Chapter Text
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Kote
Kote Vhett was not a man predisposed to anger. Although his father, Jango Vhett, was renowned for his temper, Kote was not so easily incensed. He made plans with the intent to enact them, he made moves with the intent to follow through. “No action wasted,” was his informal motto―which meant, in general, that Kote was also predisposed to watch, and wait, for the correct moment to strike.
In a situation like this, however? Kote could only wish for something to shoot without thinking. He’d done enough thinking for an entire Empire, this past year.
“Adbelor,” the aruetii said, butchering Kote’s native tongue. “Surely, you can still pay me for my time?”
The outsider’s time, in this case, had been much like all the other time wasted this past year. Kote’s father, the rightful Mand’alor, lay in some sort of Death Sleep―dead to the world, but for all the baruure could tell, not in a coma. Kote had called dozens of well-reputed healers, both Mandalorian and not, but none could heal his father. Not one, in the entire year his father had been like this.
Ser Kethka, the latest of these healers and by far the most annoying, had been no different.
“Can you pay me for all the time you’ve wasted, of mine?” Kote asked. “You came to us, and, to refresh your memory, agreed that if you could not wake the Mand’alor, you would not be paid.”
“Well,” the human man said, pale face turning an ugly purple color, “I thought I could do it!”
Well, Kote mocked, to himself, in his head. Outwardly, he raised an eyebrow. “I did not. Which is why, of course, the stipulation was made, Ser Kethka.” He nodded to the verd who had brought the healer to him, and the soldier nodded back, stepping up to escort Ser Kethka out by force, if necessary. The healer made an offended huff. He turned on his heel, not bothering to do one of the obnoxious bows he’d become known for in the past month, and flounced out of the throne room.
“Don’t let the door hit you on the way out,” Wolffe called after the man. Luckily for Kote’s ears, however, Ser Kethka’s offended shriek was cut off by the beskar doors falling firmly shut behind him.
“He was already leaving,” Kote sighed, turning to his younger brother. Wolffe shrugged, holding his hands up as if to surrender. Kote felt his eyebrow twitch. “Wolffe.”
“Oh, lighten up,” Wolffe groused. “You hated him, too.”
Kote kept up the stern face for a solid three seconds. He was very proud of himself.
“Well,” Kote mocked again, this time out loud. Wolffe cackled, slapping Kote on the pauldron. Putting on the man’s more pretentious Sundari accent, Kote continued, “I thought I could do it.”
“I did not,” Wolffe repeated Kote’s words, deepening his voice comically. “Ka’ra, you sounded so pretentious.”
“I do not sound pretentious,” Kote huffed. He looked at the chrono attachment of his bracer. He had about twenty minutes until the Clan Council would be meeting, and with no more reason to remain in his father’s throne room, he began to walk down the stairs of the small dias and towards one of the side doors to the right of the throne. This one was hidden by a tapestry, woven by some New Mandalorian artist Kote could never recall the name of. Wolffe followed, still chuckling.
“No, you do.” Wolffe needled. “‘Can you pay me for all the time you wasted, of mine?’ You sound like a holo-novella star.”
“Watching a lot of holo-novellas in your free time, Wolffe?” Kote shot back, knowing perfectly well that Wolffe had a secret love of The Mandalorian’s Dilemma. Wolffe made a wordless noise of protest, as though he hadn’t just stayed up all night watching season three for the fourth time.
They entered the Council Room early, much earlier than Kote had honestly anticipated. Ser Kethka had been the kind of man to beat around the bush―lots of flowery language and interruptions. Like many of the New Mandalorian’s adopted aruetii, although thankfully not the ones Kote normally had to deal with, he seemed to think that supercommandos like Kote and his verd were too stupid to understand the big words he used―forgetting, of course, that he wasn’t, in truth, using most of them correctly.
The Council Room was still mostly empty, although two members of the Council were there. The sparingly decorated, rectangular room held only a few tapestries, a large table, and a vase in the back corner. From the door, which was placed centrally on the long wall, one directly faced a large window―its decorative fittings were designed to disrupt anything up to pulse-cannon fire, and it also allowed some natural light into what was otherwise a dark room. To the right of the door, down at the head of the table, Kote and his brother would sit in for their father.
A few weeks ago, Heir Sabine Wren had placed an A3R sniper rifle, barrel-down, in the vase “like a plant.” Funnily enough, it was still there. Better than a real plant, in Kote’s opinion. No one would remember to water it, with how much it rained on Mandalore.
Aliit’alor Nam Beroya and his heir, Vera, were speaking in the corner, by the “plant.” The other Clan Heads had yet to arrive, although many of them were in the palace. It was unlikely that most of them would bother bringing their seconds or heirs to this meeting, however, so Kote was only expecting half the normal Council. Kote, standing in for his father as head of Clan Vhett and House Mereel, had obviously brought Wolffe, but if his younger brother decided to up and leave in the middle of the meeting, no one would bat an eye.
“Ad’be’alor ,” Nam said from his place by the “plant.” Stepping away, the taller man walked around the table. When he approached the two Vhetts, he stopped to put a fist over his kar’ta beskar’gam in the middle of his breastplate. “We weren’t expecting you for a while.”
Nam Beroya was an older, near-human man, with greying, blue hair and kind, dark eyes. He stood at around seven feet, towering over most of the Council, Kote included. His armor was mostly brown, for valor, with light blue and deep red accents. On one pauldron, he had a Rearing Nexxu, representing his House. On the other, the Mythosaur Skull of House Mereel―showing his loyalty to the Mand’alor. Both were done white, for new beginnings.
“Aliit’alor,” Kote nodded, offering a hand to shake. Nam accepted, grasping Kote’s forearm in greeting. “I managed to get the aruetti out faster than anticipated. Before I forget, welcome back to Keldabe. How was your mission?”
“Difficult, as most things outside of the Mandalorian Empire are.” Nam chuckled. “I trust Vera performed excellently, in my absence?”
“I expect her to replace you within the month,” Kote joked, patting the man on the pauldron. The aliit’alor guffawed, nearly sending Kote flying with a good-hearted slap to the back.
“And a fine job I would do of it, too,” Vera snarked. The young verd joined the conversation, nodding to Kote and Wolffe, fisting her kar’ta beskar’gam as her father had done. “Greetings, Ad’be’alor. Vhett the second.”
“Wouldn’t Kote be―never mind,” Wolffe sighed, regaining the more serious, stand-offish demeanor he had with those outside the family. “Hello. Can we sit down, now? The sooner we start the sooner we finish.”
“Why, is public, interplanetary transport beneath your notice, vod?” Kote asked, before gesturing towards the empty room. “Regardless, we would have to wait for the others.”
As if summoned by his words, several of the aliit’alore entered the room. First among them, Aliit’alor Ursa Wren and her Heir, Sabine. They were followed closely by Tor Viszla and his Heir, Pre. The other leaders of the Mandalorian Empire filtered in, speaking amongst themselves, and stopped briefly to nod to Kote before proceeding to their seats.
Kote, once everyone else was seated, proceeded to the head of the table. Taking his father’s chair, Wolffe in Kote’s old chair to his right, the meeting began without delay.
“We are here to discuss Public Transportation, and secondarily, increasing communication with the outer planets of the Empire.” Kote began, preparing for a dry meeting. “In the proposal you should have received from Ad’al'or Wren―” Here, he nodded to Sabine, who nodded back, “we have the suggested planets, and the estimated cost of the project―”
“No word on the Mand’alor, Vhett?” A voice interrupted. Briefly thrown, Kote looks up to the opposite end of the table, where Tor Viszla’s hutt-like demeanor is in full force. The man wears a sly smile. “Getting comfortable, are we?”
The slight is subtle, but several of the other Aliit’alore suck in sharp breaths. Wolffe, without thought, stood from his seat.
“Watch your tongue, Viszla, before I watch it for you,” Kote’s younger brother snarled.
“It’s a simple question,” Tor soothed, ineffectively. “I was just thinking―your brother has yet to give us an update on the Mand’alor’s condition. It’s almost as if he has… stopped caring if the Mand’alor returns.”
One could hear a pin drop in the silence that followed.
Kote wanted to do many things. Punching Viszla, high on that list, became more tempting by the second. But Kote, while a man of action, is also a man of forethought. Short of challenging the man to a duel, no hit would shut him up. So, with grace he didn’t know he had, Kote stood, and the mutters of the Council―which had started in Kote’s brief pause―ceased.
“You presume much,” Kote said quietly, but his words are clearly heard around the room. “My father lies in an incurable sleep―as he has for a year, today. You ask me, on the anniversary of my loss, if I take pleasure in sitting where my father should be, holding meetings he should be leading, or raising my brothers, alone?”
Kote stepped out from his place at the table. He walked behind the other Aliit’alore, all of whom remained tense and silent, before he came to a stop behind Pre, looming over the young man’s father. Quickly, Viszla stood as well.
“Rest assured, all of you,” Kote said, staring the man down, “I will tell you the second my father wakes.”
“You’re weak, Vhett,” Tor Vizsla snarled, but Kote did not back down. “Instead of waiting for something that will never come, the return of Mand’alor Vhett, we should have elected a new king immediately. Someone strong. What battles have you led, in his absence?”
“No weaker than you, Vizsla,” Kote said firmly. Leaning in, almost nose-to-nose with the worm of a man, Kote went for the throat. “What battles have you led, recently, that didn’t fail?”
Kote had struck a sore spot, as intended. The three previous battles Tor had led against the Dar'jetii Empire, in an effort to assist Kashyyyk in winning its freedom from them, had failed spectacularly. Tor had lost a brother in the first scuffle, and when his following battles had been equally ineffective, he’d been called back from the front.
Tor flushed with embarrassment. “The Dar'jetii are powerful, and I underestimated them. But rest assured―” Tor stepped back slightly as Kote laughed.
“I’m sure that’s what you told my father before the Night Witch cursed him under your nose. You speak of my weakness, Vizsla, but the fault of my father’s curse lies with you.” With that, Kote turned to the rest of the council. The Aliit’alore all stared back, some more visibly aghast at his sharp words than others. Wolffe, for one, sat back smugly, folding his arms over his chest. “Does anyone wish to truly challenge me for the Darksaber, in my father’s absence, or can we get back to the task at hand?”
“Ad’be’alor,” the Aliit’alore and their seconds say, nearly in unison. Kote turned back to Tor, who sneered at him before sitting down.
“That’s what I thought.” Kote clears his throat, walking back to his place at the table. “Returning to the point―thanks to Ad’al'or Wren…”
“Getting comfortable, are we?”
Although Kote hadn’t thought much of it at the time, beyond the initial insult, Tor’s words followed him for the rest of the day. Like a needling procession, making itself known even as he did his best to ignore it. Truthfully, yes; he had grown comfortable. Not happy, not while his father is Cursed, but comfortable with running the Empire in a way he hadn’t been when he’d first been named interim Mand’alor. He knew the ins and outs of its operations so intimately, that if someone came up to him and asked what the main valuable export of Concord Dawn was, or even Kashyyyk, he would be able to answer.
(It was Hol Grain and Hyperdrive Components, respectively.)
After the Council meeting was done, Kote bid Wolffe good night and allowed his feet to carry him to the Armory. The sounds of hammer on beskar rang crisp and clear, even down the long hallway leading to the Forges. As Kote drew closer, the tingly feeling of entering the Manda-touched Domain of the Goran grew in intensity. By the time he had reached the door, his body felt as though it was covered in pins and needles.
“Goran,” he called, “I come to you seeking guidance.”
All at once, the feeling stopped. The hammer struck metal, once, twice more, before silencing as well. There was a hiss of tempering metal in oil, loud in the sudden quiet, before the reinforced door swung open to reveal Goran Za’kara.
Za’kara was one of the Creedbound, as many Gorane were. The old man, wearing beskar’gam in gold, silver, and white, was of a height with Kote. The white fur wrapped around his shoulders was miraculously untouched by the flames of his forge, and his gold helmet, crafted to look similar to the Mythosaur skull of his claimed House, faced Kote impassively. The silence was expectant, even as the Goran stepped aside to allow the Ad’be’alor into the Forgeroom.
“My Father’s curse,” Kote said without delay, “What can I do?”
The Goran turned to the Forge. A crucible bowl lay waiting in the center, red-hot from the blue flames. He removed it using tongs, and barely turning, dumped the precious metals into a bowl of what Kote believed was water. Immediately, the water began to evaporate. With the heat from the metal, it hissed away as steam, and when all of the water was gone, the Goran leaned over the bowl and examined the shapes the metal had made.
“He needs a Healer.” The Goran said. Kote groaned.
“I know! I’ve been searching for a healer that can fix this for a year, now―”
“No.”
Kote’s mouth snapped shut. “Apologies, Goran.” Za’kara stared him down for a moment, before returning his gaze to the bowl.
“The Healer you seek is a man touched by Magick.” The Goran picked a single lump of beskar from the bowl, examining it closely. “Distinct from the Ka’ra. Without Magick, the Mand’alor cannot be healed.”
“A man, specifically?” Kote asked, and the Goran nodded. “Alright, where can I find him?”
“You cannot.” The Goran dropped the piece of metal into the bowl with a soft clink. “The Healer must come to you. You must wait. For him to come, he must know that there is an issue, however; and the price of this kind of Healing will not come cheap.”
“Anything I can give,” Kote immediately said. “But, we’ve been keeping this quiet. If the Dar’jettii knew that the Mand’alor was down―”
“They already know.” The Goran picked another piece out of the bowl. This one had shaped itself in an almost crystal-like formation. “This Healer is no dar’jettii, but he is not Mandalorian, either. He does not know of the Mand’alor’s plight, and so he will not come.”
“If I announce this, I expose a weakness…” Kote’s brow furrowed in frustration. To sit and wait already railed against his better judgment, but to expose a weak spot and then lay in wait for a strike to come? Kote’s instincts were screaming, but he was no Goran. He sighed. “...alright. What is it that the Healer will want? What will make this man come to us?”
“Something only you can give.” The Goran said before he placed the bowl back into the flames.
Obi-Wan
One Year Later
Obi-Wan Kenobi considered the nav-computer in front of him. “Go to the Council,” He pondered aloud, “or go home?” He knew the correct answer, of course, but it was tempting, regardless, to return to the Jedi outpost on Tatooine, instead of attending to the needs of the Council. But, as he said when he was appointed―he will serve.
With a sigh, Obi-Wan turned the nav-computer off and stood from the pilot’s seat of his small vessel. His ship was old, and falling apart―in the words of Mace Windu, it was “a miracle it survives, and a tragedy I have survived to see it.” It was once painted green, but now the hull is almost entirely silver― in addition to the blue of rotting thermal protectant. The interior was much better maintained, on Obi-Wan’s own insistence; during missions and the occasional trip he had to take―such as the trip to Dagobah for Council Day―he did have to live in it, after all. He kept most of his valuables in it, like gifts from friends and small momentos he’d collected over his travels.
Now, if only his travels would suddenly and spontaneously take him far away from Dagobah. “Sorry, can’t miss it,” He muttered jokingly to himself. “Left my draigon in the oven.” When no laughter was forthcoming from his empty ship, Obi-Wan sighed to himself and leaned over to begin landing protocols. No other options, unfortunately; as always, he will serve. Even if it meant landing on a planet as grossly humid and swampy as Dagobah.
The landing went as smoothly as it can; the landing gear only sank into the swamp a little bit, and with aid from the Force, Obi-Wan used the branches of the surrounding trees to conceal the craft from above. As he walked down the ramp, he sees other ships, concealed similarly from prying eyes. It seems that he’s late―more Jedi than usual were already there.
The home of Grandmaster Yoda was, on the surface, a small thing. It had been crafted by Yoda and his master almost a thousand years ago, now, to conceal the entrance to the last Jedi Temple. The Temple of Dagobah had been constructed as a meeting place for the newly scattered Jedi, who at the time, had not adjusted to their new existence as refugees. It was kept secret through several methods, but mainly that Jedi rarely came here. Once a year, the council would try and gather to make decisions for the Order; but besides this, there were little to no organized gatherings for Jedi.
This was probably why the Jedi Order had made Council Day something of a holiday retreat; a chance to gather with your lineage and meet with friends after what could be months or years. It was a different day every year―and it wasn’t every year. But occasionally, a missive would go out “Council Day,” with a date, and everyone would know. As Obi-Wan himself rarely saw his Great-Grandmaster or his creche-mates, Council Day had always been one of his favorites (at least, before he was on the Council, himself).
Anakin had never liked Council Day, Obi-Wan recalled with a sad smile; before Anakin had been knighted and Obi-Wan had been inducted into the council, the boy had practically whined the whole way there. Now that Anakin had… left, however, Obi-Wan traveled to Council Day in silence.
Feet drowning in the wet, muddy ground, Obi-Wan steeled himself and began his walk.
The path to Yoda’s hut was imprecise and changed every year. Finding the new one was a bit like a scavenger hunt, but once Obi-Wan found the lone strip of artificially-constructed, firm ground, the walk was much more enjoyable. As he walked, others reached out to him in the Force; first, Yoda, who knew every nook and cranny of this planet like the back of his three-fingered hand (and thus, knew when someone new landed upon it), then, Mace, who sent a feeling of greeting. After a moment to bask, Obi-Wan sent a greeting back.
‘It’s been a long time, friend,’ Mace whispered through the Force. Then, with a wave of amusement, ‘Just to warn you, expect an inquisition.’
‘From who?’ Obi-Wan sent back, but Mace simply cast him another wave of laughter, before he withdrew.
Obi-Wan couldn’t help but chuckle to himself, shaking his head. He continued through the last small stretch, the jungle around him becoming familiar as he reached the Temple’s proverbial front yard. The entrance, concealed by Yoda’s small hut, glowed with soft lantern light; welcoming family and friends from their long journeys. Although he’d been dreading this not even a few minutes ago, Obi-Wan relaxed as the feelings of peace and happiness reach him from his fellows.
It’s good to be home.
Obi-Wan walked carefully around Yoda’s small, swamp-hut and to the large, ancient tree by its side. The large trunk was so wide it would take three of Obi-Wan to reach around even half of it. Hidden carefully in the roots, which held the tree out of the ground over Obi-Wan’s head, was an elevator door. It was painted very specifically to appear identical to the trunk, and without knowing where to look for it, it was nearly invisible. Obi-Wan searched for the keypad behind one of the roots; feeling around for it in the shadows. Once he found it, he typed his code in by feel, and the elevator doors slid silently open.
The ride down to the Temple was quiet. As he descended, more Jedi became visible to him in the Force. He took a moment to soak in his family’s presences, and in his distraction, he almost didn't notice the doors opening. He did, however, notice being tackled by a fully grown kiffar man―Quinlan. He went down like a sack of rocks, laughing all the way, and all the breath left his lungs as they hit the ground.
“Hello there,” Obi-Wan wheezed. Quinlan laughed, sitting up on his knees beside Obi-Wan’s prone body.
“Hey, Obes.” Quinlan leaned over his head, backlit by the light. The door of the elevator hissed shut, cutting them off from the rest of the Temple. “What’s this I hear about a laser-rifle wedding? You didn’t even invite me!”
Obi-Wan, caught off guard, flushed from his ears to his chest. “I―That is an exaggeration. I merely…misunderstood a local tradition―”
“Are you married?” Quinlan shrieked with glee, “Ser-Perfect-Jedi Obi-Wan Kenobi―who are you married to? The younglings were convinced you’d run off with a Mando king.”
“The Mandalorians don’t have a king, they have a Mand’alor and a council formed by the Heads of the Houses―” Obi-Wan starts, but Quinlan interrupted him by quite literally placing a hand over his mouth.
“Blah blah blah,” Quinlan moved his hand from Obi-Wan’s mouth, and Obi-Wan frowned at him. Quinlan wiggled his eyebrows. “Are you married or not? Come on, this is the most salacious thing I’ve heard since being stuck here on Creche duty.”
“Taking a reasonable adjournment of your Shadow Duties is hardly―wait, I am not,” Obi-Wan insisted. “...After clarification, the princess was quite understanding about annulment and sent me off with several gifts.”
On second thought, Obi-Wan thought that the Princess had been trying to convince him to stay. But she hadn’t held him against his will any more than the usual amount, so he was sure it was fine.
“HA!” Quinlan cackled. “I’m going to tell the younglings you’ve promised yourself to a Duchess or something, it’ll be perfect. Talk to you at latemeal!” Before Obi-Wan could stop him, the Shadow-turned-Crechemaster is already out of the elevator, running at full tilt down the hall.
“Vos!” Obi-Wan called, sending a joking wave of rage down their creche bond. Quinlan sent memories of pranks they played on their Masters as padawans, before he withdrew with the feeling of a wave goodbye. Obi-Wan chuckled, lifting himself off of the ground. “Well,” Obi-Wan muttered to himself, “Someone hasn’t changed.”
The Temple of Dagobah was the last hold-out of the Jedi Order. Its appearance reflected this; being far smaller and less ornate than the original Temples―at least, according to Yoda, and stories passed down from the Old Order. Although created to resist the sheer…wetness of Dagobah, maintenance and repairs were required every year; thus, there was a rotation of Jedi tasked with staying behind at the temple for anywhere from two- to three-year intervals to do so. Obi-Wan had actually been expecting one such rotation for himself, for many years; and yet, it always seemed as though it passed him by.
Although a humble place, the Dagobah Temple was beautiful in its own right. Roots had been carefully grown from the ceiling of the carven limestone halls; using the force, these strong, living roots had been turned into wooden supports for the ceiling―and decoration, as the small roots had been added to murals, water features, and other things that brought the halls of the Temple to life. The halls were lit with kyber crystals, carefully added to the roots. They required little energy, mostly just the presence of Force Sensitives, making them a uniquely suitable light source.
As Obi-Wan passed his old kyber, the one he’d had as a padawan before Qui-Gon had died, it sang a small, happy greeting. Kyber was not sentient per se, but in many ways, they had personalities. It made Obi-Wan smile to see it again, and that smile remained on his face until he entered the Council’s chamber.
The Council Chamber, which is for the classified, private, or ceremony-related meetings the Council has, was one of Obi-Wan’s favorite rooms in the temple. Although the Jedi who crafted the temple had taken great care with everything, the Council Chamber was truly a masterful example of their craft. The walls were carved with stories of their history, reminders of the things that led them here: both their triumphs and mistakes. Obi-Wan suspected they took so much care for fear these stories would be lost, and perhaps due to these efforts, they were not. Between each relief, a root-pillar had been grown from the trunk in the center of it’s domed ceiling. Through the centuries, the roots had expanded downward and around the perimeter of the room, creating “frames” for the reliefs, and many small kyber lights had been hung from the smaller roots on the ceiling.
On the far walls, the three sections opposite the doorway, there were some of the only windows in the temple. As the far wall of the council chamber was against a cliff-face, the Jedi who had made the Temple had taken their time to create transparisteel that, from the outside, appeared to be part of the rock itself. The seams were further hidden with carefully manicured plants, which were kept at specific lengths to allow the light to come through. When his creche clan had been taken to the council to prepare for their trip to Illum, Obi-Wan had immediately fallen in love with these windows. He was still a little in love with them, to be honest. Very few places in the temple provided uninterrupted, inartificial sunlight, besides this room.
There were twelve chairs in the room, one for each member of the Council. The Head of the Order sat in front of the center window, the Grandmaster sat to their left. There were technically titles for everyone on the Council, according to their expertise and what facet of the Order they were responsible for, but in actual Council meetings only the Head of the Order was “higher” in rank, and their seating reflected that. Where a Master sat during the meetings normally fell to preference.
When Obi-Wan fully entered the room, Mace stood from the Head seat to greet him. They bowed to each other, before Mace spoke.
“I assume Master Vos found you?” Mace asked, voice deadpan as usual but eyes twinkling with repressed mirth.
“Oh, he found me, to be sure!” Obi-Wan raised an eyebrow to his old friend and fellow council member, “But how he heard of my accidental nuptials, when I was quite sure that mission was classified…”
“Hmm,” Yoda said, drawing their attention to him. The old Master sat patiently on his cushioned Council seat, waiting for the meeting to begin. “Will of the Force, it surely was, that make this discovery, he did.” Yoda began to chortle, unable to keep a straight face.
Obi-Wan rolled his eyes. He’d evidently found the culprit.
“Of course, Master Yoda,” Obi-Wan said diplomatically. Turning back to Mace, he asked. “How many of us have come this year?”
“More than expected.” Mace nodded at the datapad he had on his chair. On the screen, a list of names grew ever longer as each Jedi entered the temple with their code. “It’s been four years since the last official Council Day. Everyone is a little excited, I think.”
“And you?” Obi-Wan smiled. “Excited to see Master Billaba and Padawan Dume?”
“Of course.” Mace allowed himself a small smile of his own, before the Korun man raised his eyebrows at Obi-Wan. “...Any word of Skywalker?”
Obi-Wan’s smile faded. “Ah. No, unfortunately. Not hide nor hair in nearly, well. Three years.”
Mace rested a hand on Obi-Wan’s shoulder, as the red-headed man released his grief into the Force. “Believe in him, old friend, and his stubbornness. Wherever Skywalker is, he will be fine.”
“You’re right. If anyone could ignore death out of spite, it would be Anakin.”
“Spite, you believe to be his motivator?” Yoda asked, “No. Avoiding sand, I believe it is.”
And to that, Obi-Wan couldn’t help but laugh.
They spent the next hour or so talking, as the rest of the Council drifted in, one by one. Depa did in fact, arrive, although Padawan Dume had been sent to latemeal. (“He gets too grumpy,” Depa laughed, “Don’t worry, Master, you’ll see him plenty before we leave.”) By the time Master Dooku arrived, side by side with Master Sifo Dyas, everyone has mostly settled into their seats, ready for what was sure to be a long, arduous meeting―the first one they have had in person for four years, although other, smaller meetings have been held over holo.
“We’re late for the party,” Master Dyas joked, settling into his seat. “My apologies, everyone.”
“No need,” Mace said, waving a hand. “We did not exactly set a time to arrive, this year. Most all of us were so far out it would have been difficult to predict arrival. And in the last few years…”
In the last few years, they had lost a third of their numbers. Even after forbidding entrance into Sith space, their numbers dwindled. In a few years, Obi-Wan asked himself, would there be anyone left?
“Yes,” Master Plo Koon spoke up, interrupting the tense and mournful silence, “About that―how have we been doing about stationing? Last we spoke, Master Kenobi mentioned being stretched thin in Hutt Space. We were planning a decisive strike on Gardulla and Jabba, were we not?”
“Gardulla has since been killed in the slave rebellion,” Obi-Wan interrupted, “But it has yet to spread to Jabba, so we may still need to enact our original plans―if not on the same scale.”
“Plans change,” Mace agreed. He leaned back in his chair, stroking his chin in thought. “You have been stationed on Tatooine for…how long, now, Master Kenobi?”
“Almost twelve years,” Obi-Wan said, “Off and on, given the missions both I and my former padawan were doing over that time.”
"And given that time, would you say that it would be…prudent, for us to strike now? As both our resident Master on-planet, and the Council Master of War?” Master Windu asked.
Obi-Wan paused to think. Considering the slave-revolt’s already phenomenal progress, and the progress of the freedom trail (organized by Obi-Wan and the Jedi assigned under his command), Jabba could hypothetically stay in power until the Jedi could disguise their assault under that of the Freed. Their planned strike was two-fold; one, to make one further step in overthrowing the Hutts on the outer rim, and two, to rob the Hutt blind. Frankly, the Jedi Order was existing on little to no funds, as it was; even the Jedi Shadows who had set themselves up as bounty hunters struggled to bring in enough money to keep the Order running. It was common for the Jedi, in these times of secrecy and hiding, to take money from where they could get it―ethically, of course: but what was more ethical than robbing a Hutt?
This was Obi-Wan’s job, as Councillor of War. To help the Jedi do their duty, Obi-Wan had to keep them hidden, keep them fed, and keep them smart. He must, at all times, be ahead of those who hunt them, and those who may learn of them, by eight steps at least.
“Were we to leave Jabba in power,” Obi-Wan said after gathering his thoughts, “It wouldn’t be the end of the world. Many would suffer in the interim, but I believe that for the safety of the Order, I, and the others on Tatooine, must wait for the Freed to make their move, before we can make ours.”
“Why?” Mace asked, point blank.
“Quite Frankly? We can’t afford to expose ourselves, not with so many people on Tatooine who may be there to witness it, and with so few Jedi left. ” Obi-Wan stated, matter-o-fact. “This operation runs a very high risk of doing just that.”
Obi-Wan reigned in his pessimism for a moment, sighing, “Now, many of the Jedi stationed in the sector, and quite a few staying near the Jedi Outpost on Tatooine itself, are former slaves or the children of former slaves. Many of them still carry traditional ‘slave’ names. We should use this to our advantage; both hiding ourselves among their strike against Jabba and helping them take their freedom for themselves, while also giving us a plausible reason to strike against Jabba, at all. Many moisture farmers, bounty hunters, and others on Tatooine hate the Hutts on principle but have no real need to fight them. They’re doing just fine―so why, the slaves may wonder, are all these oiutman butting in?”
“... Because you’re not outsiders,” Depa posited. “If almost all of you are former slaves, it gives you motivation. Why not strike on your own?”
“ Why strike on our own?” Obi-Wan countered, “There’s power in numbers. And the Jedi? Well… that’s numbers we don’t have.”
The others around the Council made agreeing noises, and eventually, the conversation moved on. They spoke on many things; assignments, missions, finances. The latter eventually circled back to the issue with the Hutts, but finally, they break for latemeal, to re-convene in the morning.
“Master Kenobi,” Sifo Dyas called as Obi-Wan passed, “Can I beg a moment of your time?”
“Of course, Master Dyas,” Obi-Wan agreed, stepping to the side as the rest of the Council left the room. Mace nodded as he passed, both Master Dyas and Obi-Wan bowing back, before the door closed behind him and they were left alone.
“Master Kenobi―” Sifo Dyas started, but Obi-Wan interrupted him.
“Please, call me Obi-Wan.”
“Only, if you call me Sifo.” The old man smiled briefly before his face fell into something more serious. “I have reason to believe you spent time on Mandalore in your youth, correct?”
Obi-Wan winced. He could recall many parts of those missions with fondness, now, but besides his abiding love of the food, people, and culture? Very little of his time on Mandalore had exactly been a walk in the park. “Ah, yes. What of it?”
“Do you know what has happened to the Mand’alor?” Sifo asked.
A familiar feeling suddenly overcame Obi-Wan. A tugging in his gut, like someone had tied a string around his insides and pulled it taught. It was trying to bring him somewhere; but unlike the feeling he’d gotten on Yavin, which had been strong and almost painful―like millions of voices screaming all at once, the tug was faint. As though, wherever the Force was trying to bring him, it was far away. The first time he had felt this, he had just learned of the Mand’alor’s plight. It had taken weeks for the feeling to fade.
Something of it must have shown on his face, because Sifo smiled wryly instead of waiting for a response. “I see that you do.”
“I… have heard something happened. The details are foggy, but as far as I am aware, the Mand’alor is in something of a cursed sleep. At least, according to the gossip.” Obi-Wan winced as the tugging grew stronger once more before miraculously, it faded. Something had changed. Instead of feeling urgent, the Force felt expectant, like a decision had been made and it was simply waiting for the results. “May I ask why you bring it up?”
“You know that I am prone to visions?” Sifo asked, and when Obi-Wan nodded, continued, “I have seen visions of a Healer, sent to cure the Mand’alor of his ailment. This healer is of the Jedi, and when the Mand’alor is healed, the Force tells me that the Jedi will prosper.”
“Prosper?” Obi-Wan echoed. “The Mandalorians, for all that I like them, are part of the reason we live as we do.”
“Yes, but their hatred of us is tangential to their hatred of the Sith. We are a forgotten enemy. A dead enemy. And the Mandalorians, as you well know, do not linger on the dead.”
Obi-Wan considered this for a moment. “Why must a Jedi heal the Mand’alor?”
“I don’t know, for certain,” Sifo prefaced, “But I believe it’s because the source of his Curse is Magick, a practice of the Night Witches. The Mandalorians don’t have a Force Tradition, to my knowledge―they may not have the means to heal him. And the Sith, obviously, won’t help.”
“But why us? We risk exposure by helping.” Obi-Wan elaborated. Since his appointment to the Council, that had been his main concern and charge of duty―keep the Jedi hidden. He wondered why Sifo would bring this issue to him, of all people, when another councilor would be more likely to agree. “I suppose what I’m asking, is why risk it?”
Sifo sighed, “I was hoping you would have the answer―because the Healer I always see, Obi-Wan, is you.”
The Force sang with glee. The tugging in Obi-Wan’s gut returned. FOlloW. It said. HeAl. SAvE.
Save who? He asked it, but the Force sent him the equivalent of an unhelpful giggle. By the look on Sifo’s face, he too had felt the Force’s song. Master Dyas was another Jedi linked strongly to the Unifying Force―Obi-Wan perhaps should not have been surprised that the older man could feel its smug satisfaction.
“...Well.” Obi-Wan said out loud. “Let me… Let me think for a moment.”
The Mand’alor, according to rumor, had been in the Cursed Sleep (or as the Mandalorians had been calling it, the kyr’nuhoy, the Death Sleep) for two years. If what Sifo was saying was true, the only solution to this curse would be the Force, and more specifically, a Force Healer. But why would the Jedi―or apparently, Obi-Wan―risk it?
Mandalorian honor, Obi-Wan realised. The Mand’alor was their sole ruler, it was true, but his Clan was the most powerful in their empire. They would be honor-bound to repay the debt incurred by the Mand’alor’s healer, and if a Jedi healed him… they could ask for anything. Obi-Wan could ask for anything.
If Obi-Wan played his cards right, and didn’t reveal the true nature of his…abilities…he could bring the Jedi out of hiding, He could give them a true home. Their numbers dwindled year after year, as they tried to serve their galaxy with no home base to heal in. If he healed the Mand’alor, even the most jetii-hating of mandos couldn’t touch them, and if he could obtain one of the unused planets in the Empire for the Jedi, they would be part of the Mandalorian Empire. The Mand’alor and his commandos would be honor-bound to protect them.
And, to protect them from the Sith. Perhaps that was his learned-ruthlessness talking. But if he was right, he would take that chance. Besides, from a certain point of view, from a Mandalorian point of view, the enemy of his enemy was his friend.
“Has the Mand’alor’s family released any kind of reward for his healing? Any specific debt they would owe?” Obi-Wan asked. He was prepared for something less fantastical than ‘anything.’ But even if it was just money, he would take it. The Jedi needed what they could get.
“Just one thing, if I remember correctly,” Sifo tilted his head slightly, trying to recall. “I believe the Ad’be’alor said something along the lines of… ‘Anything I can give’?”
Suddenly, Obi-Wan heard a voice. A deep voice he had never heard, in person, repeating those very words― “Anything I can give,” They said, with a distinct Mandalore accent, “To the person who can cure my father.” There was the sound of cheers, a call to action―
Art by @Alienficsoutofspite on Tumblr, or @Aliennotperson on Ao3
“OYA!” Many voices called, and it echoed through Obi-Wan’s head. He brought a hand up to his temple, feeling a headache on its way. It seemed, at least to the Force, that the decision was made. Obi-Wan sighed. To Mandalore, he would go.
Now. How to propose this to the Council…