Chapter Text
Yan stood in one of the entrances to the Room of a Thousand Fountains, eyebrow raised in tired disbelief.
There was a child in the room. The boy’s eyes were closed, his back straight, his red hair falling around his face, far longer than the standard length for padawans allowed, and he appeared to be deep in meditation.
A normal sight in the Temple. If not for the fact that it was almost three in the morning, and padawans and initiates had strict curfews.
But what caught Yan’s attention even more than the boy’s sheer nerve to be breaking curfew quite so shamelessly was that the child had managed to saturate all the organic matter in the Room with his Force signature, having spread it out like a net over the plants and flowers with enviable control.
It was the hint of that control that had initially drawn Yan’s eyes, then the realisation that while the room was drowning in the boy’s Force signature, the boy himself was like a black hole in the Force, his shields unnaturally strong for one his age, unwavering despite his deep meditative state.
Restraining a sigh, Yan stepped over the threshold and into the Room of a Thousand Fountains, feeling the child’s concentration break once he felt his presence.
“It’s the middle of the night.” Yan announced, watching the boy flatly, sparing only a brief thought to wonder how long the boy had been there.
Given that there was nothing to betray his presence in the Force, many a Master could have walked on by, none the wiser to the boy being there.
Tension coiled through the boy’s shoulders as he released a deep breath before his eyes slid open slowly, landing on Yan with unnerving precision.
“My apologies, Master-” he began, but when his gaze properly landed on Yan, he cut himself off.
The deep purple shadows of exhaustion made the boy’s eyes look silver in the scattered light of the fountains, and the glint of recognition followed by incomprehension that passed through them was…curious.
“Dooku.” Yan offered as a prompt, studying the boy intently, not certain what he was watching for but aware that something was off.
The child blinked slowly, his expression eerily calm, his Force presence hidden behind his shields. Then, slowly, he inclined his head, but he made no attempts to rise nor promises that his behaviour would not repeat itself, and Yan felt the barest flicker of amusement, though it was overshadowed by his exhaustion, and manifested in impatience.
“What’s your reason for ignoring curfew?” he asked the child bluntly, looking closer at the boy’s face while he waited for an answer.
Beyond the dark shadows and the gauntness to his cheeks, there was a distance in the boy’s silver eyes that Yan realised that he was intimately familiar with, though he hadn’t ever seen the expression in one so young. He noted that the boy’s hair, what Yan had initially assumed to be a result of vanity and a childish need to distinguish himself from his peers, fell around his shoulders in messy, unkempt waves, as if it had grown out rather than been grown intentionally.
“I needed-” the boy began quietly, and it took Yan a second to remember he had asked the child a question, “-something organic.”
To meditate with, Yan realised as the boy began methodically spooling back his Force signature from the plants and flowers around them, the practiced, caring way he went around separating his energy from that of the plants implying that it wasn’t his first go at using the Living Force to centre himself.
“You should be in the Halls of Healing.” Yan murmured, putting together what he’d noticed into the most likely conclusion.
The boy, to his credit, didn’t even try to lie, merely inclining his head in an exhausted bob and breathing out a quiet; “Yes.”
Yan eyed the boy consideringly. “Do you not find the Halls to your satisfaction?”
“They’re satisfactory.” The boy replied, tilting his head back to look at Yan, his gaze landing somewhere by Yan’s eyebrow instead of meeting his eyes properly, and a tiny frown appeared between his brows. “It is me who is lacking.”
Yan…paused.
The words sounded ridiculous coming from a padawan not even a third of his age – he finally caught sight of the mangled braid that peeked out between the boy’s hair – but there was something to the way they were said that gave him pause.
The padawan had been very careful at keeping whatever it was that had him meditating at three in the morning behind his shields, but with his declaration, his voice gained a depth of sadness that made his words ring with a concerning conviction.
Yan frowned.
“Who’s your Master?” he demanded, earning himself the first proper reaction from the padawan: a wince.
The boy stilled rather tellingly, and for a few seconds, he looked like he was contemplating whether to answer. But, finally, he uttered two quiet, inflectionless words that made Yan still: “…Master Jinn.”
…The boy was part of his lineage.
Yan levelled an expectant look at the padawan, releasing his mix of complicated emotions into the Force along with his exhale and drawing the boy’s eyes onto himself, though he didn’t like the tired wariness he found in the silver gaze.
“Go back to the Halls, padawan.” He ordered, leaving no room for argument, though also refraining from issuing any immediate punishment for the obvious rule-breaking.
The boy, clearly seeing the ultimatum for what it was, sighed quietly, but rose obediently, somehow not stiff in the slightest despite spending what must have been hours in the same position, though an odd tension clung to his shoulders, his fingers flexing briefly.
Once upright, he bowed to Yan, though he didn’t drop eye-contact, and Yan felt his second eyebrow rise.
Then, the boy’s Force signature disappeared behind his shields along with everything else that could betray his emotional state, and he straightened.
“Good night.” The boy murmured, then turned and slipped out of the Room without a backwards glance, though it didn’t slip Yan’s notice that the boy’s steps made no sound on the marble floors.
Yan hummed thoughtfully, his mind wide-awake despite how weighed down his body felt after his mission.
Just what had Qui-Gon done for his padawan to fear him?
It took five days, two Council meetings, and a conversation with Master Yoda for Yan to come across the answer.
Qui-Gon had abandoned his padawan in a warzone for three months.
“Unhappy with your old padawan, you are.” Yoda observed as he gazed at Yan over his teacup during one of their progressively rarer get-togethers, as always seeing more than Yan was comfortable sharing. “Begrudge Qui-Gon the decision, you should not. Understand his Master’s reasons, young Obi-Wan does. Encouraged him to leave, he had, and Master Tahl’s life he saved, as a result.”
“Qui-Gon allowed his personal attachment to Master Tahl to blind him to the needs of the child dependent on him and the needs of the many.” Yan huffed, having memorised the reports Qui-Gon and the padawan had submitted to the Archives, though he’d been unable to speak to Master Tahl herself yet. “If a padawan had felt the suffering in the Force and felt compelled to alleviate it, I struggle to believe a Master hadn’t. And Qui-Gon has always been particularly gifted in the Living Force.”
Yoda’s ears drooped, the only sign that the Grandmaster shared Yan’s concerns, yet all he said was; “Allow young Obi-Wan to recover, we should. Hasty with any decisions, we should not be.”
So Yan had let the matter drop, and gone about the rest of the day on routine, taking evening meal in the cafeteria, speaking with his fellow Masters, catching up on his readings. The only change from the norm was that this time, he actively avoided looking for Qui-Gon.
In the evening, he headed to the Halls of Healing and stopped by his Grandpadawan’s bed, drawing a curious, if slightly wary look from the boy that Yan couldn’t quite understand.
“I wish to extend an apology.” he began smoothly, and the boy’s eyes widened briefly before he schooled his expression with an alarming speed. “On behalf of my old padawan.”
Yan knew his words were even, neutral, his disdain for the situation kept carefully behind thick walls, but the padawan stared at him as if he was seeing him for the first time, disbelief and something uncomfortably close to wonder in his eyes.
Finally, the boy spoke, though his voice was still the same tired but measured lilt from their first meeting.
“I do not begrudge Master Jinn his choice.” He murmured, keeping his eyes on Yan, as if just as curious of Yan’s reaction as Yan was of his.
“No?” Yan inquired, and he wished he was more surprised than he was to find that Yoda had been right.
“No.” The boy confirmed, and his next words were calm, factual. “Master Tahl needed medical assistance. Of the two of us, my chances of survival were greater.”
Yan frowned at the boy, dissatisfied with the Council-ready response. “Did you believe so at the time, too?”
At that, the boy offered a ghost of a smile, though it wasn’t a happy expression. “I believed in the Force.”
Yan narrowed his eyes, noting the boy’s smooth evasion of the question and feeling once more the odd mix of amusement and irritation he’d felt in the Room of a Thousand Fountains. Instead of pressing the boy further, he switched tracks.
“Meditation cannot substitute sleep forever.” He remarked flatly, and the boy stilled, as if not having expected Yan to notice his lack of sleep. Or, perhaps, not having expected to be chastised for it so directly.
Then, the boy sighed, seemingly torn between discomfort and guilt when he replied: “I have found it to be more restful than true sleep.”
Yan arched an eyebrow, a wordless demand for a more thorough explanation. The padawan before him felt simultaneously incredibly young, dwarfed by the blankets of the bed in the Halls of Healing as he was, and incredibly old, grief and what Yan knew to be battle-fatigue weighing him down, making his silver eyes turn a dull grey.
“There had been…so much death there.” The boy sighed, dropping his eyes from Dooku’s and turning, instead, to his hands where they trembled in his lap. “I still feel it when I sleep.”
So I don’t sleep, the boy didn’t say, but Yan heard regardless, and he felt himself soften slightly.
“And the reason behind your presence in the Room of a Thousand Fountains a few nights ago?” he pressed, having a suspicion as to the answer, but wanting to hear it from the padawan himself.
Another quiet sigh, and an almost regretful expression.
“I was the only Force user around for…months.” The boy began haltingly, his voice even quieter than before. “While I am glad to have been brought back to the Temple, it is…overwhelming.”
Yan felt another spike of frustration at his old padawan but he released it carefully into the Force, keeping his eyes on the teen before him.
“Is that the reason for your unusually strong shielding?” he queried, because even now, when the boy’s expression was full of grief and a melancholy sort of sadness, his Force signature showed nothing of his emotions.
His question brought another quicksilver smile from the teen, though it did not reach his eyes.
“I am not the same person I was when I left the Temple.” The boy confessed quietly, a weight behind the words that itched at Yan’s mind. “I do not want my friends to worry.”
Three months, the boy had spent in a warzone, before the Council had deigned to send someone out to recover him.
Three months of being more adult than child, more diplomat than student, more warrior than peacekeeper. It would weigh on any Jedi, child or adult; Yan knew that intimately.
“Are you seeing a mind healer?” he asked sharply, not liking the emptiness in the boy’s eyes, or the slump of his shoulders, or the eerie quiet of his Force signature.
The boy blinked at his question, something almost like amusement flickering across his face before he sobered and shook his head. “This is…not something the mind healer can fix.”
Yan frowned, not having expected teenage bullheadedness from the boy.
“False bravado will only backfire.” He chastised, the sharpest he’d spoken so far to a child he had no relationship or obligation to. “You need to talk about what you experienced or it will devour you.”
At that, the boy laughed briefly, the sound jagged and resigned and seemingly startled out of him.
“Talk about it with whom?” he asked bluntly, meeting Yan’s gaze almost challengingly, a single eyebrow ticking up.
Yan’s frown deepened, not quite sure he liked what the boy was implying. “Explain.”
Where the boy had been reluctant to speak before, he seemed to have gotten over whatever had been holding him back, and did not hesitate to do as ordered: “I do not wish to burden my friends, the mind healers won’t understand, and Master Jinn has been- is unavailable.”
Yan didn’t miss the stumble over Qui-Gon’s absence, but, more importantly- “Why would the mind healers not understand?”
The boy looked like he wanted to throw his arms up in frustration, but he released a tangle of indistinguishable emotions into the Force between them instead and took a deep, steadying breath.
When he exhaled, he met Yan’s gaze head-on, his tone leaving no room for misunderstanding.
“Because I do not regret staying on Melidaan.” He said, the look in his eyes hard as glass and just as brittle. “It was- horrid, but I do not regret it. I am good at war.”
Good at war.
The words sounded like they’d slipped out without conscious input, particularly if the way the boy grimaced once he heard them was any indication, but he did not take them back.
Yan stared at the child perched on the bed, met the steely grey eyes and took in the dark shadows under them, and he felt a decision start to come together in the back of his mind, a Shatterpoint, Mace would no doubt say if he were there to witness.
“Tomorrow evening, we will take tea in my quarters, and we will talk about this properly.” He told the boy, his voice final, allowing no arguments or alternatives to be posed. “You are my Grandpadawan. While not my direct responsibility, you are part of my lineage, and your experience is not something you can just release to the Force.”
The boy’s face cycled through multiple emotions, but it settled on a wary sort of resignation as he sighed. “You do not owe me your time just because we are of the same lineage.”
“Do not assume you know my motivations.” Yan rebutted, and the boy had the grace to wince, chagrined. “But you can rest assured that it is not any misguided sense of obligation that guides me.”
The boy studied him, a quiet, unexpected wisdom in his eyes as he seemed to weigh Yan’s words, his expression perfectly placid before he finally nodded, decision made.
“Then I would welcome your counsel.”
Over the next four days, Yan saw Qui-Gon’s padawan every day. And every day, the boy would relax more, though the steel walls guarding his thoughts and feelings never once faltered.
Yan hadn’t planned to press the boy, hadn’t felt like he needed to know everything or was entitled to the information, but it quickly became tiring when the teen would glance at him whenever he was about to say something that clearly weighed heavily on his mind and then seem to bite the words back, like he wasn’t certain he was allowed to share them.
“You do not have to hide your every emotion from me.” Yan finally said, on the fifth day of having daily tea with his Grandpadawan, wondering why he hadn’t been sent off-world yet. This amount of down-time between assignments was…unusual. “You went through a difficult mission. You are allowed to have feelings about it.”
The boy stared at him for a beat, that odd glint of wonder he occasionally got passing through his eyes briefly before they shuttered and his expression smoothed out once more.
“There is no emotion, there is peace.” The teen recited, his voice even, eyes intent on Yan, and Yan nearly scoffed, though he turned it into a dismissive wave of his hand instead.
“Emotion, yet peace, was the original tenet, I think you’ll find.” He corrected, gratified when the boy stilled, clearly considering the correction instead of immediately refuting the mere notion.
“Mistranslated?” he hazarded, but his tone made it apparent even he didn’t fully believe it to be true.
“Partly lost to the passage of time, partly intentionally miscommunicated.” Yan explained, and he sat back and watched as the padawan’s mind quickly assimilated the information and churned out multiple possible explanations, though none of them seemed to fully please him judging by the frown between his brows.
“Can you think of why?” Yan prompted, ever one to challenge. The boy twitched, startled, as if he’d forgotten that Yan was there in his contemplation, but when he spoke, his words were careful, measured, his gaze never leaving Yan’s.
“It is…easier to sanction undesirable behaviour when the rules are absolute.” He said at last, the words halting, but sure. When Yan didn’t interrupt or chastise him for the implication, he quietly added, “Doesn’t leave room for grey areas.”
“Precisely.” Yan congratulated, then arched an eyebrow when the boy snorted quietly, seemingly finding something funny. “Something on your mind?”
The boy glanced at him, then away, as if deliberating, then back at Yan, and murmured; “’Only the Sith deal in absolutes’” in a tone that was both amused and concerned, and Yan fought a smile.
“It is curious, isn’t it?” he asked instead, a rhetorical question since he wasn’t about to get into the radical readings of the Code with his Grandpadawan merely a fortnight after their first meeting.
They lapsed into silence instead, and it was a long few minutes before it was broken, though it surprised Yan that it was the boy who broke it.
“May I ask a…personal question?” he asked, ever polite, and Yan tilted his head obligingly, though his answer was honest.
“You may, but I may not answer.”
“That is fair.” The padawan acknowledged, and he almost looked like he wanted to smile, curiously not taking any offense to Yan’s boundary. “What would you have done? On Melidaan?”
Yan hummed as he considered the question, having learnt that the boy didn’t appreciate platitudes. “As a padawan, or as a Master?”
“Both.” The teen replied, offering a half shrug, a wry glint in his eyes. “Either.”
“As a Master, I would have forced my padawan to come with me, and either returned to the planet myself or petitioned for another Jedi to be sent.” Yan admitted, well-aware of his faults when it came to conflicts between the Code and his own ethics.
“And if you came across a particularly headstrong padawan?” The teen pressed, a slightly self-deprecating look in his eyes, and Yan was aware that it wasn’t the hypothetical it seemed. “Or if you got separated?”
“I still would have come back for my padawan sooner than after three months.” Yan huffed, meeting the teen’s expectant gaze steadily. “Especially since your report indicates that the actual fighting was done within a month.”
At that, the teen blanched. “You’ve read my report?”
“I have. Your analysis on how to consolidate democracy after years of civil war was particularly compelling.” Yan praised, having indeed found the report to be very apt and well-grounded. “Although I found myself curious about one element of your report.”
“Which element?” the teen asked, and the calm thrum of his Force signature vanished, his shields going up to impenetrable once more.
“The revenge-driven boy.” Yan offered, watching the teen closely, and he noticed the exact moment Qui-Gon’s padawan understood who he was referring to. “I find it hard to believe he truly ‘chose to part ways’ with the new regime after the pacifist was chosen as leader.”
“You’re talking about Nield.” The teen sighed, and he looked resigned. “What, exactly, is your question?”
Dooku studied the boy for a few seconds, but he’d known what question he wanted to ask since he’d first read the report. “Did you mind-trick him?”
He’d expected the boy to hesitate. To deny. But the teen met his gaze evenly and nodded, wariness in his eyes but no regret.
“I did.” He agreed simply. Then; “Will you report me to the Council?”
“No.” Yan denied, taking a moment to reflect on his thoughts about the boy’s candour before adding a thoughtful, “I think it was the right decision. Peace is fragile.”
This, it seemed, was something the boy had not been ready for, because he gaped, his shields slipping the barest of margins, but it was enough for Yan to catch the wave of pride-happiness-disbelief the boy was feeling, the intensity astounding considering the teen’s typical restraint.
“…Thank you, Master Dooku.” The boy finally murmured, his voice shakier than Yan had expected, his eyes glassy. Then, in uncharacteristically unsteady motions, the boy set his teacup on the table separating them and rose from the couch, bowing jerkily. “I have much to meditate on. Please excuse me from tomorrow’s tea-time.”
And with those words, he swept out of Yan’s rooms, the door closing behind him with a quiet snick.
And despite the abrupt end to their conversation, it didn’t escape Yan’s notice that it was the first time the boy had called him by name.
The next time they crossed paths ended up being almost a month later, the boy having been released from the Halls of Healing and seemingly buried under classwork and padawan assignments, for all that he was still grounded to the Temple.
As such, instead of to his quarters, Yan led them to the training salles.
“You will see combat in your life as a Jedi.” He began, offering the padawan a training sabre which the teen took hesitantly. “The Jedi ideals are noble, but they are ideals nonetheless. Not everyone shares them.”
“I am aware.” The boy replied, his words almost wry, and Yan let his amused eyebrow speak for itself, watching as the boy’s cheeks coloured at the wordless chastisement.
“You have spent three months with a blaster in your hands. I want to see if your sabre-combat is still up to par.” Yan announced, and then, not giving the boy the time to reply, he struck.
Yan’s intention wasn’t to hurt the padawan. He also wasn’t interested in an exhibition match. But he needed to see if the boy’s speed and swiftness in the salles could match his quick wit and sharp ripostes in conversation.
Within an hour, he had his response.
The padawan’s Shii-Cho was practiced, his movements sure and confident. His Makashi was clumsier, but it was to be expected. His Ataru was passable, though it felt as if using the Form went against the boy’s very nature. The padawan’s Djem-So, a comparably aggressive style to Ataru, was much more developed, though there was a profound sadness in the boy’s eyes when he used it.
His Soresu, however, was perfect.
Two things became apparent by the end of their spar, and Yan took a moment to ruminate over them while the padawan panted for breath and dripped sweat on the floor of the training salle.
For one, not only had Yan found a teenage padawan who favoured a defence-focused style, but, secondly, and, perhaps more importantly, he’d found a teenage padawan with a working proficiency in all five of the main Forms.
As he led the padawan out of the salles and parted ways with a quiet farewell and a word of praise for the boy’s performance, Yan knew what decision he had reached.
He only awaited the Council’s word to see whether he could put it to action.
It was two months before Yan saw the boy again, having been deployed to Corellia to assist with maintaining diplomatic relations. He was waiting for a comm when the boy almost ran into the atrium, his eyes searching the people gathered, his hair still long and wild, the padawan braid hidden. When he spotted Yan, the teen frowned, seemed to hesitate for a second, then quickly walked over to where Yan was standing, a severe frown twisting his brow and shadowing his eyes.
“Master Dooku.” He greeted, far more direct than he had been in their previous encounters. “May I ask a question?”
Yan ignored the curious glance one of the Knights who’d assisted with his mission sent him, waving indulgently at the padawan. “Go on.”
If anything, the boy’s frown only deepened at the easy acceptance of his interruption.
“Am I still Master Jinn’s padawan?” he asked bluntly, and Yan tilted his head, curious how this conversation would develop and sighing inwardly at Qui-Gon’s continued avoidance of his student.
“Do you wish to be?” he asked in return, calm and even and only slightly amused.
“Of course!” The boy replied immediately, then, seeming to realise that his response had come a bit too fast, visibly tried for calm, taking a steadying breath before he admitted. “No other Master would take me on.”
That is a lie, Yan privately thought, but he’d spoken to Master Yoda enough to gleam why the boy might’ve had such an impression. He was pretty sure the boy would’ve had Masters lining up to offer to teach him if the knowledge of what, exactly, had happened on Melidaan hadn’t been carefully contained to the Council chambers and the reports in the Archives.
However-
“That is not what I asked.” He told his Grandpadawan archly, and he caught the moment the boy bit back a frustrated huff, clearly not having expected to be called out on avoiding the question. “Do you wish to be?”
“I wish to be a Jedi.” The boy asserted, and, not for the first time, Yan saw glimpses of a future politician in the intelligent silver eyes and stubbornly tilted chin.
For all who didn’t know the boy, the answer would’ve been one of deference to the Force’s will, but Yan knew what the boy was saying: I wish to be a Jedi, and I don’t care who gets me there.
“And a Jedi you shall be.” He confirmed instead of voicing that thought, and also because he couldn’t imagine a future in which the boy before him wasn’t a Jedi. “But that is still not what I asked.”
This time, he laid his hand on the boy’s shoulder and leant down so their faces were level, and he spoke slowly, clearly, making it impossible for the boy to dodge the question again. “Do you wish to be?”
And then he watched as all the fight and bravado drained out of the boy and he seemed to sag beneath Yan’s hand, all the breath leaving him with a tired sigh.
Finally, inevitably, there came a whispered; “…no.”
Yan felt a smile pull at his lips and he withdrew his hand from the boy’s shoulder, though he kept his expression open and as warm as he could when the boy glanced up at him in alarm.
“Thank you for your candour.”
From there, it took only another week for the Council to decide. A matter which was likely helped by Yan informing his old Master of his decision the very same day he had spoken with his Grandpadawan.
“Not ready for another padawan, Master Jinn has been deemed to be.” Master Yoda announced to the audience of Council members, Yan, Qui-Gon, and Qui-Gon’s padawan. “Removed from his care, Padawan Kenobi has been.”
Qui-Gon was conspicuously silent, both in person and in the Force, and Yan was going to have words with his old padawan as soon as the situation with his Grandpadawan was handled.
The padawan in question looked shocked at the news, then resigned, then carefully expressionless in a way that told Yan he hadn’t yet caught on to Yoda’s plan. It also confirmed that they would have a lot of work before them to build up the boy’s self-worth to where it ought to be, because Yan could almost see through the teen’s shields and into the cloud of self-doubt and self-loathing that must’ve been swirling in his Force signature.
“Oversee the rest of Padawan Kenobi’s studies, Master Dooku shall.” Yoda continued, and that garnered a reaction, though Yan only cared for one. “Do you accept, Padawan Kenobi?”
He had never looked away from his grand-turned-new padawan, so he had a front-row seat to the kaleidoscope of unfiltered emotions over the boy’s face: shock, disbelief, suspicion, worry, hope.
Fragile and tentative, but it shone bright in his eyes when he glanced at Yan, as if he finally dared to believe that Yan hadn’t just been humouring him during their meetings.
“I accept, Master Yoda.” The padawan- his padawan- Obi-Wan replied, glancing briefly at Yoda before turning his full attention back to Yan.
Finding the expression to come genuinely, Yan offered his padawan a small, barely-there smile, but the boy’s joy at seeing it lit up his face nonetheless.
Luminous beings are we, Yoda had once said, and Yan knew it to be true, even if he had scoffed at the sentiment upon first hearing it.
But as the first strings of the training bond woven between their minds finally connected, Yan was almost overwhelmed by the Light that shone from his new padawan’s core, and he knew then that his Master had been right. For all that there were shadows around that Light, shadows of pain and grief and sadness more profound than Yan had expected at the boy’s tender age, Obi-Wan Kenobi was the veritable personification of the Light side of the Force.
“Ready, padawan?” Yan inquired as they made their way out of the Council room far more in-sync than a freshly-named Master-Padawan pair ought to be, Obi-Wan following seamlessly despite walking at Yan’s side instead of slightly behind him as was custom, a fact Yan noticed and stashed away, as he had with many other curiosities about his new padawan over the last few weeks.
“That depends, Master Dooku.” Obi-Wan replied, tilting his head to glance up at Yan, though there was a flicker of amusement in his eyes and a looseness to his shoulders Yan hadn’t seen before. “What do you need me to be ready for?”
“First, sorting out that braid of yours.” Yan shot back, leading them to his rooms and graciously pretending not to have noticed the way Obi-Wan stumbled at the unintentional reminder of the fracturing of his relationship with Qui-Gon. “Then, an introduction into proper politics.”
Obi-Wan didn’t bother to hide his curiosity, having seemingly picked up on the fact that Yan preferred when he showed what he was thinking and feeling, though whether it was through observation or the bond now linking their minds, Yan could not tell. “’Proper politics’, Master? I was under the impression that Jedi were separate from politicians.”
“It will be good for your longevity in the Order to remain under that impression for a while longer.” Yan replied, mostly managing to keep his tone light, but Obi-Wan straightened nonetheless, his earlier curiosity sharpening. “But you are my padawan now, and my missions often require knowledge of politics beyond what the Temple teaches, and what most Jedi can stand. Are you ready for the challenge?”
Obi-Wan studied him for a few seconds, seemingly weighing up Yan’s words, that now-familiar contemplative expression settling over his face, and Yan was gratified that his padawan seemed the think-before-you-act type.
Then, slowly, a sly smile pulled at Obi-Wan’s lips, an expression that somehow made him look both younger and older than his thirteen years, and when he met Yan’s gaze, there was an odd sadness to his silver eyes, despite the mischief in his smile.
“’Challenge’? I actually like politics, Master.” He replied, a teasing lilt to his voice that Yan decided to allow this once.
“Then let’s get to work, padawan.” Yan decided, reaching out and briefly placing a hand on the boy’s shoulder, cautiously sending a curl of amusement down the bond.
He got a wave of warmth and gratitude in return, the extent of the mental touch almost overwhelming considering how carefully Obi-Wan shielded his thoughts, and the boy’s earlier sly smile faded to something softer, more genuine.
“Yes, Master.”
Yan smiled, turning away from his padawan to open the door.
His padawan’s Light burned bright, and its permanent warmth in the back of Yan’s head made his own doubts and concerns about the Order seem smaller, less pressing, more manageable.
Luminous beings are we, indeed.