Chapter Text
Ambling in the Dark
(Who knows what you'll find?)
Obi-wan peers out at the Coruscanti skyline amid the fading dusk. Streetlights and signs flicker to life in bright neon colors, washing out the orange light of the dying sun. Shadows pool under awnings and around corners.
It’s a pretty sight, Obi-wan supposes, with glittering light bouncing off windows and speeders. However, he prefers the dark quiet of less developed cities, where the stars are a more visible presence. He glances upwards past the tall towers of the Temple. The intensity of the city ablaze renders all but the brightest stars invisible.
He sighs, the warm breath fogging his faceplate slightly. Only one more week, then he would finish this rotation as a Temple Guard.
As part of their requirements to become senior padawans, all padawans are required to spend one-month rotations within the Temple shadowing the different duties Jedi can perform. The whole ordeal is termed as “appreciation for the responsibilities of temple-bound Jedi” by the masters. Ideally, its main purpose is to determine which padawans have hidden aptitudes for specialized work.
At twenty-two, Obi-wan should have finished his rotations to become a senior padawan years ago. Yet, due to scheduling issues and a myriad of missions gone wonky, he was the last of his year group to complete the requirements.
This was his last rotation. Already he had served in the creche, infirmary, supply center, gardens, kitchens, and archives.
Anticipation thrums through him at the thought of finally becoming a senior padawan. It’s quickly tempered by the worry that his master would forget to recommend him for promotion this academic cycle. It wouldn’t be the first time an academic requirement slipped by his master’s notice.
Shifting anxiously, Obi-wan glances to his right. He catches a glimpse of the Temple Guard on duty with him. The person is tall and broad-shouldered, but the traditional robes and face plate obscured other identifying features. For force-sensitives, a uniform appearance presents little challenge in recognizing others due to their unique force signature. However, for the force-blind, it’s an intimidating visage.
Obi-wan shifts his balance minutely, looking towards the left. He squints through his face mask, a headache building behind his eyes.
“What’s the matter, Padawan Kenobi? You’re unfocused tonight.”
Obi-wan tries not to jump at the comm-message through his earpiece.
“I apologize Knight Stahl, but I feel,” Obi-wan pauses, trying to categorize his emotions. “Unsettled,” he finally decides, “There is a swirling in the Force that I cannot explain.”
The other guard, Feemor Stahl, hums in acknowledgement. “I feel it as well. There is a weight in the air tonight.”
Obi-wan senses Feemor’s attention sharpen further. “Stay alert. Feel the Force’s urgings, but do not lose focus on your surroundings.”
“Yes, Knight Stahl.” Obi-wan replies, sweeping his senses outwards in a circle, feeling the air around the Temple.
They are stationed at one of the lesser used entrances that were accessible from the lower levels; a small plaza separating the Temple from the surrounding urban landscape. While not a large entrance, it’s favored by Jedi returning from the city for its discreet appearance and location.
The sun’s glow vanishes from the sky and all that remains are the city lights. Their steady radiance is broken by the shadows of pedestrians and transports as they bustle about the city’s night life.
Out of the darkness a small figure ambles across the plaza.
Immediately, Obi-wan focuses on it, sensing a muffled presence in the Force. Slowly the little figure totters its way towards them in a meandering walk. Obi-wan frowns. The figure’s force signature is odd but also familiar. It’s muffled as if obscured by layers of fabric, the edges dissipating into vague nothingness.
The figure steps into a puddle of streetlights, and the light glints off metal armor painted a dull green.
A Mandalorian.
Obi-wan’s heart beats erratically as the T-shaped visor comes unerringly towards them. As they approach, he realizes that they are much shorter than he initially assumed, the top of their head barely reaching his waist. The figure stops in front of Obi-wan, tilting their helmet up like a baby-bird.
A thin high voice bubbles out of the helmet.
“Do you know what they said?” Feemor asks, glancing at the child. His body remains facing their surroundings, scanning for other disturbances. Obi-wan frowns in concentration, mentally reviewing the child’s words.
“Yes, I understand a little. It’s a Mandalorian child. They got lost from their caretakers and are asking for help.”
“Can you reassure them or ask for more information?”
“Wouldn’t that break our vow of silence to those outside the Guard?”
“Spoken words are prohibited to conceal as much of our identity as possible. A security holdover from the Ruusan Reformation. However, handsigns and other nonverbal forms of communication are regulated by a guard’s own discretion. As your direct supervisor, I authorize your usage of communication with this child.”
There’s a grin in Feemor’s voice as he continues, “We aim to serve, do we not? Age matters little in helping others.”
“I understand,” Obi-wan replies, heart light with gratitude for the support. His hands begin to move through basic Mandalorian battle signs for the child.
-where-commander-
With a bounce of joy, the child begins to chatter even faster in Mando’a. In alarm, Obi-wan gestures for the child to slow down. Obligingly, the child speaks slower but excitedly.
“They say that their parent is at the Senate. For an important talk? Sorry, I didn’t understand that part clearly. They were separated from their caretakers somewhere in the Museum district. But they wandered down here because, and I quote, “it felt safe”. That’s all so far,” Obi-wan reports after a few minutes of listening. He signs a question to the waiting child.
-where-rendezvous-
The child tilts their head questioningly. Obi-wan tries a different sign.
-where-meeting-commander-
“Ah,” the child exclaims. They babble happily and pull up a tracking system on their commlink. A blue dot blinks over a spot in the lower districts of Coruscant.
-not-go-
Obi-wan signs with a questioning tilt to his head. Sheepishly, the child shakes their head and scuffs their boot on the stone steps. They speak quietly, mumbling their words slightly.
Feemor makes a questioning sound and Obi-wan sighs in exasperation before answering. “They know to meet their parent in Little Keldabe, the Mandalorian district in Coruscant, but they don’t know how to navigate the transportation system to get there and their comm is broken. Apparently, they were warned of the dangers about traveling alone in the “scum-infested core worlds”. Also, I think they are ashamed of themselves for getting lost in the first place.”
Feemor laughs slightly, his whole body moving with the sound, and the child swings towards them with a bright and hopeful angle to their helmet.
“Well, Padawan Kenobi, I believe you are the most recent expert on Mandalorian customs. What is your recommended course of action?”
“Escort the child to Little Keldabe as soon as possible,” Obi-wan replies instantly. “Based on the child’s sigil, he is part of the Haat’ade, the True Mandalorians. This faction of Mandalorians recently won the ongoing civil war and unified the sector under Jaster Mereel.”
Feemor hums in acknowledgment. “Yes, I heard that they are in the process of ratifying a non-aggression treaty with the Republic right now.” He looks at the little child who has wandered close enough to peer at Obi-wan’s robes. Tentatively, the child pokes at the loose folds around Obi-wan’s feet.
“Why do you say to escort the child? Another option would be to contact the True Mandalorians and explain the situation. They might have a tracker on the child for safety and are simply delayed in their actions?” Feemor asks in an even voice, neither judgmental nor disappointed, simply curious.
“Mandalorians are historically hostile to Jedi. I discovered that to be true during my time among them,” Obi-wan adds with only a trace of bitterness. “They may take any attempt at contact from us negatively and would surely see us as kidnappers if we let the child wait inside the temple.”
“I see.” Feemor states after a moments’ thought. “I understand your reasoning. That was a well-thought-out deduction, Padawan Kenobi.” Obi-wan jolts a little at the praise, unused to quick compliments.
“Our shift is almost over,” Feemor continues, “afterwards we can escort your little Mandalorian friend home.”
Obi-wan blinks in surprise, resisting the urge to stare at Feemor. Instead, he keeps his eyes firmly on the Mandalorian child who is tugging at his robes with inquisitive hands.
“You’re following my suggestion?” He asks, tentatively.
“Why shouldn’t I?” Feemor replies firmly, “You made a reasonable deduction and actionable plan with the limited information you possess in a decisive manner. Moreover, my feelings agree with this course of action. After I update Cin about our situation, we’ll head out together.”
“But I’m simply a junior padawan…” Obi-wan trails off, wary of the quick agreement.
“Youth does not exclude wisdom or intelligence, Padawan Kenobi. You are smart and resourceful; I’d be a fool not to listen to your advice on a matter in which you have first-hand experience.”
Swallowing thickly, Obi-wan turns his attention back to the Mandalorian child, who has progressed from his robes to his boots, poking and prodding at them. Obi-wan shuffles away before little fingers can find the sheathed knife hidden in the leather.
He squats down to be on an even level with the child. His pale white faceplate is a smudge in the dark T-visor of the dark green helmet. The child stares at him, all exploration forgotten. With slow deliberation, Obi-wan signs again.
-reinforcement-approved-wait-
He holds up five fingers to indicate five minutes. The child’s force presence lights up with relief and excitement. After a few minutes of steady exposure, Obi-wan can feel past the muffling effects of the beskar. The child’s presence is warm and fluttery, reminding Obi-wan of sand blowing in the wind. There is a hint of deep salty tang, like the ocean, hidden underneath the sense of sand. It is a rich force-presence, not completely force-blind, but only slightly force-sensitive, just enough to feel the general ambiance of people and their base intent.
“Alright,” Feemor says from behind him, “We have permission to make our way to Little Keldabe. Let’s head out.”
Obi-wan stands slowly, making his way across the stone plaza, gesturing for the child to follow. They bound up, fluttering with energy. They latch on to Obi-wan’s hand and begin to swing back and forth. Obi-wan stiffens in surprise before relaxing. He pokes at Feemor in the Force, who is chuckling over their comms channel.
As they pass the entrance to the Temple landing bay, Feemor asks thoughtfully, “Would it be unwise to use a Temple speeder since they clearly display the Jedi sigil?”
“Yes,” Obi-wan agrees, “That would be too obvious. To the casual observer our armor and robes won’t merit much thought, but the Jedi sigil is quite iconic. As we are right now, we shouldn’t encounter much trouble.”
He is only half-way paying attention to the older knight. Most of his attention is focused on the child next to him, helping them over cracks in the duracrete and around potholes. The child seems to be about seven-years old, with only a helmet, vambraces, and shin guards for their armor.
Feemor strides past the stop for an air taxi, moving towards the terminal for local airbuses. He sighs heavily, “Our funds are tight this month. Public transport, it is.”
Mentally, Obi-wan runs the calculations in his head, and realizes that Feemor will be pulling funds from the Temple Guard’s budget for this excursion. While not an official mission from the assignment center, it’s still a relief not to use his own personal funds for the trip. It will also give them a paper trail if the Mandalorians (or the Senate) decide to check the Order’s financial statements.
As a religious order, the Republic does not fund the Jedi Order. Instead, they are responsible for their own monetary income, mostly by selling goods made by the Temple Elders or the services of the Service Corps; Medicorp, Agricorp, Educorp, and Exploracorp. Luckily, the Temple on Coruscant is mostly self-sufficient, cultivating their own foodstuffs, animal products, and manufacturing fabrics.
The Knight Corps receive a small stipend with each mission distributed by the Republic Senate, which is about half of missions available. While most missions from the Core Worlds were routed through the Senate, some came from direct contact with individuals in need. As the Jedi did not charge for their aid, most people repaid them with tangible goods such as local food products, handcrafted items, or specialty goods. These are turned over to the quarter master for storage or repurposing. Oftentimes, the Jedi who receives the item might keep them as a small keepsake.
Absently, Obi-wan rubs a thumb across the small figurine of a loth-cat in his pocket. He received it from a friend many years ago, and the small weight in his pocket was soothing. Obi-wan shakes his head minutely, dislodging his thoughts full of keepsakes. Instead, he focuses on the small hand clutched tightly in his.
Soon they are on a rickety old airbus streaking through the city levels. Each gust of wind by a passing speeder causes the compartment to wobble on the line. The Mandalorian child sits on a worn seat along the side of the airbus. Obi-wan stands directly in front of the child, holding the child’s hand in one hand, and using the other to ward off inquisitive passengers. Feemor blocks the other side, facing outwards towards the passengers. He crosses his arms, which bulk up his shoulders menacingly.
The whispers stop abruptly. Even though the train is packed with workers traveling during rush hour, a tangible area of space is left around the two Jedi and their charge.
Though the holo-cams are subtle, Obi-wan can see various passengers filming them or taking holos. He sighs; hopefully the public relations department can wrangle this adventure into a positive light. Force knows they need good PR after some recent debacles.
Absently, Obi-wan lets the child fiddle with his gloves, turning his hand over for an inspection. Once satisfied the child gives his hand a pat, before shifting in their seat restlessly, glancing out the window and at the other passengers.
Sensing childish mischief, Obi-wan distracts the child by creating animals with his hands, twisting his fingers into different shapes. A bird, a butterfly, a turtle, and a dog who pretends to eat the child’s sleeve, tugging at the fabric softly. The child laughs in delight, mimicking him with clumsy fingers. Gently, Obi-wan guides the small fingers into the correct position. After thoroughly exhausting his knowledge of hand puppets, Obi-wan withdraws the loth-cat from his pocket. He hands it to the child, whose presence lights up with glee. The figurine occupies them the rest of the ride.
He pretends not to feel Feemor’s amusement or flicker of pride that drift through the force. He is unused to such casual compliments on his actions.
And so, they continue downward, past the flashing lights of the bustling commercial districts. They fly past one of the spaceports, the loud clangs of landing and departing ships blasting through the airbus windows. Finally, they slid into a more residential district, full of softer streetlights and deeper gloom.
There are no airbus stops within the Mandalorian District, instead they get off at the preceding station in the Mon Cala district.
Obi-wan appreciates the extra time to settle his nerves. While his experiences with Mandalorians weren’t horrible per se, they couldn’t be called good either. It is better for them to be prepared and cautious, especially when entering an area under Mandalorian authority. Nominally, the Coruscant Security Bureau held jurisdiction over all the city planet, but in practice the districts policed themselves.
As they walk through the streets, Obi-wan notices the gradual addition of colorful banners and tarps draped around buildings and over awnings. Soft light glows from houses, streetlamps, and hanging lanterns that crisscross the avenues. Eventually, they emerge into a chaotic swirl of color surrounding a gateway. The durasteel is cheerfully stamped with a Mando’a phrase proclaiming a warm welcome to Little Keldabe. A smaller handmade sign hangs below the first one. It warns outsiders of disembowelment or decapitation.
Obi-wan chooses to ignore that one, even as a shiver goes down his spine.
“They are following us.” Feemor remarks as they pass through the gateway.
“Yes,” Obi-wan replies. “They are concerned for the child. But they are not hostile, yet.”
“You can feel their intentions?”
“A little. The muffling of beskar wears off the longer you are exposed to beings who wear it. And not all of them are in beskar. Many wear armor that’s a mix of durasteel and beskar sections.”
“You’re right,” Feemor agrees after a moment. He slowly turns his head from side to side, obviously scanning the area. The Mandalorians bristle, their worry spiking. The concentrated attention of over a dozen Mandalorians felt like pins pricking him in the Force.
“I can feel more of them now, though each one is still quite blurry to my senses. Since I feel no more beyond a sense of life, I will rely on your actions while we are here among them.”
Obi-wan glances at the Knight beside him, slightly bewildered but gratified. Working together with Knight Stahl was quite different than with Master Jinn, Obi-wan realizes. Feemor Stahl was open and communicative, allowing others to compensate for areas where he lacked knowledge or skill. While Master Jinn had a tendency towards self-absorption and stubbornness. Obi-wan’s thoughts are slightly bitter. He wonders how past missions would have unfolded if Master Jinn would simply work together with Obi-wan rather than thrust him on solo-missions and expect him to manage without guidance.
He tells himself to stop daydreaming. The past could not be changed, only his perception of it. But, here and now, he has a child to return home safely.
Obi-wan glances at the little tracking device on the child’s comm. They are almost to the indicated area, approximately a hundred meters away. Deftly, he steers the child towards a large fountain painted a bright orange and yellow. It’s a public spot, surrounded by an open area. They are in full view of anyone coming through the gateway, but he also has full view of anyone approaching.
Once there, the child tugs on his hand, chattering in Mando’a and gesturing at the square around them. Obi-wan cocks his head, listening intently to the child’s rushed words.
“I think they’re giving us an introduction to the district? They keep naming buildings and their functions. At least, I believe so.” He relates to Feemor.
Even as the child describes the area around them, they refuse to release Obi-wan’s hand. More and more armored figures filter into the open area surrounding the fountain. Obi-wan’s shoulders begin to tense up the longer they wait.
With a soft thunk, Feemor sits on the ground, posture completely relaxed.
“Feemor, what are you doing?” Obi-wan asks, glancing around anxiously.
“Relax, Obi-wan.” Feemor replies, voice completely unconcerned. “I’m simply tired and wish to rest my legs a bit. We did just finish an eight-hour shift.”
In a blur of motion, the child launches himself into Feemor’s lap. The knight jolts in surprise, but the movement only prompts the child to laugh. They jump up again and land on Feemor a second time. He wheezes as their elbow digs into his side.
There is a rustle around the plaza as many of the Mandalorians abort motions to charge forward, slowly relaxing as Feemor lets the child scramble up and down his tall frame. Obi-wan smirks in amusement at his partner’s suffering.
After another knock to the stomach, Feemor turns to Obi-wan pleading, “Please, get them to stop accidently punching me.”
“I doubt all of it is accidental,” Obi-wan replies dryly, “Mandalorians are trained from a young age to learn fighting techniques.”
Intent on saving Feemor from little armored limbs, Obi-wan crouches down a little way away. Slowly, he pats the ground in front of him in a little tap-tap rhythm. Attention caught, the child leans across Feemor. Obi-wan gestures for them to come over, patting the ground next to him. Curiously, the child clambers over, clocking Feemor in the chin with a boot. Feemor grunts but doesn’t wince.
Pulling a small stick of chalk from his belt-pouch, Obi-wan draws a slightly wonky circle on the duracrete. The child tilts his head from side to side, scrutinizing the circle, looking like a little bird of prey. Smiling behind his faceplate, Obi-wan withdraws a small fabric bag from his robes.
Glancing at a nearby Mandalorian, he slowly opens the bag to display small, polished stones in bright colors. They clink merrily as his gently dumps them on the duracrete. The stones roll slowly around the drawn circle.
Making sure that the child was paying attention, Obi-wan softly flicks one stone at another, pushing the target stone out of the circle. He moves that stone to his side. Feemor copies the actions to demonstrate the game. Obi-wan gestures for the child to go. They perk up in delight, flicking stones left and right. They play a few rounds in silence except for the delighted chatter and laughter of the child.
The sudden stillness among the Mandalorians warns Obi-wan.
Swiftly, he pauses the game, standing up to face the oncoming presence. The waiting crowd parts around a figure hurrying forward.
They are tall, clad from head to toe in armor that gleams a dull blue with green strips outlining the plates. A black mythosaur signet sits strikingly on their left chest plate.
Like a shot, the child runs across the small plaza and launches themselves into the newcomers’ arms.
“Buir!” They cry with relief.
“Boba!” The Mandalorian sweeps the child into their arms. After a few seconds of cuddling, the Mandalorian sets the child down and began an obvious pat down for injuries.
There is a small pang in his heart as Obi-wan watches their reunion.
Once assured of the child’s health and listening to their story with careful attention, the Mandalorian finally turns their attention to the waiting Jedi. Carefully, the newcomer approaches them. Stopping just out of grabbing range, the Mandalorian addresses them in barely accented Basic.
“I am Jango, he/him. Thank you for escorting my son back to Little Keldabe.” He loosely hugs the boy who is clutching onto his leg.
“I will admit that when I heard that two Jedi were with my son, I feared the worst. Yet my assumptions and prejudices were unfounded. May I have your names?”
Obi-wan inclines his head in greeting but remains silent. Feemor nods a greeting a moment later.
"Knight Feemor, what do we do now?” Obi-wan asks, feeling unsure now that they had delivered the child.
“Have patience, Obi-wan. I believe the Force is not done with us yet.”
The Force swirls and eddies around them, heavy with the weight of a thousand suns. Whatever happens here in the next few minutes will change the course of the galaxy. Idly, Obi-wan wonders if this is how Mace Windu feels shatter-points. He shifts slightly, uncomfortable under Jango’s stare.
After a few seconds, Jango speaks. “My son tells me that you know basic battlesigns, are you willing to communicate with that?"
Obi-wan glances towards Feemor, who senses his question and answers quietly.
“This might be the first time in recent history for a peaceful interaction between our peoples. You are authorized to use non-verbal language to communicate our intentions and our position as Temple Guards. Whatever the outcome of this meeting, I will be with you every step of the way.”
With a deep breath, Obi-wan begins to sign as clearly as possible.
-perimeter-patrol-time-security-protocol-silent-
Jango hums thoughtfully. “Whenever you patrol outside the Temple, part of your security protocol requires complete silence?”
With a nod, Obi-wan signs a confirmation.
“I see.” Jango states, “I understand your unwillingness to speak aloud. However, I owe you both a debt.”
The Force thickens for a brief heartbeat, falling around Obi-wan like fog. He breaths through its weight. Besides him, Feemor hums encouragingly.
-emergency-communications-allowed-allies-
Jango hums thoughtfully. “Communications are allowed between allies in the case of emergencies. Interesting, are Mandalorians considered allies of the Jedi?” He asks.
-unconfirmed-potential-allies-
Jango narrows his eyes. “You see us as potential allies. But to my knowledge, most Jedi share the opposite view.”
Obi-wan shrugs, unwilling to confirm or deny that truth.
Jango snorts. “Cautious being, aren’t you?” He hefts his son, who had begun dozing, up to rest against his chestplate. After adjusting his son, Jango turns back to the Jedi. His amber eyes are shrewd.
“Since you have remained unnamed, do you claim the debt on behalf of the Order or as an individual Jedi?”
Frantically, Obi-wan shakes his head, his hands speeding through a few signs.
-no-debt-protect-children-
“That’s a very interesting answer,” Jango remarks. “You understand the Mandalorian concept of claiming debts, and you know the correct battlesign to refuse that debt.”
There is rustling among the other Mandalorians, a simple shift of weight that is multiplied by their armor.
“However, I insist on honoring this debt. Tell me what you want.” He smiles wickedly, as Obi-wan hesitates, “if you do not, I will be forced to make my way to the Temple itself to ask the rest of your Order.”
As Obi-wan falters again, Feemor’s words float through his mind.
“First time in recent history for a peaceful interaction between our peoples.” Peaceful interactions…
Steeling his breath, his answers.
-intelligence-exchange-
Jango’s eyebrows rise. “An intelligence exchange between our people? The Jedi Temple is known to have the most extensive archives in the galaxy. How are you befitting from such an exchange?”
-my unit-spread thin-scouting-unreliable-prevent-bad-intelligence-
A dark expression crosses Jango’s face. “You speak of Galdiraan.”
Obi-wan nods curtly. The tension mounts around them, intense and sharp. Then, Jango’s son whimpers slightly, turning over in his sleep to press snugly against his father’s neck. Upon hearing the sound, Jango releases a sharp breath.
“Prevention, you say? The might absolve part of the debt. What else?”
-trade-route-strong-supply-chain-waypost-prevent-seige-
Again, Jango narrows his eyes, probing the Jedi with a penetrating gaze. “Wayposts and trade routes within Mandalorian Space? That’s outside of the Republic. You speak as if you are no longer safe here in Coruscant.”
Obi-wan flinches hard, almost tipping over with the force of his jerk. He refuses to allow his mind to wander back to dark visions of blasterfire and scattered bodies. Feemor steadies him with a hand on his back.
“Steady, Obi-wan, steady.” He whispers. “You’re almost finished, he feels close to agreeing to your terms. You are doing good here. The Force is singing for you.”
It is, Obi-wan realizes, singing faintly like a chime in the wind.
“I agree to your terms.” Jango announces abruptly. “Safety for safety. I will arrange a meeting between the Manda’lor and your Jedi Council. Will Tuangsday be suitable?” He glances at a nearby Mandalorian, who nods.
Obi-wan nods as well, suddenly overcome by exhaustion. Whether the High Council is free or not, they will make time to meet the ruler of Mandalore. But his part in the whole affair is over. With a final look at Jango holding his sleeping son, Obi-wan follows Feemor back to the Temple.
Ambling in the dark
Who knows what you’ll find
A single light to guide the way
Is it enough? Is it enough?
For you and I?
(Yes, it is)