Chapter Text
Obi-Wan had settled into his role as a knight. Or he had begun to, at least. Or—well, it was difficult, if he was being honest with himself. And as Qui-Gon had always told him, honesty with oneself was the most important type of honesty.
His former master had made it clear that Obi-Wan was still very much a part of their lives, even taking Obi-Wan and Anakin on a meditation retreat to the mountains of Naboo. In fact, when Obi-Wan had been surly and a bit disobedient, he had been firmly reminded that he was not too old to find himself over his former master’s knee for it.
Still, it was hard to see his former quarters inhabited by a new child, and to see the child bond so quickly and easily with Master Qui-Gon.
Obi-Wan loved Anakin, of course.
He could not help himself.
The child was bright and kind and funny, and he had a fierce optimism and relentless hope, and a sense of right and wrong and justice that set him apart from other children his age. And he loved so openly, something Obi-Wan, reserved as he was, had always struggled with.
Qui-Gon, in return, embraced the child’s openness—just as he had accepted Obi-Wan’s shyer, more reserved way of being—and Obi-Wan found them, more often than not, with Anakin cuddled up on the couch in Qui-Gon’s arms, or even holding fast to Qui-Gon’s hand.
It was not that Qui-Gon would have not allowed Obi-Wan to do that as a child. Of course he would have. Obi-Wan could remember many times his master had pulled him into a hug, or comforted him after a difficult day, or put a reassuring hand on his shoulder when Obi-Wan was nervous.
Perhaps Obi-Wan’s regrets had more to do with his own inability to do what Anakin did—Anakin seemed to have no qualms about launching himself into Qui-Gon or Obi-Wan’s arms and seek the comfort or care he needed.
So. Yes. Obi-Wan was adjusting to his bare new apartment and a life that involved missions for the council, and meetings, and travel, and being—well, alone.
To be a Jedi was to be alone. To follow orders and serve the greater good and deny oneself personal attachments and the softer things in life. He knew that. He could not remember the family he had been born to, but he knew well enough that they had thought Obi-Wan should use his Force sensitivity to serve the greater good. That that was better than knowing him.
They must have, right?
Because they had let him go.
And Qui-Gon would be there for him, if he asked, but Obi-Wan could never quite bring himself to ask.
A few months after they had returned from Naboo, Obi-Wan was assigned his first solo mission to an outer rim world.
Of course, he hadn't planned on trying to infiltrate an illegal slaving operation alone, without telling anyone where he had gone or what he was doing.
But now that he was here in this jungle planet—all alone—it felt as if the weight of this world was on his shoulders.
He opened his comms and began recording as he walked through the jungle—the location, the transports, the guards, the slavers, the open mines.
His hand hovered over the send option.
If he sent it to Qui-Gon—well, Qui-Gon would be displeased that he’d run off into the jungle all alone to face down the slavers without any kind of backup. But he would come, and that was the important thing.
If he sent it to the council, they would also be displeased, but there was a growing worry in his spirit that they would not come. The Force felt clouded to him here, clouded by his own pain and the overwhelming suffering all around him. Clouded, too, by his sudden doubts in the Jedi and their willingness to help. Both the slavers and the enslaved people here had laughed at the mention of the Jedi coming to help.
“Hands in the air.”
Obi-Wan jerked, his hand hovering on his comm.
“I wouldn’t do that if I were you.”
He turned, slowly. Slowly.
Three slavers—he could identify them by the red arm bands of their syndicate—were behind him, blasters drawn. And next to them, Senator Bolg, the corrupt senator Obi-Wan had been sent on this mission to protect.
“Ah, I thought you might try something foolish,” the senator said, his face twisting into a sneer. “Poking your nose into business it doesn’t belong in.”
Obi-Wan pushed send on his comm. He wasn’t sure who it would find—wasn’t sure if it would get past any signal blockers the slavers probably had in place. And then he dropped one hand slowly towards his saber.
Pain ripped through his shoulder, and he staggered backwards. The sleeve of his cloak was burned, and his right shoulder was singed and bleeding from the blaster wound. Kriff.
“Hands. Up.”
Obi-Wan did, slowly.
“On your knees, Jedi.” Senator Bolg stepped forward, the slavers followed, blasters leveled at him.
Obi-Wan glanced around him.
He had never been this alone, abandoned at the edge of the galaxy. No one was coming to save him. No one was coming to save any of them.
His knees hit the earth.
There is no emotion.
The slavers approached.
There is peace.
Obi-Wan locked his hands behind his head, staring defiantly up at Bolg.
There is no ignorance.
One of them struck his head with the blaster, and his mouth filled with blood, hot and metallic and bitter.
There is knowledge.
Another blow, and Obi-Wan fell.
There is no passion.
The earth was damp and cool beneath his cheek. His blood mingled with the fallen leaves.
There is serenity.
“Bind him,” one of the slavers said roughly.
There is no chaos.
Hands were pulling him backwards, twisting his arms behind him. Metallic cuffs clicked over his wrists.
There is harmony.
One of the slavers lifted his weapon high above Obi-Wan’s head, hand poised to strike him with it.
There is no death.
The blow fell.
There is the Force.
#
Obi-Wan Kenobi woke alone. He was lying in a small cell with a packed dirt floor and twisting metal bars around him. More of a cage, really, a low ceiling. The blaster wound in his shoulder was still trickling blood, and his lightsaber and commlink had been stripped from him.
He closed his eyes, letting his head thump back against the dirt. At least they’d removed the cuffs when they’d thrown him in here.
He had no concept of what time it was, or what day.
There is no death, he repeated to himself. There is the Force.
He thought of Anakin, and of all the wookie and human people in the slave camp. He thought of Quinlan’s bright smile, and Satine’s teasing look. He thought of Qui-Gon and how disappointed his master would be in the risks he had taken. But more than thought, he thought of Anakin’s joy and Quinlan’s playfulness and Satine’s courage and Qui-Gon’s kindness.
He was not alone in the galaxy, though he had convinced himself of it for a time—and risked his life foolishly because of it. And now he could not be sure his transmission would come through, or that anyone would have any idea where he had gone.
Perhaps the transmission had not gone through at all.
There is no chaos, he murmured in the darkness. There is harmony.
And he closed his eyes and thought of all the people in the galaxy he loved.
There is serenity, he told the darkness and the Force and his memories of home.
But nothing in the darkness answered him.
#
Qui-Gon received the comm from his former padawan as he was helping Anakin prepare for one of his new classes.
He took all of it in—the remote location Obi-Wan had pinged, the hunched shoulders of people and wookies who looked, even on the wobbling holograph, as if they were in pain, the slaver arm bands, the corruption Obi-Wan had uncovered—in a moment, and then snapped the holograph shut.
He had not, in fact, received it from Obi-Wan, but from Tholme, who was calling him now.
“Anakin,” Qui-Gon said gently. “Obi-Wan is in trouble, and I am going to go and help him.”
Anakin’s head snapped up, eyes shining with concern. “Can I come, Master?” he asked. “Please? I want to help. I want to—”
“No, child,” Qui-Gon said firmly. He was already pulling on his cloak, his hand falling to his lightsaber at his belt. He fixed Anakin with a look. “I need you safely here. I will bring Obi-Wan home. Do you trust me, Padawan?”
Anakin shifted from one foot to the other. “I can help,” he said.
“I will speak with Master Nu,” Qui-Gon said. “She can come and stay with you while I am off-world. I know this is difficult, dear one, but you will stay put while I go help our Obi-Wan.”
Anakin nodded, hugging Qui-Gon tightly around the middle for a moment, his small arms clinging.
Qui-Gon returned the hug and sent the child on his way, answering the comm from Tholme.
Tholme was on Kashyyyk. Qui-Gon could tell by the thick cover of trees and the staticky nature of the comm. Quinlan was beside him, saber drawn.
“Qui-Gon,” Tholme said sharply. “Your padawan is in trouble.”
“I saw the footage you sent me,” Qui-Gon said, forcing his heart rate to slow. He would do Obi-Wan no good if he did not manage his own emotions, care for the boy as he did. “Have you found him?”
Tholme sighed. “My former padawan received the transmission,” he said, sending a stern look at Quinlan. “And he decided to form a one-man rescue party against a host of slavers without telling anyone where he was going.”
Even on the weak transmission, Qui-Gon could see that Quinlan squirmed a little at Tholme’s tone.
“He managed to comm me as he was being pursue by slavers through the jungle,” Tholme said, still stern. “He escaped, and thankfully I was close enough to land here and join him. But all he knows is that Obi-Wan sent him this transmission about twelve hours ago, and then went radio silent.”
Qui-Gon was already nearing his ship, his long stride carrying him closer to reaching his former padawan. “Do you have the location he pinged from?” he asked. “Is anyone there?”
“It’s a whole encampment of slavers and some humans and wookies who are working the mines for them,” Quinlan answered. “We could go in—”
“We’ll need backup,” Tholme cut him off sharply. “And we’ll need to do this carefully, Qui-Gon.”
Qui-Gon nodded. He was in his ship now, in the controls. “I’ll relay Obi-Wan’s message to the council,” he said. “Master Yoda and I have been discussing the possibility that Senator Bolg has been corrupt for quite some time. He will not be surprised to hear that this is taking place there, and I’m sure he will muster reinforcements for us as soon as he is able.”
“In the meantime, Obi-Wan is suffering,” Quinlan snapped.
“Peace, padawan,” Tholme said firmly. “I feel it, too, but if you rush in like Obi-Wan clearly did, you will not be as lucky as you were the last time. We will need patience if we are to rescue Obi-Wan—and the enslaved peoples as well.”
“I will be there shortly,” Qui-Gon said, and terminated the transmission.
As he entered hyperspace, he took a moment to meditate. He found, as he did, that he was angry. It was an unfamiliar—and unpleasant—emotion. He felt disappointment, sometimes, in his padawans’ actions. He reprimanded them at times, certainly. But this—Obi-Wan disappearing into a remote jungle on some harebrained rescue mission, without so much as a word to anyone until it was too late?
Qui-Gon found the anger overwhelming, wrapped in a layer of fear. It took a good part of the journey—and a great deal of meditation—before he was able to feel the emotions as deeply as he needed to, and then release them into the Force.
Obi-Wan was as good as his child. And the fear of losing him was understandably great, but that would not help Obi-Wan now. And Obi-Wan very desperately needed the help.
There is harmony. Qui-Gon felt his mind quiet at last, and then he was landing on Kashyyyk, greeting the locals as pleasantly as he could, and then, at last, at last speeding off into the jungle.
#
At some point, slavers came to Obi-Wan’s cell and asked him questions—about the council, about who he had spoken to, about who knew where he was—and hurt him, and left. He did not answer the questions, and he did not acknowledge the pain.
He meditated, as Qui-Gon had taught him.
He was bleeding from the blaster wound again, and his head ached. One of his ribs might be cracked, though he could not tell.
There is serenity.
He slept, thought not well, and meditated, and slept, and meditated. And survived.
And when he woke—hours, maybe, or maybe days, he could not tell—it was to the sound of blaster fire outside, and then—and then, kriff, he had not known the sound would fill him with joy as it did, but it was Quinlan’s voice, sharp with relief.
“Obi-Wan?” Quinlan’s saber cut through the door rather recklessly, and then his rough hands were pulling Obi-Wan up, his arms wrapping around Obi-Wan. “Kriff, you idiot, I thought you were dead.”
The hug hurt Obi-Wan’s injured ribs, but he found he didn’t care, and then Quinlan was yelling something unintelligible into his comm link and hauling Obi-Wan with him out of the cell and down a long dark corridor until they emerged into the jungle.
The last thing Obi-Wan saw before he lost consciousness entirely was Qui-Gon, arms outstretched towards Obi-Wan. And if they caught him when he fell—well, he scarcely knew. But what he did know was that—
Obi-Wan Kenobi was not alone in the galaxy after all.