight status.

But, all at once, the anger and bitterness seeped out of him, replaced instead with a simpler – yet no less intense – sadness. Feemor sighed, sinking back against the wall behind him, hands folding into his robe sleeves. What had been done to him was cruel, but Feemor knew that what Qui-Gon felt and said to himself was mostly likely even harsher. Qui-Gon had always prided himself on his ability to teach and until Xanatos, Feemor would have agreed that his former Master was a natural born instructor.

But Xanatos…that boy.

Feemor let out a nearly silent sigh. Xanatos had all but destroyed Qui-Gon; the first Jedi to willing leave the order in nearly ninety years, and the facts surrounding it, though only rumors, spoke that Xanatos’ fall had been…dark. It had clearly shaken Qui-Gon to his very foundations, for him to have acted in such a way. The statement he’d sent to the Council was more of a declaration of Qui-Gon’s failures and inabilities, a public shaming of himself.

And Feemor had been caught in the crossfire, though he doubted his Master even realized the extent of what he done. Qui-Gon probably thought little farther then realizing they would not strip Feemor of his Knight title and left it at that. It hurt Feemor to think that Qui-Gon thought so little of himself and his abilities, because despite everything he still deeply cared for the man who had seen him to Knighthood safely. Still, the understanding of the man made it no less painful to be near him. Feemor took a deep breath, focusing on the fights instead, and forcibly removed Qui-Gon Jinn from his mind all together. That part of his life was closed and done with, so let it stay that way. He was here for someone else anyway.

Feemor couldn’t quite explain what had driven him to come see Obi-Wan Kenobi fight, only that he felt – in some strange way – a right to it. After all, it had been he who had been playing shepherd to distraught boy over the past few weeks. His interest was only natural in that context. He hoped for the boy’s sake that he performed well and found himself a Master. Though the conversations they’d shared had been short, it was clear that Kenobi was mature beyond his age. Though the path of the Jedi Service Corps was as honorable as any, Feemor couldn’t help but feel that the Order would be missing an opportunity if they let Kenobi go. 

It was nearing mid-day before Kenobi’s age group was called up to fight. There were only two in it, both Human boys Feemor recognized from his duties. Kenobi, from his nights of wandering, and Bruck Chun, from a few times he’d had to drag the cheeky boy back to his creche by the proverbial ear after some prank or another. They were both – in their own ways – quite the little troublemakers.

The two stepped into the arena proper, Chun in black body armor, Kenobi in brown. Chun looked quite a sight, the dark color of the armor highlighting the light color of his eyes and white hair, and he gave a cool, confident smile and wave to group of younglings who had gone wild at the sight of him, undoubtedly his friends. The boy’s eyes scanned the group eagerly, looking at the prospective future Masters with visible glee. In comparison, Kenobi looked almost calm, disinterested even. The boy was standing in the center of the ring, fiddling with his shoulder pad. The Padawan serving as referee approached him, the two talking quietly before the Padawan reached in, fingers delving between the shoulder plates to adjust it. Kenobi rolled his shoulders a few times before giving the Padawan a genial pat on the arm as thanks.

A small AJTD6 droid hovered around them, the image of the two boys multiplied by a hundred on a hanging screen above them. The referee lined them up, instructing them of the rules. The boys bowed, first to each other, then to the crowd, then squared off against each other. Feemor leaned forward, eager and interested.

Both boys, unsurprisingly, fell into Ataru stances. Ataru was often favored by young Jedi, as the style’s nature often covered some of the more common pitfalls that came with inexperience lightsaber wielders. What was lacking in skill could easily be made up for in acrobatic moves that helped flank opponents and build momentum for more powerful strikes where physical strength may yet to have developed. But when faced with another Ataru user, these advantages were almost brought moot, which would allow for whoever held the greater proficiency in the form to flourish.

The call to fight sounded and Chun launched himself on the offensive. Kenobi side stepped the attack with ease, his saber deflecting Chun’s glancing blow. Chun drove forward again, yet once more Kenobi lead the strike away, using Chun’s own force to spin the boy – flat footed and awkward – away. Feemor leaned forward in his seat, hands clasped in front of his mouth, elbows resting on his knees. Ataru was not a defensive style in any manner. That was not to say it didn’t have its qualities, but at its heart Ataru was based on offense, on agility and strength, and though Kenobi stances and moves were clearly Ataru, he used it in solely in defense. 

Chun’s strikes grew wilder, sloppier, the irritation and anger on his face clear to see – the emotion in his Force signature even more so – as each of his strikes was avoided or defused by Kenobi. Chun doubled down, striking harder and faster, using tricker and more dangerous jumps and moves – and clearly driving himself into exhaustion. The white-haired boy’s chest was visibly heaving, his skin glossy with sweat.

He hissed something at Kenobi, too quiet to be picked up by the droid, but obviously some sort of taunt. Kenobi just shrugged and settled back into the waiting stance. Chun’s snarled something else and charged, executing a high-level jump and roll, one that put him nearly pressed against Kenobi’s back, but the boy had clearly pushed himself too far. His leg crumpled under his weight, sending him into an artless stumble as Kenobi stepped back and spun neatly, his own blade striking forward to hover over Chun’s neck – his only offensive move of the entire match.

While Chun had been on the offensive, desperate for a fight that would display his fighting abilities, Kenobi had gone the opposite route. He’d slowly, yet methodically driven the other boy into exhaustion.

“Match, Kenobi!” The Padawan called and Kenobi deactivated his saber, clipping it to his belt before offering a hand to the downed youngling. The AJTD6 swung around to Kenobi’s back just in time to illuminate the pure fury on Chun’s face, the hateful twist to his mouth. His fingers twitched on the handle of his saber – adjusting the power output!

Feemor was already on his feet, surging forward when Chun’s blade shot out. Kenobi threw himself backwards, the tip of Chun’s blade leaving a long and deep gash against his body armor, and Feemor pulled, with what may have been half the arena, the joint pulls and commands freezing the lightsaber – and Bruck Chun – in place completely.

On the screen, Chun’s face was white with horror and shock, his eyes wide. He stared at the saber in his hand before dropping it, the lightsaber hanging still in the air. A sharp command, more powerful than any other, had it flying to Master Yoda’s hand, the Grandmaster deactivating it with a click. The commands in the arena died off and Chun was darting towards the changing room, a blonde girl – one of his friends from earlier – giving chase.

Kenobi watched him go with an almost bewildered expression on his face, a hand coming up to feel the gash in his armor. He was most likely in shock, Feemor reasoned, as it wasn’t everyday one of the younglings you grew up with attempted a lethal strike on you. He gave the still boy one last look of concern before quickly exiting the arena.

He needed to suit up; there was little here that Feemor Gard could do, but as a Knight Guard he answered only to the Councilmembers and Master Drallig.

---

The hot water of the shower was a balm to Obi-Wan’s frazzled nerves. He’d long since finished showering, but for now he simply stood under the spray, taking comfort in its warm touch. He did not feel good about what had just happened. His decision to remain on the defensive with Bruck had come about because of how uncomfortable he’d felt about the fight. It was hardly fair to put a boy of twelve up against a man of over twenty years more experience, the majority of them as a field agent and several of them at active war.

There was also the concern, however slight, that Obi-Wan’s perhaps too battle-honed instincts may have lead to Bruck being hurt.

It had seemed like an easy plan and it had been; Bruck was far too emotional, easily to wind up until he made a mistake. But never had Obi-Wan imagined he would allow his anger to take a hold of him, to attack in such a way. True, Bruck Chun had once fallen in with Xanatos, but he’d never truly started down the way of the Darkside. No, that had been less about a fall from the Light and more about a desperate boy unwilling to let go of his dream of being trained. In trying to avoid hurting Bruck, Obi-Wan feared he’d done more damage than ever. There was little doubt in his mind that Bruck would be removed from the roster of available Initiates. While he would not face expulsion, his path to the Jedi Corps was cemented the moment he’d lost his temper.

And his face!

The look of honest surprise on Bruck’s face, the disbelief at his own actions…

Obi-Wan’s shoulders drooped. These excuses sounded familiar, were they not like the ones he had once used for Anakin? Perhaps this was kinder, then. Perhaps this was the path for Bruck. Perhaps it would even be a path that saw him live to see his thirteenth birthday.

Obi-Wan shut the shower off, aware of the pulsating Force signature that was Qui-Gon Jinn waiting for him in the private changing room. He’d been waiting patiently for Obi-Wan to emerge for some time. Though the arena had been packed with Knights and Masters, Obi-Wan remembered from the hecticness of his youth that it had been common knowledge that only Master Jinn was really seeking an apprentice.

Though, he wasn’t of course.

Obi-Wan had learned years later that he’d been forced there by Yoda and Mace, a nearly four-year streak of managing to be off planet for the Trials interrupted. He dressed quickly, fortifying his shields and emotions for the meeting ahead. Qui-Gon was sitting on a small couch that stretched the dressing rooms length, sitting in a pose Obi-Wan knew well. He was bent over, elbows resting on his knees, fingers folded together and projecting from his body.

The sight of him felt like a physical blow and Obi-Wan realized abruptly that no amount of preparing could have possibly made him ready to see such a living ghost. Emotion made his throat tight and Obi-Wan turned to hide his ragged swallow, using an excuse of ordering a tea and water from the nearby machine. He turned when he felt his face was even remotely under control, setting the teacup down on the table between them. He sat in one of the smaller chairs, sipping from his water.

Qui-Gon glanced down at the tea before back up to Obi-Wan, an eyebrow quirked. “How did you know I took my tea black?”

The question wasn’t demanding, just curious, and Obi-Wan felt a snort rising in his throat. The proper way to take tea had been a constant debate among their years together; Obi-Wan liked his medium with a hint of honey if available, sugar if not. Qui-Gon – like everything with the man – liked his ‘pure.’ Obi-Wan cocked his head in a display of fake curiosity. “Don’t all Masters take their tea black? I had just assumed. I can get you something else if you prefer, sir.”

“No, no.” Qui-Gon waved his concern off, picking the tea up and sipping it. “You guessed well, I take it black. May I ask, who taught you to use Ataru in such a manner?”

“Sir?”

“You used it primarily in defense, though Ataru is not a defensive style.”

“Oh. I wasn’t trying to,” Obi-Wan lied, suddenly deeply interested in the rim of his water. “I just wanted to keep Bruck away.”

“Are you afraid of conflict?” Qui-Gon questioned, grey eyes intense as they observed him.

“No, sir.” Qui-Gon’s brows rose again. Obi-Wan tried to keep his eyes to his former Master’s face, but it was too hard. He kept them down, staring at the coffee table this time. He hoped it would be taken for nerves and not the object, yawning grief that was making his heart stagger in his chest. “I know Bruck well, we often fought in the past. I know what he’s like. That’s all.”

“A bit of rivalry, then?”

“Of sorts.”

“Tell me, Initiate Kenobi, did you seek to purposely embarrass him?”

Obi-Wan’s eyes shot up, confused. “Excuse me?”

He almost winced at his tone, it was not the same meek, polite one he’d been using so far, but rather an almost snappish, defensive one. Alright, Obi-Wan thought as he clamped down on his emotions, alright, so he felt a little bit more responsible for what had happened with Bruck then he’d first really assumed.

“It was clear within the first few moments that you were the superior fighter. So I ask again, why did you let it carry on for so long? Did you want to humiliate your rival publicly?”

Was…was Qui-Gon being serious? Did he really think Obi-Wan so petty, so cruel, that he…but no. Qui-Gon didn’t know him at all. Obi-Wan leaned back into his chair, letting out a breath through his nose. He took another couple of sips of his water, taking his time with each one, before letting the bottle rest on his knee. “No, I wasn’t trying to do that. Whatever issues Bruck and I have had in the past, that wasn’t what I was trying to do.”

“What were you trying to do, then?” Qui-Gon pushed, eyes locked on Obi-Wan’s face.

Obi-Wan met the stare head on, refusing to be cowed. “You speak as if I knew I could win, when I didn’t. Bruck and I were always beating each other, I never knew who was going to win a fight between us. I thought I could wait Bruck out.”

“You knew your inaction would lead him to anger and therefore mistakes.”

The tone was almost accusatory. Obi-Wan’s lips pursed before going slack in understanding. Of course it was; Qui-Gon was looking for a reason not to train him. Whether he knew it or not, Qui-Gon was actively sabotaging their conversation. No matter what Obi-Wan said, he would be found lacking.

“I’m unsure what it is you want me to say here, sir.” Obi-Wan said evenly. “I thought I could wait until Bruck tired himself out before making a move, which I did. I thought it was a decent strategy.”

Qui-Gon leaned back into the couch as if he heard what he had expected. “It was a risk you took and perhaps not the wisest. If you had misread Initiate Chun, he may worn you down instead, or exploited the weakness of Ataru's limited defensiveness. Arrogance can be a dangerous flaw in a Jedi.” Qui-Gon watched his face for any reaction to that and Obi-Wan could feel the gentle probes of his aura. “The galaxy is filled with dangers, Initiate Kenobi, dangers far more formable than Bruck Chun. Such confidence can be easily abused.”

Had…had Qui-Gon truly been this jaded when they met? This worn down by life and its trials that he would seek fault where he could not find it? For the first time in his life, Obi-Wan viewed his former Master through the eyes of an equal and not that of a child. He felt a deep sadness well up into him, blinking hard as tears threatened. He had known that the years following Xanatos had been difficult for his Master, but to see Qui-Gon like this now, to really see him…was painful. When he’d been taken on as Qui-Gon’s apprentice, his Master had done his best to put his past behind him. Obi-Wan had never seen him like this, or if he had he’d been too young to notice it or really understand it. While not broken, this Qui-Gon was…cracked, bruised. Hurt.

“I thank you for the advice, sir.” Obi-Wan said, voice quiet and almost raw. Qui-Gon’s head cocked to the side ever so slightly, observing the emotion. With any luck, he would think it simply due to how poorly their meeting was going. Qui-Gon stood, moving to set his teacup down on the open receptacle of the drink machine. Obi-Wan stood as well, following him as they made their way to the door.

“I will not take you as my Padawan.”

Obi-Wan nodded mutely.

“I…” His voice failed him, suddenly overwhelmed with a hundred things he could not say. He was struck, quite suddenly, by the thought that this may be the last time he was to ever see his former Master. Instead of any of them, he managed a quiet, “yes, sir.”

Qui-Gon stared at him, a strange expression on his face that Obi-Wan had never quite seen on it before. The air between them seemed oddly weighted, preternaturally still. Qui-Gon’s lips parted, then closed, then; “There are many ways to serve the Jedi Order, Obi-Wan.” And the sound of his name from his Master’s lips almost undid him. Qui-Gon’s tone was awkward, but not without kindness and Obi-Wan shut his eyes, taking a steady breath. “This is…this does not have to be an end.”

“I…yes, sir.” Obi-Wan managed, voice hoarse. He gave the Master a muted smile and fought to keep the fondness and affection he felt from his face. “Thank you for your consideration, sir, and your time. May the Force be with you. And…take care of yourself, sir.”

And then, feeling every bit of the child he was not, he fled the room.

---

The Knight Guard that was waiting for him by the lifts wore a rather familiar lightsaber belt. Obi-Wan gave the Guard an admittedly weak smile, amused despite himself. “Come to ensure I don’t wander off, Guard?”

The Guard’s head cocked to the side, before stepping aside and into the lift with Obi-Wan. The lift began its upward ascent before he spoke. “Have you been crying, Obi-Wan?”

The use of his name threw him enough that Obi-Wan simply gaped at the taller man. “I…what?” Then, more gracefully, after he remembered what is was he was actually supposed to be upset about, “Master Jinn will not be taking me for an apprentice. It seems like I’ve run out of time."

There was a stiffness to the Guard’s form that almost made him weary, eyeing him from the corner of his eye, trying to read whatever he could with that damnable mask in place. “Do not take it personally,” the Guard said after a moment, voice far to calm to be believable, “Master Jinn is known to have sworn off Padawan-ship. I doubt any performance you put on would have swayed that.”

Obi-Wan looked at the guard sharply. “Knight Guard, did you come to watch me spar?”

The idea was…absurd, astonishing even. But, what else would he be doing here? Obi-Wan knew enough about the guard rotation to know that those who stayed on nigh shift rarely were seen in the day. And there was no reason for him to come, Guards could not take Padawans, they weren't even supposed to interact socially with the Order at large. And yet, if a masked figure could look sheepish, the tall Guard next to him certainly was doing a good impression of it. Obi-Wan couldn’t help it, he burst out laughing, the insanity and oddness of it funny. After a moment, the Guard joined in with quiet chuckles of his own.

“You,” Obi-Wan said after a moment, wiping at his eyes, “are not a very good Guard.”

“So I’ve been told.” The Guard said after a moment, voice bland. With the humor – as brief and stress induced as it was – gone, the air around them grew turgid with seriousness again. Obi-Wan felt his shoulder droop, his heart aching with the memory of a man he knew he’d never get to have again. The lift stopped at the transit floor where Obi-Wan could switch to one that would take him to his room. The Guard did not step out to follow him, though it seemed almost like he wished to.

“You’ll be alright, Initiate.”

Obi-Wan gave the Guard a crooked smile. “Yes, I rather think I will. Goodbye, Knight Guard.”

“Goodbye, Initiate Kenobi. May the Force be with you.”

Obi-Wan watched the lift close and being to descend, before turning solidly on his heel. His Corps placement orders would come soon and then…then he’d be off-world and away from his minders. The galaxy was a big place, an easy place for a Jedi Corps member to get lost in. To disappear even.

Obi-Wan squared his shoulders.

He had planning to do.

And goodbyes to say.

Notes:

Qui-Gon's not a douche, I swear! He's just a complicated and greatly injured man. And Feemor is way too forgiving. And poor Obi-Wan, I remember when I first really understood my parents were fallible and capable of real emotions and complex feelings.

Chapter 5: The Monument, Part 1

Notes:

Uh, hi.

I'm alive? Sorry!

As his birthday drew closer, Obi-Wan began to pack a go bag. When he’d left the first time, he’d been too shocked and disillusioned by his fate to really put much thought into what he packed. Obi-Wan was careful not to repeat that a second time. Things that he at twelve may have dismissed as ‘too childish’ or ‘young’ were now carefully evaluated for their emotional importance. While Jedi lived light as a general rule, there was no reason to leave his collections of digital books or the pictures of his friends behind. He also gently said his goodbyes to his friends, who were quite possibly in a deeper denial than Obi-Wan had been the first time.

Still, when the orders to leave finally did come, they came two weeks earlier then expected and nearly a week later than they had in the past. Obi-Wan felt his eyebrows raise in surprise, pulling his eyes away from a choose your own adventure novel he could only just remember liking with a nostalgic fondness, when he heard his com unit beep.

The green plasti-film printed itself out, hanging from the bottom of the com unit; green was only ever used for mission assignments. Obi-Wan carefully clicked his pad to sleep, before making his way over to where the com was located. He wondered where he’d been placed; the Education branch would be interesting and almost ensured his placement on a remote world. He doubted he’d qualify for the Medical branch – he’d never once shown any true skill in healing or medical sciences. Exploration would be ideal; it would give him the means to travel and gain intel while still utilizing the Jedi’s resources for as long as possible. Even the Agricultural branch wouldn’t be too bad, it too would lead to a remote placement.

Obi-Wan ripped the paper free, feeling his brows shoot up in surprise. He sat down rather heavily on the edge of his desk, a choked laugh escaping him at the sheer bizarreness of it all. He was to pack his bags and report to The Monument first thing tomorrow. He was being sent to Bandomeer.

Again.

---

It was nearing the end of his shift when Feemor saw Initiate Kenobi again. True to his promise, the Knight had not seen the boy roaming the Temple hallways - or at least he hadn’t until now. But unlike their previous nocturnal encounters, Kenobi was hardly hidden. He stood at the lift exchange, fully dressed for the day, arms crossed and clearly waiting. Brows furrowing behind his mask, Feemor approached silently.

“Initiate Kenobi?”

The boy looked up, giving Feemor a small smile as he approached. “Hello, Knight Guard. I was hoping to see you again.”

It was at that moment that Feemor noticed the Jedi issue travel bag resting upon one of the many benches that framed the lift exchange. The Guard stared at it, completely loosing his response. His eyes flickered from the bag to Kenobi’s frame. He was wearing not the usual Initiate white and blue of the Boma clan, but rather the tans and white of Jedi garb, and Feemor could just see where his brown cloak was folded neatly next to his bag.

“You…received your placement orders.”

“I have.” Feemor didn't know why the confirmation shocked him so as he had known it was coming, but he felt his stomach sink. “It seems I am to be sent to Bandomeer, to join the AgriCorps there. It’s very odd,” and here Kenobi’s smile grew bemused, “but apparently the ship I’m to depart on was supposed to leave days ago but kept experiencing unexpected mechanical difficulties and was delayed.” 

As he spoke, Kenobi’s expression only became more and more bewildered. Feemor was quick to comfort him, “I’m sure they’ve fixed them by now; it’ll be safe to travel on or else the Council would not have authorized it’s use.” Kenobi only hummed his agreement, still looking somewhat lost. “Is someone coming to escort you, Initiate?”

“Hm?” The boy blinked at him in surprise, finally looking away from where he’d been staring, almost unseeingly, out one of the nearby windows. “Oh, yes. Master Kant is coming, she’ll be along in a moment. And it’s just Kenobi now, or I suppose you can call me Obi-Wan, if you like.”

Feemor mouth opened in response – though he did not know what he could possibly say, but then a harried looking Master Kant appeared around the corner. Behind her, face drawn tight and pale, eyes morosely locked on the floor, Bruck Chan followed. He carried his travel bag over his shoulder, his fingers white with their grip.

“Sorry, Obi-Wan. You ready to go?” The Twi’lek asked, already calling the lift. “Bruck, don’t lag behind, we’re running late as it is. Come on, Obi-Wan, get your robe on. We have to hurry.”

And then they were in the lift, Kenobi shrugging on his robe as he kicked his bag into the lift in front of him. The doors shut, and they were gone. Feemor stared at the close lift, heart stuck in his throat. He hadn’t even had a chance to say goodbye.

The idea struck him all at once, not only in that it was true but also as one that should not be causing him so much distress. But he couldn’t fight the feeling of wrongness that filled him. Feemor had known, from the moment that Qui-Gon Jinn had refused to take Kenobi on as a Padawan that this was going to happen. Feemor had known that Obi-Wan would most likely be aged out and while he thought it a waste of potential and talent, it was hardly anything that he hadn’t seen before. It was disappointing, but nothing novel.

So why in the kreffing hell did Feemor feel so devastated?

---

The Monument was an old Corellian barge, pocked and scarred from meteor hits. It was shaped like a crate and attached to the front of it were a dozen cargo boxes it would push to Bandomeer. It was a pretty ugly ship, whatever beauty or aesthetic it may have once had lost through decades of lack of care. There were a few spots where you could see the pale grey it must have been, or the blue and yellow designs that had once graced its side. Mostly though it was covered in dirt and grime, and in several places a rather impressive amount of asteroid damage. From where he stood observing both the rough transport and Bruck’s look of utter horror at the sight of it, Obi-Wan could just hear a disagreement going on between a group of mechanics gathered around a holo-display.

“- is not good enough. We need to get a move on, we’ve been stuck up in this port for almost two weeks. Do you have any idea what this costing the company?”

“Your company, maybe. Offworld has the funds, we’re not worried.” Another mechanic sniped back, “we can afford to wait for the right parts if that means we’re not going to blow up halfway to Bandomeer.”

The rest devolved into a general shouting match. From what Obi-Wan could gather with speaking to a couple of the dock hands that had been hanging around, there had been a series of unforeseeable breakdowns on the ship that had kept her immobile. Apparently, the Force really wanted Obi-Wan go to Bandomeer.

In the face of time travel, Obi-Wan accepted this with grace.

The presence of Bruck Chun with him was another surprise; in Obi-Wan’s former life, Bruck had never been sent from the Temple. Placing them together may have seem odd to some, but Obi-Wan could smell Yoda’s influence all over this. Knowing his former Great-Grandmaster, he most likely saw this as a perfect ‘learning opportunity’ for Bruck and Obi-Wan. As it was, Bruck was alternating between looking about despondently, glaring at Obi-Wan behind Master Kant’s back, and watching the various beings rushing about around them with a frightened awe.

Obi-Wan, honestly, was still too far in awe of just how little he really did understand of the Force’s will. After all, he was going to Bandomeer. Again. Nearly two weeks after he’d once departed upon the Monument in the past. Master Kant was cheerful as she walked them both towards the entrance ramp, bouncing from reassuring as she told them they’d have an easy and safe flight, encouraging and bright about the adventure they were about to embark on, to stern as she warned them to not fight, pointing out that they were – in a way – family, and though Obi-Wan was sure she didn’t mean for it come across in such, all each other had anymore.

Bruck had looked vaguely alarmed at the thought.

Though she was unerringly positive, Obi-Wan could see the devastation lurking just behind the wide smile and gleam of excitement his Creche Master put on for them. When it was time to go, Obi-Wan stepped forward and gave Master Kant a tight hug.

“Thank you,” he murmured softly, ignoring Bruck’s snort of derision at such an open display from behind him.

“You are very welcome, Obi-Wan.” Master Kant replied, voice almost achingly gentle. “May the Force be with you both.”

She watched them both for a moment longer, before turning suddenly on her heel and walking away. Obi-Wan watched her go, feeling a tug of sympathy, and hoped she’d find her own peace with their leaving. Obi-Wan watched her until she turned the corner and disappeared from sight, before finally climbing up the entry ramp. He glanced around, letting out a sigh when Bruck was nowhere to be seen.

He shouldered his travel bag, locking it more securely on his shoulder, before heading deeper into the ship. Best to find the boy before he got into any trouble; Obi-Wan’s first time on The Monument had started with running afoul of a Hutt and spending nearly three days in a healing coma. Of course, Qui-Gon had been the one to save him back them. Reaching out, Obi-Wan could feel nothing of the man’s presence. It seemed that this time Qui-Gon would not be accompanying him to Bandomeer.

Obi-Wan bit back the disappointment he felt at that. He had already accepted that he would not be Qui-Gon’s Padawan. Indeed, Obi-Wan honestly didn’t even know how that would work even if he had been taken on. But still, it was hard to accept that he wouldn’t have any relationship with the man. When he’d seen the orders, a part of Obi-Wan had still hoped…

But no, it was better this way. Cracking his neck, Obi-Wan started out, quickly homing in on Bruck’s unrefined Force signature.

---

If he thought the outside of the ship was bad, the inside of The Monument didn’t exactly improve on first impressions. The ship looked like it had been slowly falling apart for the last few years, patched together with whatever was on hand. The fact that it had apparently been delayed for further repairs didn’t fill Bruck with confidence. In several places it wires and duct work hung loosely or bulged exposed, like the innards of the ship on display. As he struggled to make sense of the bulkhead markers so he could find his room, Bruck was aware of the eyes that watched him.

Everywhere he went the crew seemed to stop to watch. Bruck refused to acknowledge the fear that was curled in his belly like a stone, hard and cold, or the way his nervousness made the tension he felt in his shoulders and back grow. Bruck had always been so sure that he’d be chosen, that he’d be a Padawan and a Knight someday. But…after that fight, when he’d…Bruck shook his head, refusing to think about it.

He knew he had pride issues and a temper, he’d been told that his whole life, and he’d never denied it. Sometimes Bruck knew he took it too far. But that fight, even for him that had been – but no, there was no reason to dwell on it. It was done. He’d been kicked out the Initiate training program. It was over. His life was over. If only stupid Obi-Wan wasn’t coming with him! How was Bruck supposed to be able to move on when he was going to be around? It was bad enough that he didn’t like Obi-Wan, but now every time he looked at him all Bruck could think about was how he’d destroyed his own future. And no matter what was said in the days after that fight, no matter how much he and Obi-Wan had never gotten along, Bruck hadn’t really meant to – he hadn’t meant to –

He never wanted to hurt anyone.

Bruck was shook from his thoughts when he was abruptly backhanded into a nearby wall. He let out a strange sound, some sort of gasping groan as he collapsed against the metal. His vision seemed to blur in front of him, the red glow of a nearby meter lamp growing wider and fuzzier, until it’s halo almost overtook everything. A fatty hand dragged him back to his feet by his shirt and Bruck nearly swallowed his tongue out of shock at the sight of the giant Hutt that glared down at him. The fist rose and Bruck’s eyes slammed shut, already wincing for the blow.

“Excuse me, do you mind terribly putting him down?”

Bruck’s eyes opened, darting to the side to find Obi-Wan standing there, one hand still holding his jump bag over one shoulder. His eyes were narrowed as he stared up at the Hutt, but otherwise his face was that same, bizarre evenness. It was still just as strange to see it on his face now as it was when Obi-Wan had first started acting like he’d lost his marbles a few weeks ago. Why the Masters’ back at the Temple didn’t notice, Bruck had no idea, but everyone in their Clan sure as kriff did. It was like one day Obi-Wan had just woken up a different person.

Not that Bruck was concerned or anything; he and Obi-Wan weren’t friends. They went out of the way to provoke each other, fought constantly, and they’d been like that from nearly the moment they’d both arrived at the Temple. It was just – Obi-Wan was the only other kid that could keep up with Bruck, especially in lightsaber class. Trying to beat Obi-Wan kept Bruck on his toes, kept driving him to do better in his classes.

“Back off, pipsqueak. This has nothing to do with you.”

“I’m afraid I’m going to have disagree.” Obi-Wan said evenly, seeming unaffected by the fact that a nearly seven-foot Hutt was looming over him, Bruck hanging and nearly blue in his grasp. “You see, that’s Bruck. He’s a part of my clan – the Boma Clan, actually – and we grew up together. I feel a little responsible for him, like an older brother.”

But, Bruck thought, thoughts hazy and nonsensical, what?  They were still talking, but Bruck couldn’t really hear them anymore. Something Obi-Wan said made the Hutt tense and without warning Bruck was slamming into the grated sheet metal walkway. He tried to get up, panicked, but hands pushed him down.

He blinked up to find Obi-Wan hovering over him, brows drawn in worry. “Don’t try to get up just yet, Bruck. I think you have a concussion.”

Small fingers, sure and confident, probed at the curve of his skull. Obi-Wan let out a soft tsking sound and then Bruck felt the light touches of the Force skittering across his senses, muting the worst of the throbbing. Bruck blinked hard, the white fuzz to his vision clearing with each pass of Obi-Wan’s surprisingly light Force touch.

“There we go,” Obi-Wan said quietly, leaning back onto his heels, “that’ll do for now, but don’t sleep for a few hours just to be sure. We may want to get you checked out by the med team anyway.”

Bruck stiffened. “I’ll be fine.”

He pushed the offered hand away, standing swiftly on his own and regretting it when he wobbled. A hand shot out, catching his elbow in a light but supportive grip. Obi-Wan was peering up at him, eyes so concerned and Bruck’s chest felt tight, but he couldn’t tell if it was with anger or –

“Careful now.” Obi-Wan muttered, “take it easy.”

“Back off.” Bruck snapped. “I didn’t ask for your help!”

“You didn’t.” Obi-Wan agreed, sliding from his knees in a move that was far more graceful than it should be. This. This was what Bruck was talking about. In all the years that he’d known Obi-Wan Kenobi, graceful was hardly something that could ever be attached to his name. There was a reason why he’d always called the younger boy ‘Oafy-Wan.’ “But luckily for you, the other party’s permission isn’t actually required in these things. Now come on, we need to report in.”

Bruck gaped at him but found himself scrambling to follow when he was left behind. “How do you even know where you’re going?”

Obi-Wan pointed at the almost faded markings painted at the top of each wall. “Do you see those numbers? 3-75-4-Q3. The numbers tell you this compartment’s deck and frame number, relation to the centerline of the ship, and its usage.  So, this is the third deck of the ship, 3, 75 – this is the forward boundary at or immediately aft of the frame. 4, the second compartment outboard to port, and Q – usually denotes the crew compartments, while 3 is probably what sector we’re in.

Most starships use the same standard, it acts as a map for the ship. We’ll want to head towards the CIC; the Combat/Control Information Center, which is probably in the bridge given this ship’s size. Generally, aft is towards the stern – the back of the ship, that is. Abaft is further aft. Bow is the forward end of the ship, astern usually is used in regards to something behind the ship proper. What we want is to find the Captain or CO of the ship, or at the very least the Chief Master-at-Arms or the Quartermaster to get our room assignments.”

Bruck stared.

Sensing the question, Obi-Wan gave him a quirked smile. “I read a lot. And I always enjoyed astro-naval novels.”

“You read a lot.” Bruck said blankly, trying to slot this information in with the boy he’d grown up with. Obi-Wan just let out a hum of agreement, leading them unerringly through the ship’s insides.

“There are two rival companies onboard; Offworld Mining Corporation and Arcona Mineral Harvest Corporation.”

“I know.” Bruck interrupted, annoyed. “I did read the brief.”

“So you did.” Obi-Wan said, that weird little smile still on his face. “You need to be careful where you go on ship. The two companies don’t seem like they get along and because we’re station through Aracona – even with our Corp status we’ll be considered a target. The Hutt from earlier was most likely an Offworlder; the company has a bit of a reputation of being overly-aggressive. They also have considerable more financial backing and weight compared to the AMHC, which is basically a start up. Until we get to know the ship better, it’s probably better if we stick together.”

“Yeah, no.” Bruck said with a harsh laugh. “I think I’ll pass, Oafy-Wan. Just because we’re assigned together doesn’t mean I want to spend any more time with you then I have to.”

“That’s too bad you feel that way,” Obi-Wan said after a moment, stopping in front of a doorway and giving Bruck a long, annoyingly knowing look, “because we’re all each other has now, Bruck.” The idea struck him like a blow and Bruck took an unthinking step back, eyes wide. Obi-Wan watched him for a moment longer, the corner of his lips quirking up in a tiny half-smile. “Come on, let’s report in.”

They entered into a large room with several workstations and a massive viewing window. The bridge looked only slightly more clean and put together than the rest of the aged ship, but it was clear that an effort had been put into it to make it seem more up to code. A Human woman looked up as they entered, her bright hair pulled up in a fierce looking topknot, the sides of her heads shaved. She had an impressive scar that climbed and curled over her chin and even from where he stood, Bruck could see the intensity of her eyes.

“Ah, you must be our two young Jedi.” The woman cleared the starchart table she was leaning over. “I’m Clat’Ha Shorn, just call me Clat’Ha or Captain; call me ‘Ha or anything else cutesy and I’ll gut you.”

Obi-Wan chuckled, striding forward and greeting the woman with a low bow before accepting her handshake. “My name is Obi-Wan Kenobi and this is Bruck Chun. We’re reporting in for our enroute assignments before we begin on Bandomeer.”

Clat'Ha nodded. “Nice to meet you both. Ah, hold on, I had it here.” She dug about in a pack attached to her waist before pulling out two slim cards. “Your room assignments. I’m afraid we’re hardly set up for cruising, so you’ll be sharing.”

“That won’t be a problem.” Obi-Wan said firmly, abruptly undercutting the objection on Bruck’s lips. “I thank you for your hospitality. Is there anything you wish us to do during the trip? We would be glad to pitch in if needed.”

“Nah,” Clat’Ha said, waving the offer away, “you just focus on doing whatever you Jedi do. I’ll get you to Bandomeer in one piece. Do your best to avoid the Offworlders though, they’re not the friendliest bunch.”

“Of course.” Obi-Wan agreed, “however if you change your mind, please let us know.”

“Will do. Hold on – here; I’ve updated your pads with the ship’s mess schedule. Try not to be late, miners are hardly known for leaving leftovers.”

And just like they were dismissed, without Bruck having to say a single word. He trailed after Obi-Wan, feeling slightly lost and angry, feeling like he’d been shown up somehow. He stared at the shorter boy’s back, brows furrowed in confusion. Now he knew he wasn’t crazy – something was off with Obi-Wan.

Something big.

---

The cabin they’d been assigned was small; with barely enough room for two beds to be placed side by side and a low, squat ceiling and single sink wedged into one corner. Obi-Wan settled in with ease, a lifetime of living aboard starships coming into play. He unpacked only his personal hygiene kit, leaving the rest of his items stowed away. He couldn’t count how many times he’d had to grab his stuff in a hurry in the past, Obi-Wan had learned the hard way more than once that it wasn’t wise to unpack too much.

He could feel the weight of Bruck’s eyes on him, but he couldn’t bring himself to care too much. Having Bruck along was certainly different but Obi-Wan was resolute not to let it bother him. It complicated his plans somewhat; if Xanatos was currently still on Bandomeer he was hardly going to leave an impressionable boy like Bruck Chun to his hands, especially not considering the Dark Jedi had dug his claws in once already.

So, perhaps that meant shelving his plans for a little while, it changed very little else. Xanatos was a threat that would have to be countered in some way after all and it was hardly like Obi-Wan’s presence on Bandomeer was going to go unnoticed. Even if Qui-Gon was not accompanying them, there was little chance that someone like Xanatos wasn’t going to show up and attempt to mess with two fresh faced and green Jedi Corp members. The man loved chaos and mischief too much, and Obi-Wan hardly put it past the Dark Jedi to antagonize them in the hopes they’d reach out to the Council. There was no better way of getting Qui-Gon’s attention. For all that he may not want another apprentice, Qui-Gon still felt a deep and unhealthy amount of responsibility for Xanatos’ actions. There was no way he’d let two thirteen-year-olds deal with Xanatos’ brand of madness by themselves.

What’s more, for all he was a boy at the moment, Obi-Wan had been a Jedi Master for much longer. There was no way he was simply going to abandon Bruck to his fate. The very least he could do was see the boy safely to Bandomeer and settled before beginning his plans. His plans that were – admittedly – not very well formed now. Outside of sneaking his way on to or hijacking a craft to escape the dusty planet of Bandomeer, Obi-Wan was still unsure of just what his next steps would be.

There was so much to untangle, so many different lines of thought and plots that needed to be interrupted and reshaped. A single misstep could be disastrous. No; it was best that Obi-Wan gave this the thought it deserved. Rushing headfirst into action was a mistake he’d made far too often in the past, and hard-won consequences had beat that brashness out of him long ago. For now, Obi-Wan settled onto a bed in the lotus position, settling easily into a meditative trance.

A half hour passed, then another. Bruck had puttered around the cabin for a bit, leaving to go to the communal head down the hallway before returning. He rummaged through his bag before finally laying down on his bed, his back turned towards Obi-Wan with a loud and very put upon huff. Despite himself, Obi-Wan found his lips twitching in amusement. Stars save me from the dramatics of teenage boys, he thought, though even he could admit that there was a degree of fondness to it. Another hour and a half passed before Obi-Wan felt the stirrings of conflict at the edges of his senses.

To his surprise, Bruck jerked up in his bed. “Obi-Wan, do you–”

“I feel it.” Obi-Wan agreed, legs uncurling. Without Qui-Gon here, it fell on Obi-Wan to do whatever mediation that he could. “Come on, let’s go see what all the fuss is about.”

---

The sight that met Obi-Wan's eyes screamed of conflict; Clat'Ha stood stock still, her hands deceptively still from where they hung by her side. She stood tall and rigid; her face as hard as a stone as she stared down the hulking Hutt in front of her. “Excuse me, Jemba,” Her voice was whip sharp, echoed with a mock politeness, “but it's not unreasonable to hate a lying, scheming, cowardly murderer.”

Jemba's eyes widened as his entire body puffed out in indignation, his tongue sweeping about his lips. “We have not even reached Bandomeer,” the Hutt boomed, “and this woman tries to discredit me before the mining guild. Now she tries to frame me! Listen to how she talks to me; there is not respect in her voice!”

“I may not respect you, Jemba,” Clat'Ha spat back, “but I certainly didn't frame you. Your lies are as pathetic as your denials.”

Obi-Wan saw the strike before it happened and felt Bruck jolt into motion next to him. The muscles of the Hutt constricted as he shot forward menacingly, Clat’Ha drawing her blaster with a furious cry. Obi-Wan’s hand shot back, pushing the startled Bruck off his intercept course and back into the bulkhead before sprinting forward. He launched himself between the two figures, a Force push halting the charging Hutt while his unlit lightsaber stopped Clat’Ha.

“Come now,” he said sharply, “surely there’s no reason to devolve this into violence. What’s all this about?”

“He,” Clat’Ha spat out, pointing violently at the Hutt with her blaster, “sabotaged our machines!”

Jemba huffed dismissively; “Mindless slander.”

"That worm–”

Obi-Wan’s lips tightened at the insult as Jemba predictably radiated fury; Hutts despised any insult or phrasing that called attention to their body shape so. He felt Bruck come to stand behind him, a bundle of anxiety and nerves, but his solidarity was appreciated nonetheless.

“ – stole our thermocoms and sabotaged our coring couplers.” Clat'Ha said with a glare, voice tired, sending a venomous glare at the Hutt. “The thermocoms are used to monitor Arconan tunnelers, which are vehicles that drill through rock and soil. As they do, the friction of the hull moving past all that stone makes the vehicle very hot.” Clat’Ha explained. “Without the thermocoms, the cooling system would not work, and with the coring couplers sabotaged, the driver of the tunneler would not be able to shut it off.”

“So the machine would melt.” Obi-Wan finished, “killing everyone inside it.”

Grimly Clat'Ha nodded. Jemba scoffed. “Have you any proof these accusations? Or do you simply mean us to take you on your word, Human?”

“I don’t need proof, you overgrown –”

“Captain,” Obi-Wan interrupted disapprovingly, “do you have proof?” Clat’Ha’s lips snapped shut, crossing her arms as she glared angrily away. Obi-Wan sighed, relaxing his stance and clipping his lightsaber to his belt. “I see. Well, it seems to me that the damage is done regardless. Would it not be best that you focus your efforts on repairing your machines?”

“But–”

“There is nowhere for this to go, Clat’Ha,” Obi-Wan interrupted, “save for open warfare. Something, I think we can all agree, is rather ill suited for our current location.”

Clat’Ha breathed heavily through her nose. “Fine. Fine.”

She stalked off, her shoulders a tight line of anger. Obi-Wan watched her go, before turning to an unimpressed looking Jemba. The Hutt rose the meaty section of flesh above his forehead. “You think yourself to be fair, baby Jedi, but when Hutts and Humans argue, even the fairest of men join sides against my kind.”

“I’m not here to pass judgement.” Obi-Wan said with a shake of his head. “We only want to get to Bandomeer in one piece; Bruck and I aren’t Jedi proper, we’re Agri-Corpsmen.”

“Whatever you say, little Jedi.” Jemba’s eyes narrowed. “Stay out of our way, if you know what’s wise.”

“I thank you for your advice.” Obi-Wan offered with a short bow, before turning and grabbing a open mouthed Bruck by the sleeve and dragging the boy behind him. “Come on, Bruck. We’ve got a few hours still before midmeal.”

They’d only made it a few paces down the hallway before Bruck yanked his sleeve free. Obi-Wan stopped to look at the boy over his shoulder; Bruck was staring at him, grey eyes bright with confusion and anger in equal measures. “What was that?”

“What was what?”

“That!” Bruck said, louder, and pointed back towards the way they came. “I’ve known you since you came to the Temple, Obi-Wan, so don’t lie. Maybe the adults didn’t see it, but I sure do. What is going on with you?”

Obi-Wan froze, then forced himself to relax. Leave it a youngling to catch on where their fully grown fellows couldn’t. In so many ways their way of thinking was so much broader than adults, capable of so much more observation without the strident borders in place that came with adulthood. “I suppose I don’t know what you mean.”

“You, this whole – I don’t know! Holy-than-thou act. In case you forgot, Oafy-Wan, you got kicked out of the Temple, so don’t go putting on airs. Acting like you’re some sort of Knight or something! You’re going to get yourself – or worse, me – killed!”

“Why Bruck,” Obi-Wan quipped, amused, “I had no idea you cared.” Bruck threw his hands up in frustration. “I suppose you could say that I’ve had a bit of…realignment of my views. When I realized that I wasn’t going to be an apprentice, I made with peace with that. Now I just want to be the best however I can, wherever I can serve.”

Silence filled the air between them, hovering heavily. And then – Bruck snorted. “Yeah, right. Sell me another one. Fine, keep your secrets. I’ll figure you out. Watch me.”

And then the boy was storming off, all ruffled feathers and angry strides. Obi-Wan watched him go, his lips quirking in a small smile. He shook his head once, ruefully, before moving to follow him.

---

“Don’t you think its weird that there isn’t even a Knight assigned to escourt us?” Bruck asked later that night, when they were both stretched out on their bunks, the ship humming with life despite the late hour.

Obi-Wan let out a hum of thought. “It does seem odd, doesn’t it? But the shipping lanes we’re assigned are heavily patrolled by the Republic Navy, they may not have seen the need. Or perhaps they were just short-handed.” Which was true enough; Qui-Gon had his own mission on Bandomeer last time, which was the only reason he’d been on the same ship as Obi-Wan. Come to think of it, “I wouldn’t be surprised if we find a Jedi assigned to Bandomeer when we get there, though.”

Bruck sighed. “I can’t believe I’m in the AgriCorps.”

“Never thought you’d make it, eh?”

“Shut up, Obi-Wan.” Bruck said hotly. Then, “do you think Jemba actually sabotaged those machines? Didn’t you say that Offworld had a reputation for doing shady stuff like that?”

“They do.” Obi-Wan agreed. “I only know of them because of a news report a few years back. I don’t suppose you remember us doing a case study on a mining world in the rim named Varristad? It didn’t have a stable atmosphere. No air, so the workers all lived in these huge underground domes. Some were small, some the size of them Temple. Anyway, someone or something popped a hole in main hub dome, instantly destroying the artificial atmo and killing a quarter of a million people. No one was ever able to prove that Offworld did it, but when the other company went bankrupt, Offworld bought the mineral rights for practically nothing.”

“So you do think Jemba did it.”

“Is that what I said?” Obi-Wan asked lightly.

“Well, you just said they destroyed Varristad.”

“What I said was that there was no proof.” He corrected. “Regardless of what happened on Varristad, it holds very little meaning to what’s happening now. Jemba may have sabotaged the machines to cripple Aracona and yes, Offworld has a reputation of being ‘shady.’ But it could just as easily be Clat’Ha exploiting that reputation to frame Jemba. The rights to Bandomeer are heavily contested; neither company likes having to share. And Jemba was not wholly wrong in what he said either; Hutts are often villainized regardless of what their actions are.”

“They’re a culture of slavers and drug dealers.”

“True, but every people have their outliers. And you must remember, though their actions appear cruel to us – an antithesis to what the Jedi represent – we are ourselves products of our own culture. To the Hutts, there is no morality issue. They simply are.”

“So we shouldn’t do anything?” Bruck finally asked.

“Not directly, no. Not unless we must.” Obi-Wan answered, voice quiet. “Our mission doesn’t start until Bandomeer, but we can’t even begin it if we get ourselves caught in the pettiness of this ship.”

“It just…doesn’t seem right.”

“No,” Obi-Wan agreed easily, “and sometimes the hardest thing to do is to stand back and watch. But we aren’t here in role of mediator, Bruck, we’re not here in any role at all.  Any action we take would be considered outside our mission parameters and I don’t think either of us want to be catching that kind of attention from the Council at the moment. The damage to the machines is unfortunate, but nothing that can’t be fixed. The important thing was that it was caught before any lives were lost.”

Bruck fell silent, obviously thinking hard about what Obi-Wan just said. The other Jedi smiled wanly into the dark of their room. It seems that he just couldn’t help himself; once a Master, always a Master. He remembered what is was like to be in Bruck’s place, so new and unused to the casual cruelties of the universe. How truly evil Jemba had struck him them, utterly wicked and without care. He wondered just when he had gotten so old; jaded enough that even his thoughts sounded like those of an old man to himself. Obi-Wan also wondered when Bruck was going to snap and tell him to mind his own business. What had the boy called it? Oh yes, ‘putting on airs.’

Notes:

Hope you guys enjoyed it, especially the part from Bruck's perspective.

Chapter 6: The Monument, Part 2

Notes:

I dunno, I'm on a roll I guess. As long as the well of inspiration doesn't run dry, I'll keep writing.

Obi-Wan woke abruptly, choking back a sob. He blinked up at the ceiling, his senses overwhelming him for a moment before they realigned. He let himself relax; that’s right, he was on The Monument, heading towards Bandomeer, and was currently a twelve-year-old boy. Obi-Wan let out a watery laugh, throwing an arm over his eyes as he bit back the urge to either howl with laughter or cry. There was a rustle from besides him.

“…uh.” Bruck started eloquently, voice sounding unsure and nervous. “Are you okay?”

“I’m fine.” Obi-Wan breathed, though the sound of his voice outed him as a liar almost immediately. He took a shaky breath. “Just bad dreams, Bruck. Go back to bed.” He swung his legs off the bed and into the small space that separated their bunks. “I’m going to refresher.”

“Okay.” Bruck said, eyes peering at him in the dark.

Obi-Wan waved him away, shoving his feet into his boots and waiting until he stepped out to lean into the nearest wall, breathing heavily. He wiped at his eyes, his hand rubbing at his aching heart. The burn was back, that strange heat that seamed to be cooking the muscle from the inside out. He took another deep breath, trying to center himself and release the pain into the Force, but found he could only think of the images from his nightmare.

But no, it wasn’t a nightmare. It had been a memory.

Oh Anakin, he thought, utterly shaken with misery. He stumbled down the hallway, ignoring the skittish Arconans that scattered from his approach. They were a flighty and fearful race at their best, creatures not meant for life above ground and ill prepared to handle it. An utterly collectivist society, the Arcona race was one that preferred to move in the shadows in groups of four or five, and were rarely – if ever – found alone.

Obi-Wan entered into the communal head, grateful to find it empty with the late hour. He dunked his head into the nearest sink, wishing not for the first time that spaceships used water-based cleaning systems instead of sonic, but turned the tap on anyway. The jolt of feeling that came with the sweat being blasted from his hair settled him all the same, and when Obi-Wan pulled back up he found his reflection looking gaunt and pale, but felt slightly more human.

He should head back before Bruck began to worry. If he was lucky, he could still salvage a few hours of –

The Force prickled across his awareness, causing his feet to falter just seconds before the ship was lurched violently to the side. Obi-Wan caught himself with a hand, eyes narrowing before sprinting to the nearest view port. He felt his mouth drop as he stared out of it, eyes wide.

“The pirates.” He mouthed; voice nearly non-existent. How could he have forgotten about the bloody pirates? The claxons of alarms started up, the hallway lights switching to an eerie neon red. Obi-Wan cursed himself as he made his way back to their rooms at a dead run. How could he have forgotten? On the first trip to Bandomeer, they’d been attacked by space pirates and barely escaped with the ship intact. They’d been forced to make an emergency landing on some rim world and make a stand in an abandoned cave system against the pirates’ second attack. Bruck was already standing in the entryway of their room, face pale.

“Get your boots on.” Obi-Wan snapped, yanking his cloak on.

“What’s happening?”

“We’re being boarded.” Obi-Wan said tersely, pushing the boy towards the pile of his boots and robes as he stood in the doorway, extending his senses. “Get your boots on, now.”

Bruck scrambled to obey and Obi-Wan shuffled through the rush of information, flickering past the panicked forms of the miners and freighters before – there. Something darker, hotter with maliciousness and glee.

“They’re coming. Hurry.” The ship rattled again, a loud screeching sound overtaking even the blaring alarms. Obi-Wan’s thumb flickered out, igniting his lightsaber. “They’re forcing open one of the airlocks.”

“Who are they?” Bruck asked, fully dressed, the green of his lightsaber casting his hair emerald.

“Opportunists. Slavers. It doesn’t matter.” He said, eyes narrowing as he stepped further back into the room, letting a handful of Arconans sprint past him. He turned to the boy. “Bruck, listen. They will try to kill us, we aren’t at the Temple anymore, this is the real world.”

Bruck nodded grimly. “I know.”

He eyed the teenager for a moment longer before nodding. “Stay close to me; we’ve got a better chance if we’re together.”

“What are we going to do?”

“We need to try and buy the Captain some time to rally her defenses. The Arconan aren’t fighters, but Hutts are a territorial people; Jemba and his men will make them earn every inch.” Obi-Wan stepped out into the hallway, rolling his shoulders. “Remember, stay close. We’re in this together.”

He barely waited for Bruck’s nod before darting off. A part of him wanted to insist that Bruck stay behind in the safety of their room, but – well, there was no guarantee the room would remain safe. And he knew better than to ask a twelve-year-old Jedi to remain behind when lives were on the line, even if Bruck was no longer considered a part of the Knight program. Besides, if Obi-Wan could keep Anakin alive through his early Padawan years (which was quite a trial, thank you very much) he could keep Bruck Chun from getting himself killed.

The hallway abruptly widened out into a storage bay of some kind and Obi-Wan yanked out, a Force push sweeping a gaggle of Arconan’s out of the way of a pirate’s great axe. They were the same Togorians of his memories; a tall, muscled people, easily twice the size of a Human male and difficult to handle for even veteran Jedi. Their race came by their brute force and vicious fighting style naturally, having developed on a planet with high gravity and massive flora and fauna doggedly determined to eat anything and everything.

“Togorians,” he said to Bruck as they spread out, shifting until displaced groups of miners were at their backs, “big and hit hard, but slow. Evade as much as possible, wear them down.”

Bruck nodded, expression hardening with resolve. “Right.”

The soft whines of the Arconan's picked up in volume as the now recovered Togorian charged. Obi-Wan deflected the downward strike of the pirate’s axe, feeling his shoulders tremble with effort. He opened himself to the Force, letting it augment his weaker body. He grit his teeth, legs locking as he held off the strike.

“Go!” The Arconan’s scattered from behind him and a quick slash caught the Togorian off guard as the pirate immediately tried to charge off after them. He kicked the bigger alien away, swirling his lightsaber to force space between them. “Leave them, your fight is with me.”

The pirate sneered, then charged. Obi-Wan danced away, keeping half his attention on the pirate and the three that had joined him, and half on Bruck’s form. He was at a bit of a disadvantage; the lack of height was messing with his depth perception – Obi-Wan had been several feet taller the last time he’d been in a real fight. And his muscles were much weaker than before, but he could adjust. He followed his own advice, darting between the quartet of Togorian until they had to moderate their blows sheerly out of fear of striking each other.

His lightsaber shot out, catching one of the pirates unawares in the stomach and Obi-Wan continued his forward momentum, rolling across the hunched and sinking form’s back. His hand shot out, a pull flinging a pile of debris at the head of the Togorian slowly but methodically driving Bruck into a corner. The pirate crumpled like a doll, Bruck kicking him harshly in the head once before whirling to deflect an oncoming blow. Satisfied that the boy had it handled, Obi-Wan turned his attention back to his own opponents, grinning fiercely at the now cautious pirates.

“You know, you could just go back the way you came and call it a bad day.” One of them spat at him in his native language and Obi-Wan didn’t need to be fluent to understand that tone. “No, I didn’t think you’d go for that.”

He threw his lightsaber, a sharp yank of the Force having it arcing back to his hand as it cut down one of his foes. He brought it up mere seconds before a vibro-sword would have gutted him, redirecting the force of the strike and rolling deftly out of the way. A shout from behind him caught his attention and Obi-Wan cursed, launching himself forward and catching one of the pirates attacking Bruck in the head with both feet.

He landed in front of the boy, annoyed to find himself panting. “Alright?”

“Yeah.” Bruck hissed, eyes alight as he clutched at his bloody arm. “He cut me.”

“Can you still fight?” Obi-Wan asked, eyeing their opponents as they formed a circle around them. Behind him, Bruck seethed, his Force signature lighting up brightly. “Bruck,” Obi-Wan warned, voice low, “calm yourself. The anger feels good, but its an illusion. If you feed it, it will only take more from you.”

“Stop preaching to me!” Bruck snarled, lashing out past Obi-Wan in a whirl of green light. Obi-Wan cursed, falling in step behind the boy, covering the openings in his guard. He was getting careless in his anger, fighting harder than before but leaving gapes in his defenses.

“Bruck, damn’t!” Obi-Wan yanked the boy back by his robe, flinging him backwards as he brought his own lightsaber up. His legs quivered under the force of the blow, the pirate before him easily the biggest of the lot. Obi-Wan took a harsh breath from his nose – and let the cloak of childhood slip from him like water.

His body twisted itself into the familiar stance of Soresu, redirecting the momentum of the downward thrust to rip the blade from the pirate’s hands. He followed it through immediately, lightsaber flashing as he cut both arms from the pirate. One of his comrades let out an angrily bellow, axe raised high. Obi-Wan leapt into the strike, the move startling the alien and Obi-Wan fell to his knees, striking out as he slid between the tall Togorian’s legs. It let out a harsh scream, legs sliding apart under the heat of his lightsaber. Obi-Wan swung around, snake-quick as he decapitated it. Obi-Wan let out a harsh breath, then another, then was panting bodily, shoulders shaking from exertion. The bay was silent save for the crackle and hiss of displaced and broken electrical wires. He glanced over at Bruck, wincing when he found the white-haired boy staring at him, mouth ajar.

“Obi-Wan, Bruck!” A tinny voice hollered over the speaker. “Get out of there, I’m going to cut the department free.”

Obi-Wan lurched forward, joining Bruck as they sprinted into the hallway. They’d only just made it before the bulkhead door behind them slammed shut. There was the grating sound of metal on metal, an almighty yanking sensation, and then The Monument was free. The sound of blaster fire ricocheting off the freighter’s armor followed suit almost immediately and the ship listed heavily to the starboard side. Obi-Wan cursed, grabbing Bruck by the arm before the boy could fall.

Clat’Ha came over the speaker once more, sounding harried but determined. “They’ve blown the engines, we’re in the grav pull of a planet, I’m taking us down! Batten down, fire teams report to your musters, crash stations everyone! This is not a drill! Kriff, this is gonna get rough!”

The ship turned into an almost ninety-degree angle, almost directly down, and Obi-Wan grit his teeth, digging his feet into an empty cubby attached to the wall. His shoulders and arms screamed as he held onto Bruck, the boy hanging one-handed from his grip. He pulled on the Force, using it for one great heave and yanked him up. He tucked Bruck between himself and the wall.

“Bruck,” he shouted past the noise, the sound of the dying ship so loud he could feel it in his teeth. Bruck lay frozen, curled up and wide eyed as he stared up at him. Obi-Wan’s lips pursed before he flattened himself over the boy, hands and feet curling around whatever supports he could. At the same time he reached out with the Force, trying to reach the teenager with it. “Bruck, listen to me, I need you to come back now.”

Bruck reacted to the touch of Obi-Wan’s mind instinctively, latching on fervently. Almost instantly Obi-Wan swamped with fear and panic, the emotions so strong he almost choked on them. He pushed back his own calm, trying to shelter the battered boy.

“Bruck, breathe!”

“Obi-Wan.” Bruck choked out, eyes squeezing shut.

“I know, I’m scared too. That’s okay, fear is the appropriate response.” Obi-Wan let out a harsh laugh, pushing his chin against Bruck’s forehead, speaking into Bruck’s ear so he could be heard. “But I need you to listen, I need you to steady yourself. Find a handhold and hold tight, do you hear me? Reach for the Force and wrap it around yourself, like a Corso moth in its cocoon. Do you remember when we did survival training?”

“Y-Yeah.” Came the shaky response.

“Of course you do, you tested at the top didn’t you? Beat the socks of me and Siri. We have to stay calm, try to center yourself. No matter how much you want to tense up, you’ve got to remain loose. We have to try to minimize the stress of our bodies if we’re going to crash. I can see out a port window from here, I’ll tell you when to brace. Hold on as tight as you can, but only when I say so.”  

“Hold on!” Clat’Ha shrieked across the coms, “we’re going down hot!”

Obi-Wan pulled at the Force, winding and weaving it around them, willing their grips to hold as the ship shook apart around them. He took the bright, young spark that was Bruck Chun and layered himself over it, enfolded it in the Force, tucking it close to himself. He felt Bruck’s own touch – tentative at first, then growing stronger and more confident with each second – and pulled that too, adding it to his commands.

The Monument began to pick up speed, the shaking getting even worse, and Obi-Wan let out a heavy breath. “Bruck, brace yourself! Do it now!”

---

Obi-Wan woke to the sound of chaos. The ship was right way up once more and he was sprawled rather ungraciously in a pile on the floor. He groaned, rubbing at his face. His entire body felt like a giant bruise and his left arm was on fire. Had they come down that hard last time? Obi-Wan didn’t think they had, he was pretty sure he’d remember something like that. Did that have something to do with the lack of Qui-Gon? Or maybe it was because they’d left far later then they last time. He rolled over, head swimming and stomach curling sourly. He leaned over and vomited, tongue pulling back from the bitter taste. He rolled away from the pile of sick and back onto his back, breathing heavily.

A shock of white hair appeared in his vision, Bruck looking very pale as he stared down at him. “Oh good,” the boy said, letting out a breath of relief, “you’re alive.”

“Alive is a subjective term for how I feel at the moment.” Obi-Wan said wryly, but forced himself to sit up. He glanced at Bruck, doing a quick once over. “Are you alright?”

“I mean, I feel like my spine tried to climb out my throat and do a dance with my skull, but I think I’m okay.”

Obi-Wan chuckled at the description. He lifted his left arm, frowning at the way it hung. “Well, I seem to have broken my arm.”

Bruck started, eyes doubling in alarm before he visibly blanched as he took in the limp and swollen thing. “Kriffing hell.”

“Yes.” Obi-Wan agreed. He took a steadying breath, thanking his body for the pain before releasing it. It did little to quell the pain, but it made it manageable.  “Come on, let’s find the captain and get a sitrep.”

Bruck hovered next to him as he stood, brows furrowed in concern. “I can’t believe we survived that.”

“We were definitely lucky. If we’d broken apart we’d be dead for sure.”

They picked their way through the ship, the hallways crowded either with huddled bodies or masses of debris. Miners and crewmen were sprinting back and forth, blow torches and other patch kits in their hands. They made their way onto the bridge and Obi-Wan gave Clat’Ha a smile when he saw how the woman’s face practically melted in relief at the sight of them.

“Oh, thank the gods. You’re alive.” She let out a rattled breath. “Good gods, the last thing I wanted was to have to report to the Jedi I got two of their younglings killed. Come here, let me see. What have you done to yourself, Obi-Wan?”

“Broken arm, I’m afraid.”

Clat’Ha’s face grew serious, nodding once. “Blessed everything that that’s all. Lorda! Come here, lass. Lorda’s a medic, she’ll get you patched up.”

Patched up ended up being nothing more than a handful of plasters for Bruck and a stabilizing cast for Obi-Wan’s arm, the plastic puffy and see-through with an orange tint to it. But it was better than nothing and Obi-Wan hardly expected a bacta tank given their current situation. He accepted the anti-biotic and booster shot when offered but declined the pain reliever.

“Save that for someone with greater injuries then I.” Obi-Wan rebuked kindly when the medic insisted. “Honestly, I’ll be fine. We Jedi have our own way of handling pain.”

The medic backed off, disbelief heavy on her face. “If you insist, Jedi. But when you change your mind come find me.”

“Thank you. Captain, what is our situation?”

Clat’Ha looked up from the readout display she was hovering over. “Well, the ship's in one piece – mostly.” She patted the metal of the computer affectionately. “The old girl took a hell of a beating but held it together in the end. I don’t think I can get her to fly again, not without part replacements we don’t have here. This whole trip’s been bad luck from the start; first the break downs at port and now this. We were lucky enough there was a planet nearby when we were forced out of hyperspace.”

Obi-Wan nodded, following the woman to the star display, Bruck a quiet shadow at his side.

“We’re here, on this planet here, 85-BlueSol-6. It’s been scouted, but no settlements. It’s a water world, but I managed to find us an island. Preliminary scouts say it’s a small one, devoid of vegetation or a water source. The sea’s undrinkable for any of the species on board, so we’re out of luck there. There are some caves that go into the island, but the ground we’ve landed on seems stable enough.

There’s some concerns about when the tide will come in, but as long as we stay on board and it doesn’t dismount the ship, we should be fine. We’re not that far off from the shipping lanes, though, and I managed to get a communication relay out before we went down. Once I get the coms back up, we can send out a general distress call. The Republic Navy should find us soon.”

“That’s good,” Obi-Wan agreed, “but couldn’t the relay be used to track us?”

Clat’Ha shot him an alarmed look. “You think the pirates will follow?”

“Did you abandoned the stock crates you were pushing?” Clat’Ha shook her head, lips drawn in a thin line. “Then I do. That, or if they’re slavers…”

“Damn.” Clat’Ha swore, running a hand over the shaved side of her head. “Damn, damn, damn. I didn’t think of that.”

“It’s alright,” Obi-Wan soothed, “you have already preformed extraordinarily well under the circumstances. Not only piloting and performing an emergency landing on a – what, mostly a water world? How you managed to aim for and hit the only piece of land in miles in impressive enough. And having the foresight to launch a com sat even under attack.”

Clat’Ha reddened somewhat, rubbing at the back of her neck. “Well, I could have done better. I could have not left a road map to our location, as it was. What do you suggest we do if they follow us?”

“I suppose it’s a matter of worth, Captain. What’s more important; the lives of your crew and passengers or your ship and cargo? If they follow, our best bet is to pack up as much food and water as we can carry, head into the caves and abandon the ship and cargo.”

“Impossible,” Jemba’s voice boomed, his voice slightly strained as he squeezed through the doorway to the bridge, “we’re accountable for that cargo, Clat’Ha.”

Though she looked sour faced to do it, the woman agreed. Obi-Wan rolled his shoulders, ignoring the painful pull of his arm. “Like I said, it’s a matter of worth. Please let me know the moment coms are back up; I’d like to contact the Temple as soon as possible.”

---

It should be odd, the way that everyone seemed to be deferring to Obi-Wan for direction. It should be odd, because Obi-Wan Kenobi was a short, skinny kid with a baby face, complete with a dimple and freckles. It was really weird, because Obi-Wan had always been a shy kid, never one to go first or demonstrate unless asked. Yet as Bruck watched Obi-Wan was pouring over starcharts with Clat’Ha, the pair breaking off every few moments to listen to the various runners who were coming and going with reports. Maybe it was because he was a Jedi? But Bruck was a Jedi too and no one was running up to him for their marching orders.

But for some reason, a space captain like Clat’Ha Shorn had took one look at baby faced Obi-Wan in that stupid orange floaty cast and had thought ‘this is who I’m supposed to listen to.’ It should be odd – it was odd – but no-one but Bruck seemed to know that. And even weirder, when asked what to do Obi-Wan had responded. No hint of stage-fright or nerves at all; he’d just given an answer.

He spoke weird too. He sounded the same, sure, but there was a strangeness to his speech patterns now. Sometimes when he spoke, he almost sounded like their old instructors. Which was really off, because Obi-Wan had never been a great orator. Or really that smart, at least Bruck didn’t think so, but it was like he’d seen a whole new side of Obi-Wan over the last twenty-four hours. Bruck’s eyes narrowed as he felt Obi-Wan’s Force signature sweep out from him in a light scan. And he did things like that; scanning the ship every half hour or so, as if building a mental map of what was going on.

It was like he was a whole different person and if Bruck didn’t know any better, he’d think that was true. Eyes could be fooled, so could the senses, but the Force? Rarely so. And Obi-Wan’s Force signature was the same it had always been, just a little more…tidy? Bruck couldn’t think of the right way to phrase it. Just…neater than it had been. No way all of this had just come from being rejected from the Knight program, right?

Just – no way.

For the first time since leaving, Bruck became aware of just how deeply he missed the Temple. He was so used to be able to talk to someone, either another clanmate or one of their minders. No Initiate had ever been scolded for stopping a Knight or Master with a question. And Bruck had them, a whole lot of them. He could still remember the weight of Obi-Wan overtop him as The Monument plummeted towards the planet, could feel the presence of his mind around his own. For all that Obi-Wan was a skinny brat, his presence had felt…big. Vast. Which was just – was just so – Bruck let out a huff of frustration. What the actual kriff was going on?

Was Bruck losing it? Was this it? Was being kicked out of the Temple sent him over the edge? He shook his head, rubbing at his face in irritation.

“Bruck, are you alright?”

He shut his eyes, unable to take the sight of Obi-Wan peering down at him concern. Where did all this goodwill even come from? He and Obi-Wan had never been friends, had never been anything even remotely close to it. And yet the other boy had gone out of his way to protect him, both in the fight and during the crash.

The other boy slid down to sit next to him against the wall. “Clat’Ha has everything in hand, it’s not like I can help out much. Do you want to try and find something to eat or drink? I’m a little thirsty.”

“Why did you do it?” Bruck asked, staring at the tips of his boots. “During the crash, I mean. You…protected me.”

“We protected each other.” Obi-Wan corrected, letting his head rest back against the wall.

“No, but…” Bruck paused, shaking his head. “We don’t like each other. So why…?”

Obi-Wan let out a sigh, his uninjured hand coming up to rub at his eyes. “Bruck, we may not have always gotten along, but I’ve known you my whole life. We grew up together; we shared the same bunk room for the first five years of our life. I don’t know what’s going to happen now that we’re both out of the Temple but I’m glad you’re here with me. Even if you don’t like me, you’re still like a brother to me.”

Obi-Wan had said something similar to that Hutt that had attacked him. Bruck stared at his hands. But it seemed so weird, so strange that Obi-Wan was so willing to just let go years of rivalry and dislike so easily.

“To be honest,” the brunet continued, eyes closing, “I’m just relieved I’m not out here by myself. Could you imagine? If this happened and we didn’t have each other?”

“Yeah,” Bruck conceded quietly, “that would have been…bad.”

“I’m not saying we have to be best friends, but I meant what I said. We’re all we’ve got now. Bant, Garen, Reeft, Siri, Aalto, they’re all back at the Temple. They’re going to move on with their lives; either as a Padawan or shipped somewhere else in the Corps. We’re probably never going to see them again.” Obi-Wan’s head shifted to look at him, grey-blue eyes intense. “Is it really so odd that I want to keep whatever family I’ve got?”

“No.” Bruck agreed, throat tight and he looked away quickly, blinking his stinging eyes. “No, that’s not that weird.”

And in that moment it wasn’t, because Bruck was so incredibly glad that he had someone here with him, that he hadn’t had to go through that alone. Even if it was Obi-Wan – Bruck knew Obi-Wan, even with how off he'd been acting, he was familiar when nothing else was. Like he said, they’d grown up together. Though their teachers had talked about it frequently, Bruck was only just now starting to realize how big and dangerous the universe really was.

“I’m glad I’m not alone.” He admitted, voice nearly a whisper. Obi-Wan reached out, his hand resting over Bruck’s, giving it a light squeeze.

“Me too.”

---

Bruck was on his way back to the bridge, pockets of water and two ready heat meals he’d gotten from a stressed looking galley worker tucked under his arm when the alarms on the ship started again. He cursed, nearly dropping the meals before sprinting forward. He met Obi-Wan just as the other boy was stepping out of the bridge, his face grim.

“The pirates?” Bruck asked, feeling dread settle in his stomach.

“Yeah, and they’ve brought friends.”

“How nice of them. Didn’t anyone ever tell them it’s rude to bring extra?”

Obi-Wan flashed him a grin, almost as if he was surprised, and Bruck was struck by the fact that it was the most Obi-Wan thing he’d seen the shorter boy do all day. “I guess not. Come on, we’re moving into the caves.”

“Will you be able to fight with your arm?” Bruck asked, his hand hovering on his own lightsaber hilt as they made their way through the panicking miners.

“I only need one good one to fight.” Obi-Wan said with a shrug. They brought up the rear of the last of the fleeing Arconan’s. The cave system was narrow and twisting, the passages barely large enough for Obi-Wan and Bruck to stand side by side. And it was deep, light disappearing completely the lower the tunnels went. The two Jedi paused a half mile down.

Obi-Wan looked around them with a shrewd eye before nodding. “This is a good place. We can use the narrow passages to our advantage. They’ll have to come at us one at a time here and we can fight in bougts; switch out when one of us starts to tire.”

A group of Offworlder workers were setting up just a head of them and Bruck eyed the small canon they’d mounted on a large boulder. It seemed like an odd thing to have on a mining expedition but then again, they had been attacked by pirates. Who was Bruck to judge?

“You think we actually got a chance to win? They’re going to have more numbers.” Bruck asked as he took a chug of the water pouch before offering it Obi-Wan.

The other boy took it with a shrug, emptying before tossing it over his shoulder. “There’s a chance. We just have to put up enough fuss to not make it worth the effort.”

“At least we’ll have some help.” Bruck said with a sigh, before eyeing the nervously chittering Arconan’s grouped behind them. “Unlike this lot.”

Obi-Wan let out a snort. “I wouldn’t sell the Arconans short just yet.”

“Huh?”

Obi-Wan turned to look at him, his eyes gleaming with a strange humor in the dim light. “Even the most pathetic lifeform can surprise you.” Bruck stared at the shuddering and shivering insectoid forms in disbelief. “Bruck.” He glanced back to find Obi-Wan still watching him. “Are you ready for this?”

“You know I should be asking you that, you’re the one with a broken arm.” Bruck snapped, feeling irritated and annoyed. Obi-Wan may have changed, but his know-it-all attitude had gotten decidedly worse.

“I’ll be fine. I’ll have you at my back if I need to switch out, won’t I?”

Bruck shifted uncomfortably, thrown by the show of faith. “Yeah.”

Obi-Wan was still watching him, his face unreadable. “…you can’t let yourself get angry like on the ship, Bruck.”

Bruck bristled. “Shut up, you don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Yes, I do.” The other boy leaned against the rock wall; his injured arm cradled loosely to his chest as he stared down the tunnel. “I had a lot of that anger myself if you remember. Do you know why I won against you during the Trials?”

“Because you were too much of a coward to attack me head on?”

Obi-Wan gave him a disappointed look that was disturbingly effective and Bruck felt his cheeks heat. “I won because you got angry. If you hadn’t given into your anger, you would have seen what I was doing.”

“And what were you doing?”

“I was wearing you out. When I saw you were getting angry, I knew you would start getting sloppy. And you did, you got sloppier the more upset you got. You left holes the size of my saber in your defenses and the same thing happened back on the ship with the pirates. You got angry and you stopped paying attention to what was going on around you. Do you know what I realized the last few weeks?

When I got angry, I wasn’t really angry. I was afraid. Anger and fear, they’re two different sides of the same coin, right? And there are so many ways to be afraid, that’s why it’s so easy to give in, because that anger makes you think that fear’s gone and its addictive. The anger felt good, it made me feel good, but when it left me, I was still afraid. And I was still afraid because I never faced what made me scared. And all that anger, it cost me.”

“What, what did cost you?” Bruck asked, perturbed and still annoyed.

Obi-Wan shrugged. “It’s a different price for everyone, but for me? My anger made me blind to what was going on around me. I would make decisions and do things that were so stupid and I couldn’t really see just how stupid they were until later. It costs everyone something different, but there is always something you have to pay. Especially for Force users.”

“Why are you like this?” Obi-Wan blinked in surprise, his head swinging to look at Bruck. The other boy cocked to his head, a guilelessness to him that Bruck didn’t buy for a moment. “I mean it, what’s wrong with you? You keep talking about how we have to be a team and rely on each other, but how I can I do that when you won’t even tell me anything?”

A ghost of smile crossed the other boy’s face before he shrugged, attention snapping back to the cave mouth. “Focus. They’re here.”

---

By the time the fighting had died off – the pirates driven off with their tails between their legs – there was very few on The Monument, Offworld or not, who would ever doubt an Arconan’s courage again. They were creatures born and raised beneath the earth and they felt the most at home with miles of it above them; deeply attuned to the dark and sounds of the shifting ground. There was no inch of that cave they did not know by the time the pirates came, and no attack could catch them off guard in the biosphere they had evolved in. They fought with a ferociousness that caught almost all off guard, claws and fangs bared, bulbous eyes gleaming bright in the darkness, able to see every move as bright as the daylight outside.

And in the center of them stood Clat’Ha, laughing like a mad woman as she gutted and fired upon Togorian after Togorian. She got more than a few alarmed and bewildered looks from the Offworld miners and it was safe to say none of them would ever be so dismissive of the AMHC again. Jemba in particular was giving the Arconan workers a wide birth, eyeing them wearily. Obi-Wan snorted at the Hutt’s unease even as he obediently took the scolding that Lorda, the ship’s medic, gave him as she applied a new cast to his arm.

“– not to be used as a shield, you fool boy. You could have lost your arm entirely. You, other Jedi boy. Keep him from doing anything stupid with it this time!”

“I’ll try, but no promises.” Bruck said dryly, “he’s just been kind of doing his own thing since we got here.” The medic let out a disgusted sound before storming off. Obi-Wan snickered, flexing his injured hand. He could feel Bruck side eyeing him. “So. Are we going to talk about it?”

“Talk about what?” Obi-Wan asked mildly.

Bruck rolled his eyes. “Fine. But don’t forget you’re going to be a stuck on a planet with me, Kenobi, for years. I’ll find out what’s going on with you. You could just save us all the time and effort and tell me.”

“I could, but where’s the fun in that?”

“Well,” Bruck huffed, crossing his arms, “it’d be fun for me.”

Obi-Wan laughed, patting the other boy on the back. “Come on, Clat’Ha’s got the com’s up. We need to report to the Council.”

“About what? How we nearly died when the pirates attacked us in space? Or when we nearly died when our ship crashed? Or about when we almost died when the kriffing pirates came again? Or are we going to tell them about how we’re probably going to starve to death stranded on a planet with no food and no fresh water until someone decides to take mercy on us and pick us up?”

“Yes,” Obi-Wan said decisively, “all of that. Kind of exciting for our first time away from the Temple, huh?”

“Your enthusiasm is disgusting.”

Notes:

Hello all! I hope you enjoyed it. Please let me know what you think about our two boys. And Obi-Wan just can't help himself; he sees a vulnerable young boy and his instinct is to protect.

As I stated in a comment last chapter, I always was super full of disapproval for how the JediCorps kids were treated in the books. When I first read the books I was younger or around the same age as Obi-Wan and didn't pick up on how messed up it really is. But as an adult when I reread it, I was super surprised. Kids that age, even mature Jedi raised ones, should not be left alone.

Yet in the book, it's pretty clear that Qui-Gon is only there because he has a mission to Bandomeer at the same time. On top of that, there isn't even an another AgriCorp members on Bandomeer when Obi-Wan arrives. Like, how is he supposed to learn how to be a farmer and use the Force to assist? So if Yoda's plans fell through, Obi-Wan would have been left there alone after Qui-Gon finished his mission. Just on this dirt ball of a planet, with no guidance or help to learn how to use or develop his Force talents for farming. Just, such a stupid system.

Chapter 7: The Monument, Part 3

Notes:

Yes, your eyes do not deceive you. After nearly a year of silence, this is the third chapter up in almost as many days. I guess the reemergence of the plague by Karen's and Keith's refusing to wear masks has something good to contribute, even if it's me going insane through isolation. Seriously, my neighbors caught me slow dancing with my cat to David Bowie. I forgot my windows were open. Now I'm that lady in my neighborhood. Yikes.

Lots of you guys had opinion's on how the Jedi sorted 'wash-outs' of the Knight program! I agree with a commenter from the last few chapters, it was definitely written for kids, so adult logic should be somewhat lessened when viewing it. And I love the JA novels, so it never bothered me too much. What's more, I have blatantly used the typical 'what the hell were the adults thinking' plot device in my own work, lol. Like really, who would just send Obi-Wan and Bruck off alone together.

“What are we going to say to them?” Bruck asked as they waited for the com call to connect.

Obi-Wan shrugged. “I think you summed it up quite nicely outside.”

“No, that’s not what I –”

“Welcome to the Temple active mission line. Please state your name and rank.”

“AgriCorp members Obi-Wan Kenobi and Bruck Chun.” Obi-Wan answered, the hologram distorted and slightly fuzzy with how far they were from the core worlds, “we need to report in. There’s been some issues with our transport.”

“Greetings Corpsman Kenobi, Corpsman Chun.” The droid chirped back, “are you currently injured?”

“Yes, minor injuries though, and already treated.”

“Are you marooned or otherwise incapable of continuing your travel?”

“I’d say that’s a definite yes.” Bruck answered with a snort, eyeing the creaking ship around them distrustfully.

“We are,” Obi-Wan agreed, “I’ve attached our current coordinates to the call.”

“Thank you, Corpsman Kenobi, that will be very helpful. Are you currently under arrest or any other type of incarceration?”

“Not that I’m currently aware of.” Obi-Wan responded dryly, lips twitching at the way Bruck was mouthing ‘under arrest’ under his breath besides him. “We require assistance and direction; this is our first time out of the Temple. Who should we direct our call to?”

“You will wish to speak with the current Mission Quarter Master, Jedi Master Adalwalle Tsho. One moment, I will send your request through.” The droid’s mechanical fingers flew over the holographic keyboard before pausing, letting out a trilling sound of high-pitched beeps. “Ah – patching you through, have a nice day Corpsman Kenobi, Corpsman Chun.”

The connection went white for a moment. Besides him, Bruck was adjusting and readjusting his robes, his sleeve ends, even his tabard. Brow raised, Obi-Wan reached over and poked Bruck in the side. “What the – Obi-Wan!”  

“Stop fidgeting so much.”

“I’m not fidgeting.”

“Yes, you are. You’re practically preening.”

“Preen – I am not preening.”

“Am I interrupting?” A new voice interjected and both boys snapped to attention. Obi-Wan felt his eyes widened slightly at the sight of Mace Windu reflected back at them in the pale blue of the holo-projector, a single dark eyebrow raised.

“I’m going to get you for this.” Bruck hissed under his breath.

But Obi-Wan barely heard him. He'd gone completely speechless; a cold sweat erupted over his body, his heart stuttering before racing so quickly in his chest he felt faint with it. He was aware that he’d gone utterly still, his breathing shallow. Fear and dread in equal measures bloomed, his stomach twisting with the emotions. Obi-Wan could feel Bruck staring at him, could see the way the amusement on the Councilmember’s face faded. He was acting oddly, Obi-Wan knew he was, but what could he do?

This was Mace. Mace, with whom he shared a lineage through Master Yoda, who had taken Obi-Wan under his wing after Qui-Gon’s death, who had sheltered both Anakin and Obi-Wan from the worst of his grief. Mace, who had become one of his closest and deepest confidants, who had guided Obi-Wan as he stumbled his way through raising a youngling and muddled into Masterhood. Mace, who had stood and fought by his side through the worst of the Clone Wars. Mace, who looked at him now and saw nothing but a boy, another charge, a youngling that was a responsibility, and saw nothing of what once was.

It was like a second death and Obi-Wan was utterly unprepared for it.

Bruck’s eyes were darting from Obi-Wan to the Jedi Master before he took a step forward quickly, face determined. “Sorry, Master Windu, we were expecting Master Tsho.”

“Master Tsho is currently waylaid, I happened to be next on the call roster.” Mace answered, his eyes remaining steadily on Obi-Wan. “What’s happened to you both? You’re injured?”

“That’s why we’re calling, sir.” Bruck explained, “our transport was attacked.”

Obi-Wan tried to rally himself as Bruck explained their situation, but it was difficult. He forced himself to take steady breaths, but the racing of his heart made it impossible. He stared at the spot just past Mace’s projection, unable to look the man in the face. My Padawan, Obi-Wan thought, hopeless and deeply shamed, killed him.

Anakin had killed him.

“Obi-Wan?” A nudge to his side ripped him from his rapidly circling thoughts and the brunet’s head snapped up to find Bruck looking at him, worry poorly concealed behind his pale eyes.

“Forgive me,” Obi-Wan said, shocked at how level his voice sounded, “I’m tired.”

“That’s alright,” Mace said, voice gentle and so concerned that it just made the knot in his chest twist even tighter, “I was just telling Bruck that you’ve experienced quite the trial. You’ve both done very well.”

“Thank you, Master Windu.”  

“How bad is the break?”

Obi-Wan hefted the broken limb up to be more easily seen. “Not bad, nothing that a bacta treatment won’t correct.”

“I’m glad to hear that, make sure you report to a medical office as soon as one becomes available. The good news is that shipping lanes we booked you on our heavily guarded and used – the pirates that attacked you must have been incredibly brazen, in fact. A ship should be able to respond to your SOS soon.” Mace was looking down, fiddling with his pad, and Obi-Wan couldn’t help it – he stared, drinking in the sight of his old friend greedily. “I’ll see if there are any Jedi dispatched nearby that may be able to help you as well.”

“Thank you, Master Windu.” Bruck said, sounding relieved. “We really have had some bad luck. ”

“I’ll contact the captain of your ship should I have more news. Please continue to look after each other.” Mace said, looking up from his pad. “You’ve handled yourselves well, take pride in that.”

“Thank you, Master.” Obi-Wan and Bruck echoed, his words much softer than the boy’s. The com cut out and Obi-Wan stared at the empty space. Almost instantly Bruck whirled on him, face bright with curiosity and no small smugness.   

“What was that?”

“Bruck.” Obi-Wan started, but the boy was quick to interrupt.

“You totally froze!”

“I’m going for a walk.” Obi-Wan said flatly, turning away from him.

Bruck followed him, almost on his heels. “What? Where? The island’s hardly bigger than the ship.”

“I don’t know. The caves. Somewhere.”

“Obi-Wan, don’t be stupid. Just tell me what’s–”

Obi-Wan stopped abruptly in front of the open airlock, forcing himself to take a deep breath. “Bruck, give me some space please. Thank you.”

And then he was striding out, the rocky sand beneath his boots crunching loudly.

---

For all that this unnamed planet may seen drab and dull, with it’s grey-green waves and grey-green sky, the only real change in color being the brown-grey of the rock that formed the island The Monument had landed on, it was not without it’s charm. As the blue star that powered this solar system slowly rose, half-hidden by the stretch of sea, it transformed the landscape. Dramatic shades of blues and violets, pinks and turquoise stretched out from its touch, coloring the sky and waters. It made for a lovely sight. Obi-Wan watched it, hands tucked into the sleeves of his robe and hood pulled up to protect himself from the morning chill. Even after all these years, the universe still managed to catch him off guard with its simplest beauties. There was the soft crunch of rock behind him.

“Feeling less grumpy?”

Obi-Wan gave Bruck a grin. “Yes, actually.”

“Well, at least one of us is in a better mood.” The boy grumbled, before joining him. “It’s pretty.”

“Yes, it is. This was what I always thought about when I thought of being a Jedi.”

“Sunrises? Really?”

Obi-Wan chuckled. “But this isn’t just any sunrise, is it? You and I are standing here, watching a foreign star rise on a foreign world; a world that we have never been to before and may very well never return to.”

“Huh. Well, when you put it that way.” Bruck shuffled uncomfortably next to him. “I’m sorry, about earlier. It’s just – you’ve been so put together this whole time. Even the pirates and the crash, it was like nothing could phase you or something. It bothered me.” It had made him jealous, was what Bruck wasn’t saying, but Obi-Wan kept the thought to himself. It was meaningful enough that the proud boy had managed an apology at all. “When you choked up with Master Windu, it just made me…look, it was stupid. It doesn’t matter. I’m sorry.”

Obi-Wan mused for a moment, picking his words carefully. He had been less careful around Bruck than probably had been wise, but the situation had called for it at the time and well – he was only a boy. That did not mean, however, that Bruck Chun was in anyway stupid.

“It may seem like I have it together but trust me – I really don’t.” Which was so utterly, painfully true in its own way it’d be funny if it wasn’t completely overwhelming. “Everything’s been easy so far because I’ve been able to keep moving. The Hutt attacking you, the pirates, the crash – it’s kept me too busy to stop and think. But…I wasn’t expecting Master Windu. Seeing him was a reminder I suppose, of just how much I’ve lost. I guess I’m not handling being reassigned as well as I thought.”

“Oh.” Bruck’s response was quiet, unsure of itself. After a long moment he shifted, offering Obi-Wan a silver pouch. “I saved you firstmeal. It’s a ready heat, but it’s better than nothing. I’m gonna go ahead and tell you that it is not a meatloaf as advertised. I’m not sure what is, but it’s not meatloaf.”

Obi-Wan laughed, taken aback, the move knocking his hood from his head. He took the meal, detaching the plastic knife and mixing the contents. “Thank you all the same, Bruck. That was thoughtful of you.”

The boy was looking decidedly uncomfortable now, fingers fiddling together. “Yeah, well. We’re stuck with each other now, right? Just like you said. We may as well learn to live together.”

“That we are. My,” Obi-Wan said as he took a bite, nose twitching, “this is foul, isn’t it?”

“I’d stay away from the ‘brownies’ too if I were you.”

---

Their rescue came only a few hours after the sun had risen and the transport that hovered over the water of their small island was a sleek travel cruiser. Medic and repair drones and personal were lowered down first, dispersing either into the crowd of gawking miners or into the bowels of The Monument. Next to him, Bruck was all but vibrating with excitement when two brown cloaked figures made the leap from the cruiser’s open ramp to the shoreline.

A tall Bothan was making his way towards them, his Padawan, an even taller Human boy – all lanky legs and with the start of a patchy chin growth – following a step behind him. The Bothan raised a hand in greeting. “Obi-Wan Kenobi? Bruck Chun?”

“Hello, Master.” Obi-Wan greeted, lips twitching at the way the Padawan’s head craned to follow one of the better-looking Monument crewmen as he rushed past them, arms wrapped around a bulky repair crate. “I am Obi-Wan, this is Bruck.”

“Greetings,” the Bothan said warmly, “I’m relieved to see you mostly unharmed. When I received Master Windu’s com I was deeply worried. I’m Master Laze Washet and this is my Padawan, Darred Subra. May I see your arm?”

Obi-Wan offered it, feeling some of the tension in his shoulders leave when the Jedi Master immediately soothed it through the Force. “Thank you.”

“No problem.” Master Washet said, patting his shoulder. “Just a little something to hold you over until we can get you aboard and into the med-bay.”

“You’ll be taking us with you, then?” Bruck asked eagerly, nearly bouncing on his feet. “I am so ready to be off this rock.”

Master Washet laughed. “Yes. We can’t fit everyone, but the captain of our transport ship, The Cloudsinger, has kindly agreed to take you two on to Bandomeer for a small charge. Your captain has already agreed to stay behind with the crew and passengers to wait for the tow-ship. It should be arriving within a few hours and until then a military cruiser will be remaining in orbit just to be safe. Can you make the jump to the ship?”

“I can. Bruck?”

The boy eyed where the ship hovered, eyes calculating. “Yeah, no problem.”

“I’ll go first, just in case.” Master Washet said. “I can catch either one of you if needed.”

Bruck look affronted but Obi-Wan agreed quickly. “We’ll just need a moment to collect our belongings and say goodbye.”

“Of course.”  

Fifteen minutes later found both boys landing lightly onto The Cloudsinger’s cargo ramp. Bruck shot Obi-Wan a smirk. “See, told you I could do it.”

“I never doubted.” Obi-Wan promised. “Where will we be staying?”

“I’m afraid this is a fully booked passage,” Master Washet said apologetically, “but you boys can take turns sharing our bunks. I’m able to go without sleep quite easily, so one of you may use mine, and Darred is more than happy to share his if needed. It should only take us a day or so to get to Bandomeer from here.”

“Assuming there’s no more pirates.” Bruck bemoaned bitterly as they followed the Master and Padawan deeper into the ship. They settled into a fairly large galley, earning a few interested looks from other passengers. Jedi were fairly rare to see, let alone so many grouped together.

“Let’s hope not.” Obi-Wan agreed. “I’ve quite had my fill, I think.”

“You ran into pirates?” Darred asked, curiosity on his face.

Obi-Wan opened his mouth only to shut it with a huff as Bruck launched into the whole gaudy tale. “Bruck,” Obi-Wan said after a moment, exasperated, “that did not happen.”

“Be quiet, I’m telling the story.” Bruck shushed, turning back to the deeply interested Padawan. Obi-Wan shook his head, standing and leaving the boys to it. He made his way towards the caf machine. He pulled his credit chip out, eyeing it dubiously. He absolutely no idea if there was any money on it.

A chip appeared in front of his face, Master Washet smiling down at him. “Here, you can use mine. Aren’t you a little young for caf?”

“Thank you and no, I’m not.” Obi-Wan said, running the chip and sighing when the machine spit out a cup and began to fill it. “I’ll have you know no one is too young for caf.”

“I’m fairly certain just about every healer at the Temple would disagree with that.” Washet said, sounding deeply amused. Obi-Wan ignored the Bothan, sipping the caf with a sigh of pleasure. He turned to lean on the counter, the hot cup cradled in his good hand, and watched where Bruck was animatedly telling the story of the caves attack to Darred, complete with hand motions. “They seem like they’re getting along.”

Obi-Wan let out a hum of agreement. “They do. Bruck was always a charismatic one, he’s always made friends easily.”

“Do you wish to join them?”

“Oh no, I think Bruck’s got it handled. I must thank you again for our rescue. Another day on that planet and I think Bruck was going to start swimming.”

Washet laughed. “I see.”

“I wouldn’t say no to a shower, though.”

“Of course, my apologies. Please, follow me. We have a private fresher attached to our room you are more than welcome to.”

“That sounds absolutely lovely.”

---

Obi-Wan gave Bruck first call on the bed. The boy was obviously exhausted no matter how hard he tried to hide it, and it was clear in the simple way he managed to sleep through Darred’s snoring if nothing else. Obi-Wan had made himself a home in the galley, falling into a light trance beneath one of the viewing windows. After a while, Obi-Wan became aware of the steady presence of another next to him. He opened his eyes to find Master Washet sitting directly across from him, mirroring his pose, hands resting lightly on his knees.

He took in the sight of the Bothan’s tranquil face before closing his eyes once more, allowing himself to slip back under. Washet’s Force signature brushed across his own, a light, stalwart pulse as steady as a heartbeat. Obi-Wan reflexively matched his own to it, feeling his shoulders drift even further down, his entire body relaxing. The Force hummed between them in a closed loop, the signatures of every living creature on the ship hovering just outside, as well as the brighter, stronger presences of both Bruck and Darred, calm and sedate in sleep. Obi-Wan took comfort in it, unable to think of the last time he had meditated like this, with another Jedi, both of them soothed and at peace.

Obi-Wan was pulled from the trance a few hours later, following the shift in Master Washet. “It’s halfway through the night, Obi-Wan. You can switch with Darred if you wish.”

“Let him sleep.” Obi-Wan said with a shake of his head, “I can handle a night.”

Washet watched him, head cocked slightly to the side. “If that is what you wish. Obi-Wan,” and something in his voice, something in the tone made Obi-Wan instantly wary, “Bruck shared with me your fight.”

“…yes?”

“This was your first time taking a life, was it not?” Oh. Obi-Wan’s eyes widened. Oh. Oh. This was that talk. “It has been a very trying few days for you, between being reassigned and the events on The Monument. And taking a life is never easy. If you wish to speak about it, I would gladly listen.”

Obi-Wan felt a surge of fondness for the Jedi Master sitting before him, watching him with such concerned eyes. It seemed that he would never be too old to be humbled by the kindness of others, or to be reminded of the inherent good that people had. He couldn’t quite hide the softening of his features, though he glanced down at his hands to buy him a moment. To slip around Bruck was one thing, but Master Washet was a Jedi Master and required more finesse. Obi-Wan thought back, pulling from when he’d had this conversation years ago, with Qui-Gon in a small cabin after a particularly nasty mission.

“It was easier than I thought.” Obi-Wan said slowly. “I had always thought that taking a life would be a production; a notable moment or something. I think I thought that it would be hard, that I would be agonized with indecision. But when it happened, it happened so quickly. I’d never faced violence like that before leaving the Temple, not true violence, not true intent. I could feel that they wanted to hurt me. That they would kill me, or Bruck, or any of the miners we were protecting. When the time came, I just…acted. And then everything just kept happening, so quickly that I didn’t even have a moment to think about it.”

“And now that you have?” Washet prompted gently.

“I regret that a life was taken, but I don’t regret what I took it for.”

“It is always startling, to realize just how fragile a life is.” Master Washet said after a moment. “It is important to remember that every life has its own story; family, friends, wants and hopes and dreams. Even if they were the aggressors, your attackers had such things as well. Death should never be a flippant thing.”

A leathery hand came to rest over Obi-Wan’s, stilling their fidgeting. Washet ducked down, his brown eyes seeking his own until Obi-Wan finally looked up.

“While we should never seek it and it should always remain a last resort, killing is not always unavoidable. You did what you had to Obi-Wan, to defend yourself and those around you from imminent peril. Always remember what you have learned here, youngling. Death itself is an easy thing, it is those that live that remain with the consequences. You were put in a difficult situation and have handled it with an impressive amount of maturity. You have done well, Obi-Wan. Take comfort in that, if nothing else.”

“Thank you, Master Washet.” Obi-Wan said, bowing his head. “I will remember your words.”

“You are a Jedi, Obi-Wan.” Washet said quietly, “even if your path has taken you in a direction you never imagined it would, never forget that.”

Abruptly, Obi-Wan found himself blinking back tears, staring at his limp hands once more. “I don’t feel like a Jedi. I have made so many mistakes, so many missteps.”

“There are many ways to serve, Obi-Wan.” Washet said, tilting his long head back to stare at the blinking hyperspace. “We put much emphasis on becoming a Jedi Knight – and I know that I am speaking from a privileged position and I don’t mean to demean your own feelings – but I sometimes wonder if we perhaps do our young a disservice. There is much honor and, to be frank, freedom to be found within the Jedi Corps.

It is a matter of micro and macros, Obi-Wan. We Knights work on large scales; we may stop a few wars, yes, or arrange ceasefires, deal with political disputes. But who is to say that is any less important than an Exploration Corpsman who maps a planet? Or an Agri-Corpsman from who’s actions a planet finds its face transformed and crops grown? The Corpsmen may not get as much attention and they may work on a smaller platform, but they are just as vital as any other branch of our order.”

“You are very kind.” Obi-Wan said fondly, a mute smile ticking across his lips at the way that Master Washet jolted at his words.

“I am just doing what any would.” The Bothan said abashedly. “After all, ‘our family is small –”

“– but it is our own.’” Obi-Wan finished. “Thank you, Master Washet. I will not lie to you, I find it hard to know who I am if I am not a to be a Knight. I built my entire life around the idea that I would be one. Now that I find my feet set in another direction, I am unsure of how to begin.”

“You begin by taking the first step, the rest will follow.” Washet visibly softened, concern making his long ears drift back. “But do not give up before you even begin.”

“I do not fear new beginnings.” Obi-Wan admitted, eyes drifting down to his hands. Though the Master may not know it, they were having two completely different conversations. “But rather what is to come.”

“You must not focus so wholly on the future, to do so is to be overwhelmed by it.” The Bothan cautioned, “what will come, will come. You can only handle what it is that is set before you now. Trust that the Force will guide you.”

“And if I can not discard the future so?”

“I did not say discard it, but to take it one step at a time.” Washet corrected. “Remember that the only constant in life is your own actions and reactions. No matter how well you may have planned or forethought, you can never truly predict how a situation will play out. You can only do what you deem right in that moment, nothing else.”

Obi-Wan let out a sigh. “I see.”

“You are not alone, Obi-Wan. Remember that no matter where life may take you, you will always have a home among the Jedi.”

Obi-Wan stared at his hands, watching as they curled into fists. It was the Jedi he wanted to protect. He wished – he wished so many things. To save Anakin, to stop the Clone Wars before they could begin, to keep so many of his friends and loved ones from dying such pointless deaths. He wanted to forestall Qui-Gon’s death, wanted to keep Mace alive and whole, to squirrel Bruck away some place where he would continue to grow and surprise Obi-Wan.

So many people, so many names. He had no idea where to even start.

Obi-Wan supposed he would just have to take that first step.

Notes:

Welp. Yeah, there we go. Adult Jedi Time and the return of the Kenobi Angst. Most of Obi-Wan's PTSD is based on my own and one of my favorite reactions (beyond pure panic attacks, which are fun) is the lesser known 'freeze' option of the fight or flight reaction. I go like completely and utterly still, like I'm being hunted by a T-Rex. Bandomeer next.

In other news, I am going totally stir crazy. Your comments keep me from completely going around the bend. Thanks everyone for your views, kudos, and comments. See you next chapter!

Chapter 8: Bandomeer, Part 1

Notes:

I'm honestly so thrilled and taken aback by your guy's continued support. I was really worried about capturing adult Obi-Wan. He has such a hard to write balance of snark, politeness, and vulnerability. I can only hope I'm doing him justice.

Bandomeer was a true product of uncontrolled industrialism and the once bountiful planet had been all but devastated by strip mining and industrial waste practices. Naturally covered in hilly mountains and rolling plains, its once rich agricultural lands had been destroyed completely, leaving the landmass a dusty, muddy brown even from space. Cleaving the planet nearly in two was the Great Sea of Bandomeer; once considered for possible colonization by the Mon Calamari and Nautolan races, it’s waters had become so polluted by the off-sea mining and drilling work that it was nearly uninhabitable for all but the most hardly of natural flora and fauna. 

There had been an indigenous race Laze knew, but they held no claim to the land now. The entire planet – land mass and sea alike – had been divided up between two rival mining companies. It was a harsh and demanding planet – and a perfect candidate for the Jedi Agricultural Corps. That did not mean that the Bothan was not without his reservations about leaving two young Jedi there.

As The Cloudsinger pivoted into a neat landing in it’s space port, kicking up dirt and dust in such quantities that it blocked out the light from the planet’s sun, he could see the same look of unease on his Padawan’s face. Laze patted Darred’s shoulder; he was a good boy, who felt very deeply and therefore easily formed friendships with almost all he met. Though only having known Corpsman Bruck for a day or so, Darred has struck up an easy companionship with the boy.

“You should exchange your information if you like.”

“Master?”

“I think Bruck may enjoy having a friend to talk with while stationed here.” Laze mused, arms crossed as they waited for the two boys. “And Obi-Wan as well.”

Darred shrugged, itching at his cheek. Laze really wished he’d shave, but the teenager was just so absurdly proud of his facial hair. A strange Human custom, but it wasn’t like Laze did not have his own quirks as a Bothan, so he let it be.

“I dunno,” Darred said after a moment, “Obi-Wan’s a little…stuffy.”

“Stuffy?” Laze laughed, shaking his head. “What makes you think that?”

His Padawan shrugged, embarrassed. “I don’t know. I mean, he’s nice and all, but I think he liked talking to you better.”

“Those boys have had a rough time of it,” Laze consoled after a moment, “and it seems as if Obi-Wan had the brunt of it, from Bruck’s own estimate. He made his first kill and I believe he instinctively sought me out as he processed it. This is his first time out of the Temple, he is still reliant on having older Jedi nearby.”

Darred’s face was immediately somber. “I feel bad for them. Not so much going into the Corps, but not having a Master – I can’t imagine what I would have done if you hadn’t picked me.”

Laze reached up, tugging affectionately on Darred’s Padawan braid. “I am glad to have found you that day as well, my Padawan. You’re almost getting too tall for me to do this, you know. If you keep growing I may just pass you along to save my back.”

Darred huffed. “You’re just too short.”

Laze shook his head. It seemed like only yesterday he had been asking Darred to be his Padawan, the Human boy barely up to his hip. “We’ll see, Padawan-mine. Ah, Obi-Wan, Bruck. Have you gathered everything?” The boys gave him grins – Bruck’s tense with nerves and Obi-Wan’s with an easy laxness to it. “Then come, we have only a few moments to see you off before heading back out.”

Laze and Darred’s own mission was taking place on Phindar in the Mandalore sector. Phindar was itself an isolated society, the entire planet locked down on an information blackout, and though not a part of the Republic, disturbing news of Sentient Rights being abused had made its way to the Senate. Laze was not afraid to say that he and Darred had built up quite a reputation as a information team and were being sent in on a covert observation mission, with strict no contact or interference orders.

Laze’s nose twitched at the dusty air as they landed, the quartet immediately blasted with a humid heat that was immensely uncomfortable for the Bothan. Darred turned to both boys, his pad extended and Laze smiled as the trio immediately began to exchange their com frequencies. The large metal doors to the space sport proper slid open and Laze jogged up to the Human Jedi stepping out.

“Master Jinn.” Laze greeted with a short bow, “Master Laze Washet.”

“Greetings, Master Washet.” Jinn greeted with a warm smile and a hearty handshake. “I received a com from Master Windu about your drop off, he wished to thank you again for your prompt rescue of our Agricultural members.”

“It was no problem; we were lucky to be so close by.” Laze assured. “I must say that it’s a relief you’re here, even if you own mission is temporary. Both boys had a hard experience before we picked them up, especially Kenobi.”

Jinn’s grin faltered at the name. “I was made aware of the attacks that their transport suffered.”

“Minor injuries mostly, though Obi-Wan has a broken arm. It would do to ensure he is seen by a proper medical officer.” Laze glanced over his shoulder – the boys were still talking together by the cruiser’s cargo ramp. Satisfied they were too far away to overhear he turned back to Jinn. “Young Obi-Wan also made his first kill – a space pirate. He and I have already discussed it, but I wanted to make you aware.”

“I am only here for a short period of time, perhaps less than a month.” Jinn pointed out.

“All the same, I wanted you to be aware in case he needed extra support.” Laze said, voice firm, not quite understanding Jinn’s reluctance but determined to make his point. “Though I’m not sure Obi-Wan will need it. To be frank, I’m surprised he’s here. The boy is incredibly bright and mature for his age, he would have been a boon to any Master. If Darred was a few years older and ready – ah, but it’s of no matter. What is done is done.”  

“I thank you for your advice, Master Washet. I will ensure that both boys know I am available during my stay if they need it.” Jinn said with a short nod.

“That’s all I ask.” Laze said, smiling when Darred lead the two boys over. “This is Bruck Chun and Obi-Wan Kenobi. Boys, this is Master Qui-Gon Jinn. He’s been assigned a mission on Bandomeer and will be residing here alongside you for the duration.”

Laze was glad he had finished speaking before he’d turned to look at the boys. Bruck’s expression was stunned, eyes wide and brows high, but Obi-Wan’s was a mask of politeness. Laze’s eyes flickered from the two Corpsmen’s faces to Jinn’s, which had morphed into the same cool, collected one of Obi-Wan’s. Darred was a step behind them, eyes flying from Bruck and Obi-Wan’s tense forms to Jinn’s.

“Ah,” Laze said, clearing his throat, “do you three know each other?”

“Not really,” Obi-Wan said smoothly, “though we have met Master Jinn at the Temple.”

There was a weight to those words and Laze would bet his lightsaber an entire, complicated story there, but he could already see their captain standing at the mouth of The Cloudsinger, checking from his chrono to the gathered Jedi.

“I’m afraid we have to leave.” Laze said with a sigh before digging his pad out of his waist belt. “Obi-Wan, Bruck, I know you’ve already exchanged information with Darred, but here is my contact information as well. We may be unreachable for two months or more with our mission, but we are able to receive messages. Please free to leave emails or holo-messages, I for one will be grateful for something to read in our downtime if nothing else.”

“That goes for me as well.” Darred said, placing his hands on his hips. “Bruck remember what I said, and Obi-Wan – go to a med-office. Really, just because it’ll heal on its own doesn’t mean it has too. Don’t try to be tough.”

Obi-Wan’s expression warmed almost abruptly as he gazed up at his Padawan. “Thank you, Darred. I’ll do just that.”

“May the Force be with you all.” Laze said in farewell, inclining his head to Jinn before pressing a hand to both boys’ shoulders. “Look after each other. Come, Darred.”

---

A part of Obi-Wan had known, intellectually at least, that Qui-Gon was most likely on Bandomeer. He’d been assigned the mission in Obi-Wan’s past to handle the failing negotiations between Offworld and the AMHC. If he remembered correctly, the two were very near to hostilities between their security forces by the time they had arrived last time. So it made sense that Qui-Gon would have been sent ahead to ensure he was present for the beginning of the negotiations and would have left long before Obi-Wan had. And yet despite knowing all that, actually seeing the man again had been jarring.

Not that he had spent much time with them. Qui-Gon been unfailing polite and genial, if not clearly (well, at least clear to Obi-Wan, but he had a decade or so of experience with reading the man) annoyed and frustrated, as he lead them first to their rooms and then to the medical offices. He’d left them to the care of the medics, leaving them with a quickness that all but spoke of a full retreat.

If Obi-Wan was a betting man – which he wasn’t actually, that particular vice had never held any appeal to him – he would bet that Qui-Gon was going back to his rooms or office to brood over Master Yoda’s manipulative and interfering tendencies. Honestly, this was not their Grandmaster’s most subtle move. But to be completely fair, he wasn’t wrong either. Once upon a time, Obi-Wan Kenobi had been fated to be Qui-Gon’s apprentice. And they had done quite well together for a long, long time.

It made Obi-Wan ache to be near the man.

Being so close to him but unable to interact the way he wanted made something in Obi-Wan crack open; a deep, cavernous pain that seemed to have no end to it. For all his faults, for all of Obi-Wan’s faults, Qui-Gon had been the closest thing to a father he’d ever had. He’d help guide and shape Obi-Wan into the man that he was now, and for all of the numerous failings he saw in himself, Obi-Wan did not take such a thing lightly. And it hurt, to see Qui-Gon in so much pain.

Perhaps now with…with Anakin, Obi-Wan could understand his Master on a deeper level then ever before. Because what was Xanatos, if not Qui-Gon’s Anakin? He too had been fooled by a deeply charismatic and intelligent boy, lulled by an apparent self-assurance and poise that hid a yawning need for guidance and darkness. And just like Obi-Wan, Qui-Gon had not doubted his Padawan until the very last moment, too caught up in a genuine paternal love to really see what was happening until it was too late. Too blinded by a belief that no matter what they did, no sin could ever be committed that dark, that cruel that it would border on unforgivable. Xanatos could not have that in him, nor could Anakin.

“You okay, Oafy-Wan?” Bruck asked from where he was sprawled ungracefully across and exam table. “You want me to get someone? I’m pretty sure bacta treatments aren’t supposed to hurt and your face looks terrible.”

“I’m fine.” Obi-Wan said dryly. His arm was currently floating in a bat of greenish water. A carefully measured mixture of kavam and alazhi bacteria combined with ambori fluid, more commonly known as bacta, the strange mixture of liquid-slime made his skin tingle as it worked to repair his bones. The break was a clean on, straight through his radius and ulna bones, and should take only another hour or so to heal. “You don’t have to stay here, you know.”

Bruck made a face. “What am I supposed to do? Just go back to my room and stare at the ceiling? We don’t even have our briefing until this afternoon.”

“My room had a window,” Obi-Wan pointed out, amused, “I’m fairly certain yours did as well.”

“Oh goody,” Bruck said, huffing dramatically as he flopped back down on his back, hands waving nonsensically about, “I could spend hours looking at all the brown-browny-brownness.”

“Articulate.”

“Shut up, I’m serious. This world is almost completely dead. And did you smell the air? It’s like being on the Coruscanti lower levels.”

“And just when did you ever go down into the lower levels?”

Bruck abruptly went quiet, looking around with an edge of panic. “Oh, uh. Never. I’ve just heard.”

“Uh huh.” Obi-Wan mildly impressed despite himself. “How did you even get past the Knight Guards?”

Bruck propped himself up on the bed by his elbow, his smile downright deviant. “I had my ways. Don’t look at me like that, I’ll have you know me and Siri used to sneak out all the time. We even –” Bruck stopped, his expression closing off. “Doesn’t matter now, anyway.”

“You can always write them, you know.” Obi-Wan said sympathetically. “Just because we’re halfway across the Galaxy –”

“More than that.”

“– doesn’t mean you can’t keep up contact.” The shorter boy finished, ignoring the interruption. “I’m sure your friends are worried about you. You won’t be able to send vid messages this far out, but nothing is stopping you from emailing.”

“What would we even talk about?” Bruck asked sullenly. “It’ll be awkward.”

“It’ll only be more awkward the longer you wait. They may think you don’t want to talk to them.” Obi-Wan pointed out.

Bruck sighed. “I just don’t want to hear it, you know? They’re going to pity me. Even Darred was, though he was nice enough not to say anything. Did you see his face when we landed? I bet he was just counting his lucky stars he was a Padawan.”

“I thought you liked Darred.”

“I did, that’s not what – never mind. Just forget it.”

Obi-Wan shook his head. “Bruck, this is what you make it. If you go into this thinking it’s going to be terrible, you’re going to make it so.”

“Like you’re not thinking the same thing, Obi-Wan.” Bruck snapped, cheeks flushing, “I don’t care what new outlook on life or whatever you say you’ve got, I know you wanted Knighthood just as bad as I did. Don’t think I missed the way you reacted to Master Jinn either. What did he do? Was he really mean when he turned you down? I’ve heard rumors he was a bit of a hardass.”

“I thought you wanted to be his Padawan as well?”

“Yeah, but that was before I –” Bruck cut off sharply, looking away from Obi-Wan, the redness to his cheeks sapping away.

“Before you almost killed me.” Obi-Wan finished.

Bruck was staring at the tiled floor intensely. “It wasn’t…it wasn’t like that, alright? I know I messed up, but I wasn’t – I didn’t want to kill you. I just got so…”

“Angry?” Obi-Wan prompted when the silence dragged on. “Costs, Bruck. Costs.”

Abruptly Bruck swung off the bed, spine metal straight. “I’m going back to my room.”

“Bruck –”

“Give me some space, Obi-Wan.” Bruck sneered back, throwing Obi-Wan’s own words back at him, and then stormed from the room. Obi-Wan sighed, leaning back into his seat, unaware until that moment that he had tensed up to the point that he was barely touching it. He’d give Bruck his space, but that conversation was hardly over. Though it would be a trying one, the sooner Bruck was made to talk about it, the better. It was best to get it out in the open then allow the thoughts to fester.

“Everything alright?”

Obi-Wan jerked, head snapping up from where he’d been watching the green particles of bacteria float around to find Qui-Gon standing in the doorway. It was only years of experience that kept him from openly gaping at the older man. He had assumed that Qui-Gon would spend every inch of his not inconsiderable will power avoiding Obi-Wan for the entirety of his stay. It appears he had been wrong.

“Yes.”

Qui-Gon’s brows rose in disbelief. “I just saw Corpsman Chun storm from here.”

Something that, without doubt, Bruck would be mortified to hear if ever learned of it.

“We’re working out our issues.” Obi-Wan said calmly, returning his gaze back to his arm. “I think we were actually becoming friends on the way over here, with the attack and everything.”

“Life or death experiences tend to do that.” Qui-Gon agreed as he moved to sit in one of the waiting chairs by the door. “What was that now?”

“We were discussing our match during the Initiate Trials.”

“Ah,” Qui-Gon shifted, leaning his forearms on his knees, and Obi-Wan could feel the intensity of his stare. “Yes, I can see how that may have led to an argument.”

“It wasn’t an argument.” Obi-Wan corrected mildly, eyeing the man. “I’ve already forgiven Bruck for that, but I can’t say that he’s forgiven himself.”

Surprise flickered across Qui-Gon’s face. “He tried to injure you; he could have killed you with that move. He was using a live saber.”

“He could have.” Obi-Wan agreed. “But he didn’t. You know, I realized not long ago that Bruck and I are a lot alike.” And they had been, once. It was a pity that Obi-Wan never realized it the first time around. “We both can have a temper and we can both be proud. It worked to our advantage sometimes; neither one of us liked it when the other won. Between Bruck and Siri Tachi back at the Temple, I don’t think I would have scored half as well as I did.”

“Yet by your own admission, it was this competitiveness that lead to the many fight demerits in your own file.”

“Yes, that’s true.” Obi-Wan said with a nod, “but I would argue that competitiveness has its own place. It took me a long time realize that there is a good and a bad kind. When its only about feeling superior to others, when you’re only looking to win to make someone else feel bad about themselves, that’s the wrong kind. But when you use it to challenge yourself, to help inspire personal growth, I think it’s not that detrimental.”

“A valid point.” Obi-Wan shifted uncomfortably, keeping his eyes on his arm and avoiding looking at the older Jedi’s face. “I spoke with the medic. You should be cleared to leave in an hour or so.”

“That’s good.”

“Would you like me to bring you something to read?”

“No, thank you. I have my pad with me if I wish to.”

Another strained silence.

“I have spoken with both Masters Windu and Washet, they have informed me of your time upon The Monument.” Obi-Wan’s eyes drifted up to his former Master, who’s own were studying his clasped hands intently. “I know that things may be awkward between us, given the last time we met. But I do not wish for that to stop you should you find yourself needing to discuss your recent experiences. I want you to know that I am a resource here for you, should you find that you require it.”

“I appreciate that.” Obi-Wan said quietly.

Qui-Gon cleared his throat before standing. “My own room is located in the guest quarters; Room 45. If I’m not there, I can usually be found in the main offices. I hope you heal quickly, Obi-Wan.”

“Thank you, Master Jinn.”

Obi-Wan watched his retreating back, waiting until he could no longer hear his footfalls before turning away. His eyes found a small window, staring out at the blue skies of Bandomeer. His healthy hand rose up, rubbing absent mindedly at his chest, and Obi-Wan let out a shaky breath.

He wondered absently when – if ever – meeting his former Master would grow easier.

---

“Wow. This is…” Bruck trailed off, face scrunching up underneath his scarf.

They had been issued shemagh’s to protect themselves from Bandomeer’s environment, in the same grey-green of the AMHC colors, along with a lightweight jumpsuit in a similar color. The only remnants of their Jedi heritage was the Jedi agriculture seal on their backs and left shoulder, boots and undershirt from their original uniforms. Obi-Wan shrugged in response to Bruck’s less then enthusiastic statement, pulling on the thick, leather work gloves. They were stiff with newness and Obi-Wan flexed his hands a few time.

“The fields don’t look so bad.” Obi-Wan offered, pointing away from the massive expanse of brown to the blooms of green. They were encased with a flexible covering, lightly silver in color, that floated with the breeze. From Obi-Wan’s memory, they served to collect extra moisture out of the air and protect the delicate crops from Bandomeer’s unforgiving sun. They could also be pulled low and tight, forming a protective balloon over the crops when dust storms kicked up.

“I know, but how did they let it get like this?” Bruck wondered.

“Well, that’s a sad story. Big mining companies like to chew up planets like this all the time. When it's used up, they just move on." A new voice announced. A dust covered figure came to stand next to them, a tall human with sandy hair peaking out from his wrap, the visible skin around his eyes and nose tanned and cracked. “Aad Forwright, but everyone around here calls me Skip. I’m the foreman for the farming systems."

“I’m Bruck Chun,” the boy offered, shaking the farmer’s hand, “and this is Obi-Wan Kenobi. We’re ArgiCorp workers.”

“Jedi, then?” Skip said, immediately more interested. “I heard we were getting some of you all. You really have a lightsaber then?”

Obi-Wan couldn’t see Bruck’s expression, but he could guess it was a smirk as he showed off the brushed chrome of his saber. Skip let out a whistle. “Never thought I’d see one of those in my lifetime.”

“You haven’t had a chance to interact with Master Jinn?” Obi-Wan asked.

“Nah, I don’t get around to the main office much. You’ll find the fields keep you a might bit busy.” Bruck did not look encouraged by this information. “Anyway, Bandomeer originally belonged to the Meerian race. They’re pretty rare around here now a days, they don't come into the settled parts and the ones that do – watch your purse strings, they’re an unruly lot. They were a kind group of people, but they had no idea just how valuable what they were sitting on was. Some say they got tricked into giving up the land for just about nothing, some say they never even traded it in the first place – just let the companies come without kicking up a fuss. I don’t know myself, but I know that there isn’t a single Meerian tribe that owns any land.”

“That’s terrible.” Bruck said, aghast. “Are you saying they were cheated out of their whole planet?”

“No, it’s all legal. Offworld and the AMHC bought it fair and square.” Skip said, shrugging. “It doesn’t matter much, damage’s been done. The AMHC imported a whole bunch of us farmers to try and grow here, but I’ll tell you what – it’s like trying to ring water from a stone. Here, take a look.”

Skip squatted down, gloved fingers digging down beneath the loose dust on the ground’s surface and into the dry soil beneath.

“You see that color?” He held up a hand of vibrant red soil. “That’s excess refuse from the mines. We have to treat the soil we grow on beforehand. We dig up the entire topsoil and about two feet beneath and bring in healthy soil and fertilizer from off world. Fitee – that’s the third planet in this system – is where we get it from. We have to treat the soil first, kill off any of the bad bacteria and fungus before we can use it here, and that takes a bit, but it’s pretty healthy. Won’t be for long now that Offworld’s bought Fitee up, but we can still get good soil from it for now. Not sure what we’re gonna do when that stops being true, but we’ll cross that hurdle when we get there. Come on, I’ll give you the tour.”

Three and half hours later, sweaty and utterly coated by a thick level of dust, Obi-Wan and Bruck took a water break in the shaded rest area set up for the farming workers.

“I just don’t even understand what we’re supposed to do here.”

“Well, I suppose farming.”

Bruck shot him a nasty glare. “Don’t be a smart ass. I mean, I know we should use the Force to help coax the plants to grow, but I’ve no idea how to do that on this scale. I thought there’d be someone else here or something.”

Obi-Wan held up his pad. “They left us a manual, Bruck. Did you even check you mail?”

The boy flushed – well, Obi-Wan thought he did, it was hard to tell with only half his face clear. It was actually kind of humorous; what hadn’t been covered by the shemagh was dyed a tan from Bandomeer’s loose dust, while everything from his nose down to his chin was Bruck’s normal pale color.  

“I actually don’t think it’ll be that hard. It’s all very similar to exercises we’ve done.” Obi-Wan admitted, tucking his pad back into its pocket on his waist band. “We did similar agricultural strengthening practices in the gardens back home, if you remember.”

“Yeah, whatever.” Bruck said mulishly, sitting heavily down a cooler, rolling his canteen between the palms of his hands. “This is just – there’s way too much that needs to be done. We’re not even going to make a dent.”

Obi-Wan let the boy rant, turning away to refill his own canteen. He knew that most of Bruck’s foul mood came from the nerves of doing something new and the rest from the realization of his new reality. The entire trip here had been out of the ordinary, something more akin to what a Padawan or Knight may experience in the field. But now the excitement was over; there were no more pirates, no more crashes. Just needy fields and barren land.

Bruck’s attitude did not improve over the rest of the day. They spent most of in an overly cool room watching training holos. First came a safety vid from the AMHC, holding such important information like how to survive being caught out in a dust storm (duck and cover, preferably don’t leave the confines of the settlement), how to avoid being eaten by the remaining Bandomeer predators (duck and cover, preferably don’t leave the confines of the settlement), or the flash floods that came with the often acidic rains (duck and cover, preferably don’t leave the confines of the settlement). An equally long security video was next that glossed over the extent of the hostilities between AMHC and Offworld all while still managing to paint a picture of the offending company in the most negative of ways.

It also pointed out what to do if you had your creds stolen by a ‘native’ and common scams run by said natives (one, interestingly enough, was to sic a local monkey-type creature called a Crumba on you, claiming it wouldn’t remove itself from your shoulder until you paid a sum. The answer was to just walk off with the Crumba, which would encourage the owner to recall their pet). There was a map of the area that outlined the AMHC controlled settlement, the neutral town – including what areas in the nearby town were considered off limits for AMHC crewmembers – and where Offworld owned territories were helpfully outlined in bright, thick red lines with an arrow pointing to it that read a simple ‘forbidden.’

By the time the projector had loaded up the AgriCorps segment, led by a cheerful older woman in a spotless jumpsuit, Bruck was a ball of misery and barely contained anger in his seat. The moment the last vid played and they were dismissed, Bruck all but rocketed out of the room.

“Bruck, hold on.” Obi-Wan called, jogging to catch up with the massive strides the taller boy was talking. “Look, I know you’re frustrated–”

“Don’t.” The other boy said harshly and when he turned to glare at Obi-Wan, Obi-Wan was taken aback to see the bright sheen of tears in Bruck’s eyes. “I can’t handle you right now, I can’t handle that thing you do. And no, I don’t want to talk about it. I know I did this to myself, I’ve lost everything I–”

Bruck cut off, turning away and swiping at his eyes with his sleeve.

“Just – leave me alone, okay?”

“Alright.” Obi-Wan said quietly. “I’m sorry.”

If possible, Bruck looked even more frustrated by his apology. But then the boy said nothing else, just turned and strode away, back stiff.

---

It was late, very late. His room was lit to a twilight by the outer building lights, the entirety of it cast in a warm orange glow. Qui-Gon swung his legs over his sleep-couch, brow furrowed. He could feel sweat gathered at his hair line and upper lip, and even the collar of his sleep shirt was damp and sticky against his chest. He felt his heart pounding in his chest and adrenalin made his muscles tense and shaky. But why?

He gazed around his empty room once before stretching his senses out. There was no danger he could detect, no threat hidden nearby, or assassin waiting in the wings. Which sadly was a real possibility; to say the negotiations between the AMHC and Offworld were going badly would be an understatement. He’d brokered peace agreements between warring planetary leaders who had more grace and maturity than these delegates. But there was nothing, so why…?

Qui-Gon focused inward, picking the feeling apart. He let out a frustrated breath. He had experienced this before; Jedi could sometimes sense when another Jedi was in trouble. But usually there was a closeness between the two, a bond already in place. Images of his close friends came to mind but as quickly as they appeared, they were dismissed, the Jedi Master knowing instinctively that they were unharmed.

He focused harder, the sense of dread and unease growing, yet he was unable to form a clear picture of what was happening. Qui-Gon sat up, far too jittery to find sleep again, and yanked his boots on. He didn’t bother with his cloak; Bandomeer could be quite cold at night, the temperate extremes hardly a help to the battered planet, but Qui-Gon embraced the chill. It felt rejuvenating against his overheated skin. He took a deep breath of the night air, letting the cool calm him even with the tainted taste of it. The feeling in his chest tugged and Qui-Gon, long a servant of the Living Force, let it guide his feet. It took him out of the main buildings, down a gravel path and around a curving bend. His steps slowed as he approached the squat building of the farming barracks.  

"Obi-Wan." Qui-Gon murmured, brows furrowed. He knew at once that the enigmatic boy was the source of the feeling. It should be ridiculous, absurd even. Obi-Wan was not his Padawan, they shared no meaningful connection. Yet the feeling remained, a tight knot in his chest, resting just under his heart.

The boy was proving himself a puzzle and Qui-Gon had never been particularly fond of mysteries. No matter what lies he may tell himself, the image of Kenobi – fresh from the shower, watching at him with those strange, neutral eyes – had haunted him long after their first meeting. To see him again, bruised and battered as he arrived on Bandomeer, had been startling. He could not quite erase the memory of him hours earlier, looking small and young in medical issue scrubs, his swollen and deeply bruised arm floating in bacta. Qui-Gon’s jaw flexed, irritation buzzing under his skin, but found himself moving closer. He entered soundlessly, tread noiseless on the grungy tile, and turned a corner just in time to see Obi-Wan stumble from his room.

The boy was a sweaty mess, his skin covered in a light sheen and his hair stringy and damp. A nightmare? As he watched, Obi-Wan ran a hand through his soaked hair, making a face that would have been comical if not for the unhealthy pallor of the boy’s skin, nor the bright bloom of red to the high of his cheeks. Misery radiated through his Force signature, almost breathtaking in its completeness.

Qui-Gon took a breath; regardless of his own feelings of Yoda’s blatant and childish attempts at cocking up his life, he would not idly stand by while a child suffered. But then, as Qui-Gon watched, Obi-Wan centered himself. The boy released a long, drawn out breath and the tension in his body followed it. A hand reached out, sliding across the wall. His eyes drifted towards the viewing window opposite of his room, lips moving silently. Counting, Qui-Gon realized suddenly, though what he could only guess. Another deep breath and a head cocking to the side as if listening intently – and then Qui-Gon was being pinned underneath the surprising weight of Obi-Wan’s eyes.

“Master Jinn.”

“…Obi-Wan.” Qui-Gon shifted. “Are you alright?”

Obi-Wan’s lips quirked in a faint smile. “Not really. But I will be.”

“Bad dreams?”

Obi-Wan’s eyes grew distant. “Yes, very.”

The door next to Obi-Wan slid open, a bleary and half-asleep Bruck Chun staggered out. “Kriffing hell, was that you?”

“Bruck.” Obi-Wan let out a hollow sounding chuckle. “I’m sorry, I–”

“Whatever, come on. I have chocolate.” Obi-Wan was pulled into the other boy’s room by his shirt sleeve, looking as thrown as Qui-Gon felt. “What in the Sith’s seven hells were you even dreaming about? I was like, dead asleep.”

The rest of the conversation fell away as the door slid shut. Qui-Gon let out a low laugh, shaking his head. Already the feelings in his chest were calming, drifting away as if never there. He turned to leave only to pause, glancing back down the hallway, brows furrowed. The strength of that had been…staggering.

He would speak with the boy in the morning, Qui-Gon vowed, or at the very least during one of the breaks in the talks. It was clear that no matter what front he presented, Obi-Wan was no where near as settled as he may like to seem.

Notes:

Sometimes Obi-Wan is a bit much more than Bruck can handle. And here's Qui-Gon. I hope you guys warm up to him, he's not a bad dude. Just troubled. I mean, have you seen his Master? And the adults keep super imposing their own (quite understandable) logic to Obi-Wan's actions, giving a thorough camouflage.

The monkey thing is real, btw. In the Navy, when we went to Italy, we were told that 'gypsies' may try to con us. They would either throw their small child (????) at us so we could instinctively catch them and then they would rob us, or they would unleash their monkey on us and try to get us to pay to get rid of it. Yeah. For real, you can't make this stuff up.

And the technique Obi-Wan is using after his panic attack/nightmare is a real and good one. You look for 5 things you can see, 4 things you can touch, 3 things you can hear, 2 things you can smell, and 1 thing you can taste. It's very grounding, try it if you should ever - god forbid - find yourself in such a situation.

Edit: Ah, I posted the unedited version...😅 Fixed now.

Chapter 9: Bandomeer, Part 2

Notes:

Hey guys! So, it's been a crazy month for me. I've been permanently laid off work, there will be no chance at being hired back like the one before. So, I'm currently looking for work. Which I hate, but oh well. Covid sure is a bitch. I have unemployment, so that's something. The upside is it leaves me with more time to write, so there's that.

Bandomeer should either have four or five parts, depending on how the chapters flow, so we're mid-point through this Arc! Exciting!

Bandomeer, the star for which this planet and system was named for, climbed slowly in the west, peeking over the barren fields an inch at a time and painting the sky a bright golden pink. Despite the early hour the winds were as unforgiving as ever and they battered unceasingly at him, causing the ends of Obi-Wan’s shemagh to flitter to and fro. They had been on Bandomeer for four days and Obi-Wan found himself disquieted.

There had been more truth in what he had told Bruck on that tiny island then he had realized. Keeping busy had kept the worst of Obi-Wan’s mind from him, but now…with nothing but hours upon hours of quiet work in the fields, the sun beating down on their backs and physical exhaustion the like his young body had never felt before weighing him down…Obi-Wan had more time than he ever wanted for his thoughts.

They were haunting and consistent; grief and regret clouded them, while insidious nightmares overtook his nights, often forcing him to rise with only a few hours of sleep under his belt. After that first night, Obi-Wan had been more careful to shield his mind before going to sleep. Just because his nights were interrupted, stilted things did not mean he needed to awake every Force sensitive in a quarter mile to share it with him. Obi-Wan did his best to keep his thoughts occupied; he read and re-read the manual sent with them, kept glued to the local news net for what little updates for the galaxy that was available out here, meditated, or practiced katas in his cramped little room.

His hope was that by keeping to his room, he could escape the attention his insomnia had garnered at the Temple. But the feelings that followed those terrible dreams were just as inescapable as the nightmares themselves, and the walls of his room soon felt like a cage. Despite his intentions, every day Obi-Wan found himself leaving his room slightly earlier than the last, and he had taken to watching the sun rise on a shallow little hill to the west of their compound. Thoughts of Anakin were impossible to avoid; he missed his Padawan like a lost limb, a loss that struck more like a child death then anything else. It was sad in a way, that it took this to make Obi-Wan realize that what he had felt for his Padawan had been far more paternal than fraternal.

And in that feeling of loss, there was a relentless guilt and self-horror. He could not escape the reality of what Anakin had become, what he had done, but neither could Obi-Wan stop loving the boy.

It would be easier, so much easier, if he could simply hate Anakin. But in Anakin’s fall, Obi-Wan found not only his Padawan’s sins but his own. He was mourning, Obi-Wan knew. Idealizations of failure and self-recrimination swirled in his mind, growing so strong in the silence of the night and early morning that sometimes it felt like it was impossible to breathe.

There was a brutalness to his thoughts that Obi-Wan remotely realized was most likely unfair to himself and utterly unbecoming of a Jedi Master of his caliber and experience. And yet, no matter how hard he strived, Obi-Wan could not find the strength to release the swallowing ache he felt. And with that realization came even more self-hatred and frustration because he had been trained better than this. He knew how to recognize how unhealthy his thoughts were becoming, he’d had ample time to study grief responses and release into the Force, had attended and taken the same lessons as the other war-bound Jedi from the mind-healers – stars, he’d even taught and enforced them more than once on Jedi Knights and Masters alike under his command during the Clone Wars – and yet, and yet, he could not apply them to himself now.

It was a strange duality; he seemed to alter between mind-crippling anguish and self-loathing to complete bitterness and insecurity that he could not implement the corrective actions he knew he must take. Obi-Wan felt trapped in the crude cycle of his mind, unable to escape.

It was a odd, sorrowful madness that seemed to take him, broken only by the relentless work of the fields and Bruck’s snarky comments. It was luck and Obi-Wan’s own experience at shielding that had kept the other boy from noticing the depth of his distress. Qui-Gon was another matter entirely. Though Obi-Wan could hardly fathom why, the Jedi Master was actively seeking him out. Being around the man was like pushing on a bruise and so Obi-Wan did his very best to avoid him at all costs, and if that meant turning abruptly and fleeing at the first hint of his Force signature, then so be it.

Obi-Wan just needed more time. He didn’t feel ready, not yet. He wanted more time; time to settle, time to shore himself up, time to - to pretend you’re a twelve-year-old farmer – his mind interrupted cynically, but you’re not, are you?

He let out a self-depreciating sigh.

Avoidance had always been his favorite coping technique.

The first step, he reminded himself quietly, eyes raising up to the pinkening sky, mouth a thin line of displeasure. He just had to make himself take it. So why did he feel so incapable of movement, like he was frozen in place?

---

“Natural Succession: A Brief Overlay. In many deployments, AgriCorps members will come upon land so damaged that it seems impossible to restore it to a healthy state. This may display as places where once healthy and diverse land has turned to desert or when toxic chemicals in the soil have made it impossible for plants to grow. In these situations, the land could take hundreds of years–”

Bruck made a disagreeable, unhappy noise, but Obi-Wan ignored him as he sipped his caf and read on.

“– to restore. But in many places, with a complete and comprehensive understanding of local biospheres it is possible to restore the land. With the use of chemical fertilizers, bio-genetic engineering, careful breeding and hybridization programs, vigilant documentation, and the Living Force –”

“Hey, they finally mentioned it!”

“Bruck, pay attention.” Obi-Wan said sternly, but was unable to keep the amusement out of his voice. The manual was a little…dry…in places, but Obi-Wan had a feeling the other boy would perk up somewhat when they got passed the introduction chapters and moved into the practical work.

“I am, I am.” The other boy groaned, his shemagh pulled down to cover his whole face and block the afternoon sun, a hand waving lazily in his direction.

Obi-Wan powered his pad off – it was getting hot to hold anyway – and observed Bruck’s starfish positioning with a grin. “I wouldn’t have to read this out loud if you’d read it yourself.”

“Blah.”

“Come on, lads!” Skip called as he stepped out from one of the many towering rows of quintet-wheat. “Breaks over, back to work.”

Bruck let out a moan of defeat but didn’t move. Obi-Wan nudged the other boy with his boot. “No,” Bruck whined, “just leave me here to die.”  

“Come on,” Obi-Wan said with a laugh, hauling the him up, “day’s half done.”

A blue eye cracked open to glare up at him. “Which means we still have another four hours. I can’t do this for another four hours, Obi-Wan!”

“I don’t see why you’re complaining,” the brunet said as he shouldered his tool bag, “you’re doing much better with the Living Force then I am.”

Which, of course, probably had more to do with the fact that Obi-Wan was not – in fact – a twelve-year-old boy with an open and fresh mind, but rather a fully mature Jedi Master who had spent three decades using and mastering the Cosmic Force. There was a fundamental difference in how the two were gathered and used.

To put it simply, the Living Force was the energy of all life. It was found in everything, from giant flora and fauna to microscopic organisms. It was plentiful and almost wild, willful and as uncontrollable as nature itself. The Living Force focused on the here and now, on the goings of everyday life. It gathered and fed into the Cosmic Force. The Cosmic Force was more controlled, more precise, and though not fully understood, by the Clone Wars it was known that the Cosmic Force somehow bound and communicated to intelligent beings through their midi-chlorian count. Every living creature had some level of midi-chlorian in their cell structures, though no one quite understood how there was communication. It was only vaguely understood that the Cosmic Force was the reason that Jedi tended to have higher counts, and why they were able to use and wield the Force, and at a times even receive visions through them. Some Jedi believed that one was naturally more predisposed to one branch or the other, while others believed that everyone could be trained and fluent in both, but Obi-Wan had always found himself more inline with the Cosmic Force, much to Qui-Gon fond bemusement.   

Honestly, the exercises were easy enough to implement, but the sheer amount of Force intake it required to successfully prep and prime the soil, or encourage a plant to take root and grow, was actually rather incredible. Obi-Wan would never be so dismissive of the Corps branches again.

The blatant flattery seemed to work as Bruck swung up onto his feet. “You’re just overthinking it, that’s all. You always do that, ever since you were little.”

“Do I?”

“You do.” Bruck asserted firmly. “You just have to open yourself up; allow yourself to be a conduit, like they said.”

Obi-Wan stopped dead in his tracks, pointing an accusing finger at the other boy. “You did read the manual!” Bruck just cocked an eyebrow at him, face imperious, but the effect was ruined by the smug little curl of his lips. “Bruck! Stars – I’ve read you over a hundred and fifty pages of that thing.”

Bruck shrugged, yanking his shemagh up to cover his grin. “I never asked you to, Mommy-Wan.”

Obi-Wan paused again, gaping after Bruck as he strolled towards the field. “Mommy – what? What are you going on about?”

“You know.”

“I certainly don’t.”

Bruck paused at the field entryway, itching his nose. “How do I put this…you hover. Like, a lot.”

“Excuse you?”

“Hey Bruck, did you drink your water ration this hour?” The white-haired boy asked, his voice a high pitch mimic, “Bruck, you need to eat more – you’re burning more calories now then you’re used to, get some more carbs. Hey, Bruck – ouch!”

Obi-Wan called his bag from where it had landed on Bruck’s face back with the Force, ignoring the way the other boy was rubbing his head with both hands. “Fine, you can just pass out from dehydration for all I care.”

“Oh, come on Obi-Wan! I was just joking.” Bruck called afterwards, the snigger to his words ruining the effect of the apology.

From where he was standing with a shovel over his shoulder, Skip was looking terribly amused. Obi-Wan narrowed his eyes threateningly at their supervisor. “Not a word.”

Skip just gave him a cheery salute.

---

Despite his best intentions, Qui-Gon had not yet had a chance to speak with Obi-Wan. The first day it had truly been outside of his control; the representatives had gotten into a particularly long and brutal verbal altercation that had lasted well into the evening hours over oceanic rights. Offword was in particular being difficult; the middle-management supervisor they had sent kept insisting that he couldn’t make the kinds of decisions being asked of him – which begged the question of why he was even there in the first place – and insisting that they wait for his supervisor to join them.

Apparently, this mysterious supervisor was currently delayed on another one of their projects. The AMCH representative – much like Qui-Gon himself – believed this to be a stalling ploy. The resulting shouting match had given the Jedi a headache that lasted well into the night. By the time they’d finally called it quits, Qui-Gon figured the boy was most likely asleep.

The second day, they’d had a reasonable break and Qui-Gon had started out to find the boy only to be turned away by one of the field supervisors.

“They’re out in the west field, sir.” An incredibly young-looking girl had chirped at him, her face covered in dust and soil, “it’ll be a few hours before they get back. I can tell the other Jedi you’re looking for them if you like.”

“Ah, no.” Qui-Gon had excused himself, “I’ll seek them out later, thank you.”

He had meant to find the boy that evening, but when he’d found Obi-Wan later seen him taking lastmeal with the other farmers in the mess and Qui-Gon couldn’t quite bring himself to interrupt whatever chances at forming new bonds the boy may have. And then…well, Qui-Gon couldn’t quite explain it, but if he didn’t know any better, he’d say the boy was avoiding him. Every time he’d caught wind of Obi-Wan’s Force signature, by the time he’d arrived there’d be no sight of him. One time, Qui-Gon was sure that Obi-Wan had seen him making his way towards him from across a large courtyard, only for the brunet to duck into a nearby building and be nowhere to be found by the time the Jedi Master had reached it.

Perhaps, Obi-Wan was avoiding him. The boy seemed like he was a terribly collected individual; maybe he was embarrassed that Qui-Gon had seen him so rattled from his nightmare. Or maybe he was simply unwilling to be vulnerable around Qui-Gon. After all, they’d hardly had the most auspicious start and there was little reason for the boy to want to be in his presence.

It almost seemed more effort than it was worth, yet his conscience would not him rest until he’d spoken with Obi-Wan. The pain that Qui-Gon had felt that night had been intense and unwieldy, a grief as true and deep as any he’d felt, and Qui-Gon felt – begrudgingly – that he in some way owed the boy. Even though Qui-Gon stood firmly by his decision, he simply was not prepared to take on a Padawan at this time, he was not unaware of how painful and life changing it had been for Obi-Wan. While he may not ever be able to heal that hurt, Qui-Gon hoped in some manner that he may, at the very least, be able to soothe it somewhat.

Despite whatever rumors may swirl about him at the Temple, Qui-Gon was not totally without a heart when it came to younglings. He took no pleasure in seeing a Jedi child – any child – in pain.

It was on Taungsday, almost a full week to the day that the boys had arrived on Bandomeer, that Qui-Gon finally caught sight of Obi-Wan again.

---

Obi-Wan sighed as he leaned back on his heels, feeling quite exhausted. He glared down at the soil he hovered over. He stuck the testing kit’s needle into the ground, letting out a frustrated breath through his nose when the reading came back. He was a General, a member of the Jedi Council, and he yet – he groaned, defeat making his shoulders slump.

This was much harder than he thought. He double checked the readings, lips askew. It was better, but he knew it was nowhere near what Bruck was getting. Obi-Wan just wasn’t a natural when it came to the Living Force like the other boy was. It probably didn’t help that he was getting about as little sleep as he had back in the Temple. Maybe, if he tried meditating more before he –

A sharp warning of the Force – a jolt of icy cold down his spine – had Obi-Wan shooting to his feet. He glanced around the field, grateful that it was mostly barren or occupied by small and young plants, trying to sense the cause of his unease. He couldn’t see Bruck from here, but a quick probe revealed the other boy a mile and half to the left, Skip a little further to his right, and the six other farmers spread out to the north of him, deeper in field. Obi-Wan’s brows furrowed, he couldn’t sense anything wrong with any, their signatures bright and unharmed (well, annoyed on Bruck’s part, but that was nothing new). A glance behind him found the construction site – the field they were working on was on the edge of an old strip-mining pit, they very last dregs of coal being pulled from it before was to be closed and filled in. The hope was that they’d eventually expand the fields into it, which Obi-Wan found a tall order given how strained and polluted the soil already was.

Without thought, Obi-Wan found his feet moving towards the sloped pit. And then he was jogging, then sprinting. He stumbled up the raised edge, Obi-Wan’s eyes immediately finding a dragline excavator balanced on an absurdly looking steep hill, a nearly vertical drop surrounding it. Obi-Wan stilled, watching as the spider-like legs of the excavator picked out its footholds, climbing steadily higher. He could just see a head covered in a bright green hardhat sticking out, watching the ascent. Another sat in the cab, only just visible. Below them, like tiny ants, workers were scurrying about, brightly visible against the red soil in their hardhats and brown jumpsuits. Obi-Wan’s gut twisted, eyes narrowing as he followed the machine like a hawk.

It’s going to fall.

The thought crystallized in his mind and Obi-Wan was moving, sliding down the mine side, ignoring the sting of rocks against as they scraped against his legs. A Force jump had him closing the final distance and Obi-Wan ignored the started and alarmed shouts of the workers as he sprinted across the mine’s open floor, a blur of speed.

“Get out of the way!” Obi-Wan hollered as he came to a skidding stop below the floundering machine. “Get out of here, now.”

The workers stared at him, faces confused, the Arconan workers chittering nervously. A man with a different colored hardhat – a fluorescent blue instead of green – stepped forward, expression thunderous. “Look, kid, you can’t just be in here. We have safety regs, you need a hardhat –”

Obi-Wan saw as it happened, one of the excavator’s forward legs stepping forward – and cliff face breaking loose beneath it like snow. The machine pitched to the side, the quartet of back legs pushing flat and horizontal as it tried to dig in. It was no use though, Obi-Wan could see how it was beginning to tilt, rapidly loosing the battle with gravity. There was a shout of terror, a shriek of metal as the machine tried to save itself, and the air was filled with panicked cries and screams as the workers around him scattered.

Obi-Wan’s gloved hands shot out, catching the faltering excavator with the Force. He gritted his teeth, sweat blossoming across his brow with effort. His inability to properly use the Living Force techniques in the fields meant that Obi-Wan ended up using some of his own personal reserves to bolster his work, something that he’d known was stupid and would now have to bear the consequences of. He dug his feet in, mounds of dirt overflowing the edges of his boots, and instinctively tried to draw support from the earth below him – but there was no life here to borrow strength, no excess Force created by living things to draw from the dead soil.

“Get them out,” Obi-Wan said sharply, “I can’t hold it for long. Get the men out.”

“How!” The foreman shouted, pale and shaking as he stared up at the frozen machine, “how? I can’t – there’s no way, they’re too high!”

“I’ll hold it as long as I can,” Obi-Wan said tersely, arms quivering with the strain, “get them to climb out.”

“It’s too steep–”

Obi-Wan let out a harsh breath, jaw clenching. “If they stay in that they’re going to die, at least they’ll have a chance.”

The foreman gaped at him, then up the cliffside, before snapping out his com and yelling into it. The men inside were shouting back, too petrified to move. Obi-Wan could feel his hold slipping, the machine dropping in a short fall before he caught it, the abrupt stop almost jostling one of the workers out. Obi-Wan dug deeper, determined. He’d been exhausted before, had been pushed to his limits during the war, and when Obi-Wan asked – the Force had always answered.

And it did.

Another presence wove into his own and Obi-Wan let out a shuddering breath as he recognized Bruck’s signature. He tugged on it, correcting it, and guiding it until it latched onto the machine more firmly. Obi-Wan doubted even with the boy’s help the two could hold it for long though; Bruck was just as tired from his work, if not more so than himself for the opposite reason. While Obi-Wan struggled with bending the Living Force, Bruck allowed himself to be an open conduit – too much of one, Obi-Wan was realizing from the feel of the other boy – and had exhausted himself from channeling too much.

The foreman was all but screaming into his com and a man scrambled out of the cab. He immediately began to fall, a flash of metal gleaming in the harsh noon sun as the miner tried to dig into the cliff side with an pickaxe. The second worker cried out, grabbing instinctively for the other and toppled out of the cab entirely. Cries erupted around him as both men began a rapid decent – only to freeze in place as Obi-Wan lashed the Force out.

Sweat was dripping into his eyes, the shemagh soaked through in his effort, and Obi-Wan let out a strained sound. He could feel Bruck’s panic the moment the other boy realized how tenuous their grip on the workers was. Then, on the very edge of his awareness, Obi-Wan could feel Qui-Gon’s presence rushing towards them. He was still almost two miles off, but the speed he was moving must mean he was in a speeder or craft. Obi-Wan reached out towards his former Master through the echoes of a never-there training bond, shuddering bodily at the strange feeling.

A hand braced his shoulder in support as the foreman misread the motion. The stout man began whispering frantic and frightened encouragement to him, the grip on his shoulder tight as if he were afraid Obi-Wan was about to collapse. The young Jedi ignored him, mind straining out, brushing against the Jedi Master’s. He felt the moment Qui-Gon realized what he was doing – a jolt of alarm and abrupt awareness, wonder and bewilderment, confusion and apprehension - the bundle of emotions echoing strongly before Qui-Gon shields instinctively slammed down.

Obi-Wan let out a sharp cry, the sound evoking a flare of concern from Bruck, and he nearly doubled over at it. A shock of pain – sharp, almost like an ice pick – stabbed through his brain. And then at once, almost like an apology, he could feel Qui-Gon. The Master’s mind reached back towards him, calm and placid, single-mindedness in its direction, and though without a bond there was no words – Obi-Wan sensed the purpose in his former Master’s thoughts.

Obi-Wan latched onto Qui-Gon, aware in a strange, ghostly way (almost like sensing a phantom limb) how the action made the Jedi Master jerk in discomfort at the foreign presence and tugged. The Living Force flew through him, Qui-Gon drawing with an ease and skill that was almost jealously inducing from the fields around him, from the living beings that surrounded them, even from the creatures that managed to live within Bandomeer’s polluted soil.

Letting out a loud breath through his noise, Obi-Wan began painstakingly lowering the workers down and to the left, to where a pale white rock jutted out enough for them to find a narrow footing. Just as he managed to let them down securely, he felt another’s touch turn the stream of the Force, coaxing the machine down into a controlled fall. It crumpled like paper against the mine floor, but it stayed where it laid, still and settled, and with no workers underneath it.

Obi-Wan was shaking with exhaustion as he let his hands fall. He cursed his own carelessness; he’d been so irritated that he couldn’t get the agriculture techniques to work that he’d seen no issue with augmenting them with his own style, but Obi-Wan could see the arrogance of that now. Even without this near-disaster, Obi-Wan would have pushed himself into Force-exhaustion before the week was over if he had continued as he had.

Two hands gently settled themselves on his shoulder (when had the foreman released him? Obi-Wan hadn’t even noticed) and turned him. Obi-Wan found himself staring tiredly at Qui-Gon’s front. His head felt heavy as he lifted it to stare up at the Jedi Master. Grey eyes peered down at him, utterly unreadable in a way that, even with the fog of fatigue draped across his mind like a heavy cloak, made something in Obi-Wan prickle with alarm.

“Obi-Wan!” Bruck came skidding to a stop next to them, a cloud of dirt surrounding them with the move. “That was crazy! I felt the warning, but I wasn’t sure what it was until I felt you and – why is your nose bleeding?”

Obi-Wan blinked at the rapid words, before bringing his hand up to wipe at his nose. It came back a brilliant red, the blood thin and watery with his sweat. He blinked slowly at it, moving his fingers back and forward as he watched it. Qui-Gon’s shields, a part of his mind whispered, and Obi-Wan shrugged, letting his hand drop.

“I…think I over did it.” He managed, stunned by how hoarse his voice sounded.

“Here,” Bruck said, hands shaking with his own tiredness as he pulled his canteen free and unscrewed it, “drink some.” Obi-Wan took the canteen gratefully, ignoring the way his hands quivered enough that he had to press the plastic lip firmly to his mouth for stability before lifting it back. “I’m tired too.” Bruck admitted, rubbing at his neck, “that was so much harder than any of the exercises we’d done at the Temple.”

“I've felt you both in the fields,” Qui-Gon said, voice oddly subdued, “learning to wield the Living Force can be trying and you’ve both been preforming at higher levels than you most likely have in the past.”

I’ll have to talk to Bruck about that, Obi-Wan thought, wiping the back of his mouth with his sleeve, and stop supplementing my own work. No way around it, Obi-Wan was really going to have to buckle down and learn the AgriCorps techniques from square one. Like, he thought somewhat self-disparagingly, he had probably been supposed to.

Though a cornerstone of Jedi philosophy was the acceptance that life was never done teaching you, that you should always strive to learn and practice your skills every day, for years Obi-Wan had served at his prime, a fully-fledged Jedi Master, and any improvement of his skills had been on the war front. It sounded childish even in his own mind, but Obi-Wan was not used to not being good at things. At least not since he’d been a wet-behind the ears Padawan.

And though he had never admitted it to anyone, not even Mace or Master Yoda, warfare had come almost unnaturally easily to Obi-Wan. He had no love of it and despised every aspect of war, and yet Obi-Wan could not deny that there was something about the life of a solider that appealed to him. Perhaps it was the camaraderie? To this very moment, Obi-Wan had not allowed himself to think of, even to grieve, of the Clones that had once been in his own men. Not even of Cody, who Obi-Wan had once viewed as close as a brother. And he would not allow himself to do so now. Perhaps ever. 

No, Obi-Wan didn’t know what it was about war that came so easy to him. Nor did he like to think of how much of his identity had been shaped by it; perhaps ‘General’ was just as much a part of him as ‘Master’ and in his heart of hearts, Obi-Wan was afraid of what that said about him.

“Obi-Wan?” Obi-Wan blinked, finding both Bruck and Qui-Gon (and much to his chagrin, a small circle of workers) watching him. Qui-Gon reached out, nudging the canteen back towards his lips, the graying Master’s brows furrowed. “Drink more.”

Obi-Wan obeyed, wondering how lost he’d become in his own thoughts to warrant the particular looks he was getting. The canteen was almost empty and Obi-Wan titled his head back, trying to coax the last of the water from it, and abruptly choked on it. Lightheadedness crashed over him like a wave with the movement and Obi-Wan screwed his eyes shut against the disoriented feeling of weightlessness, only vaguely aware of the canteen clanking against the ground. His hand shot out, catching an arm and gripping it tightly as the world teetered and turned around him.

The arm turned under his grip, a large hand clasping his forearm lightly, and from that single, grounding touch a pulse of the Force worked its way up his arm and pushed the worst of the dizziness away. He heard a concerned man’s voice ask if he was alright and when Obi-Wan sluggishly opened his eyes, he found a well-dressed AMHC higher up hovering nearby worriedly, a travel med-kit in his hands.

“He’s tired.” Qui-Gon explained. “He will need to be taken off field rotation for a few days, Bruck as well. Please see that it's done. We will also need to cancel this afternoon’s negotiations.” The Jedi Master’s voice was unerringly polite, but when the suited man began to voice objections, it acquired an edge of steel. “Chairman Ruthland, Obi-Wan and Bruck require guidance and healing only I can provide. Surely you would not deny them that after they just saved the lives of two of your workers and potentially countless others.”

None of which could have been done without Qui-Gon’s aid, but both Bruck and Obi-Wan were wise enough to stay silent on the nuanced point. Ruthland began to sputter, his face turning bright red as he glanced around, licking his lips at the barely hidden (and in the case of one particularly tall miner, outright) looks of hostility from the workers that surrounded them.

“No, no,” Ruthland stuttered quickly, “of course not. Take whatever time you need – and please, request anything you need from our staff. Anything. AMHC will be more than happy to provide it, a mere corner of the gratitude we owe these young lads.”

“Thank you for you understanding, Chairman.” Qui-Gon said, the arm Obi-Wan was holding onto shifting to his back, guiding him on admittedly shaky feet towards a nearby land speeder. Obi-Wan sunk into the front passenger seat, eyes fluttering shut. The speeder dipped as both Qui-Gon and Bruck climbed in, but Obi-Wan hardly noticed. He hadn’t felt Force exhaustion like this since the war; he would have to be more careful. He knew his body would be unused to wielding the amount of Force Obi-Wan knew he could call, but he hadn’t truly understood its limitations until now. The speeder started up and though warm with the midday hour, the wind still felt wonderful on Obi-Wan’s exposed face. After a moment, he managed to peel an eye open to glance at Qui-Gon.

The Jedi looked pensive as he navigated the speeder back towards the main compound and Obi-Wan watched him for a long moment, not bothering to look away when the man turned to him with a questioning expression.

“…isn’t this the Chairman’s speeder?”

The Jedi Master returned his eyes frontwards. “I am confident that Chairman Ruthland would wish to remain behind and take stock of the situation.”

Obi-Wan let out a laugh, his chest warming at the way Qui-Gon’s lips quirked up in his own smile. He let his lids drop again. When sleep came, Obi-Wan didn’t deny it.

---

“Is he alright?” Bruck asked, the concern in the boy’s voice badly hidden by the irritation he tried to mask it with. “I’ve never seen him just go out like that.”

“He’ll be fine.” Qui-Gon said as he finished parking the land speeder. He stepped out, making his way around the hood of the vehicle. “You both have Force Exhaustion, though his is more extreme than yours. You both need sleep and food, in that order, and a few days off from the fields. Maybe a week.”

“Really?” Bruck asked, his nearly invisible white-blond eyebrows climbing in surprise. “I mean, that was really tiring, but a whole week?”

“I had meant to speak to you both about it at some point this week,” Qui-Gon admitted as he unlocked and opened the passenger door, a hand gently catching the sleeping boy by the shoulder to keep him from tumbling out. “Obi-Wan has been using the Living Force incorrectly, supplementing it with the Cosmic Force.”  

Bruck perked up from where he was standing next to him, a small grin on his face, and before Qui-Gon could continue, spoke. “He’s been doing it wrong this whole time, huh? I knew I should have worked with him more. He told me it wasn’t coming as easy to him as it was to me.”

Qui-Gon looked at the other boy sharply, not missing the smug tone. “Yes, while you have been putting too much energy out into the fields. You've not been moderating your Living Force usage. Even without the accident today, you both would have suffered from this at some point.”

The smile disappeared, Bruck’s cheeks flushing red in a blush. “Oh.”

Qui-Gon sighed as he worked his arms under Obi-Wan’s still form. “Learning a new job is never easy Bruck, but I can tell you are both trying. I am willing to go over the materials with you before I leave and if possible, help you find where you are both going wrong. An AgriCorps member would be visiting you before the end of your first month to provide more intense and targeted teaching as well.”

“Oh.” Bruck said again, studying his feet as Qui-Gon lifted Obi-Wan from the speeder. “We, uh, didn’t know that.”

“I know, the AgriCorps server has been off-line for the last few days due to some technical issues. I was contacted by the Temple about you two in person days ago, they wanted me to inform you that they weren’t able to send out your arrival follow-up emails and brief you. It was in part why I had Chairman Ruthland give me a tour of the fields; you two have been quite hard to find around the base proper these last few days.”

Bruck looked uncomfortable as he followed Qui-Gon into the base. “Well, I mean, Obi-Wan was…well…and I'm usually with him, so...”

So, the boy had been avoiding him. Qui-Gon fought the urge to rub his forehead given that his arms were currently occupied. Obi-Wan’s head lulled against Qui-Gon’s shoulder, the fringes of his youngling cut brushing against his jaw. The idea that Obi-Wan was actively avoiding him made Qui-Gon uncomfortable, even if he could understand the boy’s reasons. He paused in front of a room bearing a small plaque with ‘Kenobi’ printed on it. He nodded towards Bruck’s room.

“Go, shower and clean up. Take a cool shower though, the heat may make you light-headed as you are. And then I want you to sleep; sleep as long as your body wants. Com me when you are awake and I will bring you food. Don’t get out of bed until I’ve had a chance to look you over.”

Bruck nodded, swiping his key. The door opened to reveal a floor covered in clothing and walls already plastered with posters and photos. The white-haried boy glanced once more at Obi-Wan’s still form, chewing on his bottom lip, before disappearing into his room. Qui-Gon carefully shifted Obi-Wan, fishing out the small plasti card from the boy’s pocket and brushing it against the door sensors. It slid open and Qui-Gon stepped into a small room.

Unlike Bruck, Obi-Wan had clearly not yet unpacked. His go-bag was opened and sitting on his desk, neatly folded clothing just visible. He carefully guided the boy down onto the bed. He sat on the edge, keeping a weather eye on the boy’s face as he worked his boots and sweat-sodden socks off, then the shemagh bunched around his neck. It took a little bit more work to get his jumpsuit off and Qui-Gon debated about changing him into a clean pair of undershorts and shirt, but worried it would be too invasive for Obi-Wan when he woke up.

Qui-Gon stepped back, the dirty clothing bundled in his arms. Despite all the jostling, the boy still slept soundly. For a moment he simply stood and watched. In sleep, Obi-Wan looked his age. It was an odd thought, but a true one. Master Washet’s observation was accurate; Obi-Wan carried himself with the maturity of someone much older, giving him an illusion of age. But now, sleeping so deeply on the adult sized sleep couch, his hair pressed almost flat and back with sweat and grime, Obi-Wan looked younger than twelve.

It was almost unnerving; but then again, there were many things about Obi-Wan Kenobi that Qui-Gon found unnerving. He sighed as he dropped the dirty clothing into a small hamper lodged in a corner before pulling the lone chair from the desk and turning it towards the bed. He sat in it, hands clasped before him as he watched the boy sleep. Minutes passed, then a half hour, before Qui-Gon finally felt Bruck’s presence next door drift off into sleep. Qui-Gon reached out, a gentle nudge sending the boy into a deeper sleep. He should do the same for Obi-Wan, should encourage his body into a light healing trance, but Qui-Gon found himself hesitant.

He could still feel the tendril’s of Obi-Wan’s presence, hyper-aware of the boy in a way he had never been before. It felt like an impossibility; Qui-Gon’s knee-jerk reaction when he had felt another slide so easily into his mind was to slam his shields down. It was not an unwise thing to do, unknown presences in ones mind could easily be quite dangerous. He had no bond with the boy, Obi-Wan was not his Padawan, nor did they share any lineage and friendship bonds. And yet…the boy had reached him so easily.

Qui-Gon sighed, reaching up to rub at beard. There was no training bond, Qui-Gon was sure of it. He would have known if one formed, wouldn’t he? Force bonds didn’t just happen, it took time and effort – sometimes hours and days to form one. Sometimes incompatible Jedi could never establish anything but surface bonds, even if they were close friends.

But only an hour ago, Qui-Gon had been pushing the land speeder to it’s very limits, heart beating wildly in his chest as the Force screamed at him to be faster, quicker, gogogogogo, Obi-Wan had reached out to him – and slid into his mind seamlessly. The boy had flooded him with emotions, clearer than anything Qui-Gon had ever felt with anyone. He’d felt Obi-Wan’s awareness – as truly as Obi-Wan had known it himself – that he and Bruck were unable to maintain control of the situation. There had been no fear, no anger, only a hint of desperation and self-recrimination, and a steadfast determination to keep loss of life at bay. And when he’d brought his shields up, Qui-Gon had felt (even muted at it was) Obi-Wan’s pain.

It made no sense.

Qui-Gon could not understand it, refused to come to terms with what it might mean. A bond between them couldn’t have formed, not without him knowing. He and Obi-Wan had barely interacted, there wasn’t enough there for a bond to work with. But even as he thought the words fervently, another part of Qui-Gon countered himself. It wasn’t totally without precedent for a bond to form so easily. Sometimes, when a Jedi met a student –

Qui-Gon shook his head, crushing that thought. He forced himself to steady, reaching out and laying his hand gently on Obi-Wan’s forehead. He pushed gently at the boy’s mind. To his surprise, he found solid shields – very solid shields. Was advanced shielding in Obi-Wan's student brief back at the Temple? He couldn't remember. But even as he began to pull away, aware that it would be impossible to plant a suggestion with them in place, the shields lightened, tempered. He barely managed to reel his shock back to keep from waking the boy. Obi-Wan’s mind was blank with sleep, but it swirled lightly at his touch, a warm, almost hazy feeling drifting to him. Oh, the feeling seemed to say, it’s you. It was not quite full on recognition – the boy too deep asleep even for that - yet it had Qui-Gon jerking back, eyes flying open to stare at Obi-Wan’s face, aghast.

What…?

Notes:

Oh, boy. Obi-Wan my dear, you may have poked something you shouldn't have. I imagine in Obi-Wan's place, I would also have tried to use my past experience/knowledge to supplement or try to short cut learning a new thing. I also have experienced what Obi-Wan describes early in the chapter. I work in the mental health, so I can recognize some of the negative and logical fallacies my mind produces, but really struggle to implement the tools and techniques I've been taught. Then I get frustrated, because I deal with clients all day that have these types of issues and can't use them on myself, then go back to my circle reasoning, until my shrink points it out. Everyone should have a therapist, honestly.

And next chapter: Xanatos.

Chapter 10: Bandomeer, Part 3

Notes:

Thanks for the well wishes and advice, guys! It's so refreshing to see how knowledge about mental health has grown. When I grew up in the late 80s/early 90s, it was very much stigmatized, so your thoughtful comments and shared experiences were nice to read. I hope I continue to do Obi-Wan justice with his struggles and PTSD, I always hope and am careful to keep it within what I think is appropriate for his diagnosis. And yes, my nerd ass gave him official diagnoses.

Anyway, buckle in. Here we go.

Qui-Gon had retreated to his own chambers. Nearly triple the size of the boys’ room, the visiting diplomat chambers had enough room for him to pace from end to end comfortably, a habit that Qui-Gon always did when rattled. And, to his great annoyance, he was rattled. But why was he rattled? It wasn’t the fact that Obi-Wan had excellent shielding; while unusual, it was hardly unheard of for an youngling to be naturally gifted in the art and was able to exceed past normal expectations. Like any other innate skill, some beings were just born with a natural advantage in certain fields. No, it was that the shields had come down at all for him. It was paradoxical; Obi-Wan clearly had at the very least intermediate training in the mind arts, he would have been drilled to have the opposite reaction to the touch a foreign mind. The shields should have closed harder, pressed further inward – not lower.

Was it because of this afternoon? It had to be. Somehow, the boy must have recognized Qui-Gon’s signature from their earlier encounter, no matter how brief it had been, but that had not explained the familiarity. And that was what it had been; not recognition, like what Qui-Gon could have expected with his current theory. No, that feeling had felt…intimate. But that didn’t make any sense, as neither he nor Obi-Wan were particularly close. Certainly not close enough for…that. He let out a frustrated breath. Instinct told him there was something more here at play, something that Qui-Gon was missing completely no matter how he examined or re-examined their past interactions.

There was so many odd things about the boy, with the strange ease and welcome he’d felt in the boy’s mind being the most recent. He had accused Obi-Wan of overconfidence and spitefulness back in the Temple, yet in the small time he’d observed him on Bandomeer, he’d seen a calm, sensibleness. And in the week that the boy had been on planet, there had been only kindness towards Bruck Chun. And then there was that night, and that almost fervent grief, that sadness that had felt so profuse and prolific that it had made something in Qui-Gon’s stomach tighten in a knot that had never truly gone away. Had leaving the Temple really changed the boy so much?

A puzzle indeed, the Jedi Master thought sourly, rubbing at his tired eyes. Why did the boy seem to continuously keep and hold his attention? He should be knee deep in negotiations not trying to unravel the personage of Obi-Wan Kenobi! And yet he would not leave his thoughts, even now, hours later.

But he could admit, in the safety of his own mind, that there was something about the boy that had caught his attention. Perhaps it all had started back in the Temple, in that practice refresher room after the exhibition match. Maybe it was because that conversation had been so different from those that had preceded it. It was never an easy conversation to have (which was part of the reason that Qui-Gon strived so hard to be off planet during the challenges – to try and prevent giving false hope where there was none) but Obi-Wan had handled it with a surprising amount of maturity and grace. The look in his eyes, politely distant and yet somehow understanding, almost compassionate, as if he understood how poorly about it all Qui-Gon felt.

Or perhaps it had started even before that, on that night when Qui-Gon had first seen the boy. That night with the odd Knight Guard…

His com beeped and Qui-Gon unclipped it from his belt, brow furrowing when he saw the ID. After a moment of consideration, he answered. “Rael, to what do I owe the honor of a call outside of my birthday?”

“Qui-Gon,” the drawling tones of his lineage brother, Rael Averross, greeted him with mock hurt, the Ringo Vindan accent drawling his vowels out as it always had, “I’m hurt. Do you really think so little of me?" Then, "I see you’ve got some new lines on your face.”

“And you’ve grown shorter, I think.”

“Prick.”

Qui-Gon snorted, settling into an armchair positioned to give a view out at Bandomeer’s dry landscape. Rael was almost twelve years older than Qui-Gon – though he had none of the height to show for it. Always a short and stocky man, Rael had been almost incensed when Qui-Gon’s growth spurts had sent him towering over the Ringo Vindan native, leaving him squarely nose-to-shoulder with Qui-Gon. The two hadn’t been close during the earlier years of Qui-Gon’s Padawanship, even though Rael enjoyed a closer relationship with their former Master than Qui-Gon could ever claim to have, and visited often, the raucous man’s personality usually kept him in the field.

If Qui-Gon was considered a maverick by the Council, then Rael was a true outlier. Though wholly loyal to the Order, Rael had a consistent (and truthfully well earned) reputation as a bit of a scoundrel. Qui-Gon knew personally that Rael was never one to turn down an offer for a good time, whether it be sex or substances. On one memorable birthday (his seventeenth, during which Rael had brought some Rokö weed back from a recent trip) they had gotten so high that a wrestling match had seemed like a good idea. Their Master – woken at the unkind fourth hour – had come storming out of his room in his pajamas, face wrath incarnate, after they’d managed to overturn a table with a undoubtedly priceless vase on it that may or may not have been in the Dooku family line for seven generations. But Rael was careful; he never got addicted, never got attached, never went too far that he lost the path back to the Order.

The two had grown close after Rael had been assigned to aide Qui-Gon and his former Master on a mission to Shurrupak. And they’d only grown closer after Xanatos’ betrayal and the loss of Rael's own apprentice. Rael was just about the only one Qui-Gon could stand in that dark time. But eventually, even Rael had enough. He'd swept into Qui-Gon's apartment like a storm, the first time he'd been off the planet Pijal after being assigned there in years, and yanked him by his shirt neck, dragging him into the refresher, turning it on full blast – icy cold, before giving him a solid kick to the side. 

“That’s enough, Qui-Gon.”

“Rael-”

“No, shut up.” He’d pointed a finger at him, eyes narrowed. “It’s enough.”

“None of you understand, you don’t understand –” Qui-Gon had thoughtlessly seethed and Rael had sneered down at him in disgust, brown eyes violent.

“Finish that sentence, I dare you.” Too late to take the unthinking words back, Qui-Gon had sat under the water, so ashamed he couldn’t meet his friend’s eyes. “No, I didn’t think you would. Shower, with soap for Force’s sake, you smell like the back end of a Bantha. And with that beard, you’re starting to look like one too. I’m going to make you something, which you will graciously eat. Then you’re going to call our Master because I swear to all that is good and holy I can not take another call from him, he’s driving me insane. And then we’re going to get rip-roaring drunk, you’re going to cry, then throw up, then we’re going to sober the kriff up, eat more, and request you new quarters. In that order.”

It had been what he'd needed, even if Qui-Gon couldn't see it at the time. Especially as he knew how much it hurt Rael to return to the Temple after losing Nim. Nim Pianna had been a sweet girl, the Tholothian far too good for Rael, and his lineage brother had known it, too. She hadn’t deserved her fate, no one deserved that fate, but poor little Nim least of all. While on assignment to protect a freighter from pirates, the crew had mutinied and turned on their Jedi guards. They’d managed to hit Nim with a slicer dart, the nanotechnology inside hijacking her brain functions and turning her on her Master. Qui-Gon had seen the medical reports afterwards, had seen the damage to Rael, had seen the cruel burn that traveled up his neck and jaw, the matching ones on his ribs. Rael may very well have let her kill him, but survival instincts had kicked in at the last moment and Rael had cut his own Padawan down.

Qui-Gon didn’t believe that Rael had ever forgiven himself for it, even if the Jedi Council’s investigation had cleared him of any wrongdoing. It was out of kindness that the Council (and most likely their GrandMaster and lineage uncle, Mace Windu, if not their former Master’s own pleas) that had seen him away on a long-term mission that would keep him off Coruscant. Qui-Gon was all too aware of how the Temple could hold ghosts for people like himself and Rael.

It was on Pijal that Rael had arguably found a reason to keep living. The Queen Mother of the isolationist planet had died suddenly and abruptly, leaving her very young granddaughter an orphan without so much as a regency or advising council in place. Rael, who was arguably the biggest bleeding heart Qui-Gon knew despite his rough exterior, had taken one look at the Crown Princess, Fanry, then at the aggressive and cutthroat Pijalian court, and promptly declared himself regent. The Jedi Council, while not overly pleased, had been forced to admit that Rael had done nothing truly outside of the mission brief. He had, in fact, secured the Princess’ future until her coming of age at fourteen and resulting coronation as he'd been charged to do. It also helped that despite all of the man’s eccentrics, Rael was rather universally liked.

Qui-Gon had worried that he had been replacing Nim, that the whole thing would be a step back instead of forward for Rael, and in a rare move had reached out to their former Master. Yan had taken him seriously, their contentious relationship paused out of respect of their own with Rael. Qui-Gon knew better then to approach Rael with his own concerns, the man was more stubborn then Yan and Qui-Gon combined – which was really saying something. And it had been with relief that he’d taken his former Master's call a month later after he’d visited Pijal and reassured him.

“She is nothing like Nim,” Yan had explained, a thoughtful look on his face, “outside of the fact that they are both female. I believe we may set our fears aside, Padawan. This may prove an...enlightening journey for Rael.”

“Slow day?” Qui-Gon asked his friend, eyeing Rael’s face distrustfully. “Low on funds? Facing any local legal troubles? System-wide legal troubles?”

“Ouch,” Rael said with a huff, “and here I was all worried, teach me to give two shits.”

Qui-Gon’s brows furrowed. “Worried?”

“You felt weird. I was worried. Sue me.”

The younger Jedi blinked, before frowning. “I’m fine.”

“Ah.” Rael said, leaning back in his seat.

“What?” Qui-Gon said sharply. “‘What does that mean?”

“Well,” Rael said slowly, itching at the topmost edge of his scar, “that phrase, it’s kind of a tell of yours, you know?” Qui-Gon was baffled. “Don’t look at me like that, it’s true. You’ve had it for ages. So, what’s going on? Tell big brother Rael all about what’s got you in a tizzy.”

“I’m not in a tizzy.”

“Something’s got you worked up.” Rael pressed. “If it didn’t, I wouldn’t have had an annoyingly irresistible urge to call you when I could have been having a very nice time with a pair of twins.”

“Perverted old goat.” Qui-Gon breathed, irritated. “I live for the day your age catches up to you.”

Rael cackled. “Sorry to disappoint you, my friend, but everything is working just fine down there. And I'll have you know that Ringo Vindani are well known for our nearly ageless sexual prowess. Now, seriously; what’s going on with you?”

Qui-Gon hesitated, staring at his friend’s face. But after a moment, he folded. Out of anyone he knew, it was Rael who had consistently been the least annoying about Qui-Gon’s lack of Padawan. Never once had the man ever tried to pressure him into taking another one, which made him a member of a very short list that which - to be frank -  consisted of Rael Averross and Yan Dooku alone. He trusted Rael more than anyone else in his life, more even than Tahl.

He cleared his throat before rising and clicking the com’s detachable camera, allowing it to follow him into the small kitchen. As he made tea, he spoke about Obi-Wan, from the initial rejection of the boy to his arrival on Bandomeer and all that had followed. Rael listened without comment and when Qui-Gon finished his tea, he glanced up. Rael was watching him, brows furrowed.

“…and you’re sure you didn’t form a bond with this kid?”

“Positive.”

“Huh.” Rael said inelegantly, then shrugged, “yeah, that’s weird.”

Qui-Gon rolled his eyes. “Thank you, Rael Averross, as always, for your invaluable input.”

“Hey now,” his brother-Padawan scolded with a laugh, “don’t be a dick. What do you want me to say? He sounds weird, he’s a weird kid, that’s about all I can give you.”

Qui-Gon returned to the chair he had abandoned, the tea cradled warmly in his hands. “I know, I don’t mean to be short. I’m just…annoyed.”

There was a short silence before Rael sighed. “Look, Qui-Gon, you know I’m never going to question your choices, so don’t bite my head off for this, but do you think that maybe you’re this wrapped up in him because you feel guilty?”

“What?”

“You know, for not taking him on as a Padawan.”

“No.” Qui-Gon said firmly. “This isn’t that.”

“Look, kiddo, I’m not trying to poke the Gunkar’s nest, really, but I’d like to hear your reasoning.”

“I do not want to take another–”

Rael held up his hand, silencing him. “Something other than the party line, please. Give me an honest response.”

“Why?” Qui-Gon asked, voice cool.

“Because I’m asking you too.”

For a long moment, the two just stared at each other, both men’s wills absolute despite the distance. Then, Qui-Gon caved, glancing away. Once, when he had been very young, Qui-Gon had looked at Rael Averross and seen the Jedi Knight he had always wanted to be, that he’d hoped desperately to be. The hero worship long since disappeared but the impression of it still lingered, like a well-worn shadow. He was also the closest thing to an older brother that Qui-Gon would ever have in this life and something – perhaps that nervous fourteen-year-old he had once been – caved. He stared down at his hands, eyes tracing a scar he’d gotten there from a knife fight when he’d been (twenty? Twenty), tracing the pale and silvery flesh.

“I…when the boy fought, it reminded me of him.”

“Okay, fair enough. Tell me why. How did he fight?”

Qui-Gon’s lips pursed. “Obi-Wan used Ataru. Xanatos specialized in Ataru before switching to Juyo, but I didn’t mean in combat style. Within the first three moves it was apparent that Obi-Wan was the better swordsman.”

“Alright, so the kid's good with 'saber play. I know Xanatos was pretty skilled, but there was more than that I take it.”

“Yes,” Qui-Gon agreed quietly, pushing back the memory that had surged forth – of a smiling Xanatos, tall and lanky at seventeen, sweaty and bruised, throwing his arms around Qui-Gon as he beamed with pride and unfettered joy after winning his group at one of the bi-annual Padawan saber competitions. “It wasn’t that he was talented, it was how he chose to play the fight out. Obi-Wan could have ended the fight at any time, but he didn’t. He drew it out. He and the other boy, Bruck Chun, have a history of rivalry, it seemed a plan to humiliate his opponent.”

Rael’s lips thinned, but he was kind enough to not voice the parallel. Though he’d always believed his Padawan when Xanatos had insisted that it was never malicious, Qui-Gon had often had to speak with him about showing off at the expense of his sparring partner. “And if I asked you to give me a reason that didn’t relate to Xanatos?” At Qui-Gon’s expression, he shrugged. “Just humor me.”

Qui-Gon let out a breath of frustration, glaring at Rael before reciting in a blank, almost formal tone. “I overheard him talking before the Trial. It was late at night; I was doing my last mission report in a meditation room. Obi-Wan wandered by and was almost immediately caught out after curfew by one of the Guards. He admitted he had been having insomnia due to nerves, either from the upcoming Trial or his birthday, then expressed confusion over his place in the Order and his role in it. It appeared to me that he was doubting whether he wished to continue as a Jedi. I believe it appeared the same way to the Knight Guard. Obviously, this raised some concerns about Obi-Wan’s commitment.”

Rael stared at him for a moment before his expression shifted into one of annoyance, tongue clicking loudly. “I honestly didn’t expect you to be able to come up with a reason. Alright, kid, I get it. I’m not sorry I asked, but do try to remember that I did it with the best intentions before you decided to ignore me for the next decade because of this.”

Qui-Gon felt the tension in his shoulders relax, shaking his head with a small smile. “I know, Rael. And I understand why you would asked.”

Qui-Gon did, but that didn’t mean it didn’t rub him the wrong way. Even after all of this nonsense, he still felt firmly that he’d made the right decision. Yes, Obi-Wan had shown skill in the arena, but it had been clear to Qui-Gon – both from the conversation he’d overheard and the way the match had been conducted – that the boy was not ready. Obi-Wan himself had been doubting his commitment to the Order, how could Qui-Gon be at any fault for considering the same? And Qui-Gon had no intentions of ever taking another learner, not after Xanatos.

Even thinking the name made him feel exhausted, numb. He sipped his tea, staring out over the barren land. Qui-Gon had once had such confidence in his ability to teach, to shape a child’s mind, to guide them to success. Feemor had been such a wonderful boy, bright and strong – so strong, to survive the death of his first Master with so much grace and self-awareness. In the seven years they’d been together, Feemor had exceeded all of his expectations of what a Master-Padawan partnership could be. Qui-Gon had thought that meant he was ready to truly take an apprentice on, for though seeing Feemor to his Knightship had earned Qui-Gon his Mastery, Feemor had already been fifteen when Qui-Gon had taken him on, his foundations firmly cemented in place.

Qui-Gon saw now that this was the reason why Feemor had developed into such a strong Knight; those foundations had saved Feemor from whatever failings had manifested itself with Xanatos. Qui-Gon's relationship with his own Master had been a complicated one, to say the least. Though one of mutual respect and affection in the beginning, it had become strained over the years. Perhaps that should have been Qui-Gon’s first sign that he was not meant for a lineage; he barely spoke with his own Master. In fact, Qui-Gon hadn’t seen or heard from Yan in years.

What was the saying? The sins of the father blossom in the child? Qui-Gon had tried so hard to be everything his Master had not been to him with Feemor and Xanatos; loving, doting, encouraging to a fault. So desperate he was to be different from his own Master, Qui-Gon had ended up ignoring every sign of fault or deception that any tried to point out about Xanatos. Some even that Qui-Gon had noticed himself.

“Qui-Gon,” Rael called quietly, “get out of your head.”

He jerked over to look at com in surprise before giving him a thin smile. “I hate it when you do that.”

“Someone’s gotta call you on your bullshit, or else you’d be trapped up there.” His brother-Padawan glanced at something over his camera and winced. “Look, I’ve got to go, I’ve got a riveting morning of trade negotiations regarding a couple of acres of fishing grounds. Com me later if the kid does something else weird. I’m going to pretend the reason you didn’t drop me a line already is because you didn’t know that Pijal is only a day down the Hydian Way and not because you’re a thoughtless ass.”

“I enjoy our talks as well, Rael.” Qui-Gon said blithely.

Rael narrowed his eyes. “…I’m choosing to take that with sincerity. Don’t be a stranger, kiddo. Call me if you need to, I mean it.”

---

Obi-Wan woke and instantly wished he hadn’t. He let out a weak groan, before rolling carefully into a sitting position. His entire body ached, but in a way that he knew he would never be able to explain to a non-Force user. It wasn’t like a muscle strain, nor like he'd pulled one. It was something wholly different, bone deep and exhausting, and utterly indescribable. Still, in many ways he felt refreshed.

He glanced at the chrono, feeling his eyebrows tick up when he saw the time and date. He’d slept clear past lastmeal and into a new day, and it was the longest uninterrupted sleep Obi-Wan could remember since arriving back. He stood on rubbery legs, clicking his tongue as he caught himself on the desk edge. He really overdid it. With a sigh he made his way into the shower, grateful that it was less expensive on Bandomeer to use a water system then sonic, and took as long as a hot shower as he could before the water started to grow tepid.

He ate his entire hidden station of ration bars and candy leaning of the small sink installed in the front left corner of his room, aware that he needed as much carbs and sugar as he could. He dunked down to drink straight from the tap when he was thirsty, only realizing he'd had no cups in the room until he'd thought to use one. The water tasted somewhat scummy, a film to it that was distasteful on his tongue, but Obi-Wan was so dehydrated he didn’t care. Afterwards, he disbelievingly found he was still hungry, and after a moment of consideration, pulled his cloak to protect against the chilly night air and made his way towards the mess. The cafeteria was undoubtedly closed for the night, but it did have several vending machines. In short order he found himself standing in front of one with a bottle of cold cava tea tucked under one arm, trying to decide between a noodle and rice dish, before with a shrug he ordered both. Then, for good measure, he purchased two brownies and some blue milk as well. Obi-Wan had learned long ago it was best to just listen to what his body was telling it, as it was often far wiser than him.

He sat down at one of the abandoned tables, breaking apart the plastic spork and knife with a childish relish. Obi-Wan dug into both meals at once, taking breaks from the soupy noodles to the devour the spicy rice at will. When he finished, he gleefully popped the plastic tab from the blue milk and started on the (admittedly massive) brownies. He was just about done, debating about whether or not it was worth it to finish the last half of the final brownie, when the Force skittered up his spine, making the hairs on the back of his neck stand on end. Obi-Wan’s head snapped up, staring at the entryway of the mess.

Xanatos du Crion stared back.

The man leaned against the open door’s frame, hip cocked and arms cross over his chest, an amused smile on his face. He was shorter than Obi-Wan remembered, which was a very odd first thought to be having when seeing him again, yet there it was. It seemed like he towered in Obi-Wan’s memory, a malicious and shadowed figure of wrath and rage. There was very little of that now.

He was just as elegant as Obi-Wan remembered, dressed completely in blacks and grays – Offworld’s colors. His shirt and pants were tailored to his body, undoubtedly custom made and most likely cost more than what Obi-Wan and the entire farming team would earn annually. He had calf high leather boots on of a dove grey that matched his belt, from which a lightsaber hung unashamedly. His dark hair was pulled back in a ponytail, leaving his face clear, and his handsome features were only broken by a crude scar - a broken circle - on his cheek.

“Well,” Xanatos said dryly, “I’m impressed. I don’t think I’ve seen anyone eat quite so much, quite so fast.”

“Sir.” Obi-Wan greeted after a moment, mind already analyzing. Xanatos had always been an incredibly charismatic man, capable of making friends wherever he’d gone. Obi-Wan had seen some of it himself, but the rest he’d known from what little Qui-Gon had spoken of him, and much more from Rael Averross and Tahl. He was also, without a doubt, an incredibly dangerous man. But, Obi-Wan noted, nowhere nearly as dangerous as some that he had met. “I apologize,” he stood, gathering the used containers, “I didn’t mean to bother you, I’ll–”

“No, no!” Xanatos said, quickly making his way to Obi-Wan’s table. “Please, don’t let me interrupt. I was only coming for a snack myself.” He held up his credit chip with a wry smile. “Please, finish. Don’t leave on my account.”

Obi-Wan sat down slowly, watching as Xanatos made his way to the vending machines. He wondered cynically if that was a lie, but decided after a moment he didn’t care. He wanted to see how this turned out. He cut a piece of his brownie free, chewing at it and keeping his eyes down as Xanatos came to join him with a bag of chips and a drink.

“Mind if I sit with you? I don’t believe we’re breaking any regs just by sharing a meal.” Xanatos gave him a wink as he sat, “but if anyone gives you any grief, you can send them my way. Xanatos du Crion, CEO of Offworld.”

Obi-Wan eyed the offered hand, careful to keep his face one of nervous suspicion, like how he imagined he would have handled this at twelve. He took it after a moment. “Obi-Wan Kenobi, I’m with the Jedi AgriCorps.”

Xanatos paused in opening his chips, giving Obi-Wan a sharp look. “I wasn’t aware there were any Jedi on Bandomeer.”

Sure you weren’t, Obi-Wan thought, though outwardly he just shrugged, taking a drink of his milk. “I haven’t been here long, just a week or so.”

Xanatos continued to stare at him with a frown, his entire face a tableau of concern. “You’re not here alone, are you?”

“…no.” Obi-Wan said, squashing the flare of protectiveness that blossomed in his chest. He didn’t want this man anywhere near Bruck. “I’m here with another Corpsman.”

There was a probe to his shields but Obi-Wan kept his attention on his food, not reacting to it. He always kept his own at a fairly high level since the war, a practice that had long become instinct. For a moment they ate in silence, both observing each other while pretending they weren’t.

“I was a Jedi, you know.” Xanatos said when Obi-Wan had begun to reach the end of brownie.

Obi-Wan let his eyebrows climb up in surprise, then frowned. “I did notice you had a lightsaber.”

“It’s alright,” the man said after a moment, voice quiet, “you can ask.” Then continued on before Obi-Wan could speak, “I chose to leave. You aren’t required to give it up, you know, if you leave.”

Obi-Wan paused, staring down at his brownie. “…why did you leave?”

Xanatos looked away, a pained expression on his face. “I was betrayed, by someone I loved dearly. My former Master.” Obi-Wan kept silent, finger tracing a bead of perspiration as it slid down the plastic blue milk container. “I’m sorry, that was too much. Please, ignore what I said.” Xanatos said with a sigh. Then, after a moment, “I am familiar with what it means to end up in the AgriCorps.”

And what an interesting way to phrase it; to end up. Not as kind as ‘to be placed,’ not as abrupt as ‘to land,’ not as cruel as ‘to fail out,’ just…to end up. It was both condemning for any who knew of the Jedi culture, yet at the same time absolved Obi-Wan of some of it’s weight.

“It’s been…different.” Obi-Wan said slowly, as if the words were tugged from him without his permission.

“I know, I’ve been there.” Xanatos offered kindly. “And they have you farming?”

“Yes?”

He made a thoughtful sound. “A boy like you…I have to admit, I’m surprised.” Then he reached into his breast pocket and withdrew a thin plasti-film. “My card; it has my work com on it. I’ll be on Bandomeer for some time, please feel free to contact me if you need to. If nothing else, I may be able to offer some advice about adjusting outside the Temple. And…maybe…” He paused, head cocked to side, eyes pensive. Then the look was gone and he crumbled up his empty chip bag before stuffing it into the open mouth of his drink container. “I hope to see you around, Obi-Wan. Have a good night, try to get some sleep.”

“Um…thank you.”

And just like that, he was gone. Obi-Wan watched his exit, before hiding his twitching lips behind the mouth of his blue milk container. What an interesting man. No Sith, not at all. A Dark Jedi, without doubt, and a threat indeed. With time, Obi-Wan had no doubt that Xanatos would become a fully fledged Sith, but as it stood…no.

The entire meeting was so thoroughly planned and executed, from the food he'd picked, to how he'd chosen to sit with someone not only of a rival company, but also so very far below his rank, to that little bit at the end - the casual clean up - to appear as nonthreatening and approachable as possible. Unplanned to an extent undoubtedly; there was no way that Xanatos could have expected to find him awake at this hour. But Obi-Wan had no doubt the man had something in place to alert him when Obi-Wan left his quarters. Had Obi-Wan really been an insecure, twelve-year-old washout from the Temple, lost and questioning his own existence, Xanatos’ olive branch may have seen very appealing indeed.

And that little gem thrown in there about his former Master, which Xanatos would undoubtedly unveil with every dramatic fanfare he could as Qui-Gon once he felt he had reeled in Obi-Wan or Bruck. The man had no care for either boy, no real interest, Obi-Wan knew. They were just new pawns in the latest round of Xanatos’ never ending grudge match against his former Master. Obi-Wan hummed to himself as he gathered his trash and deposited it in the recycling compact. He was definitely keeping Bruck as far away from him as possible. As he exited the mess, Obi-Wan paused as he felt Qui-Gon’s presence approaching and turned to look behind him, just in time to catch him entering from one of the outer doors. He watched the surprise that crossed the older Jedi’s face as he spotted Obi-Wan, then the man trotted quickly to join him.

“Obi-Wan, I hadn’t expected you to wake so quickly, I was on my way to check on you.” Qui-Gon greeted. He rested a hand on Obi-Wan’s shoulder, giving it a gentle, concerned squeeze that so echoed a thousand other he’d once given, that for a moment Obi-Wan’s breath was stolen with a yearning so strong it ached. Qui-Gon frowned, grey eyes sharp and attentive as he stared down at him. “Come, you shouldn't be up yet. You have a mild case of Force Exhaustion, but I don’t doubt it feels like more to you. Let’s get you back to bed.”

“Of course.” Obi-Wan managed after a moment, voice strained. He swallowed to clear it. “I had wondered why I felt like I’d been hit by an S-class cruiser.”

Qui-Gon chuckled as he guided him down the hallway. “I can imagine, I’ve had a few cases of Force Exhaustion myself. You should feel better after you sleep more. Did you eat?”

“Yes.” Obi-Wan answered wryly, “quite a lot, actually.”

“Also completely normal. Just listen to your body, it will tell you what you need in the coming days.” Qui-Gon assured.

Obi-Wan nodded, before glancing down at the business card in his hand thoughtfully. He cocked his head to side, lips pursing before quirking from one side to the other as he played out his next move. Decision made, he darted a look at Qui-Gon, then back down to the card, before glancing back at Qui-Gon. It only took a moment to catch the older Jedi’s attention.

“What do you have there?”

Obi-Wan shrugged. “I met someone in the mess. He was…” Obi-Wan paused before continuing on slowly, as if testing out a new word, “…unique.”

“Oh?” Qui-Gon asked, interest clearly peaked, “how so?”

“I’m not quite sure yet.” Obi-Wan admitted, turning the card over and over in his hands. “He was nice enough, but something about him felt…” He paused again, as if at a loss. “Off. He offered me advice. I think. Or a chance for advice.”

Qui-Gon’s expression was bemused, but wary. “What kind of advice?”

“Well,” Obi-Wan said slowly, “on being an ex-Jedi, I think.”

Qui-Gon abruptly stopped walking.

Notes:

Hope you guys enjoyed it! Two new characters to the story; Rael and Xanatos. What do you think of their portrayal? Let it never be said that (even in pure cannon) Yan Dooku didn't let his Padawan's grow in their own ways. A lot from Qui-Gon's POV this chapter, but as many of you have pointed out, Qui-Gon tends to be kinda 2D in these fics, either a saint or a villain. I wanted to give a try at rounding him out as a character. Hopefully it works.

Chapter 11: Bandomeer, Part 4

Notes:

Back again! Sorry for the hiatus, been working two jobs since I lost my good one to Corona. Hopefully, I'll get hired on somewhere that pays enough I won't have to do this kind of stuff. Leaves me with pretty little time. That being said, I'm on vacation for the week so I'm trying to take advantage of that.

The return to his rooms was a blur, the memory lost in the pure fury and anguish that clouded Qui-Gon’s thoughts. He was loathed to leave Obi-Wan or Bruck alone, but neither did he want to explain why it was he was uncomfortable to do so.

Xanatos was here.

That single thought circled around his mind. Xanatos was here, on Bandomeer, and he’d approached Obi-Wan. Advice on being an ex-Jedi, Qui-Gon thought bitterly, scrubbing at his face with both hands. He didn’t know what Xanatos’ play was, but nothing about his interaction with Obi-Wan was altruistic. He had already warned Obi-Wan to keep his distance and Qui-Gon vowed to pull Bruck aside in the morning and do so with the white-haired boy as well.

Xanatos was here.

Qui-Gon didn’t know why he was surprised by it. It was a known fact that the du Crion’s owned Offworld and Qui-Gon’s involvement in the negotiations were hardly a secret. He must be the mysterious executive the Offworld middle manager had been alluding too. Qui-Gon cursed under his breath, his pacing picking up in speed. This didn’t bode well. No matter how Xanatos may try to spin this, he knew that his former Padawan had chosen to become involved because Qui-Gon was here. Which meant that he’d be seeing Xanatos tomorrow morning, bright and early, for the negotiations.

Why had he approached Obi-Wan? There was always a motive behind Xanatos’ actions and rarely were they as straight forward as they may seem at first. Obi-Wan and Bruck were both in a tender place in their reassignments, was he trying to confuse or mislead them? But what gains would that give Xanatos other than the delight of turning two young Jedi away from their designated paths. It could be simple cruelty, though Qui-Gon feared something much worse.

On a whim, Qui-Gon found himself reaching for his com. Rael was fresh in his mind and Qui-Gon was pulling up his contact information almost without thought. The com trilled loudly and almost went to the messaging system before Rael’s amused face appeared. “Qui-Gon, I know you miss me, but I am a busy man–”

“Xanatos is here.”

The good humor on his brother-padawan’s face disappeared. “What?”

“Xanatos is here,” Qui-Gon repeated, long legs eating up the length of his room as he paced, “on Bandomeer.”

“Stars, are you sure?”

Qui-Gon grimaced, nodding harshly. “He’s on the Offworld delegation.”

“…well, kriff.” Rael said after a moment. “Okay, right. You need to recuse yourself from the mission.”

“No.” Qui-Gon said sharply, head snapping to glare at the camera drone. “Not happening.”

There was a harsh inhale from the other side of the line. “Qui-Gon, you have to. You’re too compromised here.”

“The whole reason Xanatos is even here is because of me.”

“If that’s true, it’s all the more reason why you need to recuse yourself.” Rael argued, brows pinched. “You can’t complete a mission if you’re this emotionally involved. And encountering your rogue ex-Padawan definitely counts as too emotionally involved.”

“I refuse to run away.”

“This wouldn’t be running away.” Rael admonished, sounding exasperated.

“He approached Obi-Wan.” Qui-Gon grit out, hands fisting by his side. “Tonight, in the mess hall. Offered to give him advice on his next steps as an ex-Jedi.”

“You do realize this is what he wanted, don’t you?” Rael said, voice level, “he wants you upset. If he approached Obi-Wan, it was to get this exact response from you. Look, Qui, that kid loves to fuck with you. And – I’m sorry – but you let him. For once in your life, stop playing into what he wants.”

“It’s also why I should stay.” Qui-Gon shot back. “I know Xanatos – I know just what he’s capable of. Obi-Wan Kenobi and Bruck Chun don’t, I won’t leave them here to his hands.”

“And you think another Jedi isn’t just as capable of protecting them? Wow, I see time hasn’t dulled your arrogance.” Rael snapped. “Did it ever occur to you that you staying may be putting those boys in even more danger? Qui-Gon, contact the Council and tell them what’s happened.”

“No. There is no one as prepared to deal with Xanatos as I am.” Qui-Gon asserted.

Rael swore loudly. “You stubborn ass. Don’t make me do this.”

“Do what?”

“Contact the Temple on your behalf.”

Qui-Gon rounded on the camera drone, expression furious. “You wouldn’t dare.”

“To protect you from yourself? Watch me.”

“This was a mistake.”

“Qui-Gon–”

“I should never have trusted you.” Qui-Gon continued, “I foolishly thought I could count on your support.”

“Qui-Gon, for kriff’s sake, I am trying to support you!” Rael shouted back, “I’m trying to save you from yourself!”

“I never asked you to.” Qui-Gon said coolly, then cut the line. He returned to pacing his room, angrier than before. Rael wouldn’t actually do it, he reasoned to himself, he was most likely hoping the threat alone would be enough to bring Qui-Gon to heel. But he wouldn’t budge on this. Xanatos was his responsibility. Whatever he wanted – either from Qui-Gon or the boys – he would make sure he didn’t get it.

---

In the end, their break from the fields ended up being less than a week and closer to three days. By the end of the third, they were doing light duty in one of the processing sheds. By the fourth they were back at it. Bruck recovered quicker than Obi-Wan did, but Obi-Wan was pleased to see that by the final day of their med-leave he was fully back up to standard. Qui-Gon had taken the time to work with both of them, trying to correct their deficiencies in their new work.

Naturally, Bruck had taken to it easier than Obi-Wan did. And although he’d be preforming a much lower level than the taller boy, Obi-Wan did feel confident at the end of the tutoring that he would be able to apply the basics without supplementing it like before. Qui-Gon had been completely distracted throughout the three-hour long sessions and not for the first time, Obi-Wan questioned whether or not he knew what the hell he was doing. He had known that telling Qui-Gon about Xanatos would be an explosive thing, but to see it had been…enlightening. He had never, in the ten plus years he had lived and served besides Qui-Gon Jinn, ever seen the man shut down so completely as he did that night. All emotion had been wiped clean from his face, leaving an almost freighting mask of the man that Obi-Wan had once thought he knew better than any other. Qui-Gon had silently pocketed the card, his eyes dark as he stared down at Obi-Wan.

“Obi-Wan.”

“Yes, Master Jinn?”

“I don’t have time to explain everything to you, but I must ask you to promise to stay away from that man.”

“Sir?”

“Xanatos du Crion did indeed choose to leave the Order. But had he not, he would have been expelled. Promise me that if he comes to you again, you will find me.”

“Yes, sir.”

And then Qui-Gon had led him back to his room, a hand curved in an undeniably protective – and almost possessive – hold on Obi-Wan’s shoulder. He had put Obi-Wan back to bed, instructed him to sleep in as much as possible and then remain in bed for the rest of the day. And had left.

It had been an…experience, to say the least. Obi-Wan sighed, throwing an arm over his eyes. Well. No taking it back now. Besides, it was like Qui-Gon wasn’t going to learn about Xanatos presence on his own; now that the Dark Jedi had apparently decided to grace Bandomeer with his presence, Obi-Wan had no doubt that they’d be seeing a great deal of him. He could only hope that it didn’t end up with him being kidnapped and back on a deep-sea mining platform. That experience had been rather unpleasant last time.

During the group tutoring the man’s expression had been…well, closed off to anyone who didn’t know him. To Obi-Wan, it was a tableau of determination that made him uneasy. He could only hope he hadn’t done something incredibly stupid by telling Qui-Gon about Xanatos’ attempts at manipulation. Still, what was done, was done. He tried to keep an eye out for his former Master as the week progressed, but Qui-Gon was rarely around. Though he made it a point to check in at least once a day – through email if nothing else – it was clear that he was putting all his focus on Xanatos. In fact, most of Obi-Wan’s coms were short messages along the lines of ‘How are you feeling? Anything to report?’

That was new; in Obi-Wan’s memory, Qui-Gon had been just as concerned about Xanatos as he was now, though he had mainly tried to keep Obi-Wan out of everything by cutting contact. Perhaps it was different because Obi-Wan had already seemed to have caught Xanatos’ attention. The week went by without much fuss, Obi-Wan acquiring an atrocious tan around his eyes and face that left the rest of his face comically pale. He occasionally saw Xanatos moving about the base, but the dark-haired man seemed content to keep his distance. It only made Obi-Wan more concerned about whatever he was planning. On their first off day, Obi-Wan made a point of cornering Bruck in his room.

“Hey, Obi-Wan.” Bruck greeted. “Wanna watch a docu-drama with me? I’ve got the whole series for another week before I have to give back to Skip, so we can start over if you want.”

“Sure, but I wanted to talk to you about something.”

“Really?” Bruck asked, plopping onto his bed. “What about?”

“Has Master Jinn talked to you about Xanatos du Crion?”

“Huh? Oh, yeah. The Offworld CEO.”

“Yeah, him.” Obi-Wan said, settling on the bed next to him. “You haven’t run into him at all, have you?”

“No.” Bruck said, his focus still on booting up the series on the holoscreen. “Not really. I mean, I’ve seen him around, but we haven’t talked or anything, not really.”

Obi-Wan stiffened, then forced himself to relax, opening up the packet of chips that Bruck offered him. “What do you mean, not really? Did you guys talk?”

“He introduced himself.” Bruck admitted absent mindedly. “But we didn’t really talk or anything. He saw my lightsaber, I think. Is he really a Jedi?”

“Ex-Jedi.” Obi-Wan corrected, chewing on a chip. “Master Jinn said to stay away from him. Something about him about to be expelled from the Order before he left or something.”

“Woah, that’s crazy.” Bruck leaned back, piling up pillows behind his body and the wall, “wonder what he could have did.”

“Something bad, if he was going to be expelled.”

“What, like we were?”

Obi-Wan looked at the other boy sharply. “No, not like us. We weren’t expelled, Bruck. We were reassigned.”

“You mean kicked out before we could fail out.”

“It’s not the same at all.”

“Kriff, Obi-Wan!” Bruck groaned. “Can’t we just watch the show, please? Seriously, why are you making such a big deal out of this?”

“Because Master Jinn told us to stay away from him.”

“Well, if Master Jinn said so.” Bruck said mockingly. “Seriously, Obi-Wan, you’re a piece of work.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Don’t pretend, it’s not like I haven’t seen you visiting with him. What, hoping he’s going to change his mind?”

Obi-Wan stared at the other boy. He had assumed that Qui-Gon had been contacting Bruck too, but apparently not. “No, of course not. Master Jinn has made his thoughts on taking another Padawan abundantly clear to me before we left the Temple.”

“Sure, whatever you say.”

“Bruck, honestly, I’m not trying to become his padawan.”

“I wouldn’t care if you were.” Bruck said stubbornly, expression mulish. “But I think you’re making an ass out of yourself. And honestly? It seems desperate.”

Obi-Wan opened his mouth and then shut it, puzzled by the hostility. “Bruck…”

“Just drop it, Obi-Wan.” Bruck snapped shortly. “Are you going to watch this or not?”

“I…yeah. Let’s watch it.” Obi-Wan said slowly, leaning back against the wall. “I’m sorry if I upset you. I just…want you to be careful.”

Bruck let out an aggrieved sound. “Despite what you think of me, I am not totally incapable or a child. I received the exact same training as you if you bothered to remember. I don’t need you holding my hand.”

“No, that’s not what I–”

Bruck stood abruptly, stalking towards the door. “I’m going for a walk.”

“Bruck, this your room, I’ll just–” But Bruck was already gone. “…leave.”

Well.

That went well.

---

Qui-Gon was frustrated. The negotiations were frustrating to begin with but having to deal with Xanatos and his barely hidden barbs made them even more so. It was more exhausting then he would have thought it could be. Seeing the face he’d once loved so dearly daily was…trying. Xanatos was just as clever as he had been as boy, if not more so. Age had only sharpened his wit to a fine edge and the verbal sparring kept Qui-Gon on his toes. As far as he could tell, he hadn’t approached Obi-Wan or Bruck, but he felt that it was a matter of ‘when’ and not ‘if.’ He still wasn’t clear what Xanatos’ game was, but he knew there was one.

Qui-Gon just had to make sure he was one step ahead. At the moment, his former padawan had kept things professional save for the occasion verbal jab and had taken Qui-Gon aside the first day to assure him that their ‘shared past’ would not interfere with what was best for Bandomeer. He hadn’t heard from Rael again, nor had Qui-Gon contacted him. The threat his brother-padawan had given was too fresh and Qui-Gon, frankly, was too angry about it.

It was well past lastmeal and into the later hours when Qui-Gon had decided to go for a long walk to clear his mind. He was letting his emotions get the best of him, he knew, and he needed his head on straight. Rael hadn’t been wrong about Xanatos’ love of riling him up and it was important that Qui-Gon keep calm and level. He went for a long walk around the fields, letting the Living Force that pulsed there rejuvenate him, and was on the return to the base when he caught sight of Obi-Wan sitting on a small hill.

Qui-Gon changed his path almost without thought, climbing up to join the boy. He was sitting in repose, eyes close in meditation. He sat next to the boy, folding his hands in his sleeves as he stared out over Bandomeer’s dry landscape. After a moment Obi-Wan pulled back, head tilting to the side in greeting. “Good evening, Master Jinn.”

“Good evening, Obi-Wan. Could you not sleep?”

Obi-Wan gave him a crooked grin. “Insomnia and I are good friends, unfortunately.”

“Have you always struggled with sleep?”

“Not so much.” He said quietly, turning to stare up at the starry sky. “Though I’ve always been a night owl. It’s probably puberty, that’s what Master Kant always used to say. Hormones are apparently the answer to most of life’s mysteries.”

“Or stress.” Qui-Gon offered gently.

The boy nodded good naturedly. “Or stress.”

“Are you adjusting well? There haven’t been any issues?”

Obi-Wan side eyed him. “If you mean the chairman, no. He’s kept his distance and I have done the same.”

“Good. Please continue to do so.”

Silence fell between them. After a moment Obi-Wan shifted, frowning. “Forgive me if this is out of line, but what is your relationship with Chairman du Crion?”

“What makes you think there is one?” The incredulous side eye Obi-Wan gave him was far too adult for such a tender faced thirteen-year-old and Qui-Gon sighed, recognizing the silent admonishment for what it was. “…Xanatos was once my padawan.”

Obi-Wan said nothing, head cocking minutely to the side to show he’d heard him.

“He…” Qui-Gon paused, the pain in his heart twisting like a knife. Qui-Gon stared down at his hands, fingers interwoven tightly. “…when he turned twenty, I thought him ready to take his Knight Trials. Shortly after I nominated him, we were sent alongside another Master-Padawan team to Xanatos’ homeworld, Telos. There was a brutal civil war brewing, one that unbeknownst to anyone had been engineered by Xanatos’ father.

I see now that it was a test; one constructed by my Grandmaster and Master – they saw what I could not; it was one that Xanatos failed. Governor du Crion had regretted sending Xanatos to the Jedi, he offered him riches, power…” Qui-Gon had been weary, but so confident that Xanatos would see the trap being laid. But he had not. “Xanatos sided with his father publicly. We were immediately recalled to the Temple, but Xanatos had disappeared with his father and the padawan who had accompanied us. They intended to use them as a hostage. Their master and I pursued them. In the resulting battle, Governor du Crion was killed.”

“And he blamed you?” Obi-Wan asked, voice quiet.

“Yes.” Qui-Gon had been the cause of Crion’s death, if only inadvertently. Qui-Gon had attempted to save him, but he’d been too late.

“And he fell.”

“Yes.”

Obi-Wan was quiet for a long moment, staring straight ahead, hands folded neatly in his lap. If he was conflicted or scared by Qui-Gon’s story, he did not show it. “Thank you for telling me, Master Jinn. That couldn’t have been an easy story to share.”

Qui-Gon was caught flatfooted. He expected…he wasn’t sure what he expected, questions most likely. Maybe a demand for action against the Dark Jedi among them, a request to alert the Council. Something other than simple, calm acceptance. “You see now why I wish you to stay away from him?”

Obi-Wan let out a soft hum of agreement. “I do. I am sorry, Master Jinn.”

“Sorry?” Qui-Gon blinked, thrown for the second time in as many moments. “Whatever for?”

The boy turned to look at him, his normally blue eyes almost grey in the dim light. “For your loss.”

Qui-Gon stared. Obi-Wan held his eyes for a long moment, his gaze heavy with a weight that Qui-Gon did not understand. The older Jedi swallowed past a suddenly tight throat, eyes dropping to stare at his hands once more. “Thank you, Obi-Wan.”

A small hand appeared in his line of vision, lying atop his own, as if in comfort. But just as quickly the touch had come, it was gone, and Obi-Wan had returned to his meditation pose, eyes sliding shut. Qui-Gon stared at him for a long moment before following the boy into meditation. He slept so rarely since Xanatos’ arrival, Qui-Gon reasoned, he could afford to watch over Obi-Wan for a while longer.

---

Bruck and Obi-Wan had taken to getting up early and training in the morning. It was a new thing and something that Obi-Wan had suggested to try and help mend the gap that had been growing between them. Going through katas together seemed as good a way as any, as Obi-Wan remembered that saber work had always been a favorite past time of Bruck’s. They’d gotten permission from Skip to use one of the empty planting areas, as long as they didn’t destroy it too much. It seemed to be working; Bruck appeared more lighthearted then he had in days, but on the third day of this practice, Xanatos showed up. They were working through their stretches when the man appeared, dressed down in a pair of exercise pants and a tunic.

“Hello!” Xanatos greeted, waving cheerfully. “I noticed you two yesterday morning, I hope you don’t mind, but I was hoping to join in? It’s been a long time since I’ve had the pleasure of practicing katas with others.”

Obi-Wan watched the other man, a rejection already formulated when Bruck shrugged. “Sure, if you want.”

Obi-Wan’s head snapped to glare at the other boy. “Bruck.”

“Obi-Wan!” Bruck hissed right back, rolling his eyes. “Look,” he said, just as quietly, “he just wants to work out with us. It’ll be fine.”

“Master Jinn won’t like it.” Obi-Wan tried, but it was the wrong thing to say if the dark look that took Bruck’s face was any indication.

“Well, don’t tell him then.”

Obi-Wan fought down a swell of irritation, but he could tell by the stubborn set of Bruck’s jaw there was no way to exit this well. He could leave, but he doubted Bruck would come, and there was no way he was leaving him alone with Xanatos. They went through the starting set of Ataru as a trio, Obi-Wan’s moves on autopilot. It was clear that Bruck was jealous of Obi-Wan’s apparent favoritism with Qui-Gon and though it wasn’t anything like what the other boy was imagining, Obi-Wan knew there was nothing he could say to dissuade Bruck of his misconceptions. Qui-Gon’s attention was earned only through his concern of Xanatos, not out of any real bond with Obi-Wan, but he knew this didn’t appear that way to Bruck. It was would be laughable if the timing wasn’t so poor.

Xanatos was free with his praise as they worked – mostly to Bruck, who ate up the attention. Obi-Wan was careful to perform incorrectly, if only to get the Dark Jedi’s attention off the other boy. At the end of the session, Xanatos offered to show them Juyo.

“Not today, obviously.” Xanatos explained, “we’ve both got work. But tomorrow, maybe? Only if you two would like.”

“Thank you, but no.” Obi-Wan cut in before Bruck could answer. “I’m afraid tomorrow Bruck and I are busy. Our shift will be starting early for the next few cycles.”

“I understand.” Xanatos accepted easily. “Ah, but you both have my number, correct? So please feel to reach out to me if you change your mind. I’m usually free in the evenings as well, after the fourteenth hour.”

“Thank you.” Obi-Wan said, bowing. “We really need to go, though, we’re going to be late. Have a nice morning, sir.”

Then his hand shot out, dragging Bruck behind him as he pulled them away from the training area. Bruck shook him off almost immediately.

“What is wrong with you?” Bruck asked angrily.

“Me?” Obi-Wan said, turning, “I thought we agreed to stay away from him?”

“You agreed.” Bruck said mulishly. “He doesn’t seem that bad to me. It’s not like I’m agreeing to live with him or anything, he just was offering some extra lessons. It’s not like I’m going to get them from anywhere else.”

“And what, Bruck?” Obi-Wan asked exasperatedly, “you think I am?”

“Maybe.”

“Bruck, Qui-Gon isn’t teaching me anything.”

“Oh, so it’s Qui-Gon now, is it?”

Obi-Wan closed his eyes, taking a deep breath. “Bruck, I know that you’re frustrated with me right now. But nothing is going on with Master Jinn and I. He’s not going to offer me an apprenticeship, nor is he teaching me anything that he hasn’t taught you. His only concern is that we’re keeping away from Xanatos. That’s it.”

“Sure, Obi-Wan. Whatever you say.”

“Bruck–”

“I saw you last night. Sitting with him up on the hill.”

“And? Again, he only stopped by to make sure we were keeping away from Xanatos.” Obi-Wan ran a hand across his eyes, blinking the dust from them. “Look, I’m just trying to keep us both safe.”

“I don’t need protecting!” Bruck said, words quiet but voice strained. “I really don’t. How many times do I have to tell you to cut it out, alright? And this whole thing! You act like I’m sneaking out to spend time with him or something. Which, by the way, is impossible because you have been stuck to my side like glue lately! It’s like I’ve done something wrong.”

“Of course you haven’t done anything wrong Bruck.” Obi-Wan tried to assure, but Bruck wasn’t having it.

“Can you just trust me to make my own decisions?” He demanded. “You act like you know so much better than me, Obi-Wan, but we both got kicked out of the Knight program. You’ve been telling me this whole time to just go with the flow and accept that we’re going to be farmers for the rest of our lives, and yet here you are – trying to snag Master Jinn all over again!”

“Bruck…that’s…I’m not…”

“Whatever, Obi-Wan. I’ll see you in the fields.”

Obi-Wan watched him go, frustrated, but he didn’t follow. It was best to give Bruck some space. He hadn’t realized that he had been smothering the boy, nor that Qui-Gon’s added attention had been causing this much hurt. It was more than just jealousy or insecurity, Bruck clearly felt betrayed.

If only Bruck knew that it was Qui-Gon’s own obsession with his former Padawan that had brought about this attention. But there was nothing Obi-Wan could really say that would make him believe it. No, it was best to just keep his distance for a bit.

---

Bruck was late.

Bruck was very late.

From where he stood on the road that lead from the mess back to the fields, Obi-Wan paced worriedly. It wasn’t like Bruck to be late. But then, it wasn’t like Bruck to miss lunch either. And he had done both. He glanced at his chrono, brows furrowing when he saw it nearly half passed when they were supposed to report back to Skip. This is nothing good, Obi-Wan thought darkly. He shook his head, reaching out with the Force to try and find the errant boy. He felt his eyes narrow when he felt an echo of his presence, far off in the western fields – there was no reason for Bruck to be that far out. Obi-Wan turned on his heel, walking quickly towards the boy. Then he was jogging, then sprinting.

He ignored the startled look of the workers as he flew past. This had something to do with Xanatos, Obi-Wan knew it did. He cursed himself as he ran; he should have stayed closer to Bruck, should have tried talking to him again. He knew that Bruck was falling into Xanatos’ hands. If anything happened to him, Obi-Wan would never forgive himself. He skidded to a halt as he burst into one of the older orchards. Bruck was standing next to Xanatos, nervous and unsure. When Obi-Wan appeared, the boy paled rapidly, looking guilty. Next to him, Xanatos only smiled.

“Hello, Obi-Wan.” The man greeted. “Can I help you?”

“Bruck.” Obi-Wan said sharply, “we’re late for our shift. Come on, let’s go.”

Bruck shifted, glancing between Obi-Wan an Xanatos. He bit his bottom lip, hands ringing the gloves he was holding. “I’m…not…uh, going back, Obi-Wan.”

“What?” That came out harsher than he meant it too and he winced when Bruck shifted further away from him.

“Xanatos, he’s offered me a job.” Bruck said quickly. “Well, both us, really. You should think about it. Just…listen to him, please?”

“Whatever he’s told you are lies.” Obi-Wan said, careful to keep his voice level. “Bruck, Master Jinn told us to stay away from him.”

Bruck winced, rubbing at his neck. “I know, but some of what he says makes sense. Look, please just listen? I’m going to go anyway, but…” The boy swallowed. “You should come to. I’d like you to.”

“Obi-Wan,” Xanatos entreated, voice kind, “I don’t know what Qui-Gon has told you about me, but I don’t mean either of you harm. I just want to help you; neither one of you deserve how you’ve been treated.”

Obi-Wan stared at him, hand twitching by his side. He ignored the impulse to grab his lightsaber or to Force yank Bruck away from the man’s side. “I don’t really think that’s for you to decide.”

“But don’t you see? I’ve been you; I’ve been right where you are now.” He pushed gently. “I, too, was cast out without a second thought, abandoned by the very people who swore to safeguard me. Qui-Gon can’t understand what that feels like. All I want to do is help.”

“He wants to take us with him.” Bruck added, hope in every word. “He said he could keep training us if we wanted. And if you don’t want that, he could help us in other ways.”

“I can.” Xanatos agreed with a nod. “I have the resources to help you have a real life, Obi-Wan. If you want to go to school, I can arrange that. I’d be more than happy to give you a higher-paying job in Offworld – one with real possibilities to it. And – if you want – I can help you continue your Force training.”

“And what would that cost us?” Obi-Wan asked. “Did you ask, Bruck? You said yourself that no one just helps without wanting something.”

“You did.” Bruck pointed out, sounding frustrated. “You helped me without expecting something.”

“That’s different.” Obi-Wan said, carefully circling closer to the other boy. “You’ve known me my whole life, Bruck, you know I don’t want to hurt you.”

“What on earth makes you think I want to hurt you?” Xanatos asked, sounding exasperated and shocked. “What has Qui-Gon been telling you?”

“That you’re dangerous.” Bruck stiffened somewhat, looking uncomfortable. Obi-Wan carried on, moving until he was standing right next to the white-haired boy. “That you would have been expelled from the Order if you had stayed. He said you were a liar and manipulative.” He reached out, fisting Bruck’s sleeve. “Bruck, come on. Let’s go back.”

Bruck tore himself free, expression irritated. “Stop doing that!”

“What?”

“You always do that,” the other boy continued hotly, “you always act like you know what’s best for me, but you don’t, alright? Maybe you’re happy to stay here and pretend to be a farmer. Or maybe you think that Master Jinn’s gonna take you on if you just play the part of a good boy, but I don’t want that, okay? I don’t want to rot away on this planet!”

“Bruck–”

“Is that what you think, Obi-Wan?” Xanatos interrupted, voice smooth and gentle. “That Qui-Gon is going to make you his Padawan?”

“No.” Obi-Wan said stiffly, glaring at the man. “That’s not it. I don’t trust you.”

“I’m sure you don’t.” The ravenette said bitterly. He looked away from the pair, his face the picture of vulnerability. “I can only imagine what Qui-Gon’s told you about me. But I wonder, has he told either of you the truth? Has he told you that he was my Master?”

“What?” Bruck exclaimed, looking stunned.

“He was.” Xanatos said with a harsh laugh. “And he betrayed me. He’ll betray you too, Obi-Wan. A colder man, I've never met. When I needed him the most, he turned his back on me. He was a father to me,” Xanatos breathed, “and he threw me away like so much trash in the end. Tell me, honestly, did he not do the same to you, Obi-Wan? Did the Jedi not to you both?”

“I know why I’m here.” Obi-Wan said coolly, “as does Bruck.”

“Which is why I want to go with him.” Bruck said quietly. “No Master is going to look at me after what I did. But Xanatos, he said he’d be my Master – he could be yours too, Obi-Wan. Don’t you see? This is our chance!”

“We’re done with this conversation.” Obi-Wan said abruptly, hand curling iron-tight around Bruck’s arm. “I’m not going to let you do this, Bruck. You’re coming back with me.”

The sharp prickle of warning came too late and Obi-Wan froze, the ruby of Xanatos’ blade bright even in the day light as it came to rest across Bruck’s throat. Bruck stilled, eyes wide and skin paper white, the lightsaber close enough to his chin that it was turning the skin red. 

“What are you doing?” The boy breathed. “What – What are you–?”

Xanatos chuckled. “I’m afraid you’ll be coming with me whether you want to or not, Obi-Wan. You’re far too important a player.”

Men were coming from the trees, Offworld security by their uniforms, and Obi-Wan let out a breath of annoyance as he eyed them. He could escape easily enough, but he would never forgive himself for leaving Bruck behind. “Let him go, Xanatos.”

“No can do.” The man said cheerfully, nodding towards one of the guards. “I’ve got plans for you both.”

“Obi-Wan,” Bruck croaked out, voice horrified. “I’m so sorry.”

“It’s okay, Bruck.” Obi-Wan comforted, even as frustration burned hotly in his chest. He felt the cold of an injector against his neck but kept his eyes on the other boy. “It’s okay, you’re going to be okay.”

Bruck looked close to tears, hands shaking by his side. The injector depressed, the needle a flair of pain he barely registered before darkness descended.

---

Qui-Gon felt his approach before the ship landed, stiffening somewhat from where he was discussing Offworld’s most recent terms with Chairman Ruthland. Xanatos’ addition to the negotiations had only made it even more unbalanced in Offworld’s favor, his former Padawan just as ruthless a negotiator as he had been during their time together. Qui-Gon felt irritation blossom hot in his chest as he made his excuses and left, striding towards the space port.

He arrived just as the small shuttle landed. He crossed his arms, frowning thunderously as he watched Rael run through the landing checklist. While he had heard nothing from the Council to infer that the Ringo Vindan native had followed through on his threats, his presence here was unwelcomed. Qui-Gon had this under control. He didn’t need to be babysat. His brother-padawan opened his ramp, wincing as he stepped out and into the bright afternoon light. He met him before he could fully exit the ramp.

“What are you doing here?” He demanded; voice sharp.

Rael gave him an unimpressed look. “I’m here because you’re an idiot.”

“Rael–”

The shorter man held up a hand. “You made me do this, Qui-Gon, just remember that.”

“What are you talking about?” Qui-Gon asked, eyes narrowing. He felt his mouth go limp in shock when he felt two more signatures approach, gaze snapping to sky when he saw another small landing craft enter the atmosphere above the space port. “What did you do?”

“What had to be done.” Rael said, voice stubborn. “I’m not going to apologize, Qui-Gon. Someone needs to save you from yourself.”

“You contacted the Temple.” Qui-Gon breathed in shocked betrayal.

“You’re damn straight I did.” The greying ravenette said sharply. “You’re so out of your depth here you don’t even realize it. I’m here to escort you back to the Temple.”

“Escort?” Qui-Gon asked, seething, “am I prisoner now?”

“If that’s how you want to look at it.” Rael shot back, expression hard. “Get your stuff. We’ll staying just long enough to brief your replacements and then I’m to take you straight back. Master Yoda will be waiting.”

“You–”

“Don’t make the mistake of thinking this optional, kid.” Rael interrupted. “This is an order straight from the Council.”

“I will not–”

“You will.” Rael cut in again. “And be grateful it was me and not Yan – who is more than willing to come and fetch your sorry ass if he needs to.”

“I am knee deep in negotiations,” Qui-Gon argued, unable to keep the anger from his voice, “changing appointees now will only further complicate things. It could set them back weeks.”

“Don’t pretend this has anything to do with mining rights.” His brother-padawan admonished. “This is about whatever grudge match you have going on between you and Xanatos. And I will not let you kriff up your life like this, Qui-Gon, I’ve been quiet about this for too long. You’re going home and you’re going to work through this. You’re grounded until you do.”

“This is about me not taking a Padawan.” Qui-Gon accused, voice rising despite himself.

Rael threw both his hands up in frustration. “That’s right, Qui-Gon, this is a giant conspiracy about how you refuse to take a student. It has nothing to do with anyone being concerned for you. We’re all out to get you, you’re absolutely right.”

“I have this under control.”

“Bullshit. You haven’t been in control for four years and don’t pretend you have. You want to be angry at me? Then be angry, but I refuse to sit by and watch you sabotage yourself. You need to deal with this – actually deal with it. Because you haven’t, no matter what you tell yourself. You can’t keep holding on, you have to let him go.”

Qui-Gon had quite a bit to say about that, but his objections stalled when the doors to the newly landed ship’s bay opened and two familiar Jedi entered. Jedi Master Washet looked much as he did the last time Qui-Gon had seen him, though the Bothan Master was far more serious than before. 

“Master Jinn, Master Averross.” He greeted, eyes narrowing as he took in their tense forms. “Am I interrupting?”

“Yes.” Qui-Gon snapped, just at the same moment Rael said “no.”

The two glared at each other.

“Qui-Gon was just voicing his concerns at relinquishing the mission.” Rael explained smoothly.

Washet gave a low bow. “Rest assured, Master Jinn. I have been fully updated on not only the trade negotiations, but the situation with your former apprentice. Please be confident that I am prepared to take over. Though we haven’t worked together in the past, both Darred and I are highly trained in trade negotiations.”

Qui-Gon grit his teeth but managed to swallow back his irritation. “I apologize that you’ve been called to step in, Master Washet. I know you were on an important mission of your own.”

“That mission can wait.” Washet said evenly. “This one is more important.”

“While I appreciate that, my former padawan is a difficult man to deal with.”

“Master Washet and his padawan work under Council of First Knowledge.” Rael offered, tone deceptively mild. Qui-Gon stiffened, eyes darting up from where he was glaring at the ground to the pair. Washet gave him a slow nod, one that was echoed by his Padawan.

The Council of First Knowledge; the two were Jedi Shadows. Qui-Gon let out a harsh breath, his shoulders sinking in defeat. Their reassignment to the mission suddenly made more than enough sense – and Qui-Gon had lost his last bargaining chip. Though few in number now that the Sith threat was non-existent, Jedi Shadows were trained to handle the darker elements of Jedi life. A twin sect to the Temple Guards, highly trained in combat and diplomacy, they worked as spies and, when necessary, Jedi enforcers. If he was forced to choose someone else to deal with Xanatos, a pair of Shadows would be it.

“I see.” Qui-Gon let out a sigh. “Then please, come to my quarters. I will ensure you have my latest notes. I can arrange for lunch as well if–”

All four Jedi’s attention snapped to the docking bay’s doorway just seconds before it hissed opened. A haggard looking farm hand stood there, his shemagh pulled loose around his neck and his eyes wild.

“Master Jinn!” The man froze, taking in the group staring at him. “Uh…”

“What’s wrong?” Qui-Gon asked, stepping towards the frazzled man.

“It’s the boys!” The man said quickly, hands wringing together, and Qui-Gon felt the bottom of his stomach drop out. “Obi-Wan and Bruck – I don’t know what happened. I let them go for lunch and they never showed back up. That was three hours ago! I’ve got all the crews searching for them, but it’s like they’ve just disappeared!”

Notes:

Hope you liked it! Thanks for all the views, comments, and kudos! The next chapter should hopefully be up today or tomorrow. Day after at the latest. The big difference here is that last time Obi-Wan wasn't acting super weird and Qui-Gon hadn't felt the urge to tell Rael about it on the call, which meant that Rael didn't plant the seed for Qui-Gon to call him if things got any weirder. And Rael, being an adult who actually worked on his trauma (of course, thorough basically adopting another child, which is not the healthiest way to do so) is so not about to let Qui-Gon fuck himself over by being an idiot.

Stay safe, guys, the world's a crazy place. Social distance, wear your mask, bathe in purell.

Chapter 12: Bandomeer, Part 5

Notes:

I more nervous about this chapter than anything I have written in a long time. Let me know how it goes.

Look guys! The lovely Did_you_see_the_light_in_my_heart made this wonderful fanart of Obi-Wan and Bruck! I'm so honored, go check it out! 

The security office was cramped with four Jedi, six security officials, and the farm hand – Obi-Wan and Bruck’s field manager – Skip. The man had doggedly refused to be dismissed, eyes blazing when he’d snapped that both boys had been his responsibility and he wasn’t going anywhere. Rael approved. Qui-Gon stood like a dark storm over the lead technician’s shoulder, his entire expression tight and livid. The poor technician was stiff and terrified, but Rael knew better than to try and redirect his brother-padawan at the moment. As they watched, a dozen Offworld guards carried the unmoving and worryingly still forms of Obi-Wan Kenobi and Bruck Chun onto a shuttle. Boldly and without fear, Xanatos du Crion stepped into view as the shuttle’s door slid shut, turning to wink at the camera.

The sharp fear, frustration, and anger that was Qui-Gon’s force signature ratcheted even higher. Rael reached out, hand digging into his friend’s shoulder as a chiding reminder and instantly the presence retreated, pulled tight behind layers of shielding.

“He’s taken them because of me.” Qui-Gon’s voice was flat in a way that Rael had never heard before. “If anything happens to them…”

Rael tightened his grip, pushing affection and support at him. “We won’t let it. Tell me, does anyone know where they could be going?”

“The deep mines.” Skip offered. “It has to be, that shuttle isn’t prepped for leaving atmo.” The man swallowed hard, visibly shaken, “Offworld owns them. The deep-sea mines, I mean. It’s where they send people to disappear. The death rates are…high.”

“It’s a solid lead.” Master Washet said, his voice calm and belaying nothing of the hard edge to the Bothan’s face. “Please make a copy of that vid and send it to the Jedi Temple, sir. Master Jinn, Master Averross, if you two will please go and find the boys. We will handle du Crion.”

Predictably, this did not go over well with Qui-Gon. His friend swirled to face them, expression wrought with disbelief and objection, but Rael was stepping smoothly into Qui-Gon’s space before he could voice any of them. “Qui-Gon. Leave Xanatos to Master Washet.”

“Rael–”

“They’re Shadows, Qui, this is what they do. Let them do their job.” Qui-Gon stubbornly shook his head, grey eyes bright and angry. “No, listen.” Rael pressed. “You going to Xanatos is exactly what he wants and you know it. There is no reason to spring the trap and if you would take a moment to stop and breathe, you’d know it too.”

Qui-Gon stared at him, mouth a tight line, for a long moment. “He’s my responsibility.”

“This is attachment and you know it. And when is attachment dangerous? When it supersedes the Will of the Force or the mission.”

“Don’t talk down to me like I’m a youngling, Rael.”

“Then don’t act like one.” He shot back, annoyed with Qui-Gon’s stubbornness and willing to let it show. “You can’t allow your own personal feelings with Xanatos interfere with the mission. Which – in case you had any doubts – is no longer your own. Master Washet is lead now. Is your grudge with Xanatos really more important than those two boys’ lives?”

Qui-Gon’s attention snapped back to him and Rael felt some of his own tension drain when he felt the switch in his brother-padawan, the anger flowing away to be replaced with sharp determination. “You know it’s not.”

“Good. Then let’s go get them back.”

---

Obi-Wan awoke in a dark room. He was lying flat on his back, cold metal sapping the warmth from his stiff body. He grimaced at the cottony feel of his mouth, dry tongue licking at his mouth to try and moisten his chapped lips despite the fact he had none to spare.

“Obi-Wan.” A quiet voice called out. Obi-Wan’s head craned off the floor, locking onto Bruck. The boy sat by his side, arms wrapped around his knees, eyes red, and a fresh bruise blooming across his temple. Around his neck was a slave collar; Obi-Wan could feel it’s twin wrapped tightly around his own. He looked very small. “They took our lightsabers.”

Doggedly, Obi-Wan fought the lingering feeling of lead in his limbs from the sedative and pushed himself up. “Bruck,” he managed hoarsely, “are you alright? What happened to your head?”

If possible, Bruck seemed to shrink into himself even further. “I’m sorry, I should have listened to you.”

Obi-Wan shook his head, trying to relieve some of the fogginess that clouded it. Jedi as a rule filtered out sedatives faster than most, but Xanatos would have known about that resistance when he ordered the dosage. There were no windows in the room they were being held, only dim lights anchored to the bare metal walls. Rows of bunks six high lined the walls on each side, another row carving a neat line down the middle, and the stench of unwashed beings and gas was so strong it made his eyes water.

The deep-sea mines then. Again.

“Yes, you should of.” Obi-Wan said bluntly, ignoring the boy’s wince, “but it’s doesn’t matter now. What’s done is done. We’ll find a way out of here regardless, I promise.”

“Oh yeah,” a voice said, tone jovial, “there are many ways to escape this place.”

Obi-Wan’s eyes snapped over, feeling a jolt of familiarity as he took in the Phindian before them. Guerra Derida, Obi-Wan recalled, had all but kidnapped him and brought him to his home world in hopes of getting the Jedi involved on the isolationist planet. Obi-Wan had nearly ended up with his memory wiped because of that event, but Phindar had been in rather desperate straits at the time and had ended up freed in the end, so Obi-Wan supposed that it could be all forgiven.

Guerra’s bright smile remained unchanged from where he was watching them from one of the middle bunks, “not so. I lie, you will die.” A long, boney finger pointed to their necks. “That will go boom if you so much as try.”

“Thank you for the advice.” Obi-Wan said dryly.

“Yeah, who asked you?” Bruck agreed angrily, but his expression was weary as his hands came up to feel at the collar around his neck. “Explosives, huh?”

“Slave collars,” Obi-Wan agreed distastefully, “rather common fare for slaver owners. That or chips implanted that also explode.”

Bruck made a face. “That’s cruel.”

Obi-Wan nodded. He reached out, gently taking Bruck’s chin in his hand before tilting to observe the mottled skin. “And what happened here?”

Bruck’s blue eyes took on a glint of satisfaction. “I bit a guard when he tried to tranq me.”

“Careful putting things in your mouth, who knows what you’ll catch.” Obi-Wan teased. “I don’t suppose you can feel the Force?”

“No,” the boy said, shoulder’s slumping, “du Crion told me he was giving us suppressants.”

Always a braggart, Obi-Wan thought sourly. “We’ll just have to hope our current hosts forget or haven’t been informed of their need.”

“Does that seem likely to you?” Bruck asked, a single eyebrow raised in derision.

“Sadly not.” Obi-Wan agreed, pushing himself slowly to his feet. To his satisfaction, he only wobbled for a moment, but Bruck’s hand flew out to stabilize him regardless. “Come on, let’s get the lay of the land.”

“I wouldn’t go far,” Guerra warned, “they will remote denote the collars if they see you some place you’re not supposed to be.”

“Ah, I see. And where exactly are we supposed to be?”

The Phindian swung down from the bunk, the lengthy and lean arms of his kind making the move more graceful than it had any right to be. “Come on, ol’Guerra – that’s me! – will show you. Wouldn’t want you to go boom your first day–”

“That’s kind of you.” Bruck started, but Guerra continued.

 “ – we need the manpower.” He gave them a playful wink, “never enough bodies around, ya know? You might say we have a high turnover rate.”

“Why is he so cheerful?” Bruck muttered, disgruntled as he followed sullenly behind the long-armed being.

“Cultural quirk of the language I think.” Obi-Wan offered, eyeing their surroundings. He had some memories of this time, but everything from his arrival to escape was somewhat of a blur. He knew that the miners were treated inhumanely, often sent down to the mines with only just enough air to complete their shift – and as a result, many suffocated before they could return to the surface.

He remembered being hungry constantly, and afraid, and thirsty, as they had to earn ‘chits’ through hitting absurdly high productivity guidelines to be able to afford anything but the most basic and slim rations. Obi-Wan had eaten very little during this time, his own arrogance and eagerness to leave keeping him from being willing to play along and bide his time. Obi-Wan knew better now, though he wondered if Bruck and himself would physically be able to keep up with the demands at their current age. Still, it had only taken Qui-Gon a day and a half to find him the first time. He could only hope that would hold true now as well.

Guerra showed them around the dirty barracks before leading them down a hall to an equally dirty set of communal bathrooms, then further down to a barren and unfriendly looking mess. A pair of beaten up droids manned the serving lines against the far wall, scanning the waiting miners’ collars before scooping out food in various amounts. Guerra explained there was a hierarchy to who got to sit at the tables and that it was best if they just sit on the floor. No one spared them any attention as they entered, bowed low and hunched protectively over their food. The fittest miners were sitting at the tables, while the majority were massed in small groups on the floor. Guerra dismissed them to go join the line and when Bruck hesitantly asked if they were able to get food too, laughed in their faces before wandering off.

“What a jerk.” Bruck grumbled, glaring at the floor. Obi-Wan patted his shoulder with a frown. Looks like they’d be going without a meal until the next shift. He didn’t like it, but there wasn’t much he could do about it.

“Come on, let’s get out of the way. Don’t want to make a target of ourselves just standing here.” Obi-Wan advised, making his way into the mess and towards a less populated stretch of wall. He leaned against it, crossing his arms as he observed the room. Bruck settled by his feet, dropping into an ungraceful sit, face datk.

Obi-Wan knew that the anger the boy had was self-directed and he mused over how to address it. Bruck had played right into Xanatos’ hands, but Obi-Wan could hardly fault him for it. Xanatos was far more experienced and Bruck was at an extremely vulnerable time in his life. Xanatos had played all of Bruck’s hopes and fears expertly, giving the boy just enough to reignite his fading dreams. And it wasn’t like Obi-Wan hadn’t done his own part. He rubbed at his eyes with a sigh. He didn’t mean to shadow or smother the boy so, but it was hard to ignore the fact that Bruck had only just turned thirteen. Obi-Wan was – in his mind at least – thirty-eight, and he had no idea how to not be. He sensed that any words he could offer right now wouldn’t be welcomed, so he settled for resting his hand on Bruck’s shoulder. A reminder – hopefully – that he was not alone.

---

Night was falling and there was still no sign of Qui-Gon. Obi-Wan wasn’t alarmed; again, it had a taken time for the Jedi Master to track him down last time. Still, spending the night in the place was clearly daunting for Bruck. They’d been given a bunk to share since they were both deemed ‘too scrawny’ to last long enough to need ones of their own. Guerra had shadowed them all night, giving them the run down in how the twelve hour long shifts worked, what the job required, how to act when the morning bell rang – and the various and varied ways there was to die down in the mines. Obi-Wan appreciated the information, but the deadliness of the situation had clearly rattled Bruck. 

The bunk they’d been given was second up from the ground, narrow and immensely uncomfortable. There wasn’t a mattress or pillow, nor a blanket, even though Obi-Wan could see that other bunks had such things. He had no doubt they’d been stolen the moment whoever had occupied their current bunk had perished, if not sooner even than that. As predicted, the two boys had been singled out before lights out and injected roughly in the neck, hard enough that Obi-Wan could still feel the sting. Being under the suppressants was a strange experience. Though it affected none of his physical or mental abilities, Obi-Wan still felt muted, off balance. The Force had so long been with him, like an extra sense, that functioning without it made him feel as clumsy and bulky as a youngling taking their first steps.

Their agricultural jumpsuits did very little to help with the cold that seeped into the mining platform at night, neither Bruck nor Obi-Wan wearing anything underneath them save for underwear and a t-shirt. Perfectly sensible given the heats of the fields, but it made for an uncomfortable night. He stretched out next to Bruck, backs pressed tightly against each other, both drawn to the extra warmth. Though the barracks were in pitch blackness, there were a few spots of lights were miners had dug out portable lamps and voices talked quietly, groups betting away their chits with cards or dice. Bruck was a stiff line against him and Obi-Wan knew he wasn’t asleep, so it was of little surprise to him when the boy shifted.

“Obi-Wan?”

“Yes?”

The boy rolled to face him and Obi-Wan followed suit. “…I really am sorry.”  

“I know you are.” Obi-Wan said evenly. “But that doesn’t change the fact that you blatantly ignored Master Jinn’s warnings. He told you Xanatos was dangerous. I told you Xanatos was dangerous. You made a decision, a bad one, and these were the consequences. Make no mistake, Bruck, we are in very deep trouble here.” 

"He said he would train me."

"In what, Bruck? In the Dark Side? Is that what you want, to be a Dark Jedi? A Sith?"

"No! I just...I didn't..."

"You didn't want to be a farmer." Obi-Wan said, voice even. "You were frustrated and hurt, and upset, by your situation on Bandomeer - one that you made with your own actions - and instead of trying to talk about it with me or Master Jinn, or even anyone back home, you decided to believe the lies of someone you had been warned was dangerous. We could die here, Bruck. Do you understand?"

The boy’s face crumpled, but Obi-Wan held firm. It was important that he understood what his actions had wrought. He let the silence weigh heavily between them. 

"I...I know." Bruck said finally, voice breaking. He stared at Obi-Wan, almost beseechingly. "I know I keep messing up. I know that - I know that it's me, my decisions. I can't explain it, when he talked it just - it felt..." 

Obi-Wan sighed, relenting somewhat. "Xanatos is a Dark Jedi, Bruck. He's incredibly skilled when it comes to manipulating people. He's tricked far older and smarter people than you." 

Even Obi-Wan, back when he had been thirteen, had been brought to question Qui-Gon through the few short, yet impactful conversations he'd had with Xanatos. The man was, to put it simply, born with a silver tongue. And he wasn't angry with Bruck, not really. He just wanted Bruck to learn from his mistakes, to see what he was doing and stop the cycle of self-destructive selfishness and short sightedness. He knew the boy had it in him, to learn and grow from all this, Obi-Wan just had to find the right way to show it to him, to connect with him. To...teach...

The thought brought him to an abrupt stop, feeling a tendril of alarm blossom, but before he could fully address it, Bruck was erupting into speech. 

“He didn’t trick you.” Bruck said bitterly, jaw flexing and eyes glossy. “You saw right through him from the start.” His voice hitched, “this is all my fault. I should have…” another pained hitched, “…I just…I just wanted…I’m sorry. I was stupid. I wasn't going to leave without you - Xanatos, he just made it all sound so smart, like a good idea. The only good idea. We could go together and see the universe, maybe have a c-career, and - and - and I was jealous. At first, I just wanted so badly to be Master Jinn’s apprentice and – and then when he so interested in you…” Bruck’s words faded off in a muffled sob, “I didn’t want to be alone. I didn't want him to take you away.”

Obi-Wan heart throbbed in his chest, swept in a moment of fondness for the boy so profound it was somewhat shocking. He reached over, yanking the other boy into a hug. Bruck clung to him immediately, hands bunching in the back of his uniform, letting out a miserable sob. “I’m not going anywhere, Bruck. You hear me? We’re going to be alright, we’re alive and we’re together.”

“I’m sorry. We’re probably going to die and it’s all my fault.”

“We’re not going to die.” Obi-Wan corrected sharply, a hand sliding up Bruck’s back soothingly, pushing the sweaty tangles of his hair away from his neck. “I know you’re sorry, Bruck, I know. Just…learn something from this, please.”

There was a startled laugh, the boy freeing his face from Obi-Wan’s shoulder enough to grin weakly up at him. “You know, you start to sound more and more like the Ma...sters…”

Bruck’s words faded off, his eyes widening as he stared over Obi-Wan’s shoulder. The brunet stiffened, rolling concisely into a sitting position facing outwards, bodily blocking Bruck from sight. A man stood before them, tall enough that he seemed to loom over them even in their second level bunk. His eyes were a dark brown, dark enough that they seemed like polished coal in the darkness. His skin was tanned and bore a starkly white knife scar across and up his neck and chin, bisecting his lips. His hair was a dirty blond, too light to be brown, too dark to be blond. His jumpsuit hung off his waist, leaving almost aggressively muscled arms – and a rather impressively large stylized mythosaur skull tattoo – exposed.

A Mandalorian? Here? Was there one last time? Obi-Wan didn't think there was, but than again - had he spoken to anyone that hadn't been Guerra last time? His stay had been short, it wasn't like Obi-Wan had attempted any type of socialization. He'd stuck to Guerra because the Phindian had seemed the least scary out of the other miners and the only one even remotely friendly towards Obi-Wan. He winced at the thought; if there was, the man most likely died. After Obi-Wan and Guerra's escape, the mining platform had a few minutes of brief freedom before Offworld had activated every slaves' collar. Guerra and Obi-Wan had only escaped because Qui-Gon had already deactivated theirs. 

Obi-Wan’s eyes flickered from the tattoo to the newly identified Mandalorian’s face, meeting the stare unflinchingly. He wondered idly what he’d done to end up here and where his armor was. To see one without it's helmet on was a rarity outside of the New Mandalorians and by that tattoo, this one was not a New Mandalorian. Mandalorians were as a rule dangerous…but they were also fiercely protective of their young. Obi-Wan cocked his head at that thought, grabbing hold of it and twisting it about, examining it. There's an idea...if he could inspire just an inch of that predilection to protecting children towards himself and Bruck...

[Hello,] Obi-Wan greeted in smoothly accented Mando’a, [can I help you?]

The man’s brows furrowed, his lips twisting down. [You speak Mando’a.]

[I do.]

[How?] The man demanded sharply.

[I’m from Stewjon.] Obi-Wan offered after a moment.

It was a truth; Stewjon was his home world, located in the very edges of Mandalorian space. Technically speaking, the Jedi weren’t supposed to recruit from any Mandalorian planets, but that had never kept a youngling from being taken back to the Temple as long as their parents agreed to it. But while he’d been born there, he’d been taken young enough that all of the language had faded by the time he’d been a padawan. Most of Obi-Wan’s proficiency came from spending a harrowing year on Mandalore for a mission. Learning the language had been an absolute necessity with how xenophobic the people naturally were. It had come easier to Obi-Wan than Qui-Gon, which his former Master was firmly convinced was because Obi-Wan had the basics locked away in his memory.

If possible, his announcement made the man’s face grow even stormier, brows furrowing even deeper. [What’s your clan?]

[My family were famers.] Obi-Wan explained. [We did not have a clan that I can remember. I left them when I was very young. Is there a problem?]

[…you’re in my bunk.]

Obi-Wan blinked. [What? We are? We were told this was ours by Guerra.]

The Mandalorian’s head snapped over to glare at the Phindian, who was watching from the bunk directly across from them with wide, mischievous eyes. He let out a comically loud gasp and ducked back into his bunk, yanking his blanket over his head. [Prick…]

[We can move,] Obi-Wan said with a decisive nod, turning to where Bruck was peering over his shoulder, “come on Bruck, we’re in the wrong bunk.”

“Don’t worry about it.”

Obi-Wan eyed the man. “But it’s your bunk.”

“I said, don’t worry about it.” The Mandalorian snapped sharply, before spinning on his heel. “Derida, get your ass up. That’s my bunk now.” His hand shot out, grabbing the Phindian by the ankle and yanking him bodily out of the bunk before climbing up. Obi-Wan watched it all bemusedly.

“…What in the Force’s name was that?” Bruck asked after a moment, still staring at the Mandalorian’s back with wide eyes. “And what language was that?”

“Mando’a.” Obi-Wan answered as he settled back down, keeping his front to the open space. He’d been startled by how he hadn’t felt the Mandalorian approach. He wouldn’t be caught off guard like that again. “We spoke it on my home world, Stewjon.”

“I've never heard you speak it before."

"Never needed to, there weren't any other younglings that spoke it as far as I could tell."

"Oh." A heartbeat of silence, then; “Wait!” Bruck sat back up abruptly, banging his head on the bunk above them. “Ouch! Stars, ow! But I mean – ow, does that mean that he was a Mandalorian?”

Ah, Obi-Wan thought with a grin, there it was.

---

Bruck wasn’t sure what woke him. He sat up – carefully this time – and glanced wearily out into the darkness. A strange wet sound that he’d never heard before and couldn’t identify came from below them and Bruck stiffened, eyes wide. He carefully set his hand over Obi-Wan’s still form and onto the bunk's bottom, gearing himself up to have the courage to lean over the side and see what had made that noise. But before he could, a lumbering figure stood in the dark. Bruck jerked back, hitting the wall behind him, eyes wide. It was the man from before, the Mandalorian, and he – he had a knife! Bruck's hands flew out, yanking Obi-Wan away from the open space of the bunk and towards his chest.

Obi-Wan was almost immediately awake, going stiff in his arms. “Bruck, what…?”

The question stopped abruptly when his friend took in the sight before them. The Mandalorian wiped the dark substance – blood, Bruck thought, feeling queasy – off his on pants leg, switching sides of the knife at random.

“Go back to sleep, adiik.” The Mandalorian instructed, his voice low and gravelly, sounding amused. Obi-Wan pried himself free from Bruck’s grasping hands, leaving him holding naked air like an idiot for a few moments before he had enough wits to drop his hands uselessly into his lap. Obi-Wan leaned over to look over the bunk side.

“Tion'jor?” Obi-Wan asked after a moment of staring, before leaning back into the bunk.

“Demagolka.” The man grunted, slipping the knife back into his waistband. Then in Basic, “He liked the young ones.”

Bruck paled abruptly at the words, horrified with a sudden knowledge that it was most likely a – or was – a sentient being on the floor. One that had meant to…had wanted to try to…

“Vor entye.” Obi-Wan said quietly.

“Kih'parjai.” The Mandalorian said with a shrug. “Be more aware of yourself, you won’t last long here if you aren’t.”

“Yes,” Obi-Wan agreed, voice wry, “I see that.”

“Thank you.” Bruck said weakly, hands clutched in tight fists in his lap. He knew his eyes were wide – he could feel how wide they were, he probably looked incredibly stupid. But no matter how he tried, he couldn’t seem to wrangle control over himself. He knew the world outside of the Temple was capable of intense cruelty. But…this was…Bruck felt his expression fall, blinking against a wave of shame so strong it made it hard to breathe.

This is all my fault.

Again.

The Mandalorian was staring at him, his expression unreadable, and Bruck fell back onto the bunk, curling away to face the wall in humiliation. He heard Obi-Wan sigh behind him and felt all the more terrible for it. Why couldn’t he be as put together as Obi-Wan always was? It was like nothing ever seemed to touch him. A hand carded through his hair, a gentle stroke that Bruck couldn’t help but relax into. He’d been so stupid. The jealousy seemed so pointless now. Obi-Wan hadn’t been anything but nice to him since they’d left the Temple. He always was trying to look out for Bruck, even if Bruck didn’t like it. Even when Bruck was ungrateful for it. It was just…hard…to admit that Obi-Wan was so much better than him.

He deserved to be a padawan.

He really did, even if it meant leaving him behind.

And Bruck? He didn’t deserve anything, did he? The Temple was right, kicking him out. He was a terrible person. Just…a terrible person.

---

Morning came early – so early that Obi-Wan was half convinced there wasn’t a proper hour to it. The shrieking of klaxons had woken him from the half-sleep he was indulging in – after the possible (probable?) pedophile’s appearance and the Mandalorian’s unexpected rescue, Obi-Wan wasn’t planning on sleeping again until he had the Force fully returned to him. Honestly, he could kick himself for falling asleep in the first place; he wouldn’t leave them so exposed again. So it was feeling every inch of his thirteen-year-old body that Obi-Wan went down into the mines; exhausted from the lack of sleep and hungry from the lack of chits to buy breakfast with. He was almost immediately separated from Bruck. Obi-Wan stiffened as the boy was pulled towards a second group.

“Wait – stop. What are you doing?” He snapped, and the sharp bark of his voice was enough to startle the guard into stillness for a moment.

The guard looked bewildered as he stared at him. “He’s in this group. We need even numbers.”

“Unacceptable.” Obi-Wan said bluntly, alarmed. Bruck had been off ever since last night; even without the Force, Obi-Wan could feel how mired in sadness and misery the boy was. “He comes with me.”

The guard broke into laughter, the electro proud by his side sizzling into life. “Is that so, little mouse? What are you going to do about it?”

Obi-Wan’s eyes narrowed, but before he could speak again, an iron tight hand was on his shoulder. The Mandalorian stood behind him, unmovable. [Pick your fights, little one.]

“I won’t allow–”

“I’ll look after him, ObaWan!” Guerra offered quickly, eyes darting from the guard to Obi-Wan nervously. Despite his flighty nature, the Phindian’s eyes were serious. “I won’t let anything happy to him.”

Worryingly, Bruck said nothing, just stared at his feet. Obi-Wan jaw clenched as he watched him, willing the boy to look up, but it was for naught.

[The Phindian is an idiot, but he’s not a bad sort.]

Obi-Wan let out a long breath. “…fine. Bruck, I’ll see you tonight.”

The boy only nodded mutely. Obi-Wan watched him go, ignoring the guard who knocked him with the butt of his rifle to get him to move. The rifle came out to strike again but wavered just before connecting. Obi-Wan glanced over his shoulder to find the Mandalorian standing there, expression neutral but obviously staring the guard down.  

[Come on.] The Mandalorian said and Obi-Wan obediently turned to follow him into the mines, his mind caught in the defeated slump of Bruck’s shoulders. Anxiety prickled across his shoulders and twisted in his gut. [He’s your brother?]

[In all the ways that matter.] Obi-Wan replied, grunting when a heavy drill was set into his hands, before heading towards the ominously rickety looking elevator. Surely once it must have looked pristine and been in good working order - or at least functional looking - but it was clear that it had been left to its own devices for years, if not decades.

[You’re protective of him.]

Obi-Wan smiled, an edge of self-admonishment to it. [Yes, I suppose I am. He hates it.]

The Mandalorian snorted, settling into the back corner of the lift, leaving Obi-Wan – and Obi-Wan alone – in a strange bubble of space that had formed around him. [Mine was the same way, drove me nuts. What’s your name?]

[Obi-Wan Kenobi. He’s Bruck Chun.] The Mandalorian watched him as the lift began to descend but didn’t finish the introduction. [Not going to give me your name?]

He shrugged. [Haven’t decided if you're worth it yet.]

Obi-Wan opened his mouth, then shut it. He huffed, ignoring the pleased smirk on the man’s face. [Fine. Mando it is.]

Infuriatingly, the Mandalorian just ducked his head in assent.

---

Mining was hard work, harder in some ways than Obi-Wan remembered. He kept close to the Mandalorian and if the man minded it, he didn’t say. It was grueling, back breaking work, and Obi-Wan could see why the death rates were so high before you added in accidents and other hazards. The act of breaking through the rock, carrying it to the loaders for the droids to sort and send up, was incredibly physically demanding work. And given that Obi-Wan had no dinner or breakfast, and most likely would have no lunch, or the fact that the oxygen unit he was given clearly needed a clean up, adjustment, and new filters, and was set out to give the bare minium of oxygen to keep Obi-Wan able to work, it was incredibly draining.

It was clear to Obi-Wan that if they were going to escape on their own, it was going to have to be soon. This work was too demanding to keep up. Between the exhaustion that came from the mining and the strange, pseudo one that came from the Force suppressants, they wouldn’t have the strength to do it soon. When he caught sight of Bruck in the barracks, Obi-Wan’s resolved only hardened. The boy was so dirty it was hard to tell he was naturally a blond, his shoulders slumped in defeat and with a distinct limp to his gait. Bruck tried to hide it, but Obi-Wan could see how much pain he was in. Bruck has simply shrugged when Obi-Wan asked about it, much to the brunet’s frustration.

Obi-Wan spent their small and terribly quiet dinner trying to remember how he escaped last time. Guerra had aided him and though the Phindian had betrayed him to the guards when he’d been caught, he’d redeemed himself by placing a net so Obi-Wan could catch himself after he'd been thrown overboard as punishment. Afterwards, Qui-Gon had arrived. If the Jedi Master didn’t make an appearance by tonight, Obi-Wan would move on his own.

That night neither boy had enough chits to afford a shower, so they settled – grimy and uncomfortable – in their beds. Another round of shots left them both feeling queasy and eerily stranded. He had Bruck prop his leg up on the end of the bunk rail, hoping that elevating it may help take down some of the impressive swelling. Obi-Wan wasn’t sure what he’d done to it, he couldn’t feel a break, but it was red and tender to the touch. Despite the pain he undoubtedly had to be in, Bruck fell asleep almost at once. Obi-Wan fought sleep himself, which was surprisingly difficult. Even with his stomach twisting in pain from their meager dinner, Obi-Wan’s body was only thirteen. It was driven to and past exhaustion, unable to continue to function well without the Force to supplement it's deficiencies. He fell in and out of micro naps, sitting up with Bruck between him and the wall, jerking himself awake after what felt like every few seconds.

He was lost in one of these when a hand touched his shoulder. Obi-Wan lashed out on instinct; even without the Force, he had been training his body for the entirety of his adult life. He grabbed the hand touching him, yanking it down in a move that should numb it, a thumb jerking down on where a pressure point would have been on most beings, while his fist shot out. A hard grip caught it and Obi-Wan blinked, stunned into stillness, as he stared up at the T-visor inches from his face. He glanced down, mouth parting in shock when he saw was holding an equally armored hand.

“What…” He glanced back up at the Mandalorian, then to the empty bunk across from him.

[Come on, kid.] The Mandalorian said, his voice sounding eerie through the modulator of his helmet, and the hand holding his own pulled him down and off the bunk. [Time to go.]  

“How did you–”

[Killed some people that needed killing.] The man said, holding a handheld device up. With a press of a button, the slave collar on Obi-Wan’s neck – and from the clinking sound and startled shouts around them – every slave in the deep mining platform – fell free. Bruck woke with a jolt when the Mandalorian reached in, dragging him out by his jumpsuit. “Time to go now, boys.”

Obi-Wan gaped at him. “What, wait–”

But the Mandalorian was already sprinting from the room, a startled and wide eyed Bruck hanging over his shoulder. Shaking himself, Obi-Wan followed. This…wasn’t going to plan.

“Wait!”

[Keep up!]

[Wait a second!] Obi-Wan shouted, desperate now. But the Mandalorian's long legs was eating up space, ducking and disabling guards with ease, like he didn’t have a teenage boy hanging over his shoulder.

“Obi-Wan, help!” Bruck cried out, hands fisted tightly in the Mandalorian’s cloak.

This was…this was not going to plan!

They broke out onto the top deck, a net shooting from the Mandalorian’s vambrace sending a handful of guards screaming off the side. He nodded towards a beaten-up shuttle resting on the landing pad. [That’s our ride.]

[Wait, wait–] Obi-Wan tried again, only to curse and duck as blaster bolts erupted around them. There was a sound of an explosion as chemical barrels next to the guards was struck and Obi-Wan stared, mouth agape, at the sight of Guerra standing there, triumphant and grinning, a high powered mining laser in hand.

“Go, ObaWan!” He waved cheerfully and Obi-Wan was grabbed roughly by his arm and all but tossed across the distance.

[Keep dicking around and you’re gonna get us all killed.] The Mandalorian said sternly, shoving him into the open hatch. [They’ll have reinforcements here soon enough and it’s best we’re not around to met them.]

Obi-Wan sputtered, trying to get the words out that the reinforcements were most likely Qui-Gon and very much wanted, but ended up tumbling into a seat face first as he was shoved forward. In short order, a thoroughly rattled Bruck landed in the one across form him.

A “buckle up” was gruffly ordered from in front of them and the words were barely finished before the shuttle was rocketing upwards at a steep and unforgiving angle. Obi-Wan grit his teeth against the increasing pressure, barely managing to get his harness in place. Before he could properly register it, they were peaking above the clouds, and then into the outer atmosphere, and then – they were in hyperspace.

Bruck looked pale from where he sat, fingers digging into the seat. “…did we…did we just get kidnapped by a Mandalorian?”

Obi-Wan let his head thud back against the ship's hull. And then, for good measure, did it again. “It would seem so.”

“I’d say rescue,” the Mandalorian said from the controls, “but if you wanna be ungrateful asses, that’s your call.” He swiveled the pilot’s chair around to face them, an arm leaning on his knee. “The name’s Jax Mereel. And you’re welcome.”

Notes:

And so ends the Bandomeer Arc. This chapter can basically be summed up as:

Obi-Wan, as long as you don't do anything, you'll be rescued according to plan. Literally, do nothing.

Obi-Wan: Of course, naturally.

::Does a thing::

Mando'a Used:

adiik - Child/Children aged 3-13.
Tion'jor - Why?
Demagolka - Used to describe horrible people, like people who commit war crimes or experiment on children. In this case a pedophile.
Vor entye - Thank you
Kih'parjai - Don't worry about it. Literally something like 'small victory.'

Chapter 13: The Salin Corridor, Part 1

Notes:

The Salin Corridor is a minor hyperspace route, btw, which connects to two major ones - the Hydian Way and Perlemian Trade Route. The next arc is going to be a long one and this just didn't fit in with it as a whole, so it got it's own chapter.

Basically, Jax and Obi-Wan feel each other out. (And Obi-Wan has some revelations)

“Jax Mereel.” Obi-Wan’s voice was flat as he repeated the name. Bruck stared at his friend, taken aback by both his expression and tone.

“That’s what I said, isn’t it?”

“Mereel.” Obi-Wan repeated. Bruck eyes darted from his friend to the Mandalorian rapidly, before trying to express that Obi-Wan needed to shut up and be polite through sheer will power, since the Force was still absent. He didn’t know why the other boy was trying to do, but maybe picking at a fully armed Mandalorian that just kidnapped them was perhaps not the right choice of action given their current drugged, lightsaber-less, and utterly marooned state. But if Obi-Wan was registering his frantic glare at all, he ignored it. “As in, you’re related to Jaster Mereel.”

A helmeted head cocked back and to the side, and even though his expression was impossible to see with the helmet on or feel without the Force, Bruck could only imagine what it was. “For someone taken as young as you claim, you certainly remember your history.”

“Why wouldn’t I know that name?” Obi-Wan challenged back, “I am Stewjoni. He’s the Mand'alor.”

“Was.” Jax corrected. “Jaster’s been dead for eight years. And yes, he was my older brother.” Something flashed across Obi-Wan’s face, too fast for Bruck to register anything other then it had been there. “Must have been very young when you left Mandalorian space, you’re still young now. What are you, ten?”

Obi-Wan’s expression was so hilarious that Bruck had to bite his lip to hold back a laugh. He wasn’t quite successful if the way both turned to stare at him. “Sorry, it’s just,” Bruck laughed “he just turned thirteen and Obi-Wan hates being reminded he’s short.”

“I am not short, I’m taller than you.”

“Not by much, and I am short!”

And Obi-Wan just looked so affronted that Bruck couldn’t help it, bursting out into peals of laughter. And maybe he was a little hysterical, so what if he was? He’d had a rough day and a half. To his relief, the tension around them eased almost immediately. The stony set to Obi-Wan’s face was gone completely, the corners of his lips twitching up into a smile.

Jax chuckled. “Well then, briikase gote'tuur. It wasn’t down in the mine, was it?”

“Vor'e and no,” Obi-Wan said with a dismissive shake of his head, “back on the AMHC base, for both of us, actually. We’re only a week apart. Not that we’re not grateful for the rescue, but why did you decided to take us?”

Bruck’s brows furrowed. It was a good question. “If you could have escaped so easily, why didn’t you do it earlier?”

Jax shrugged. “Had someone to kill. Usually, I’d take the body as proof of the bounty, but – well, you two kind of sped up my plans.” He patted a sagging pouch tied to his waist, “still got what I need though.”

Bruck resolutely did not look at the bag, keeping his focus on the man. “Why? Why us?”

A hand waved lazily towards his lame leg. “You kriffed up your leg; in the morning, the guards would see you weren’t able to walk and put you down. A lame slave isn’t worth much.”

Bruck paled, fingers digging further into the foam of the seat. “Oh.”

“Speaking of which,” the man said, “there’s got to be a med kit here somewhere. Every shuttle has at a least basic one.”

“It’s here.” Obi-Wan said, already standing. “It should have something, though I’m not sure what he’s done to his leg.”

“Infection, I’d think.” Jax said, leaning back in his seat, “they’re pretty common in those types of mines, especially if you’ve cut yourself.”

“I didn’t though.” Bruck protested, rubbing at his tender thigh. Why was his thigh hurting? It wasn’t anywhere near where he’d been hit. Bruck wasn’t sure what had happened really, only one minute he’d been standing next to Guerra and the next the Phindian had been yanking his out of the way as a rock-ladened cart had crashed onto his side. It would have crushed him or at the very least destroyed his oxygen, but thanks to Guerra it had only grazed his leg. He hadn’t cut it – he certainly hadn’t bled at all, but it hurt terribly.

“Even a scratch could do it.” Obi-Wan said distractedly. Jax just hummed his agreement, booted legs crossed in front of him, helmeted gaze seemingly locked on to Obi-Wan. “Aha, here we are,” his friend stepped back, a hypo needle and bacta strip in hand, “we’re in luck it seems. Now, take off your pants.”

---

Bruck was asleep, having dropped off almost as soon as the pain meds had kicked in. He slept heavily, the deep sleep that only came with medication. It’d taken some time (not counting the moments were Bruck has blustered, embarrassed, before taking off his pants) but they’d found the scratch. It was barely a cut, just an abrasion in the skin the length and width of Obi-Wan’s pinky nail’s edge, hidden in the crease of his knee.

He was glad that the boy was asleep because for all that it was small, the skin around it was raised and red, putrid pus dried to a crystalized amber around its opening. He was using a medicated pad to clean it out, carefully working the pus off and away. Hopefully between the antibacterial shot and the bacta pad, Bruck would heal quickly. Obi-Wan flipped the pad over to the cleaner side and gently began to wipe down the reddened skin. It was hot to the touch; it must have been far more painful than Bruck had been letting on.

Brave boy, Obi-Wan thought affectionally, brave but foolish. He should have told Obi-Wan if he was in so much pain, he would have found a way to do…well, something. It wasn’t like Obi-Wan hadn’t had to make do with less in far worse situations. He folded the pad into a neat triangle, the pus crystals pocketed in the middle, before slipping it back into its used casing. He pulled the hypo’s protective covering off, adjusting the input on the side so that it would release in portions instead unloading all at once, and began to inject it around the cut.

[You’re good at that.] The voice didn’t startle him, if only because Obi-Wan had been already aware of the Mandalorian’s continued attention.

(A Mereel, he thought, almost derisively. What was the chances that he’d run into a Mandalorian on a Bandomeerian deep sea mining platform, and that it would be a Mereel? A coincidence like that – but no, Qui-Gon used to say there was no real coincidences in life, only the Force.)

Obi-Wan hummed a quiet affirmative. [I’ve had practice.]

He’d had ample opportunity to perfect his medical skills during the war. While no medic or healer by any means, he could manage basic battlefield first aid. It’d be better if Obi-Wan could reach the Force, but they still had several hours before the suppressants would leave their systems. 

[How old did you say you were when you left Stewjon?]

[I didn’t.]

Jax let out a thoughtful sound. [But you were young.]

[Very.]

[How young?]

There was an edge to his voice that gave Obi-Wan pause. He glanced at the Mandalorian out of the corner of his eyes before returning to his attention back to where he was peeling the bacta strip free. [Young.]

[Was it slavers?]

Obi-Wan’s lips quirked as he smoothed the patch over the red skin, brushing it flat with his fingers a few times before leaning back onto his heels, staring at Jax. [Tell me, did you really save us just because I’m from Stewjon?]

The helmet cocked to the side. [Is that not enough?]

Obi-Wan stood, crumpling up the used items and setting them back in the med container. He leaned against a jut of an electrical casing, arms crossed across his chest. [I am not a Mandalorian.]

[You are a Stewjoni.]

[I was not raised in your ways. My family was clanless,] Obi-Wan pressed, [they were farmers. Young I may have been, but I remember enough to know that.]

[Every Mandalorian is a warrior, but not everyone is a commando. There is a difference.]

Obi-Wan was fascinated. The True Mandalorians had been virtually destroyed by the time he’d been assigned to Mandarlore, leaving only the radical left and extreme right of the New Mandarlore and the Death Watch behind. Qui-Gon had told him once, at the beginning of their mission, that the true tragedy of the Mandalorian Civil War was that neither of the major actors in it represented what the majority of what the Mandalorian people had wanted.

As much as Obi-Wan had admired Satine, there was no denying that her beliefs were just as extremist as those of the Death Watch. No matter how lovely an idea it was that the senate supported the New Mandalorians because of Satine and her pacifist ways, it was more due to what she represented. Which was a total and complete voluntary abandonment of the Mandalorian martial ways, which would rather neatly solve ‘the Mandalorian Issue’ once and for all. For as long as the Republic had existed, the Mandalorians had always been a wild card.

Driven off Coruscant by the human settlers who settled there, the original Mandalorians of the Taung race had spread off into the galaxy, far and wide. They recruited from every race, every religion, every creed. The only requirement was that they follow a strict of coda of behavior set down by the Taung, called the Canons of Honor, which focused on attaining personal glory and honor. Satine had explained to him that original Mandalorian beliefs were that the absence of conflict led to stagnation, to a failure of evolution that would eventually lead to the Mandalorians’ weakening and collapse. This had been refined over time, but the sentiments widely remained the same.

This had led to various galaxy-wide wars, with the Mandalorian Crusaders and Neo-Crusaders subjugating whole sectors, nearly taking back Coruscant itself. In their history, they had sided with the Sith, with the Jedi, with the Republic and against it. He was aware that Jaster Mereel had come up with a Supercommando Codex, some sort of revised version of the Cannons, but neither himself nor Qui-Gon had ever seen a copy during their stay. It was a unacceptable creed, banned literature, outlawed by both the New Mandalorians and the Death Watch, and asking about it alone could end up in imprisonment or death.

Obi-Wan had been many things in his life; a Jedi Master and Councilor, a general, a politician, a peacekeeper, but one of the few passions he'd had was for history and theology. Qui-Gon had nurtured a deep thirst for both in him from a young age, carefully tending and growing it throughout their padawanship. His former master had always challenged him to look deeper, to strive harder to understand the roots of every conflict they stepped into. If nothing else, this twist in his plans may at least allow him insight into a Mandalorian sect he had always wanted to know more about.

[You are a Stewjoni.] Jax repeated evenly, jarring Obi-Wan from his thoughts. [You are a Mandalorian. That you were stolen from us changes none of that.]

Obi-Wan snorted. [I was not stolen.]

[No Mandalorian would willing give up their child,] Jax said sharply, clearly offended, then his entire body tensed and promptly contradicted himself. [Did your – did they sell you?]

Obi-Wan stood from his slouch, slightly alarmed. He didn’t need the Force to tell him the sheer amount of hostility the armored man was radiating and while he’d never met his parents, he’d rather they not be hunted down by an enraged Mandalorian all the same.

[No.] He corrected, musing for a moment, wondering just what he should reveal. The Jedi and the Mandalorian’s had a contentious history it was true, but they hadn’t truly been at odds in the modern era until the –

Obi-Wan straightened abruptly.

Until the Battle of Galidraan, where the Jedi had been tricked into annihilating nearly the entirety of the True Mandalorians. Jango Fett had nearly been killed there, Obi-Wan remembered, it had been the act that had turned Fett on the Republic and the Jedi, the act that had driven him to join the Sith. And the Clones –

The Battle of Galidraan, which was – when had that happened? What month? It was – it was this year, Obi-Wan remembered that. He’d been a padawan already and he and Qui-Gon had returned home to a muted Temple, the entire building saturated in emotional greys and blues of grief and regret, worry and frustration.

It was…it had to be any day now. How could he have forgotten? How could it escape his mind that – true, it had been a very stressful few weeks, but how could he had – how was –

And now Obi-Wan was here, on a stolen shuttle with a Mereel, a True Mandalorian, who may or may not have died on Bandomeer the first time around, going to meet what was most like other True Mandalorians.

[Hey,] a low voice soothed and Obi-Wan reared back, startled, when a gloved hand – the fabric roughly textured and oddly grounding – settled on the back of his neck. [Take a deep breath for me, little one.] Abruptly he was being guided back into his seat, and he stared, somewhat wide eyed, as Jax crouched in front of him. He detached a canteen from his belt. [Drink this, slowly.]

Obi-Wan accepted the canteen. He stared at it for a moment, before taking a deep drink. He emptied half of it before he stopped, running the back of his hand over his mouth. [Where did you even hide your gear? I thought Mandalorian’s don’t remove their armor, ever.]

[Most don’t.] Jax agreed. [But I’m a bounty hunter, saboteur class.]

[You’re a spy.] Obi-Wan corrected. [An assassin.]

A gloved hand patted his knee. [That I am. There’s only one of us in a single clan at any time; we go where others can’t. It gives us a little bit more flexibility with the rules. Go ahead and finish that off, we’ll be landing before the day’s done. I'll get you a proper meal then.]

Obi-Wan rolled the canteen’s cool metal bottle over his thigh. He could not feel the Force and yet something still whispered to him quietly, some sort of tension made his chest tight with anticipation. [And just where are you taking us?]

[To meet up with my clan. Try to get some sleep, you look a little flushed.]

Obi-Wan closed his eyes obediently, letting his head fall back against the cool metal of the ship.

No coincidences indeed.

Notes:

Whelp. The Force works in mysterious ways. Hope to have the chapter up this weekend if the muses play nice. But as many of you clever, clever readers guessed, the next arc is Galidraan. And of course, Rael and Qui-Gon finding a very liberated mining platform.

Mando'a Used:

Briikase gote'tuur - Happy Birthday
Vor'e - Thanks

Chapter 14: Galidraan, Part 1

Notes:

So, it's a week late. Sorry, I got called into work and ended up working all weekend. This will be super unbetaed until I get a chance to edit over my phone on my break.

“Woah.” Bruck breathed as he stepped out of the small shuttle.

From where he stood at the bottom of the ramp, Obi-Wan let out a soft sound of agreement. Jax had told them that the population on Galidraan was small, only numbering in the low millions, but what Galidraan was rich in was plants and animal life. The sheer amount of them practically sang in the Force and after so long without feeling it, it made for a breath-taking moment. It helped that Galidraan was beautiful itself.

The entire world was covered in a thick layer of snow and ice, with evergreen forests that covered the majority of it. They landed in the middle of one, the giant trees thick and tall, and white-capped mountains peaked over them numbering in the dozens. It was not all just breath taking beauty, though.

They were warned to stay out of the woods and not go anywhere alone, as there were several species of predators here, violent and dangerous ones if their Mandalorian escort was to be believed, that would kill them quite easily. Obi-Wan’s shook his head with a faint smile, amused. A sparsely inhabited planet with a vicious natural hierarchy; it was such a typical planet for a Mandalorian to choose. The life cycle moved around them, tiny deaths and new births echoing in its rich Force signature.

The medicine had done wonders for Bruck, the boy following Jax around the shuttle and towards the small encampment with only the slightest of limps. The miracles of modern medicine; he would be most likely be fine by tomorrow. Obi-Wan followed at a more sedate pace, taking in the sights around them. A handful of Mandalorians had gathered around the shuttle, two going over it with scanners, another pair arguing over whether it was going to be added to the ‘fleet’ or scrapped for materials. The last Mandalorian in the group – a tall man in silver armor with copper accents and a russet cloak over one shoulder – turned to follow them.

Obi-Wan slowed his own walk, using the excuse of watching as a Mandalorian in a jet pack soared noisily over them, to draw even with him. The man was an unknown to Obi-Wan, like all the new Mandalorians were, but he held himself as someone with authority. He had greeted Jax with warmly, the two grasping forearms tightly and knocking their helmets together, which lead Obi-Wan to believe the two men knew each other well. The man turned to look at him as he fell in step next to him, his helmet tilted down in acknowledgement. Obi-Wan gave him a polite smile in return.

The encampment consisted of semi-permanent yurts, perhaps a dozen in all, clustered around a large cleared area. A communal camp kitchen sat in the middle, with a fire burning brightly as a slab of meat the size of Obi-Wan was slowly being roasted. Heavily layered children ran freely about, the older ones already in helmets while the youngest were without, but all covered in furred cloaks or hats and hoods. They were mostly human, though there were a handful of Rodian, Twi’lek, and other races. They seemed to take little notice of the newcomers, so much so that one Mirialan boy ran directly into Obi-Wan. The boy, too busy chasing after some sort of fowl, hadn’t even notice their approach. He was young, perhaps four or five standard years, face a fierce scowl as he chased the bird.

Obi-Wan’s hand shot out, catching the boy before he could run smack into his side. The boy startled, peering up at him from behind shockingly curly hair. Curiously, Obi-Wan felt the brush of the Force – soft and tender, the barest of touches — against his own core. It was an instinctive scan, a defensive empathy, and very common among Force sensitive younglings.

[Sorry!]

[No problem, little one.] Obi-Wan answered, ignoring the way the Mando'a made the man standing with him stiffen in surprise. [Perhaps be more careful when you run, hm?]

The boy nodded obediently. [Okay! I don’t know you?]

Obi-Wan chuckled, crouching down next to the youngling. [No, you don’t. I’ve only just arrived, you see. My name is Obi-Wan.]

[I’m Doan.]

[Well met, Doan.] He tugged at that probing tendril of Force, greeting the boy with a wave of welcome and affection. Even if this child never came to the Temple, he was a Force sensitive and that made him something akin to family. Doan's eyes widened, expression shifting into something halfway between puzzled and wondrous. 

“Made a friend?” Obi-Wan looked up to find Bruck had doubled back. Jax was standing a few feet away, waiting with his hands on his hips. Bruck must have felt the conversation the two were having, because his own signature reached out, melding seamlessly with Obi-Wan’s. It swirled around Doan, a rush of surprise/welcome/hello mixing into the emotions.

Doan’s smiled shyly at Bruck, fingers tugging at his tunic end. [Hi.]

[Bruck doesn’t speak Mando’a, little one.] Obi-Wan explained, pushing off his knees as he stood. [But he’s saying hello.]

[Doan!] A woman’s voice barked and Obi-Wan followed the sound to a incredibly tall female standing in front of one of the yurts, her hand resting on her blaster.

[Coming!] Doan squeaked, brown eyes wide. He waved hurriedly at the group, before sprinting off towards the woman.

The other Mandalorian was staring at him. [You’re Mandalorian.]

[No,] Obi-Wan huffed, amused despite himself, [I’m really not.]

The man turned to Jax, head cocking to the side in question. Jax’s helmet tipped back and slightly to the side in response. His shoulder shrugged up then down, before he gestured to a yurt located slightly apart from the others. The man nodded and stepped in front of Obi-Wan and headed towards it. Obi-Wan shook his head with a rueful smile.

“Okay.” Bruck said, clearly irritated, “teach me the language. Seriously, Obi-Wan, I’m feeling left out. It’s not fair.”

“The universe is rarely fair, Bruck.” Obi-Wan advised as he followed after the two men. Bruck latched onto his arm, leaning heavily and nearly setting Obi-Wan off his feet.

“Obi-Wan! Teach me!”

---

It was day later that Qui-Gon and Rael returned to the compound. They were tired and sticky, the sea salt from the ocean spray dried to their skin and made their robes stiff and starchy. Master Washet and his padawan were already waiting for them at the dock and at the sight of two where there should have been four, the Bothan Jedi wilted.

“You did not find them?”

Rael shook his head. “The mining platform they were assigned to had been, uh, ‘liberated’ shortly before we arrived."

Washet now looked visibly alarmed. “What? Where are the boys then?”

Qui-Gon grit his teeth, before forcing himself to take a calming breath. His emotions had been out of sorts ever since he’d felt Xanatos’ life force disappear. They may not have been as close as they once were, but Xanatos had once been his padawan. That sort of bond left a deep mark. He had nearly fallen from the boat when he’d felt the incandescent rage flare from Xanatos, followed by a jolt of shock, and then a wave of fear so aching and potent it had stolen his breath.

But no, he wasn’t thinking about Xanatos. Not right now, not when Obi-Wan and Bruck had been –

“They've been taken.” Rael said, his own voice tight.

Padawan Subra sputtered in a way that belayed how young he really was, even with all his height. “What do you mean taken?”

“We–”

“There was a Mandalorian.” Qui-Gon interrupted. His voice was void of emotion, professional. He felt a wave of protective worry flare across his bond with his padawan-brother, but pushed that away as well. He had to focus on the here and now; Obi-Wan and Brick were in very real danger.  “From what we could gather from the other miners, they somehow managed to befriend him over their short stay. During the night, the Mandalorian killed another miner, collected his hand–”

“Probably a bounty.” Rael mumbled, rubbing at his goatee.

“– killed the overseer, deactivated the slave collars, stole an Offworld shuttle, and left the planet with both Obi-Wan and Bruck.”

There was a weighted silence for a stretched moment, then Washet’s ears pinned back.

“A Mandalorian.” The other Master repeated, a touch of exhaustion to his voice. “Well, that is both bad and good news. Mandalorians rarely hurt younglings. But…” Padawan Subra exchanged a worried look with his master. “The wrong sort has been known to sell Force sensitives on the black market.”

Qui-Gon’s hands curled tightly by his side, feelings of impotent fear and worry burning brightly in his chest. The thought of either one of those boys (of Obi-Wan, with that wry smile and dry humor, startling maturity and compassion, whose mind had reached out to him, had welcomed him like an old friend) being sold into slavery – or worse – was horrifying. The fates of those poor souls were rarely kind; some species even harvested their organs and blood for medicinal practices, believing that whatever gave them their connection with the Force was some sort of morbid panacea. Others were forced into work; gambling and other games of chance, dangerous sports that required refined reflexes. 

“Yeah.” Rael agreed, tone tense, “that.”

Washet breathed sharply through his nose. “Come, back to the main server rooms. If it was a company ship, it’ll have a tracker, and if it had a tracker, Darrad can find it.”

Padawan Subra nodded, expression fiercely determined. The quartet moved quickly up from the docks and as they walked, Master Washet slowly drifted back towards Qui-Gon. Qui-Gon kept his eyes forward, hands folded into his sleeves, already knowing what was to come. “Master Jinn–”

“I know.” Qui-Gon interrupted, voice quiet. “I felt it.”

The Bothan nodded once. “Do you wish to know?”

There would be no body, Qui-Gon knew, no chance to seek closure in that manner. There were rules for fallen Jedi, even after they had passed. Xanatos’ corpse would have been destroyed where it had fallen. It was long known that the death of a darksider could sometimes contain an echo, a dangerous resonance of their spirit, and the planet of Korriban being an example of it. The entire planet reeked with the presence of the Sith Lords that had once ruled there, whispering and deluding to any undefended minds that stood upon it.

Qui-Gon’s eyes dropped to the path in front of them, mouth a tight line. A part of him didn’t want to know, didn’t want to accept that Xanatos was dead. Not the Xanatos of now of course, but the bright, clever young boy he’d once been. The boy Qui-Gon had thought of as a son. Even if he had lost that boy long ago, it felt fresh anew now, like an old wound had reopened up. It should have been me, he couldn’t help but think. It should have been him. Qui-Gon owed it to the boy Xanatos had once been to be the one who put the man he was now down. And yet, he wasn’t. And now he’d failed Obi-Wan and Bruck too.

“Yes.” He admitted as they approached the security doors, because despite all that he had done, Qui-Gon wanted to know terribly. Washet came to a stop outside, allowing Subra and Rael to duck inside in an illusion of privacy.

“His trap was for you and you alone. He was not expecting us and that set him on the defensive. He was rigging the mines to blow.”

Qui-Gon felt his breath catch, eyes closing at the cruelty of his former padawan. Such an explosion in the type of mines Bandomeer had could easily destroy half the planet or more, if not damage its very core. Millions could have died. Such unnecessary violence and death, all for Qui-Gon.

“We interrupted him before he could do so. He was skilled, but it was clear that he had fought another lightsaber wielder in some time. It was over quickly. It was a painless death.” Washet’s voice was even, blunt, factual. There was none of the sympathy or coddling that Qui-Gon might have feared. He felt ridiculously grateful for it.

“Thank you.”

“You are most welcome.” A furred hand settled on his shoulder, pulling Qui-Gon from his intense study of the ground. “No matter what he became, he was still your former padawan. Let yourself grieve, no one will judge you.”

Qui-Gon let out a heavy breath through his nose, allowing the calming presence of the other Jedi master wash over him, a grounding presence that made the hitch in his breath finally seem to settle. “I thank you for the kind words, Laze, but there will be time for that later. There are more pressing matters at the moment.”

The hand on his shoulder squeezed once before dropping. “Indeed. Let us go see what Darrad has found.”

---

The yurt was spartan on the inside, nearly empty save for a cot and a large table, though Obi-Wan had expected little else. It was clear that for however permanent the camp may seem, it was ready to be dismantled and moved at a moment’s notice. If Obi-Wan remembered the timing correctly, the True Mandalorians held a strong sway with the Mandalorian population but were not welcomed on Mandarlore (which was firmly held by the New Mandalorians) or it’s moon Concordia (which had been once a True Mandalorian strong hold but was now under the control of the Deathwatch).

There were probably hundreds of small clan camps like this one, scattered through remote sectors. Obi-Wan already suspected who the identity of the man that Jax had greeted so familiarly was. Jango Fett was the adopted son of Jaster Mereel, making him Jax's nephew. When Obi-Wan had first met him, Jango had been out of his armor and on Kamino. And when they had fought later, his armor had been completely of beskar with blue highlights. The man now was clearly younger, his suit only featuring a chest piece and helmet of the metal and bore none of the distinctive markings his elder self once had. Despite this, if there was doubt who the man was the two ragged banners hanging on the yurt’s side wall cleared it. The Fett and Mereel clan symbols were printed on them proudly, one in black and gold, the other green and cream.

It was of little surprise then when Jax and slapped the younger man hardily on the shoulder and announced in basic, clearly for Bruck’s benefit, “boys, this is my nephew, Jango Fett. The Mand'alor of all true and loyal Mandalorians.”

Bruck’s signature drew close to himself, the only sign of his surprise. “Nice to meet you, sir.”

Obi-Wan followed Bruck into a bow, noting that it was nearly a text-book perfect greeting for a head of state. “Greetings, Mand’alor.”

Jango leaned against the table, arms crossed across his chest. “Uncle,” his voice was flat, “I sent you out on a simple cut and gut.”

“What did you want me to do, just leave them there?” Jax defended with a scoff.

[I’m not judging your actions; you are your own man. But you brought them here why? This is supposed to be a secret camp.] Jango asked in Mando’a, exasperated.

[The boy’s a Mandalorian–]

[I’m really not.] Obi-Wan cut in.

[– he needs to be around his own kind.] Jax continued. [He’s even from the homelands, a Stewjoni.]

[Excuse me.]

[Even so, you could have left him at any one of the many, many other camps along the way.]

[Now that’s just cold, nephew. Besides–]

[Excuse me.] Obi-Wan repeated again and felt his lips twitch in annoyance when they talked over him. They were ignoring him. Like he was some – some child!

[– they’ve kind of grown on me.]

[Uncle, no.] Jango said with a groan, a hand coming up to press against his visor.

[What? Some fresh blood won’t go astray, it’s not like you’re giving me any children to train in the Way. And the boy was sold–]

[I was not sold.] Obi-Wan interrupted sharply.

Jax shot him a look, a gloved hand waving up and down in a Mandalorian sign that was vaguely apologetic in meaning. [Sorry, Obi-Wan, not sold. He was stolen.]

[No, I wasn’t.]

[Misplaced?]

[I was given.] Obi-Wan corrected firmly. Then he repeated it in basic, aware of Bruck’s growing frustration, “freely and willingly, by my family, to the Jedi, where they have raised me for the last ten years. Bruck as well, though his home world is Telos IV .”

Silence.

Then, like an explosion:

[Jedi. Uncle you have taken Jedi children – have you lost your mind completely–]

[How was I supposed to know? Damn baby stealers–]

“We do not steal children.” Obi-Wan interrupted, tone sharp. Next to him, Bruck stiffened. It was common misconception of the Jedi, but no less an offensive one. “The children given to the Jedi come to us only with parental permission.”

“At what worth?” Jango asked, voice deceptively languid yet cold. “With your mind powers? Your abilities? What weight is permission when you can change a person’s mind with a thought?”

“While I appreciate your faith in our abilities, I fear that’s a bit of an overestimation.” Obi-Wan explained wryly. “Controlling a person’s mind takes quite a bit of time and effort and rarely lasts long.”

“But your kind are capable of it.” Jango shot back.

“And you are capable of killing me in a number of ways I imagine, most likely just with your bare hands.” Obi-Wan pointed out, “and yet, you have not. You have not, because it goes against your morals and ethics, the code to which you live your life. To do such a thing against a living being is not the Jedi way.”

"And I’m supposed to just take your word for it?” Jango asked, “you’ve been indoctrinated in their methods all your life. You’re probably not even aware of what the adult of your kind really does.”

“We ‘indoctrinate’ our children no more than you do with your own. After all,” Obi-Wan made a sweeping gesture around them, where the giggles and calls of the younglings outside could still be heard, [this is the Way.]

“No Jedi would ever control another being like that,” Bruck agreed, “and even it did happen, like Obi-Wan said, the control fades. Wouldn’t someone have come to take their kid back if that happened?”

“The Jedi have a powerful sway with the Republic.” Jax dissented, finally breaking his silence.

“Not that powerful.” Obi-Wan insisted. “Not powerful enough to stop every parent of every race, every station, and every economic class that our younglings have come from. And there is a reason why we take these children in.”

“Yes, the furtherment of your kind.”

“No.” Bruck said and the sharpness of his voice and the flare of his anger had Obi-Wan pivoting to face him. A jerk of his wrist sent the table sliding away from Jango, causing the man to nearly fall without his perch, and sending it careening into the yurt’s side. “How would you like a four-year-old who could do that in a tantrum?” Bruck demanded. “I have anger issues, I’ve struggled with them my whole life. You know how my finder found me? We don’t actually send people out on finding missions, most of us are picked up by Jedi who run into us on missions. I don’t remember it, but apparently I really wanted some cava juice and my mother said I couldn’t have anymore. I was four. I did what four-year-olds do and I got mad. And then I pulled a chair over and tripped my mom. I didn’t mean to; I loved my mom, I know I did.

A Master was nearby and felt me. He came and he found me, and took me back to the Temple. They taught me how to control myself and the Force. I remember being afraid all of the time; my parents had a rough relationship and I could feel when they fought with each other. But at the Temple, I learned how to stop feeling that all the time, I learned how to block and filter that out, and how to not act out when I get angry.”

Bruck suddenly went red, a hand rubbing at his neck in embarrassment.

“Well. I mean, I’m better than I was. Sorry, Obi-Wan.”

Obi-Wan laughed, nudging the other boy with his arm. “Not exactly the way I would have chosen, but you didn’t hurt anyone. And rather adequately made your point, I believe.”

“You can say that again.” Jax said from where he was still staring at where the table had come to rest.  

“Like any skill, those with the Force must be trained, their skills honed. Without such training, they can be a danger to themselves and others.” Obi-Wan explained evenly, “most of the ones who survive to adulthood are either very powerful or very weak. Many of those in the middle of the spectrum often die as children. While I know less about my own finding than Bruck, I do know that I came to the Jedi Temple with a broken arm. I don’t remember much from that time, I was too young, but I’m fairly certain I did it to myself.”

“What?” Bruck asked, “you did?”

Obi-Wan hummed an affirmative sound, reaching out and making a tugging motion with his fingers. This time, neither man jumped as he pulled the table back into place. “I have a very vague memory of trying to impress my brother. We both wanted something up very high and our ba'buir told us we couldn’t have it. But I knew I could make it come to us…” Obi-Wan trailed off, shrugging. “So I did.”

Bruck winced, likely imagining what had happened. “You never told me that.”

“To be fair, I don’t believe I ever told anyone. It happened very long ago.”

“As fascinating as this ethical debate is,” Jango drawled, “it doesn’t change the fact that you’ve taken two Jedi children, uncle. They will come for them.”

Jax let out a weary sigh. “How was I supposed to know that? What were you two doing on a deep sea platform anyway? Were you on a mission? Where were your masters?”

Obi-Wan rocked back on his heels, suddenly feeling a little flatfooted. “Ah. Yes. That…well. I guess, technically, we were actually stolen. And…well, sold.”

---

Jedi.

Jax sighed, scratching at his chin under his helmet. He needed a shave soon, but he’d had little time to himself lately with the boys a constant shadow. Jango had made it very clear they weren’t to be out of his sight. Honestly, how could he have known they were Jedi? It wasn’t like they’d had lightsabers on them. But they wouldn’t have had them, would they? The boys had been kidnapped and sold into slavery, by something called a Dark Jedi, which was a type of Jedi that strayed from 'the path,' but wasn't a full Sith. Jax had never heard the term before. In fact, he learned more about the Jedi Order over the last day and a half than he could ever have imagined.

It hadn’t quite changed his opinion of them, but he could admit that they had softened it somewhat. Maybe. It was hard not to with the way the boys spoke about their order. The pair made quite the duo; where Obi-Wan was all calm logic and reason, Bruck was impassioned belief and a deeply held pride and affection that couldn’t be faked. It was a draw on what had riled up his (admittedly strong) protective streak that first night in the mines. Between the pure misery on Bruck’s face, his blue eyes so wide and fearful, and Obi-Wan’s defensive posturing and unaccented Mando’a…but even now, Jax didn’t regret it.

Jax sighed. If he was honest, really honest, it was probably because they’d reminded him of Jaster and himself when they’d been runts. And even now, well into his fifties and Jas years dead, a part of him always and would always miss his brother. It wasn't all sentiment though; both boys had things that would make them fine Mandalorians, if they chose that route. He’d not force it on them, he hadn’t intended to even before he’d learned they were Jedi. 

Even before their Jedi nature had come to light, something about these two had held his attention. While Obi-Wan was obviously more in control of himself than Bruck, both boys had held themselves to a incredibly high standard given the situation they’d found themselves in, something that was rare to find in kids their age. It had been impressive. It made sense now, to know they were Jedi trained, though Jax had never interacted with the Jedi Order much. Smart thinking was to head the other way whenever you saw one of them coming and Jax always prided himself on having good instincts. There was a rustle of leather and metal as Jango settled next to him. To say that his nephew was not pleased with him was an understatement, but that would pass soon enough. They were family, these things always did.

The fact that the technicians had found a built in tracking fob on the shuttle had been a less than stellar moment, but Jax figured they could  hang onto the boys until the Jedi arrived and then just, he didn’t know, shove them at ‘em and hope for the best.

If they wanted to go, that is.

Or if the Jedi even came.

For all that Obi-Wan and Bruck had tried to sell the Jedi to them, the way they treated those that had ‘aged out’ of the system seemed barbaric. Obi-Wan had argued till he was figuratively blue in the face. Yes, the system was sometimes flawed. Yes, sometimes it failed Jedi younglings. But just as often it was successful, the right fit. Many corpsmen grew to love their jobs with a fiery passion, the boy had insisted, even if they didn’t enjoy it had first. Even if it wasn’t what they would have chosen. And many, he’d gone on to say, many did choose it.

Bruck had been suspiciously silent throughout that rant, no dramatics or fancy tricks came to press Obi-Wan’s points home. Jax thought it was kriffing careless. And a waste. Jango clearly felt it too.

“Why spend all that time training a warrior just to drop them when they no longer fit the mold?” His nephew had asked. Both boys had looked at him then, brows furrowed in blatant confusion.

“But we aren’t warriors?” Bruck had answered, sounding bewildered.

And that was a bewildering thought; the Jedi did not view themselves as warriors. Jax scoffed quietly at the thought. Jedi were universally considered dangerous and perhaps one of the few things that could take on a Mandalorian and win. Maybe even easily. That they did not view themselves the same way was…odd.

But the boys were odd in general. Odd, but impressive. They’d gotten up with the sun, their movements waking Jax in the yurt they shared. He’d left to get them all firstmeal, but when he’d come back the boys had settled into a small corner, sitting mirrored to each other, knees almost touching, hands resting loosely in their laps, eyes closed and expressions lax but peaceful. Obi-Wan had explained later that they were mediating, ‘settling themselves’ for the day to come. It had been bizarre. They sat so completely still that if Jax hadn’t known any better, he’d thought they weren’t breathing.

Then, after an hour or so of this, they’d come out of it and happily eaten the now cold meal he brought. They’d both thanked him politely for the clothes and winter wear he’d bartered for them (and damn, if that old bastard Chesi wasn’t going to hold onto that promised favor until it was a truly, utterly bantha shit task he needed done) and then asked if there was a place where they could practice. Bemused but intrigued, Jax had led them to the small practice yard at the edge of the clearing. They moved first through stretches; beginning with easy ones before transitioning into something similar to what they actually taught their own clan children, then blew past that completely and into some that showed just how flexible both boys really were.

By the time both boys were standing on their hands, legs in nearly perfect splits above their heads, they’d gained a bit of a crowd. Bruck clearly noticed, glancing around with poorly hidden awkwardness and nervousness, but Obi-Wan just ignored them completely. They went next into a series of what were clearly katas (lightsaber forms, if Jax was a betting man, as they held their hands as if they were holding a sword). They were well known and drilled, just how well known and practiced shown in the fact they were perfectly in sync with each other.

They spoke no words as they cooled off, breaking from the katas smoothly from one move to the next. They stretched for a few more minutes, before with a quiet question from Obi-Wan, the two settled across from each other. They stood loosely, eyeing each other, and then from one breath to the next, launched into a spar.

To Jax, it was clear from the start that Obi-Wan was the better fighter. That wasn’t to say that Bruck wasn’t skilled, but Obi-Wan had far more experience. The flexibility shown in the stretches came into play, as did amazing feats of acrobatics that startled more than just Jax. They flipped over each other, swirled into parries and darted away from each other, escaping into wide circles before drawing close once again. The speed and strength some of those moves required were damn impressive for their age. Maybe it was the Force supplementing their own skills, or whatever vodoo magic the Jedi used, but it still spoke of years of highly intense, highly focused combat training.

Bruck lunged forward on silent feet, Obi-Wan diving out of the way. The brunet boy rolled the move into a somersault, legs darting up and catching Bruck around the waist, using his momentum to flip him. Bruck continued the roll until he could pin Obi-Wan onto his back. In response, Obi-Wan’s forearms shot up and out, breaking Bruck’s hold while his legs kicked off the ground in a windmill, unseating the blond and sending him skittering out of reach before Obi-Wan could retaliate.

They circled each other, sweaty but breathing evenly and easily. That, Jax swore, had to be some sort of Force power. They should be exhausted; the spar had been going on for almost a half hour now. 

Next to him, Jango let out a sigh. [Fine. If you want them, and they want to, and the Jedi let you, you can keep them.]

Hidden by his helmet, Jax smirked.

Notes:

Xanatos is dead, sorry Jude Watson. It had to be done. And just so you know, Obi-Wan and Bruck were totally using the Force to supplement themselves. Jax is like odd kids. Well trained, possibly murderous magic kids. Still like them.

How do we feel about the chapter? We're finally on Galidraan! And Qui-Gon has a lot more feelings to process on Xanatos, which will be next chapter or so.

 

 

 

 

(And Feemor's coming back)

Mando'a used:

Ba'buir - Grandfather

Edit: Some commenters mentioned they haven't read stuff from Legacy. Fellow old timers from the EU times, what's your favorite series/books?

Chapter 15: Galidraan, Part 2

Notes:

Hello! Hope everyone's having a great weekend and staying safe! Wear your masks!

Also, there may be the world's longest author's note at the bottom, feel free to skip it. But I LOVE hearing everyone's views not just on the Jedi, about the Republic and really the whole of the events, policies and practices, and stagnation that lead to episode 3. The SW world history is so complex and everyone has such interesting and valid views on how it came to be. And I love hearing them!

It was quite cold this morning. Obi-Wan pulled the collar of his new jacket up to cover his neck more. Well, new was a relative term. It was certainly new to him, but it was clear that the clothing Jax had gotten for them had been well used before they’d made their way to them. Still it was thick and warm, and given how cold the climate of Galidraan seemed to be that was a blessing in itself. It was apparently still considered summer here, which made Obi-Wan shudder to think of what a Galidraanian winter would be like.

It was hardly the coldest planet Obi-Wan had ever been on, but that did not make him enjoy it any more. He had never been fond of cold places, he much preferred the heat. He’d risen shortly after Jax had left their yurt, dressed down in civilian clothes and helmet-less, looking very much like a fur trader of some kind with all the pelts clipped to his belt and strung up over his back. The assassin had caught him awake shortly after Obi-Wan had become so and had simply sent him a grin, white teeth bright in the dim light.

He’d left Bruck to sleep in. Obi-Wan was sure the boy was exhausted from the last few days and having a bit of lie in wouldn’t do any harm. Obi-Wan, however, was used to functioning with far less sleep and in far more stressful situations. And ever since the war, once he woke - that was it, he was up for the day. He ignored the ever watchful eyes of the Mandalorians as he made his way through yurts, heading towards a lovely and rather large pine tree he spotted the other day.

He settled down before it, ignoring the bite of the frost covered ground as he prepared for meditation. There was so much to be done and Obi-Wan was unsure of how to do it. He had been too young to hear the details of Galidraan when it happened the first time and when he had been considered old enough it hadn’t been a particularly welcomed topic of conversation.

The Jedi were deeply ashamed of what had happened here. It was widely rumored that Galidraan, coupled with Qui-Gon’s death, had been what had driven Yan Dooku from the Order. What had made him fall, Obi-Wan could only guess, but the roots of it all started here for his Grandmaster. The two of them had never been close; Qui-Gon hadn’t ever had a very good relationship with his master and the two rarely interacted. At least around Obi-Wan. Whatever Qui-Gon got up to in the privacy of his own life was his own business.

Qui-Gon was not a man to share negative feelings. He would speak freely about loss and grief of course, or if he was troubled or angered, but deep feelings - the kind that were seeded young and blossomed over the years - those Qui-Gon rarely spoke of. Obi-Wan knew that their Master-Padawanship had been a duality of deep respect and near constant irritation. While the two were apparently a formidable duo with a record high mission completion rate that stood untouched even when Obi-Wan was a master, Rael had once confided in him that you couldn’t have found two men both simultaneously completely unalike and yet so similar.

And there was another matter that may have played into Qui-Gon and Yan’s distance from each other. Obi-Wan had never heard much about it but if Rael was to be believed, Komari Vosa - one of Dooku’s last padawans - had much to do with why the two had only grown further apart. Rael was a terrible gossip in general, but especially so when it came to lineage matters. And he had a rather lot to say about Komari Vosa. The man had never approved of her and, to be frank, Obi-Wan believed he had valid reasons not to. The council and even Dooku had agreed in the end; the whole affair had been kept from the general population, but from what Obi-Wan had been told the padawan had fallen in love with her master.

Dooku, old enough to be her grandfather and someone who viewed her very much as a daughter, had immediately stepped down as her master. He’d denied her entry to the Knight trials and had been in process of securing her another master when she’d run away from the Order. She’d attempted to join a high-risk mission (the why was to anyone’s guess, but Obi-Wan could only formulate that she intended to prove herself in some manner - though if it was to Yan, the Council, or herself he was unsure) and had been kidnapped. As far he knew, she was never heard from again.

Obi-Wan sighed as he settled deeper into meditation, trying to gather all the strands of his thoughts. If things played out as they did last time, he would be dealing with his Grandmaster and Padawan soon, and Obi-Wan needed a solid plan. Yan Dooku was not a man to be treated lightly, as either a Jedi or a Sith. While he had no idea when it was Dooku had fallen exactly, Obi-Wan was almost certain he was still with the Light currently. And he would very much like to keep it that way.

He was well into his mediation when he felt a warm flutter on the edge of his consciousness. Obi-Wan pulled back, feeling his lips twitch into a smile. He gently tugged at the fluttering, sending out a greeting even as he opened his eyes. Doan stood there, his green skin hardly visible between the oversized woolen torque he was wearing and thick scarf.

[Hello, little one.] Obi-Wan greeted with a smile. [You’re up early.]

The little boy shuffled somewhat, mitten clad hands fiddling with the end of his scarf. [Whatcha doing?]

[I was mediating.] Obi-Wan answered. [Did you feel me all the way from your yurt?] At Doan’s shy nod, he felt his smile grow into a pleased grin. [And did you know it was me?] Another little nod. That was somewhat surprising, but perhaps not. Doan’s signature in the Force shown bright and strong, but without a blood test Obi-Wan could only guess at how strong. [Well done, then! That is a very important skill to have, little one. Can you often tell who or where people are by how they feel?]

[Uh huh.] A bright yellow mitten came up, pulling his scarf down just enough to itch at his nose. [What’s med-a-tating?]

[Mediating is something I like to do in the morning, it helps me gather my thoughts. And sometimes, I just do because I like it.] Obi-Wan patted one of the thick, raised roots he sat between. [When I meditate, I can feel things like you can, only much better. Things like this tree. Can you feel the tree, Doan?]

The little boy stared up at it curiously, almost disbelieving. [No…]

[Would you like to?]

His brows furrowed as he frowned tremendously. [Why would I wanna feel a tree?]

[Well, if you don’t try you’ll never know, will you?] Obi-Wan asked, before letting his eyes slip back shut. In front of him, Doan shuffled a bit. Obi-Wan fought to hide his smile as the fidgeting grew more pronounced as the minutes passed. As predicted, it didn’t take long for the Mirialan to cave.

[You can really feel the tree?]

[Yes.]

Another bought of musing silence. Then, [okay.]

Obi-Wan opened his eyes, ready to help guide the youngling into meditation, and nearly jumped when a warm little body was suddenly in his lap. The boy squirmed for a moment, tucking his feet and legs up and away from the cold ground. Obi-Wan just huffed, raising his arms up so the boy could more easily maneuver.

[Comfortable?] Obi-Wan asked dryly.

He received a serious nod. [Yeah.] Doan shivered, [it’s cold here.]

The brunet let out a hum of agreement. [That it is. Now close your eyes.]

It took more than a few minutes (which was to be expected, really, as mediation and younglings very rarely went well when combined) but eventually Obi-Wan was able to guide Doan into a meditative state. The boy went lax against his chest, the wool from his cap tickling Obi-Wan’s chin, but was a welcomed enough warmth that it was easy to ignore. When he deemed Doan was settled, he gently took the boy’s hand in his own and placed it on the raised root. Obi-Wan could sense the tree without physical contact, but Doan was young enough that he would need some sort of touchstone to do so.

He felt the moment Doan encountered the ancient tree, wonder and awe exploding from him. Obi-Wan would never tire of this, truly. It was his favorite part of teaching, when he got the privilege of experiencing another learning something new. He basked in the youngling’s joy, feeling a tightness in his shoulders and a tension in the back of his skull he wasn’t even aware he’d been carrying lighten.

Eventually he pulled his hand back, removing himself as a conduit and letting Doan explore the feeling on his own. It didn’t take long for the youngling to tire himself out though and Obi-Wan shifted Doan away from the tree, keeping the boy in the cradle of his body, and let Doan’s sleepy presence loop with his own. Within moments the boy was asleep, snoring slightly against his shoulder.

Obi-Wan took a centering breath and then opened his eyes. They found their watcher immediately, meeting the T-visor squarely. [I don't mean you or you son any harm.]

The Mandalorian male that stood before them was deceptively lax, but that meant nothing in itself. Obi-Wan could tell how tense the man was. [He’s not my son. He’s my brother.]

And oh, the height had been misleading. That voice was young, perhaps only a few years older than Obi-Wan. His armor was mostly a pale blue and grey, with only a single beskar greave. He wore neither the clan mark of Mereel or Fett, but rather a eight-pointed star in brilliant ochre on his chest.

[You’re dangerous.]

[Not to you.] Obi-Wan countered quietly.

[I won’t let you take him.] The Mandalorian boy spat out, fingers twitching towards the knife at his waist.

[I am aware of what the rumors say about us, but Jedi do not take younglings without the permission of their parents. Doan is in no danger of being kidnapped away. Though I have nothing to offer you but my word -]

[Which is worth nothing, outsider.]

[- I would hope that you would believe that your leader would never allow such a thing.] Obi-Wan continued, keeping his voice low for the sleeping Doan’s sake.

[He’s in your lap.]

[Yes, he is. Your brother is a Force-sensitive, it is only natural he would seek me out. As are you.]

The boy startled, taking a half-step back before catching himself and muting the tell.

Obi-Wan politely ignored it. [Something, I think, that you are already somewhat aware of. You sometimes get a feeling - a ‘gut’ feeling - before something is about to happen. Usually something bad. Maybe you’re considered more lucky than most. Or perhaps, you’re an excellent pilot. Or better at trading or gambling than you fellows. You probably have an excellent read on people, maybe you are even able to tell when they’re lying to you or mean you harm.]

He stood carefully, Doan gathered in his arms, and pointedly ignored the way it made the boy before him draw even tighter.

[You are not as strong as your brother, but strong enough. I imagine you get it from a parent, maybe both.] He held Doan out from his body, staring at the still Mandalorian until he jerkily reached out and took the youngling. [Trust your instincts now, what do they tell you?]

[…stay away from me and my brother.]

Obi-Wan nodded, hands instinctively moving to slip into robe sleeves that were not there. He turned the move into a short bow instead. [As you wish. I have no desire to cause any distress.]

[You don’t distress me, Jedi.] The boy corrected sharply, shifting his cloak around until it covered Doan. [You scare me. Stay away from us.]

Obi-Wan watched them go, waiting until the Mandalorian had disappeared into a yurt before sighing heavily. Being feared was not something Obi-Wan was inexperienced with. No matter what creed they may follow, Jedi were by their very nature powerful. And power often caused fear. He ran a hand over his chin, missing his beard.

[You could have offered him some sort of reassurance.]

From where he was perched up in the tree, nearly invisible amongst the green despite his armor, Jango Fett shrugged before dropping heavily down next to him. [I could have.]

[What, too busy enjoying the show?]

[Don’t be so offended, boy, it’s not like I thought he was going to attack you. Ravi’s got a good head on his shoulders. I’ll speak with him and his mother later.] Jango said, dismissive and unconcerned as he fiddled with something on his wrist pad. [Though you have to admit, he’s got a bit of a point.]

Obi-Wan huffed. [For the last time, Jango, I am not here to steal your children.]

[You see, it’s interesting how you do that.] The Mandalorian leader said after a moment.

[Do what? Consistently try to convince you that my people aren’t state-endorsed kidnappers?]

[No, though the jury’s still on that one kid. No, I meant how you talk about them.] Obi-Wan side-eyed the man, not following. [‘The children.’ ‘The little ones.’ Even Bruck. It’s like you forget your one yourself.]

Obi-Wan froze and then very carefully smoothed the motion into tightening the ties of his jacket. [I suppose I don’t think of myself as child, no.]

Jango snorted. [That’s clear enough. There aren’t many children even in my clan that have the balls to call me ‘Jango’ to my face.]

[Ah,] Obi-Wan said slowly, [if you feel I have been disrespectful in any way, I do apol-]

[Oh, cut the shit, kid.] Jango said, a smirk in his voice. [It’s oddly refreshing.] A large hand clapped his shoulder, sending him stumbling forward. [Have you eaten? I didn’t think so, come on.]

Obi-Wan sent a probe towards Bruck, but the boy was still soundly asleep, and so he followed the man towards his yurt. He stared at the man’s back, expression clear of the sudden unease that filled him. Jango puttered around the yurt, turning up the portable oven as he put a pan of water to boil. He pulled a meal packet from a crate, cracking it in half before setting it on the table as it began to heat up and inflate.

Obi-Wan sat obediently on the floor pillow before it, watching as the grains inside began to swell with the water and heat. Jango had produced caf from somewhere and Obi-Wan accepted the spoon and cup when it was offered. The Mandalorian settled across from him, watching as Obi-Wan sipped the caf and peeled the plastic top of the packet open. He dug into the meal, ignoring the other man the entire time.

[You know, I was surprised when Bruck told me you two hadn’t been friends back at your Temple.]

The spoon paused halfway to Obi-Wan’s lips, brows raising. [You spoke with Bruck? About our childhood?] And when? Of course, Obi-Wan had been giving his young friend some more space since they were in (relevant) safety now. It had been made clear to him already that Bruck didn’t appreciate Obi-Wan hovering.

Jango shrugged. [Our earlier conversation made me curious. I wanted to see what else were lies.]

[And what was truth.] Obi-Wan pointed out shrewdly, certain that Bruck had most likely given more away in that conversation then was probably wise. If he could see his face, Obi-Wan was almost positive Jango would be grinning at him, all teeth.

[That too.]

[And to your question,] Obi-Wan said as he sipped his caf, [no, Bruck and I weren’t very close as it was. Thinking on it now, I suppose it was because we were both far too alike. We both have struggled with our tempers for most of our childhoods.]

A snort. [You’ve been here three days. I can safely that I don’t think either of you as ‘short-tempered.’ At least not compared to the young I’ve got around here.]

[But you have only known us for three days.] The Jedi pointed out. [And it is…different, with the Jedi.]

[Do tell.]

Obi-Wan sent the man an amused look. [You are not subtle.]

[That would be because I’m not trying to be.]

He considered his words, using the moment to add some sugared cream that was resting on the table to his caf. Not wanting to get oats in his drink, he carefully swirled the cup. [Do you remember when Bruck spoke of his childhood before the Temple? How he felt his parents argue?] A nod. [It’s something similar to that. I meant what I told the Doan’s brother, Ravi. The Force is different for every one, it presents differently for every person. But as a whole, we can sense intention. Not always, not always clearly, but we can. We’re not mind readers by any means and in untrained Force-sensitives it’s often seen as just very good instincts.

But when you begin to receive training, you become more in tune with that ability. And when you live closely with other Force-sensitives, like at the Temple, that ability is only honed. In some ways, it makes things much easier. For example, our Creche Master, Master Kant, could often tell when we were upset as children before we even cried. She sensed it. But that can also cause issues. Children can’t moderate what they put out in the Force. Doan has expressed nothing but sheer curiosity. It’s…for lack of a better word, cute.]

It was incredibly endearing, honestly.

[It’s like a brush on the edges of my senses, like seeing a flash of color out the side of the eye, or turning because you thought you heard someone call your name. But if he was to become sad or frightened, or angry? Then that would be a shout. I’ve even heard screams in the Force before.]

Like in the war, when a Jedi fell. Not from the Jedi itself, but their Master, or Padawan, or someone else who held them dear. Obi-Wan stared at his hands, shutting the thought down before it could fully manifest. He envisioned crumpling it up, tossing it far away from him.

[So, when Bruck or myself became angry, everyone felt that anger. It was frightening to the younger children and distributing to the older ones. And with younglings, those types of feelings can be…contagious. One child bursts out laughing and those around him do as well. One has a nightmare and every clan mate experiences that fear. One gets angry, and those around them can become angry as well.

As we get older and mature, learn from our life experiences and grow into ourselves, we learn to moderate those feelings better. We also learn how to develop mental shields so we don’t broadcast our feelings, both for our own privacy and out of politeness. After all, we are only living beings. I certainly don’t want everyone around me to know if I’ve woken up on the wrong side of the bed.]

[Sounds like a hassle.]

Obi-Wan laughed. [You sound surprised; surely you didn’t think it was all hand waving and Jedi mind tricks.]

[I suppose it’s more that you’re telling me this.]

[You asked.]

[And that’s it? I can just ask and you’ll tell me the secrets of the Jedi Order?] Jango’s voice was thick with disbelief.

[These are hardly Order secrets.] Obi-Wan corrected, still utterly amused. [How Force-sensitives works is a well-known fact. There are science books and everything, really. You can buy them off the holo-net if you want, or rent if you like. And most people don’t, you know.]

[Don’t what?]

[Ask.] Obi-Wan answered simply. He cradled his warm cup between his hands. [People see us as some sort of mysterious sect at best, dangerous magicians and child-stealers at worst. Very few people take the time to actually learn what a Jedi is.]

[Everyone knows what a Jedi is.] Jango challenged, leaning forward on the table, arms resting on the distressed and stained finish.

[Everyone knows what a Jedi does.] Obi-Wan said with a scoff. [Though I argue even that, they know very little.]

[And what is a Jedi?]

[Don’t you want to know what we really do? Learn all those ‘Jedi Order secrets?’]

[We can get back to that.]

Obi-Wan laughed again, shaking his head. [I have no doubt you’ll try.]

A gloved finger pointed at him threateningly. [Oi, boy. I’m your Mand’alor.]

[Not,] he stressed, [a Mandalorian.] Jango made a rude gesture with his hands that had him chuckling as he set his caf down. [Any race can be a Jedi,] Obi-Wan began, [there are very few known races that can’t produce enough midi-chlorians to create one. Midi-chlorians are microscopic organisms found in blood. They form a symbiotic relationship with their hosts. Those who have higher counts are Force-sensitives.]

[I know this, Obi-Wan.]

[I’m sorry, you didn’t specify.]

[Assume that I did have some schooling, please.]

[Alright, I won’t delve into the science too much then. The stronger the Force-sensitive is, the more - well, I suppose the best word for it is visible, they are to Jedi. Bruck was correct; many Jedi younglings are found by Jedi on missions. More often by members of our Service Corps then by Jedi Knights or Masters. Our Service Corps consist of several branches; Agricultural, which Bruck and I are members of, Educational, Medical, and Exploration.

They’re dispatched all over, usually wherever they’re needed the most. Our Education and Exploration has the highest level of foundings if I’m remembering correctly. When a youngling is found, their blood is tested. If their midi-chlorians count is high enough, the family is offered a choice to send the child to the Temple. Once there, they are assigned to a clan of similar age mates and a Creche Master, who raises them.

When they reach an appropriate age for their species, they may be taken by a Knight or Master as a Padawan. However, like with Bruck and I, if we have not found a master by the time we reach our ‘age out’ year for our species, we are assigned to one of the Corps. Purely voluntary, mind you. We are offered the chance to return to our families, or to go to a higher learning or trade school with tuition paid, or simply go off on our own. Jedi younglings who are chosen, may eventually become Knight. A Knight may then become a Master, though some choose to never have a lineage. All of these things are what - on paper - make a Jedi. But that isn’t what the Jedi really are.]

[And what is that?]

Obi-Wan shrugged. [A family.]

[I thought you Jedi weren’t allowed to have families.]

[Not in the way you’re thinking, no. Jedi do not marry, but even that is not a truth across the board. Several races that come to Jedi are allowed to marry. Some because they are endangered, others because it was a statue of why they were allowed to become Jedi. Master Ki-Adi-Mundi has two or three wives at the moment I believe; the Cerean are a critically endangered race. Several Corellian Jedi are currently in talks with the Jedi Council about allowing marriage for them; the Corellian’s produce very strong Force-sensitives families and marriage is a critical part of their culture. They consider it a human right.

What you are asking about is ‘attachment.’ It’s a…difficult subject to explain.] Obi-Wan admitted. [Attachment itself isnt’s forbidden, neither romantic or familial love. Several Jedi take lovers, even life partners from both inside the Order and outside of it. And we refer to Master-Padawan lines as ‘lineages.’ For instance, if I was to have a Master, their master would be my Grandmaster. Any other apprentices my grandmaster took would be my master’s ‘padawan-brothers’ or ‘padawan-sisters,’ and so on. What Jedi are expected to do is accept that life is outside of our control. And that change is a natural and vital, uncontrollable, aspect of it. Death is a natural part of the life cycle, we must be able to let those we love go. Attachment is only forbidden when a Jedi chooses to protect the attachment over a mission or the Will of the Force, when it becomes possession. Such things are often…disastrous.]

Obi-Wan couldn’t possibly not think of Anakin in the moment. He had known for nearly as long as it had been going on that his padawan and Padmé were involved. He would have had to be blind not too. He had kept silent, for both of their sakes. Anakin's own future aside, the scandal of having a Jedi lover could be ruinous for Padmé as well and she was one of the few politicians that Obi-Wan had every honestly respected. She had been a force for good in what had seemed like such a rapidly darkening world. He had hoped that Anakin would come to him, had waited for him to do so. But he never had, and Obi-Wan knew why he did not. Now that it had all come to pass, now that Anakin was as far removed from him as a dream, Obi-Wan could be brutally honest.

The Council would never have approved of Anakin having a wife; they were far too concerned about his abilities as a Jedi. Perhaps it had been the beginnings as a slave, or leaving his mother behind, or the war stunting his growth, but Anakin had never matured. Or maybe it was just that Obi-Wan had sheltered him too much, too desperately. But even he knew that Anakin would never have chosen anything over Padmé.

If he had been wise, Obi-Wan would have forced the issue. Anakin would have been furious at being forced into an ultimatum - because that was what it would have been. The Jedi or his marriage. Anakin could not have had both, he was not capable of having both. There was not room enough in Anakin’s heart and he could not have both. But Obi-Wan had thought there’d be more time, he always thought there would be more time. After the war, he’d thought they could sit down and talk about options. He had wanted to protect Anakin, even from himself. Instead, Obi-Wan had only managed to isolate his padawan and drive him even further into the grip of a Sith.

But, a part of him whispered, caught in the wave of honest self-realization, what a deeply selfish boy.

And that was a truth in itself and just as painful as any of the hard ones Obi-Wan accepted about himself. Because he loved Anakin, the boy had been a son to him. And no parent likes to look at their child and realize that they are truly, deeply, irrecoverably, flawed. Damaged. A damaged, selfish child, who had made selfish, damaged choices because he had been unwilling to let go of anything he wanted even if it meant destroying everything he had ever loved.

Obi-Wan had never let himself acknowledge it.

It felt both like his heart being torn in two and yet being freed from some of the terrible weight it carried.

He realized all at once that he had been silent for far too long. Far too silent and far too lost in his thoughts, in a yurt, with Jango Fett. Obi-Wan took a sip of his now lukewarm caf. The Mandalorian was watching him, intent.

[We have a saying, in the Jedi.] Obi-Wan continued, ignoring the weight of unvoiced questions that seemed to be hovering around Jango, [‘Our family is small, but it is our own.’ We come from every race, every gender and sex. You can leave at any time, yet in the last two thousand years only nineteen ever have. We follow a code that guides our actions and behaviors: There is no emotion, there is peace. There is no ignorance, there is knowledge. There is no passion, there is serenity. There is no chaos, there is harmony. There is no death, there is the Force.

But I have always preferred the simpler one we learn as younglings: Emotion, yet peace. Ignorance, yet knowledge. Passion, yet serenity. Chaos, yet harmony. Death, yet the Force . We do not kill unarmed opponents, in fact we try to avoid taking a life whenever possible. We do not seek revenge, we value compassion above all else. We strive for emotional control and stoicism, but only to protect us from feelings of fear and anger, jealousy and greed, which can prove fatal to a Jedi.]

[Fatal, how? Are you speaking of the Dark Jedi, Xanatos?]

[In part.] Obi-Wan agreed, not surprised that Jango would focus on the Dark Jedi. Both Jango and Jax had zeroed in on the man as a possible threat when his role in Bruck and Obi-Wan’s kidnapping had come to light. [He was unable to let his father and sister go, nor the avarice that came with being an heir apparent to a planet, and that attachment lead to his fall to the Darkside.]

[Is he dangerous?]

[Xanatos?] Obi-Wan clarified, brows popping up high, [yes, very. But not to you and yours. I doubt Bruck or myself are even a thought. We were always only a means to getting his former Master’s attention. The chances he would even care enough to track us here are slim.]

But not impossible. Yet if that was to happen, Obi-Wan would not leave the Mandalorians to the man’s mercy. Even if he was without a lightsaber (and wasn’t that a constant grate to his nerves) he was hardly defenseless. And the chance that Qui-Gon wouldn’t be following on Xanatos’ heels was even slimmer.

[And the difference between a Sith and a Dark Jedi? A Dark Jedi and a Jedi?]

Obi-Wan laughed. [Now that, we don’t have time to delve into I’m afraid.]

[And why-]

The door to the yurt swung open as someone knocked on it. Bruck’s head popped in, looking sheepish. “Sorry,” the boy said, hair messy and still somewhat sleepy, “knocked a little harder than I meant.”

Bruck’s eyes zeroed in on the half-eaten food packet. Obi-Wan rolled his eyes, but held it out to him. “Go on, finish it off. Then go wash your face, you look terrible.”

Bruck threw him a dirty look but took the packet and retreated from the yurt, grumbling uncharitably underneath his breath the whole time. “You may ask me as many questions as you wish and I will try to answer them the best I can, but I would like something in return from you.”

“My food and a roof over your head is not enough?”

“My, I never knew the Manda’lor to be so stingy.” Obi-Wan quipped as he stood.

Jango scoffed. “Please, that’s practically in the job description. Fine, brat. What do you want?”

“I have told you about the Jedi, now I want to know about your people.”

“What, the Mandalorians?”

“No.” Obi-Wan said, “the True Mandalorians. Tell me who your people are - who they really are. Not what they say you are, not what you want them to be. Who they are.” He switched to Mando’a, aware of Bruck standing only a few feet away, eating ferociously. [And why I should even consider letting Bruck stay here if he wishes it.]

Because Obi-Wan would have to have been blind not to catch all the hints Jax had been dropping over the last few days.

[Just Bruck? Your own people don't hold any appeal to you?]

[These are not my people, Jango.]

[You have no master, you won’t even become a Knight.]

[I’ll be a Jedi]

[You’d be a farmer.]

[I am a Jedi, Jango.] Obi-Wan repeated evenly, meeting the man’s hidden gaze directly. [I will be nothing else, no more than you would ever be anything but a Mandalorian. And I have much to do.]

Jango watched him for a long moment, arms crossed. [You’re right; you’re not a child.]

[I never claimed to be.] Obi-Wan said with a shrug, finishing his caf and setting the empty cup on the table. [I look forward to our next meeting.]

---

Jax stumbled into his nephew’s yurt in the late hours of the morning, yawning loudly into his fist. He was unsurprised to find his nephew sitting up waiting for him, his helmet resting by his side at the table, a blaster within reach. An bottle of Galidraan wine was open, two cups already filled and waiting. Jax sunk into the floor pillow, taking a long drink of the alcohol.

[Did you get it?]

Jax grunted, sliding the information chit across the table. [The latest information. The Governor’s been recording the insurrection movements for some time and believes he’s almost ready. A week, maybe two. Every thing’s in there. And an advance on some of the payment. Should feed the clan for a month or so.]

Jango made a pleased noise, reaching out to take the chit. Jax grabbed his hand, catching his nephew’s brown eyes and holding them.

[I don’t like this, kid. It sits wrong.]

Jango stared back at him for a moment before pulling away. [We don’t have a lot of options, uncle. We need enough supplies to get to the sister-camps, then to get back to the home system.]

[I know, I know.] And Jax did; the Republic had been putting some serious pressure on them. It had become a fact that anyone who dealt with the True Mandalorians had a fifty-fifty chance of experiencing some sort of backlash from the Republic if they found out. They’d done the same with Death Watch, so it was not so much as them taking a side as it was the normal anti-Mandalorian bullshit. But it hade made the job leads thinner than usual. [Still, somethings off. Just…let me look into it, okay?]

Jango sighed, running a hand through his hair. [Fine. But if you haven’t found anything by the time the command comes, we go. Got it?]

[Got it.] Jax agreed. He reached out, tugging at his nephew’s bangs. [Hair’s getting long; Jaster would be spinning in his grave if he had one. I’ll cut it for you tomorrow. How were the boys?] Now, that was an unexpected reaction. Jango leaned back in his seat, taking a long drink from his wine, expression something complicated. [What? That bad? What they do, get in a fight? Set something on fire? Get sold into slavery again?]

[No,] Jango shook his head, [they’re stupidly well behaved for thirteen-year-olds.]

[Jedi.] Jax said with a snort, though he couldn’t deny he was fond of them both. He liked them before, but he’d only grown even fonder of them over the last few days of sharing a yurt with them.

[I had an interesting conversation with Obi-Wan today.]

[Yeah?] Jango didn’t answer, studying the yurt’s roof. [Well, kriff kid, don’t leave me in suspense.]

That earned him an annoyed look, one that Jax was rather proud of. He worked long and hard to learn how to put that particular look on his nephew’s face. […you can have Bruck, but I want Obi-Wan.]

Jax almost choked on his wine, coughing harshly before scrubbing at his mouth and chin with his sleeve. [You know I won’t object to that, but why the change of opinion?]

[The kid’s some kind of prodigy. He’s not just mature, he’s incredibly smart. You know I’ve never really wanted kids, don’t have the patience for them. But Obi-Wan isn’t a kid, not really, he’s too smart for that, it was like talking with an adult.] Jango made a face of disgust. [He’s wasted on the Jedi.]

[I’m not going to disagree on that,] Jax said slowly, eyeing his nephew like a particularly odd puzzle, [but you got all that out of one conversation?]

[It was a hell of a conversation.] Jango mused, lips pursed. [I haven’t figured him out completely yet, but he’s caught my attention.] Which, knowing Jango, would either be a very good or very bad thing for Obi-Wan. [You were right, he’d be a good addition to the family clan; a strong addition. We’re the last, you and I. If anything happens to us, we need someone strong to carrying on Jaster’s will. And you’ll have your hands full with Bruck.]

Jax paused but nodded, knowing it was true. [You do realize we haven’t asked either one of them, correct? They could say no. And the Jedi could still come for them, lightsabers blazing. All things that you pointed out to me, no less.]

Jango smiled a strange smile, before leaning over to refill both their cups. [They’re not here yet. We have time.]

Notes:

When you write it out, the Mandalorians and the Jedi have a ton in common (and a ton of differences). And yet again - time travel was not the first thing that came to mind when dealing with Obi-Wan. Thankfully for him, Occam's Razor comes into play here a lot. Lots of philosophy and background information/world building in this one, hope it didn't bore you guys.

Keep in mind that Obi-Wan's views will always be more forgiving of the Jedi. He sees they have issues and flaws but they are his people and he's a product of his environment. Also, he just watched them all get slaughtered at the Temple like a month ago, so it's very fresh. He's moving through the stages of grief in the (very few) times he lets himself think about Anakin. He really hasn't even begun to process things, we haven't even begun to touch the pile of trauma in Obi-Wan's mind that is 'Anakin' related.

I personally believe that Anakin was not a great fit for the Jedi. To be honest, in the books he is never treated like the Chosen One by the other Jedi, so it isn't about some sort of pressure put on him from that front. He knows of it from Obi-Wan and Qui-Gon, but the other Jedi don't believe he's one. They're also very invested and concerned, distrustful even, over his training when he's younger because he has a heaping pile of trauma already at a young age, and as is seen in the books/movies/comics, doesn't like talking about it. Which makes sense, because he's terribly independent (as he should be with his past) by the time he comes to the Jedi. But that means he never learns to trust the Jedi, because he was a slave and always distrusts people in power. No matter what attempts to get him to open up with the Jedi trainers and other Masters, it never happens. Even with Obi-Wan.

If he had been allowed to be in a youngling clan he probably would have built up more trust with the Jedi, but skipped to Padawan stage, which was a bad fit. Anakin is a complicated character. He's been failed by and fails a lot of characters. He has a complex trauma background, one that highlights independence and hiding weakness, but is then placed in an Order that values openness and has a level of communal empathy. You can see Anakin responds to this by both bonding with his fellow Jedi, but also keeping his independence and deeply seated fear of being out of control and power figures by learning to hide what he doesn't want shown. He is both offered the right kind of help and the wrong kind by the Jedi, and for the most part rejects them all.

He is both incredibly selfish and not. Trauma often stalls certain area of development, like emotional maturity. Not just childhood trauma, but also with combat veterans. Have you ever meet a soldier/marine and been like, wow, this dude feels like he's 18? Like, he is not immature, but he just feels younger than he is. I think he would have made it just fine if hadn't been for Palpatine. He would have either stayed a Jedi or left like the Lost 20 did. Eventually, without the war and without the Sith's influence, I believe Anakin would have been in a place where he would have made that decision. The Lost 20 didn't even have it that bad. They kept their lightsabers and their training, and were often still close to the Order. They were only an issue if they fell to the darkside or did something illegal. But Palpatine manipulated Anakin into thinking not only that he didn't have to choose, but he shouldn't have to choose.

Which is stupid, because in life as an adult you don't get everything you want. On top of that, he played upon Anakin's very real fear of death, loss, and grief - Anakin constantly struggles with the most common of all life's experiences: you can control very little in life, which is scary on it's own but to someone with the kind of PTSD both Anakin and Obi-Wan have is scary af. Anakin was looking for a magic third option which would allow him to get all he wanted but would make him feel the least amount of vulnerable. He just didn't really understand (or didn't let himself understand) that his wife wasn't going to go along with it. And then he'd made his bed and pride kept him going. Anakin is a sad story. No one person or institution failed Anakin and no one could have saved him from himself.

No matter what scars he had, he chose the Sith and genocide (and he didn't just wipe out the Jedi but other races during his times as Vader). He had a tragic life story, but he choose not to accept the help offered to him, not to ask/seek the help he needed when he wasn't getting it. As an adult, it's on you to get the mental health help you need. Speaking from experience here. And Anakin was ultimately an adult. There are billions of people who have terrible beginnings and lives and don't become murders or a Hitler like figure. He had a million choices he could have made that would have gotten him what he wanted. He chose his path.

Chapter 16: Galidraan, Part 3

Notes:

My god, did this chapter fight me. I think because I just really wanted to write the one that comes up next.

Obi-Wan and Bruck awoke to organized chaos. The sounds had awoken them both and the boys exchanged a look before stepping out of the yurt with synchronized urgency. Around them the majority of the yurts were either torn down or in the process of being so. Mandalorian’s rushed to-and-fro, arms full of cargo boxes or long hard fabric cases (Obi-Wan rather though they were the yurt components) and other supplies. One older looking Mandalorian woman, clad only in her helmet, was leading a line of small bovidae creatures behind her.

Jango and Jax were standing off together, heads tilted down as they studied a galactic chart. The hologram was closed the moment the boys began to move towards them and Obi-Wan felt a suspicion curl in his chest. Jax greeted them with a cheerful, “Good morning, boys!”

“Good morning. Are we, uh, going somewhere?” Bruck asked, sounding as unnerved by the prospect as Obi-Wan felt. They couldn’t leave; the tracking beacon Obi-Wan wasn’t supposed to know about would have been traced by the Order by now. If they left now, who knew how long it would take before their fellow Jedi found them.  

“Yes and no.” Jango said briskly as he accepted a tablet from a young runner, the girl so green her entire armor was made from standard materials and not beskar. He nodded at the youth before handing the tablet back. [Good, leave as soon as you’ve finished.] Then to Obi-Wan and Bruck, “the clan’s relocating, you two are not.”

“You’re leaving us here?” Bruck exclaimed, sounding a bewildering mix of concerned, relieved, and insulted. Obi-Wan – who had about to voice his own hypothesis on the situation – paused, staring at his friend from the corner of his eye. Would Bruck have been disappointed to be left behind? That thought and its implications deserved more time and thorough thought he could give it at the moment and Obi-Wan shelved it for a more appropriate time.

“Of course, we aren’t,” Jax said with a laugh, reaching out to ruffle Bruck’s hair, “like I let troublemakers like you two out of my sight. But it’s getting a bit too cold to keep the clan here. They’ll move on to a better planet and we’ll meet up later.”

“You don’t want them here.” Obi-Wan corrected, “either because of the tracking fob and possibility of Jedi arrival, or some other reason.”

Jango cocked his head to the side. “Some other reason?”

Obi-Wan shrugged, watching with admiration at just how fast the Mandalorian’s were deconstructing their camp and loading it into the small fleet of light cruisers, shuttles, and other small transport crafts. “A job, perhaps.”

Jango made a humming noise in response. “Despite your pretty words, I have not intention of keeping the clan here should your Jedi arrive. In case you missed it, the Republic aren’t our biggest fans.”

“The Jedi aren’t the Republic.” Bruck said, brows furrowed and then continued on defensively at Jax’s snort of disbelief. “I mean - we work closely with them, but we’re not the same.”

“So you say.” Jango said dryly. Bruck looked to him, baffled and clearly for support, but Obi-Wan said nothing; he knew better than most how tightly wound the Jedi and Republic had become. The Mand’alor gestured over his shoulder. “As it is, we’ll be moving further into the continent. It’ll be a hard hike, you two will need to keep up.”

“We can keep up.” Obi-Wan assured, relieved that they would be leaving the planet.

“See that you do.” Jango said curtly, before striding off, Jax as his side.

Next to him, Bruck shifted uncomfortably. “That was weird.” Obi-Wan hummed non-committedly, “and a job? What kind of job do you think?”

“I have no idea; the type of job a Mandalorian would take.” Obi-Wan answered.

“That…” Bruck paused, chewing on his bottom lip, “that doesn’t exactly fill me with a lot of confidence, Obi-Wan. I mean, you know the rumors as well as I do.”

Obi-Wan just nodded, turning back towards their yurt. “We don’t have much a choice other than comply, I’m afraid.”

“Yeah, I know.” Bruck huffed as turned to follow, “that doesn’t mean I have to like it.”

---

“So, you’re Jedi, huh?”

From where he had been watching the bustle of the small camp with Bruck, Obi-Wan glanced up at the hulking Mandalorian that stood before him. His armor was mostly olive green, with dark navy details and bore the same eight-pointed star on his right breast that the boy, Ravi, had. Two others stood behind him, both baring different clan emblems. His voice tagged him a few years older than himself or Bruck, though without seeing his face it was impossible to tell. Obi-Wan took one look at the set of his shoulders, the planted feet, and the tilted angle of his helmet that somehow still managed to drip disdain despite its featureless quality, and bit back a sigh.

“And what of it?” Bruck asked, voice defiant, rising from where he’d been sitting on a supply crate to square up to the newcomer. Obi-Wan fought the urge to rub his eyes, already tired of the conversation. Teenagers. Sometimes, Obi-Wan missed adult company intensely.

“You don’t look like much to me,” the Mandalorian said with a snort, crossing his arms. “I thought Jedi were supposed to be impressive; you’re just little kids.”

Bruck all but puffed up, a scowl on his face. Obi-Wan nudged his calf with his boot. “Ignore him. We’re guests here, Bruck.”

“And what are you, his mother?” The Mandalorian said with a snarl.

“I can’t imagine how.” Obi-Wan answered. [May I ask why you’re trying to start a fight?]

The Mandalorian made a dismissive motion with his hand, his fist curling as he threw it over his shoulder. “Just because you know our language doesn’t make you one us, outsider.”

“I never said it did.” Obi-Wan said calmly, reaching out and urging a tense Bruck to sit down by the back of his coat. “I have made no claim on being Mandalorian, I apologize if you’ve heard otherwise.”

“You enjoy hearing yourself talk, don’t you?”

“Perhaps, yet you seem to be the one determined to maintain this conversation.” Obi-Wan pointed out. “If this is about Doan, I’ve already spoken with your clansman.”

A gloved hand flew out, but Obi-Wan was already ducking out of reach of the punch, a shove sending Bruck in the opposite direction. “Don’t say his name, you don’t deserve it.”

Obi-Wan watched the angry boy speculatively from where he was crouched, but before he could try to defuse the situation any further, Bruck let out a choked sound and the Force suddenly grew heavy and thick with his friend’s distress. Obi-Wan’s head snapped to him, thoroughly alarmed and alert by the change, but Bruck was unharmed. He stood, skin bleached of any color, staring at the Mandalorian.

“Where did you get that?” His voice sounded strangled, horrified, and Obi-Wan’s brows furrowed in confusion. But before he could ask his question, the Mandalorian was chuckling, dark and mean, his hand reaching behind the left curve of his waist.

“You mean this?”

Obi-Wan stared.

The lightsaber was unfamiliar, it’s shine faded and dulled with time, the metal of his hilt scuffed and scratched. It had a single hand grip, the patterned leather the only interruption to the saber’s smooth, elegant lines.

“How do you think I got it?”

Bruck’s eyes were locked on the lightsaber, wide eyed. Then abruptly they narrowed, his blue eyes turning hard. “You’re lying. What did you do? Steal it off a dead Jedi? Buy it somewhere?”

“No, baby Jedi, I’m not.”

“No,” Obi-Wan murmured, “he’s right. You are lying.” A jerk of his hand sending the lightsaber flying from the Mandalorian’s startled grip and into his own. There was a jolt of emotion and images; the feeling of being surrounded, the sound of blasters firing, shouts, pain, the feeling of weight on his chest, and a calm acceptance, a bittersweet knowing. Obi-Wan took a deep breath, forcing his shoulders to sink down from where they’d ridden high up in response to the onslaught. “The Jedi that bore this was old. They were...” his head cocked to the side, chasing the fading feeling, “crushed? A cave-in…not on this planet though. Somewhere hot. And humid. Oceanic?”  

“How could you possibly know that?” The Mandalorian sounded spooked. Obi-Wan ignored him, turning the saber over and examining it, trying to see if there were any identifying marks he could report back to the Temple.

“A Jedi’s lightsaber is not just a weapon; it is an extension of their self.” He explained distractedly. “We make our lightsabers very young; some designs come in dreams, other through meditation, and one of our first trials as a Jedi youngling is to seek out a Kyber crystal – the crystal that focus the energy into a blade and gives it color. It took ages before I felt mine call out to me; I honestly began to fear I wouldn’t find one.”

“Yeah,” Bruck said, still sounding off-balanced, “I remember that. It took you so long in the caves they sent Master Yoda to check on you.”

“The crystals are semi-sentient, capable of communing with the Force and through it, their Jedi. And Jedi are rarely separated from their lightsabers - even in death, it is usually burned alongside them. It is not unheard of for the crystal to carry a memory of the wielder.”

“What?” The Mandalorian’s voice hitched higher. “Like a soul?”

“Something like that.” Obi-Wan said slowly, running his fingers over the hilt in an almost caress. “More of an impression, an imprint. As I said, the crystals as somewhat sentient - it shared a bond of a kind with its previous owner.” Ignoring Bruck’s choked sound of denial, Obi-Wan held the saber back out to the Mandalorian. “May I ask what planet you found this on?”

The Mandalorian ignored the offered lightsaber. Besides him, one of his fellows hissed something in Mando’a that Obi-Wan had never heard before, at least not strung together as they were. It translated loosely to something like ‘ill-won-gains,’ or perhaps ‘cursed-won-gains.’ Either could be correct; just because the first sounded more grammatically stable hardly meant he was translating right.

“Keep it,” Ravi’s clan member grit out, hands curled tightly by his side. [I have no need for such a thing.]    

He spun on his heel, stalking off. Ignoring the gob-smacked mutterings of Bruck besides him, Obi-Wan called out. [Wait, please. The planet?]

[Why do you want to know?]

Obi-Wan frowned, lips pursed in disapproval. [I would see the Jedi buried, in the way of my kind. Would you deny me that?]

There was a heartbeat of silence, then, [I bought it.]

Then he was striding away. Obi-Wan pursed his lips, before glancing down at the lightsaber. He turned it gently in his hand, before flicking the button on. An amber blade shot forth, casting a pillar of heat onto his face. Sighing, Obi-Wan shut the saber off and clipped it to his belt. “He bought it, I’m afraid we won’t be able to send the body’s location to the Temple.”

Bruck let out a frustrated sound before pausing. “Hold on. Why do you get to keep the lightsaber?”

“Hm? Because the Mandalorian gave it to me.”

“Oh yeah,” Bruck muttered despondently, “that’s fair.”

“Perfectly.” Obi-Wan agreed, then ducked the disgruntled shove.

---

The blue and white aura of hyperspace cast the small room in an eerie light. The Force flowed freely through the craft, alight with so many strong users in once place. Feemor observed it with a detached fascination; with the addition of Qui-Gon and Rael, as well as Laze Washett and Darrad Subra from Bandomeer, the number had been brought up to an even twenty. It was the largest grouping of Jedi for a single mission that Feemor had ever heard of – at least in modern times.

The Republic had received a desperate call for help from the governor of Galidraan; the True Mandalorians had been slaughtering political activists – including non-combatants and entire families that were associated with the activist. The Republic, aware of the strength of any Mandalorian in mass, much less those as thoroughly well-trained and battle-hardened as the True Mandalorians, had sent out an emergency mission request to the Temple. When Laze Washett’s report of Obi-Wan Kenobi and Bruck Chun being kidnapped by a Mandalorian and then transported to Galidraan, the Jedi’s concerned had only heightened. Within twelve hours, the strike force was on its way.

Though Feemor had readily volunteered for this mission, he had felt…uneasy, about this mission. Though if this was because of the mission or other factors, Feemor was unsure. While he understood the urgency, a part of him was disquieted that the entire mission had been planned and enacted in less than a day. Such things usually took much longer; days, if not months. This gave the Jedi Shadows a chance to slip in, investigate the legitimacy of the need. But the Chancellor himself had requested it, Feemor argued with himself, surely that spoke of the truthfulness of the need. But the quickness of it all left him…concerned. If it had been added to because of the kidnapping, Feemor was sure he would have felt better about it all. But the mission had been in motion before they’d even found out about Obi-Wan and Bruck.

Perhaps it wasn’t the mission at all. Feemor sighed, resting his head against the cool window. It had been so, so long since he’d purposely chosen to be in Qui-Gon Jinn’s presence. He had known the moment that Obi-Wan Kenobi had been announced as kidnapped that he’d find a way onto the mission roster, and if it had meant resigning as a guard and begging blatant nepotism from his grandmaster and great-grandmaster, then so be it. Because Obi-Wan Kenobi had not left his thoughts, not for a single night since the boy had left the Temple. Feemor may be young and foolish and fair weather, and all the other things that a disappointed Rollin Dral may have called him when he handed his mask and resignation to the Guard Captain, but he had never been blind to the call of the Force. And for whatever reason, it wanted him to go to Obi-Wan Kenobi.

Feemor was sure of it and after a long conversation with Cin, his Commander seemed to see it too. Why else would he have released Feemor from his oaths despite his second's vocal complaints?

“Such deep thoughts, my boy.” The blond jolted slightly, before turning to give his grandmaster a small smile. Master Dooku returned it, stepping further into the viewing room. “What troubles you?”

Feemor let out a breath. “That’s just it, I’m not sure. Several things.”

“I see.” Unlike Qui-Gon, Feemor had always had a cordial relationship with the older Jedi. “I can see that they weigh on you; I would gladly listen to them all should you wish to share.”

“I…” Feemor twisted his lips, stopping to gather his thoughts. “The mission, for one. I understand why we need to go and I’m hardly disagreeing with it, but it feels rushed.”

“Hm.” Yan said quietly, the sound neither a disagreement or agreement, his eyes studying Feemor’s face. He was hardly surprised; Master Dooku was always a man who was hard to read, keeping his emotions under lock and key. Feemor supposed it was on of the reason why he and Qui-Gon had struggled to get along, but he himself had always been a bit more of a roll-with-it kind of guy. He’d never seen the other man’s quietness as coldness or apathy; it was just how Yan was. To his surprise though, the white-haired Jedi nodded once. “Yes, I quite agree.”

“You do?”

“I do.” Yan said, lips twitching in amusement at Feemor’s visible shock. “Don’t look so surprised, you know few in my line see eye-to-eye with the Council. But the mission is not all, is it? Perhaps young Kenobi? Or,” and here the master’s eyes grew serious and dark, and Feemor dropped his gaze to stare at his eyes, aware of what was coming, “or perhaps it is the presence of your former master.”

Feemor nodded slowly, mouth dry. “I…admit…that’s part of it.”

Another thoughtful sound. A warm hand rested on his shoulder. “Speak with him, Feemor. It will do you both good, I believe.”

“No, I…” He shifted, swallowing against a suddenly tight throat, “no, I wouldn’t want to make him uncomfortable.”

A scoff. “A little discomfort would do him good, do you both good. You’ve both been running from this for far too long as it is. Think on it, Feemor. It is always best to bury old ghosts then it is to carry them around.”

And with that, his grandmaster swept gracefully from the room.

---

“Kriffing hells, I thought Lon was pulling my leg. He really did give you a lightsaber.” Jax barked out, sounding alarmed. Obi-Wan paused from where he was adjusting the supply ladened pack on his back. The assassin pointed at him aggressively again. “Don’t give me those doe-eyes, kid. You really should have come and told me about it yourself.”

Obi-Wan cocked his head to the side. “Is there some reason I shouldn’t have it?”

“No one is saying that.” Jango slid into the conversation smoothly from where he was adjusting Bruck’s pack straps. “But don’t pretend you can’t do an immense amount of damage with that.”

“Yes, I rather can.” He agreed, kicking the toes of his boots into the ground to adjust them. They were slightly too big, which would be annoying, but he’d tightened the straps as far as they went, so it was what it was. “So could Bruck for that matter.”

“I’m aware.” Jango said dryly. “Which brings us back to the original question. Why didn't you tell us?”

“One of your own gave it to me, so I assumed he would tell you - which he did.” Obi-Wan answered, “one of Ravi and Doan’s clan. And in all fairness, I did offer it back.”

“He did.” Bruck agreed, shifting his head to the side and cracking his neck. “He didn’t want it back.”

Obi-Wan nodded and at Jax’s probing, dutifully repeated the conversation. “That word he used, you’ll have to forgive me. It seems my vocabulary is not as proficient as I thought it was.”

The Mandalorians exchanged a look.

“Weapons, especially personal ones, are tightly tied to a family line. Or a clan at the very least. Weapons can be passed down through generations, same with armor. That word, it refers to a…” Jax paused and Jango picked up the explanation.

“A taboo. You said the Jedi’s soul was in the lightsaber?” The Mandalore’s voice sounded skeptical.

“No,” Bruck said with a sigh, “that’s not what he said. Obi-Wan said a memory, an impression; he was very clear on that. Like he said, Kyber crystals are semi-aware. They’re drenched in the Force, kind of like – uh, a tree.”

“The crystal – a rock – is like a tree.”

Obi-Wan’s lips quirked at Jango’s flat tone. “The Force exists in every living thing, even if it’s not what we would consider sentient, and they give off a signature in it. The more complex the living thing is, the more complex the signature is. Jedi and extremely developed Force sensitives can read them. For example, you don’t believe a thing Bruck and I are saying. You, Jax, are somewhat unnerved, but I can sense that you’re distracted.”

“Not mind-readers, right, sell me another one.” The older man hissed, crossing both arms over himself.

Obi-Wan chuckled lightly. “I never said I have any idea what it was. There is something more simpler-minded in the trees to our left that is hungry. A small animal, it’s concerned it can’t find…something, probably a food store. And it doesn’t like all the noise we’re making – but it’s projecting loudly. That tree,” he pointed to a large pine nearby, “I am aware that it’s there. It’s younger than it’s neighbors, but healthy. Content. It’s not mind reading, it’s more like empathy; impressions leaked through the Force. It’s often how Bruck and myself can tell when someone is lying. You two, the animal, and the tree have vastly different depths of your signatures.”

Jango's helm tilted in a distinctly mocking way. “Now the tree has emotions.”

“No that’s not –” Bruck paused, frustrated, before running a hand through his hair. “It’s like trying to explain color to someone who’s color-blind.”

Obi-Wan let out a quiet sound of agreement. “The simplest way I can put it is that Kyber crystals – like Jedi – are by their very nature are deeply attuned to the Force. They are semi self-aware and resonate with certain Jedi. Some Jedi may only find one in a lifetime, others may find several. But once they are placed in a lightsaber, they align with the Jedi wielding them – like, hm, attaining a similar frequency. Given the amount of time they spend with that Jedi, it’s hardly unusual that strong emotional moments may be imprinted on the crystal’s psyche.”

“Psyche.” Jax repeated, dully.

“When something major happens in a place, sometimes there can be…like…an echo, that can influence things that don’t have traditional thought processes like rocks or Kyber crystals.” Bruck explained, brows furrowed. “You ever heard of places that are haunted? Or walked into a room and just known something bad happened there? Force echoes can take a lot of different forms. Some are just that – echoes, like fully formed memories that repeat. Some are just feelings or uh, like – smells. There is a place in the Temple where there was a battle against the Sith. The Sacking of Coruscant, in the Old Republic.”

“The Sith Empire had driven the Republic to nearly ruin. The Mandalore at the time,” Obi-Wan added carefully, overly aware of the Commandos gathered around them, “Mandalore the Avenger, lowered the planetary shields and allowed the Sith Armada to invade. They slaughtered every Jedi they could find, from the elderly to the younglings. Our order would not have survived had there not been auxiliary Temples on other worlds.”

“A Vizla.” Jax announced, distaste heavy in his voice, “the Watch has no allies here.”

The Mandalorian Commandos around them murmured their agreement, but whether that had more to do with the current tensions with that clan and less to do with the wholesale slaughter of the Jedi that had occurred was up for debate. Obi-Wan considered this as he shifted the weight of his own pack. It was eerie how history repeated itself; had Anakin not marched upon the Temple’s steps and repeated Darth Malgus’ actions some three thousand years later? The spark of sorrow he felt at that thought – the memory of watching the security vids – of seeing the boy he loved like a son cut down younglings – of ordering the death of even the infants and toddlers in the nurseries was so sharp that Bruck’s head snapped to stare at him, eyes wide.

Thankfully, the boy misconstrued the feeling.

“There’s a Force impression in a classroom near one of the windows,” Bruck said, eyes still sharp and locked on Obi-Wan’s face, “used to send Obi-Wan and another one of our clanmates into these screaming nightmares. I never saw anything, but I guess a master died there. The worst I ever got was this terrible smell of flesh burning.”

“Why not remove the window?” Jax asked, voice strained.

“The window wasn’t the issue.” Obi-Wan explained evenly. “The master died defending a creche of younglings, she died in pure desperation. The weight of that death left an impression behind in the very stones upon which the Temple was built.”

“Then remove the stone,” Jax insisted, sounding almost disgusted.

Obi-Wan gave the man a wan smile. “The Temple is built upon an ancient Force nexus, there is no guaranteeing removing the stones would have removed the impression. No, I was taught how to process what I felt instead.”

“That sounds unhealthy,” Jax said sharply.

“Perhaps,” Obi-Wan agreed, “but it prepared me well for life. These types of things aren’t limited to just the death of Force users. Any being could leave these echoes behind; it is better I was taught how to process my sensitivity young then be unprepared for it later in life.”

“Pragmatic.” Jango agreed.

“We Jedi often are. Which returns us to Kyber crystals.”

[I don’t see how,] one of the Commandos grumbled, [bloody space wizards.]

Obi-Wan laughed. “Kyber crystals, due to their nature, are more likely to carry these type of Force echoes with the Jedi they’ve bonded with. They’re deeply attuned with their wielder. As I told you, a Jedi is rarely separated from their lightsaber outside of death. And even when they are, they can only build another lightsaber with a crystal that resonates with them. This saber resonates with me enough that I could comfortably use it, but it’s not the same as my own by any means.”

“Right.” Bruck said, nodding. “They remember really strong events. So, back to the tree. If there had been, I don’t know, a forest fire. That tree would carry an echo of that. Like how the Kyber crystal carries a echo from the Jedi’s death.”

“And I was able to garner an impression of it from the crystal, through the Force.”

“Which is why Lon left it with you.” Jango concluded, raising his hand in a two-finger gesture that had the Commandos around them gathering their own supplies. “The Havar Clan has always been more superstitious than most, not that I can really blame him for it.”

[Space Wizards.] The same Mandalorian from before repeated again, disgruntled. Obi-Wan chuckled, translating it for an interested looking Bruck.

“Well, I can’t say I haven’t heard that one before but it’s better than baby stealer.” The boy said cheerfully.

Obi-Wan shook his head, turning to follow the line of Mandalorian’s into the brush. They hiked late into the day and evening, only breaking for camp when the moon had climbed high and full in sky. Jango hadn’t been lying; it was a hard hike. But Bruck and Obi-Wan had kept up, even if they had migrated to the end of the group by the end of it. Bruck was unhappy with the climb, but seemed wise enough to keep his grumblings to himself, not wanting to appear weak in front of the group.

Jax had spent most the hike with them, trying to engage them both in conversation before focusing fully on Bruck once it was clear that Obi-Wan wasn’t interested. He was too busy trying to remember anything he’d ever learned about the Battle of Galidraan. It wasn’t much, to be honest. He knew that the Jedi had been dispatched because the governor had claimed that the True Mandalorians had been slaughtering political activists and their families. A strike force had been sent in response and it was only afterwards that the governor and Death Watch’s ploy had come to light.

But when? When did it actually start? Where they on their way now? But would Jango really bring two Jedi AgriCulture workers on an assassination? Surely not. Would they be stashed somewhere? They had to be the plan, Obi-Wan couldn’t imagine Jango bringing them, particularly now that he had a lightsaber. No one had yet tried to take it from him, thankfully, and Obi-Wan hoped dearly that no one would try to. He would not allow it, for one, and the show down over it would only strain what was – so far – a fairly magnanimous relationship.

Obi-Wan had to stop it before it began. He could see no other reason for why he would end up here, on Galidraan, with Jango Fett and his True Mandalorian’s no less, unless that was his path. He listened to the group as he walked, allowing his pace to fluctuated so he could travel in between them. He hoped to catch some sort of chatter, but by the time they were rolling out their sleeping pads for the night, Obi-Wan had caught nothing of interest.

 It wasn’t until after dinner, tucked under the hyper-down of the sleeping bag, with Bruck fast asleep by his side and his own breath evened out as if in sleep, that Obi-Wan caught anything.

[- should be waiting for us with the payment,] Jax was saying as he and Jango walked the camp perimeters. [We can meet up with the rest of the remaining cohort there, get the puck and get off this rock.]

[Sounds good to me, nephew,] Jax said, voice low, [I’m telling you, something's off. That group we took out – I don’t know.]

[They were armed, uncle.]

[Yeah, they were. But not like what the brief said,] rest of the conversation faded off, Obi-Wan only catching a few words. Words like [shitty training] and [sort of like civies]. Obi-Wan kept his breathing easy, kept feigning sleep even as a unease curled in his stomach. If they were already on the way to pick up the completed payment…He’d been too late; they’d – they’d…it must have been last night, which was why the clan had left; they weren't leaving because they were about to do a risky job or the Jedi were coming, they were leaving because the job was completed. When he and Bruck had slept, a group of Commandos must have left to kill the ‘political activists.’

Which meant that a Jedi strike force was already inbound.

Possibly even imminent.

Obi-Wan had little time - possibly only hours - to stop the deaths of nearly three hundred True Mandalorians and twenty Jedi.

Notes:

I hope you guys enjoyed it, I'm kind of nervous. I had really bad writers block. So, Obi-Wan has a lightsaber - which the Mando's are thoroughly convinced it haunted. And now we have a show down between the Jedi Forces and the Mandalorians, and Feemor and Qui-Gon have a chat.

Chapter 17: The Salin Corridor, Part 2

Notes:

Yes, another chapter. Are you ready for like, all the emotions? Because here they are. We might as well label this 'the Dooku lineage attempts to fix their fuck ups by using actual words for once."

Qui-Gon had been waiting for this from the moment he saw the not-so-hidden glances between his Master and brother-padawan. And yet still, he found himself somewhat taken aback when Feemor Gard cornered him in the cabin he shared with Rael, the young blond’s eyes locked firmly on the ground, hands tucked in his pockets in a nervous tell that Qui-Gon remembered from the boy’s padawanship.

“Feemor,” Qui-Gon greeted quietly, “you look well.”

“I wish I could say the same.” Feemor said quietly, lips quirking around the edges. His gaze stayed locked on the floor. “I heard you’ve had a rough few days. I am sorry about Xanatos.”

Qui-Gon paused, the polite words he rehearsed for this conversation fleeing him. “Thank you,” he said instead, quietly. He cleared his throat. “I have not seen you in a few years. Have you been in the Temple?”

Another quirked grin. “Oh yes, I’m in the Temple more often than not.”

Qui-Gon followed the direction of his former padawan’s stare, observing the pattern in the metal. “I do not blame you for avoiding me.”

“I thought it was what you wanted.”

Qui-Gon winced, bringing a hand up to rub at his brow. “Feemor, I have deep regrets how I treated you in that year. I understand if there are things you wish to settle between us.” He said slowly, picking each word carefully. “I was so caught up in my grief, I made many choices I regret.”

“And do you think you were alone in that grief, Qui-Gon?” Feemor said quietly, though the words still cut through his own like a shout. “Do you have any idea what it felt like? To lose another father?”

Qui-Gon’s heart stuttered in chest before becoming a tight knot there. Feemor’s eyes lifted from the floor to meet his own, and the sight of the devastation in those blue eyes made Qui-Gon reach out on instinct. A single hand raised stopped the motion and his hands fell, useless to his sides. Feemor took a deep breath before continuing, voice even and calm, though the way his arms crossed tightly around his chest betrayed him. “Please, don’t misunderstand me. I forgave you for a long time ago, please don’t think that I…I know what that kind of grief can to do to someone; for no matter what they said in the Temple, I know you had lost Xanatos as surely as if he had died that day.”

Blue eyes drifted down again, staring stubbornly at the floor once more.

“I don't even know why I'm...the mission tomorrow, it's dangerous and I just wanted...But…I just…you threw me way, Qui-Gon and that…no, that, that wasn’t the word I wanted to use. Look, you just dismissed me. Out of your thoughts, out of your life.” A breathy laugh, miserable and broken. “And the sad thing was it wasn’t even the first time you did it.”

“Feemor, I–”

“Let me finish, please. You’re right, there are things I need to settle between us. To be frank, I have no idea when we’ll even be in the same room again after this mission.”

A stretch of obedient silence followed; Qui-Gon’s shamed and heavy with self-loathing, Feemor’s twisted with a tense thoughtfulness.

“I know I didn’t start off with you, but I was so young when you took me in still. Sixteen is – it’s nothing, not really, not when you look back at it. I was so desperate for some sort of stability, for something to pull me back after Master Locallakk died. When I was knighted at twenty, I was…I was just so stupidly grateful that I’d made it, that I’d had you. We never spoke about it, but I thought…I thought you knew how I felt about you.

But then, with Xanatos…I thought I could ignore it. The little digs, the one-upping he was obsessed with. It was easier when he was little, because he was just a kid, right? Maybe he was jealous, maybe I intimated him, so I pulled back more and more. And you let me! Or - Or didn't notice. But when he got older, when we did meet up and he didn’t stop and you just kept making excuse after excuse for him…little hurts add up, you know?

It’s going to sound so petty, but do you have any idea what it was like to know your Master loved his other padawan better than you? To know that you just…you just liked Xanatos more than me. And in the end, even after he fell, he still destroyed what was left of us. You rebuked me, Qui-Gon. You didn’t even tell me in person. You disowned me in a letter.”

Qui-Gon swallowed, feeling tears burn his eyes. The shame he felt was immeasurable. “Feemor, I never intended–” He stopped when his voice cracked, taking a deep breath. “That’s not true, I intended many things, but never to hurt you in the way that I have. I thought that disavowing our training would protect you from whatever fall out there was. It wasn’t until later that I could see the pointlessness of it all.”

And it was pointless, because a disavowal hardly removed the years of Feemor’s tutelage underneath him.

“I am a selfish man, Feemor. I am a…I’m a cowardly man, more likely to run from his problems than to face them head on.”

Feemor made a pained sound and when Qui-Gon glanced up, his pale brows were furrowed. “Please don’t talk about yourself like that.”

Qui-Gon blinked hard against tears, the sense of failure and shame and pride and deep, deep affection for the young man in front of him twisting in him. “I am though. I was not as blind to the way he treated you as I would like to believe, not when I looked upon those times in the aftermath. When I wrote that letter, I am ashamed to admit that I did not think you would feel anything other than relief to be away from me. It’s why I stayed away from you, I thought you deserved a fresh start.”

Feemor let out a shaky breath, shaking his head. “You didn’t think to ask me what I wanted?”

“I didn’t. I’m sorry. I thought I knew what was best.”

“I was a grown man, a Knight with fifty or more missions under my belt.”

“I know.”

“I was capable of making my own decisions on whether or not I needed protection. Whether or not I wanted you to give me a 'fresh start.' On who I want in my life.”

“I know.” Qui-Gon repeated weakly, “I’m sorry.”

“How is that out of the lot of you, Rael Averross is the only one with any type of emotional intelligence?” Feemor muttered and Qui-Gon let out a strained laugh at it, surprising them both. For a moment they stared at each other.

“For whatever it’s worth, Feemor, I have always been proud of you.”

Another shaky breath, then a nod. “Thank you for taking the time to speak with me, I needed the closure. Thank you for hearing me out.”

It sounded so final. Qui-Gon had long thought this chapter of his life was closed – no, he had long forced himself to believe it so. Rael was right; he’d been avoiding Xanatos’ fall and his actions following it for so long, that he’d almost begun to believe the lie that he had accepted it. And yet now, standing here before a boy that he’d once claimed as his own and had thrown away just as easily, Qui-Gon couldn’t bear the thought of Feemor walking from this cabin and out of his life.

Yet he had no one to blame but himself, and that knowledge alone kept his hands by his sides, his lips shut when Feemor turned and left. He kept standing there, staring at the empty door, for an unknown amount of time. It was as if this singular conversation with Feemor has somehow blown the lid off everything Qui-Gon had been pushing down, and it all came seeping out, overwhelming him. If he was brutally honest with himself, was this perhaps why he'd pushed the boy so, so far from his life? He didn’t even realize that Yan had joined him in the room until his Master's face appeared before him, white brows furrowed low and worried. When a calloused hand reached out and hooked against the back of his neck, Qui-Gon followed its guiding pull and all but collapsed into his master’s shoulder.

“I have long known that there is a coldness in my line, one I fear comes from myself. I have never been able to give myself to any of you, not fully, not in the way that my master gave to me.” Yan said quietly, his hand carefully weaving through the tangles of Qui-Gon’s long hair. “An inability to be open with emotions, both with my own and with others, theirs. It is my greatest regret that I have passed that on to you.”

“Don’t,” Qui-Gon shuddered, “don’t, this is of my own making.”

“It is and it isn’t. Nothing is of our own making when it comes to the raising of children,” Yan corrected starkly, “we all carry the sins of parents in this. We Jedi are no different.”

“You didn’t throw away a padawan.”

“Did I not? I chose to let you pull away that year, Qui-Gon. I chose not to come home to Temple and stay afield. I chose to stay silent as you made the same mistakes again and again.”

It was too much; it was too much on top of Feemor and Xanatos and everything hurt too much at once and –

“Master,” his voice broke, a sound he’d never heard from it before, but then Qui-Gon felt smaller than he ever had before, “I’m so ashamed.” 

And he was, of so many things. For Xanatos and Feemor, for refusing to see what was happening in front of and around him, and for failing to face the realities of his life without fleeing or lashing out like a wounded animal. But it wasn’t just shame; there was fear, and anger, and betrayal. But stronger than any of that was a deep, yawning chasm filled with sadness and grief and a loss so profound that it seemed to swallow him whole.

Yan let out a low, crooning noise, one that Qui-Gon had not heard since he had been very young, and had been very hurt on a mission gone awry. “Come, padawan-mine, it is far past time you excised this wound.”

And there, surrounded by the smokey scent of Yan’s cologne, sheltered in that familiar-yet-not hold, and cloaked in his master’s force signature, his body shook with one mighty, shuddering sob, and Qui-Gon let himself break.

---

“Hey.” Rael’s voice broke through the sleepy silence of the night, stalling Komari Vosa mid-step. “Go back to your bunk.”

From where she’d been about to slip down the hall and towards the cabin he’d been sharing with Qui-Gon, the young girl huffed, eyes narrowing as she crossed her arms. “I just wanted to check in with my master, it’s been some time.”

Rael’s own eyes narrowed. Komari was deceptively beautiful, in the way that humans usually saw pretty things and thought them delicate and incapable of harm. He’d never liked her, not even when she’d been a pipsqueak. Rael’s gut had always told him something was off with that girl, and Rael always trusted his gut. She didn’t do anything, really, nothing he could bring up and name, but it was little things.

Like her alarming obsession with their master.

“Yeah, well our master,” he said, stressing the shared possessive for no other reason then to see her eyebrow twitch, “is busy with our padawan-brother. I know our master’s got it locked down with his shields to spare the rest of the ship, but I know that doesn’t work for padawan-bonds, since I can feel it. And if I can feel it, you can feel it. Give them some space.”

If Komari had fur, it’d be bristling on end. “I just wanted to make sure that Master knew the time, it wouldn’t do for him to be tired tomorrow.”

“Yeah, well, he’s a big boy, he can make his own decisions, Padawan Vosa. And right now, he’s choosing to comfort his padawan. Take your own advice and go to sleep.”

The blonde’s lips twitched (wow, that was real dislike, all subconscious that move) before turning on her heel and sharply stalking off back to her cabin. Rael let out a breath, feeling the tension leave his shoulders.

“That was…” Feemor started, his voice still quiet and subdued, but startled none-the-less.

“Yeah, she’s a real trip. One to watch.” Rael agreed, before picking up the sabacc game he’d been playing with the younger man. Feemor had been too worked up from his conversation with Qui-Gon to sleep and with the shitshow of emotions that he could feel pulsing through both his bond with Yan and Qui-Gon, there was no way Rael was going back into his cabin anytime soon. So, sabacc it was.

“Did I do the right thing?” Feemor asked and Rael paused from where he was shuffling the cards. “I…didn’t expect…” He gestured somewhat helplessly towards hall. “…that. I didn’t want to cause…”

Rael sucked his teeth thoughtfully. “Look, Qui-Gon needed this. He’s been avoiding Xanatos and everything that happened up to and after it – including what he did to you – for years. He had to face it sometime.”

“But…” Another awkward pause, “I didn’t think…”

“He cared about you?” Rael finished quietly. “He’s always cared, he’s just terrible at showing it. He needed to hear how he’d hurt you, I think that’s the only thing that would ever make him finally face everything. But enough about that old shit, how are you feeling?”

Feemor stared at him and Rael felt his features soften.

“You’re important too, Feemor. How you feel matters just as much as Qui-Gon’s. Sometimes I worry that because of what happened with Locallakk’s death, you get caught up on putting Qui-Gon’s needs before your own, even when they shouldn’t be.” A barely hidden wince made a shock unease dart down his spine. “Tell me you know that wasn’t your fault, Feemor.” Those bright blue eyes dropped to stare at the table, growing distinctly wet looking. “Oh, kriffing hell, kid.”

He followed the curve of the bench and around the round table, throwing his arm around Feemor’s shoulder. Despite the height difference, the taller man leaned immediately into it, his head resting on his shoulder.

“That wasn’t your fault, Feemor.”

“If I had just paid more attention –”

“That is not on you, do you understand me?” Rael said sharply, then winced at the tone and forcibly gentled it. “Locallakk made his decision, the only one he could have made. He knew that if you were aware of how badly he was injured, you would have slowed down. And then you both would have died on that godforsaken planet.”

“I know.” Feemor said, voice steadier. “I know. And it wasn’t that, with Qui-Gon, I promise.”

Rael sighed, leaning his chin against Feemor’s shorn locks. “How our line produced someone as good-natured as you, I’ll never know.”

---

Their arrival came quicker than Qui-Gon would have liked, yet somehow it didn’t feel quick enough. He’d felt like a child when he’d woken, slumped against Yan’s chest. His master had all but pushed him into the fresher and by the time Qui-Gon had emerged was waiting on one of the bunks with two cups of caf in hand. His eyes ached and were heavy, but thankfully outside of a slight puffiness there was no other sign of his breakdown the night before.

And yet, despite his embarrassment Qui-Gon felt lighter in a way he hadn’t in nearly a decade. It felt like this was the first time he’d really woken up since he’d left Xanatos on Telos IV. He drank the caf quietly, standing shoulder to shoulder with Yan, the silence between them for once comfortable and easy. He drained his cup, letting the bitter liquid perk himself up, before leaning minutely into his master’s shoulder. “Thank you, for last night.”

Yan said nothing for a moment, nodding slowly, then; “…I wish to extend my own apologies, Qui-Gon. I should not have let you hide away as you did. I should have forced this issue to light, for both your own sake and that of Feemor’s.”

“I appreciate the sentiment,” Qui-Gon said with a shake of his head, “but you shouldn’t have had to. This is my own failing.”

“I will not deny that is so, but my young padawan,” and the younger Jedi stilled, taken aback by the intensity in his master’s eyes, “you will never stop being my apprentice. Even when you wish it. It is my job to course correct you if needed.”

“And do you allow Master Yoda to do so with you?” Qui-Gon asked sharply, then forced himself to take a deep breath. It rankled him, sometimes, how easily it seemed Yan dismissed him, reduced him to his ‘young padawan,’ no matter what age or accomplishment Qui-Gon achieved. And yet that was not the spirit that this was being offered in and his pride had done enough damage for one lifetime.

“Perhaps not enough.” Dooku murmured, expression growing trouble, “perhaps not nearly enough, at times. You are your own man, Qui-Gon. And a fine one at that. I believed that you would resent my attention, I know that you have in the past. I can be…heavy handed, I know.”

Qui-Gon stared blankly at his master. This was the most about himself that the other man had spoken…perhaps ever.

“Does it surprise you,” Yan asked dryly, “that I am aware of my own failings? I have been a controlling man all my life, indeed if you ask Master Yoda he will gladly tell you that I was an equally controlling child.”

“Master, I…”

Yan waved his hesitance off. “I am what I am, Qui-Gon. I have accepted this. Just as I have accepted this gap to grow between us. Just as I have accepted it with my padawan-brothers and my own master. It is easier, emotions are…difficult, for me. I would have done the same to Rael, if he had but allowed me.”

Qui-Gon snorted at that and it earned him a rare smile from the collected man.

“I would shrink this gap, Qui-Gon, if you would let me. But I beg your patience, softness is not something I know much about.”

Flat-footed and somewhat floored, Qui-Gon could only nod. He glanced down at the empty cup in his hand, wishing it was full again if not for something to do with his hands. “I’ll try to be less of an ass too, I guess.”

“I would be grateful.”

Again, the two shared a hesitant smile. It drifted quickly from Qui-Gon’s face. “Feemor.” He stopped, swallowing again. “I wish I could…I want to…”

“He does wish for a relationship with you, my boy.” Yan said with a sigh. “If he did not, he would have tossed you off long ago and without another thought. It is remarkable, I suppose, the forgiveness that some are capable of.”

“He’s a fine man.”

“Yes, the best of us.” Yan agreed. “Give him time, Qui-Gon.”

“I can do that.”

“And be worthy of it.” Yan’s tone had gone hard, his expression properly glacial.

Qui-Gon swallowed, feeling unusually meek. “Yes, Master.”

The ship jerked suddenly, coming abruptly out of hyperdrive. Galidraan filled the window below them, a glowing globe of green and white in space. Qui-Gon sucked in a harsh breath, a jolt of awareness running through him. “Obi-Wan.”

Yan’s head snapped to stare at him, eyes wide before narrowing. “You can sense him from here?”

“I…yes.” Qui-Gon muttered. He could, faintly. He couldn’t feel anything from the boy, only that he was there, a weak but pulsing signature that he hadn’t even been aware he’d been missing until it sung across his consciousness.

“Curious.”

“Master,” Qui-Gon said distractedly, eyes roving the planet’s surface, “you have no idea.”

Notes:

Feemor is by far the bravest in his lineage, because he just goes yeah, you know what, I do want to talk about it. Even if means being vulnerable in front of someone who has hurt me in the past, I need closure for my emotional well being so fuck it: we’re going to talk about it, even if it sucks.

A huge chunk of this fic has always been about familial relationships, especially father-son, brother-brother, relationships. I suppose it was fate that this chapter was always going to be a part of it. There is power in vulnerability, but people who have been hurt (and I'm not just talking the type of major trauma people think of - because I feel very few people ever get of their childhood without some emotional scarring. What's the joke? You've got to have something to tell your therapist?) have a hard time being vulnerable to anyone.

I grew up in a family that had very little tools when it came to emotional intelligence and lord knows my time in the military didn't expand that particular toolbox. I've had some similar conversations that Feemor and Qui-Gon and Dooku have had in the past. It's painful but incredibly cathartic.

I always got the sense that Dooku was pretty emotionally distant, kind of a hands off guy with few word of praise but ready with the discipline and corrections when he thought it needed it. Anyway, so much emotions. All the emotions. How do we feel about the emotions? And Komari, being the weird little kiss ass she is. Don't worry, Komari's character will be handled fairly. She's just got some issues, oh boy, the cannon-written, totally official, issues.

We'll be back at Galidaan (hopefully) tomorrow or Tuesday.

Edit: Work is kicking my ass this week, the chapter may have to wait until the weekend, but I’ll try to get it out sooner.

Chapter 18: Galidraan, Part 4

Notes:

Ohhhhhh boy.

So, this did not end up being posted right away. Sorry guys, life intervened hard. I had some unexpected Real Life pop up that I had to take care of, my apologizes!

In the months that Obi-Wan had been back, he’d almost forgotten what it felt like to see so many armed and battle-ready beings in one place. Only just though, as Obi-Wan had commanded a force far larger than the three hundred some commandos spread out before them now. Their armor glinted in the sunlight as their smaller group crested the mountain ridge, splayed out in semi-organized groups below them, every color visible to the human eye (and most likely even more that weren’t) below. Next to him, Bruck let out a started sound of awe.

“That’s a lot of Mandos,” he said quietly, almost under his breath, eyes wide as they flickered to-and-fro.

“Yes, it is.” Obi-Wan agreed quietly as he took in the sight. His hands curled by his side, eyes distant. Nostalgia crept upon him; the feeling accompanied by a deep bloom of sorrow. How easy it was to impose this image with another – a different planet, different men standing by his side, the colorful crowd replaced by gleaming white. His mental shields clamped down tighter and Obi-Wan pushed the thought away before turning to Jango and Jax. “Is it wise to gather in the open like this?”

A tall Mandalorian – taller than even Jax – and clad in blue and grey beskar, his pauldrons painted a brilliant gold, snorted, and let his sniper rifle rest on his shoulder. He’d been introduced as Jango’s third, Myles. “Not many would dare take on the Haat Mando'ade in their full force. You’re safe, adike.”

It is not my safety I worry about, Obi-Wan thought, forcing himself to take a calming breath through his nose. The closer they had drawn to the main commando force, the more and more nervous he’d been getting. His plan was…not a well thought out one, more of a hasty one thrown together in the cold of night and out of pure desperation.

“Speaking of,” Jango started, the man slid his pack free, digging around in it. He pulled out a length of fabric, pale grey in color, and when he shook it out Obi-Wan could see it was a waterproof shell. He tossed the jacket first to Bruck before pulling its twin out and doing the same to Obi-Wan, “wear that from now on.”

Obi-Wan caught the garment instinctively. It was smooth and slick to the touch, yet made no sound as he held it up. On the back was the clan symbol of Fett – a green circle bisected with a matching slash, with a white wheat stalk superimposed on it, a crimson drop of blood and a stylized ‘f’ – had been sown onto the back. The Jedi stared at the clan symbol blankly before turning to Jango, a single eyebrow rising in question. The Mand’alor’s helmet titled to the side as he stared right back, but remained silent.

“He made them last night,” Jax explained, sounding mirthful, “they’ll keep any of the clans from messing with you. We thought it’d be best if you plan on walking around with that light sword of yours.”

As the staring contest continued, Jango made a ‘go-on’ motion with his hand. Obi-Wan kept up his stare for a moment longer, before letting out a huff in amusement as next to him, Bruck was already zipping the shell up over his parka.

“Why, Jango,” Obi-Wan mused, giving in and pulling the jacket on, “I had no idea you were so good at handicrafts.”

Myles let out a choked sound, turning away abruptly. The smug aura around Jango soured as their commando escorts sniggered.

“My nephew is a man of many talents.” Jax announced, downright gleeful now, and Obi-Wan felt his own lips curve into a smirk despite his concerns.

“So it would seem.”

“Shut it, both of you.” Jango snapped and Obi-Wan chuckled as the Mand’alor blasted off the ridge they were on, his jet pack sending him over the gathered commandos below and leaving a wave of cheers and shots bellowing through the air in Mando’a. Obi-Wan winced as the sound echoed. They really had no idea, no concern at all.

They followed carefully down the steep mountainside, Myles’ hovering behind him like he was ready to catch them at any moment. Obi-Wan and Bruck exchanged a dry look at the surprise that radiated from the man when they reached the bottom easily. It would seem that Myles was to be their babysitter, as they found neither Jax nor Jango waiting for them there.

Myles led them off through a maze of white tents and campfires with an easy confidence that betrayed the uniform and maze-like structure of the camp. Some of the Mandalorians they passed called out greetings to their guide, but mostly just stared. Obi-Wan was used to such attention but he could feel Bruck’s hackles rising, tension drawing the boy’s frame tight, and sent a wave of comfort to his friend. Bruck caught it easily, sending it back tinged with affection and annoyance in equal measures.

“Don’t baby me.”

“I wouldn’t dream of it.”

Bruck’s eyes narrowed, but before he could respond they stopped in front of a tent. Myles nodded towards it with his head. “The three of us will be bunking up until this is over. Go in and warm yourself up, I’ll get a fire started.”

“You’ll be sharing with us?” Bruck asked, surprised.

“Sure will. You won’t be going anywhere without me either.” Myles said distractedly but firmly, already lighting a tinder puck and fanning it into a bundle of wood that had been waiting for them.

“Are you to be our minder then?” Obi-Wan asked as he crouched down, hands cupped to protect the small flame from the harsh wind that blew relentlessly from the higher peak above them.

Myles snorted. “You got it in one; you’re my responsibility now, so don’t be making any trouble for me. Unlike Jax, I’m not soft enough to put a few ad'ika in their place if they need it – even if they are Jetii.”

“What?” Bruck started, scandalized. “We don’t need a babysitter!”

“Well, Jango says otherwise so you’re shit out of luck.” Myles said flatly. “Stay in the tent or by the fire, and don’t go anywhere or with anyone without me.”

Obi-Wan watched the Mandalorian for a moment, head cocked to the side. His tone was annoyed, but he felt none of it. While Bruck stomped off into the tent, muttering under his breath, Obi-Wan gently fed more tinder onto the growing fire. [I thought these crests were supposed to keep us safe.]

Myles’ helm raised to stare at him, the fire glinting off the tinted visor. [They will.]

[Is it a lack of trust, then? I did offer to give the lightsaber back.]

[You know it’s not.] Myles corrected blandly, [don’t play stupid, kid, it doesn’t look good on you. You’ve got Fett’s brand on your back and a lightsaber on your hip, but no name. Don’t do anything stupid and make my job any harder.]

[I will endeavor not to.]

Myles snorted. [See that you do. Go inside and warm up, I’ll bring some meal packets in a minute.]

[Thank you, Myles.] A gloved hand waved him away dismissively. Obi-Wan ducked into the tent, grinning at the sight of Bruck lying flat on his back, sleeping pad already laid out. Obi-Wan rolled his own out, folding down into a sit. “Tired?”

“No.” Bruck said sharply, then sighed. He rolled into a sit and Obi-Wan paused in where he’d been about to reach for his pack. “Obi-Wan, do you…” The boy paused, clearly unsure, “…feel it?”

Obi-Wan licked his lips, ignoring how the cold immediately bit at them. They’d climbed higher into the mountain range near the camp, until the trees had thinned out and snow had piled thick and high. The temperature had plummeted twenty degrees, easily. “What do you feel?”

Bruck opened his mouth and then shut it, brows drawing even lower. “I’m not sure.”

So even Bruck could feel the looming disaster, Obi-Wan shouldn’t be as surprised as he felt by that. The boy was a Jedi after all, and while not as strong in the Cosmic Force as Obi-Wan was (as far as he knew, Bruck had never had never displayed any of the powers usually associated with it, such as visions of the future or psychometry) all Jedi were capable of precognition.

“What are they telling you?”

“Something’s going to happen. Don’t – you don’t feel anything?”

“No, I do,” Obi-Wan said quietly, overly aware of Myles just a few feet away and separated by thin fabric panels, “I feel it too.”

Bruck nodded slowly, the Force humming with his unease. “I can’t tell if it’s bad or not. Just that it’s…”

“Big.”

“Yes.”

“We should mediate on it.”

Bruck nodded resolutely, moving immediately into the traditional form, back straight and hands folded in his lap, eyes closed. Obi-Wan echoed him, opening himself to the Force. Show me, he implored it, guide me to a path forward.

---

Jango stood off from the camp proper, glaring into the woods around him. Their contact was running a few hours late; he’d come up with all kinds of excuses that were legitimate sounding, but it was enough to set him on edge. Furthering his irritation, one of the clans had brought a cadet group. Technically old enough to see battle at thirteen, but still too young to be involved with possible Jedi. Jedi were tough enough for a full grown Mandalorian, much less cadets. Jango had stationed them at the far side of the camp, nearest to the mountain slopes and away from any of the scouted weak points of the camp. It wasn’t ideal, but Jango would just have to hope it would be enough to keep them off the front lines if anything should happen. Next to him, Jax was equally unhappy, arms crossed over his chest.

[I told you, nephew, I told you something –]

[You’ve said your piece already.] Jango interrupted, perhaps harsher than warranted but kriff it all, he wanted off this planet. His helmet com buzzed and Jango tapped it on. [What.]

[You’ve got a visitor, boss,] Shori’s voice tinned through, the rough vowels of vocal cords not meant to speak basic making it grating, [she brought her clan emblem, said it was important.]

[Got it.] Jango said, turning to watch as a female made her way to him, her beskar painted almost completely in golds and purples.

Next to him, Jax made a clicking noise, clearly annoyed, his voice coming across their personal line. [Wonder what this all about?]

[Who knows? You see her clan symbol?]

[Yeah, the Kestis. Small, only two or three members, all Human. Joined up with us about a year ago, good engineers, quiet bunch.]

The woman came to a stop a polite distance away, both hands loose and open, showing she was unarmed, in a traditional greeting. In her left hand, was a thin length of braided fabric, a small beskar bird – a falcon, maybe – hung from it. Jango nodded at her and she closed the gap. [Greetings, sister. Something I can help you with?]

[Uh, sorry about intruding, Mand’alor.] She sounded young, but at least she seemed respectful. [I had a question.]

[Must be an important one if you brought that.] Jax said, nodding towards the clan emblem. The woman shuffled, either in nervousness or discomfort, the bird swinging in the air.  

Jango felt a headache grow above his eyebrows. [Go on and ask your question, no guarantee I’ll answer it though.]

[Fair enough.] The woman agreed easily. [Is it true that you’ve got Jedi with you?]

[My,] Jax mused, [that got around fast.]

A deep chuckle, almost too deep to match her speaking voice. [You know how it is, we all become a bunch of gossiping hens the moment the battle’s done.]

[And if they were, what business could it possibly be of yours?] Jango asked, head drifting to the side in a subtle but distinctly threating move. The woman tensed, then took a deep breath.

[I don’t have any problem with the Jedi,] she said quickly, her palms held out in supplication. [I’m not here about that, no grudges, I swear it.]

[Then why are you here?]

Another bought of uncomfortable shuffling. […is one of them named Kenobi?]

Jax clicked the safety off his blaster, the sound echoing loudly. Red dots from laser sights flocked to the woman, aiming for the joints of her armor. [How do you know that name?]

Jango wanted to know that as well; bored Mandalorians gossiped like it was a battle skill they needed to hone for survival, but no one gossiped that fast.

[I overheard one of your personal unit talking about it,] she admitted, her tone tight, [he was talking about some foundlings you found to the others – I overheard the name. Is it Kenobi? Obi-Wan Kenobi? From Stewjon?]

[And if there was?] Jango asked, a suspicion growing. [Your accent,] he said slowly, [you’re Stewjoni.]

[…yeah.] She admitted quietly.

Next to him, Jax went completely tense. Jango made a slashing movement with his palm, warning his uncle to keep his mouth shut. [What’s your name, girl?]

[Eila Kestis, but when I was unmarried it was Kenobi.]

[Mother?]

[Sister, actually.] Eila said, her focus locked on Jax’s outraged frame.

[You gave him to the Jedi?] Jax spat out, tone sharp, but to her credit Eila didn’t react.

[Don’t you dare judge me.] Eila said, and there was none of the nervousness from before there now. [You have no idea what it was like on Stewjon during the Civil War. It was a hard living even before it came, but afterwards? It was impossible. We barely had enough to survive to begin with, but when the warriors came and started grabbing up what little we did have?

Ma died when Obi wasn’t even weened, you have don’t want to know what my pa and I had to do to get formula for him. And Obi-Wan – we had no idea how to care for him. The things he could do – the nightmares he had…Pa caught the coughing sickness. A Jedi healer came during a humanitarian visit. What else could I do? Pa was good as dead and I had another brother to look after. I still almost lost him the next winter, Owen’s still the smallest of us.]

[What do you want?] Jango asked sharply. This woman had a legitimate claim on Obi-Wan, which was annoying. He wouldn’t challenge it, but it would make his plans for the boy even more complicated than they already were.

[Nothing.] Eila said with a shrug, ignoring Jax’s bewildered [what?]

[Why come and tell me this?] Jango asked, relaxing somewhat at the woman’s disinterest even as he could practically feel Jax’s growing fury at it.

Eila hesitated, helmet tilting away. [Is he…healthy?]

[Yes.]

A slow nod. [Good. That’s good. Thank you for your time, Mand’alor.]

[You don’t even want to see him?] Jax asked, voice hard.

Eila paused in her turn, staring at him. [Why would I? I took the Path after he left. I have my own life now, as does he. No need to complicate things unnecessarily.] She glanced from his uncle to Jango, before bowing her head respectfully and trudging away.

[Cold bitch.]

Jango chuckled, reaching out to grip Jax’s shoulder. [Not every family is like our own, Uncle. Let’s keep this to ourselves, shall we?]

[You’re right, wouldn’t want muddle this up any more than it is. Obi-Wan was probably better off with the Jedi.] A scoff. [I can’t believe those words came out of my mouth.]

[He would have been better with his people and you know it.] Jango corrected, watching the lone figure disappear into the tent city.

[…she reminds me of your mother.]

[Uncle.]

---

Myles stared at the sight before him, disturbed. It had grown so silent in the tent for so long that he’d felt compelled to investigate it. He may not be happy that he’d been stuck with a babysitting job, but he’d be damned if he half-assed it. Myles had been serving alongside and then under Jango since the boy had first joined their clan, and he wasn’t going to let him down now. He’d had an inkling from the moment Jax had shown up with both boys that they were meant to be foundlings, though the fact that they were Jedi younglings had complicated it somewhat. But still, Myles knew how things were going to play out. (And now it was clear to anyone with eyes, as well. The Fett clan symbol was large and obvious on the pale backs of the jacket shells – but then again, no one had ever accused Jango Fett of being subtle.)

He’d be damned if he ended up losing Jango’s prospective son and nephew on his watch. But this was…this was just weird. He thought at best they’d fallen asleep, tired after their long march, at worst they’d snuck out. Instead, he found Obi-Wan and Bruck sitting completely still, facing each other. Well, not completely still. It was subtle, but they were kind of floating.

Not with their entire body or anything that extreme, but there was a definite ruffling to their clothing, the edges and loose rolls of the borrowed and oversized things hovering as if in zero-grav. Myles stared. He blinked hard, his visor rapid-fire flipping through various scanners, and then blinked again. Yeah, no, he thought and let the tent flap fall shut, kriffing space wizards.

It didn’t matter if they were foundlings, Jedi creeped him out. He sat back next to the fire and debated about adding another log. Jax always said he added too much too soon, that he was getting senile in his old age, which was patently untrue. But if he did run out then he’d have to go scout for more, which meant taking the boys out with him, and that sounded like such a pain in the –

The flap to the tent was suddenly open and Myles started, nearly falling from his perch. The boys slipped out, Bruck looking annoyed and Obi-Wan calm. Myles felt his lips twitch at the polar opposite expressions. “You done doing…whatever that was?”

Bruck huffed, plopping down in front of the fire, gloved hands held out towards the warmth. “You mean mediating?”

“Sure, let’s go with that.”

“Yep.” Bruck said with a shrug, then very indiscreetly eyed the flat rock where Myles was heating up the meals. Snorting, he reached down and tossed one at the boy, sniggering when Bruck caught it and then let out a hiss, tossing the hot pocket between his hands.

“Force, that’s hot!” He marveled, “even through the gloves!”

“Yeah, well, what did you expect? Oi, Obi-Wan,” The brunet boy was standing with his back to the fire, staring out at the camp proper, “stop day dreaming and eat something.”

The boy’s turned to him, blinking as if startled, before nodding slowly and joining them around the fire. Bruck chattered away as they ate, Obi-Wan throwing occasional snarking comments and soft hums to show he was listening as he picked at his meal. Myles frowned in disapproval. Sure, field rations were never anyone’s first choice but it was all he was going to get out here, so the kid best suck it up.

But despite Myles' frustrations, Obi-Wan barely touched his dinner at all, eventually tucking the cold thing between his feet. Around them, the valley was dotted with hundreds of camp fires and that – with the moon high in the sky and catching the snow – the night was caught in a twilight. Around them the sounds of his people going about their nightly routines made Myles’ shoulders loosen. It was rare they gathered in these types of numbers and he’d missed having his brothers and sisters with him. His true brothers and sisters, not the charlatans that had taken their name and home worlds from them.

A few fires over, someone began a familiar tune. His voice carried easily in the crisp air, the Mando’a taken up at random intervals by at first a singular voice and then in groups. Myles hummed along under his breath, nudging a log with his foot to flip it in the fire. Next to him, Bruck’s eyes were wide with awe, mouth slightly ajar as he listened to the battle hymn, head twisting about to stare at the various singers. It was a war song; an old one, but catchy, good for marching as it was for firesides, that spoke of old battles and even older victories.

Myles frowned when the log refused to corporate with his prodding and reached out, his gloves protecting him from the heat as he lifted it and settled it on the unburnt edge. He glanced up, patting his gloves to shake the soot off and paused.

Across from him, Obi-Wan was leaning heavily on his knees, head tilted low, arms hanging loose between his legs. His expression was distant, but his eyes were positively blank. Myles cleared his throat. “You okay there, Obi-Wan?”

The boy twitched, head tilting up to look at him, and for one bizarrely long moment – seemed to look through him. Then a blink and the look was gone, and Obi-Wan gave him a wry smile. “Just a familiar song.”

Myles hazarded a guess. “Stewjon?”

Obi-Wan shrugged, the firelight casting shadows that were at odds with his young features. “Perhaps. It was a long time ago now, regardless.”

“You seem to remember quite a bit, don’tcha?” Myles asked, eyes narrowing. He didn’t follow it up like he wanted, with the questions that had been bothering him since he first heard about this Jedi pup – ‘for a babe taken as young as you were,’ ‘for a farmer’s son,’ ‘for someone who claims to be clanless’ – but the intent behind them still hung in the air.

But Obi-Wan didn’t take the bait, that crooked smile growing somewhat wider, his eyes surprisingly shrewd as they eerily found his own even through Myles’ visor. “Hard not to, surrounded here by you all.”

---

The night had grown cold, but not dark. Even as the sky had turned a deep, royal purple the many lights from the camp fires kept the area around them lit with a thready but steady orange glow. Despite the late hour, the night was not quiet. Muted voices spoke around them from every direction, complemented with the sounds of shuffling armor and clinking camp pots, and the crackle of a hundred fires; the noise of a military camp, as familiar now to Obi-Wan as they had been during the war.

Despite bustle of activity Obi-Wan could feel the soft hum of Bruck, lost in a deep sleep after the long day. Between the mines and the kidnapping, the march and now this unfamiliar camp with what had to be utterly foreign people to Bruck, he had to be exhausted. Still, he’d kept up and performed admirably for someone his age and training. Bruck had stubbornly tried to stay up as long as possible before he’d finally ended up nearly dozing straight from his seat and into the fire.

Obi-Wan felt his lips quirk up in a small smile at the memory of the disgruntled look on the boy’s face when he’d all but been manhandled by Myles and into the tent. By all accounts, Obi-Wan should have joined him and tried to get some sleep. But like so many nights since he’d arrived in the past, sleep evaded him. He felt no urge to try to force it, so instead he curled his hands underneath the parka’s waistline, allowing the heat between his stomach and inner jacket to warm them, and tried very hard not think of anything at all.

It hurt being here, surrounded by these people, in a way that he had – perhaps foolishly – not expected. And that song…and oh, had that made Obi-Wan ache; a battle song he knew as well as his name. One he’d heard his own men sing, their singularly similar and yet distinctly different voices echoing through the halls of war ships and through the night on a hundred different worlds. The Kiminoan’s had worked hard to stamp out whatever Mandalorian influences that Jango had tried to install in the clones, but they could not erase it completely, not with the sway that the first few generation of clones had on their younger counterparts. Nor would they have ever been truly successful, with the likes of Alpha-17 around to keep the traditions alive. And even still, the clone troopers had taken what history they had inherited and built it into something new. They had made their own culture, a blend of Mandalorian and something completely and uniquely theirs. It had been magnificent to watch, an honor to be a part of it.

He could still remember the way he’d swelled with emotions when his troops had come to him to mark him with the clan symbol they had made, and – Obi-Wan forced himself to take a deep breath through his nose, the air coming with an oddly heavy feeling. He held it in his lungs for a long moment, before letting it leave. It did little good to remind himself of such things, but Obi-Wan missed them. Terribly. Before his thoughts could spiral completely, something light but surprisingly hard impacted his chest. He blinked down, surprised to find a ration bar resting in his lap.

He glanced up to find Myles watching him. “Eat that.”

“Thank you, but I’m not hungry.”

“And I don’t care,” the Mandalorian said decisively, “you barely touched your dinner. Eat it.”

Obi-Wan cocked his head to the side, watching the man, before quirking his lips and obediently unwrapping it. “You have a very particular way of showing your care, Myles.”

“It ain’t care, kid. You look like a strong breeze would be enough to knock you over and I don’t have time to be dragging around deadweight.”

He took a bite of the bar, nose wrinkling at the dry texture. He immediately found his canteen and took a drink of it, the water filtered and achingly cold from the snow he’d packed in it earlier. “You don’t quite like me, do you?”

“I don’t know you.”

“True. Perhaps it would be more apt to say you don’t trust me.”

Myles stared at him, the firelight casting his helmet in a menacing, sharp relief. “Like I said, I don’t know you.”

“Fair enough.” Obi-Wan agreed with a nod. “Do you want to?”

“What?”

“Know me. Or Bruck, for that matter.”

Myles scoffed, before returning to sharpening his knife. It was a long thing, fatter at its base before it tapered off to a sharp end. Obi-Wan recognized it as armor-piercing, though the name was a bit of a misnomer. Made more to slide between armored plates than go through them, it was wicked looking in its elegance and simple lines.

“I know enough.”

“Oh? Like what?”

“Does it matter?”

“To me, yes.”

Myles let out an irritated sigh, hands dropping limp to hang between his legs, knife in one hand and whetstone in the other. “Any chance of you letting this go anytime soon and being quiet?”

“None at all.”

Another annoyed breath, the sound modulated by the intake of his helm. “Okay, fine. I’ll bite. Why does it matter to you?”

“Is it so odd that I might wish us to be friendly?”

“You want to be friends. With me.” Obi-Wan shrugged. “I’m in my thirties. You’re, what, ten?”

“Thirteen,” the brunet corrected dryly, “of which I’m sure you’re already well aware. Is it really such a strange idea? We’re going to be stuck together for the next few days at least.”

Myles stared at him. “Go to bed.”

Obi-Wan frowned, holding up his half-eaten bar. “I don’t want to get crumbs on my sleeping pad.”

Another frustrated exhale – much louder – had him hiding his grin around a large bite. Well, at least he wasn’t thinking about the 212^th anymore.

---

No matter what Myles' hopes were, Obi-Wan did not immediately go to bed after finishing his meal, though he did leave the Mandalorian alone. He settled quite comfortably on his back, watching the stars above him and left Myles his peace. A little poking here or there was harmless, but it wouldn’t do to truly irritate their caretaker. About an hour had passed, the camp growing more and more quiet around them when he stood, brushing the snow off his pants.

“Going to bed finally?”

“I need to step into the woods, actually.” Obi-Wan said with a wain smile, “drank too much of my canteen.”

Myles’ eyes drifted from the tent to Obi-Wan again before standing. He waved at the man dismissively. “Come now, no need for that. I’ll just go in a little and be back. You don’t need to come with me. Besides Bruck is sleeping – we shouldn’t leave him alone.”

“Just do it on the other side of the tent. Trust me, everyone here’s seen worse.”

Obi-Wan clicked his tongue. “I will not, even with the snow you know that brings the worst kind of smells to a camp.”

“I’m not supposed to let either one of you out of my sight,” Myles said sharply, on is feet now. “Give me a moment to fetch someone else and I’ll go with you.”

“It’s very late,” Obi-Wan said with a frown, “is this really necessary?” Myles’ silence spoke volumes. “Look, I’m not going to run off. Trust me.” Myles remained unmoved. Fighting the urge to roll his eyes, Ob-Wan let out his own annoyed sigh. “Fine, if you take me at my word, trust that I wouldn’t leave Bruck behind.”

A gloved finger pointed at him threateningly. “Two paces into the tree line, nothing more. Straight back.”

Obi-Wan held his hands up in supplication. “Two paces, straight back. I won’t even truly leave your sight if that makes you feel better.”

“You better not.”

Obi-Wan nodded, turning on his heel and heading past the handful of tents that separated them from the tree line. They had been placed on fringes of the camp for a reason, to try and keep any internal conflict from happening if Obi-Wan was to guess. Out of sight, out of mind and all that. He took exactly two steps into the trees and glanced over his shoulders. When Myles caught his stare, he pointed at his eyes with both fingers before jerking them in Obi-Wan’s direction.

Snorting, Obi-Wan turned back and made short work of relieving himself. Afterwards he leaned down, grabbing some snow to wash his hands with. Hopefully Myles would have some sanitizing or bath wipes back at the tent, but for now that would have to do. He was about to stand when something caught his attention, a prickling in the Force that made him pause. His eyes jerked up, sinking down on his feet until his hunch was more of a crouch, hiding him amongst the low boughs of the evergreens around him.

Obi-Wan’s eyes narrowed as he glanced about, trying to see what could have caught his attention, and threw himself to the side, moments before a rifle butt would had impact his head. He swiped out to both try and trip the armed Mandalorian attacking him and -

And careened right into the end of a stun prod.

Notes:

I don't know how Galidraan just keeps growing in chapter count, but it does. This thing has a life of it's own. I think maybe one or two more chapters. Up next: The Jedi arrive.

Chapter 19: Galidraan, Part 5

Notes:

Yeah, I know. Look at me, updating in a timely manner. I'm surprised too.

The woods around the camp were lit bright enough that it could practically be early morning instead of the dead of night, with the number of flashlights searching through them. From where he stood, arms crossed and furious with himself, Bruck stared hard at the trees. Standing barely a pace behind him and with a hand resting firmly on his shoulder, like that alone would root him to the spot, Jax hovered. There was no other word for it. Ever since Obi-Wan had gone missing alongside their assigned babysitter, Jax had a hand on Bruck at all times. Literally.

A thousand different thoughts flew through his mind; he shouldn’t have fallen asleep, he should have stayed up with Obi-Wan and Myles, then he could have gone with them to…wherever it was they’d gone. Bruck should have made Obi-Wan come to bed with him, he should have – he should have tied the idiot to himself with cuffs if he had to.

“Bruck –”

“For the last time,” the white-hair boy snapped, eyes flashing furiously towards the Mand’alor, “I have no idea where he is, he didn’t say anything to me. He didn’t tell me anything. And he wouldn’t leave me behind.” Obi-Wan wouldn’t, would he? “He wouldn’t leave me behind.”

Bruck didn’t realize how far he’d let his emotions get out of control until he caught Jango exchanging a look over his head. He fisted his hands by his side, but forced himself to close his eyes and find his center. When he opened them again, it to find Jango watching him intently.

“I never said he did.” The man said neutrally.

“You implied it,”  Bruck snapped, unable to contain the note of bitterness in his voice, “you just said that Myles could never be a traitor. So all that leaves is that Obi-Wan left on his own freewill.” The swirl of emotions around Jango shifted and Bruck's eyes narrowed, glancing between the two men suspiciously. “What are you not telling me?” Another look that had his hands twitching. “I can feel you’re keeping something from me. I have a right to know. Obi-Wan’s my – ” the word hitched, “ – family. I have a right to know.”

Jango sighed, fingers rising up to itch at his chin under his helmet. “Yeah, I suppose you do. We found signs of a struggle.”

“Are you,” Bruck let out a laugh that was a touch more hysterical then he meant it to be, “are you telling me Obi-Wan’s been kidnapped? Again?” Jango made a motion with his hands. Bruck jaw twitched, he really needed to learn Mando’a sign along with the language, he despised being kept out of half the conversation. “How? I thought we were supposed to be safe here. Isn’t that why we had Myles, so he could protect us?”

The hand on his shoulder flinched. Immediately, Bruck regretted his outburst. After all, Myles was missing too. Possibly dead, just like – no. No, Bruck would have felt it. He would have felt that, he was sure of it.

“You’re right, ad'ika,” Jax said, sounding grim and more serious than he’d ever heard him, “you should have been safe here. That’s our bad. We have hunting parties out looking, we’ll find him.”

“Look,” Bruck said, striving for calm and surprised when he sounded it, “let me go after him. I can find him in ways you can’t.”

“Not doing that.” Jango denied; voice sharp.

“No, he’s right.” Jax said agreed, interrupting Bruck before he could vocalize his protest with a harsh squeeze of his shoulder. “I can almost guarantee this is clan politics. The last thing we need is you out and vulnerable.”

Bruck took a heavy breath through his nose, trying to calm the fear for his friend that seemed to be strangling his heart. Since leaving the Temple, Obi-Wan had been his only constant, even if he hadn’t wanted him to be in the beginning. Through every terrible thing that had been thrown at him, Obi-Wan had always been by his side. To not have him now left him feeling vulnerable in a way he’d never felt before.

“We’ll get him back, I swear it.” Jango said, tone cold, “and there will be a reckoning for this.”

Bruck shivered, taken aback by the deadly shift in the Mandalorian’s presence. It wasn’t like he ever really forgot what they were capable of, but spending so much time among Jax’s playful and almost goofy presence had almost made him overlook it. The Mandalorians were dangerous; a warrior’s people to their core, who repaid insult and injury with more insult and injury. And he and Obi-Wan wore their leader’s symbol on their backs. For the first time, that made Bruck wary.

---

Obi-Wan came to with the awareness of a headache so reminiscent in size and strength to the one he’d gotten (the one, singular time) he’d allowed Anakin to talk him into participating in some fertility ritual to end a drought by consuming what seemed to be nearly an entire season’s worth of beer in one night. The pounding behind his eyes was intense, but it wasn’t enough to draw away from the awareness of voices talking around him.

He cracked his eyes open, wincing at the bright light that assaulted him. And then what he was seeing registered. Light, the bright pink of dawn. Obi-Wan’s eyes widened, shooting up from where he was apparently lying on the ground. It was morning, but how much time had passed? What’s had happened? He’d been in the woods and there’d been attack, he remembered that much. But how had he gotten here? Where was he even? Had the Jedi already arrived? Was he to late to -

[Obi-Wan.] A rough voice called and his head snapped towards the source. Myles’ armored form was strung up to a pole to his left, wrists and ankles secured so it stretched his tall and stocky body in a way that had to be painful.

[Myles, what –] Instinct had him standing and trying to move towards the Mandalorian, but he paused when he felt a tug to his ankle. He was chained to ground by a metal stake, his wrists equally bound in cuffs. He glanced around, forcing himself to take a deep breath and center himself with he found himself in the center of an encampment, the symbol of the Death Watch everywhere.

[Listen,] Myles croaked out, [you need to be very careful, we’ve been betrayed, we’re –]

[So you do speak Mando’a,] a voice cut in, [I had wondered if that rumor was true.] Obi-Wan’s head shot to the side, lips pressing in a thin line of displeasure at the figure that was emerging from a large tent. Tor Vizsla came to a stop before them, a towering figure in black and red beskar, the red crest of the Death Watch and the Vizsla clan proudly displayed on his shoulder and breast. [When I heard Fett had gotten a foundling, I just knew I had to get my hands on you. I had to see it with my own eyes, you know? He’s always been such a…peculiar man. Just like his father really; even if not by blood, Mereel still found a way to pass his weakness down.]

Myles lunged forward despite his bindings, [you keep his name out of your mouth, you filthy –]

Vizsla backhanded him hard enough that he nearly upended Myles' helmet. Around them, the gathering group of Death Watch Commandos laughed. [Myles of Clan Rooji, ever the loyal dog.] A hand reached out, yanking at Myles’ helmet edge and forcing his head back down. [Such a waste on Fett.]

[I walk my path with pride, traitor, can you say the same?] Myles spat out, all fury and biting rage even as blood pulsed down from underneath the helmet, turning the fabric of his under armor a greyish-red.

Vizsla ‘tched,’ looking at the crowd of Mando’s around him and making a gesture of dismissal. [Well, I tried.]

He pulled a jagged knife from his belt, a showman in true form, the move slow and long enough that the morning light gleamed off of every wicked ridge.

[Leave him alone.] Obi-Wan ordered, the Force carrying the weight of suggestion with his words. Like so many times in the past, the beskar helmet formed a guard around the man’s mind, diluting the command’s power. Still though, the black helmet twisted to look at him, cocked to the side, then smoothly turned away from Myles.

[Obi-Wan, don’t –] Myles choked out.

[Be quiet, Myles.] Obi-Wan said sharply, the tone the same one that Ahsoka used to call his ‘General Kenobi’ voice.

Vizsla observed him, arms crossed over his chest. [Was that you I felt tickling across my mind, baby Jedi?] The man’s voice was mirthful. [Oh? Have I surprised you? Did you think I would not know what you are?] He held out his hand and a Watch member obediently placed the found lightsaber in his hand. Obi-Wan said nothing, staring at the man coolly, as Vizsla flicked the ‘saber on, the yellow blade humming in the quiet of the morning. [I knew that Fett had lost his way, but to think he would take a Jedi on as his heir.]

[There have been Mandalorian Jedi in the past.] Obi-Wan answered, ignoring the way his words made Myles’ entire body jerk as his head snapped to stare at him. [You wear proof of it on your waist.]

Vizsla’s hand flew to the Darksaber’s handle, caressing it. [Do not speak of things you know nothing of, boy.]

Obi-Wan’s head cocked to the side. [Oh, I don’t know about that. Out of the two of us, who do you think Tarre Vizsla would stand with? After all, I could claim him family just as easily. He did choose the Jedi as the final resting place of that blade before your ancestors stole it during the Sacking of the Temple.]

[A justly deserved fate you brought upon yourselves.]

[The Jedi did not kill the Indomitable.]

Vizsla stormed towards him. [He would have brought the Old Republic to his knees had it not been for your kind! Mandalore the Indomitable was a great man.]

[A mad man,] Obi-Wan corrected, ignoring how Myles’ anxiety was ramping up into something palatable. He cared little for the veritable rage he could feel building around Tor. As long as Vizsla’s attention was on Obi-Wan, it wasn’t on Myles. [Who fell so deep into his own arrogance that he could not see the Sith leading him by his nose. This is the man that you seek to emulate?]

[Do you see?] Vizsla cried to the crowd, [do you see now the corruption of Jango Fett? He would bring our greatest enemies into his house! He seeks dominion over us all even as he suckles a viper at his breast.]

[Come now,] Obi-Wan interrupted dryly, [surely, you’ve not brought me here to debate ancient history. The Jedi and the Mandalorian’s have been at peace for living memory. Tell me, Vizsla, what is it you think you can achieve with this? If you think me a hostage, I have the unfortunate news that I will not be a very good one. I’m afraid the rumors of my adoption had been rather grossly overinflated.]

Tor scoffed. [You expect me to believe that with his brand on your back, boy?]

[Believe what you will,] Obi-Wan said, resolutely ignoring the flare of pain as he broke his thumb, [you will see the truth of it for yourself. You can threaten and maneuver all you want, Fett will not come.]

The golden blade swung down abruptly. Myles let out a cry denial but the lightsaber only hovered over his neck. Obi-Wan did not move, keeping his gaze locked on Vizsla’s visor, even as the heat aura of the blade burned the skin.

[Kill me now and I will become more powerful than you can ever know.]

[Jedi banthashit.] Tor snarled.

The muscles in Vizsla's wrist twitched, preparing to pull back and gain momentum to strike once more. But Obi-Wan was already moving. He jerked his hand free of the cuff, ignoring the shearing of his skin as he did so, blood pouring from the cuts. His hands shot out, a practiced hand flying out to wrench the lightsaber from Vizsla’s grip even as a Force push sent him flying back. He lashed out, both driving Vizsla further back and cutting the chain connecting his ankle to the stake. Another wide arc deflected the blaster bolts that followed him.

The sound of a second lightsaber igniting interrupted the chaos.

[Stop!] Tor shouted, the black blade held to Myles’ throat. [Move again and I kill him.]

[What’s wrong, Tor,] Obi-Wan drawled, letting a taunt color his words, [no more speeches? Have you lost your spine now that this ‘boy’ is armed?]

Vizsla barked a laugh, the sound incredulous. The Darksaber slid from Myles’ form to point at him threateningly. [Are you challenging me?]

Ah, pride. Such an easy emotion to manipulate. It would be tricky, he would need to find a way to drive Vizsla off without actually disarming him - Obi-Wan had no desire to inherit that particular mess - but he had faced far worse at the end of a lightsaber then Tor Vizsla. He’d find a way, he had no other choice. [Careful, now. It’s considered unwise to challenge a Jedi with a lightsaber.]

[Oh pup,] Tor breathed, dark and amused, almost like a sigh, [you will hardly be the first Jedi I’ve fought. If only you knew the number of your kind I’ve brought to their ends.]

Obi-Wan smiled grimly as slid into a ready stance, lightsaber held humming over his head, other arm extended from his front, two fingers spread wide in front of him, steady despite the blood that coated them. [That may be so, but I will be the last.]

---

Bruck felt a little guilty as he sped through the thinning forests and towards where he could feel the pulsing pull of the Force – but only a little. Obi-Wan was in danger, Bruck could feel it. He forced himself faster, even as the deep snow fought each step. It wouldn’t take long for Jango or Jax to realize he’d slipped free of their grasp. They’d let him lie down when the sun had crested over the mountainside, after Bruck had played up his exhaustion of a full night of fretting.

And though he knew he’d be making things even more complicated for Jango and make Jax worried, Bruck flew up the mountainside. He may not be a padawan, but he was a Jedi, and he would not stand helplessly by when there was someone he could help. Especially not with that someone was Obi-Wan.

Obi-Wan was far away, but at the same time not. He couldn’t pinpoint his position but – as always – the Force lead him forward. The sound of a jet pack had his head snapping up and Bruck grit his teeth in frustration when an armored figured streaked past him, turning elegantly to land in front of him, rifle pointed at his chest. He was familiar – the bully with the lightsaber, Bruck’s mind supplied – and Bruck cursed loudly.

He sped up even as he feinted to the side, causing the blaster to jerk wildly to the follow, before a Force jump sent him flying over the Mandalorian by several feet. He pushed out with his hands as he went over the figure, sending it crashing face forward with a curse into the snow. He landed with a roll and was up and running again, another Force-aided jump sending him clear the side of a cliff face. He landed, sparing a moment to call a ‘sorry!’ at the prone Mandalorian before jolting into motion again. Something dropped form the sky and Bruck barely managed to toss himself to the side and avoid it. A hand lashed out and grabbed his ankle, yanking him back. The Mandalorian holding him grunted when Bruck’s other boot made contact with his helm, but only tightened his grip.

“Let me go!” Bruck shouted, throwing a rock and feeling a vicious satisfaction as it bounced off the Mandalorian’s helmet with a loud ‘clunk.’ “I’ve got to go, let me go! I’m going to save Obi-Wan, you can’t sto – urk!”

A forceful yank had him sliding down the snow and pinned by the Mandalorian, gloved hands digging into his wrists. “You’re going to get yourself killed, di'kut.”

“You got him, Ravi?”

“Yeah. He’s a slippery little shit.”

“Ravi? You’re Doan’s brother?” Bruck gaped at the figure above him. That cute little Force sensitive was related to this guy? He could literally feel the way the teen soured above him.

“Got something to say, brat?”

“Look,” Bruck snarled, trying (and failing) to break free, “I really don’t want to launch you into a tree, but I will! You saw what I can do.”

The hands on his wrists tightened threateningly. “Where I go, you go. That’s a promise, jetii.”

Bruck felt like crying, he could feel the burn of frustrated tears. “Would you let anyone stop you from going after Doan?”

Ravi’s frame went tense, then he sighed. “I wouldn’t, but you can’t go like this. What was even your plan? You’re unarmed.”

"A Jedi is never unarmed," Bruck snapped back, parroting words he'd heard since he was a child, but whatever further retort Bruck had to that died on his lips. His head jerking back to stare at the sky so fast he felt his neck crack, eyes wide. Jedi. They were still very far away, but Bruck hadn’t spent every day of his life until he’d left Coruscant surrounded by the signature of his fellows to not to know them now.

And they were not being quiet.

They were all but calling out in the Force, muted but there. He couldn’t recognize any individuals, but it was impossible to miss the massive Force presence that had just arrived on Galidraan. Bruck closed his eyes in relief, going limp in Ravi’s hold. The Jedi were here; Knights, Masters, his people. They’d come for them. Surely, they would find Obi-Wan.

But then, just as the relief of it all seemed to sink into his bones, another thought had him jack-knifing up so quickly he would have smashed his head into Ravi’s helmet if the other boy had not been an inch faster. The signature was so large; too large. It suggested the kind of numbers that Bruck had only felt in the Temple and never once he had left it, which could only mean one thing - a strike force. The feeling that had been haunting him all day reared its head, a warning louder than Bruck had ever heard the Force give him before. Jedi never formed strike forces unless they expected things to get very violent and very, very quickly.

“Chun?” Ravi’s voice was strained, unnerved. “What is it?”

Bruck turned in the grip, eyes darting from the south where he’d been staring back to where the camp lay. This could be…bad. Really bad.

“I need you to listen to me.” Bruck said, locking eyes with Ravi’s visor, trying to will him to feel how serious he was, the truth to his words. “You need to get Jango on the line and you need to do it quickly. Like, right now.”

“Why?” Ravi’s tone and body were wary. 

“Because a Jedi Strike Team is here. Planetside.”  

Behind him, the second Mandalorian  that had recovered from his tumble and joined them let out a choked sound. “What?”

Ravi had gone completely still above him, so still he was like a statue. “How do you know?”

Bruck let out a strained sound, gesturing wildly to himself the best he could. “I’m a Jedi!”

Just like that, it was like life had been breathed back into Ravi. The teen let out a series of what could only be curses in Mando’a, filthy and violent sounding. “Lon, get on the com. Tell them we have hostiles incoming.”

“Wait,” Bruck cried desperately, “what are you doing?” He watched, horrified, as the bulky Mandalorian – Lon – immediately did just that, frantically checking over his blaster as he did so.

“What do you think we’re doing?” Ravi snarked back, releasing him. He stood quickly, his hands flying across his body as if he was counting the number of weapons he had attached to his body. “You just told us a Jedi strike force is on planet.”

“You…your plan is to fight them.” Bruck breathed, aghast. He swirled to his feet, staring at Lon, before leaping forward, yanking at the taller boy’s arm and trying to grab the com unit from him. “Are you telling them to fight them?!”

“In case you missed it kid, the Jedi and the Mandalorians don’t have the best history.” Lon grunted out, shaking Bruck’s grip off. He let his hand fall, staring at Lon blankly. He could here Jax’s voice on the other side of the com, asking questions and barking orders in rapid Mando’a, the man's voice controlled but not without a tone of frantic-ness to it. A man that, Bruck was just beginning to realize, he’d actually begun to like. Maybe even trust. A man that was now going to lead a heavily armored army to attack Jedi. So many people were going to die. Bruck couldn’t let it happen. And just like that, the fear in his chest made an abrupt right turn, morphing almost without warning into a steely determination.

“They won’t attack you, not unless you attack first.”

Ravi snorted “And what – you think they’re here to talk?”

“Yes.” Lon’s head shot up to stare at him, his disbelief so strong that Bruck didn’t need the Force to feel it. The com link fell silent. “I know you can hear me, Jax. You too, Jango. So listen to me. The only thing they know is that you took me and Obi-Wan off a mining platform. It doesn’t matter how we got there, there were other Jedi on planet, they would have come for us. And you took us off world and away.”

And Bruck didn’t know where the words were coming from, where the calm was coming from. And even though he had doubted it himself, had doubted it every day since they’d ended up here, his next words came out with a ring of true belief to them; solid, weighty.

“You know the rumors about Mandalorians; you know what they’re rumored to do with force-sensitive children. Of course, they came for us. Of course they did. And I know you don’t trust the Jedi, but I am telling you they will listen if you talk.”

Bruck took a surprisingly steady breath.

“And I am a Jedi. If you try to kill them – my clan, the people who raised me and taught me, and are only here because they fear what you might do to me. Then you’ll have to kill me too, because I’m not just going to stand by and let that happen.”

The other side of the line was completely quiet, the two Mandalorians with him echoing that quiet as they stared at him.

“I don’t think they’ll listen to us, kid.” Came Jango’s voice, a hard edge to it even through the link, “and that’s a risk I’m not willing to take.”

Bruck stared at the com in disbelief. Then slowly, his head turned back towards where he thought Obi-Wan was. For a moment that felt like forever, Bruck was torn. Two possibilities spread out before him; finding Obi-Wan or…or not. One of giving up, of leaving him to whatever it was he was facing. The life of one, or the lives of many. A helpless panic swirled in his chest, even as he knew he’d already made his decision.

Bruck was a Jedi; there was no real choice at all.

“I’ll come back. I’ll come with you to explain what’s happened.” More silence. “Jango, please. No one has to die today; they’ll listen to me. I swear it.”

Then, finally, “get your ass back to camp.”

“You better be right about this.” Ravi said, voice tight.

Bruck turned to meet his gaze, eyes steely. “I am.”

The other boy stared at him for a moment – or at least Bruck thought he did – and then nodded. “Mand’alor, he was heading up the northwest side of the mountain. Towards the crooked peak.”

“…right. I’ll let the hunters know.”

Bruck stared up the mountain, dry throat clicking as he swallowed. You better not die, idiot.

Notes:

Ah, Obi-Wan. Men with pride and their follies indeed. My baby Bruck doing the Jedi proud and using his words. One more chapter in this part.

Mando’a used:
di'kut - idiot

Chapter 20: Galidraan, Part 6

Notes:

Wooh boy, here we go. Also, you guys make my day with your reviews. Thanks for reading and letting me share my fox with you.

From where he sat, chained and kriffing useless, Myles watched the show down before him with wide, disbelieving eyes. Obi-Wan swirled in a wide circle, dancing around Tor Vizsla’s strikes, deflecting his parries away from him. The form seemed to be defensive and worked well with Obi-Wan’s smaller and lighter frame, repelling even the most forceful of Vizsla’s strikes away like water slipping over stone.

Vizla darted forward, kicking up a pile of snow and sending it towards his face. Obi-Wan dodged it, then hand sprung away quickly to avoid the down slash of the Darksaber. It nearly took off the kid’s head and Myles’ wrists twisted faster in their bindings. He’d been trying to get his gloves to disengage from his suit seals since the fight started, if he could just get out of them he could slip the bindings there. He had to get out, he had to – do something! A part of him twisted in distaste at the idea of interrupting a formal challenge, but the larger part was screaming that Obi-Wan was a thirteen-year-old boy and clearly out of his kriffing mind, because Tor Vizsla was forty-seven years old and had the training to show for it.

No way, no way, was he letting Jango’s kid die on his watch. No way was that happening.

It was bad enough that Myles had even let this happen. When Obi-Wan had disappeared further into the trees, Myles had followed, convinced the boy was going to make a run for it. Only to stumble upon Lyra Ordo and her brother, two people if who you had asked Myles just last night if he thought they were loyal to the True Mandalorians, he would have gutted you on principle. Jaster had taken what was left of Clan Ordo in when their father had died, had saved them from the grasp of slavers and cared for them as his own, just like he did with all the clans he took under his banner.

And after all that, they’d betrayed them. And for what? A few creds?

Myles was going to feed Lyra her brother’s heart before he killed her, he swore it.

In front of him, Obi-Wan withstood another intense onslaught of strikes. Myles felt his heart leap when Obi-Wan’s did something fancy with his wrist, his golden lightsaber twisting to the side and nearly sending the Darksaber from Vizsla’s hand.

Tor moved, coming to rest a few feet way. Obi-Wan gestured to the man with his hand. [Come now, let’s finish this.]

[Overconfidence will get you nowhere, boy.]

[That was my line.] Obi-Wan quipped with a smirk and Myles slammed his head back against the post in frustration. Why in the sithhells did the kid have to keep taunting him? Tor Vizsla’s anger was legendary, few ever dared to poke it outside of Jango. Vizsla charged the boy, his strikes punishingly hard and Myles could see the strain in Obi-Wan’s smaller form as he withstood it.

A hard blow scent the boy spinning back, Obi-Wan turning the movements into something smooth and graceful within moments, almost dancing across the snow. There was the telltale click and woosh of a rocket spinning away from a shoulder launcher, and it had Myles shouting out a warning, but Obi-Wan ignored him. A crate that was resting in front of a nearby tent shot forward with a flick of his fingers, catching the rocket head on. The camp echoed with the explosion, filling with smoke. Two more followed it in quick succession and Myles frantically cycled through his visor settings until he could make out Obi-Wan’s form once more. The other two rockets glowed a brilliant red as they closed in on him. They were met by yet more camp debris, one after another.

Obi-Wan spun his lightsaber as he stepped out of the smoke, expression calm. [Now that we’ve established that.]

Tor Vizsla let out a snarl and threw himself forward.

---

The consular-class ship The Acceptance touched down on the snow grounds of Galidraan in the early hours of morning. It was followed shortly by it’s sister ships, The Radiant VII and The Pathseeker, and two smaller scout ships, The Kingfisher and The Pidgot. The bright light of dawn shown harshly through the open hatch of The Acceptance, Yan standing like a sentinel as he stared out into it. Feemor drank in the impressive form of his grandmaster, unashamed of the way he used the man’s steady presence to center his own. Komari Vosa stalked past him, as sleek and angular as a wildcat, her lips quirked in a eager grin. Feemor felt his brows twitch at the sight; he wasn’t quite sure of what to make of Yan’s padawan. The girl certainly had a…presence, to her. Rael gave him a nudge as he walked by, throwing a wink at Feemor before joining his Master.

Feemor gave him a small smile, about to step forward himself when a hand on his elbow stopped him. Qui-Gon stood next to him, his expression composed as ever, but the way his hand squeezed his elbow betrayed him. It was a move so reminiscent of their time together as a Master-Padawan team, a soundless way to convey concern and comfort all at once, that it made his breath catch. His feelings for his former Master were still conflicted, but he couldn’t deny that the conversation they’d had, had lessened it somewhat. The hurt was still there, but it no longer felt impossible to breathe in Qui-Gon’s presence anymore.

It wasn’t forgiveness, not yet…but maybe one day.

“Will you need anything else from me, Master Dooku?” Maoi Madakor asked, the standing Captain of the Judicial Forces that had come with them, asked. She was a rigid woman, shortest in the group by far with tightly cropped brunette hair, easy to irritate, and Feemor had done his best to stay out of her way.

“No, Captain, that will be all. Remain alert, with any luck we shall return by nightfall.” She saluted Yan, before doing a tight turn on her heel, returning to the cockpit. Yan waited until the doors had slid shut before turning to the group. “I need not remind you of the dangers that may await us here. The Mandalorian people have been known as Jedi-killers for nearly as long as they’ve had a name, you must be alert at all times. From the moment I step from this ship, I will be acting as head of this mission and will make the calls as appropriate to such a title. Regardless of what may befall any of you. Which is why I wish to express to you now, before I do so, my uttermost will that you all remain safe.”

“Don’t worry, Master,” Vosa said proudly, her chin jutted out, “we understand what’s at stake. We’ll save Kenobi and Chun, the Mandalorians won’t get the jump on us.”

Yan chuckled, reaching out to grip his padawan’s shoulder. “Is it so wrong that a master worries about his apprentice?”

The girl all but inflated at the praise and – alarmingly – her cheeks began to pink. Feemor felt his eyes widened, because that seemed more like – but no, it couldn’t be, right? His eyes darted first to Rael, but the man was checking his gear, then to Qui-Gon. His former Master was staring intensely at Vosa, eyes narrowed.

Yan turned from Vosa, facing them once more, his expression softening in a way that Feemor had never seen before and just what had happened that night in Qui-Gon’s quarters? Yan Dooku usually only ever emoted three emotions; gleeful amusement, smugness, and a calm coolness that ventured close enough to be considered cold. “And I mean that for you three as well. After all, it isn’t every day a man potentially leads the entirety of his direct lineage into battle.”

Vosa’s expression soured, almost like the reminder of Qui-Gon, Rael, and himself had somehow had ruined it. That was…concerning.

“We’ll watch out for each other,” Rael said firmly, “you keep your head in the game, Master.”

“Indeed,” Yan agreed, face hardening as he stepped out into the light.

Feemor swallowed at the thought, but steeled his nerves as he followed his lineage out. Nerves were natural for any mission and so he welcomed the anxiety, accepted it as true and valid, and then let himself let it go into the Force. He could sense Qui-Gon pulling to a stop behind him, just in front of Komari. “Mind your thoughts, Padawan Vosa,” his former master warned, voice stern, “you betray yourself.”

The sound of Vosa’s sharp intake echoed and then she stormed past them, throwing a glare over her shoulder as she hurried to Yan’s side. Feemor frowned, troubled at the display. “Master…”

“I know,” Qui-Gon said quietly, “I saw it too. I’ll keep an eye on her.”

Feemor nodded, following him towards where the other Jedi were gathered.

“ – but that’s not fair!” Quinlan Vos was saying, tall for his age and every inch of it lit with frustration. His tall figure dwarfed an equally miserable looking padawan by his side.

“Calm yourself at once, Padawan.” His master, Knight Tholme said, voice stern but gentle. “I understand you and Padawan Muln’s concerns and I understand your desire, but the answer is still no.”

“Please, Knight Tholme,” Padawan Muln said, tone close to begging, “Obi-Wan is our friend, and Bruck was in my Youngling Clan. We have to go.”

“Garen.” Clee Rhara said with a sigh and a sad smile. “I’m sorry, but no. You and the other padawans will remain behind with Healers Che and Buck.”

Padawan Mulin deflated in on himself with a nod, but Vos glanced beseechingly around the group of gathered Jedi for a friendly eye. When he found none, his shoulders fell. “Padawans Vosa and Lissarkh are going.”

“Yes, as they are senior padawans, they are.” Knight Plo Koon said, his hand resting heavily on his own padawan’s shoulder. “But even so, they will not go so much as a foot away from their masters at any time. That is clear, I hope.”

Lissarkh snorted, pulling her scarf up higher over her smooth skin. “How could it not be, when you’ve only reminded me so every hour?”

Despite the tension that hummed between the group, the gathered Jedi chuckled at the cheek.

“Come boys,” Master Che said, “you can help guard the ships and Rig will need help prepping the med bays, won’t you Rig?”

Her padawan nodded, giving the boys an encouraging smile. The two went, looking like a pair of kicked puppies the whole way. The temporary amusement faded with their steps. Feemor took in the strike force; Yyrrlom towered over them, an agemate of Cin Drallig and nearly as equally skilled with a lightsaber, the former council member and Wookie Master tall and intimidating even with her Jedi robes softening her figure. By her side was her former apprentice, Ceza Agave, a cheerful Mirialan Knight that Feemor had seen win at the Knight salon more often then not with her deadly dual lightsabers, stood. Just to their left was Rosmer Dahn, a Chagrian Master renowned as a Battlemaster, stood with his unconventional weapon choices of a staff in one hand, and knives strapped his waist, their curved shapes only interrupted by his lightsaber.

To their right was Teren Tafo, a Pau’an Knight who specialized in combat medicine. To her left was Laze Washet and Darred Subra, Jedi Shadows that had an austere reputation among the Jedi who knew of them and what they did, even if Darred was still quiet young. Directly across from them was Europa Jorel and Ta Aresu, a Human and Kessurian pair that had formed a permanent partnership after their Master-Padawanship had ended. And to their left, Kit Fisto, a Nautolan Knight known for his ‘saber skills – and, coincidentally, a creche-mate of Feemor.

Kit caught his gaze and gave him a crooked smile, sharp teeth on display, which Feemor happily returned. It was good to see a familiar face. Twenty Jedi strong, not counting the junior padawans or healers. Together, they were arguably some of the strongest fighters in the Order had to offer outside of a few who sat on the Council itself. Feemor hoped they wouldn’t have to put those skills to the test.

“Our objectives here are two-fold,” Yan said, his voice resolute, “the Mandalorian leader Jango Fett is wanted by the Republic for human right violations. Just a few nights ago, he led a massacre of civilians; men, women, children. None were spared. If possible, he is to be taken – alive – to stand trial for his crimes to Coruscant. But above that, the retrieval of two our own take priority. Agricultural corpsmen Obi-Wan Kenobi and Bruck Chun were taken from their posting a week ago. If you see them, get them out. Are the mission parameters clear?” A murmuring of agreement followed Yan’s words. “Good. I will try to negotiate first. I will not lie to you; I do not have high hopes. Prepare yourselves.”

And on that somber note, the strike force started out into the frozen wasteland. Yan’s will spread out through the Force, Rael’s and Qui-Gon’s springing alongside it, and Feemor was quick to join with his own, wrapping easily around those of his lineage’s and filling the gaps. He felt Kit’s join his own, then Europa and Darred Subra and his master, and still more weaved into it. Even the two junior padawans – their novice presences bolstered by the more experienced healers among then – joined in.

Twenty-four Jedi, calling out in one single, united voice.

We are here, we have come, we will find you. Do not be afraid.

---

The call in the Force made him stumble, but Obi-Wan managed to catch the strike aimed at his side, redirecting it and causing Vizsla to stumble. He made another attempt to dislodge the Darksaber, but Tor moved away, his foot nearly catching Obi-Wan in the knee.

This, Obi-Wan thought with a spike of concern, is not going quite as I hoped.

There was no denying the man’s skill; Tor Vizsla had most likely trained with a ligthsaber or a long-blade since he was a child, the same as Obi-Wan. He was, to put it frankly, the best non-Force sensitive lightsaber wielder he’d ever met. Add that to Vizsla’s not inconsiderable strength and formidable size, and this was taking much longer than he’d anticipated. And Obi-Wan had to end this, he had to be at the camp when the Jedi arrived. Lives depended on it, so many more than just those who were on Galidraan. The likelihood of being able to drive Tor off was looking less and less like a viable option. But Obi-Wan did not want to kill the man and take the Darksaber either.

[You’re very stubborn, are you aware of that?] Obi-Wan grunted out as he met Tor’s strike, digging into the snow and pulling the Force to keep his footing.

Vizsla just laughed. [My, my, just where did Fett find you, pup?]

[Deep-sea mining platform.] Obi-Wan answered honestly, a harsh kick against an armored thigh breaking the dead lock. He flipped away, taking a moment to catch his breath.

[Don’t suppose I could convince you over to greener pastures.]

[Not on your life.] Obi-Wan grit his teeth, the glowing presence of the Jedi strike force growing even brighter as they moved closer at a rate only Jedi could manage.

Tor cackled. [You’ve got guts, I like that. It’ll be a shame to kill you, but I’m honored to be the one to do it.”]

Obi-Wan met him in the middle of the clearing, ignoring the jeering calls of the Death Watch around them. He upped his speed, lightsaber flashing out so quickly it was a blur. He was reaching the very edges of what his current body could do, even with the Force augmenting his moves. But he needed to end this, quickly, and get back to camp. And if that meant a loss of limb or two and the possession of the Darksaber, then so be it. He could handle the repercussions later, the priority had to be avoiding the disaster below.

To his credit, Vizsla noticed the changed tone of the fight immediately. His ever-present grin slipped away, replaced with a look of concentration. It was remarkable that he was able to keep up with Obi-Wan’s blows, but despite that skill Tor was still being driven back. He was losing, and from the how the camp had grown utterly silent around them, Vizsla was not the only one aware of it. Obi-Wan opened himself to the Force completely, ignoring the demanding tug of the Jedi below, the sudden awareness that Qui-Gon - that many of what had once been his lineage - was planetside, and drove forward.

---

“Qui-Gon.” The sound of his name jerked him from the mountaintop he was staring blankly at and Qui-Gon turned to find his former Master watching him with a narrowed look. “Focus.”

The ‘yes, master,’ was as reflexive as it was embarrassing. Qui-Gon winced and then threw a dirty look at Rael when his padawan-brother sniggered at his expense.

“We’re approaching.” Yan said sternly and the grin slid off of Rael’s face. They climbed the last hill and stopped abruptly. Every Mandalorian in the camp below was facing them, weapons trained and armed. And at the very front of the massive group was Bruck Chun, dwarfed on either side by two Mandalorians. Their clan symbol labeled them as Fett and Mereel respectively, and Qui-Gon had no doubt that they were Jango Fett and Jax Mereel, the leaders of the True Mandalorian factions. One had his hand resting on the boy’s shoulder.

Bruck’s eyes found his own, his expression lighting up when he took in Qui-Gon, quite possibly the only Jedi he knew personally present. The Jedi Master couldn’t deny the way his own heart calmed somewhat at the sight of the boy. Obi-Wan was nowhere in sight, but at least one of the boys was unharmed.

“Well.” Yan said after a moment, echoing Qui-Gon’s own relief, “Bruck Chun. I can not say enough what a relief it is to see you hale and unharmed. We had feared the worst.”

“Masters,” Bruck said, stepping forward to greet them only to stop abruptly when the Mandalorian’s grip on him tightened.

Qui-Gon did not let himself stiffen, nor did any of his fellow Jedi, but the Force tensed in a echo of their own feelings. With a carefulness that he would not have once prescribed to the boy, Bruck patted the hand as if in reassurance, and then removed it.

Bruck step forward again, bowing deeply. “Master, I can only say how relieved I am to see you.” He pulled up from the bow, licking his lips. Nervousness flashed across his face before disappearing behind a wall of calm authority. “I am aware of how this must look, but Jax – the Mandalorian who took us off of Bandomeer, didn't know we were Jedi when he took us.”

“Oh?” Yan asked, an eyebrow rising.

“It’s true.” The Mereel said, presumably Jax Mereel. “I met them on a bounty hunting mission, thought they were slaves. It didn’t sit well with me, leaving such young kids alone on a deep-sea mining platform like that. Especially not with one them being from the home system.”

“Obi-Wan.” Feemor said suddenly from behind him. “Obi-Wan’s home-world is listed as Stewjon.”

“That’s right.” Bruck said, a grin breaking out across his face. “And he still remembered the language. Our first night there, one of the miners played a trick on us and told us to take Jax’s bunk. I don’t know how Obi-Wan recognized him as Mandalorian,” and wasn’t that an odd thing to say, Qui-Gon thought, eyeing the heavily armored forms around them, “but he spoke to him in Mando’a. Jax started looking after us right away.”

“I see.” Yan said with a nod, gesturing Bruck forward. “And you are quite unharmed, you’re sure? Let me see you.”

Bruck obediently stepped forward. The Fett, Jango, made an aborted movement as if to grab him back, undoubtedly knowing that to loose Bruck was to have one less bargaining chip. But Yan was quicker, his hand shooting out and gently guiding Bruck up the incline and towards them. Kit Fisto slid forward, as did Plo Koon, bracketing the boy in a defensive move. And the Mandalorians were aware of it, a ripple of unease spreading through their ranks like a wave.  Qui-Gon took a breath threw his nose, letting it out slowly and quietly, relieved that Bruck was safe amongst them. That was one.

“Bruck,” Qui-Gon said, never taking his eyes off of the gathered army in front of them, “where is Obi-Wan?”

Bruck’s face fell, looking down at his feet. “He was kidnapped. I went to sleep, and when I woke up, he was gone. I'm sorry.”

Dread bloomed in Qui-Gon’s chest, his breath stuttering in horror. A feeling that echoed the concern that flared among the strike force. Qui-Gon’s mind leapt to the worst-case scenario. Obi-Wan had been taken, sold at the highest bidder. The market for Force sensitives was something the Jedi Shadows waged an active and highly thorough war against, and yet whenever they took down one cartel three more seemed to take its place.

To think of Obi-Wan on a slaver's block was –

“You allowed him to be taken?” Ceza asked, voice low. “Or have you sold him?”

Both Mandalorians bristled at the comment and Jango Fett took a step forward, blaster powering up. “Not any of my people would dare sell a sentient being. Slavers are shot on sight.”

The collective Jedi paused at that, tasting the truth of the statement. Qui-Gon’s thoughts stalled and then went in a rapidly different direction all together, re-evaluating what he’d seen in the short conversation. Mandalorians were known for taking in foundlings, adoption was practically seen as equal to if not more valued as naturally born family units, and he knew first hand that both boys had a charm about them, a way of encouraging fondness and feelings of protection.

“So did you just kill him, then?” Padawan Vosa spit out, seething, “like you did those civilians?”

Yan’s admonishment was immediate. “Komari!”

“W-What?” Bruck gasped, eyes round with horror and shock, and his former Master’s hands tightened in reflex on Bruck's arms, shoring the boy.

“Two hundred and fifteen civilians, even non-combatants, even children.” Padawan Vosa continued, glaring at the Mandalorian’s. Her righteous anger and eagerness to fight – no, to prove herself against such strong opponents, to prove herself to Yan – echoed off of her, bleeding into the Force, but the girl seemed unaware of it. Qui-Gon had only seen a flash of it own the ship, the possession and yearning that bordered on something inappropriate. But now, it was freely on display.

“Padawan Vosa!” Yan barked, voice hard. “You will excuse yourself to the ship immediately.”

Vosa finally tore her gaze away the Mandalorians to look at her Master – and found the eyes of every Jedi upon her. Shame and embarrassment flared loudly before impressive shields snapped into place.

“But Master, I –” Vosa stuttered, before she seemed to rally, determination sharping her features. “My place is by your side, Master.”

“Do I need to repeat myself?” Yan asked, emotionless. Padawan Vosa jerked as if struck, her mouth snapping shut. “Master Jorel and Knight Ta Aresu will escort you there.”

Both Jedi slid forward, bracketing Padawan Vosa in a way that mirrored but was utterly dissimilar to how they had enfolded Bruck just moments ago.

Vosa tried again, letting out an almost desperate, “Master– ”

But Yan was already turning away in dismissal, turning his attention fully towards the Mandalorians again. His former Master gently passed a stunned Bruck to Kit, who pressed his hands reassuringly to the boy’s shoulders.

“I apologize.” Yan said stiffly, ignoring Komari Vosa being all but marched back to the ship like a disobedient child and not a Human padawan of seventeen. Despite his seemingly lack of attention, Qui-Gon could feel the discordant note to his master, even behind the man’s formidable shields. Vosa’s display had disturbed him, deeply, and worried him a great a deal. Qui-Gon had not spoken his master for a long time before this mission, but Rael had informed him of how Dooku saw Komari as a daughter figure, more so then he had ever viewed any of the padawans before her as his children. They had joked Yan's age had softened him, made him spoil her.

Across from them, Jango Fett’s bewilderment couldn’t have been clearer even if they were able to see his features. “…no problem. Now tell me what the hell you’re talking about. We didn’t kill any civilians. We were hired by the Governor of Galidraan to deal with a insurgency; armed militia. Overkill for us, sure. But it was a job.”

Again, truth. Qui-Gon exchanged a look with Rael.

“Do you have any proof of this?” Yan asked.

Mereel stepped forward, Fett’s helmet jerking to the side to follow him in surprise. The Mandalorian tapped his wrist and a few seconds later, a portly man in a tall, Galidraan’s noble’s robes and hat appeared, cast in the blue of a recorded com.

“- was a generous offer, Fett!”

“Make it worth my time, Governor.” Jango Fett’s voice echoed, unseen. “I’ve got a covert to see through the winter.”

“This is extortion!”

“Not my fault if you can’t control your people.”

“And you have no one else willing to work with you! I’m doing you a favor.”

“Goodbye, Governor.”

“Wait, wait!” The Governor wiped at his forehead before throwing his hands up in defeat. “Fine. Fine. Double the final offer, I can’t go any higher. Really, it’s more then what you deserve, they can hardly call themselves an army. More like angry peasants with second hand blasters.”

“And yet,” Fett mocked, “here you are, calling me to deal with your ‘peasants.’ We'll be there in three weeks.”

“Three weeks!”

“Three weeks,” Fett repeated.

The recording ended.

Jax scoffed. “And you said I was paranoid." He stared the Jedi down. "There were no civilians, and damn well no kids there. If there were bodies, they didn’t come from us. Bastard set us up.”

“So, he did.” Jango agreed, voice murderous. “But why?”

“To answer that, Master Fett, you must ask who would gain from your fall here? If I may ask you send that message to my personal com, we will need it to present to the Senate.” Yan said smoothly. “Plo, if you and your padawan will please go and secure the Governor. I have some questions I would very much like answers too.”

Plo nodded, splintering from the group, his Trandoshan padawan following quickly behind.

“Now, onto the more pressing issue –”

“Excuse me,” Fett snapped, “how is this not –”

“– if not you, then who has taken Obi-Wan Kenobi?”

Silence.

“Do not mistake me, Jango Fett. I am more than pleased that I will not be forced to take you into custody, and I will gladly support you in the Senate.” Yan continued over him, voice steely, and Qui-Gon joined Rael instinctively to follow his stalking advance forward, a shell-shocked looking Bruck being shuffled behind the collected Jedi as they spread out – subtly showing their numbers. Not a threat, but a warning. “You will tell me everything you know, now.”

“Oh I will, will I?” Jango snarled back. "Just like that? You come here, accuse me of being a child-murderer, accuse me of being a slaver, and just demand answers."

“Enough!” A voice snapped. “No, you – let go of me!”

Bruck stumbled through the line, batting away reaching hands.

“What is wrong with you all?” The boy cried. “Are you all so eager for a fight that you can’t even take a minute! Why did you even send that Padawan away if you aren’t even going to listen? They don’t know what happened to Obi-Wan, alright? And they won’t admit it to you, because they’re embarrassed about it.”

“Oi!”

“Be quiet, Jax!” Bruck snapped. “Clan politics, right? That’s what you said. I understand what you thought, coming here Masters, I get why you were ready to fight if you had to. And I know that the Mandalorians and the Jedi don’t have the best history, but what does any of that matter now? There hasn’t been an open Mandalorian-Jedi conflict since anyone here was born and they just showed us that they were set up! And yet still, you guys both want to just sit here and – and grandstand about which one you is scarier - while Obi-Wan is still missing! He could be hurt, he could be dying right now, and neither one of you are even willing to talk to each other! Does Obi-Wan even matter?”

Qui-Gon stared at the boy, astonished.

Yan let out a soft chuckle. “From the mouth of babes.”

Bruck blinked. “What?”

“I must ask for your forgiveness again, I’m afraid. Young Bruck is quite right, given our…shared history…tensions going into this meeting were quite high.” His master said, folding his arms into the sleeves of his cloak. As one, the Jedi followed his lead, softening their stances. “We are Jedi, we would naturally prefer to avoid conflict if it can be done. Perhaps we can start over.”

The two Mandalorians exchanged a look. Then Jango Fett took a cautious step forward. “Sure. Why not.”

Yan smiled his diplomat smile, extending a hand. “My name is Yan Dooku, Jedi Master.”

Fett stared at the hand, then closed the gap between them to shake it. “Jango Fett. Mand'alor.”

“A pleasure.” Yan said with a nod, “now, please. Tell us what has happened to Obi-Wan so we may assist you in ensuring his return.”

---

Obi-Wan focused on his breathing. The camp, Myles, the Death Watch members, only took enough of his awareness to make sure that none of them moved.

In, out, in out. Parry, slash. Breathe. Duck, parry, parry, duck. Now –

He swung his 'saber down with enough strength to send Vizsla off jumping to the side. The man lost his footing and went down, but he immediately turned it, hands digging into the snow to swing his legs in a sweep. Obi-Wan jumped up, tucking his feet in close. Tor rolled away, and a ‘slink-shink’ sound had Obi-Wan aborting his downward strike, backpedaling to put space between them. Whistling birds launched from Vizsla’s vambraces, following his retreat. A jerk of his hand had a log launching into the air – but it only caught a handful of the guided munitions.

Obi-Wan braced himself, hands and arms curling tightly into his chest, the borrowed ‘saber humming close to his face. He drew the Force around him, jaw clenching in effort, as the whistling birds flew towards him. He waited till they surrounded him then released the Force in a shockwave, sending them flying in all directions. They exploded as they made contact else where and Vizsla let out a shout of alarm, ducking as a few spun over his head before striking a cliffside and sending a shower of rock and snow down. Obi-Wan was already darting forward. The man saw him too late. With a grim acceptance of what he had to do, the golden blade shot out. Vizsla jerked back at the last second, spine twisting to keep his stomach from taking the hit.

Just as Obi-Wan had intended. His hand shot out, slamming the end of the lightsaber against Tor’s hand. Instinctively it spasmed, dropping the Darksaber. Obi-Wan caught it, leveling both blades towards Tor’s neck. [Yield.] He panted. Tor stared up at him. Obi-Wan pushed the blades closer. [Yield.]

[Foolish boy.] Vizsla said, voice flat. [There is no yielding in this. Only death.]

[Uncle!] A voice shouted.

Tor’s hand flew out. [Stay out of this, Pre.]

[No, no! I won’t allow this!] The same voice shouted and Obi-Wan spared what had to be a very young Pre Vizsla a look. Pre started forward, but a female Mandalorian’s blaster leveled on him, stalling the steps. Pre’s own weapon shot up. [You would betray your Mand’alor?]

[The one who earns the Darksaber through battle is the Mand’alor. This is the Way.]

[This is the Way,] echoed around them.

Obi-Wan glanced at the gathered Death Watch wearily, Mandalorians were carefully – almost delicately – moving around each other. Forming two sides.

[He is a Jedi!] Pre snarled, [his kind are our mortal enemies!]

The female Mandalorian clicked the safety off her blaster. [This is the Way.]

[Kast, you bitch!] Pre spat.

[You shame House Vizsla, Pre.] Tor grunted out and Obi-Wan focused fully on the man below him once more.

[I am shaming our House, Uncle? You have a lost to a boy – a child with no helm.] An infant, in other words, a toddler. [Those who stand with House Vizsla, those who stand with the Watch! Will you allow this to take place? A Jedi Mand'alor who has won through deceit and wizardry?]

There was the fingering of knives as well as raised blasters now, tightening of gloved hands as protective covers over munitions retracted.

[This does not look like it will end well for you, my friend.] Vizsla said, his lifeless voice gaining an edge of humor to it. The violence erupted. Obi-Wan cursed, lightsaber swinging wide enough to keep the blaster bolts from striking himself or Vizsla. Tor hummed. [You are a strange one.]

Ignoring him, Obi-Wan turned and sprinted towards Myles. He blinked in surprise to see the Mandalorian standing from a crouch, apparently having feed himself. [Come on!] Myles shouted, head butting a charging Mando and taking his weapon before unloading it into the offender. [Let’s get the hell out here.]

[Agreed.] Obi-Wan said with a grin, clipping the borrowed ‘saber to his waist and keeping the Darksaber out – for intimidation or whatever shock value it could give him. Anything to distract or give their opponents pause in hindering their escape. He spun it, deflecting attacks as he tried to clear them a path.

A figure appeared by his side – the female Mandalorian. Obi-Wan spared her a glance but dismissed her – he had too much to worry about at the moment then what he’d – good Force – apparently inherited. A wicked knife flew from her hand, catching a Mandalorian heavy unit in the throat. And apparently, she was quite good in a fight. Well, Obi-Wan wasn’t in a position to say no to that, now was he? And Obi-Wan needed to get out, he could feel himself flagging. He needed to get to the Jedi and stop the coming massacre, but already he could feel how exhausted he was. His body only wanted to sleep for the next week or so. Obi-Wan had pulled on the Force more than he had ever done since returning and already the first twinges of a headache was building behind his eyes, a warning he'd truly pressed himself far. Only time would tell him if it was too far for his thirteen-year-old body to take.

Steadily they made their way towards the edge of the camp, gathering Death Watch members as they went. By the time they made it, they were twenty strong. Next to him, the scream of the Force had Obi-Wan’s head snapping to look behind him even before he felt Myles' flare of alarm. He just registered the RPG flying towards them and in desperation Obi-Wan yanked a speeder bike into their path and – the last thing Obi-Wan saw was Myles’ throwing himself over him.

Notes:

Hehehehehe.

Sorry.

Well, what did you think of the fight? And Vosa will be redeemed as a character, this is not a hate fic. She just needs to have some space from her infatuation. I think it went better then in the comics. The amount of talking the Jedi attempt there is basically surrender Fett, now. Jango goes 'no.' And then boom, slaughter. Of course, in that timeline there is no Bruck to speak for them and make the Jedi re-think what's happening, no paranoid Jax to record calls, so a much darker fate. And Obi-Wan, oh boy.

Also, I kinda cackled when I made the Mandalorians and the Jedi have what was basically a dick waving contest. Because I could see that being a thing, two proud people with the kind of history they have. And I see Tor as having very little morals and being very much a forceful personality, but also being extremely religious.

Chapter 21: Yavin 4, Part 1

Notes:

Here we go! Next location arc.

Jango was…well. Flabbergasted was not quite the right word, but it was close. Despite all the talking that Bruck had been doing before their arrival, absolutely no part of him had thought that the Jedi would actually stop and listen. The hostility of the girl they’d sent away at the beginning (and hadn't the whole interaction just been odd) had been the bare minimum of what he’d been expecting.

And yet here he was, leading a troupe of Jedi through his camp, his people stationed in weary lines on either side, parting for their group like they had the plague. They had to tread carefully, though the Jedi appeared calm and collected, it was clear that one wrong move could cause this whole situation to blow. He’d already issued a stern command to his people to stand down unless attacked first, but all it took was one dumbass young recruit who had an itchy trigger finger to turn this whole thing on it’s head.

And then there was the missing boy. That Obi-Wan had been snatched – taken from Jango’s own camp – was still an infuriating state of affairs. Jax was convinced it was Death Watch, but Jango felt clan politics at work here. Death Watch was nowhere in this sector, for all he’d had have preferred that to this banthashit. Politics was not his cup of tea. He much rather solve his problems with a good old fashioned fist fight then talk it out. Jaster used to bemoan that about him all the time; there was no denying that his adoptive father had been born with a far more silver tongue then himself. Jango took after his birth father in that regard.

His command tent was just a head and Jango let out a quiet breath of relief. If he could just get them inside and out of sight, he wouldn’t have to worry about someone sniping a Jedi and starting a mini-war. He stopped just before it, turning to gesture with his hand, but a loud explosion had him instinctively ducking, his blaster free and armed in a heartbeat. He followed the sound up and to the north, cursing when he saw a large shower of snow and rock explode off the mountainside.

[What the hell was that?] Jango barked out, then in basic, highly aware of the Jedi standing before him, lightsabers in hand but not yet ignited. “Someone get me a report on what the hell that was immediately!”

Loud rumbling interrupted any response that may have come, so loud that it sounded like one of those old rail trains they had on Concord Dawn. Jango stared, mouth ajar, as a wall of snow began to rush down the mountainside.

And straight towards the camp.

“Evacuate!” Jango shouted, his own voice echoing loud as it rang out across the com units. [Avalanche, evacuate now! Those of you with packs, get in the air, grab who you can. The rest of you, run!]

[Mandalore,] Silas choked out from next to him, [the cadets!]

Dread shot through him, head snapping back towards the roaring snow. The cadets. He’d stationed the cadet unit towards the rear of the camp, the furthest away from possible conflict – and immediately in the path of the avalanche.

[Cadets!] Jango snapped out, frantic, then quickly switched to basic. He didn’t know them personally, didn’t know how many knew the home language. “Kids, get out of there now!”

“Master.” One of the tall Jedi said, voice sharp.

“I see them.” Master Dooku said calmly, then; “Come.”

Jango jerked in surprise as the Jedi launched themselves forward, so quickly they seemed like a blur to the eye. Jango shot to the air and off after the Jedi, Jax and Silas just behind him, going far faster than he should have had to keep up with them. The blurs raced through the camp, shifting like water around tents and fleeing Mandalorians, before coming to an abrupt stop before the scrambling group of cadets. The Jedi spread out in an loose and wide arrow formation, Master Dooku at its head. Jango stared, glancing from the unmoving Jedi to the oncoming wall of snow, before dropping down and landing so hard he felt it in his lower back.

“What are you doing?” He shouted to the Jedi, “get out of there!”

But the Jedi didn’t move, they didn’t react to him at all. He grabbed the closet cadets he could, roping his arms around them before launching himself back up into the air. He shot back, dropping the kids on a ridge he could only hope was high enough to be spared, before darting back.

[What the hell are they doing?] Jax asked, voice horrified through the com as he shot by with his own armful.

[I have no idea!] Jango ignored Silas’ shout of warning as he dropped down for a second time, desperately grabbing cadets. He went to the air once more just as the snow hit, wincing at the frightened cries of the kids left behind.

From where he was hovering, unable to look away from the cadets he’d left below, Jango stared. The Jedi stood firm, hands outstretched, cloaks billowing behind them with the strength of the rushing snow, and diverted it. It roared past them, shunted off like a rain in a drain pipe, down the mountain and completely missing the camp. It crashed into the ridge to the camp’s south, rearing up like a mighty wave, before settling.

Jango stared at it, at the massive slope where once there had been nothing, then at the untouched camp, before glancing back up at the now still mountainside. He slowly lowered himself, letting the cadets find their footing before releasing them. One immediately fell to his knees, ripping his helmet free as he vomited, while the other only clung to Jango tightly, so short he barely came up to his chest. He wrapped an arm around the boy just as tightly, staring at the line of Jedi.

Master Dooku turned to face him; his forehead bore a light sheen of sweat but other than that he wasn’t even breathing hard. One by one, the Jedi turned away, a few gathering together to talk and gesture up towards the explosion, a few others moving to check on the terrified cadets. Dooku simply watched him however, folding his hands into his sleeves. They’d just changed the path of an avalanche. How did his ancestors ever kill these creatures? His people were even greater than he’d first imagined, Jango thought, feeling both a fierce awe at those who bore the name of Jedi-Killer and at the simple power these Jedi had displayed.

Obi-Wan and Bruck had hinted at such talents, that was true, but this was…something else, another level.

“Thank you.” Jango said after a moment.

Dooku bowed his head. “You are most welcome. We avoid death, if it can be done.”

And for the first time, Jango thought he might actually believe that.

---

Bone white grass spread out in front of him. Obi-Wan stared at it, unable to understand what he was seeing. He reached out, fingers touching a stalk almost as tall as he was. It had a feathered seed cap at the end – some sort of wheat?

Wait.

Where was he?

Obi-Wan blinked, pulling his hand away from where he’d been running his thumb over the plant spike repeatedly. This wasn’t – hadn’t he just been on Galidraan? A glance around revealed him to be in some sort of valley, fairly long in length but incredibly narrow, surrounded on either side by towering blue-grey spikes of rock. He glanced up and felt his breath catch, eyes widening at the sight of a crystal-clear sky. Stars blanketed above, their lights giving off the eerie twilight that lit the area.

He kept his gaze on the magnificent sight as he curled the Force out, trying to get a sense of where he could be. But the moment he reached past the narrow crevasse a feeling of wrongness hit him so strong that it made his heart race. It was like a void – an abyss that Obi-Wan instantly tried to shy away from. He desperately tried to shut down his senses, tried to look away from the stars that now seemed so completely and utterly overwhelming, but he couldn’t.

He was panting now, breath coming so fast it was almost to the point of hyperventilation, and a feeling of horror overtook him, a scream crawling up his throat and –

Darkness.

A hand was suddenly pressed over his eyes, an unknown Force signature corralling his own senses back until it was a small kernel in his chest. Someone was standing behind him, tall enough that Obi-Wan could feel his head rest against a broad chest.

“Now why are you dreaming of this accursed place, I wonder?”

Obi-Wan let out a confused noise, a hand rising up instinctively to pull at the one blocking his sight. There was a low chuckle behind him as he freed himself and Obi-Wan swung around – but there was no one there. Instead, a lush green of a jungle greeted him, the strange valley gone. A massive ziggurat spread out before him, covered in moss and ivy. His eyes followed the steps up the towering thing to its ornate entrance way, just in time to see the end of a black cloak disappear inside.

He took a step forward and –

---

– woke up.

The plastid-canvas of a tent top spread out above him, pale tan in color and bearing the shadow of trees. The air was incredibly humid, to the point that he could feel his clothes sticking to him like a second skin, and the howls and calls of various animals filled the air. Obi-Wan sat up abruptly, hand pressed against his chest to try and calm its rapid beating.

What had that been?

[Awake?] A gruff voice creaked from next to him and Obi-Wan looked over to find Myles sitting on the bunk nearby, hunched in on himself. The amount of pain he was radiating was stunning. Obi-Wan was off the bunk and at his side before it fully registered.

“Myles? Where are we? Why haven’t you seen a medic?”

[I’m fine.] The man croaked.

“You’re not.” Obi-Wan corrected, brows furrowing as he followed the man into Mando’a. [Hold on, let me see – where are we? Is there even a medic?]

Myles caught the edge of his tunic (he’d been changed, he realized abruptly, into a pair of light cotton pants and shirt) as he turned to exit the tent. [I’m fine, Obi-Wan. I don’t need to see a medic.]

[Don’t lie to me.] Obi-Wan said sharply, [I can feel your pain. Why don’t you want me to get a medic? Where are we? It’s clear we’re not on Galidraan anymore.] Which was…all kinds of concerning. What had happened between the Jedi and the Mandalorians? Had Obi-Wan already failed? What had happened to Bruck? He needed to find a com unit immediately, alongside a medic. [I need to find a com unit to contact the others,] Obi-Wan said quickly, trying to ignore the anxiety streaking through his body, and pulled his shirt free from Myles’ hold, [I’ll do that after I send a medic to you.]

[Relax, I already did that. They’re on their way to us as we speak.]

[What?] Obi-Wan gaped, rapidly spinning thoughts grinding to a halt, eyes wide. [And everyone was okay? I felt the Jedi arrive; I had feared –]

[They’re playing nice right now.] Myles assured. [Once they saw that Bruck wasn’t hurt, they calmed down. Apparently your clanmate is made of some stern stuff, Jax said he yelled both sides down until they were willing to talk.]

Obi-Wan felt his knees go weak, letting himself fall down in a crouch as he let out a shallow laugh of relief. Bruck. Bruck had managed to stop the massacre on Galidraan. All this time, he’d been so concerned and he’d – he’d hadn’t even needed to be present. Oh Bruck, Obi-Wan thought, pressing the heels of his palms into his eyes, a surge of pride flaring in his breast, I would have loved to see that.

A heavy hand rested on his head, the move gentle but solid. [It’s alright Obi-Wan. I mean, shit is about to get extremely complicated for you, but nothing happened on Galidraan.] Nothing happened on Galidraan. Obi-Wan swallowed, letting himself lean slightly into the touch, his relief so profound that it made his throat tight. [It’s still going to be a day – maybe two or three – before they can get to Yavin 4. They have to disperse the forces.]

Obi-Wan’s head jerked back, dislodging the comforting touch. [How did we end up on Yavin 4?]

[What’s the last thing you remember?] Myles rasped.

[I challenged Viszla to a fight, I won.] Obi-Wan said as he stood, hand drifting to his waist, where the Darksaber was resting. [And, ah. There was a rocket launcher.]

[Yeah.] Myles agreed blandly, [there was a rocket launcher. You managed to block the worst of it but it knocked us both out. Your new followers retreated with us away from Viszla’s people, turns out one of them had their clan wintering here.]

[They’re not my followers.] Obi-Wan said distractedly, as he turned the Darksaber over in his hands, staring at it.

[The hell they aren’t.] Myles corrected harshly, [Obi-Wan,] his hand shot out again, capturing Obi-Wan’s wrist, his large fingers carefully kept far away from coming into contact with the Darksaber, [do you have any idea what you’ve done?]

[Some.] Obi-Wan admitted, [I did hear them call me the Mand’alor. But that’s not what’s important right now.]

[It’s the only thing that’s –]

[We need to get you looked at.] Obi-Wan continued over him, clipping the ‘saber back to his belt. [If they’re really my followers as you said, they won’t deny us a medic.] He paused. [Unless you’re not one to remove your helmet, in which I case I can get you a medic kit and some privacy.]

[I’m a True Mandalorian,] Myles said dryly, [whether or not I take off my helmet is my own business. It’s a – suppose you could say a religious choice. Jango doesn’t regulate those.]

[Then I fail to understand why you won’t allow a medic in here. If it’s because they’re Death Watch, I can stand guard outside the tent while you patch yourself up.] Myles fell silent, looking away. [Myles. Make a choice,] Obi-Wan said patiently, but firmly, [not getting treated is not one of the choices available, just to be clear. What if you die? Are you really going to leave me alone here? With them?]

It was a low blow; one he could tell hit by the way the man’s shoulders tensed up. Then, finally. […fine. I'm not going to die though. Just…make sure no one comes in. And don’t make a big deal about this.]

Obi-Wan almost asked, but the words died out as Myles reached up and – quite without ceremony – pulled his helmet off. Blue, vibrant skin, came first, followed by bright red sclera with a irises a shade lighter, and black pupils. Blue-black eyebrows, a matching head of helmet mussed hair, cropped short.

A Chiss.

Obi-Wan had read about them, but had never seen one. Sure, rumors popped up every now and then of scouting parties being seen in the rim systems, but the Chiss were practically a legend. They’d pulled far from known space ages ago and did not venture into it again.

[Let me see that.] Obi-Wan said quietly, stepping forward to gently take the man’s chin in his hand, broadcasting his movements as he did so. He tilted Myles’ head to the opposite side, frowning at the deep gash just above his left eyebrow. [That’ll need to be cleaned and closed. It’s a miracle you didn’t lose your eye.]

Myles shrugged, clearly uncomfortable.

[I’m going to step out and get a med kit. Wait here.] Obi-Wan instructed, before turning on his heel. He stuck his head out the tent door, careful to keep from revealing Myles’ form. Outside no less then ten Mandalorians sat, and they popped up like tops when they saw him, coming to nervous attention. Obi-Wan bit back a sigh. Like Myles had said, this was going to be complicated.

[Excuse me, could one of you please bring me a med kit?]

Three Mandalorian’s darted off in different directions to do so.

[Are you hurt, Mand’alor?] One of them – a female by the voice – asked, alarmed.

Obi-Wan shook his head quickly, giving her a smile. [No, no. I’m quite fine, if a little tired. It’s for my companion – ah, here we go.] Obi-Wan stared at the three med kits presented to him. [Very thorough, thank you.] He dragged all three in, letting the tent flap fall shut before he shook his head. He picked one at random, giving Myles a weak grin as he made his way over. [At least we won’t want for supplies if need be.]

Myles snorted.

Obi-Wan made short work of cleaning the wound, following the trails of blood down the Chiss’ face. Myles stoically stared straight ahead, not even reacting when he carefully disinfected the gash. [I’m going to seal it up now.]

He pulled the flesh knitter unit from the box, pressing the wound together and running it over, the flesh gluing together as the wand moved.

[Aren’t you going to ask?]

Obi-Wan hummed. [Should I?]

[Everyone else does.]

Obi-Wan shrugged, pulling the unit away and replacing it back in the box. He routed around, trying to find an appropriately sized bacta strip. [You said not to make a big deal about it.]

Myles frowned, staring down at his lap. […you can ask. I know you want to.]

Obi-Wan paused to glance at the unenthusiastic man’s face. [You don’t have to tell me anything, Myles. Curiosity is not a vital need to be filled.] Red eyes stared down at him and Myles’ emotions were complicated, a swirling mess of curiosity, confusion, and reluctance. Obi-Wan gently pulled the strip free, standing and carefully sealing it over the wound. [You owe answers to no one, least of all to myself, no matter what title I may now bear. Your business is, frankly, your business.]

He let his hand rest on an armored shoulder, pressing in just deep enough to be felt.

Slowly, Myles nodded. [Thank you.]

[Think nothing of it, honestly. And I won’t tell a soul. Now tell me exactly what has happened since before I awoke, especially what was said when you called. Leave nothing out.]

---

[I can’t believe they're coming.] Jax complained with a sigh, crossing his arms as he watched the Jedi gather and speak amongst themselves. [I can't believe you're letting them come.]

[Use the coms,] Jango grunted, his voice echoing in the older man’s ear, [I know Dooku at least speaks Mando’a. I think the blonde woman does as well. And I'd like to see you tell them no.]

[And now we can’t even speak freely.] Jax bemoaned, though it was through his com unit.

[You can’t possibly tell me you didn’t think they were going to come.] Jango said dryly, distracted as he issued orders on where each of their units were going to go. They were all being sent out to the camps where the family clans were wintering. Only a handful, Jango’s personal unit, was going to be heading to Yavin 4 with them. Myles hadn’t been very thorough in his explanation, just saying that he’d ended up on Yavin 4 with Obi-Wan, neither one of them was badly hurt, and they needed to get there immediately. He'd explained more once they got there, as it wasn't safe to talk about even outside of a secured com.

It was concerning.

The Death Watch camp they’d found had been abandoned by the time Jango and Jax had reached it with the Jedi, though the copious amount of dead bodies showed that there had been one hell of fight. All of them were Death Watch, bizarrely enough, with neither Myles nor Obi-Wan being amongst them. Still, the idea that they had managed to orchestrated the trap here on Galidraan spoke of nothing but bad things. Traitors, most likely, for them to get such a clear understanding of their movements. Jax had already dispersed his personal units among the troops. His people were not well known for a reason; they were the heart of the True Mandalorian’s espionage unit.

While the whole may know they existed, very few knew who belonged to his Spy Corp, and Jax liked it that way. They were also extremely good at what they did, they had to be. Jax had already informed them to return with the traitors at all costs. They were to be taken alive only if they could, a gruesome death and an example if not.

Jax grit his teeth, remembering how frightened those cadets had been. Not a one of them was in their late teens and they could have lost them all. He eyed the nearest Jedi, a young man who was standing calmly by the ramp of one of the Republic ships, watching the hustling forms around them. In that strange way that Jedi did, he seemed to catch that Jax was watching him, meeting his gaze and giving a friendly little wave, before stepping forward.

[Oh for the – one of them is coming my way.] Jax breathed in annoyance, watching the young Jedi make his way over towards him.

[Be nice.] Jango warned, [we owe them a debt.]

He scoffed; he hated owing anybody anything, much less Jedi. But there was no denying that without them, they could have lost a significant amount of their people. [Yeah? And what if the repayment they want is the boys?]

[They can have Bruck.]

It was a joke, and one at his expense since he’d verbally claimed Bruck, but Jax wasn’t in a joking mood.

[Little shit,] Jax growled out, [you’d just let them take Obi-Wan then?]

[Uncle.] Jango said, sounding somewhat startled and paused in his orders to actually looked over at him, [you know what I said. The choice is the boys’ and I meant that. Someone isn’t forced onto the path. You know that.]

[Doesn’t mean I have to like it.] Jax muttered, though he kept the line muted.

The Jedi came to a stop before him, bowing low. “Good afternoon, Master Mandalorian. I am Jedi Knight Feemor Gard.”

“Something I can help you with?”

Either the Jedi was really bad at picking up hostility or he just chose to ignore it because he nodded with an easy smile. “Yes, actually. You are Jax of Clan Mereel, are you not? If I’m wrong, please correct me, but you are the one who picked up the boys from the deep sea mining platform, yes?”

“I didn’t ‘pick them up,’” Jax corrected shortly, “I saved them from slavery. And death, for Bruck. He would have been shot the next day after his injury.”

The Knight’s smile faltered. “Injury?”

“Kriffed up his leg down in the mines, the guards would have killed him that morning if I hadn’t gotten them out.”

“Ah.” Knight Gard said, eyes drifting down to look at his boots, “we owe you an even greater thanks, then. Our children mean a great deal to us.”

“Oh yeah? Well, osik'la, you could have fooled me. What the hell were they even doing there? You know how many green miners die on their first day? Over sixty percent.” Jax continued, ruthless, “the fact that they were alive enough for me to get them out of that dump was nothing short of a miracle.”

Brown eyes flickered up to stare at him and gave him a small smile. Though his expression was calm, there was an air of sadness around him. Jax was reminded of a kicked puppy. He didn’t like it. “You’re very kind, aren't you?”

"Excuse me?"

“Many things went wrong with Obi-Wan and Bruck’s placement on Bandomeer, but I am grateful that they found you.” He bowed low, before rising, hands tucked in his sleeves. It was gesture that Jax had seen many of the Jedi do, but on this slim man it seemed almost self-comforting. “Thank you, again, for protecting them when you did not need to. We had feared the worst when we heard they’d been taken. I cannot express my relief to know that those horrors, at least, have not come true.”

“You’re close with them.” Jax said slowly, testing the words.

The Knight nodded, abashed. “Yes, though I admit I knew Obi-Wan better than Bruck. For many years it was my responsibility to guard our young, I know every member of our creche clans by name.”

Jax eyed him curiously. Ah it made sense, now. The kid did seem too soft, make sense why he ended up here. “You were an ade'baatir, then." The Jedi cocked his head, clearly unaware of what the word meant, but Jax was already relaxing at the thought. "What were they like as kids?”

Gard’s smile grew into something truer, almost devious. “Terrors, if you were to believe their Creche Master. Would you like to hear a few stories?”

“Why not, I’ve got time to kill anyway."

Notes:

And there we go. We're on (almost all on) Yavin IV, Obi-Wan is having weird dreams, Myles is still having a rough day, and Feemor is befriending Mandalorians through the power of sheer niceness. Also: Jango after seeing Jedi use a massive amount of Force and save his camp - omg, my people have killed them. We're amazing, stupendous, amazing, wow.

Mandalorian used:
osk'la - kinda like shit, messed up, screwed, horrible (impolite)
ade'baatir - combination of 'child' and 'care, worry,' or a child-carer, basically a nanny. Jax thinks Feemor was like a nanny guard.

Chapter 22: Yavin 4, Part 2

Notes:

Hi!

The fat gas giant of Yavin sat low in the sky, it’s monstrous girth an arching sliver over the treetops as three of its other moons rose at various heights into the purpleing sky. It was a beautiful sight, not that Myles from seeing much of it. From where he stood, leaning against the trunk of the largest tree he'd ever seen in his life, he kept his attention pinned on the dancing figure in front of him – and the group of Death Watch that had grown steadily in number.

If Obi-Wan cared (or even noticed) he didn’t show it. The boy’s moves were steady and uninterrupted, moving across the clearing with an impressive amount of skill. Though the careful way he kept his strikes distanced from the masses betrayed the fact that Obi-Wan must have been aware of his watchers. The young Jedi had excused himself from their tent shortly after lunch, waving at a small horde of Death Watch when they'd swarmed him. He hadn't even bothered with Myles. Which was fine with him, at this point he hoped the kid had an understanding that he wasn’t letting him out of his sight any time soon.

Obi-Wan had gone through a series of stretches before igniting the Darksaber and launching into practice. It took Myles a bit to catch onto the fact that the katas must belong to different forms. He’d counted six or seven once he’d caught onto what he was watching. This last form was the most aggressive of the lot; Obi-Wan body spun through kicks and flips, jabs and phantom parries, striking out like a snake. There was no pattern to this kata that Myles could discern, just a fluidity of movement. Unlike the others, there was no pause – no breaks for defensive blocks.

Obi-Wan darted forward and Myles clicked his tongue, shaking his head as the boy launched his body improbably high for a human in a back flip. He twisted mid-air like an oversized loth cat, upper body rotating before his hips and legs followed, bringing more speed and strength to his downward strike. Then, he was done. Obi-Wan stood, as calm as if he’d come back from a nice walk, breath only slightly quicker than normal. He glanced at the deactivated saber in his hand, head cocked slightly to the side. Myles pushed off the tree, finger coming up to tap at his helmet, before ignoring the mutterings from the watching Death Watch and approached him, already twisting the cap off his canteen.

[Something wrong?]

Obi-Wan looked up, giving him a brilliant grin as he accepted the canister. He took a deep drink before handing it back. [No, not really. This Darksaber seems to have a preference for one form over the others, I hadn’t expected that.] Obi-Wan explained with a shrug. [And thank you.]

[Excuse me?]

[Hm? For the water. It’s so humid here! You really need to stay on top of hydrating.]

Myles stared at him, shaking his head before digging out one of the cleaning clothes he used for his blasters. [I wasn’t talking about the canteen, Obi-Wan.]

Obi-Wan shot him a quirked smile as he took the cloth and wiped at his face and neck. [You remember how we talked about Kyber crystals back on Galidraan?]

[Haunted rocks.]

[Haunted rocks.] Obi-Wan agreed, clipping the Darksaber back to his waist, before slapping Myles friendlily on the arm. [Now, how about we see about finding some lastmeal? And see if we can’t get to know our guests a bit.]  

[Or we could just…not.]

[Now, Myles,] Obi-Wan chided, already walking away, [it costs nothing to be polite.]

Myles made a face but followed him, hands twitching with the urge to hold a blaster or a knife or – something. It was surreal to him to be surrounded by the colors of the Watch and not be shooting at them. The fact that they now belonged to Obi-Wan and shown nothing but deference to their new Mandalore stilled his hand, but it didn’t make him feel any better about it all. He eyed the way the crowd parted before the Jedi as they walked, keeping a bubble around him as they went, muttering and chattering to each other. He recognized Basic and Mando’a, the ever-present Huttese (hardly a surprise, seeing how many came to walk the Path used to be former slaves) and at least one other language he didn’t know.

There’d been nothing but talk since they’d emerged from their tent. How Obi-Wan handling it and the staring, Myles had no idea. Made him twitchy.

[Mandalore.] A stern voice greeted as the Mandalorian who’d started this whole thing materialized from the camp proper. Her fist clasped to her breast in a salute, [I greet you.]

[Well met. I’m afraid I don’t know your name, a grave oversight considering you most likely saved our lives.] Obi-Wan returned with a bow. [I am Obi-Wan Kenobi and this Myles, of Clan Rooji.]

[I am Nora Kast,] the woman introduced, before gesturing to the two girls who had followed them, quite young given that they only wore helmets, [my daughters, Rook and Sōlde.]

[We greet you.] The girls said in perfect unison.

[I don’t suppose me saying that I don’t stand much on formalities will help you call me by name?] Obi-Wan offered, hopeful. Though her face was covered, Myles could feel Kast’s flat stare, her silence speaking for her. Obi-Wan chuckled, rubbing the back of his neck. [I thought not. Well, I was hoping you could point us to where we could find the cooking fires?]

[Of course, Mandalore. Girls, get the Mandalore and his guard lastmeal.]

[Oh that’s not necess-] Obi-Wan began, hand raised, but the Kast girls darted off. The hand dropped. [Quite fast, aren’t they?]

[Thank you, Mandalore.] Kast said, completely missing the wry tone, [the girls are quite diligent in their speed training.]

[So, I see.]

At a casual glance, the boy seeming unruffled; hands clasped demurely in front of him with a politician’s smile on his lips. But there was a telling tightness around his eyes. At first Myles wasn’t sure if Obi-Wan had even understood what being the Mandalore meant, but if that was the case, he was surely starting to understand it now – what with Kast’s impeccable fawning and the wide-eyed stares of the camp. A camp full of the Watch, deferring to a thirteen-year-old Jedi boy. It was so ridiculous that Myles could feel his lips twitching. It was almost refreshing to see a kid as composed as Obi-Wan caught seemingly awkward. A bit vindicating, actually. The little shit had been infuriatingly nonchalant about the fact that he’d become the Mandalore. But still –

[We’ll retire to our tent, Kast, so the Mandalore can freshen up before he eats.] Myles instructed, reaching out to guide Obi-Wan with a hand to his back. [Bring the meals there.]

– he could be nice when the mood struck him. Besides, Obi-Wan hadn’t asked anything about how’d he ended up in known space. Or tried to make him a exotic slave. Or accused him of being a spy. Or an infiltrator. Or tried to weasel any information about possible Chiss enclaves (as if Myles knew anything like that. He’d been found by his father on a slave block on the fringes of Wild Space and adopted as an infant. As far as Myles knew, he was the only Chiss on this side of the galaxy) which put him on a list with a grand total of three people. And not a one of them didn’t have a name that started with ‘F’ and end with ‘T’ before he was added.

He could grant the kid some grace.

[Thank you, Myles.] Obi-Wan said softly.

[Not a problem, kid.] He said with a shrug, [I tried to tell you.]

A sigh. [I know you did. Oh look. They’ve made us a fire.]

The Mandalorian watching the fire jumped to his feet, gauntleted hand beating his chest. Obi-Wan gave him a smile before thanking him. Myles rolled his eyes at the giddiness in male’s voice as he accepted and retreated. They sat on prepared crates, pulled far enough way that the heat of the fire wouldn’t add to the intensity of the jungle.

[I didn’t imagine it to be quite like this,] Obi-Wan admitted, [I didn’t expect…] He paused, glancing around at the many eyes on them, [this kind of reverence.]

[You’re the Mandalore.]

[Yes, but…] The boy trailed off again, brows furrowed. He was quiet for a moment, gathering his thoughts. [Respect is one thing. This feels more…religious.]

Myles snorted. [Look around you, kid. You’re surrounded by members of the Watch. What did you expect?]

[I am aware that the Death Watch follows the Old Tenants of the Way more vigorously than most Mandalorians.] Obi-Wan said, tone careful.

[Look, let’s back up. What do you know about us?]

[Quite a bit from history classes, I’m afraid, and what I’ve read on the news.]

Myles waved him off. [Please tell me you know we’re in the middle of a civil war.]

Obi-Wan shot him an amused look. [Of course, between two majority and a minority parties. The True Mandalorians headed by clan Fett, the Death Watch headed by clan Vizsla, and the New Mandalorians, who are headed by House Kryze.]

[Close, the Watch is headed by House Vizsla, not clan Vizsla.] Myles corrected, [the Vizsla are huge, they’ve got members all over the place; True, New, and Death Watch. Tor is head of the main line and House Vizsla. He’s the older son; his younger brother is neutral, so he lost his rights to claim being a part of House Vizsla, but is still a member of the greater clan. But at least you’re not totally hopeless.]

Obi-Wan let out a sigh, hands coming up to rub at his nose. [In all honesty, Myles, it was never my intention to get the Darksaber in the first place.]

[Tough shit.] Myles said sharply, [it’s yours now, kid, and this isn’t something you can just walk away from. Even if you leave the Darksaber behind, no one can be recognized as Mandalore unless they win it in combat. They’ll just hunt you down until they can fight you for it, even if it’s not on you. But that’s not even your biggest problem.]

[It isn’t?]

[Not by a long shot. That display you put on back on Galidraan and just now shows how well trained you are, so not a soul is going to buy it if you loose on purpose. And that will just invalidate whoever it is that challenges you. Not that it’s going to deter people from trying anyway. But not Jango, oh no, he isn’t going to shame himself by fighting a boy half his age. Especially if there's a chance he could lose. He’s going to wait until you age up before taking you on, so I’m afraid you’re stuck. Even worse for you, battles for the Darksaber are always to the death. That thing with Tor was a fluke and they’ve only accepted it is because Pre forced your hand by acting dishonorably and interfering. I doubt you’re going to get that lucky again.]

[I see.]

[I doubt you do.] Myles said, exasperated. [There is a reason the Death Watch are considered extremists. You said you felt a ‘reverence’ here? Well, you’re not wrong. I have no doubt that we’re with an orthodoxy group, the True Believers, the ultra-religious. They sided with House Vizsla and the Death Watch because they’re against any type of change. Even what Jango’s offering is too heretical for them to follow and he’s spent the last handful of years trying to tame down Jaster’s codex enough to entice them into some sort of happy middle ground between the Death Watch and the New Mandalorians. And there is no way of knowing how far that belief is going to drive them. Who knows when you act too far outside of their codes for them to follow and they turn on you?

And those who remained with Pre and the main Death Watch? Those are just a different type of extremist – political. Which is arguably worse, because they’re not going to let any type of doctrine stop them from getting what they want. They won’t hesitate to cut you down if they get the chance.]

Obi-Wan was watching him, hands folded neatly in his lap. [You’re upset.]

[Of course, I’m upset!] Myles barked, the sound exploding from him.

[Myles.]

[You have no idea what you’ve just walked into! Every Mandalorian with an inch of ambition and a blaster or vibro-sword worth its salt is going to be showing up on your doorstep to kill you, and you’re treating this all about as seriously as a –]

[Myles.] Obi-Wan repeated, his voice steel. Myles’ lips snapped shut. [Sit down.] He blinked, surprised to find himself on his feet. [Take a deep breath, another one – good. Now, I’m sorry.]

[What?]

[I know you’ve been anxious all day, but I didn’t address it or give you the respect that deserved. I certainly should have acknowledged how uncomfortable and stressed being here with our – eh – current companions would be for you. You’re right that I don’t understand all the complexities of the inner workings of the Mandalorians, nor fully grasp the danger we may currently be in. But I am taking this situation seriously and I assure you that any perceived flippancy was unintentional.]

[No, I…I shouldn’t have raised my voice like that.] Myles sighed, knocking his helmet up so he could slip his hand under it and wipe at his mouth, gesturing to where a banner of Death Watch hung proudly a few tents over with the other. [You’re right that being here has me a bit on edge. It’s just - you’re thirteen, Obi-Wan, even by our standards you’re barely in your majority. And you’ve got one hell of a target on your back.]

[You’re worried about me.]

He gave a hollow laugh. [Kid, I’d be stupid not to be.]

[I am not your responsibility.]

Myles’ head snapped to stare him, eyes narrowing. [The kriff you aren’t.]

Obi-Wan’s eyes glittered in the firelight, an oddly sharp look to them. [I can handle myself, Myles.]

A throat cleared itself and Myles – well, he didn’t do anything as undignified as jump, but sure as hell startled. Kast stood there, two bowls in her hands, her daughters some distance away. [I apologize for the interruption; I’ve brought your meals.]

[Thank you, Nora.] Obi-Wan said, accepting the bowl. Myles set his to the side, he’d eat later in the tent. [We were just discussing political and religious doctrine among your people.]

[Our people.] Kast corrected. [You are the Mandalore.]

[It doesn’t concern you that I wasn’t raised in the Way?]

[You are young, you have time to learn.] Kast said, voice placid as ever. [Besides, you are Stewjoni. It is in your blood.]

[I am also a Jedi,] Obi-Wan countered, cocking an eyebrow, [technically, that is also in my blood.]

Myles closed his eyes, praying for patience. Why in the name of the sithhells did Jango have to saddle him with such a mouthy kid?

[As you so eloquently pointed out, so was Tarre Vizsla.]

Obi-Wan raised his bowl as if in salute. [Touché.]

[I will let you rest. Call for me if you have any needs and I will see your will done.] Kast thumped her chest, bowing low before retreating.

[I’m beginning to see what you meant.] Obi-Wan said, eyes still locked on where Kast had disappeared.

[You know she means to brainwash you into following her beliefs, right?] Myles asked quietly. [She may be religious, but she’s got her own designs.]

Obi-Wan shrugged.

[Obi-Wan –]

[Myles,] He interrupted, his spoon pausing in its rooting as he looked up at him. [I may be young, but do not forget where I come from or what I am. I’ve been training in diplomacy and politics practically from the moment I came to the Temple. I may not be a Jedi Master, but neither am I completely unarmed.]

[Just...be careful.]

That earned him another cocked smile, the kid looking impossibly young with a smear of stew juices on his chin. [Of course.]

---

What a dilemma he’d found himself in. Obi-Wan sighed, feeling a spattering of relief as the tent flap dropped closed behind them, cutting them off from the rest of the camp. Myles slid his helmet off, sipping at the soup.

[I’m going to meditate.] He announced, watching in amusement as Myles tipped the bowl up, gulping it down. The man’s body language was so casual and relaxed, it was hard to believe that he’d even had an outburst earlier. It was a show of course, a denial of any type of weakness, as Obi-Wan could feel the tense awareness that radiated off Myles, nor did he miss the way he’d positioned himself between Obi-Wan and the door. Sighing, Obi-Wan went down into a criss-cross position, resting his hands on his knees. He wasn’t ashamed to admit that he was eager for the Jedi to arrive. He wanted to see Bruck and make sure he was unharmed and healthy, of course, but also because Obi-Wan could admit he’d painted himself into a bit of a corner here. There’d be a way out, there always was.

There had to be.

He didn’t have time to be the Mandalore.

But here he was, with a weight on his waist that was as familiar as it was unfamiliar. He’d spent nearly his entire life with a lightsaber on his belt, yet the one that rested there was strange to him in the ways that his own had never been. And the will that it had. It was unlike anything Obi-Wan had ever experienced before. While it was true that Kyber crystals could and often did take on aspects of their wielders, this was felt…deeper. Stranger.

With a deep breath to center himself, pushing the nearly crushing worry he’d been feeling on and off all day away, Obi-Wan reached out to the Force. It greeted him like an old friend, surging to his call and filling him. It was bright with the light of the life of the jungle, singing the with the many, many life forms that filled it.

His own lightsaber was (hopefully) with Qui-Gon light-years away and the borrowed saber lost behind on Galidraan. While not his own, at least the borrowed lightsaber had shared enough of resonance with his own to be wielded comfortably. He fought the urge to laugh at the fact that he’d lost both; so many had teased him in the past for his tendency to misplace his saber. A Jedi was never to be without their lightsaber, it was an integral part of their identity. It was both offense and defense, intimidation that worked both with and without action. Sometimes its mere existence was enough to speak for them, to change and shape a situation a Jedi may find themselves in. It was supposed to be as deep a part of them as their own name and yet now, Obi-Wan found himself partnered with a stranger.

Out of all the struggles he was currently facing, this was one that at least had a clear-cut solution to it. There was a soft click as the Darksaber pulled free from his waist and he steadfastly ignored Myles' questioning sound. Obi-Wan willed the saber around and front of him, seeing without eyes that it was spinning gently. Carefully, meticulously, he began to dismantle it.

He felt every inch of it with the Force as he went, imprinting it, memorizing every ridge and slope, every scratch and dent. The battery pack was an older model, he noted as turned the parts over, that was something that may need to be replaced. He was searching for any impression or memory within, unwilling to be caught off guard as he had been earlier. The Darksaber’s preference for Juyo had caught him by surprise, though perhaps it shouldn't have. He didn’t know much about Tarre Viszla, but there was something poetic about a Mandalorian Jedi preferring the Ferocity Form.

Mace was the only currently living practitioner of it, and even hadn’t mastered it. He’d be the first to tell you that and was even more cautious of teaching it. It demanded complete control of one’s emotions, as it pulled upon them to fight. Far too many Jedi had fallen to the Darkside under Juyo’s demands, enough so that Form VII had been practically banned by the High Council. Obi-Wan knew enough of it to complete the handful of katas that were known, Mace having taught him during the war, but he would consider it his weakest form personally.

He left the crystal chamber for last, waiting until he was well and truly in a meditative trance, as centered as could be, before gently prying the pitch black Kyber crystal free. Tentatively he brought the Force to bear on the crystal, a shiver traveling down his back when a foreign signature unwound itself, slow and flickering like a flag in low wind. Obi-Wan greeted it, meeting the seeking tendrils. He embraced it, trying to figure out if he and crystal had any type of resonance at all, but it was strangely quiet.

Frowning, he poked it again, a little stronger and – something was rushing him, reaching towards him with a strength of will that he’d never felt in saber before. He pulled back hastily, shields slamming down as he reared back mentally and physically, toppling over to his side, heaving, suddenly unable to catch his breath. Myles gave a startled shout and the lightsaber components fell from the air, clattering nosily on the dirt floor and –

He wasn’t in the tent in anymore, he was in the air. Twisting and flipping, careening in an uncontrolled fall towards golden sands that were rushing to meet him. Obi-Wan cast about desperately with the Force, trying to find something, anything, to halt his fall. It slipped through his fingers like silk though and Obi-Wan’s scream was stolen straight from his mouth, the force of the rushing air so intense. He braced himself, instinctively throwing his hands to cover his face as he struck –

A blink later and he was standing on top of a golden dune, a desert sweeping out as far as he could see. Obi-Wan stared at it, chest heaving, mouth agape.

“And interesting place. Tell me, does the desert mean something to you?” A voice queried, the tone deep but with all the accent makers of the Core Worlds. Obi-Wan turned to find a tall Human man standing next to him. He was dark skinned, with curly black hair cut close to his scalp. He wore modest clothing, a rough spun cotton tunic and pants, and high leather boots.

“I’m…not sure.” Obi-Wan managed after a moment.

The man let out a hum. “This place does not look familiar to you at all?”

He glanced around, somewhat wide-eyed. “Maybe Tantooine?”

“I don’t believe I ever went to Tantooine. Is it on the Outer Rim?”

“Yes.” He answered faintly. “I only ever went once.”

“That is odd.” The man said with a shake of his head. “Usually, these things take place in areas of great importance to you. Did something of note happen here?”

“I’m sorry, but who are you?”

Brown eyes flickered to him. “Perhaps it would be more polite to offer your own name first, stranger. After all, it is you who is the trespasser here, not me.”

Obi-Wan had said his accent was that of a Core Worlder and it was, but there was something off about it. He couldn’t quite put his finger on it, but the man sounded like no Core Worlder he’d ever heard speak before. Something about the pronunciation was off, just a bit, just enough it uncomfortable and strange to the ear.

“I’m Obi-Wan Kenobi.”

“So you are.”

Silence. The man seemed utterly unbothered by Obi-Wan’s expectant stare. “And you are?”

“Do you really not know?” Obi-Wan blinked, but nothing more came. The man turned to face him, the very edges of his lips turned up. “Think Obi-Wan. I’m sure it will come to you.”

Obi-Wan sucked in a breath. “You’re Tarre Vizsla.”

His head bobbed. “So I am.”

“But how? I’ve never heard of a Kyber crystal carrying such a complete memory. Much less…” he gestured around them, “…something like this. Disconnected memories, perhaps yes. But not this.”

Tarre’s shrugged. “Even I do not know, the Darksaber has always had a strong will of its own. From the very moment I found the crystal on Ilum, I was aware of this. There has never been one like it that I have known of, and perhaps there will not be another. When I died, it was unwilling to let me go and so I remained.”

“You’ve been residing in the Darksaber all this time?” Obi-Wan asked, incredulous, “as what? Some sort of ghost?”

Now Tarre did smile, his eyes crinkling. “Yes, a Force ghost.”

He couldn’t contain the scoff. “I’ve never heard of such a thing.”

“Ah, and because you have not, it can not exist? Such a narrow way of thinking, young one.”

“There would have been something in the archives, in the holocrons or something.” Obi-Wan argued, rubbing at his mouth in frustration.

“And you have never found something that was not in the archives? Has the Order really grown so all-knowing?” Tarre asked, something teasing in his tone, “a planet, perhaps?”

Kamino.

Obi-Wan froze and he could feel how wide his eyes were. Tarre made a sweeping gesture towards him. He glanced down at himself, swallowing roughly at the fully grown, adult body that greeted him. His eyes darted back to Tarre’s, stunned. The man’s smile had slipped from his face, eyes serious. “You know about…?”

“Your time travel?” Tarre asked, giving voice to the words that Obi-Wan had never dared to say out loud. “Yes.”

“How?” He croaked; his voice ragged.

“How are you an adult? Or how do I know of your travels?”

“Either. Both!”

“Do you truly have no inkling?” Tarre asked, head cocking to the side. “We are in a bridge between our consciousnesses, Obi-Wan, yours and my own. You see yourself as you always have. As for the other – you are not the first being I have met who has walked the World Between Worlds.”

“The…what?”

“It has many names; the Vergence Scatter, the World Between Worlds, the Place of Many Doors, the Endless Corridors. It is a plain of the Force that contains many pathways that link time and space.” Tarre said, his voice as solid and steady as it had been since the start, as if he wasn’t upending Obi-Wan’s entire worldview. As if he wasn’t providing answers to something that he’d never even hoped he’d begin to understand. “There were once many entrances, though all of them were lost by my time, and all were said to be guarded by the gods of Mortis.”

“The Father, the Son, the Daughter.” Obi-Wan breathed.

“You have met them?” Tarre asked, sounding interested. “Fascinating. I had wondered if they were real beings or a metaphor, you must tell me of them at some point.”

“Sure.” He agreed weakly, feeling like he was about to spin off his feet. A large hand rested on the back of his shoulder, steadying him. Was it even possible to faint in his own mind? Obi-Wan felt he was about to find out. Absurdly, Obi-Wan found himself blinking against tears and the hand on his shoulder slid up, squeezing his neck comfortingly. “But why me? I didn’t enter any doorway. I – I died.”

The word was croaked out, breaking and ugly. The pain of it was suddenly overwhelming and Obi-Wan felt himself swept back to that moment, where Anakin stood over him. The heat of Mustafar was burning against his back, the metal of the platform so hot it seared his skin through his clothing. He could even smell the volcanic fumes, hear the hiss and pop of the lava. A wave of emotion swelled in his chest, like an overfilled ballon. The despair of loosing Anakin to the Darkside, the deep sadness at the genocide of his people, the betrayal of a boy he could have called son or brother in another life, about to take his own. And a sense of helpless loss, so deep if felt like it was in his very bones, in the marrow.

Tears, fast and fat, slid down his cheeks. He felt like he couldn’t breathe past the lump in his throat and his throat ached so terribly. His heart felt it was breaking in his chest, an unfathomable and indescribable throbbing. A thumb brushed against his cheek, smearing wet with it as it went.

“You have lived a great life, Obi-Wan Kenobi. A terrible life, but a great one. That seems to be the theme, with those that slip between the realms, between the very plains of existence. I have met one other like you. Like you, he found himself transported back in time at the moment of his death.”

“How? Why?” Obi-Wan asked, hands curling at his side. He felt very much like a child, completely unbalanced and thrown off kilter, desperate to know. And he couldn’t stop himself, couldn’t stop the flow of words or tears. “I didn’t ask for this. I didn’t go looking for this. I just – I just died.”

“I don’t know, Obi-Wan. I am sorry, but this is where my answers for you end.”

“But I –”

Water bloomed across his chest and face, icy cold and wet. Obi-Wan jerked, eyes snapping open to see the roof of the tent above him. And Myles’ helmet-less face, the Chiss’ ruby eyes wide with fear and alarm, empty canteen in hand. Hands were suddenly on him, pulling him up into a sitting position. “Obi-Wan? Kriff, kid, what happened? Are you alright?”

He opened his mouth, but nothing came out but a shaky breath. He blinked hard, trying to regroup, to gather himself – but only felt his eyes burn. Myles' face contorted, brows furrowing, and then Obi-Wan was being gently but firmly pulled forward. A hand cupped the back of his head, the pressure soothing and solid. Obi-Wan let out a shuddering breath and pressed his hot cheek against the metal of Myles’ armor.

Over the Chiss' shoulder, standing immaterial and cast shimmering in blue light, Tarre Vizsla stared back.

Notes:

And we have some answers. Kinda nervous, hope you guys like it? Big Clone Wars fan over here. And poor Myles, he's just trying to keep someone from assassinating Obi-Wan before back up arrives.

Because a reader pointed it out and I meant to add it as a author’s note:

On Killing to Get the Darksaber:

I’m going with the fluidity and changing nature of social mores and ideals for that one, because I did think about it the fact we’ve seen people get it without having to fight to the death. I figured that Satine was literally changing the culture so would never kill and by the time Din got it, the Mandalorian culture is radically scattered and different. They do have a cultural myth that not following the rules to get the Darksaber, ie, not through combat would bring the destruction of Mandalore. And Bo-Katan, we all know how that went down and what happened after she got it.

Chapter 23: Yavin 4, Part 3

“And I don’t see why you need to be on my ship.”

And they’d come back around to the ship again, Rael thought sourly, barely keeping his irritation from seeping into his lineage bonds. It was hard to remember to maintain his shields at such a high level, with so many of his lineage around him. He, Qui-Gon, Yan, and Master Tholme stood in a command tent – as they had for the last hour – debating endlessly around the topic of next steps. They wanted to take Bruck back to one of the ships – the Mandalorians wanted to him to remain by in the camp. A show good faith, apparently, until they rescued Obi-Wan. Yan had already given his word to represent them fairly to the Republic over the events of Galidraan, but that was only worth whatever that trust was. And considering who both groups were, that did not take them very far. As for Obi-Wan – they would not just leave his retrieval to the Jedi, as they apparently felt honor bound to rescue from Yavin 4. Both because he’d been taken from their camp by other Mandalorians and because they were insistent that the camp he was in now would not necessarily allow the Jedi entry without a fight.

His former master had agreed to allow Bruck to remain with them but –

“Where Bruck Chun goes,” Yan said calmly, “so will a Jedi.”

–  not alone.

The fact that he was even agreeing to this was more of a nod to how aware Yan was to how close he and the Order itself had come to making a grave misstep more than anything else. And Rael could tell that Yan’s patience was wearing thin, even though he was currently in his full negotiator glory. Between Padawan Vosa's display and the fact that the Republic had sent them out like some sort of hit squad, either purposely or through faulty intelligence. Or (and this was far more far likely) a lack of care, without any real due diligence done at all to evaluate the request. Those bastards probably received the plea and had all but been chomping at the bit for the chance to disrupt the Mandalorian Civil War in a direction that they favored. Which honestly, was worse.   

“I found him alone,” Jax Mereel said, voice utterly frigid, “and all but crippled on a deep-sea slaving platform. Where were your Jedi then?”

The flinch Qui-Gon made was minuscule, but Rael hadn’t known the man for twenty odd years for nothing. He kept his eyes off his padawan-brother, but sent a wave of calm towards him, a gentle reminder to remain in the present – and as far away from the thought of Xanatos as possible.

“Mistakes were made –”

“Mistakes –”

Jango Fett shifted (the barest tilt of weight from one foot to the other) and Mereel abruptly fell silent.

“It is incredibly rare for a reassignment to face the type of troubles that Obi-Wan and Bruck’s did.” Yan continued, arms crossed lightly at the elbows, a fingertip stroking over the piping of his robe. “There were extenuating circumstances that lead to the situation you found the children in. And had your own – incredibly timely – intervention not have taken place, Masters Jinn and Averross would have rescued the boys themselves in a matter of hours.”

“You speak of the darjetii.” Fett said, crossing his own arms and leaning back.

Rael felt his eye brows rise slightly, though he supposed he shouldn’t be terribly surprised that the boys had spoken of how they’d come to arrive in the deep-sea mines. Yan made a short flick of dismissal with his fingers. “Yes and no. He was no darjetii in the way that word was originally used.”

“Perhaps an explanation, for those of us who do not speak Mando’a.” Master Tholme said from where he was standing at the front of the tent. He was watching the hunched form of Bruck Chun, the boy looking miserable a few paces away. Undoubtedly, he could hear everything they were saying and it must be quite uncomfortable, hearing himself being debated and tossed about like a chew toy between two swrills.  

“He is speaking of the Sith.” Rael offered.

A hush fell over the gathered Jedi, one that did not go unmissed by their Mandalorian counterparts, if the way that their helmets tilted was any indication.

“Xanatos was no Sith.” Qui-Gon said, voice flat and Rael fought a wince. He sent a wave of warmth towards him, ignoring how it battered against the impressive shields there. It was the thought that counted, after all.

“No, he was not.” Yan agreed. “A darksider, true, but a Sith - a true Sith is a creature of another matter altogether. There is no mistaking the two. Xanatos du Crion had a personal grudge against the Order itself. He took it upon himself to strike a devastating blow to us; through the enslavement and possible death of two of our young. It is something that the Order should not have allowed to happen, but it did.”

Next to him, Qui-Gon shields drew even tighter until his signature was barely present, which was more of a tell than any emotion he could have possibly leaked was.

“We owe you a great debt for your actions, Jax Mereel. But I would be careful, I think, in speaking words of blame. After all – the circumstances of Obi-Wan’s disappearance from this camp is not so different from that of Bandomeer, is it? Stolen away from a place where he was supposed to be guarded, sheltered.”

Silence met Yan’s words, a flare of annoyance in the Force the only hint that his barbs had landed.

“And while the care that you have taken in keeping both boys healthy and hale only paints into the sharpest relief the stature of your character, the dedication to which you follow your path, to your Resol'nare. I offer a word of caution – a reminder, if you would.”

The tension in the moment was cut abruptly by a shout of ‘Bruck!’ From where he had been sitting, Bruck’s head snapped up. In a second he was on his feet, charging across the clearing with an equally loud cry of ‘Garen!’ The two boys collided in the middle of the impromptu camp, clinging to each other tightly.

Yan’s attention had not wavered from Fett, his eyes cold.

“These children do not belong to you.”

Quinlan Vos came to a skittering stop besides them, gloved hands hovering, an anxious smile splitting his face.

“Where Bruck Chun goes – where Obi-Wan Kenobi goes – so do we.” Yan’s lips twisted in a wan smile. “On this, you will find I am quite unmovable.”

---

“Bruck.” Garen breathed, his hands tight on Bruck’s shoulders as he pulled away. He didn’t release him completely, but that was okay. Bruck found it surprisingly hard to let go of the shorter blond’s arms as well, fingers curling tightly into his robe sleeves. “What happened? Do you have any idea how worried Siri and the others have been?”

Bruck stared. “Siri was worried?”

“Of course, she was! We all were.”

“But –” Bruck’s words faltered. I didn’t think you’d care, not after what I did.

“One day you guys were getting reassigned and no one hears anything from either of you – not even a com to tell us you’re alive.” Garen snapped. “And the next you’ve been kidnapped! By Mandalorians!”

“Nobody was supposed to know,” Quinlan said with a grin, “which meant we all knew in like a day.”

“Do you have any idea how upset we all were?” Garen continued, going slightly red in the face. “I even asked Master Clee to look into it for me when she accepted me, I had no idea what was going on!”

“Uh, it’s…well, a really long story. Obi-Wan isn’t here, but we’re going to go get him. I think. They’re talking about it.” He nodded towards the tent. “I’m…um…not sure it’s going well.”

“Yeah, I know.” Garen said, patting his shoulders before letting go of him. “My Master told me that Obi-Wan was safe, but on Yavin 4?”

“Like I said,” Bruck said with a laugh, “it’s a really long story and I don’t even know all of it.”

“Luckily, we’ve got time.” Quinlan said clasping his hands behind his head. “And don’t think you’re getting out of telling it either, Chun.”

“He’ll tell us when he’s ready,” Garen said with a sharp glare at the older boy, “have you even eaten anything? Are you hurt at all? You don’t look hurt. They said you were being taken care of. Did they take care of you?”

Bruck couldn’t help the grin. Garen Muln; their age group’s largest mom, strikes again. The other boy had always been a fusser, even in the creche. Surprisingly, it didn’t grate on him the way it always seemed to in the Temple. “Yeah, I’m good. They took good care of us actually.”

Garen shot a distrustful look at the tent. “They’d better have.”

“I’m surprised you care.” The words were out of his mouth before he could stop them and the trio paused, all of them – including Bruck – taken aback. He felt his cheeks heat. “I just mean…I wasn’t…always the nicest. Back home. To, uh, Obi-Wan. And you, sometimes.”

Garen was staring at him, a strange look on his face. Besides him, Quinlan snorted. “Wow. That’s, like – some serious self-awareness, kid. I’m impressed.”

“Shove off, Vos! You’re only a year older than me.”

“Oh, but what a year.”

“Bruck,” Garen said slowly, brows furrowed, “yeah, you were a jerk sometimes. And the saber thing was…bad.” Bad, Bruck thought, feeling a rise of hysterical shame, bad – “But you have to know that – you know – that wouldn’t matter, not for something like this. To me, I mean. Or – well – us. We were all really worried about you, not just Obi-Wan. I’m really glad you’re not hurt.”

Bruck blinked hard, suddenly finding it hard to swallow. To his mortification, he could feel the sting of tears in his eyes. Garen’s brows drew even lower. Thankfully, Quinlan stepped in before he could make an even bigger fool of himself, clasping him harsh on the shoulder. “He’s right, you know; you’re like the world’s shittiest younger brother. Nobody asked for you, but man, I was totally ready to come in here, lightsaber swinging and kick some Mando as –”

“Padawan.”

Quinlan’s lips snapped shut so quickly, you could hear them smack. “Ah, Master. You can hear us. From over there.”

“Indeed,” Master Tholme said, looking terribly amused, “we all can.”

Bruck felt his lips twitch at the way the older boy’s field drew tight in horror.

---

Obi-Wan was dreaming.

He was certain of it, though it didn’t feel like it. The forests of Yavin 4 surrounded him, thick and dense, and what little sunlight made it through the canopy was muted and dappled. Something was tugging him forward and Obi-Wan found himself moving without much thought. It felt like he walked for hours and yet it seemed like he made no real progress. The shapes of the trees on either side of him never altered, though if that was due to the nature of the jungle or because he wasn’t actually making ground, he was unsure. He just knew that he had to make it where it was he needed to go – there was something (someone?) something there.

All at once, he caught sight of the yellow glow of artificial light ahead and Obi-Wan felt his feet speed up at it. He could just see a towering mountain of stone, its sharp edges implying a structure of some kind. But despite whatever he did, it seemed like it was always just a few feet in front of him. Something was there, waiting for him. He could feel it. Frustrated, he moved to speed up – but a calloused hand on his wrist stopped him. Obi-Wan glanced behind him, blinking at the sight of Tarre standing there, helmetless but clad head to toe in beskar armor, the Darksaber sitting proudly on his waist. Annoyed, he tugged at the grip, trying to dislodge it. His gaze darted back to the light, but a firm pull stopped him.

“No, Obi-Wan.”

“But –”

“No.” Tarre’s gaze flickered behind him, his lips thinning.

Obi-Wan stiffened, all at once aware that something was watching him. Something was behind him, and Obi-Wan felt a shudder of unease travel up the base of his spine, up to his neck, shoulders curving high and in, another shiver skittering through him. Instinct had him turning to face whatever it was but a hand gripped his shoulder tightly, stalling the moment.

Tarre’s brown eyes met his, stern. “Wake up.”

“What -” But whatever he would have said was lost in a gasp as he was pushed abruptly backwards – and sank into the ground behind him, as if it was as soft and porous as quicksand.

---

Obi-Wan jolted upwards with a startled sound. Tarre Vizsla stood over him, his face eerily blank. But other than the ghostly figure, the tent was empty. In chest his heart pounded frantically, every instinct thrumming like he’d just come from a battlefield. And each pump was echoed by a burning pain the like that he had not felt since his first few weeks in the past. He took a few moments to calm himself, closing his eyes and pushing through the chaotic feelings, centering himself. When he opened them again, Tarre had not moved, simply watching him. “What is that place?”

Tarre’s head cocked to the side minutely. “A place you belong, and yet do not.”

That…was impressively vague, almost as the statements Obi-Wan was used to getting from the Temple elders. He gave the Force construct an exasperated look. “Any chance you’d care to elaborate?”

Tarre just hummed, looking off into the distance, as if he could see past the tent walls to the forests that surrounded it. Stars, maybe he could, who knew what being a ‘Force ghost’ entailed. It would have been nice if the previous night had been completely in his head, yet no part of Obi-Wan was surprised to see the blue-cast man standing before him. As if to prove his point, Tarre nodded towards the tent flap just moments before Myles opened it, two bowls held in his hands. The Mandalorian paused – just for a second, hardly even that – but it was more than enough to communicate worry.

“You’re up,” Myles said, his voice somewhat strained. “That’s good, you’ve slept nearly ten hours.”

Ten – ten hours? Inwardly, Obi-Wan balked at the number but outwardly he just gave the Chiss a sheepish smile. “Sorry, that was…unexpected. I didn’t mean to worry you.”

Myles just shrugged, handing over the food. “You want to share what the kriff happened last night?”

“Just an unforeseen complication.”

“Uh huh.” Myles sounded neither convinced nor pleased with the non-answer. “Really, do tell me more. Because I have to tell you, it didn’t look pleasant from where I was standing.”

Obi-Wan winced as he stirred the oatmeal, clearing his throat. “Let’s just say that the Darksaber has more of a personality then I was expecting.”

Myles' face did something very complicated then, features twisting as emotions darted quicksilver across them. “It has been said,” the Chiss said slowly, voice devoid of emotion but he was radiating discomfort and unease, “that the Darksaber is capable of denying those that wield it.”

Obi-Wan’s eyes cut to where Tarre Vizsla was leaning against the tent side, seemingly focused on examining his fingernails. Obi-Wan didn’t buy his disinterest at all, there was a distinct air of smugness around the blue figure. “How so?”

“It is said that it can grow heavy, almost impossible to wield. Once, it apparently became so heavy that Mandalore the Cruel was unable to lift it during battle. His first battle; he was killed shortly afterwards. His death was not mourned.”

“With a title like ‘Mandalore the Cruel,’ I can’t say I’m surprised.” Obi-Wan said with a sigh, calling the Darksaber parts from where they were still laying disassembled and set about guiding the saber back together. He reached out with the Force, sending a wave of query/curiosity to the ghost.

‘Yes, I did do that. He was a particularly foul type of individual, enough darkness to wake me from my slumber.’

Obi-Wan barely kept his startle to a slight hitch, the parts dipping before obediently floating back into place. ‘And just how are we speaking, right now? More Force ghost nonsense?’

Because words were almost impossible outside of Master-Padawan bonds. Tarre just turned his hand, pointer finger picking at the cuticle of his thumb. It was such a…alive, human thing to do that it took him off guard for a moment. Barely keeping himself from shaking his head at the bizarre display, Obi-Wan turned his attention back to the reassembly.

‘Perhaps. For such a renowned Jedi Master, you seem quite shut off to new possibilities.’

‘I beg your pardon –’

‘Such as Force ghosts.’

Obi-Wan barely kept from rolling his eyes. ‘I am not shut off, just…processing. Excuse me if this has been a bit unexpected.’

‘Hm. Your Chiss is staring at you.’

Obi-Wan’s attention jerked from where he’d once again been staring at Tarre to Myles, to ruby eyes darting from Obi-Wan to the Darksaber to – what must have been to him – an empty space of tent. There was the distinct note of anxiety in the Chiss now. “Are you alright, Myles?”

He turned to stare at him. “…in the camp – on Galidraan – you said…you know what?” Myles said quickly, standing and shoving his helmet back on, “I don’t want to know. You’ve got visitors, come out when you’re ready.”

And then he was gone. Obi-Wan stared at the space he’d been sitting, the Darksaber almost complete with only the casing hovering above it – stalled in his befuddlement. From behind them, there was a deep sigh.‘Mandalorians, such a superstitious lot.’

‘You say that like you don’t consider yourself one of them.’ Obi-Wan pointed out as he eased the beskar case back onto the saber, hiding its internal elements from view. ‘Which I find quite curious given – well, everything.’

‘I was born on Mandalore, but I spent most of my youth with the Jedi, at the enclave on Dantooine.’

Obi-Wan called the Darksaber to his hand, clipping it to his waist as he slid off the camp bunk he’d been using. ‘I have always wondered, how is one both a Mandalorian and a Jedi?’

An eyebrow rose. ‘Very simply – I am a Mandalorian. I am a Jedi. Thus, I am both.”

‘Your Order must have looked very different back then.’

‘Very,’ was the dry response, ‘but that can be discussed another time. The leader of this clan has been waiting for you for some time. Best not to keep her waiting any longer.’ Obi-Wan dropped his hand to his chest in the typical Mandalorian salute. Tarre narrowed his eyes, snorting. ‘Careful, you are starting to resemble your body’s age.’ 

What awaited him outside was a fawning Nora Kast, who introduced him to a heavily beskar-clad figure they called the Armorer. He was a male humanoid of some kind, or at the very least male presenting, and spoke very little. He seemed content to allow Nora to do all the talking as she explained his role in the clan, which seemed to be some mix of a priest and quartermaster. To his bemusement, when she’d finished talking the Armor had only nodded once and grunted something Obi-Wan didn’t quite catch to Kast, and then walked away. Besides him, Myles snorted.

[I’m afraid I may have missed the joke.] Obi-Wan offered, eyes still following the man’s retreating back.

[Don’t worry,] Myles said with a shrug, [they’re all like that.]

[Do you have an Armorer?] Obi-Wan asked.

[Me? Nah, my clan’s too small. Jango has one though, he serves the Mereel and Fett clans directly. But given how small they are, he usually lends his services out to allied clans. The True Mandalorians have about two, two and half in total.]

[Two and a half?] Obi-Wan asked, amused.

[One’s an apprentice. They don’t normally serve small clans, though. I’m surprised they’ve got one.]

[We are devout followers of the Way,] Nora said, smoothly gliding into the conversation, [our faith proves our need where perhaps our numbers could not. And the Armorer’s guidance is always welcomed. He leads us along the path. He will come to speak with you, when he feels it right.]

[I will gladly welcome whatever wisdom he wishes to offer, Nora. Insight into your people is something I would never turn from.] Obi-Wan promised with a bow of his head, watching as the woman crossed her arms behind her back, obviously pleased with his answer.

[It bodes well that you would think so, for it is a people that you now rule. I am pleased to see you so well rested.]

[Ah, yes. The events of Galidraan and the planet before it caught up with me, I’m afraid. Nothing a good sleep didn’t fix.]

[As you say, Mandalore.]

He gestured to the waiting crates surrounding the burnt-out fire, [shall we sit? There are some things I wished to discuss with you.]

That gave the woman pause. […I am ever at your service.]

[Well, for one I wanted to check in on how you and your people -]

[ - our people.]

Behind him, Obi-Wan could feel the force of Myles’ eye roll. [ – are feeling about the arrival of the Jedi and the True Mandalorians.]

[They are aware of your up-bringing as a Jedi, Mandalore. There will be no fight waiting for them here.]

Obi-Wan hummed thoughtfully. [And the True Mandalorians? Your clan have refused to follow revisionists, as I understand it.]

[You are not a True Mandalorian.]

[And if I was?]

A pause. Obi-Wan picked at a burr that had found its way onto his pant leg, ignoring the tension radiating off Myles.

[You haven’t sworn the Resol'nare.]

[I have not.] He agreed, legs crossing and clasping his hands against his knee. [But say I do and decided to follow the ways of the True or New Mandalorians –]

There was a snort. [You are no New Mandalorian. I have seen you fight.]

[A hypothetical, Nora. What do you think your clan would do, should I choose to follow a path that does not align with your own?]

Another pause.

[You are the Mandalore, we follow your will.]

[I see.] Obi-Wan said evenly, [I just wanted to check, as I know that you have a complicated history with both groups. As it is, I don’t believe I know enough about your culture to swear the Resol'nare. I would enjoy the chance to pick your brain on the differing philosophies.]

Nora bowed her head, hand coming to her chest. [It would be my greatest honor to show you the ways of our people.]

[It will be some time before the True Mandalorians and the Jedi show up. Even so, please make sure that the clan is aware they are coming and that I would prefer for there to be no violence.]

[As you say, Mandalore. Should I bring you lunch?]

[No thank you, Nora. I’ve already eaten and I’m afraid I’ve far overslept. I have my own training to see to. If you would excuse us?]

Another deep bow, fist to her chest, and then Kast turned on her heel and left. Obi-Wan watched her go, lips pursing. The woman radiated a kind of calm determination – an almost icy detachment. She had no concerns that Obi-Wan could convert to the True or New Mandalorian faith, no real concerns that Obi-Wan may not even take the Resol'nare at all. Her belief dictated that he would choose to follow the right way – the right faith, her faith – as a true Mandalore chosen by the Darksaber surely would.

[That woman is dangerous.] Myles growled out, voice low and unnerved.

From where he stood, Tarre Vizsla’s eyes still tracked the woman’s retreating back. ‘Fanatics always are.’

Obi-Wan hummed his agreement.

---

It was really, really cold.

It made sense; the mission brief stated that Galidraan was pretty much locked in a perpetual winter, enough so that even though it was currently in its ‘spring’ season, the moment the sun had set the already nippy air had dropped several degrees colder. Garen was actually sitting pretty close to the fire, with Quinlan on one side and the senior padawan, Darred Subra, on Quinlan’s other. You’d think that help somewhat – and it did – but not by much. The other senior padawans were inside the ships. Rig Sorin, the healer’s apprentice, and Lissarkh, Plo Koon’s apprentice, had long retreated inside. Their species didn’t do well with the cold and while Garen knew he could have followed them at any time, he didn’t really want to.

As for Padawan Vosa…well. Garen didn’t know what was going on with that, only that she’d been locked in Master Dooku’s quarters with him and Master Yyrrlom for hours. It could only mean nothing good, both because Master Yyrrlom used to be on the Jedi Council when she was younger and because there was such a strong pocket of shielding on that cabin that Garen couldn’t even feel them.

So, yeah. Nothing good.

She’d looked terrible when she’d been sent back, so pale she almost matched her light blonde hair, her eyes glazed and distant, accompanied by Master Jorel and Knight Ta Aresu. They’d put her in that cabin and as far as Garen knew, she’d not come back out again. He was staying as clear away from whatever that was as he possibly could. Besides, there was no way he was going more than a few feet from his master’s side.

The Mandalorian’s were kinda of scary, but Master Clee had been really clear in telling him that spending time among them could be a once in a lifetime event, so Garen wanted to stay out and observe. And maybe…maybe he could ask about Obi-Wan. Garen had been beyond distraught this last month; the joy of being picked as a padawan overshadowed first by his friend’s silence from Bandomeer (to be fair, Garen hadn’t reached out either. He wanted to give Obi-Wan some time to settle, his friend could be a little prickly, when hurt) and then by news that not only Obi-Wan - but Bruck's - sudden disappearance and kidnapping.

It had only been luck that Garen even knew anything at all, a Jedi strike force had been sent from the Temple with the original request for aid from Galidraan, but when it had become clear they’d taken Obi-Wan and Bruck, any team that was close enough to aid had been recruited. That was how he’d ended up here. Quinlan had come directly with his master, which was kind of surprising. He knew Master Clee wasn't happy at all about being asked to go, stating that this was the type of mission no junior (and probably any senior) padawans should be present for. But when he’d asked his master why then Quinlan was here, she’d just shrugged and said that it was most likely because Master Tholme had ‘a whole different skill set’ that was needed. Whatever that meant.

Quinlan shivered violently, hunching down into his cloak, a feeling of lowkey misery drifting from him. Padawan Subra glanced at him. “You can go inside if you need to, Padawan Vos.”

“No way,” Quinlan hissed in what he most likely thought was a whisper but was most definitely not, “and miss this?”

Padawan Subra snorted. “Yes.” His agreed, voice dry as he glanced around the camp, “who would want to miss this.”

Garen felt a prickle of unease dance down his spine as he glanced at the gathered Mandalorians. The group was far smaller than it had been earlier, with more leaving almost every hour, but the numbers that left were still impressively large. The elder Jedi were mainly dotted around the main three fires in front of their ships and the fact that they had formed a not-so-subtle circle around the padawans was not missed. It did nothing to help with his nerves, neither did the general quiet. Or the fact that their leader – the Mandalore Jango Fett – and his uncle sat across the fire from them. There had been some issue earlier apparently when the Jedi had wanted to retire onto the ship - with Bruck Chun.

The Mandalorians had decidedly not been onboard with that idea and Master Clee had explained to him that it was because tensions were still high between the two groups. Even though they had agreed to go together to Yavin 4 to get Obi-Wan, the Mandalorians were still suspicious of their intentions. Which, yeah, did make sense considering the fact that they’d been lied to about what the True Mandalorians were doing here. That was upsetting enough, but when Garen thought about the fact that a strike force had been put together to handle it and what that meant and what could have happened…yeah, he could understand why they didn’t trust them. But he like the idea of them being able to hold on to Bruck as some sort of hostage even less. He didn’t know why the Mandalorians were so irritated when the Jedi offered nothing but a steadfast refusal – because seriously, did they really think the Jedi were going to let Bruck out of their sight? It was bad enough that Obi-Wan was still missing!

Bruck had looked completely awkward about the whole verbal tug-of-war, all but shrinking into the collar of his coat whenever there was a poorly hidden taunt or harsh words were tossed their way. Which was something that Garen had never thought he’d be able to say about the brash boy – Bruck Chun, awkward. But then again, there were a lot of things about Bruck that he was having a hard time reconciling today. The Bruck he’d grown up with was all confidence and bravado – edging onto and often into – bullyish behavior. This Bruck felt completely different; he was still confident, but he was…humbler. Or maybe more reserved? Definetly unsure. Garen wasn’t one hundred precent clear, he didn't quite know what to call what he was getting off his former creche-mate. But it was certainly different.

Could so much change in just under a month outside the Temple?

Garen could admit that he’d changed since becoming a padawan. With two missions already under his belt (and yeah, okay, so maybe they were ‘milk run’ missions – but a mission was a mission) and he already felt so much different from who he’d been as an initiate. And he couldn’t help but think about how surprised Bruck had been by the fact they’d been worried about him. Sure, he was really only close friends with Siri Tachi, but they’d all grown up together! And what happened in the training salle had been really, really bad. So bad in fact, that their training instructors had spent nearly two whole days helping them understand and process it. But to think they’d be happy something happened to him? Bruck was still…Bruck.

Garen was angry at what he’d tried to do to Obi-Wan, but…he’d known Bruck all his life. He didn’t want either one of them hurt, he just wished they’d be nicer to each other. Bruck wasn’t that bad on his own and Obi-Wan never acted like he did with Bruck with anyone else. For some reason, the two had always just been so…combustable, as if they just couldn’t leave each other alone, much to the frustration of their clan mates.

Garen was so, so happy that they’d be leaving in the morning. He didn’t know yet if he’d be with the group going to Yavin 4, but he hoped desperately he was. The idea of not getting a chance to see Obi-Wan after all of this seemed incredibly unfair. Master Jinn sat near the Mandalorian leader, talking quietly, with Bruck on his other side. But other than that, and the low conversations in Mando’a from the other fires, there was nothing but silence, one that was haunted with a sense of wary awareness. 

The Mandalorians weren’t keeping apart from them per say, but they weren’t trying to engage either. They’d been somewhat abrupt the few times Garen had heard them speak in Basic (which was almost never), abrupt but polite. And they’d fed them which was nice enough, even if the stew had been a little chewy. Garen wished that things weren’t so on edge – he desperately wanted to ask more about Obi-Wan, but right now it felt…unwise. Bruck had told them the story of how’d they come here (and what a story! Pirates and a freighter crash, kidnapping by a darksider and then a Mandalorian) but Garen still had so many questions, and Master Clee had only allowed him so much time to ask them. Honestly, he’d barely even gotten through his top five before she was ushering him away.

From where he was sitting a few seats to their left, Master Averross sighed. The sound was loud and almost dramatic and Garen’s eyes darted to him, somewhat stunned to hear the volume of it. Just like everyone else had at their small fire. “Well,” the master said, drawing out the word, “this is awkward.”

Knight Gard let out a choked sound. “Rael.”

“What, it is!” He defended, reaching into his robes to pull out a packet of cards. “Anybody up for a game of sabaac?”

Master Jinn’s force signature twitched.

“I am!” Quinlan chirped, perking up next to him.

Master Tholme sighed. “Padawan.”

“What? I love sabaac, Master, I always won the Initiate Rounds.”

Master Tholme raised an eyebrow. “The Initiate Rounds?”

“Uh.” Was his friend’s elegant reply, like he didn’t just announce a tightly held secret and outed everyone.

Across the fire, Bruck let out a groan. “Seriously, Quinlan?”

Master Averross just laughed, loudly. There were so many people watching them now. Garen shrunk in his seat, feeling his ears burn, then nearly jumped out of his skin when Master Averross patted his shoulder. “Don’t look so distressed, Padawan Muln. Surely you don’t think your generation was the first to do a little betting in the Initiate Halls.”

From where she sat, his master let out a chuckle. A soft, affectionate ruffle came from the training bond and when he looked, Master Clee sent him a wink. “Were you any good, padawan-mine?”

“No.” Garen admitted miserably, fighting the urge to hide his face. He was a padawan now, not a youngling. So what if the entire Mandalorian camp was staring at them, learning about their underage betting ring?

“Garen is pretty bad,” Quinlan agreed helpfully, “I keep trying to get him to play so he gets better, but he won’t play with me anymore.”

“Because you cheat!” Garen snapped, sending a Force shove at his friend. Quinlan squawked, flailing slightly. It wasn’t nearly as rewarding as an actual shove would have been, but touching Quinlan without his direct permission wasn’t something that was done.

“I don’t cheat –”

“No, you definitely cheat.” Bruck interrupted.

“– I’m creative.” Quinlan finished with an offended sniff.

“That’s one way of putting it.” Garen said with a roll of his eyes, but couldn’t help smiling at his friend’s antics.

“Come on, padawan,” Master Averross said grinning as he mixed the cards, “you never know when a well-played game of sabaac could save your life.”

Garen glanced at Master Clee, but she only gave him a smile as she accepted her own cards. “Only if you want to, Garen.”

“Okay.” He said with a nod, holding a hand out for his cards.

Averross passed them out, dealing in Padawan Subra and his master, Master Tholme, Bruck and even Master Jinn took a hand. Master Averross held the cards out to the four Mandalorians at the fire. “What about you, my fine Mandalorian friends? It’s not a real game unless we have at least eight.”

And to Garen’s absolute shock, the Mandalore himself snorted and reached out.

---

Leave it to Rael to break the ice in one of his…unique ways. If their master was out here, he’d be despairing no doubt, but Qui-Gon couldn’t help but admit that it had worked. The tension that had haunted the air had relaxed, drifted into something more neutral, and Qui-Gon doubted that it had escaped any of the Jedi present that it was mainly due to Rael’s charms. Well, that and a few bottles of Corellian gin (because of course his padawan-brother had packed a few bottles of Corellian gin). At least Rael had the decency to wait until the junior padawans had tuckered themselves out, both being led back to the ships with drooping eyelids and red cheeks and noses, to crack them open. Bruck Chun had been taken to a nearby tent, alone but within eyesight of both groups. Kit Fitso would be joining him, watching over him through the night. Along with Jax Mereel.

It wasn’t ideal, but it seemed unwise to fight over something as trivial as where the boy would sleep for the night. It was an easy enough concession to give. The Mandalorians, after all, had been strong armed by Yan earlier into allowing Qui-Gon and Rael to travel with Bruck upon Mandalore Fett’s personal ship to Yavin 4. Yan himself would be following with his own personal cruiser, but the majority of their strike force was being dissolved. Much of it had been picked up by whatever Jedi team had been the closest and considered a good fit, and many had their own missions to return to. The original members that had left the Temple would stay, leaving them with eight Jedi strong - including Rael and himself, as well as Master Washet and his padawan.

Qui-Gon eyed where Padawan Subra was all but asleep on his master, Laze sitting with one shoulder lower than the other to provide a suitable position. It couldn’t be comfortable for the Bothan, but Darred seemed more than content. With half his face buried in his master’s robes, he lazily watched as Laze attempted to best Rael and the Mandalorian Silas, who were the only other two that hadn’t folded in their latest round.

“Bad move, Master.” Darred slurred.

Laze just sighed, tossing his hand down in defeat even as the other came up to pat the teen’s cheek affectionately. “You couldn’t have shared that opinion earlier, my dear?”

“But then how would you learn?”

“Cheeky.” Laze admonished without any heat.

Next to him, Qui-Gon heard Jango Fett snort. “Your friend cheats.”

“So does yours.” Qui-Gon pointed out, side eyeing the armored figure.

A flicker of amusement, muted in the strange way that beskar did, like hearing the Force through cotton. “That he does.”

A blaze of emotion through the bond he shared with his master – the first of any in the hours that Yan had sequestered himself - and gone almost as quickly as it was noted, had Qui-Gon pausing, his cup half way to his lips. His eyes flickered over to meet Rael’s. They exchanged a weighted look before Qui-Gon stood. “Forgive me, Mand’alor Fett. I am needed somewhere else.”

Fett’s helmeted head ducked in agreement, not taking his eyes off where Silas was getting pressured heavily by Jax Mereel to win. He stepped out of the fire circle and passed his drink to Rael as he left, his padawan-brother knocking it back with a grin as he laid his cards out. “Better luck next time, Ser Silas.”

He could just hear the Mandalorian cursing darkly in Mando’a, before demanding a rematch as he climbed up the ramp to The Acceptance. The inside was dark, with only the night time running lights on to cast the ship in a pale yellow. He made his way to Yan’s private cabin, reaching through the bond to tap politely on his former master’s shields. He received a weary acceptance and Qui-Gon let himself in. The cabin was empty save from Yan and Qui-Gon paused just inside the door, taking in the sight. Yan was sitting in a leather chair – no, it was more like he was sprawled, long legs pushed out and crossed at the ankles, upper torso slouched back and against the chair’s curve, a hand pressed against his temple.

As a member of House Serenno – the ruling class of planet Serenno – there had been certain rules of decorum that had been drilled into his master from a young age, young enough that even his arrival at the Temple at four couldn’t knock them loose. To see him like this was rare. Qui-Gon had witnessed his master tired before but never...ineloquent. To see the distress that he’d felt as nothing more than a muted spike of emotion, one that had mostly slipped by his master’s imposing shields, so plainly on display was somewhat unnerving. For a moment Qui-Gon just watched his master, debating about how to approach this unknown. And Qui-Gon found he did want to approach, he did want to offer comfort, but was somewhat gun-shy. In the past, such attempts at comfort were rarely warmly recieved. Yan saved him from his own indecision.

“She says she is in love with me.” His voice was exhausted, almost defeated.

“She’s seventeen, Yan,” he offered; voice low, “this will pass.”

Yan stood abruptly, moving to the window and putting his back to Qui-Gon. He read the move for what it was; a way to hide his expression. But there was no hiding the tension in his shoulders, the way his fingers of one hand dug into meat of the other from where they were clutched behind his back. Qui-Gon fought a growing feeling of awkward discomfort that rose in his chest, thoroughly at a loss at how to deal with the emotions his normally closed off master was showing. It should have been Rael to come not him, Qui-Gon thought all at once, but Rael was busy making headway with the Mandalorians. But…Yan had come to Qui-Gon just the previous night, had sheltered him in a moment of weakness - unasked and unexpected - and he found that he wanted to return the favor.

“I have spoken with the council; they believe it would be wise for Komari to finish her apprenticeship with another master. A female master. She will be leaving for the Temple tomorrow, with Master Yyrrlom.”

Qui-Gon’s breath caught. “Master –”

“I agree with their assessment.” Yan continued on. “She is lost right now, but with the proper guidance she will make a fine Jedi, and a female influence will without a doubt be beneficial. There will be an investigation, of course, though the Council was gracious enough to allow me to finish our current mission.”

Qui-Gon closed his eyes in dismay; an investigation. He had no doubt that they would find no instances of impropriety, but that would hardly stop the gossip at the Temple, and his master was a proud man. No, regardless of that – this would be hard on any master. “They won’t find anything.”

A scoff.

“Of course, they won’t. Not…not on my part.” His words faltered, something else that Qui-Gon had never experienced before. There was a sharp intake of breath. “I should have noticed. How could I have not noticed?”

“One of the first things you ever told me about Komari,” Qui-Gon offered carefully, “was that you choose for her natural shielding abilities.”

Yan – impossibly – drew even tighter, then spun to face him, his face a mask of helpless rage, entirely self-directed. “That is not an excuse! I am her Master. How could I have missed this, Qui-Gon? I have – ” Then, all at once he seemed to collapse in on himself, hands falling loose by his side. “I have failed her.”

“Did you ever look at her in a sexual or romantic notion?”

His master reeled back, both physically and in the Force. “Of course not! She is a child.”

“She is a child.” Qui-Gon agreed.

He could say that it wasn’t unusual for a padawan to develop a crush on their master, especially if they were of both of the same species. But it would do no help to mention that here; the depth of what Padawan Vosa had displayed did not fall into the catagory of ‘usual.’ Most of those crushes died naturally on their own and usually rather quickly, and it was unheard of for it to be the other way around – for a master to develop feelings for their padawan. Qui-Gon certainly hadn’t heard of a case in living memory. And he wasn’t surprised by that. He could still remember the shock he'd felt when he got Xanatos – how small and skinny the boy seemed, so tiny – and the all-encompassing realization that he was responsible for a child. A whole, entire child, entrusted to him to raise and protect, one that barely even came up to his chest at the time. It had been different with Feemor, who already been in his teens when he’d come to Qui-Gon, and almost as tall as himself. Even when Xanatos had sprouted up and out, growing in both height and bulk, Qui-Gon had never quite been able to see him as anything but that small, bright-eyed child.

“And that is why you did not see it,” he continued, keeping his voice even, “because the possibility of such a thing never even entered your mind. And no matter what you say, you have been training her in the ways of the Sentinel for almost eight years, Yan. A shadow like yourself. I don’t believe these are feelings that she’s had since she was nine, she’s had time to hide them. Force knows I kept my crushes from you and you were never one to pry.”

A snort. “Or so you believed.”

Qui-Gon quirked a shallow grin, but just as quickly as it came, it fled. He had never seen his master look so old as he did in this moment, weighed down by his perceived failings. The realization crested over him all at once; strange and sweeping. He knew that Yan was in his late sixties, but somehow that hadn’t actualized until this very moment. His master looked worn, frail even without the normal sharp edges and coolness of his prominent personality in place. Somehow, despite the passage of the years, Qui-Gon had still seen Yan as he had a child; tall, imposing, strong. It was a jarring realization.

“This situation is complicated, I admit, but I know that you would never have led her astray in such a way. Komari is young and you two have spent a lot of time together and the nature of your missions are...isolating. I doubt that she has had the opportunity spend time around many of her own age - she may not even understand what she feels. Should you have noticed she was infatuated with you? I have no idea, I haven’t spent enough time around you to know. But I do know this; we are not all knowing, my master,” Qui-Gon reminded softly, “we may be Jedi, but we are still living, imperfect beings. Sadly, that does not change about us when we become Masters. We can only ever do the best that we can. I also know that very little of what I say will bring you comfort right now, this is all far too fresh.”

He reached out, guiding his master back to the chair and pushing him gently to sit.

“So, I am going to make us a pot of tea and I am going to sit with you. And when you are ready, we will meditate together.”

His master stared at him up at him for long moment, before his eyes closed, head tilting to rest on the chair back. “Thank you, padawan-mine. Your presence is…much appreciated.”

---

‘You are distracted.’

From where he was (failing) to meditate, Obi-Wan cracked an eye open to stare at the ghostly form leaning against a truly massive tree trunk nearby. He let out a hum of agreement. ‘I am.’

‘What concerns you?’

‘Don’t you know?’

‘I am a ghost, Obi-Wan. Not a mind-reader.’

Obi-Wan muffled a chuckle at that, highly aware of where Myles was resting just a few feet to his left, drifting in and out of a doze as he kept an eye on the camp. Myles had been hyper aware of him in a way that (somehow) went even beyond the hovering he’d seen since they’d arrived on Yavin 4. He was sure it had something to do with what had happened with the Darksaber and the Mandalorian’s attention kept drifting from Obi-Wan to the space around him, as if searching for something. ‘Do you think Myles suspects you’re here? He is a Force null, yet I believe he does. I did explain something of the nature of Kyber crystals to him.’

‘I think you’re avoiding the question.’ Tarre answered, crossing his arms over his chest.

‘Perhaps.’ He admitted with a frown. ‘I'm not sure what it is.’

His thoughts drifted back to the stone structure he’d seen in his dreams. That he’d dreamed of it two nights in a row seemed important. Obi-Wan had long had visions through the Force, ever since he was a youngling in the creche. They did not always come true (and when they did, often through such a conclusion that he could never had imagined it without experiencing it) yet this one seemed…ominous. There was a sharp poke to his shields, strong enough that image of the strange ziggurat dissolved completely. He shot Tarre an annoyed look, though the man looked utterly unrepentant.

‘Keep yourself in the here and now, child. Focus. Your mind is messy.’

Obi-Wan rolled his eyes, folding his hands back into his lap, but closed his eyes. He took a deep breath, holding before releasing it. He reached out to the Force around them, bright and fecund with life. Just when he felt himself begin to sink into it, something tugged at him, pulling him back up. Annoyed, Obi-Wan’s lips quirked in frustration. He hadn’t struggled to meditate like this since the very beginnings of the war; to do so now was irksome. To his surprise he felt Tarre’s presence meet his own. Tarre felt quite unlike any Jedi Obi-Wan had ever felt before. Of course, every Jedi felt different, but Tarre’s presence had a weight to it, an age that he’d rarely seen outside Master Yoda and the few other long-lived species in the Order.

He let it guide him down, feeling his shoulders relax in relief as the low-grade headache he’d been carrying all day finally eased its grip. The Force swept through him like waves on a beach and Obi-Wan let himself float. He stretched himself out in it – like a lothcat in a warm spot of sunlight – basking in the fact that there were no other Jedi here to judge him for such a childish act.

Well, almost no Jedi.

Tarre’s amusement radiated from next to him, something distinctly indulgent about it that Obi-Wan was quite sure would annoy him if he wasn’t so at peace at the moment. He could feel the buzzing of the jungle around him, the muted presences of the Mandalorian camp. Just beyond that – the rushing feeling of a river, wide and filled to the brim with life. Obi-Wan felt a pointed nudge and grumbled, pulling slightly back from the open conduit that was Yavin 4. He took a moment to gather the simmering anxiety and fear he’d felt since Galidraan, acknowledging that it had a purpose and served it, and released it into the Force.

The negative feelings faded easily in the face of so much life, but to Obi-Wan’s alarm he felt something distinctively sentient swell, almost as if in answer. Something sentient and dark. He felt the echo of Tarre’s alarm at the same moment his own blossomed, and Obi-Wan’s shields slammed up just as he felt something whip-sharp and painful lash against them. Almost in the same moment, Tarre was there – his presence swelling and almost violent – like a barely unleashed storm encircling him, with Obi-Wan centered in its eye. Though where the thing that had touched him was corrupt in the darkside, the Mandalorian Jedi was bright, a beacon of strength and light that swept it away.

Obi-Wan eye’s snapped open, finding Tarre’s immediately. He stood towered over him, two fingers pressed against Obi-Wan’s temple. Just through him, Obi-Wan could see Myles staring at him, awake and alert. ‘There is something here.’

Tarre’s expression gave nothing away, nor did his Force signature. ‘There are many things here, Yavin 4 has a had a long life.’

‘There is something dark.’

‘Obi-Wan –’

But Obi-Wan already standing, ignoring the way that Myles was straightening fully in concern. ‘I haven’t felt a presence like that since –’

Since Anakin.

‘That was a Sith.’

Notes:

Yavin 4 is such a fun planet. And why are pre-teen/young teenage boys such a challenge to write realistically sometimes? I hope Garen/Quinlan/Bruck come off okay. Honestly, I think I wrote five versions of this chapter. And someone commented about Dooku being a GILF, and I can't get that horrible thought out of my mind. I’d be writing Yan interactions and my mind was going (GILF, GILF, GILF) lol. Hope you guys like it!

Chapter 24: Yavin 4, Part 4

Notes:

Here we go: Yavin 4, Part 4. Otherwise known as: Shit Hits the Fan, Part 1.

CW: PTSD flashback depicted (vaguely)

[Every time I start to like them, they go and do shit like this.] Jax grumbled as he came to stand next to him, offering a cup of caf. Jango took it, pulling his helmet off and setting it on a supply crate nearby.

[Do what?]

Jax made a gesture towards the center of the clearing. [That.]

The Jedi sat on their knees in two neat lines, hands resting on their thighs palms up, facing the rising sun. The Jedi Master Dooku sat apart from them, alone and in the middle of both lines, as if in a lead position. If they were affected by the snow in which they were perched, they did not show it. There was a stillness to them that was unnatural, and the image wasn’t helped by the way their robes and hair seemed to float weightlessly around them. The sun was just rising over the mountains, casting the entire scene in a orange-pinkish glow, adding an otherworldly element.

Jango sipped his caf instead of replying, but he could understand what his uncle was getting at. The time spent with the Jedi had been…educational. He has always thought the Jedi to be emotionless automatons, the everyday bonds that every other life being experienced beaten out of them by their code. Yet after spending so long in their presence, Jango couldn’t deny that he no longer thought that was true. He had seen the genuine fondness between the adults and their young, between the masters themselves – especially the ones who identified as ‘lineage’ members. And while such a thing could be faked…Jango didn’t think it was. It was strange, but then again having your opinion realigned almost always was.

Next to him, Jax let out a strangled oath under his breath and Jango looked up from where he was swirling his caf in thought, and froze. His eyebrows shot up as he watched loose bits of snow began to float up, twisting and spinning through the air as if in zero gravity. The few of his commandos that would be accompanying him to Yavin 4 were clearly creeped out by the display, staring blatantly.

“Pull it back, young one,” Dooku admonished, his low timber echoing across the camp for all it was spoken softly, “we are one with the Force, we seek not to bend it to our will.”

A Jedi padawan, the young Kiffar who’d called himself Quinlan Vos – nodded, and then the snow was gently being lowered back down.

“Very good.” Dooku said approvingly.

Almost as soon as the snow had returned to ground, the Jedi shifted as one. Some stretched, while others dusted the light snow fall from their bodies. One, Feemor Gard, stood and cracked his back with a delighted sounding sigh. The Wookie Jedi actually bent down to touch her toes, rumbling lightly to the Jedi next to her, who was nodding along, looking thoughtful.

The Jedi Dooku was making their way towards him, pausing at the Kiffar’s side.

“You must seek to master your emotions, Padawan Vos.” Dooku said, stern but not unkindly, “your anxieties are understandable given your friendship with Kenobi, but you must release them or else they will only hinder you.”  

“Yes, Master Dooku.” Vos said with a gusty sigh, “thank you for the lesson. It’s just so hard, I’m really worried.”

“Chin up, young one,” Dooku advised, patting the boy’s shoulder, “if such a task was easy, the Force would not ask it of you. You will see your friend soon.”

“Come Padawan,” Master Tholme said, guiding the boy away by his shoulder, “we shall work on it together.”

Vos peered up at his master, eyes sly and as wide as a tooka’s. “Maybe over some of those sweet rolls Garen made? And blue milk?”

Tholme chuckled. “Far be it for me to get in the way of you and your sweets, Quinlan. I’ve learned that lesson already.”

Jango exchanged a disbelieving look with uncle. It was odd, to see such normality after that kind of a display. Jax just shook his head, crossing his arms and leaning back against a nearby tree. Jango tossed the rest of his caf back, before pulling his helmet on. It was firmly in place when the Jedi Master finally made his way to them.

“Good morning, gentlemen.” Dooku greeted, folding his hands within his cloak. “We are ready to depart as soon as you are. Master Plo Koon and his padawan have been charged with bring the Governor to Coruscant for further interrogation, they already left last night.”

Jax let out a scoff. “Whatever good that will be, given how the Senate’s handled all of this.”

“Ah,” Dooku said primly, “but I did not say it was to the Senate that he will go.”

“Oh?” Jango asked, intrigued.

“He will be remanded into Jedi care, as we are also wronged parties in this sordid affair. Our legal team is quite eager to get to speak with him.”

“Jedi lawyers,” Jango said, amused, “what a thought.”

The smile Dooku gave him was not particularly nice, sharp and cutting. “I assure you; they are quite good at what they do. There will be an investigation opened against the committee that sanctioned this mission; a lengthy and extremely expensive investigation.”

“The Senate will sweep it under the rug,” Jax said with a dismissive wave, “just like they always do.”

Jango agreed and to his surprise, Dooku did as well, nodding. “They will try, but they will not be successful. The Jedi Council will be overseeing this matter personally, lead by Master Tyvokka himself – the Grandmaster of our Order – and he is not a man to let such a thing as Jedi being used as an assassination force go lightly.

I assure you, Mand’alor Fett, this will not simply be ‘swept under the rug.’ The Jedi will not tolerate being used in such a way; externally or internally. There will be an investigation on our own part, to see how we allowed such a thing to happen. I foresee the very structure in how we accept missions from the Senate in the future being revised.”

“I’ll believe it when I see it.” Jango said, dryly.

“I can understand your reluctance,” Dooku said with a nod, “the Senate is a corrupt thing, and they have no love for you. The way they’ve attempted to intervene in your civil war is shameful.”

“A Jedi, speaking in defense of the Mandalorians.” Jango said with a hum, “now I’ve seen everything.”

Dooku just smiled, the wrinkles around his eyes crinkling with the move. “Betrayal makes strange bedfellows, true, but even before this mission, I’ve disagreed with how they’ve handled the Mandalorian Crisis.”

“The ‘Mandalorian Crisis,’” Jax repeated darkly, “is none of their concern, given that the Mandalore systems aren’t a part of the Republic.”

“Just so.” Dooku agreed. “You may be asked to send one of your own to the Senate, to speak on your behalf –”

“No.” Jango interrupted immediately, because that was kriffing dumb. They’d be imprisoned immediately.  

“– but I can understand why such an idea may not be palatable.” Dooku continued, looking terribly amused. “Regardless, having a representative to speak on your interests is not something that should be dismissed so easily. There are ways to get your words to the Senate without being present, such as a holocall. Food for thought, perhaps.”

“I’ll think about it.” Jango agreed begrudgingly. “We’ll be leaving shortly; you are aware that I won’t be taking all of that with me?” He pointed at where the Jedi still intermingled.

Dooku chuckled. “Yes, of course. Many of us had prior missions that they were pulled from and will be returning with to them. As agreed, Master Qui-Gon Jinn and Knight Rael Averross will be traveling with you aboard your gunship, alongside Bruck Chun. Myself, Kit Fisto, Feemor Gard, Tholme and Laze Washet – as well as their padawan-learners, Darred Subra and Quinlan Vos, and two of our healers – Master Vokara Che and her learner, will be following upon my personal craft.”

Still far too many Jedi then he would like, but…Jango glanced over to where Bruck was speaking with two other padawans, in the middle of what seemed to be a teary goodbye, they had a right to it. Bruck and Obi-Wan were Jedi young. They technically had no real claim to them and Jango wasn’t so arrogant to not see that any allowances he’d managed to wrangle with Bruck were just that – allowances. Jax was going to hate it, but no one was forced to walk the Path of a commando, nor a Mandalorian. If the boys didn’t choose to come with them, they’d have to let them go. He was surprised by how annoyed he was at the idea; Obi-Wan had potential true, but they’d known each other for a brief amount of time. And Jango certainly wasn’t about to start a war over him or Bruck with the Jedi. Yet still, the idea grated at him.

And he had no idea why.

---

Bruck stood apart as he watched Garen’s ship take off. He waved at where he could just see Garen, looking more at home in the co-pilot’s seat then he’d ever seen him. Out of the padawans that had come, only Quinlan and Rig would be coming with them to Yavin 4 and Bruck felt…

Well, he wasn’t sure what he felt.

Lonely, but not. Maybe at a loss? And there was a sharp, twisting pain in his gut that felt a whole lot like grief. Seeing Garen with his padawan braid had been a bit of a punch to the gut, a reminder of what he was never going to have. But seeing him again had also been a huge relief, as was the idea that no one back home hated him. Maybe he would send something to Siri, as soon as they got Obi-Wan back and themselves out of this mess. He’d already promised Garen he’d write.

Yet while it was such a huge, huge relief to know that his creche mates missed him (that they were worried about him, Bruck had never dared to hope –) the whole encounter had left him feeling bereft. He’d not thought about his future in so long, not with the mines and then being on Galidraan. But now? The thought of going back to the AgriCorps after all of this was even less palatable than it had been before. But what other choice did he have? No one was going to take him on as a padawan, he’d aged out. And after that display in the training salle…well, his friends may have forgiven him, but Bruck still felt pretty terrible about it.

“Bruck?” A low voice interrupted his spiraling thoughts and he turned to find the blond Knight – Feemor Gard – standing next to him. “Are you alright?”

“Uh, do I know you?” He winced immediately at the sharp words, feeling a blush erupt at the words. Man, why did he have to be so pale? He bet it was super visible, too! “Sorry, Knight Gard, I didn’t mean for that come out sounding like that.”

The Knight just chuckled, looking somewhat abashed, a finger coming up to itch at his chin. “It’s alright, I forgot that you wouldn’t recognize me like this.”

His brows furrowed as he watched the Knight, then slowly began to climb up as he realized that he somehow did recognize him. “I do know you, don’t I?”

Feemor gave him a crooked grin. “In a way. I used to be a member of the Temple Guard; I’ve only just recently left.”

Left? Temple Guards could do that – “Wait a minute!” Bruck crowed, snapping his fingers and pointing at the man, “you’re the Friendly Guard!”

Feemor sputtered. “The Friendly Guard?”

“Yeah,” Bruck continued on, sure now. “You used to catch us all the time when we snuck out for snacks at night and stuff, or when we would go swim in the big lake in the Room of a Thousand Fountains, but you never reported us.”

“Ah.” Feemor said, rocking back on his heels, and Bruck couldn’t help but grin wider at the fierce blush that was taking the Knight’s cheeks. “I, uh, didn’t think you all had noticed me.”

There was a laugh from behind them as Master Averross came into view, looking utterly delighted. “Need to put some work into your shielding, Fee.”

“Rael,” Feemor groaned, “of course you heard that.”

“Sure did.” He jerked a finger over his shoulder, “and the Temple Guard, Feemor? Don’t think we’re not going to be talking about that at some point.” The Jedi Master warned and Feemor winced. “But for now, Yan’s looking for you, better go before he gets impatient.”

Feemor’s eyes widened. “Of course, Bruck it was wonderful seeing you again. I’ll check in later.”

Bruck blinked after him, watching as the Knight all but speed walked towards the gathered Jedi and Mandalore Fett. “Uh…”

Rael snorted, patting his shoulder. “Don’t worry about it, Feemor’s been slightly terrified of his grandmaster ever since he spilt tea on him when he was eighteen.”

Bruck just nodded; Master Dooku was kind of intimidating. He fought off the urge to giggle when he watched Feemor bow – way too deeply and quickly – to Master Dooku while Master Jinn looked on in visible exasperation.

“That’s a nice smile.” Master Averross observed and Bruck startled to find the Jedi Master watching him. “It’s nice to see one on you, you looked like you were having some deep thoughts over here.” Bruck just shrugged, uncomfortable. Averross hummed thoughtfully. “Want to talk about it?”

“No.” He said stiffly, keeping his gaze locked on his boots.

“Fair enough. Just thought I’d check, that’s a lot of anxiety you’re unloading into the Force, kid.”

Bruck winced and curled his shields tighter. “I’m just worried about Obi-Wan.”

Another hum. “Well, they’re being mysterious about it, but he sounds pretty safe from what the Mandalorian with him reported.”

“Yeah, well,” Bruck huffed, “Obi-Wan kind of sucks at ‘safe.’”

“Well, I can’t say you’re wrong there.” Averross agreed, “I’ve never seen a youngling get in so much trouble so quickly before. You were out of the Temple for what, a day?”

“Just about.”

“Can’t say I’m not surprised you’re this worried, though. It didn’t seem like you liked him very much, after that match and all.”

Bruck went completely stiff, then forced himself to take a deep breath, releasing the tension, highly aware of the older Jedi’s attention. “…you were at the exhibition?”

“Sure wasn’t, but those things are recorded you know, in case any of us who are off-world may want a padawan.” Averross said, his voice still in that deceptively casual tone. “So, I gotta say I’ve been a bit surprised to see how up and arms you’ve been about getting Kenobi back safe and sound. The Mandos here make it sound like you two were attached at the hip.”

“A lot of things changed.” Bruck said quietly, trying to swallow past the shame that seem to be clogging up his throat.

“Like what?”

Bruck’s fingers curled tightly into his pant legs, still refusing to look up. Why was Master Averross asking all this? Couldn’t he see that he didn’t want to talk about it? Why wouldn’t he just go away. But still, thirteen years of being a Jedi youngling didn’t just go away and he felt compelled to answer. He licked his lips, trying to figure out his frantic thoughts. What was this? Some sort of test? Great, just another way he was going to fail and –

A hand suddenly fell on his shoulder, squeezing lightly, making Bruck almost jump out of his skin. He looked up to find Master Averross watching him, but his brown eyes were kind, empathetic even. “Take a deep breath, Bruck.”

Obediently, he did.

The hand squeezed again. “Very good, keep breathing. Now take a moment to organize your thoughts, think about what it is you’re trying to say.”

“I…I grew up with Obi-Wan, you know? We were in the same clan.” He let his eyes fall again, staring at the ground once more. “He and I always competed – like always. It was fun. Well, I thought it was fun. I…I don’t actually know if Obi-Wan thought it was fun.” Bruck gave a rough swallow, somewhat stunned at that idea. Had Obi-Wan thought it was fun? Had he ever thought it was fun? The idea that he maybe he hadn’t never ever even entered his mind. Because Bruck loved competing, loved the thrill that came with it. “It wasn’t until we got older that it got…mean.”

He let out a shaky breath.

“I got mean.” He admitted quietly, ashamed. “Obi-Wan always gave as good as he got, but he didn’t, you know…start things, like I did. And I didn’t really know why I did it, I still don’t. I was…I don’t know. He was just so good at everything and Master Yoda came to see him all the time because of his stupid visions, and it just – it just –”

“You were jealous.”

“No!” Bruck said quickly, before he sighed. “Maybe.” He ran a hand through his hair, feeling disgusted with himself. “Yeah, yeah, I was jealous. The fight where I…I tried to…look, I never wanted to hurt him, just scare him a little. He just kept – kept moving, and everyone could see that he was better than me.”

Boy, were those words hard to get out.

“You were angry.” Master Averross observed, but Bruck was already shaking his head.

“No, not really.” He took a moment, trying to gather himself. “Obi-Wan said something to me, when we crashed on our way to Bandomeer. He told me that anger and fear were the sides of the same coin, that when you’re afraid, anger is easier to give into because it made you feel less afraid. And I was afraid during that match. I think that…I think that I’ve been afraid for a long time, actually, that I wasn’t good enough.”

And Bruck had been. The revelation rolled over him like a tidal wave, shocking him with how true it was. It wasn’t until he’d spoken those words aloud that he even realized that was what he’d been feeling. He’d always been afraid; afraid he wasn’t good enough, afraid he’d fail. Scared enough that every road block he’d run into in his training had been met with an anger that he was only just now was starting to realize was self-directed. And how much of all of this was based on his own insecurity? He turned his face away from Master Averross, ashamed of himself deeply. “I’m sorry, Master, I know that we’re not supposed to fear.”

The hand on his shoulder abruptly returned and Bruck risked a glance at the Jedi Master and was shocked to see him smiling down at him. Almost in…was that pride? No, of course not, why would he be proud of Bruck?

“None of us are without fear, Bruck. I struggle with it every day.”

“You…you do?”

“I’m in charge of keeping an eight year old Queen alive on a planet that is literally famous for its assassination plots.” The man said dryly. “I think the number of monarchs they’ve done away with is up to eighteen. It’s not the absence of fear that makes us strong as Jedi, but how we deal with it. You’ve matured a great deal, being outside of the Temple has been good for you. I’m proud of you, not only in having the strength to explain yourself but to do so honestly. Being honest about one’s faults is never easy and now that you know what it is that is driving your fear, you can address it.”

Oh.

Oh, it seemed like he was proud of Bruck after all.

He stared up at the Ringo Vindan Jedi, overwhelmed. He blinked hard, feeling himself tear up and brought an arm up to scrub his eyes. His voice was thick when he spoke, “thank you, Master Averross.”

“You’re most welcome, kiddo, but no need to thank me.” He looked up to find the man giving him a wink, “you did all the heavy lifting yourself. Now come on, we’re about to take off and the Mando’s will want you front and center. It’ll only be a half a day or so until we get to Yavin 4, thankfully. Play nice, alright? They’re still jumpy.”

“Sure.” Bruck said with a laugh, following the older Jedi. “But it won’t be that hard. They’re plenty nice to me, actually.”

“Yeah,” Master Averross said, brows furrowed. “I’ve noticed that.”

---

‘Can you stop?’ Obi-Wan asked, sending the Force construct a glare from where he was carefully picking his way through the darkened camp. It was the middle of their third night on Yavin 4, and the third time that Obi-Wan had witnessed the dream of the forest temple. 

From where he walked lazily, Tarre gave a shrug. ‘I have not said anything –’

‘I can feel the weight of your judgement.’

“– but if you wish me to, I will gladly do so.” The Mandalorian Jedi said, crossing his arms. ‘This is an incredibly foolish idea.’

‘I have dreamed of that temple three nights in a row, Tarre.’ He thought distractedly, as he army crawled his way between two supply crates. ‘The Force wants me to go there, I can feel it. Myles said they would be arriving soon, tonight or tomorrow morning at the latest. I must know if there is a Sith threat before that.”

‘You are letting fear rule you, forgetting your own limitations. You are thirteen, Obi-Wan. Your mind may not be, but that does not change the fact that your body is that of a barely trained, thirteen-year-old human.’

“I’m not planning on engaging,’ Obi-Wan said firmly, ‘this just information gathering. And we don’t even know if that temple is associated with the Sith.’

He shifted, quieting the flare of irritation he felt at that accusation. He would readily admit to the fear – or perhaps anxiety was the more appropriate word. The idea of having the Jedi (of having Qui-Gon) near any Sith made his heart skip in chest. And how could it not, after what he’d seen? So yes, he wouldn’t deny that it was a firm wedge of paranoia that had given him the ambition to send a sleep suggestion on Myles and sneak past the camp’s not so inconsiderable guard. But there was something else too, something within the Force guiding him.

There was a heavy sigh. ‘You could at least wake up your minder.’

Obi-Wan waved the words off, waiting until a duo of Mandalorians walked past before darting into the woods proper. ‘Myles will be fine.’

The look Tarre gave him was dubious. ‘That Chiss is the most high strung being I have ever met.’

Obi-Wan snickered as he darted across the darkened jungle. ‘You haven’t the chance to meet Mace Windu yet.’

He travelled through the jungle, Tarre a silent presence behind him as went, Obi-Wan found to himself slightly alarmed to find that his feet seemed to already know what path to take. He paused at the thought, coming to a halt. He turned to Tarre, but the Mandalorian Jedi was silent, watching him.

“You seem to know something, about what’s ahead.”

“I know what is ahead,” Tarre confirmed, “but I can not tell you what is there now. It had been many years since I last walked free from the Darksaber.” A pause. “I have already told you what I think you should do.”

Obi-Wan eyed the jungle around them. “So you have, Tarre, and I do not mean to dismiss your words. But something is driving me forward, I must go to the temple. Anything you can give me, anything at all, would be most appreciated.”

But when he glanced back, Tarre was gone. He searched the empty jungle around him, before sending a questioning probe the Darksaber on his hip. It was silent. Obi-Wan licked his lips, disquieted. This was…probably a bad idea. But still, he found his eyes being pulled back towards the path forward, the one he somehow knew.

He sighed and started walking once more.

---

They were nearly to Yavin 4, which Rael was incredibly grateful about. The distrust the Mandalorians had for them had mellowed into a general wariness, but it was still uncomfortable to be around. Especially with the way their armor muffled the Force so.

Still, he was glad to be here. He let his eyes travel to where Bruck Chun was sitting in the cockpit of the gunship, Jax Mereel leaning over him and showing him what various buttons and controls did. A Mandalorian, willingly sharing information with an outsider. And just not any outsider, a Jedi youngling. He watched the pair thoughtfully, trying to piece it together. Fett and Mereel were so invested in Obi-Wan and Bruck, it was strange.

Adoption was a thing with Mandalorians, he knew, but they’d only had the boys for a week or so by their own words. To have grown so attached already…but then again, the idea of a Jedi trained Mandalorian could be appealing. But if offered, would the boys accept it? They just might, Rael admitted to himself, and he could see why. The life as a Mandalorian – one of adventure and travel – over that of a farmer?

What a waste it would be though. He hadn’t met Obi-Wan, but if he was anything like Bruck…it was clear that time outside the Temple had done wonders for the white-haired boy. The amount of growth he’d seen in that one conversation alone, much less during their initial confirmation and time in the camp.

The promise that Bruck showed…

“Thinking hard, my friend?”  He gave Qui-Gon a disgruntled look, jerking his chin towards the cockpit. His padawan-brother only nodded, frowning. “Yes,” he agreed, leaning against the bulkhead, “I’ve noticed it too.”

Rael clicked his tongue. “We can’t let that happen.”

“No?”

“No." Rael echoed firmly. "But that kid is not meant to be a farmer, either.”

“Bruck?” Qui-Gon asked, glancing back towards the boy, “no, I suppose not. I’ve had a similar thought about Obi-Wan.”

“Maybe we are doing the younglings a disservice keeping them out of the galaxy for so long.”

Qui-Gon shot him a look of mild disapproval. “I would not wish what Obi-Wan and Bruck have gone through on any child, Rael.”

“Yet you can’t deny that they’ve benefited from the experience though.” Rael shot back.

“That I can’t, but that doesn’t mean it should be standard.”

“You’re right,” Rael said with a sigh, “then maybe we’re letting them go too soon or maybe we should let them come back after spending some time in the Corps if this is what we get from it.”

“Now you’re starting to sound like Yan.” Qui-Gon said with a laugh, but Rael wasn’t feeling the humor.

“Yeah, well, maybe he’s right about this.” He pressed on, “I haven’t spent time with Kenobi, but look me in the eye and tell me that if Bruck Chun as he is now showed up at a choosing, he wouldn’t have been picked.”

Qui-Gon sighed. “Unless one of the masters here chooses Bruck and pleads his case to the Council, not much is going to change. Regardless, this is irrelevant – this is where we are now. We need to focus on getting the boys out of this mess.”

Rael paused, thoughts catching on the idea. And stayed stuck on it. But it was a stupid idea. Rael had never even given thought of taking an apprentice, not after Nim. And he was way too busy, as regent he had no time for a padawan. He wouldn’t even be able to take him on missions. And yet –

The look on Bruck’s face, right before he’d thanked him.  

“Rael?” He blinked and found Qui-Gon staring at him in bewilderment.

“Nothing,” he said awkwardly, “just a thought." A stupid, stupid thought. "You’re right, best to keep ourselves in the here and now. We’re almost to Yavin 4 aren’t we?”

Qui-Gon stared at him for a moment longer, clearly not buying it, but thankfully didn’t pursue it. The idea that he might want to – well, it was a bit much for even Rael to tackle right now. “In the next few minutes, we’ve made good time.”

“And no one really has any more information other then ‘he’s safe, come quickly?’”

“That’s what they said. Apparently, their operative wasn’t willing to go into details on an unsecured com, given the threat of Death Watch.” Qui-Gon said, irritation wavering about him. Rael eyed him, intrigued.

“But who gave him a com to communicate with? Or rather, who spirited them off of Galidraan and away from Death Watch? A mystery third player? I don’t like it.”

“Nor do I,” Qui-Gon admitted, letting out a frustrated breath.

“But Kenobi is unharmed?”

“The agent said he was.” His padawan-brother said distractedly, “I’ll feel better when I see it with my own eyes.”

Oh ho, Rael thought, what is that we have here? A little more invested in the boy then perhaps you’re ready to admit to yourself, hm, Qui-Gon?

He let himself follow his friend’s gaze to where Bruck was giggling at something, eyes narrowing in suspicion at the friendliness between the boy and the Mandalorian, only to huff at himself for the feeling existing at all. The nav unit beeped a warning as they left hyperspace. They immediately glided down into the atmosphere, approaching the camp they’d been given coordinates for. And then, suddenly, an explosion of the dark side. Rael felt himself go stiff, eyes sharpening in concentration even as he felt himself retreat into himself, throwing his shields up hastily. He managed a hoarse ‘Qui-Gon,’ but his friend was already moving towards the cockpit, his com unit out and connecting. “Master?”

“I feel it too,” Yan’s tinny voice said, grave.

“Obi-Wan’s in trouble.” Qui-Gon announced, voice tight, and the Mandalorians around them snapped to attention.

“Yes, I dare say he is. Prepare yourself, Padawan, something dark awaits us.”

---

It took a little under an hour to find it. The building before him was huge, made from grey stone and covered in moss. It was a pyramid in shape, with three towering steps on its side. It was also one of the most foul feeling places that Obi-Wan had ever been too. Darkness clung to it like a heavy shroud, so intense that even the fact that it stood in a clearing and in direct sunlight did nothing to lighten it.

Obi-Wan pulled his Force signature close, muting it until it was lost easily among the wildlife surrounding him, and took the first few cautious steps closer. His eyes darted around, taking in the cleared area, the stone pavers that form a courtyard. He couldn’t feel anyone here, but that could mean very little with how the dark side saturated this place. Would he even feel a Sith, if one was here?

Cautiously, Obi-Wan checked his shielding one more time before making his way across the stone. There was a massive door made of some sort of metal, with one side seemingly rusted in place. Obi-Wan made his way inside, eyeing the carved reliefs that took up every inch of wall. If there had been any doubt that this was a Sith Temple, it left him now. The Sith language practically carpeted the entire place, its lean and sweeping letters carved in every available space. There was another language, a blockier one that Obi-Wan didn’t recognize. He took a moment to pause and take it in; he’d have to make sure that the Temple knew of about this place, so they could send researchers in. It was rare to find a Sith Temple so intact outside of Korriban and part of him almost wished he taken a droid to make a recording.

Obi-Wan pushed the thought from his mind and continued forward, one hand on the Darksaber, while the other was firmly pressed into his own pocket. Something in his gut told him not to touch anything here. He couldn’t really distinguish anything, but it felt like something was aware of him. The presence felt foggy, distant, in a way that almost reminded Obi-Wan of a great Domonian bear he’d once stumbled upon as a padawan. The giant thing had been aware of him in only the vaguest ways, so deep in it’s hibernation, and he’d left the cave as quickly as he could before that awareness could sharpen into true alertness.

Yes, that was exactly what it felt like. He pursed his lips, suddenly unsure in his plans. If there was Sith spirit here, even one deep asleep, Obi-Wan did not want to run into it. Perhaps he should leave, what good would it really do to poke the gundark’s nest, after all? He eyed the way he’d come and was startled to find that it looked different. A Force trick? It had to be, because the long hallway he’d been making his way down was gone, replaced with a turn that was draped so heavily in shadow, he couldn’t see how deep it went. Obi-Wan let out a breath. Okay, then. No where to go but forward.

But with every step that he went deeper into the Temple, it felt like that massive, sleeping presence became easier to feel, easier to differentiate from the general dark side, and the feeling of eyes on him grew even more. It wasn't awake, not yet, and he had no wish to wake it either. Obi-Wan’s pace picked up; he was leaving, it was a mistake to come here. He’d seen no sign of sentient life in any of the many rooms he’d searched. There most likely wasn’t any living Sith here at all and he had no desire to interact with any dead one’s either. He should have listened to Tarre. If he woke some ancient Sith here with his own foolish pride, he’d –

Obi-Wan turned the corner and froze, eyes narrowing. He stared at the free-standing light that rested at the end of the hallway and slowly withdrew his hand from his pocket. Someone was here. The sound of footsteps had Obi-Wan ducking into the nearest doorway, wincing as the cloth hanging gave way as he did. To his relief it didn’t collapse completely, hanging to the doorway by the barest of threads. He turned, only to wince again when he realized he’d put himself in some sort of large communal room, completely empty of any furnishings but huge in size. Tall pillars lined the sides, while small rectangle-shaped gaps allowing the light of the day in. There was absolutely no where to hide.

The footsteps drew closer and Obi-Wan glanced around quickly, trying to find a way to escape. He hadn’t been lying to Tarre when he said he’d had no intention confronting taking a Sith. The last time Obi-Wan had tried that, he’d been decades older in the best shape of his life. With a jolt, Obi-Wan leapt up and over, perching himself upon the broken cap of a pillar. Though one half of the pillar continued up, unbroken and proud, it wasn’t much of any cover. Hopefully no one would think to look up. Still, Obi-Wan maneuvered himself carefully in the small space between the upright sliver of pillar in the wall. It was a tight fit, but he could probably make it. As he tried, the wall behind him abruptly disappeared. He let out a muted breath, catching himself from falling completely at the last moment.

He turned and found a small carved enclave, the same size as the blocks that the temple had been made of. It was if someone had just plucked it from the wall itself, and an inky blackness curled inside, making it impossible to see how deep it was. The footsteps stopped and Obi-Wan shoved himself backwards into the space, hunching down to make room. Someone was speaking, but Obi-Wan did not recognize the language. And the voice sounded oddly…familiar. He pushed himself to the edge of his hidey hole, trying to get himself in a position to see what was below him, when his hand brushed against something soft. Obi-Wan stiffened, going very carefully still. Thoughts flashed quickly; he’d startled an animal, it could attack him, it could make a sound, give away his position –

But if something was living inside the hole he’d found, it gave no acknowledgement to the touch. After a few long moments of just listening to the talking below, Obi-Wan reached out and gently touched the figure. His hand guardedly traced out its shape. It was small, covered in fur so downy it was almost impossibly soft, and curled into a tight ball. And then to his surprise – a flash of the Force, a greeting so muted he almost missed it. Obi-Wan jerked his hand away, eyes darting towards the room proper before pulling the shape further out of the hole. It was a lagomorph; a soft grey in color, with a bushy tail and large, pointed ears. It didn’t wake even he lifted it into his lap, brows furrowed as he stared down at it. It seemed to be in some sort of deep sleep, a hibernation perhaps, and its Force signature was almost nonexistent. And yet, Obi-Wan had been sure he had felt –

A blast of the dark side, so angry and so violent that it made the darkness of the temple feel like child’s play in response, had his head snapping back to the room. Obi-Wan pressed further back into the hole and in a move he did not quite understand himself, stuffed the lagomorph into space between his tunic and his chest, the tightness of his belt keeping it in place. Just on the edge of what he could see, a small, red figure tumbled violently into view. It laid flat on its face, unmoving. It was a child; a Zabrak youngling.

Obi-Wan stared at it, eyes wide. His heart began to pound and he felt himself break out in sweat. He drew his shields even tighter, tight enough that he felt himself strain under it, but he was too desperate to keep any inch of what he felt from leaking out.

Because he knew that red skin, those black tattoos; that was Darth Maul. As he watched, his former enemy slowly pushed himself to his hands. He failed twice, crashing back into the unforgiving floor before managing it. He spit out a glob of black blood and when he turned –

Young.

That was what struck Obi-Wan and logically he knew that made sense. He had no idea how old Maul was when they’d first fought and currently he himself was barely a teen. But – he was so young. He could not be more than a youngling – it was hard to tell with Zabraks, they stayed small until puberty hit at fourteen, where they underwent a massive growth spurt – with only the starts of a circlet of horns upon his head. From this distance he couldn’t see much of his (childish, young, child) features to see what emotion was there, but Obi-Wan didn’t need to.

Maul’s terror echoed in the Force.  

“Get up, my young apprentice.” Obi-Wan froze, mouth parting in shock. A dark clad figure stepped into his view, his black cloak trailing behind him. “I said, get up!”

Maul was yanked from the floor, hovering untouched for a moment before being flung away. The boy impacted harshly with the stone wall, his head cracking loudly before he fell forward, head smacking again against the floor this time.

“You are afraid, good. Use that fear, use that anger.”

Obi-Wan knew that voice.

“Only then will you survive.”

Obi-Wan knew that voice.

Maul was trembling, trying desperately to stand. One hand was held out, tiny claws spread wide like that could defend him form the monster that stood before him. But all at once his legs gave out and Maul crashed to floor again. The Sith Master before him scoffed. “What a disappointment. You are in the halls of one of our greatest ancestors, and still you fail.”

The Jedi rebellion has been foiled –

“Perhaps I choose wrong.”

 – the remaining Jedi will be hunted down and defeated –

“What do you think, boy?”

 – the attempt on my life has left me scarred and deformed –

“Perhaps I should have chosen another.”

– but I assure you –

Maul’s head snapped up, snarling. “Leave my brothers alone!”

He charged forward, but was met with a backhand, one that sent him sprawling once more. This time, he did not get up.

”Such weakness, my dear boy. How embarrassing for you.”

– my resolve has never been stronger.

That voice – this was – this was the Sith who’d – this was the man who’d – this was Pal –

He couldn’t breathe, why couldn’t he breathe?

The grotesque display below him came to him in disjointed flashes: A youngling laid on floor, tiny body unmoving. A quivering anguish, a wave of fear in the Force as the Sith advanced, the dark side gathering – cruel and coquettish – lightening flickering between his fingers. The glow of a red saber, casting a youngling's face pink. A high-pitched voice begging, “Master, please!”

Obi-Wan was moving before he was even aware of the intention to do so.

A yank of his hand sent one of the massive pillars of the Temple down, the Sith leaping away to avoid it. Obi-Wan darted forward, sweeping the youngling from the floor and out of the way of the pillar at the last moment. The Sith screamed in rage behind him, but Obi-Wan was already running. In his arms the child clung instinctively, small hands twisting in his tunic, legs wrapping like a steel band around his waist. The youngling’s mind flared in brightly in a mix of fearconfusionhopehopehope. Obi-Wan reached out almost on instinct, enfolding the youngling’s mind with his own.

Hold on, he tried to impart as he squeezed them through one of the open, rectangular windows, hold on tightly.

The Force was pulsing around him, alight with the sense of danger and Obi-Wan pulled on it, sprinting hard out of the Temple courtyard and into the forest, the Sith hot on their heels. He leapt and dodged, trying to keep their meager lead as the jungle flashed before him.

Run, the Force pressed, faster.

Already Obi-Wan’s chest was heaving, his lungs burning and he opened himself fully, pulling the Force to him. His breaths evened out, the pain in his legs fading as he welcomed it in, the jungle blurring around him. Nothing mattered but getting the child away. Just one, Obi-Wan thought, his thoughts oddly flat, distant in his own mind, even if it’s just one, if I can save just one.

The Sith loomed behind him, a malevolent void of incandescent fury. Dodge, his instincts sung, jump – left – run – LEFT.

Obi-Wan threw himself to the side, feeling a prickle of awareness as a lightsaber slashed where he’d just been standing. A moment later and a swath of skin across his back and shoulder lit up in burning pain. The shrieking creak of wood – a tree being pulled down – and Obi-Wan drove himself up, running along the slanted, falling trunk before using it propel himself as far as he could go. Behind him, the Sith was sending waves of psychic attacks, but this was not the first Sith Obi-Wan had faced. He tightened his shields, both around himself and the child, lowered his head, and focused on his breathing. He was moving so fast his feet was barely touching the ground, his clothes soaked through with sweat. His vision greyed around the edges; eyes locked ahead. He knew not where the Force was taking him, but he trusted in its will.

He burst abruptly through the tree line, using a Force jump to propel him across the wide river that appeared suddenly before him. His landed – and the damp cliff edge gave way underneath him. Obi-Wan stumbled, barely throwing himself out of the way as the Sith landed, red blade slamming down where he’d just been. Forward, the Force coaxed but Obi-Wan was already scrambling to his feet, sprinting down the line of the river.

There was the sound of thrusters – an engine revving – and a gunship pivoted in front of him, Jango Fett standing at the open gun bay. The whirl of a heavy repeating blaster flaring to life sounded as the Mandalorian unloaded – but Obi-Wan didn’t stop. Sure enough, there was the telltale sound of lightsaber deflection and a bolt smashed into the side of the gunship. The ship veered violently, but brown figures were dropping from the open side. Qui-Gon Jinn and Rael Averross sprinted past in a blur of color and wind, the hiss of lightsaber on lightsaber filling the air seconds later. There were more figures falling from another ship; a consular-class he had not seen before, positioned protectively behind the bulk of the armored gunship.

Kit Fisto, Tholme, Laze Washet, a Knight with sandy blond hair he didn’t recognize – Yan Dooku – rushed past him to join the fight. An arm caught him around the waist, stalling the momentum of his desperate flight, spinning him in a full circle before he was placed back on his feet, Darred Subra standing protectively in front of him, purple lightsaber lit and in a ready stance.

Obi-Wan stood, chest heaving – and stared. Eight Jedi, arguably some of the best fighters the Jedi had were engaging the Sith Lord. And the Sith Lord was holding his ground.

The red lightsaber swung viciously, so fast Obi-Wan could hardly see it, meeting both blade and laser bolt alike, as the Sith kept both the Jedi and the Mandalorian fire at bay. The earth shook underneath them, spears of rock slamming up from the mud, disrupting the once even ground and sending the Jedi darting and leaping to maintain their footing. The Sith deflected one of Dooku’s blows, his former padawans on either side of him trying to press an advantage, even as the Sith yanked a tree from the earth – roots and all – and launched it at the gun ship. Force lightening crackled through the air, catching Kit Fisto at unawares and sending him tumbling backwards. A harsh spinning block directed both Laze and Tholme’s strikes glancing away, while at the same moment a Force push threw Rael Averross a good ten feet.

Obi-Wan pushed the child from his arms, ignoring the way the youngling tried to hold on tighter. The Darksaber hummed to life in his hand and he took a single, determined step forward. Subra’s hand shot out, gripping his arm harshly.

“Don’t,” Darred said sharply, “there’s nothing you can do to help.”

You, Obi-Wan thought as for one, wild moment he felt every inch the man he once was, have no idea what I can do.

He would not stand by and let others fight this for him, not when this was the being that had – that had turned Anakin. But the tide of the fight was changing; the Jedi were driving the Sith back, step by step. The youngling’s fingers had curled so tightly into his pant leg that Obi-Wan could feel the sharp pricks of his claws, further mooring him in place. Obi-Wan grit his teeth but stayed still, unwilling to be a distraction that could cost them this fight. Suddenly, the air changed around them, grew charged. The hair on his arms stood on end, a tingling sensation spread though his legs and Obi-Wan felt the warning in the Force moments before the fighting Jedi jumped – almost as one – away from the black clad figure. An explosion erupted from the Sith, like he was the epicenter of a bomb. Darred cursed, launching himself backwards and tackling them down as a Force wave exploded around them.

The force of it was staggering; wind tore at him even as Darred curled even tighter over him and the boy. There was stinging flash of pain as something cut into his cheek and the air was filled with the sound wood splintering as trees toppled and fell. Just only heard below it, the whine of engines frantically engaging as the ships in the air struggle to find balance.  

And then – silence.

The Sith had fled, nothing but a lingering pocket of the dark to show he’d ever even been there.

Above him, Darred convulsed and Obi-Wan was instantly moving, pushing himself up, taking the weight of the boy upon himself. There was a shudder of a breath against his neck, a wet warmth soaking into his front.

“No,” Obi-Wan breathed in horror, frantically pressing his hands around the tree limb that stuck out from the boy’s back, trying to stem the bleeding. He felt Darred reach out to him, weak and thready, trying to console, to sooth. Obi-Wan let out a wet choke at the feel of it, before he threw his mind forward, wrapping the dying boy in warmth, pressing every inch of comfort into it that he could. There was a surge of denial in the Force and suddenly Darred’s weight was off him. Laze Washet cradled the teen’s still form in his arms, forehead pressed against Darred’s.

“No, padawan,” Laze moaned, “please.”

There were shouts for Master Che, but Obi-Wan knew it was too late; the padawan’s light was already slipping away. There was a hush in the Force – an exhale – and he was gone. The Bothan threw his head back, a pained howl leaving him, echoing eerily through the destroyed landscape. And then the sound cut out, Laze curling over his padawan’s limp form, rocking.

Obi-Wan stared at them, mind completely blank, a loud ringing in his ears. He was aware of the Jedi that had gathered around them, heads bowed in grief, that armored figures had come to join them, forming a silent semi-circle around them, but he couldn’t seem to really process it. Had…had Darred Subra died, in his time? Had he died this early? Had…had he…had Obi-Wan…

A small hand clasped his own and with a jerk Obi-Wan realized it was Maul staring up at him, brown eyes wounded and wondering. “Why did you take me?” 

Obi-Wan’s throat clicked as he tried to swallow, staring mutely at the Zabrak. A hand pressed against his shoulder and Obi-Wan turned to find Qui-Gon there, crouched next to where he still lay sprawled out in the dirt – covered in Darred Subra’s blood. The older Jedi’s brows were furrowed, eyes concerned. “Obi-Wan?”

And this was not his Qui-Gon, this was not the man that had been his master, but he – he needed –

Obi-Wan leaned heavily into his old Master, turning his face into the man’s shoulder. The hand shifted instantly to support him, curving around his shoulders. Qui-Gon went to a knee as he pulled him to his chest and Obi-Wan squeezed his eyes shut, taking a ragged breath.

What had he done?

Notes:

...I did a sad thing. Still to come: The Jedi confront the fact that the Sith may still exist, Exar Kun, and the complications of the Darksaber may or may not end up in a three-way custody dispute.

Also, little baby Sithling Maul.

Fun fact: the first image that came to me in this chapter was Jango Fett lighting up a Sith with a heavy repeating blaster. Take that as you will.

Chapter 25: Yavin 4, Part 5

Notes:

Sorry for the delay! I had a family member go into hospice and it's taken up quiet a bit of my time. Here is the next chapter, I hope you enjoy it.

CW: Description of anxiety/PTSD behaviors/shock/mild dissociation.

If interested, song I wrote this chapter to: Mizuhara by Ursine Vulpine.

A stretcher had been brought out for Padawan Subra, but the Bothan Jedi made no acknowledgement of it other than to clutch his padawan closer, face burrowed in the dead boy’s hair. The Jedi drew closer in a single step before sinking down onto to their knees, forming a tight semi-circle around the grieving Jedi Master. For once, the sight of such harmonized movement didn’t send a trickle of unease down Jax’s spine.

His personal com crackled to life in his helm. [Uncle, did you see –]

[Not now, Jango.]

[But –]

[Boy.]

The warning in his tone must have been enough, because Jango fell silent for a long moment, and then there was a soft click as the com disconnected. Jax had seen; he doubted there was a single Mandalorian among them that had not seen the Darksaber wielded in Obi-Wan Kenobi’s hand. Which was…which was a mess and a half in itself, but there was a time for these things – and this was not it. Jax didn’t even know what was happening before him, but though not a word was spoken it was clear that something was.

The other Commandos must have felt the weight of it to, as not a single one them spoke or moved, standing still and at attention. The solemnity of the moment seemed to only crystalize as Bruck appeared on silent feet, his fellow padawans by his side. The trio slid into the same kneel as their elder counterparts, two on one side of Qui-Gon Jinn, one on the other.

Time seemed to still – stretch – and Jax’s chrono read five minutes, then ten. Just shy of the next minute ticking away, Washet finally moved. The Bothan lifted his head; ears pressed flat as he moved the body to the stretcher, hands gentle. He straightened the fallen boy’s robes, freeing it from being trapped beneath him. A hand smoothed bangs from a pale forehead, tucked the starts of a stubby pony tail behind an ear.

From where he knelt directly next to the Bothan, Yan Dooku held out Subra’s ligthsaber. Washet took the weapon with a great tenderness, laying it upon the teenager’s chest. He wrapped limp hands around it.

“As it came from him –” Washet started, voice hoarse, and then his words seemed to fail him.

“ – so it will continue with him.” Master Dooku continued, a hand coming to rest shoringly on the Bothan’s arm.

The healer reached out, hands careful as she tucked a trouser leg back into Subra’s boot, face devastatingly fond. “From the Force we are born and to the Force we all return.”

“We are luminous beings,” Kit Fisto said, Nautolan accent lilting, “not this crude matter. This is not an end.”

“This is a beginning.” Feemor Gard finished quietly.

This was a lament, Jax realized, an out pouring of grief and regret that bore none of the signs that he would normally associate with it. Washet released a great breath and stood, the other Jedi following him to their feet. Even Obi-Wan did so, though he seemed as if he could have been carved from stone. His face was completely unreadable, eyes blank as he moved away from Jinn. The Zabrak boy seemed lost yet determined to stay by his side, eyes flickering about in panic even as his hands curled tightly around Obi-Wan’s pants.

He caught Bruck giving the emotionless boy a concerned look, one that Obi-Wan (the fusser that he was) uncharacteristically didn’t even acknowledge. Averross, Fisto, Tholme and Dooku – the most senior Jedi, Jax realized – moved forward to lift the stretcher. Washet crossed to stand in front of it, spine straight. His ligthsaber blazed to light, held straight upwards at his chest, and stepped forward. Nine lightsabers ignited in tandem, mirroring Washet as they fell into two lines behind the stretcher, the youngest at the rear.

Jax watched them go; watched Obi-Wan Kenobi’s stiff form, watched the quick steps the Zabrak boy took to keep by his side, watched the blaze of the Darksaber – a dark shadow amongst the bright colors – and had no idea how to feel about its place there.

---

It wasn’t until they reached the ship that he realized that Obi-Wan was injured. Qui-Gon had waited at the entryway as the honor guard filed in, sabers deactivating as they entered, with Obi-Wan and Bruck bringing up the rear. It was only when the boy’s back was to him that he caught sight of the blackened slash.

“Vokara, Obi-Wan’s injured.” Qui-Gon called out quickly and Vokara turned on a dime, her padawan already jolting towards where a neon green med kit was mounted on the gunship’s wall. Vokara reached out, hand raised and the Force gathering about her, but Obi-Wan pivoted away from the touch, a hand jerking the Zabrak boy further behind him.

Vokara froze.

Qui-Gon, who’d been moments from copying her advance, did as well.

Obi-Wan’s body was as tense as Qui-Gon had ever seen it, the hand on the Zabark white and bloodless, though if it hurt the youngling he showed no sign of it. A tongue darted out to wet chapped lips, eyes moving rapidly from form to form. Vokara’s entire posture shifted, softened, her hands drifting to hang by her sides, shoulders drooping down, stance opening in supplication.

“Obi-Wan, if you are injured I need to look at you.” Her eyes drifted down to the youngling. “The child must be seen to as well, but I do not believe he will let me if you do not.”

At the mention of the Zabrak, Obi-Wan impossibly tensed even further, drawing so tightly that he quivered with it. There was a shift in movement and a Mandalorian appeared behind Che. He reached up, pulling his helmet free to reveal a grizzled and greying face. His eyes were calculating as he took in the scene.

“Everyone out of the drop bay but the medics and the Bothan.” The man ordered, voice even.

Qui-Gon stiffened, eyes darting to his fellow Jedi. The idea of leaving Obi-Wan, injured and so clearly rattled, set off every instinct he had. From the mutinous look on Bruck and Quinlan’s faces, they seemed to feel the same.

There was a sharp tug on his bond with Rael and Qui-Gon looked over to find his padawan-brother watching with narrowed eyes. He jerked his head back once and Qui-Gon frowned, lips pressing together tightly, glancing once more at Obi-Wan, then to where Laze was kneeling quietly next to his padawan’s body. “Bruck, Quinlan. Come.”

The two boys heads snapped to stare at him in disbelief, but Qui-Gon just moved forward, grabbing them by the elbows and dragging them away. He pushed them towards the ladder that lead up to the cockpit and small sitting area, face impassive despite the sheer rebellion the two were broadcasting.

He waited until they’d climbed up, before exchanging looks with the gathered Jedi. They had convened on the Mandalorian gunship, unwilling to leave either Laze nor Darred’s body alone, which had forced all the commandos who had accompanied them to find space upon Yan’s ship. All that was, save for Fett and Mereel, who stood with them now just out of sight of the drop bay proper.

“You are in shock, which means right now you don’t know your ass from your head.” The Mandalorian said bluntly. “So I’m going help you find it again. No one on this ship is going to harm you, no one is going to take your weapons from you. We are going to explain everything we do before we touch you, we are going to open everything in front of you, and we will do the same for anything that needs to be done with the boy.

You’re free not to like it, but you will be treated and so will that youngling by your side. You are going to sit down, quietly, and be seen to. I am going to open this pouch of water – the seals are still intact – and you are going to drink the entire thing. Any questions?”

There was a long moment of silence, then the rustling of fabric.

“No, doc,” and Qui-Gon felt some of his own tension leak out at Obi-Wan’s dry tone, “you were quite thorough.”

“Good.”

---

Obi-Wan pondered the man before him as Vokara Che pulled his tunic free from where it had melded onto his skin, the pain muted after the anesthetic spray but still present. There was a bloom of coolness as bacta gel was spread over the burnt skin, but Obi-Wan barely registered it.

The medic stared back, arms crossed, face the picture of neutrality yet somehow completely unimpressed at the same time.

He reminded Obi-Wan very much of Patch, the clone who’d served as the head medic for Ghost Company. The only thing that was missing was the orange markings on his armor and the red medic’s patch. The thought made the building in pressure in his chest increase, one that had been building and building since he’d first seen Darred Subra fall. He found he could not release it to the Force, no matter how hard he tried. He focused instead on the Mandalorian medic, forcing his eyes to go over his features again and again, noting the differences he had to the clones. His skin was very pale for one, with a shock of greying green hair and violet eyes. His bone structure was all wrong, something smooth and distinctly reptilian about it for all he seemed near-human.

He looked nothing like a clone.

Nothing at all.

Obi-Wan shuddered.

The touch on his back lightened, becoming even gentler. “Sorry Obi-Wan, did that hurt?”

“No. I’m fine.”

The touch paused once more and Obi-Wan could feel the reaching tendrils of Che’s presence on his shields. Obi-Wan ignored it. He honestly barely felt anything. He didn’t feel much at all. Not the burn from the lightsaber on his back, not the pricks of Maul’s claws as the boy clung to him, nothing that was, but the pressure in his chest. Obi-Wan’s eyes drifted from the Mandalorian to where Laze Washet knelt in repose. His gaze travelled up the tight line of the Bothan’s back, to the still-pinned ears, then over the bent head, to where Darred laid still.

He stared.

Darred could be asleep if it wasn’t for the blood around his nose and mouth. It was drying now, turning darker and standing out sharply against the pale skin. Even from way over here, Obi-Wan could see that.

‘Obi-Wan.’

How old was he? Seventeen? Eighteen?

‘Obi-Wan.’

He was a child still, a youngling – that was nothing for a human boy.

‘Obi-Wan Kenobi.’

Obi-Wan head jerked to the side. He blinked, taking in the sight of Tarre Vizsla in all his blue glory, standing just to the right of the Mandalorian medic. The ghost’s eyes were sharp, a deep frown growing on his face as he took in Obi-Wan.

‘You are unwell.’

“I’m fine.”

“That’s good, Obi-Wan.” Vokara soothed, “just tell me if anything hurts.”

They couldn’t see him, Obi-Wan realized, muted surprise trickling across his brain. There was a Force ghost standing in a room full of Jedi, and they couldn’t see him. What did that mean? Dear stars, what if Obi-Wan was actually crazy? Shouldn’t they be able to see something, hear something – feel something? What if –

‘You are not fine.’

Obi-Wan’s eyes shifted back to the standing medic and he felt a strange, driving urge to ask him if he could see Tarre. But what if the man wasn’t even a Force sensitive? What was the point there? He’d just be wasting everyone’s time, Patch never liked that, never liked when -

‘Obi-Wan, look at me.’

Obediently, Obi-Wan looked back.

‘Reach into your tunic and take out the Kushiban.’

“What?” Obi-Wan asked, bewildered, before he remembered the warm little bundle of fur tucked against his chest. “Oh. Yeah. I forgot.”

He reached in, pulling the creature free. He stared at it as it hung limply in his hands. It looked dead. Was it always this color? He’d thought – hadn’t it been darker?

“Obi-Wan?” Che asked, pulling away from his back, “what do you have – ” She froze, her eyes nearly doubling in size as she stared down at the lagomorph.

“What?” The Mandalorian medic snapped, hand making an aborted move, as if it he’d wanted to reach the shiv at his waist, “what is it?”

“It’s – he’s – ” Then Che was shouting at her apprentice for an IV with fluids, listing off a series of sprays and shots. To his surprise, Obi-Wan no longer held the creature. The Twi’lek had scooped it up and was cradling it gently in her lap, her hands moving quick to strip her cloak off and wrap it around the still form. “Obi-Wan, where did you find him?”

“In the Sith Temple.”

“In the what?” Vokara gasped, sounding thoroughly alarmed now.

Obi-Wan barked out a loud laugh. “Yeah, I know. I can’t believe I found another one.”

‘And that’s enough, I think.’ Tarre said with a huff.

Obi-Wan startled, head craning up to find the blue figure suddenly standing in front of him. Transparent fingers flicked his forehead and Obi-Wan collapsed backwards, Vokara’s hand coming out to steady him before his injured back could hit the ship’s hull. He let them guide him to sprawl awkwardly on his side, his head suddenly in a frightened Maul’s lap. 

He wanted to say something to calm the youngling, to offer some kind of comfort at the sight of such wild fear in those brown eyes, but he found he couldn’t keep his eyes open. He blinked sluggishly, trying to fight off the sudden exhaustion. A sleep suggestion, a part of his mind connected, humming in discontent and betrayal.

“You…” Obi-Wan managed to croak out, but wasn’t even able to finish the accusation before his lids pulled closed. He tried to rally against it, tried to push the suggestion off as he’d been trained to do, but it was a losing battle. Instead he gathered his annoyance and displeasure up, flinging it ungracefully in Tarre's direction. There was a chuckle, the feel of ghostly fingers brushing across his forehead, across the same spot they’d flicked just before. It felt oddly apologetic.

‘Stubborn boy. Sleep, padawan.’

Obi-Wan drifted away.

Notes:

Whelp. Shorter, but felt it was appropriate given what was in the chapter and where Obi-Wan's head is at. Hopefully the Jedi farewell felt genuine, I was wracking my brain like how do I emote people who as a cultural rule, don't emote very much.

And you know.

The reveal at the end.

Chapter 26: Yavin 4, Part 6

Notes:

Hey guys, back again. Been a rough few months, so sorry for the delay. I had two family members pass, one expected and the other not. So, not a lot of time and energy to write. Just really wanted to get this chapter out, hope you like it.

Maul hated everything.

The ship smelled weird and it was cold, and his back hurt, and his head, and his arm, and they took the Bright boy from his lap. And the woman had tried to stick him. He snarled lowly at the thought, glaring at where the Twi’lek was standing on the other side of the ship, working on the Bright boy. Maul still didn’t understand why the Bright boy had taken him from his Master, but he wasn’t complaining. He hated his Master, hated everything about him. Everything had been wrong from the moment he had been taken from home. He just wanted to go back to his village, see Feral and Savage and Riot – the grumpy old man who took care of them.

He used to think Riot was the worst, but Maul knew better now.

Riot never did the things that Master had done to him, even if he yelled a lot. Maul clenched his jaw together, feeling his chest grow hot again. Everyone here was too bright – they shown like beacons around him, so different from the swirling dark Maul was used to with Master or Mother. He wished he could make them all go away, just like he made the Twi’lek go away.

He wanted to go home.

He wanted to sit with the Bright boy.

He wanted –

“Hello.” A soft voice said, breaking Maul from the resentment that was steadily growing to anger and rage in his head. He jerked back, swiping out instinctively with his claws. Hadn’t heard him – when did he - ! The Human male crouched in front him ducked back, rendering the strike useless. Maul growled at him, darting back and under the jump seat, squishing himself between the hard plasti bottom and the steel of the bulkheads. The Human shifted, going down onto his knees to peer into Maul’s hidey-hole. “My goodness, you’re very fast, aren’t you?”

Maul hissed at him, rolling his lips back, showing off every one of his teeth in warning, even as he nearly choked on his fear, before yanking it from his chest and throwing it out. A hand shot out, palm flat, and caught it. The male’s fingers curled slightly, as if holding a ball before the Force he’d sent out disappeared completely, dispersing into the air.

Maul stared.

No one had ever done that before, except for Master and Mother and some of the Sisters. He didn’t like it; that meant the Human was strong. Maul pressed himself back further against the wall, claws held out defensively. The Human was still watching him, though his blue eyes seemed soft, sad almost.

“I’m sorry, I’m not going to hurt you.” Yeah right, like Maul as going to believe that. “But I won’t let you hurt me either, do you understand?”

He said nothing, just kept his gaze trained on the pale face staring at him. He knew the Human wasn’t lying, but Maul knew that didn’t mean anything. His Mother used to do many things that hurt him, even though she always said it was to help him. She’d never been lying then either.

“I saw you didn’t let Master Che look at you –”

“No needles!” Maul spat out, every muscle tensing.

“Ah.” The Human said slowly. “I see, I don’t like them much either. Are you hungry? If you come out –” Another violent snarl erupted from his throat. “ – or I could just give you something now.” The Human corrected, pulling something from his belt. There was wrinkling as he ripped the silver plastic off of it. It was a meal bar, Maul recognized it right away. He’d never had them before he’d come to be with Master and they were never as good as what Riot made but – Maul’s stomach rolled with want.

Motion – a hand reaching below the and Maul launched himself forward, digging his teeth into flesh, claws wrapping tightly around a forearm and tearing in and through thick fabric, sinking deep. Too late Maul realized the move had pushed his head free from under the seat and he winced, squeezing his eyes close even as he bit harder, waiting for the blow. But nothing came. The hand and forearm in his grip stayed still and unmoving, and the Human along with it. After a long moment, Maul slit his eyes open just enough to see. Blood was gushing around the bite, but he already knew that – he could taste it in his mouth. Warily, he glanced up.

The Human was watching him, a slight tightness around his mouth the only sign he was in any pain. He felt just the same as before; too bright and too calm. With a jolt, Maul realized he wasn’t going to be hit. Taking the strange grace for what it was, he let go and darted back under to safety. The Human didn’t try to follow him or pull him out. The male moved to sit further on his knees, one hand pushing the meal bar until it slid under the seat. A rustling of movement out of Maul’s sight and then a canteen followed it. Maul followed the movements nervously, watching with bewilderment as the Human did nothing else but unclip a small medkit form his belt and began to treat his hand.

Maul didn’t understand.

“…I hurt you.”

“Yes, you did.”

“…you said…you said you’d…” Why was Maul saying this? Why remind the male if he was stupid to remember it himself?

“I said what?”

Maul stared at the bent knees in front of him. “…you said you’d hurt me if I hurt you.”

A choking sound followed his statement. Then, “I most certainly did not! I said I wouldn’t let you hurt me.”

“I bit you.”

“And I scared you.”

“…I bit the Twi’lek.”

“She scared you, too.”

This male made no sense.

None of this made any sense.

“You make no sense!” Maul snapped out and then cringed, instinctively shoving himself back further away from the opening.

“Would you believe that’s not the first time someone has said that to me?”

What.

But the Human said nothing else. He finished treating his wounds then seemed to settle in, hands resting open palmed on his knees. Minutes crawled by, but the male didn’t move again. After a long while Maul slowly, carefully, reached forward and took the meal bar. When the Human still didn’t move, his reached for the canteen and pulled it fully under the seat. There was a chance it was poisoned or drugged – Master did that a lot – but Maul was so hungry he couldn’t help but eat the whole thing all at once. It was probably stupid (but as he drained the canteen, spilling most of the cool, cold water on himself due to the awkward angle) Maul couldn’t bring himself to care.

As nothing happened – no drugged sleep, no burning in his veins or cramping in his stomach – Maul felt himself relax, almost against his will. He blinked, suddenly feeling very tired. Movement in front of him had him snapping to awareness.

“It’s very cold in here, don’t you think?” The Human said musingly.

Maul tensed at the voice then blinked in bafflement when a cloak was suddenly being shoved under the seat. He caught it before it could be pushed into his face, claws pricking the spun fabric. It felt heavy, solid, like the nest blankets they used to use back home. Maul glared fiercely at the kneeling male but pulled the cloak around himself.

“You’re stupid.” Maul informed him, “I’m not giving it back. Now you’ll be cold.”

“I think I’ll survive.” The Human said dryly. “My name is Feemor, Feemor Gard. What’s yours?”

“Go away!”

“Well, that’s an interesting name.”

“You –!” Maul snarled, fingers digging into the cloak.

“Are you still hungry?”

Maul froze.

He was, Master didn’t feed him often.

There was a soft chuckle. “I have more food. I even have some chocolate.”

“What’s chocolate?” The words escaped him before he knew it, driven by the haunting idea of more food.

“It’s a type of dessert, you know, a treat. How to describe chocolate…” The Human, Feemor, said musingly. “It’s very creamy and sweet, rich and very smooth. It takes…hm, maybe a little salty.”

Maul was intrigued. “Like a Cora fruit?”

“I wouldn’t know, I’ve never had a Cora fruit. Is that a treat where you’re from?”

“…yeah.”

“Do you want to try it?”

“Yes. Give it to me.”

“Well, I don’t know.” The male said, “that’s not a nice way to ask for something.”

“Give it to me now.”

“Still not it, try again.”

“I’ll kill you!” Maul snarled, shredding a part of a cloak sleeve out of malice.

“If you do that, you’re definitely not getting any of it.” Feemor said with a tsk. There was a crinkling of foil and a rich smell filled Maul’s nose. There was the sound of clicking, then a satisfied hum. “Very nice.”

Maul seethed.

Another bite was heard.

He scooted forward, just enough to peer past the seat lip and see the brown bar the male was eating. Blue eyes glanced down to him and Maul stiffened, caught. Slowly, every move telegraphed, the Human tore a piece of the bar off and held it out to him. Just out of reach. Maul stared at the shiny brown piece, eyes darting from the treat to the male. After a moment he shot forward, grabbing the piece and scurrying back under the seat. His eyes widened as the sweetness exploded in his mouth. He chewed it violently, swirling his tongue around to get more and more of the taste, before swallowing and shoving his fingers into his mouth, sucking the residue off of them.

“More.”

A weighted silence met his words.

“More.”

Maul bit his lip, desperate now. Slowly, he held his hand out.

“More, please?”

Almost instantly, another piece appeared. “Why, of course.”

Maul shoved it into his mouth.

---

“Is he alright?” Qui-Gon asked as Master Che levitated Obi-Wan across the jump bay. The Jedi had spilled out from the small ladderwell hallway at the boy’s collapse and a tension that had been cycling between them lessened when Vokara nodded sharply. They’d already lost one of their young today; the idea of losing another was…

“Physically, the burns were superficial. They’ll scar, but Obi-Wan will heal with no lasting damage.” Vokara said as she maneuvered the boy so that he was face down before gently lowering him down onto a waiting camp bed stomach first.

Rael quietly followed his padawan-brother towards the boy’s side, jaw tightening in dismay at the sight of Obi-Wan’s back. Kenobi’s tunic had been cut free, laying in two pieces tucked between his arms and leaving the entirety of his back on display. Bacta strips had been placed across the strike and covering the worst of the burn from sight, but made the redness of the inflamed skin seem even brighter. In comparison to his back, the rest of Obi-Wan’s skin was deathly pale and his face – turned towards Rael – was scrunched and upset, brows furrowed so tightly there was a ridge between them. He may have passed out, but it was clear that there was no comfort to be found in it.

“I’ve pushed him as deep into a healing trance I dare at the moment. Mentally he’s in shock and that can complicate things, especially given how young Obi-Wan is.” Vokara continued bluntly. “I can’t say I’m surprised, between the Darksider and Padawan Subra’s death.”

Qui-Gon’s lips twitched before he reached out, hand lying lightly on the boy’s forehead. Almost instantly Obi-Wan’s expression smoothed out. Rael’s eyes darted from Qui-Gon to the hand, but if Qui-Gon noted his attention he didn’t react to it. A thumb brushed gently over an eyebrow soothingly.

“A Sith,” Yan interrupted as he joined them around the boy, eyes intense. “Call it what it was, my dear.”

Vokara’s jaw twitched and when she spoke again, her voice was flat. “You are sure, then.”

Yan only nodded, face tight. Che nodded once to herself slowly, her signature drawn so close that he could only guess at what she was thinking. Rael felt his own lips purse, brows furrowing, and he caught his own thoughts reflected in Qui-Gon’s eyes. Their master’s gaze locked on them, eyes narrowing. “Do you disagree?”

Rael opened his mouth than shut it, shaking his head. As impossible as it felt to believe, there was no doubt that it had been a Sith they had encountered. The man’s sheer presence in the Force had been…indescribable. The Force lightening alone was undeniable proof that the man was no mere darksider and yet despite that all, Rael knew the Council well enough to know that it may not be enough.

“They may not believe it.” Qui-Gon said, voicing aloud Rael’s own thoughts, bringing a hand up to stroke his beard. “They may not want to believe it.”

“Leave that to me, padawan.” Yan’s expression could have been carved from stone it was so severe. “And the Kushiban?”

Rael exchanged a quizzical look with Qui-Gon, before following his master’s gaze to where Vokara’s padawan, Rig Buck, was sitting in deep meditation; the tawny colored fox-like creature cradled in her lap. “I’ve never heard of that race,” he admitted.

“I’m not surprised,” Vokara said, not looking up from where she was putting an IV line into Obi-Wan’s arm, “they’re just about as rare as Master Yoda’s. They’re from the Gordian Reach, I believe, they’re almost extinct. Their planet was destroyed when its core failed.” She stood up, wiping her hands on her leggings before reaching over and accepting the blanket that was offered to her by the Mandalorian medic. “Thank you, Tö.” She tucked it around Obi-Wan’s legs, leaning his back bare. “He’s deep in hibernation; his kind can hibernate for decades, maybe more, the literature isn’t clear on how long. And given that he’s at the very least a Force sensitive...”

“You think he’s a Jedi.” Rael breathed and knew that he was right when Yan gave him a look of approval.

Che’s lips pressed together. “…a very old one. I felt him, briefly, when Obi-Wan pulled him out of his tunic. I think he’s been asleep for a very long time, Rig’s helping him find his way back.”

Rael’s master nodded slowly, “and the youngling?”

Master Che’s expression grew stormy. “A guess is the best I can offer. He’s been tortured and for a long time by the looks of it; months, maybe even a year. I’d say he’s around six or seven galactic standard, maybe younger, maybe older. I wouldn’t be able to tell with a Zabrak without getting a bone biopsy done or him just telling me, and he’s not up to sharing. I’d offer more, but he won’t let me near him. He almost took a finger off when I tried to examine him so I backed off, I didn’t want to overwhelm him anymore then he already is.”

It painted a grim picture; what had the Sith been doing with the child? The boy had been kept as an apprentice no doubt, with how even now the Dark Side hovered and swirled around the youngling. Rael let out a sigh. “How in the Force’s name did Obi-Wan find him?”

“He must have felt him,” Qui-Gon mused in answer, “given the size of Yavin IV, they must have been very close by to where he was being held.”

Vokara’s lips were turned down in one the sternest frowns Rael had ever seen from her, and given the amount of times he’d ended up in her tender mercies as a youngling for doing something usually quite stupid, that was saying something. “Something to share, Vokara?”

Her dark eyes flickered to his, lips pursing, before enfolding her hands into her robe. “Before he passed out, I had asked Obi-Wan where he found the Kushiban. He informed me he found him in a Sith Temple. I can only assume he found the Zabrak child and his master there as well.”

Rael stared at her with wide eyes, before letting his gaze dart back down to the unconscious Kenobi incredulously. “The boy has no luck at all.”

“Some could call that the will of the Force.” Kit Fisto said quietly from where he stood at Obi-Wan's feet, head cocked to the side in thought.

“Indeed.” Yan agreed slowly, his gaze locked on the unconscious boy. No, Rael realized, not on Kenobi, but rather a specific area - his waist. He followed his former master’s line of sight and blinked in confusion at the lightsaber resting there. His gaze flew to the Qui-Gon, where he knew that both Obi-Wan and Bruck’s lightsabers were currently resting, waiting to be returned after being confiscated from Xanatos’ body. Curious, Rael leaned forward, ready to free the weapon and –

“Touch that and I’ll cut your hand off.” A voice warned and Rael slowly retracted his hand, turning to stare as Manda’lor Fett all but stalked across the jump bay, his uncle and second at his heels.

Rael tensed, a hand coming to curl protectively around Kenobi’s cot edge, and he was hardly alone in his actions. Across from him, Qui-Gon had gone very still, eyes locked on the approaching Mandalorians, while Kit and Vokara had smoothly moved to flank Yan, blocking Kenobi’s form from sight completely.

“Manda’lor Fett,” Yan started, voice cold but even, a tone Rael had only ever heard a few times before, “I rather thought we were past threats of violence.”

“Master Dooku,” Fett said sharply, “you said you were sent to Galidraan because you were the foremost living scholar on Mandalorian customs in your Order.”

“That is true.”

“Then you are aware of the Darksaber? And what it means to Mandalore?”

“I am.”

Which was great, because Rael sure as Sith hells didn’t, and he was itching to ask, but he knew better then to interrupt.

“Then you should be aware that Obi-Wan now carries it and what that means.”  

A flare of what could only be described as exhaustion filtered across his bond with his master, and if that wasn’t alarming enough, then the way Yan brought a hand up to rub at his temple was. “I see. And if I may ask how such a thing came to be?”

The fore and middle fingers of Fett’s left hand twitched (a tell of annoyance, maybe frustration?) “Apparently, he won it off Tor Vizsla on Galidraan.”

“That he did,” Mereel added, voice wry, “in front of a hundred or so witnesses.”

“Then it seems we find ourselves in the middle of a rather complex situation, Manda’lor Fett, one with which we shall have to step quite carefully.” Yan said, letting his hand fall.

There was a spike of annoyance so strong it could be felt even through all that armor. “This is not a Jetiise issue.”

“I fail to see how it could possibly not be,” Yan rebutted smoothly, “given that Obi-Wan Kenobi is yet still a Jedi – he has sworn no creed.”

Mereel jerked forward, but was stopped by a sharp gesture by Fett. “There may not be a choice is in this, Jetii.”  

“There is always a choice, Mand’alor Fett.” Fett let out a harsh sounding breath, one that was given an ominous echo through his modulator, before spinning on his heel and storming across the bay. Yan let out quiet sigh. “Though I fear it may be one neither of us find palatable.”

“Master,” Qui-Gon said slowly, weariness telegraphed across every inch of him, “what was that about?”

---

Yan stared down at the boy on the cot; he was pale, face young and boyish, hair damp and flat with sweat. Unremarkable in appearance, unremarkable in presence; he felt no different than any other slumbering Jedi teen he’d seen over the years.

And yet…

A padawan lost, a Jedi Master of the past seemingly found, two of their ancient enemies (one met in battle – as timeless as ever – and the other in a tentative, fragile amnesty), and a Sith Temple, all from the windfall of one child, one youngling. Destruction and mayhem seemed to follow Obi-Wan Kenobi, yet so little of it had actually been of his design. Kenobi had not asked to be placed on The Monument, nor to be assigned to Bandomeer and subsequently caught up in Xanatos and Qui-Gon’s grudge match.

Obi-Wan Kenobi; Jedi Agri-corpsman and now - apparently – boy-king of Mandalore.

Yan glanced at the concerned and weary faces around them, at the faces of his lineage. The explanation of just what Obi-Wan had stumbled into weighed heavily on them all, but it he could see it the most on Qui-Gon. Guilt, undoubtedly, for how Xanatos’ use of Kenobi as a pawn had gotten them into this mess. And it was a mess. Enough of one that no less than four members of the Council were on their way to Yavin 4 as they spoke, upon one of the Order’s fastest ships no less. For good or bad, Obi-Wan Kenobi had become a political shockwave; outside of what it meant for the ongoing Mandalorian civil war and the stability of the Mandalorian sector, the moment the Senate got wind of the fact that it was a Jedi youngling at the center of all this…

Yan had no misconceptions on how they would try to use Kenobi to get garner a foothold in the stalwartly independent Mandalorian systems. And given the situation as it stood, there was no easy way to extract the boy to safety. Yan sighed, rubbing at his forehead. “The boy must have a master.” He said quietly, “without one, he will have no protection from what is coming.”

“He deserves one.” Feemor said firmly, with conviction. “He always has, even before this whole mess.”

Rael’s hand reached out to clap him on the back, “is he why you left the guard, Fee?”

Qui-Gon started, staring wide eyed at the blond, the only one of them who had been unaware of Feemor’s career choice. Rael, as far as Yan knew, must have found out fairly recently. Yan himself had called his padawan-brother, Cin, to request it. It may seem like an odd choice for some, but Feemor had needed a safe haven for a while, a place to disappear, to regroup, to shelter. Yan had always known that his would not be his grandpadawan calling, though.

Feemor only frowned in response to Rael’s words, glancing down. They waited for him to gather his thoughts. “I…at first, I thought…” His gaze travelled tellingly to the small bundle that slept tucked against Obi-Wan Kenobi’s side, only a strip of red skin in sight. “But now…”

Ah, yes, that tiny Sith child.

The sight of Feemor making his way towards them after Fett’s announcement, face creased in concern but with the Zabrak on his hip, wrapped in his cloak and clinging tightly, deeply asleep and face smeared brown – had been a splash of much needed levity in given the severity of the situation they found themselves in. As had been Vokara Che’s brief yet exasperated dress down that had followed it (“Feemor Gard! Did you give a Zabrak chocolate?”), Feemor’s immediate panicked reply (“I…I did. Oh Force, I didn’t think – is that safe, did I –”) and the subsequent reassurances that he hadn’t accidentally poisoned a youngling, only given something that was apparently quite the sedative to his species.

But the moment had been fleeting, passing as quickly as it had come. Just as the joy at the thought of the youngest member of their direct lineage finally finding himself a padawan was, as Rael’s grin slipped away. “They’ll never let you train him, not with that trauma he’s got and not as your first.”

“You don’t know that.” Feemor said softly, “and even if they didn’t, he needs someone.”

“And the Force is saying that someone needs to be you?” Qui-Gon asked, disbelieving. It was out of concern Yan knew, and perhaps an even deeper worry, but he could see the way it made Feemor tense like a livewire.

“As a matter of fact, it does.” Feemor affirmed, meeting his former Master’s stare head on. “I’ve never felt anything more strongly in my life.”

“Enough.” Yan interrupted sternly, stopping Qui-Gon before he could let his emotions dig himself an even deeper grave. “The youngling is not the focus of this conversation.”

“Not me.” Rael said quickly. “Look, I mean if it has to be someone,” which was never an auspicious start to a Master-Padawanship, Dooku thought despairingly, “I’ll do it. But I…uh…”

Qui-Gon’s lips quirked up. “Bruck.”

“Yeah,” Rael said with a gusty sigh, reaching up to rub at his neck, “Bruck.”

Well, well, Yan thought, leaning back in his seat, a new grandpadawan. “And when did this happen?”

Rael just gave a helpless shrug. “I didn’t think I’d take another either, but…you know how it is. I just…knew, all of the sudden.”

Yan nodded.

“You know they won’t let you stay on Pijal, right?” Feemor asked softly, a strange parroting of what Rael had said to him. His padawan winced, hand coming to a still on his neck.

“Yeah,” he said just as quietly, “yeah, the thought did occur to me. And he may not even say yes. But if he does and they don’t let me back on Pijal, it’s not like Fanry would be left alone. The Temple would send someone if Master Qua doesn’t want to stay on.” Qua would be a good choice, Dooku thought mildly, the woman had one of the fiercest political minds that he’d ever met. “I just – I have a feeling that Bruck needs me more, ‘figured its best not to ignore that.”

Yan turned to Kit Fisto. The Nautolan gave him an apologetic smile. “I’m afraid that I already have a padawan in mind, Master Dooku. I was planning on asking her upon my return to the Temple.”

“Do not apologize, Knight Fisto. Qui-Gon,” Qui-Gon’s tensed. “Calm yourself, I have never insisted you take an apprentice and I’m not about to start now.” He rebuked gently, resting a hand on his shoulder. “But you must be very sure of this, my padawan.”

“I care for Obi-Wan,” Qui-Gon said quietly and Yan knew that he did, he could see the begrudging fondness in the man’s eyes as he watched Kenobi even now, “and I feel – I know – I am supposed to be in his life. But if anything, these last few days have shown me that I have many things that I must address before I am ready for another padawan.”

Self-reflection, Yan thought with no small amount of pride, hard won and honest. In the spirit of honoring their most recent of talks he let the feeling flood through his bond with his former padawan. Qui-Gon physically jerked at the feel of it and Dooku’s lips quirked minutely at the rush of pleasured surprise that flared in response to it before being quickly smoothed. He gave the shoulder under his hand a brief squeeze before releasing it.

“Not as a padawan then, but perhaps a padawan-brother.” Yan mused, eyeing Kenobi.

“You intend to take him on, Yan?” Vokara asked, brow ridges tilting in concern. “I see the logic of it, you have the most understanding out of anyone in the Order of Mandalore and its politics, but you and Obi-Wan have yet to meet. And,” Che paused, picking her words carefully, “it is…soon…after Padawan Vosa.”

“It is less than ideal,” Dooku agreed with a heavy sigh, “and I will do no more than ask. I will not force a Mastership upon Kenobi, no matter how dire the circumstances are. I have read his Temple file and seen recordings of his fights – I believe there is potential. And…Komari has already been released from my apprenticeship, the council saw to it before we left Galidraan.”

Indeed, Komari was a wound that would have to be tended to, yet she was no longer in his care. If anything it was his absence she required in order to meet the potential Yan had seen in her, not his presence. It was Kenobi now, who needed support. While Jango Fett may be no born politician, he was in no means stupid. The man bore a mind as deadly as the weapons he carried, sharpened to a point by the whetstone that was Mandalorian politics. Obi-Wan would need someone like himself in his corner in the brewing storm that was coming.

And it was a storm that was coming, something fierce and tinged with enough dark to give him a headache. The hand of the Force was everywhere in Kenobi’s life; from the visions he’d experienced at a young age, to what had become of him since leaving the Temple. The Force had something in mind for Obi-Wan Kenobi, and Yan found himself reluctant to step back and become a bystander. 

Yes, Yan mused as he stared down at what may become his newest charge, a storm was coming – one that Obi-Wan Kenobi stood in the middle of. He could only hope the boy would allow him to weather it by his side.  

Notes:

The Jedi are starting to understand just what they've gotten themselves into, and some decisions have been made, and Qui-Gon will hopefully go to therapy. I've been sitting on Dooku offering to be Obi-Wan's new master for like ten chapters and Feemor possibly being Maul's for like the last three, I'm literally dying to know how you guys take it. Of course, he has to ask Obi-Wan first. Who knows if our time traveler will agree? I'd say Yavin has a good 3-4 chapters left, but who even knows. I swear, the stuff is shorter in my head.

Next chapter: They arrive at the camp, Obi-Wan dreams, Myles' puts his foot down, Tarre meddles, and Quinlan touches something he shouldn't.

Series this work belongs to:

• Part 2 of Unexpected Awakening AU