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Chapter Text

He stalked the halls silently, followed the wisping hues of cobalt and sunburst, starlight and moss towards his sanctum. He was sure he would defile that sacred place with the anger that burned raw and righteous in his heart, and yet it was the only place that could offer some semblance of comfort.

He didn’t understand why Bruck found satisfaction in cruel, cutting words, nor did he understand why he seemed to be Bruck’s preferred victim. Yet, part of Obi-Wan was glad that it was him rather than one of his friends. 

Still, Obi-Wan had let his temper get the best of him in the Room of a Thousand Fountains. He still bore the ache in his shoulder from where Bruck had landed a harsh blow, fuelled by anger and a need to win.

Obi-Wan didn’t need to win, he just wanted to stay . 

Obi-Wan followed the Force’s path, for the Force was always with him, and it had guided Master Mace to him in his moment of greatest need. The Force had guided him to Quinlan on that fateful day, and it had guided him to his unusual but beloved kyber crystal in the hallowed, ancient ice of Illum.

I am one with the Force and the Force is with me.

I am one with the Force and the Force is with me.

The Force had guided him with visions that terrified him, comforted him, and perhaps, most importantly, saved the lives of many. It had a plan for him, he knew, for why else would he be cursed with visions of what could come to pass? Why else would he be cursed by the feel of flames licking at his skin, the acrid scent of burning flesh and the screams of raw hatred that never seemed to stay?

Why else would he be haunted as he were?

The Force had a plan for all of its children, for them to live and thrive in the light of the Temple, to grow beneath the protection of ten thousand brothers and sisters, teachers and Masters, healers and scholars. The Temple itself, while not alive, was not simply a building of stone and glass. Generations of Jedi had given their essence to its foundations, and that willing transference made it a building like no other in the Galaxy.

It was a place Obi-Wan would soon have to leave. Nearing his thirteenth lifeday, or what they thought to be his thirteenth lifeday since none truly knew when he had been born, he would soon be too old to be considered for padawanship. Eleven years he had lived within the halls of the Jedi, and yet, in a few weeks, there was the staggering possibility that he might never again lay eyes upon it.

That very thought clutched at his heart with sharp, icy fingernails. It tore open the flesh and allowed his lifeblood to spill forth in waves of unrelenting agony. The thought that Obi-Wan would never again meditate with his brothers and sisters, with his friends, with the Masters who had been there for as long as he could remember.

Never again would the stylus be snatched from his hand by Komari when she thought he took his studies too seriously. Never again would he sit with Master Mace and Depa as they watched recorded holo-operas, nor would he have the privilege of being one of the few people that could make Master Yan smile.

He’d never get to sit amongst the crechlings and watch as the bonds of kinship were formed, twisting in patterns of lattice and lace and love. He’d never hear the Temple sing again, so far away was the Agricorps, so deeply entrenched in the Living Force as it was, Obi-Wan knew it would be miserable for him.

The Force knew it too, for the last of the Stewjoni Force-Sensative, saved from the banks of death, inherited the power of those who came before. The river that had given life to the village and fields, to the crops and trees, was nourished on the bones of a thousand thousand children, and that water had touched Obi-Wan, so powerful in the Force, and it ran through his veins.

The child that would grow up to be the Sith’s Bane, would be the vengeance of those who came before him, not for power, nor glory, but for love, pure and untainted. A love for all things, great and small, a love that was perhaps the only hope left to quell the spreading miasma.

He would be the Guiding Light, silver and azure, the brother and father, friend and focus of her Chosen. For he, Obi-Wan Kenobi, named to be nameless, sacrificed and forgotten, was the tie that bound. But that was for the future, and the Force yearned to reach out and press her love around him, to swathe him in silken hope, to promise him that all would be well.

This was, perhaps, the only timeline where it could be, for in none of the considerable variables had the sithspawn survived. Perhaps that was why this was the Force’s favourite, perhaps that was why she had cursed one so young to bear the burden of what was to come.

Obi-Wan, unaware of the musing of the Force that settled around him in this shadowy place, warmed by the eternal flames of the brazier, surrounded by the statues of the fallen, their names etched in great orchidite slabs. Ten thousand years of dead lay in this chamber, cavernous and cold to all but him, the child with death in his veins, their names and presence enshrouded in filigree.

“There is life and death and to us there is the Force. From the Force all things come and so to the Force, all things shall go. The Galaxy think us mystics for believing in such a thing; witches and mad, and yet they have their own beliefs. So, Obi-Wan, why do you think they mistrust us?” Master Sifo had asked once as Obi-Wan did his homework beneath his watchful, hawk-like eyes.

 Obi-Wan had taken a moment, something that the man before him had taught him to do. You were never responsible for your first thought, Master Sifo had counselled, but you are responsible for what comes next.

 “ They fear us, I think. ” Obi-Wan had said. “Fear what the Force allows us to do, they see it as magic and trickery because they don’t understand, and people are always afraid of what they don’t understand.”

 “And so few we are now, they will never try to learn.” Master Yan had scoffed. “Yet, we are never alone for we have ten thousand brothers and sisters, and we have the Force, and through that, we are one.”

 And yet here, in the Hall of Memorial, Obi-Wan had never felt alone. Here, in this sacred place surrounded by the dead, he could reflect and find a temperance to the fury that often clouded him as the raging hormones of youth proved to be too much.

 Here, reflected in the polished stone, it did not matter that his eyes were too unnatural a blue. Here, it did not matter that they had an ephemeral sheen to them in the darkness. Here, in this sanctuary of his, it did not matter that his canines had grown a touch too sharp to be that of a standard human. Here, surrounded by the dead, it did not matter that he was a touch too aggressive in his fights with Bruck, his tormentor, the initiate who tormented his friends.

Anger, not the way of the Jedi.

Here, it did not matter, for Obi-Wan was alone and so he could cry tears that glimmered like pearls, yet another unnatural artifice of whatever he was. Near-human his records had said, but yet Obi-Wan did not know what that truly meant. Part of him wanted to know, for when the others in his class had done presentations on the worlds they came from, a way to connect them to a heritage that was theirs as much as that of the Jedi was, no matter the circumstances of their Founding, they had something .

 He had Coruscant, but even that had felt wrong. He had, in his mind’s eye, a vision of sprawling green glens and rushing rivers of water, but they were the foolish imaginings of a child who had no home but the Jedi Temple and those who had raised him.

He had the Jedi. They were his family, his culture and tradition. Still, curiosity was a facet of life, one that was taught to the youngest of crechlings. The whys of the universe were always Obi-Wan’s favourites.

“Where did I come from, Master Mace? ” Twelve year old Obi-Wan had asked just months ago, classical music playing in the background as he meditated with Master Mace and Depa.

“ We are Jedi. ” Master Mace’s tone was as it always was; firm, direct, glimmering with warmth and kinship. “ So few of us were born here, but you, Obi-Wan, you were. Oh I Searched far and wide, and then I was led back to the Temple, and there you were. I took you in my arms, and together, we came home.”

Home. The Jedi Temple on Coruscaunt was, and always would be, home. The Jedi would always be his home.

“I was abandoned?”

“We found you. ” Depa’s presence had coloured star-blossom and lavender, familiar and comforting as Master Mace spoke. “The Temple sings for all of its children, just as the Force does. We are lucky enough to hear the chimes, but others…”

“I understand.” Obi-Wan had nodded, for he had often frequented that great tree where memorials for Searched who were found too late whispered love-peace-family in the very air of the Room of a Thousand Fountains.

He was a child of the Jedi, he did not need to know what planet he came from, he did not need to know if he had family somewhere in the Galaxy because he had his family in these hallowed halls.

Depa had walked him back to the dorm that night, for Quinlan and Master Tholme were off in the Galaxy, and she had placed her hand his shoulder and wound a thread of her own Force signature through the lattice patterns of Masters Yoda and Mace, Master Yan and Sifo, and even the purified threads of the very Temple itself…

It found its home around the sage and shadowgrass of Komari’s base-presence, a parting gift from the newly Knighted Jedi before she went off on her first solo mission.

He hadn’t dreamt that night, peaceful in the respite his family had freely offered themselves just to see him loved and cherished as all younglings were.

Obi-Wan, however, was no longer a youngling. 

He was Masterless.

Soon, it would be his birthday.

Soon, he would be gone, little more than a fleeting memory of those who remained.

Obi-Wan only had only ever known the Jedi, and yet, soon enough, he may not even have them. No master would take him as an apprentice, his oddities too grave and great, his temper renowned yet only where Bruck was concerned, his steps too silent, his senses so heightened. An aberration that most tended to avoid, save those few.

 Masters Yoda and Mace, Sifo and Yan, even Battlemaster Drallig. His friends, Bant and Siri, Reef and Garen; his brother in all things but blood, Quinlan; his sisters Komari and Depa. Healer Che and her wise, knowing eyes, her gentle hands had she tended to him in the fevered haze of that haunting vision that plagued him, the vision he could never remember.

The Hall of Memorials crooned out a song that could not be heard by mortal ears, but Sithspawn were not mortal in the sense of every other species that the Force flowed in, through, and around. It was a haunted thing, melodic and ethereal, the cracking ice of Illum and the rustling of leaves in the gardens and the dripping water of Master Yoda’s pond.

Soon, unless something drastic were to happen, Obi-Wan would be forced from the only home he had ever known, from the only family he had ever known. He did not disparage the Corps so, only that he knew -even if it was rather prideful of him, another fault of his for which there seemed to be many- that he was to be a Jedi Knight.

Obi-Wan Kenobi, the cosmic binding of what may come, the sum of tragedy and a well of infinite sadness, was the only living child of the Unifying Force since Stewjon was razed. 

Not that he knew that.

No. All Obi-Wan Kenobi knew was the loving embrace of the Force as it blanketed him in gossamer silk. Through the biting salt that wetted his eyes, he could see it, shimmering and sparkling like far-distant stars and it came to him.

He wasn’t good enough to be a Jedi, he realised in the dark. The others must have known it, and their civility and kindness had them skirting around the topic whenever it was even alluded too.

Master Mace, he knew, because of his ability, had a seat waiting for him once Depa passed her trials. Master Mace was a blinking beacon in the Force, gilded ivory and pearling lilac. Obi-Wan knew he would flourish beneath the man’s teachings, but how could he even suggest such a thing?

Master Mace was in a position to help not only Obi-Wan, but the entirety of the Jedi, the Galaxy .

Obi-Wan was only one being in the face of billions. His wants mattered not in the grand scheme of the Force’s desires.

He thought of the other Masters who had raised him, watched him grow from babe to boy to initiate. None of them had claimed him, not like Master Tholme had for Quin, or like Healer Che had done for Bant.

They loved him, yes, but love was the Jedi way. 

And despite his lack of master and his waning days in the Order, Obi-Wan was a Jedi.

A Jedi alone, warmed by the embrace of the dead, but a Jedi nonetheless.

“I thought I might find you here.” Master Mace walked toward him, his face blank but he extended his Force signature with a greeting flourish that felt as delicate as a butterfly’s caress. “Master Yoda wishes to speak with you.”

“I-.” Obi-Wan wiped at his eyes. “I was meditating. I made mistakes, Master. I was angry, I don’t want to be angry.”

Mace frowned. He noticed of course, how Obi-Wan’s instincts had changed over the years. The Korun Jedi wondered what that meant for the future, because he knew that every Jedi struggled, especially the younglings. What mattered was making the choice to seek guidance, to choose the path of the Jedi.

 He settled himself in front of Obi-Wan and took the boy’s hands in his with a hum.

The Force sang around them.

“You did.” Mace agreed. “But meditating with another to guide you through those turbulent emotions is always better than ruminating on your own faults, Obi-Wan. Come, together then.”

Obi-Wan nodded. He was perhaps the only youngling who meditated more than he had to, but there was something about sinking into the watery embrace of the Force that called to his very soul.

Mace watched the child for a moment before he felt the gentle, shy caress of his watery presence. Peace emanated from Obi-Wan as heat did a flame. Never was the Force more open, more placid and peaceful, than when Obi-Wan’s presence, azure and silver, fresh like ever-flowing crystalline water, was open as it were now.

Meditating with Obi-Wan was a gift that Mace would forever treasure. The call of  his pride, the whispering calls of power that could be his if only he was strong enough to take the drive were quietened.

It was much like Vaapad in a way; cool and soothing like a balm of eucalyptus and wind.

Mace, despite what people thought of him, what they thought of his odd kyber and odder fighting style, continually turned away from the thoughts of the dark-side and its whispers.

 The Jedi did not need nor want power. They were healers and scholars and peacekeepers. They were once the shield of the Galaxy, and now they were the sword of the Senate, and with each passing year the shackles of lace and filigree were tightened around the Jedi.

Around their family.

Around their younglings.

Mace’s own anger, his own fear, his own mislike grew and grew too. He had seen the horrors of the Galaxy at large, and he had seen enough to know that the Senate and most within its chamber didn’t care.

Not when profiteering off the suffering of trillions made them fat with credits.

(It was one of the few things he and Master Dooku agreed upon that was not Obi-Wan.)

Obi-Wan, bright, inquisitive, light , Obi-Wan, who reached out in the Force, nudging softly on those shadowing tendrils that seemed to be creeping along the Force, growing thicker and darker day by day. Those pathways, covered in glittering pustules of possibility and pain, a stark reminder of potential.

Mace, for the first time, saw what happened in the metaphysical when those feelings, not yet released into the waters of the Force through his own meditation, were touched by Obi-Wan’s presence.

His light, his sheen, it bound those shadowy tendrils like lattice over scales. There was no sound as they were taken, absorbed , vanishing into a crystal stream that returned to little Obi’s own cycling waters.

Mace hid his confusion well, locking that thought away as he then led Obi-Wan in freeing his own doubts from his mind. He led the meditation with Obi-Wan as he would with Depa, and he felt the flaring peace as it settled over them both in the halls of the dead.

A macabre place for a child to find comfort, but death was only the beginning to the Jedi. Moment slipped by in tandem breaths and to the sound of water rushing over stones in a creek.

Eventually, Mace retreated, and with a long exhale he blinked open his eyes. He was greeted with the sight of Obi-Wan, starlight shimmer coiling his Force presence and the thousands of possible pathways. Mace followed them, and there was one, bubbling and spotting like lava, that was close.

Very close.

A decision about your master? Or is it another vision?

But Mace did not dwell on it. Instead he stood and offered his hand to Obi-Wan who, in that moment, with his red-blonde hair and reflective blue eyes that were made for stalking prey, looked more like a tooka kit in a sunbeam than a lothcat on the prowl.

So many questions and so few answers. We will not stop searching, young one. We will learn so that we may provide, so that we may help you. It’s not just your Force presence that is different because of your origins, no, your mannerisms are too.

“Come.” Mace said, batting away his own ruminations. “Master Yoda awaits.”

**

Yoda stared at the dissatisfied faces that all but glared at him. He was in Yan’s rooms, his newly Knighted Padawan returned from her mission in the Lower Levels with Tholme, and Yoda did not know when she found out about Obi-Wan’s genetic heritage, but Yan had waved him off when Yoda had grown silent in the face of her.

There were others there too; Sifo-Dyas, Mace, Yan himself, and perhaps most curiously, Master Yaddle. Yoda knew none of them would agree with his thoughts, and he also knew that they knew the reason they were gathered here.

“Your plan, master, is foolish.” Yan said simply, his lips turned into a frown.

“What plan?” Sifo questioned.

“Yoda has this grand idea to have Obi-Wan and initiates to duel in front of prospective Masters, one, I suspect, in particular.” Yan said with a glower. “You used to be more subtle, master mine.”

“Not Qui-Gon.” Komari whispered, aghast. 

She rarely had dealings with her lineage brother, especially now that he was so focused on his Fallen former apprentice, but he was so unremarkably bleh that Komari knew he’d stifle Obi-Wan…

“There’s nothing wrong with Qui-Gon.” Sifo sniffed, because as with Rael and Komari, he was essentially Qui-Gon’s second Master. “But he would be a terrible fit for Obi-Wan.”

That was putting it lightly. Komari’s Padawan brother was as close to obsessed a Jedi could become with finding his former apprentice, going as far to repudiate Feemor, of all people, even if he’d been Knighted long before Komari had ever been an Initiate. Xanatos was his shame to bear, because Qui-Gon had his part in making the man exactly who he was. 

There was also the added issue of Obi-Wan’s rather secretive genetic lineage and the fact that Qui-Gon Jinn had no time for anything other than the Living Force.

Obi-Wan was a child of the Unifying Force, the most mythical of the four components of the Force. Perhaps, because of his origins, it made sense.

In the end, it didn’t matter.

In the end, it was all that mattered.

But Komari knew that Qui-Gon was perhaps Obi-Wan’s only chance. No other master, for whatever reason, had shown an interest in Obi-Wan. Not even those who Komari thought would have.

His birthday was approaching far too-swiftly, and Komari was being both selfish and selfless in her desire to keep Obi-Wan in the Temple because he would, perhaps, be the best of them.

“Nothing we say will change your mind, will it?” Yan sighed, his lips pursed. “I told you years ago, Qui-Gon would be a terrible Master to the boy.”

“Your Padawan, Obi-Wan Kenobi cannot be. Either of yours.” Yoda said, blinking reproachfully at Mace who went to speak. “Connected you are, yes, clear to see it is. Teach him you will, be his master you will not. Need an anchor to the here and now, young Obi-Wan does, Qui-Gon, lives only in the moment, he does.”

“So you’ve engineered a duel between Obi-Wan and another who, according to reports, endeavors in un-Jedi-like behaviour because you want Qui-Gon to claim him.” Yan shook his head, irritated. “My errant padawan has forsaken teaching, have you forgotten this in your advanced age, Master?”

“If, not in front of your padawan we were, my stick, hit you, it would.” Yoda grumbled. “Meditated on this, I have. Spoken the Force has. Listen, we all will, because Jedi we are. When the Force speaks, listen we do.”

Mace winced. Once again, as it always was when Obi-Wan was concerned, a Shatterpoint was looming, this one on the crossroads. Mace tried to follow its path and cursed when he realised they both led toward the creeping shadows of the dark that loomed…

One was much shorter than the other.

But that didn’t mean much. The one that led closer to the darkness could itself have a branched path that led toward azure clarity, such was the nature of Mace’s ability.

(It also didn’t matter because already the Sith’s plans were in motion, though thwarted they were. Yet, it was never enough. The Darkness would come, for the rot had survived, but perhaps, in this universe, in this time, it would be cleansed.)

“Why haven’t any other masters offered to teach him?” Komari inquired. 

“Know, that fond of Obi-Wan, I am.” Yoda said. “Deal with Force-Visions like his, most masters cannot. Know, my lineage, is best for the care he may need, they do.”

For a half-second, Komari was going to offer to take him, to raise him to Knighthood and beyond, to help Obi-Wan grow into the Jedi they knew he would be, because he already exhibited their best qualities, and yet she knew she was not the right person.

She didn’t believe that Qui-Gon was, either.

“My council seat, give it up I will.” Yoda said, shocking the room into stunned silence. “If take Obi-Wan on as his padawan learner, Qui-Gon does not. Unorthodox plan I have, to raise Obi-Wan, I do. A plan, that needs many Masters, it does.”

“Yoda.” Master Yaddle hummed. “That has not been done since before the Reformation. You know the dangers of multiple bonds with one so young.”

“Bonds with us, he already has.” Yoda said, smiling. “Never before has there been a Stewjoni Jedi, unorthodox, we will need to be. But Jedi, Obi-Wan Kenobi will be.”

“So why bother with the rigmarole of it all?” Sifo wondered. 

“Bound in the Living Force, none of us are.” Yoda reminded with a pointed claw. “Back-up plan, this will be. Still think together, Qui-Gon and Obi-Wan should be, I do. Choice, there’s, it must be. Force it, I will not, we will not.”

Komari sucked her teeth as she released her irritation into the Force. It didn’t help that she understood why Master Yoda was correct; usually it wouldn’t matter, but when one aspect of the pair was bound so inexplicably to one aspect of the Force, finding their counter-weight was important.

And they all knew Obi-Wan Kenobi was the only Jedi in an age or more to be bound so intrinsically to the Unifying Force.

**

Two days later, Cin Drallig, Battlemaster of the Jedi Order, watched as his students sparred in friendly competition. Most of them already had their Masters, and they were there, in the crowds of senior padawans, knights and even some members of the High Council who had come to watch.

Cin’s focus was on the students showcasing their forms, and one of them in particular. Knowing what he did now, knowing that Obi-Wan Kenobi’s species had been created by the Sith and for the Sith, he understood why it was so easy for the boy to sink into battle-meditation.

He was, quite literally, made for war. 

Cin himself would have scooped the boy up for the Temple Guard, and as his own Padawan, if he didn’t fear Yan cursing him for stealing the kid from him. He suspected Yoda had a reason for not claiming him, and why others hadn’t tried.

It became obvious when he saw Yoda with Qui-Gon.  Everybody knew Kenobi had Force-Visions, and there had even been whispers about him being a near-fabled Oracle , and that had, no doubt, quelled the interest in many a master, as had the boy’s impatience and borderline arrogance.

Cin wasn’t sure if it was arrogance when Kenobi worked as hard as he did to achieve it. Oh, Cin could sense the desperation to prove himself, and he knew from both his own classes and from Yan’s words that Kenobi felt as though he didn’t truly belong and had to work twice as hard for it.

Cin also knew that it was only Kenobi that felt that way.

So the Battlemaster watched him each time he took up a training saber, the cyan light so different from the sunset hue of Kenobi’s lightsaber. That lightsaber, and indeed the chime it carried for all who knew how to listen, were another thing that set Kenobi apart.

He watched as Kenobi won again and again, and Cin recognised the missteps now for what they were; instincts warring with muscle-memory. Once, he had believed them to be inattentiveness, but clarity had come with the truth as it so often did.

Cin understood why the boy’s nature had to be kept secret; they weren’t only biological weapons, but swords of flesh and blood.

He wandered around the room, settling close to where Yoda and Qui-Gon were, listening to their conversation just as Mace and Yan were, while Komari and Depa were there to support Obi-Wan.

Qui-Gon’s words were quiet as he spoke to his grandmaster, but Cin could hear enough;

He’s capable…

Arrogant, look at that block…

He’s toying with them, that’s not our way…

The worst of it, however, came, during the final round. Cin almost cursed when he realised who it was; Kenobi v Chun. They were the entire reason Yoda had decided to bring the tournament forward, that and Qui-Gon’s appearance in the Temple after months…

Force help us, this should be interesting .

It was. Cin watched, enraptured, as too did the others in attendance. Kenobi, when the time came, would excel at Sorsu, for even now, untrained in it as he was, he was fighting through defence alone. It made Chun angry, and Cin could see the slipping of his usually poised foot-work as the duel wore on.

He also saw the boy draw on the Force as his anger grew and Cin’s lips thinned. Resorting to anger for strength was not the Jedi way, something that an initiate should know even if they struggled with it.

Kenobi too, wore the veneer of aching muscles and exhaustion, and the slight chime in the Force was the only noticeable hint that the boy was drawing upon the Force to bolster his reserves. 

He was doing it instinctively, without knowing. Cin would speak to him about it because it would be hell to unlearn later.

Then, when Chun forced a rather violent downward slash at Kenobi in order to break his indomitable defence, the other initiate simply parried the blade, and had they been real, sparks would have been flying, flesh would have been singed and limbs would be thudding to the ground with a dull sound and screams.

Mou kei. 

Kenobi didn’t know what he’d done, of course he didn’t. Cin could see that in his face and in the Force, but he knew that its practical application would be catastrophic because the poor boy looked horrified .

Fuck it , Cin thought as he called an end to the tournament, watching as Kenobi bowed, shaking, I’ll take him by week’s end if nobody else will.

He would make a fine Temple Guard.

It was too bad the boy would vanish the next day.

Chapter Text

The last thing Obi-Wan had remembered was the Force crying out in warning. 

Before that, he and his clan had been at the Alderaanian Exhibit at the embassy. He’d been silent and sullen because of the happenings of the day before; he’d let his anger get the best of him in the duel, had been horrified by the visceral want to catch his prey that he’d lost himself in the currents of the Force.

He had won, of course he had, but if such loss of civility was the price of victory he didn’t want it. That wasn’t the Jedi way, and Obi-Wan had returned to his empty dorm to hide his shame.

He definitely would be going to the Agri-Corps now. Maybe, if Obi-Wan asked, the Council of Reassignment would allow him to join the Educorps instead.

Quin, bless him, had tried his best to alleviate Obi-Wan’s worries. He had known that nobody would want him as their Padawan following such a display, and so he had tried to look forward to the exhibit because it could have very well been the last time he’d ever see Coruscant.

Maudlin as he’d been, when Obi-Wan had seen an obviously lost and confused old man struggling with his case and cane, he had tried to help. He would always try to help. The old man had smiled at him, uttering his thanks, and when Obi-Wan looked back, he saw his clanmates were further down the exhibit, and he’d tried to catch up with them.

Only to walk right into another man.

 That one had been younger, his dark hair loose and his clothing expensive. For a moment, Obi-Wan had believed him to be one of the senatorial aides, that he’d embarrassed not only himself but also the Jedi Order, but the man had only grinned.

Then the Force had cried its warning and Obi-Wan remembered nothing but darkness. It was not true darkness, not in the way of closed eyes or sleep, but that hazing shadow-realm where the Force lived.

It was only its soothing trickle that kept Obi-Wan from panicking, for he could not feel anything, and he could not force his eyes open. There was silence. Then, even the sound of the Force was gone , replaced by disturbing stillness.

He had no idea how long he had been in that state, but when Obi-Wan awoke, it was on a ship, experiencing the gleam of hyperspace travel for the first time. The man from earlier was seated behind the controls, but his eyes were on Obi-Wan and Obi-Wan alone.

“Don’t worry, little brother, everything will be fine. They’ll come for you, and when they do, I’ll let you go. If they don’t, well… I've got you.”

Little brother.

Little brother.

The man had moved, viper-quick, and there was the hiss of a hypo-needle but Obi-Wan didn’t feel it as it pierced his flesh, so thin as it was. He’d returned to the darkness then, moments ago, hours ago, days ago, he didn’t know.

He woke in darkness too.

Obi-Wan’s tongue was fat and heavy in his mouth, dry and tacky as it stuck to the back of his teeth. His head ached viciously, alive and pulsing in time with the harsh beats of his heart. There was something tight and cold around his throat, biting painfully into the skin. Uncoordinated hands went to pull at it, though Obi-Wan only managed to hit himself in the face.

Humiliation burned his face just as tears threatened to burn his eyes. He tried to reach for the Force, tried to sink into its calm serenity, but all Obi-Wan was met with was an abyss of nothingness.

That was when the fear quickened his breathing. Obi-Wan tried valiantly to control himself, tried to breath as he would if he were meditating, but the stark absence of the Force was unlike anything he’d ever known before.

Hands reached for him, roughened from work, skin cracked and calloused. Obi-Wan hissed, a feral and frightful sound, and his instincts, the ones he did not know the origin of, had those too sharp teeth of his finding home in flesh.

The curse that came from the being Obi-Wan couldn’t see was in Mando’a. Having had visions twice now of the Mand’alor and his faction, Obi-Wan had taken to learning about the people that the Force seemed so keen on giving a chance.

“Calm down.” The voice, male, gravelly and dry, huffed. “I’m just takin’ the blindfold off. Keep your teeth to yourself.”

Shame flooded Obi-Wan’s system. He swallowed, his throat thick and uncomfortable, and he unlocked his fingers together in a grip so tight it bordered on painful. He squeezed his eyes shut as he felt the knot being undone at the back of his head, and then he blinked slowly.

He knew the room he was in was dark, but his eyes seemed to compensate, for the world had taken on a greyscale hue where the pockets of light were shadows, and the maan in front of him was a shadowy form threaded with carmine-like veins.

Obi-Wan had no idea what was happening to him. His vision had never been like this before.

“You’ll get used to the dark.” The voice said gently. “The mines are brighter, makes it easier to work.”

Obi-Wan tried to speak, but his mouth would not work. He knew that whatever situation he found himself in was not a good one, knew that he’d been kidnapped and he also knew that nothing good waited for kidnapped Force-sensitive younglings.

Obi-Wan was sure he was past the point of panicking, but he still flinched when the only other presence came closer to him. With his vision behaving as oddly as it was, Obi-Wan couldn’t make out his features properly, but there was something so familiar about his voice…

He had heard it before. 

“Where are we?” Obi-Wan asked, his voice ruined. “Who-?”

“The mines of Bandomeer.” The stranger explained, and then Obi-Wan's companion huffed again, and even without the Force Obi-Wan could feel the amusement. “You must have put up a hell of a fight for them to strap that thing around your neck. Ah, no, don’t touch. I’d rather not get blown up if it’s all the same, ad’ika”

Blown up.

Blown up .

Obi-Wan was Force knows how far from the Jedi Temple, in a cell with a stranger who bled familiarity, with a bomb-collar around his neck. If he had access to the Force, Obi-Wan was sure that if he’d reflected on his body he’d find a slave chip too, because he knew the collar was the thing that was cutting him off from the Force.

The explosive component was only there to make sure he didn’t get any ideas.

Obi-Wan keened, dug his nails into his flesh because he wanted nothing more than to rip the collar from his throat. But Obi-Wan knew he couldn’t do that. He forced his hands down to his side, shivering. The clothes he was in were not the clothes he’d been taken in.

Don’t think about it. Don’t think about it.

Instead, he focused on the stranger; he’d retreated to the other side of their small, barren cell. He was broad-shouldered, his head was tipped back against the wall, his eyes closed and his chest rising and falling in practiced movements.

He wasn’t panicking. The man didn’t seem to be much of a threat, yet. But Obi-Wan knew that Mandalorians weren’t too fond of the Jedi, and so he resolved to keep that piece of information to himself.

“How long have I been here?”

“I don’t know.” The man shrugged. “They threw you in here about an hour ago and left. How old are you, kid?”

“‘M twelve.” Obi-Wan swallowed, working his throat that was painfully dry.

The curses returned, tinged in an anger Obi-Wan didn’t need the Force to sense. Somehow, however, Obi-Wan got the distinct impression the stranger wasn’t angry at him , but rather the situation.

It was then, shivering with the lingering effects of the drugs used to sedate him and from the void of the Force, Obi-Wan was greeted with flashes of memories from his visions.

A child dragging a dead man through snow and trees.

A mythosaur emblazoned set of armour beside a smaller being clad in armour painted green.

Galidraan as it could have been, and Galidraan as it was in their past.

“You’re Jango Fett.” Obi-Wan whispered, the realisation setting his hair on edge. 

“I am.” His body shifted, intrigue and weariness radiating from his body. “And who are you?”

Jango Fett wasn’t what I was expecting , Master Yan had hummed after the mission to Galidraan, proud and arrogant, yes, but level-headed and methodical. He didn’t trust us, and we didn’t trust him, but he honoured the vow his father had made.

“My name is Obi-Wan Kenobi.” Obi-Wan, even cut off from the Force as he was, would trust in the path it had him walking, because how could he not? After all, what were the chances that he'd end up kidnapped, only to find himself with Jango Fett of all beings? “I was kidnapped on a clan trip to the Alderaan Embassy on Coruscant.”

“Kenobi.” Jango repeated, distrustful. “Say you were Kenobi, what warning did your Jedi Master pass on to my buir?”

A test. Was Jango Fett really testing him to see if Obi-Wan was who he claimed he was? He wanted to laugh because it was such a Master Mace thing to do; trust but verify , especially if you are already defending . 

And Obi-Wan very much was defending; he was alone, on Bandomeer, kidnapped, without the Force, terrified and stuck in a very small cell with a grown Mandalorian who could snap him in half…

Because Obi-Wan had seen that. That had been his vision of Galidraan, of what the future could have been if the past had not been changed, and now, here, in this cell, was the culmination of those choices.

Obi-Wan hoped Master Mace was all right, because the child knew that this was a quivering Shatterpoint ready to rupture.

He inhaled and looked straight at Jango Fett, noticed how the threads of red in his being had mutated to silver and azure.

Threat/not threat?

“Master Yoda told the Mand’alor that Tor Vizsla wasn’t dead and that he was going to attack you on Korda Six.” Obi-Wan tried to wet his lips, his voice shaking because he could still feel the phantom sensations and emotions of the Force-Vision even after all these years. “In my vision, the Mand’alor died, and you, you dragged him back to your camp. Alone.”

Jango watched, his eyes used to the weak light after six long weeks of captivity, as the child trembled. If Kenobi was twelve now, he’d been five when he’d seen it. Jango had been fourteen, and he would have been orphaned again because that warning, passed on by Dex, watched nearly a dozen times by Jango and his buir, had been the reason they’d been ready for the ambush. It was how they learned of Montross’ betrayal.

It was the reason the Ha’at Mando’ade had survived, and it was the reason Jango himself had been willing to work with the Jedi on Galidraan. 

The child in front of him, shivering and shaking and crying , because he’d been afraid for Jango and his people was the reason they were still around, why there was a chance they could actually win and see Mandalore prosper.

Buir’s never going to believe this , Jango thought with humour as he moved slowly, telegraphing his movements when the child’s head snapped up, his unnatural eyes reflective in the darkness like twin ice-chips.

Was that a Jedi thing? Because it frankly looked a little demonic in Jango’s opinion.

“I’m not going to hurt you.” Jango promised, because he wouldn’t dream of it, whatever age-old distrust and mislike that lingered between their two peoples had slowly begun to heal because of Kenobi. “I’m gonna find a way to get that collar off your neck, it means you can’t use your magic, right?”

“The Force isn’t magic.” Obi-Wan huffed, rubbing at his stinging eyes. “But yes. It’s stopping my connection. It’s itchy.”

“We’ve got bigger problems than you being itchy.” Jango smirked, because really, that’s what the kid was worried about? “They’re going to throw us into the mining pits, and you’re going to do exactly what I say, alright?”

“It’s Jedi tradition to argue with our elders.” Obi-Wan replied cheekily, scratching at his bare arm. “How else are we supposed to learn?”

“I thought your people were all about respect?”

“You can argue respectfully.” Obi-Wan groused, petulant. “What’s the work like?”

“Mind-numming, dangerous and hard.” Jango said. “The biggest threat comes from the other slaves; Du Crion’s got the worst of the Galaxy down here, and us. But, it’s better than the spice freighters.”

They’ll come for you and if they don’t…

Little brother…

Du Crion.

“Oh.” Obi-Wan whispered. “I’m the bait.”

“Huh?”

“Du Crion, Xanatos. He was a Jedi, Master Yan, the Jedi Master leading the Strikeforce on Galidraan, he was his Grandmaster. He took me because he knew the lineage would come and that’s exactly what he wants.”

Xanatos was Master Yan’s grandpadawan, but he’d Fallen only months after Obi-Wan had been Found. There was no way for him to know that Grandmaster Yoda’s lineage was as fond of Obi-Wan as they were.

Not unless somebody in the Temple was telling him.

“Will they?”

Perhaps it was cruel of Jango to dash the boy’s hopes, but he’d been here for six weeks and his buir hadn’t managed to find him yet, and Jango knew Jaster would scour every planet, would hunt down any scrap of information because that was the Mandalorian way:

Nobody is left behind, especially not their children.

(It didn’t matter that Jango was twenty-one standard years old. Arla was never going to let him out of her sight again, neither was Myles.)

“Of course they will.” Obi-Wan growled, defensive in the face of the apparent slight. “Jedi protect their younglings just as fiercely as the Mando’ade do; One clan of every being and no beings, bound in the tenants of a creed we choose to follow.”

Little spit-fire aren’t you? I wonder…

“Easy, kid.” Jango snorted, because Obi-Wan was adorable . “If you want to debate the apparent similarities between the Jedi and the Ha’at Mando’ade you’ll be doing it with my buir.”

“To do that we have to escape.” Obi-Wan muttered, petulant. “And to escape we’ll have to get my bombcollar off and cut out the chips… But I can do that if we get the collar off.”

Jango’s dark brows rose in incredulity. Obi-Wan wasn’t anything like the Jedi he’d met on Galidraan, nor was he like the green being from the holo-recorded image. The kid had gone through a half-dozen emotions in the twenty minutes he’d been conscious, and he’d settled on blank serenity that somehow seemed to be infecting Jango too.

I don’t know a lot about the Jedi, but there’s something strange about him .

Strange he might have been, but he was still a kid stuck in a slave-camp that was as deadly as they come. If the others learned he was a Jedi youngling…

Yeah, that wasn’t going to happen. Jango would make sure of it.

**

Meanwhile, in the Jedi Temple, Mace Windu paced restlessly. That massive Shatterpoint, the one he’d witnessed hovering over both Obi-Wan and in the pathways for possibilities, ruptured. Mace grunted in pain, releasing it into the Force with Yoda’s steady presence wrapped around him.

Kark it all. Please don’t let that mean the worst.

“Shatterpoint, that was.” Yoda hummed. “Happened, something important has. Obi-Wan, related to, is it?”

“Undoubtably.” Mace winced. “It was hanging over his head, and its twin was in the structured path.”

The structured path. That plane in the Force were those universe altering Shatterpoints dwelled, so different from the ones that hovered over people, their own choices determining their own path. It was rare for them to be twinned, and yet, as it always was with Obi-Wan, they were.

Stewjon.

His first vision.

Korda Six.

The Stark Hyperspace War.

Galidraan.

Five perfect twins, born of a single Force presence. Yoda was the only one who came close, and he’d had two .

“Cut off from the Force, young Obi-Wan is.” Yoda said quietly. “Know who took him, we do not. Know that targeted he was, we do. Know why, we do not.”

“Why is it always him?” Mace huffed. 

“Vested interest in the youngling, the Force has. Not always a good thing, that is. Path he is walking, laid down by the Force it is. Trust that it would not want to harm him, we must.”

(The Force was a cruel mother in that regard. Oh, it loved her children, even those who fed on her darker aspects for a mother loved all of her children, even if she did not like them sometimes. The path she had sent Obi-Wan on was one of necessity, for none other than her accursed son could endure it and keep his heart.)

“When we get him back, I’m taking him as my Padawan.” Mace muttered.

“Our padawan.” Yoda corrected slyly. “All of ours. My plan, that is; Many masters, Obi-Wan will have, but two, we are. Going to tell him when he returned, I was, but stolen, our youngling was.”

If Mace didn't know Yoda as well as he did, he would have thought the Jedi Grandmaster was angry. They all were, but they were Jedi, and so their anger was reflected upon, and in their meditation they found the root cause of it and slowly untangled its phantom threads before they released it into the Force's loving embrace here it would be scatted across the cosmos like stardust so it could cause no further harm.

Unfeeling, emotionless, that was what the Galaxy at large believed of the Jedi, but they were sentient beings, emotions were their lifesblood. They were taught from a young age to identity their feelings, and to understand why they felt them. It was a simple truth of their Order, one that was misconstrued by outsiders.

They had to be that way, otherwise they would be no better than the Sith, a corrupting cancer that infected the Force.

"Stolen." Mace repeated, still pacing. "Stolen."

Stolen from the Alderaanian Embassy with no trace. Tholme had gone to gather the security recordings, only to find that they’d been cycled for ten minutes before the kidnapping and ten minutes after. Tholme and Komari were going through the names recorded at the entrance of the exhibit, but there were hundreds, and it was so easy to fake a name and indent number.

It was most definitely planned.

Jedi younglings had been taken before, but never from Coruscant. Most of them were found, some of them were returned to the embrace of the Force in the most horrific of circumstances, their names etched into the stone of the Hall of Memorial so they would be remembered.

Which would Obi-Wan be?

“What was the Chancellor’s edict?” Mace inquired, watching as Yoda’s Force-presence wilted, its mossy tones muted. “Will they help?”

“No help from them, we will get.” Yoda said. “Alone in this, we are. Find Obi-Wan alone, we must. Rusaan Reformation, cited it was. A stolen Jedi, not their problem. Allocate only a few Jedi to search, may we. Missions, important to galactic security, they are. Mandalorian Strikeforce, utilised, they cannot be. One youngling, matters, what do they? Find another, we can.”

“They said that?”

To think that one life, a child’s life, meant nothing wasn’t something Mace could fathom. All lives were precious, from the politicians who lived in their own little worlds of dipping finery to the beings who worked menial jobs and survived as they could. They lived, they bled, they died. 

To know that the Senate thought they could simply replace Obi-Wan was horrifying. Mace knew the Galaxy at large didn’t think much about the Jedi, and when they did it was rarely good things, but for the body responsible for the ever-tightening restrictions on the Jedi to be so dismissive…

We’re just products to them, tools. We do what they refuse to do, and stop us from doing what we’re supposed to be doing. They point, we run. They order, we obey.

It’s been like this for centuries but it’s getting worse.

Is this why the Force is growing darker?

“Dark, your thoughts are.” Yoda hummed, his presence reaching out to soothe Mace’s anger-fear-fear-fear . “Endure our Order will, endure we will. Older than the Senate, we are, survived, we have and thrive, one day, we will. Faith, in the Force, we must have, faith in ourselves too.”

“Faith is a hard thing to have when our Sithspawn youngling is Force knows where.” Mace snorted, releasing the fear in his heart into the waters of the Force. “If he does something inexplicable, you can be sure the Senate will become interested then .”

“My concern, that is.” Yoda agreed. “Cut off from the Force, difficult it is for us, know what it may do to Obi-Wan, we do not. Help he will need, when find him, we do.”

When they found him, because they would. Only a fool took a Jedi youngling, because when they did, the Jedi would come. It was an old adage, ancient, from a time when the Jedi were so few, hunted down like vermin;

If you wanted the youngling, make sure the masters were dead because they would not stop until their children were safe. 

They were Jedi, all of them would die to see the future of their Order, the future of their people , secured and protected because that was what it meant to love all things selflessly.

It was why Masters would use their flesh and bone to shield their young from blaster-bolts. It was why their elders would thread peace-safety-love-love-love around the minds of the young before they left, ready to sacrifice themselves so their children had a chance .

A chance to survive.

A chance to live.

A chance to thrive.

We are a people bound by creed, by an idea, and ideas cannot die. We’re not that different from our old adversaries, are we? Jedi and Mandalorian, history and culture passed down not because of blood, but because of creed.

Mandalorians…

Mace exhaled. He did not run, he did not even move much, only to cease his nervous pacing. He extended his Force presence through the Temple, searching for Master Dooku’s shielded presence. There was an inquisitive burst, Master Dooku wondering why Mace was reaching out to him, and in the Force, pulses of emotion were passed, and Mace knew Dooku was coming.

He had a plan. It could very well be a terrible plan, but it was a plan. Yoda hummed like the little gremlin he was, drinking his tea as he watched the cycling water of his fountain and his snacks within. That water, so like Obi-Wan’s innate protections, the boy’s mind protected by the rivers of the Force…

Yoda slipped into meditation with ease. He felt the Force’s presence pressing against him, cool and soothing. He missed that flaring beacon of light that was never fully hidden from Yoda until now. The idea that Obi-Wan was alone, hurt, scared, and cut off from the Force that had made him had the old being’s ancient heart aching in a way it hadn’t in centuries.

A Jedi alone was a Jedi alone, but a lone Jedi was a Jedi struggling. They weren't made for solitude.

A youngling alone, cut off from the Force, so young, full of fear and anxiety, was a failed youngling.

Yoda had failed Obi-Wan, blinded as he was by the idea of safety. He only hoped there would be time to make amends.

Hope, the strongest power in the world alongside selfless, untaintable love.

“Why didn’t you just use your com?” Yan questioned, breezing into Yoda’s quarters. “Master.”

“Because you refuse to give me your com number.” Mace reminded with a pointed look. “I have a plan to expand our search parameters, but I need your help.”

“And what is it that I can do that you cannot, Master Windu?” Yan inquired. “That my master cannot?”

“When you were searching for information about Obi-Wan’s origins, you found a holocron that detailed how to transmute sand into arable land. Does it work?”

“It borders on Sith Alchemy, but yes, it should work. The Agri-Corps rejected its use because of the requirements; pain, suffering, the usual where the Sith were concerned. From what I can gather, it was intended to be used on Korriban.” Yan explained, and then his dark narrowed, understanding dawning on him. “Mandalore. You want to use it on Mandalore to get them to help find Obi-Wan.”

“The Excision did that, we did. Ordered by the Senate we were, refused, we could have, but we did not.” Yoda said mournfully. “Make that right, we will. Protect our younglings, we both do. Not that different, at our core, we are. But if this we do, go against the Senate, we will.”

“About time then.” Yan smirked. “You, Master, are the one that taught me that if a Jedi can help they should. The Reformation is a pretty contract of servitude and it will just keep strangling us until we are gone.”

“Your words, heretical they are.” Yoda warned. “Plotting against them, the Senate will think. Do this carefully , we must. In a position to anger them, we are not. Strangle us quicker, they will. Done it before, they have. Our temples they took, our status as religious Order, they took. Our rights they took. Bad you think this is? Much worse it can get.”

Yoda’s words were chilling. It was so easy to forget that Yoda had forgotten more than most would ever learn. He’d been alive for over eight-hundred years, he’d lived through the worst of the Galaxy, had survived the Galactic Government at its worst.

If he said it could get worse, it could get worse. That wasn’t something they could risk with the Force as murky and clouded as it was. Not when they had their people, their young to protect.

“But we will do it?” Yan challenged.

“Closer relations with Mandalore, the Force wants. Listen when it speaks, we should. Speaks clearest through its Oracle, it does. Get the Oracle back, we will.” Yoda nodded. “To Dex, we go. Contact the Mand’alor, he can.”

“I’ll drive.” Mace grimaced. “I’m never getting into a speeder you’re behind the wheel of again.”

“My flying, not that bad.” Yoda muttered, petulant. 

It was. It really was.

**

The sight of three Jedi Masters walking into Dex’s Diner in CoCo Town caused the patrons to look up for only a second before they looked away. Dex’s own head had snapped up, confused, because usually Yoda would com ahead.

But then Dex saw the look on their faces, each so very different, yet the same; determination. He waved them into his tiny little office around the back, and he waited for them to speak because Dex had an idea what this was about but…

“Kidnapped, our youngling was.” Yoda said, his ears twitching. “Hoping help, the Mand’alor could provide. Have something he might like, we do.”

“His kid’s gone missin’ too.” Dex murmured. “Just give me a minute.”

Dex shuffled through one of the drawers, searching for the hyperspace communication device. He found it amongst things he’d rather the Jedi seen, and he closed the drawer with a hip as he set the comm on his desk.

“Linked, could this be?” Yoda hummed, looking at his companions.

“Who could know the link between Kenobi and Fett?” Yan questioned, his brow arched and disbelieving. 

“Kenobi?” Dex repeated. “The kid who got the vision about Vizsla? He was taken?”

“Three standard days ago.” Mace confirmed. 

Dex winced. He knew nothing good waited for Force-sensitive kids who were kidnapped. He’d do what he could to help, keep his ear to the ground so to speak, he heard all sorts and most of it wasn’t his business.

He’d make finding that youngling his business.

“Dexter.” Jaster Mereel, current Mand’alor and worried father, greeted tiredly. “Heard anything about Du Crion?”

Yan froze.

Du Crion.

Xanatos.

It might not be linked, but Yan knew his Fallen Grandpadawan had indeed taken Obi-Wan. The Force crooned, its touch as gentle as a breeze as Yan released those dark thoughts into its essence. Already he had been tempted, had believed that the Jedi Order was doomed, but his hope that change, that survival was possible had bloomed nearly a decade ago.

“Mand’alor Mereel.” Yoda said, leaping onto Yan’s shoulder, much to his irritation. "Good to see you, it is."

“Did your youngling have a Vision about where my son is?” Jaster questioned, because it wouldn't surprise him at this stage.

Force oisik was Force oisik after all. Jaster would never claim to understand it.

“Taken our youngling was. Kidnapped from Coruscant he was.” Yoda whispered. “Your help, we ask, in finding him. Told us, Dex did, that your son too, is missing.”

“Xanatos Du Crion kidnapped your son, Mand’alor?” Yan’s voice was firm, but the two Jedi with him felt the flaring anger in the Force before it was released. 

Threads of thoughts were passed in the Force, imprints of emotions scattered;

Take Obi-Wan, would he?

To punish Qui-Gon? Yes. 

How would he even know?

Find that out, we will, once we have Obi-Wan.

“Jango had a contract to rescue slaves from Offworld Mining. He never came back. Du Crion runs it through Telos IV’s UniFy Corporation. We’ve been looking for him for the last five weeks.” Jaster said his blue-form flicking, his tiredness evident. “He's good at hiding his tracks, everything's routed through Hutt-run cartels, and we're not in a position to take them on currently. You know him?”

“Once a Jedi, Xanatos was.” Yoda said truthfully, because trust required truth, and the Force warmed around him, pleased. “Fell, a decade ago, he did. Hunting him, our Order has been. Believe we do, that taken our youngling, he has.”

“Well.” Jaster said simply, his eyes studying Yoda before a brilliant smile pulled on his scarred face. “We best be getting them back then, shouldn’t we?”

Around the Jedi, the Force sang, its light flaring, much to the disgust of the hidden shadows that gnashed their teeth and vowed dark plans because their Great Vision would not fail.

(The Force would make sure that it did.)

Chapter Text

Obi-Wan shivered from exhaustion. The heat from mining machinery thickened the air, its sound clawing along his hypersensitive hearing. Days had come and gone since he’d woken up in a cell with Jango Fett, days of bloodied labour that left his skin stripped raw and his lungs aching. 

It made the nausea all the worse, his stomach roiling like storming seas. The headache was constant now, a pounding thing that rattled around Obi-Wan’s skull. Hunger knotted his guts in sharp, stabbing pains.

And yet, it paled in comparison to the void where the Force should be. It was wrong . The itch of its loss had burrowed deep, devouring Obi-Wan’s mind like maggots devoured rotted flesh. He would scratch at his arms unknowingly, nails blackened by dirt and grim cutting red ribbons along  his pale skin.

Jango would tut and he would take Obi-Wan’s hands in his own with a reproachful look that reminded Obi-Wan of Master Mace and Komari’s care when he lost himself to the waves of the Force in deep meditation. 

Those hands, once, in a future no longer possible, had been stained in Jedi blood after a massacre of both sides, were gentle, caring, kind .  The juxtaposition made Obi-Wan’s head spin.

During the days they were forced to work the mines, skin blistering and cracking; copper became the only thing Obi-Wan could taste. The meagre amounts of food, a gelatinous paste that had Obi-Wan gagging, and the stale, warm water did nothing to alleviate the pain of hunger.

It was enough to keep them alive to work. No more, no less.

At night, Obi-Wan would sit in the darkened cell, wondering why his vision was flickering from grey-scale shadows threaded with colours to the straining pain caused by the weak, watery light. 

(Jango’s had settled on a pulsing evergreen, so like the lush grass in the Room of a Thousand Fountains. Obi-Wan never mentioned it. 

The droid that delivered their sustenance was threaded with yellow. Obi-Wan didn’t know what it meant. He didn’t know why he was like this.)

During those long, cold nights in stagnant air, Obi-Wan and Jango would talk -argue, more like- about random things; but Obi-Wan had an interest in all things Mandalorian ever since his first vision about the Jedi’s old enemies.

“I don’t understand why you’d want to repress your emotions. What’s the point of living if you can’t feel it? Jango had huffed, his arms crossed and his scarred brow raised. 

Obi-Wan knew he was trying to goad him, because over their short companionship, Obi-Wan had learned that Jango didn’t like silence. Obi-Wan, on the other hand, did. Though usually silence was not silent, not with the harmonic chime of kyber and the soothing whispers of the Force

“We do feel .” Obi-Wan had returned petulant. “ We’re just taught from a young age to not be controlled by our emotions, we’re taught to understand them, and, if need be, release them so they can’t control us. Meditation to a Jedi is the same thing as looking after your weapons to Mandalorian.”

Because you have weapons, but we are weapons, and every day we have to choose to be the shield rather than the sword.

“Is that why you’re still meditating even if you can’t access it?”

No, Obi-Wan didn’t say, I’m meditating because I’m afraid. Instead, he’d worried at the flaking skin of his cracked lips, all too aware of the mind-altering buzz where there should have been the Force. He’d never been away from the Temple, not for this long, and Obi-Wan was adrift without the bonds of kinship and creed.

Adrift, but not alone, because even if he couldn’t sense it, the Force had been merciful, kind in its cruelty. Obi-Wan doubted any of the other slaves would have been half as steady as Jango Fett was.

A path to walk for us all, there is, Master Yoda had told him just days ago, after his fight with Bruck in the Room of a Thousand Fountains , sometimes, the path, not easy it is. Sometimes, get lost we do, but together, we are, to help you find your way. Lost, Jedi never stay, because find them, our brothers and sisters do. The Force, always with us it is, so with us, our people are.

“ The Force is still there. ” Obi-Wan had said instead, rubbing at his aching eyes because his sudden bout of tearfulness would serve nothing more than to weaken him further. “ It flows through all things, through you, through me, even now. And I know that my family is there, and I know I’m not alone.”

“And here I thought you liked me, Ob’ika.” Jango rolled his eyes, but he slid closer, tucking Obi-Wan up in a blanket that he didn’t need because heat seemed to emanate from him. “ We’ll get you back to your family.”

“And you back to yours.” Obi-Wan had nodded, determined.

The two of them would return to their families, so alike and so different, and from there, the foundations that had been built upon, the chances given by the Force, the chances that would forever lead toward the Dark, gave birth to a promise of the brightest of all dawns.

(Once, they would have both been people annihilated because of the plans of two insidious creatures. Now, because of choices, they were hope eternal, two sides of the cosmos bound by one boy’s guiding light.) 

Once, they would have fought one another, once they would have been strangers and enemies, but that was not to be in this place. The possibility of that future had lessened when Jaster Mereel had survived, and it became unimaginable when Jedi Master Yan Dooku listened to the cries of a youngling so very dear to him.

It had become impossible when Jango Fett, the would be Jedi Butcher of Galidraan, had promised to get Obi-Wan Kenobi home . 

(Cosmic balance was a fickle thing, for nothing was ever so truly pre-determined. Rather, the vastness of existence, of creation and desolation, Chaos and Time, Fate and Destiny, were bound in choices.

Both Yan and Jango had made the choice to uphold the teachings of their fathers, and the Galaxy would never know the pain they had been spared because they had listened to the flesh and blood mouth of the Force.)

Then, on the third day, Jango was shown just how determined Obi-Wan Kenobi could be.

“No.” Jango had shaken his head, his pride bristled at the very notion of Obi-Wan starving himself to see Jango just that bit better off.

He didn’t know if that was the Jedi selflessness and their notions, or if it was an Obi-Wan thing.

“Yes.” Obi-Wan had rolled his eyes. 

“No.”

“Yes.”

“ No. ”

“Jango.” Obi-Wan had huffed, obstinate until the end. 

“Obi-Wan.”

“Just eat the rest of the paste, Jango. Otherwise I’m going to throw up, and then you will as well. There’s no point in both of us being weakened anymore than we already are.”

Jango had argued relentlessly when Obi-Wan had tried to give him a portion of his dinner the following night too, because if it came down to a physical escape, Obi-Wan wouldn’t be much of a challenge without the Force, but Jango was a warrior.

It was practical, and Obi-Wan liked practical. He liked logical. They were easier than turbulent emotions which festered within him because he could not release them into the Force. It felt odd, meditating without its presence, but Obi-Wan forced himself to, even if only to give some semblance of comfort.

It didn’t matter. Obi-Wan could endure.

He would endure. Hope, after all, was a Jedi’s greatest weapon. Hope lived on, even when hate threatened to consume all. Hope was the only thing stronger than fear. So, as his body weakened, Obi-Wan held onto hope.

He held onto hope as the days passed, but on the seventh day of his imprisonment, one of the slave-drivers, a gnarled, human man who bled hate into the Force Obi-Wan couldn’t sense, decided to make an example of Jango because he’d been helping Obi-Wan.

Obi-Wan couldn’t let another being suffer for his own mistakes and so he’d argued, gotten mouthy, and in the end, his plan had worked. It was his shirt stripped off in front of the other slaves, it was him that winced as the whip was cracked in the air just beside his ear.

I am one with the Force and Force is with me.

It was the skin of his back had been lashed open, blood dripping like warm water. 

Obi-Wan focused on his memories of the Room of a Thousand Fountains, on the quiet serenity of the Hall of Memorials, to get himself through the pain. Even though it was pointless, he reached out, begging and praying for the caress of the Force but it never came.

Darkness did.

It was a sweet relief from the pain, from the tiredness, from the hunger and thirst. He wasn’t sure how long he’d been here.

He could be here for an eternity.

“Don’t bite me.” Jango commanded, understanding the shifting barest movements beneath his hands for what they were. Obi-Wan groaned, awareness coming to him in a single blink. “I had hoped you’d stay unconscious for this.”

“They gave you stuff to patch me up?” Obi-Wan murmured, his hair plastered to his forehead, skin stuck to skin from the sweat. “That was nice of them.”

“Nice and slaver scum should never be in the same sentence, Obi-Wan. Du Crion wasn’t happy.” Jango hummed. “Took the demogolka’s hand with his glowstick. Apparently, nobody’s allowed to hurt you. Are you actually his little brother?”

Did Jango just call a lightsaber a glowstick ? No, Obi-Wan’s fever-heavy mind must have imagined it. Although, it was perfectly in character for Jango to annoy Obi-Wan just to get a reaction.

“Not really. He probably just wants me to join him.” Obi-Wan winced as something cold swiped along the ruined skin of his back. “Force-Visions are a rare ability to have, especially with a frequency like mine.”

“And how would he know about those?”

“I don’t know.”

From the big things to the little things, Force-Visions came to Obi-Wan with no rhyme or reason. It simply was the Will of the Force to give him advanced warnings of possible futures, and each time the Force spoke he listened.

Thankfully, others had listened too.

He had tried to see if any of his visions lined up the larger Shatterpoints that Master Mace saw, but the Korun Jedi would only shake his head and give Obi-Wan the look . He was used to the look, it had been a constant companion since the man had Found him.

Obi-Wan hoped they were okay. 

Quin especially, because Obi-Wan knew that his best friend would harbour guilt because he had been right there , but Obi-Wan was glad in a way that it was him.

Quinlan had suffered enough.

Still, it begged the question as to how Xanathos knew .

“This is going to hurt, Ob’ika.” Jango warned. 

“S’okay.” Obi-Wan whispered, turning his head to look at Jango, whose face was pinched in grim determination. “I can take it.”

I am one with the Force and the Force is with me. It’s just  far away, but it’s still with me. My brothers and sisters are looking for me. I’m not alone. I have hope. I have hope. I have hope…

Obi-Wan screamed , bit his mouth bloody to quiet himself because he felt Jango’s hands falter.

The Force, always with us it is, so with us, our people are, Master Yoda’s voice, the phantom of his Force-presence, a mere memory of the real thing, curled around Obi-Wan.

They’re here. They’re in the Force, in my heart, and in my very soul. My family is here. Jango is here. I’m not alone.

“Keep going.” Obi-Wan urged, tears burning his eyes.

Jango worked quickly, methodically. He’d done battle-field medicine before, quick and dirty and full of screams and agony. It shouldn’t have been different, but it was. This was a child who had taken a whipping meant for Jango, who had taken the pain with nary a sound other than the occasional grunt.

Obi-Wan Kenobi, a strange name for a strange child, had mandokarla in abundance. If Jango thought he had a chance, he’d take the kid with him back to Jaster. Though Arla would probably complain about having another little brother to watch over…

One look at him and she’d be as weak as Jango was.

“There is no emotion, there is peace.” Obi-Wan whispered, because even if he couldn’t sense the Force he could still fall back on the teachings of his family to see him through.

Jango exhaled roughly, continuing to work. This was a child who’s had his back torn open because he’d opened his mouth to spare Jango himself from the lashing because he’d seen how the kid’s body was faltering and had helped him.

And here he was, reciting the Code of his people to give him strength just like Myles whispered the Resol’nare when he was anxious.

Maybe buir was right…

“There is no ignorance, there is knowledge.” His breathing came quicker, harsh pants that had Obi-Wan’s vision swimming, his ears buzzing.

Infection coursed through him from where the bomb-collar had cut though his skin, the flush high on his cheeks for the past few days. Weaker, Obi-Wan was growing weaker as time slipped painfully by. The lashing would only make it worse. Jango tended to each lash with clinically cruel touches.

“There is no passion, there is serenity.”

Jango winced, for one of the lashes where the wounds had crossed one another was far deeper than the others. He’d need more than bacta jel to see it right. He looked at the sterile kit that Du Crion had launched at him with the Force with a sneer and an ordered;

Keep him alive.

There were no mechnosutures.

Fuck.

Only bacta and gauze. So Obi-Wan would suffer, but not die. Du Crion was sick. Jango would make sure he didn’t get out of this alive, both for his own honour, and for Obi-Wan’s.

A Mandalorian never forgot and Obi-Wan had saved his life twice , had saved his buir too. He was the reason the Ha’at still stood strong.

“There is no chaos, there is harmony.”

Obi-Wan’s voice had taken on a dull note, and Jango was glad of it. He would have rathered the kid was unconscious when this had to be done. Still, somehow, he held himself with a rigidity that both impressed and worried Jango.

Seven days they’d been stuck together, but if Jango was being honest, the kid had gotten under his skin by the second day. Jango was fond of the little Jedi, not that he’d ever admit it.

He had an image to maintain.

“There is no death, there is the Force.” Obi-Wan finished.

“You’re not going to die.” Jango growled. 

Obi-Wan, despite his state, body coiled tight as it was ravaged by pain, snorted. Jango took it as a good sign if the kid could still be mouthy. He repeated the words again and again until Jango had finally finished his clean-up.

Jango shushed him, dragging his bacta and blood slick fingers through Obi-Wan’s dank, dirty hair. He deserved a bit of comfort, especially as the guilt bit at Jango’s heart. This had happened because of him .

“Stop blaming yourself.” Obi-Wan huffed, blood trickling from his parted lips, tears pearlescent on his cheeks. “You need your strength to get us out of here, remember?”

“And you need to be able to move. ” Jango reminded, sharper than he intended because Obi-Wan’s reflective eyes blinked open. “I’m not going anywhere without you, Ob’ika.”

Jango wouldn’t. Obi-Wan had gotten under his skin with his sly smirk and goading questions, he liked to poke and poke and poke in an effort to understand. It should have been irritating, and it was at times, but in such a short amount of time Jango had become impossibly fond of him.

He’d get the kid back to his people because Obi-Wan was the reason his own people still had a chance.

“Is there anything in the kit to get the collar off?” Obi-Wan asked, ever practical

“Du Crion isn’t that stupid.” Jango shook his head, but he still looked. “If I go fiddling with that thing it’ll probably blow up in my face… and blow your head off.”

“Maybe there’s a way to disrupt the feed.” Obi-Wan cracked his jaw and for some foolish reason he pushed himself into a sitting position, facing Jango who settled stabilising hands on his trembling, blood-slick shoulders. “The Force is there, but it’s just outside my reach. It’s like I'm in a bubble.”

“But what happens when it comes rushing back?” Jango inquired gently, because his buir was a history nerd and it had rubbed off on Jango, and the Mandalorians had gotten very good at dealing with Jedi, so he knew the possibilities. “What difference would a split second make? Because we’re in no condition to get that off you, or to get to the surface.”

“Master Yoda will be searching for me.” Obi-Wan promised. “He knows my Force-signature as well as his own at this stage. He’s always shielded me during my visions, and we meditate together at least twice a week. He’ll sense me.”

And maybe, maybe the beginnings of the bond with Quinlan can stretch the length and breadth of the galaxy.

“So you’re going to send up a flare and basically scream Bandomeer and hope he hears it?” Jango asked in disbelief. “Du Crion will sense it too, and what do you think will happen when he does?”

Obi-Wan deflated, his wounds rippling with flaring pain. Jango frowned. He didn’t know about thing about Force oisik, and most of their conversations had been about Mandalore and the Supercommando Codex and the Resol’nare, but from the few bits he’d gleaned from Obi-Wan’s words was that through the Force, anything was possible.

“I have to have hope.” Obi-Wan whispered, so very tired, his mind flagging, a thick, heavy fog descending.

Jango frowned, using one of the bacta-damp gauze to wipe away the cooling, clotted blood that stained Obi-Wan’s skin. It gave him something to do with his hands, because perhaps the worst thing about Jango’s captivity was his inaction.

He looked at the supplies and then at Obi-Wan. The kid seemed to collect suffering; a bomb-collar cutting so deeply into his neck there was a permanent trickle of blood, an infection because of that, and whatever effects there were from being cut off from the Force.

And there were effects to it, even Jango could see them. 

Obi-Wan, meanwhile, was thinking, fighting the quicksand fog that wanted to drown him. He knew his relationship with the Force was different from others’ and not just because of his visions. There was a reason Quin’s psychometry didn’t work on him, and that the river of his mind wasn’t normal.

He wondered, swallowing the iron in his mouth as Jango scowled and reached for their meager water ration with a growled ‘spit’, if it was possible for him to allow the phantoms of his own presence through the dampener that was cutting through his neck.

He had, on that fateful day of the Korda Six vision, pushed his memory at Master Yoda who could not get through his odd mental shielding. Surely he could do it again? The Force was right there, all he had to do was reach for it…

No, not reach for it. He had to let it go . He had to let it flow through the currents and hope that Master Yoda would sense it.

Peace. Serenity. Harmony. Love. Hope. Knowledge.

I am one with the Force and the Force is with me.

The waters of his mind, flowing circular and dripping over the edge into the abyss sounded like the Room of a Thousand Fountains, sounded like the feature in Master Yoda’s meditation room.

It was the only metaphysical comfort Obi-Wan could touch, cut off from the phantom stellar winds and shimmering stardust of the Force as he was.  The waters, forever flowing, forever renewed, cycled and purified, for the Force was in all living things, reminded Obi-Wan of home .

Home .

Obi-Wan’s home was the Temple’s warmth and its pulsing presence; home was their people, their traditions and culture that fought the fear that dwelled in the unknown. Home was Master Yoda and Master Yan and Master Sifo, Master Mace, Komari and Depa and Quin. Home was the Force, and the Force was still there, its flow had not changed, only Obi-Wan’s ability to access it.

(Yes, my child. We are still here.)

Master Yoda. Bandomeer. We’re on Bandomeer.

Stuck in that curious place in his mind, his eyes gleaming, Obi-Wan walked toward the edge of the roaring river. He saw his own reflection; his eyes unnatural, dried, flaking blood colouring his skin, dripping from his maw as though he were some savage creature of ruin.

He remembered the words whispered to him in Illum’s icy caves. They seemed to rise from the waters, spectral haunted voices screaming his plea for aid, rising and rising until the waters were battering at their infernal containment. Images rose in the water, Obi-Wan’s recent memories; The man he assumed to be Xanathos, the slaves, the collar around his neck and his very first conversation with Jango.

He didn’t mean for the whipping to slip into it, the pain and hurt and fear, a cloying bile that burned his throat.

Master Yoda. Master Mace. Master Yan. Please. Please.

Obi-Wan slumped, most embarrassed as his head fell against the thread-bare garment that covered Jango’s shoulder, letting loose a wounded sound. The hands that Obi-Wan had seen gore-slick were gentle as they carded through his hair, and Obi-Wan fell asleep to the hummed sounds of an old Mandalorian lullaby.

“Shh, Ob’ika. We’ll find a way home.”

**

The soothing hum of the Temple rose like a swelling wave. Yoda stilled in the Jedi High Council chambers as Master Mundi spoke of funding re-allocation. He extended his presence toward the blistering heart of kyber that dwelled in the very foundations of the Temple, below the Light of Jedi immemorial, below the Dark of the Sith altar.

It pulsed like a star’s heart.

Master Yoda. Master Mace. Master Yan.  

It was Obi-Wan’s voice, distorted like the cracking of Illum’s ice and dry like the desert sands of Korriban; the perfect blend of who the child had been created to be and who he chose to be.

Yoda felt his flaring presence, silver and azure, cycling water that purified all it touched, only for it to take on the sheen of the Light. Yoda walked through the waters until he stood in their centre, and though he had lost Obi-Wan’s presence, he did not lose the gift their youngling imparted.

The waters distorted the memories at the edge, caused the images to ripple and the hushed, spoken voices to be little more than the sound of trickling liquid, but Yoda was old, he understood.

Bandomeer. Their youngling, and the Manda’lor’s son were on Bandomeer.

And they were hurt .

“Take my leave of you, I must.” Yoda croaked, leaping from his seat with the vigor of a being renewed. “Found me, our stolen youngling has, so find him, we must.”

“Where?” Master Plo Koon questioned, standing.

He would, in a heartbeat, disregard even the Chancellor of the Galactic Republic if they dared prevent them from returning their stolen son home. All on the Council would because their first edict was the safeguarding of their children, and they had already failed once.

Never again.

( Oh, my little starseeds, the Force mourned , forgive me for what is to be done, but it is the only way to see you Free. )

“Bandomeer.” Yoda said, already walking toward the door. “Take a group to visit the Agri-Corps outpost there, I will. Returned to us, Obi-Wan will be.”

It would have to be done quietly, quickly. The Senate didn’t take too kindly to the Jedi exercising the few powers of theirs that had not been curtailed. Yoda, old as he was, had learned how to side-step and weave around the gilded silk ribbons that, for the moment, were simply a reminder…

It would not take much for it to be tightened, for it to strangle.

“May the Force be with you, Master.” The Council said as one, because they too knew what most Jedi did not.

We are losing ourselves.

With us, the Force is , Yoda thought brightly. It was only his centuries of experience that contained his joy within his shields. Calling on the bonds he shared with his lineage, Yoda was not surprised to see Yan and Mace advancing on him in the corridor alongside young knight Komari and Senior Padawan Billaba, Tholm and young Vos.

Nor was he surprised to see Vokara and Cin.

 Good. 

“Only Obi-Wan.” Mace shook his head, the skin beneath his eye jumping, the only outward sign of a Shatterpoint rupturing. “I can’t sense him any more, but I saw…”

“Bandomeer.” Yan confirmed, and so much more . “If we sensed it, so did Xanatos. If he was no longer cut off from the Force, we should still be able to sense his presence.”

“Cut off from the Force you cannot be.” Yoda reminded. “ Supressed, our connection can be. In all things the Force is. Suppressed his connection is, yes, but suppressed, the Force’s connection is not.In, Obi-Wan, cycled , it is. Takes it in, he does, purifying it, he does, releases it, he does.”

Purified.

Purified.

Suddenly, it all made sense to the ancient being.

The warning from the Sith Holocron in the vault that he and Yan had opened only once before. Salvation or ruination , its inky voice had said with predatory delight, they are weapons born of flesh and blood and Force.

They alone hold the deathless waters, more powerful than ever we, the Sith Eternal, could ever be. 

Infinite sadness, failure , awaits those they turn upon, and turn they will. We gave them life, we made them, and they dared gnash their teeth and gnaw on our bones. Our sons and daughters drank our blood and marrow as though they were Gods and we were their tithe.

Yoda looked at Yan.

Yan looked at Yoda.

Culled, you were, because of this. Cleansed the Force, you did. Healed the hurts, caused by the Sith. Allow that, they could not, lose their power, they would.  Murdered you, they did, because created their downfall, they did.

Pure you are, in every sense.

“There is another issue, Master.” Yan hummed. “Qui-Gon left for Bandomeer two days ago. He is the one Xanathos wants, and if he gets him…”

“Indirect route, Qui-Gon will take.” Yoda said knowingly. “Contact the Mand’alor we must. Together, return our young to us, we will. Vokara, injured, Obi-Wan will be, young Fett too. Come with us, will you?”

“I have a bag ready.” The healer nodded solemnly. “And I’ll get a containment kyber in case there is a backlash once the poor boy’s freed from whatever means has been suppressing his Force presence.”

“What excuse are we giving to the Senate?” Mace inquired.

“Holocron, we found. Agri-Corps, use it, they might.” Yoda shrugged and he eyed Cin. “Come with us, will you?”

“Obviously, Master.” Cin did not roll his eyes but it was a near thing. “What sort of Master would I be if I left my Padawan in the clutches of a darksider?”

“Get in line, Drallig.” Yan glowered. 

“I’ve never had a Padawan.” Komari added lightly. 

“That’s because you were a padawan a month ago.” Depa reminded drily.

“Obi-Wan would make an excellent healer.” Vokara added, her eyes narrowing in on Yoda, whose amusement-family-love shone like the emeralds in the Force. “What have you done now?”

“Many Masters, Obi-Wan will have.” Yoda said with a look of innocence. “Not done since the days of the High Republic, has it been. Choose, Obi-Wan will, which of us here, lives with, he does. Already have his favourite tea, I do.”

“That’s because you corrupted the poor child into enjoying that infernal concoction of yours, Master mine.” Yan grumbled, and though his face was pinked into a blank look, his Force signature was alive with wisps of amethyst and bronze. “I have Sifo, he outranks tea.”

“Heretical, those words are. Tea, life it is. Family, it is. Culture, it is.” Yoda sniffed, affronted. “Leave soon, we must. Contact the Mand’alor I will. Ready yourselves, you should.”

“I’ll source the transport.” Cin murmured. “And, remember, Master Yoda, my rooms are closest to Tholme’s…”

“Master.” Depa said quietly as they broke away from one another to see to their duties. “Can we move?”

“Depa, my dearest Padawan, Obi-Wan already practically lives with us.” 

Yoda smiled as he listened to the snickers, as he felt the Force lighten at their joy. It had been common, once upon a time, for entire lineages to teach their young, and while that was still certainly true, the practice had died away nearly four hundred years ago. Once, there had been a dozen Jedi Temples, and now there was only one, but still connected it was, to its brethren amongst the stars, just as it was connected to its beloved charges.

Hope, we have , Yoda thought as he entered his quarters, feeling the imprints of his lineage’s presence seeping into the very air , hope that know peace and freedom, our children do. Hope, we have, for the future, always in motion, it is. Dark, the path may be, but the brightest of dawns come, after the blackest of nights, they do.

A light we have, to guide us. 

A light, that home soon, will be.

Yoda settled himself in front of his fountain, his ears twitching as he waited for the holo-communicator to establish a connection. The Force had a plan that much he knew, and it involved the Ha’at Mando’ade, but Yoda did not know why . They were so different, yet so similar, families built on shared ideals and culture, peoples that were misunderstood and held by invisible shackles.

Yoda remembered Mandalore before its surface had been ruined in an act the Jedi could never absolve themselves of. They had the illusion of choice, something that seemed to grow all the more prevalent as the decades passed and the restrictions were remembered.

But Yoda was a Jedi and so he had hope.

“Grandmaster Yoda.” Jaster greeted. 

“News, I have.” Yoda could not reach out and soothe the man’s obvious fear though he wanted to. “With your son, Obi-Wan is. Looking after each other, they are. On Bandomeer, in the mines, they are. Slave chips, implanted in them, there are. Bomb-collar, on Obi-Wan, there is. Looking for a way to free themselves, they are.”

“My people and I are on Couruscant. We followed Du Crion’s trail here. He infiltrated the Alderaanian Embassy and kidnapped your youngling.” Jaster reported, his jaw clenched in anger. “I’ve not heard good things from the Bandomeer slave mines, Grandmaster, but at least it’s not the Spice Freighters.”

“How many people, have with you, do you?” Yoda inquired. “A crew of seven I have.”

“We couldn’t spare the numbers.” Jaser admitted, annoyed. “It’s me and two others.”

“Ten, a good number that is.” Yoda nodded, smiling. “Come to the Temple you may, plan to free our children together, we can.”

“You’d let us into your temple in our beskar’gam?” Jaster huffed, incredulous.

“Your culture, it is. Teachers, scholars and healers, Jedi were always meant to be.” Yoda hummed with a smile. “Meet you, I will. No harm will come to your and yours, promise you this, I do.”

“We’ll be there within the hour.” Jaster nodded. 

The connection cut off then, and Yoda reclined into the gauzy embrace of the Force. He closed his eyes and cast his senses about, feeling the gossamer threads that bound his brothers and sisters and their young. Yoda exhaled, and as he released his breath, so too did he release his fear and apprehension into the golden light of the Force’s loving light.

(Already had the Sith’s plan begun to falter, already were changes and choices in motion. Still, the Galaxy would suffer, there would be dark days, darker than any remembered, but the new age, nurtured on blood and bone and sacrifice, watered by love and hope and peace, would survive, but perhaps most importantly, it would thrive.)

Chapter Text

Obi-Wan awoke slowly, a fevered haze causing his natural instincts to go haywire. The pulse of threat, threat, threat , beat down upon him, and that was how he knew he wasn’t with Jango anymore. He made the mistake of blinking, of moving his head.

Bile, acid-like and sour, threaded with strings of vermillion blood, splattered against the harsh, sterile, white flooring. 

Obi-Wan groaned weakly, and he shifted ever so slightly, another mistake. Those lines of pain reopened, all of Jango’s hard-work undone in a single movement. A hand, cold and gloved, ran itself through Obi-Wan’s hair and there was a voice above him, shushing and crooning.

Threat. Threat. Threat.

Obi-Wan snarled, vicious and animalistic. Near-human his records said, and Obi-Wan knew now that whatever lingering genetics that weren’t baseline human came from a predatory species. The being above him hummed reprovingly and then there were fingers on his jaw, angling Obi-Wan’s head upward.

They were simply holding , neither gentle nor punishing, neither soft nor harsh. 

Threat. Threat. Threat.

“Sh, little brother.” A melodic, cool voice whispered, not too dissimilar from the screams of the damned in the waters of the Force. “I’m not going to hurt you.”

“Leave the boy be, Xanatos. Your quarrel is with me, not the youngling.”

“This is true.” Xanatos, Fallen Jedi, grieving brother and certifiably insane, agreed easily enough. “You are payment, Master, but little Obi-Wan, he is my prize. See, around his neck is the very same device around yours, and you’re nothing more than a blink in the cosmos, but somehow, somehow this child is a beating heart of kyber. He did something last night, I felt it.” Obi-Wan blinked up at the man who held his face tenderly now, brushing away the tears of agony and exhaustion. “I want to know what he is.”

“Have you fallen so far, Xanatos, that you would torture a child?” Qui-Gon questioned, placid in the face of the scene, serene, even. “Have you lost yourself to the rivers of grief and madness that you would kidnap a boy from the only family he has ever known?”

Oh, Xanatos , Qui-Gon thought mournfully, looking at the way his Fallen Padawan petted initiate Kenobi like he was a prized lothcat. The boy was so obviously drugged, his pain and suffering etched into his tear-stained, fever-flush face.

There was determination there too, a cold sort of calculation in those eerie eyes that dripped tears of liquid pearl. Kenobi coughed, gagging, and Qui-Gon watched, transfixed, as Xanathos soothed him with a hum and an offering of water.

Kenobi only stared at it, distrustful.

“I’m not going to hurt you. Drink, it’s alright, you’re safe with me.” Xanatos growled, leveling Qui-Gon with a glare when he scoffed. “I’m going to save him, like somebody should have saved me from you. Which Jedi Master murdered his parents I wonder? What planet were you stolen from, Obi-Wan? It’s okay, you can tell me.”

Obi-Wan made a noise and shook his head. Master Mace had Found him, cold and alone. Obi-Wan didn’t remember it, not really, but he remembered feeling the presence of safety-warmth-peace , something so strange because before that there had only been hate and heat and oil-slick suffering.

It wasn’t, Obi-Wan realised with a lurching gut, too dissimilar from the phantom threads of his reoccurring but always out of reach vision; rivers set aflame, suffering and hate, so much hate…

I loved you…

I HATE YOU…

“Where’s Jango?” Obi-Wan asked, his voice ruined and weak, a croaking dry thing. 

“Your throat will hurt less if you drink.” Xanatos reminded, his voice amused . “If you drink, I’ll tell you about your Mandalorian friend.”

Qui-Gon, bound and bloodied and bruised, cut off from the Force and unable to protect a charge of the Jedi Temple, stared in horror. Xanatos had left a Jedi, an initiate, with a Mandalorian…

Had he done that to Kenobi? 

“What if you poisoned it?” Obi-Wan huffed.

Qui-Gon inhaled sharply when Xanatos simply laughed . Once that sound had been common-place, but in the months, years before the disastrous mission to Telos it had changed, had grown colder, more cruel. The Jedi Master watched as his Fallen Padawan brought the glass to his lips and drank .

Is this real? 

“You have the Force, you can filter out anything you might have put in it.”

“You are a peculiar child.” Xanatos grinned. “When I was your age I was worried about my katas, not if I was about to be poisoned."

“I’m still worried about that.” Obi-Wan said drily. “When you were my age were you kidnapped and held hostage to be used as bait?”

I see now what Yoda wanted you for my Master’s lineage. You would fit right in , Qui-Gon thought.

“Don’t be. I am a man of my word, little brother. If you drink this, I will answer your questions. Now, sit up a little bit, I want to see the savage’s handiwork.”

“He’s not a savage.” Obi-Wan growled, temper rising, and he looked between Xanatos’ raised brow and Qui-Gon’s pinched concern. He drank the water, playing the game. “What did you do to him?”

Qui-Gon frowned. Why was Kenobi playing Xanatos’ game? And why was Xanatos humouring him? Then when he saw the violence inflicted upon Kenobi’s back, half-healed lash marks that had begun to ooze anew, he exhaled, and in a mimicry of the teachings he had lived by all his life, Qui-Gon released those feelings into the Force.

As he did so, he did not notice Kenobi’s quiet noise as the pain ebbed and flowed, freed from his mortal bones.

“He’s fine.” Xanatos dismissed, brows furrowed in confusion. “He put up a good fight when I sent my men to bring you to me, so much so that I had to gather you myself.” Xanatos cluckled his tongue. “What are you?”

“Do you mean that in a literal sense or a philosophical sense?” Obi-Wan asked. “Is Jango all right?”

“He’ll live.”

“What are you doing?”

“I’m trying to draw your pain from the wound but I can’t. Huh, usually that works but you… How did you get past the collar, Obi-Wan?”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

Obi-Wan’s lips twitched, fingers curled around the glass. He wasn’t stupid enough to try and throw it at Xanatos, knowing that both he and Master Jinn were at a severe disadvantage. But still, it was nice to know that Obi-Wan’s oddities extended to darksiders too.

“You don’t, do you? It’s okay, they kept secrets from me too.” Xanatos murmured, soft and sweet. “We can learn together, you and I.”

Not likely. I'd rather be a hermit than take joy in pain and suffering.

Obi-Wan winced when Xanatos injected him with something, and there was a fond pat at his hair. Obi-Wan growled, subvocal and malignant, but Xanathos beamed . Then, the Fallen Jedi took a step back and cast an inquisitive look over Obi-Wan’s form.

He was an oddity, his contact in the Temple had been right about it. There was something off about him, too. He wouldn't get to the bottom of that until he had Obi-Wan's Force presence threaded and unthreaded, but that wouldn't happen until Obi-Wan was his. Xanatos hummed and with a lingering look at his would-be apprentice, he turned to his former Master.

Oh, Xanatos knew exactly what he was going to do. He had to set his little brother free from the dogmatic confines the Jedi entrenched their young in, just like Xanatos himself had been freed. Xanatos knew he could do whatever he liked to Obi-Wan and the child would take it, he’d seen that on the recordings, how he had so readily used himself as a shield for a Mandalorian …

What would he do for a Jedi Master?

“What game are you playing, Xanatos?” Qui-Gon demanded. “Is this how you wish to avenge your father? Your sister? Though hate and ruin and violence?”

Obi-Wan, stuck between lucidity and confusion, had no idea what sort of drama he’d stumbled upon, well, he hadn’t exactly stumbled upon it; no, he’d been taken because of it. Judging by the way Xanatos rounded on Master Jinn with a furious snarl, nothing good had happened.

Xanatos was dangerous, his senses knew that, but he was dangerous in perhaps the most devastating way.

His rage, cold burning and as dark as the Galactic Core and its supermassive blackhole, was contained. Obi-Wan could all but taste it in the air. His suffering, his hate, his anger, even without the Force Obi-Wan’s innate essence wanted to gorge upon it.

A terrifying thought if there was ever one.

But Xanatos wasn’t paying attention to him now, too enthralled with Master Jinn. They were arguing now, words quiet, and so Obi-Wan made himself useful. His hands were cuffed in front of him, more for show than anything since there was the deterrent of the bomb-collar around his neck.

It really wasn’t that much of a deterrent at all.

See, Quin was Obi-Wan’s best friend, a Shadow in training, and so he had skills most Jedi wouldn’t. Komari, too, had taken them aside during her own training, and she had taught them the beauty of sleight of hand both with and without the Force.

Obi-Wan claimed the hypo-needle with ease, and one of the thin blades. Jango was industrious to know how to use it to get the bomb-collar off, and maybe, just maybe, get them out of here.

The only other thing he dared to take was a tweezers of all things, comically small but precise. There would be wires linking the charge and the detonator in the bomb-collar, and precision would be the difference in escape and death.

Then there was the sound of flesh meeting flesh and a grunt.

“Can I ask you a question?” Obi-Wan inquired, and Xanatos turned to him at once, and he nodded, a flurry of confounding contradictions. “Why did you use a slave-chip and a bomb-collar?”

“Ah. Standard processing, really.” Xanatos shrugged. “Would you like me to take it out?”

“I’d prefer the bomb-collar off, actually. It’s itchy.” Obi-Wan admitted, because it was still true.

“Ah, that’s non-negotiable, I’m afraid.” Xanatos didn’t sound too sad about it. “You’re strange enough with your Force abilities suppressed.”

“Xanatos-”

“Shut up, Qui-Gon. Nobody was speaking to you.” Xanatos snapped, the amused civility he had with Obi-Wan gone in an instant. “I won’t let you fail another child. His first instinct was to throw himself in front of the whip for a stranger, and that is because of your Order and your teachings.”

“It was my choice.” Obi-Wan grumbled, because it had been. “It was my fault.”

“The illusion of choice means you have no choice at all.” Xanatos said, pretending to be a wise, all-knowing teacher. “With me, you would have a choice. You wouldn’t be an outcast here, you wouldn’t be mocked and derided. Here, with me, you’d be wanted . The Jedi, they were ready to ship you off because none of them wanted you, but I want you, little brother.”

Obi-Wan blinked. Xanatos was insane , that much was clear to see, but how did he know what he did? Master Jinn, across the room, frowned, also pondering the same question. 

Xanatos sighed, aggrieved, realising that he had probably gone about this the wrong way. 

He should have had a more delicate touch.

Oh well, there was always tomorrow. It would take Obi-Wan a long time to unlearn the strangling teachings of the Jedi, but Xanatos would be there to help him achieve greatness, because they two, together, would be great.

He would learn the secrets of Obi-Wan Kenobi’s particular peculiarities, no matter how long it took. They had time, after all.

**

Jango moaned as light flooded his cell. He blinked open a blood-crusted eye, and then, because Obi-Wan was being guided through, Du Crion’s hand on his shoulder, he launched himself at the demogolka darjetti.

He didn’t get very far, suspended as he was by the Force. Stupid Jedi magic.

“Mandalorians.” Xanatos huffed. “See, little brother, I didn’t hurt him too much.”

“You shouldn’t have hurt him at all.” Obi-Wan growled, unmoving.

“Eh, pain only makes us stronger. I have plans for that one when he learns to stop gnashing his teeth at his betters.” The care he had for Obi-Wan was not extended to the other man, who he shoved into the room with a glower. “Have fun with the Jedi Master, Fett. Just keep him alive.”

“Fuck you, Du Crion.” Jango snapped.

The door was closed with a hydraulic hiss. Jango face-planted, and Du Crion’s laughter seemed to echo in the silence. Jango forced himself upward, just as Obi-Wan stopped in front of him, eyes gleaming in the darkness. 

“You okay?” Jango inquired. “Who’s that?”

“Jedi Master Qui-Gon Jinn.” Jinn said. “You’re Fett, I presume?”

Jango dismissed him in an instant, his attention on Obi-Wan who was shaking violently. The fever, Jango feared for a moment, but no, no, Ob’ika was laughing . Jango groaned, tipping his head back against the wall, and Obi-Wan settled beside him, his shoulders still shaking. Master Jinn made a noise, shifting slightly and Jango felt as his eyes studied them.

Whatever. Jinn wasn’t his concern. 

“I have something for you.” Obi-Wan said, flagging.

He pulled his pilfered goods from their hiding place, offering the tweezers, blade and needle-tip to Jango with a near holy reverence. Jango himself felt like laughing that moment because how?

How had Obi-Wan gotten them? How had Du Crion been stupid enough to leave them lying around?

“You did good, Obi-Wan.” Jango praised. “But not all of us can see in the dark.”

“You can see in the dark?” Qui-Gon inquired, because as far as he knew the boy was human.

“I can, Master. Which is how we’re going to get these collars off and get out of here.” Obi-Wan winced, taking in Jango’s state. “You should have just let them take me.”

“That was never going to happen.” Jango snorted. “But, how are we supposed to get your collar off if we can’t see?”

“We’re not.” Obi-Wan said, knowing that Jango would not like his plan in the least. “I’m the insurance policy, remember?”

“Xanatos does seem particularly interested in keeping you alive.” Qui-Gon hummed, confused. “It is good to see you alive, Initiate Kenobi. The Temple has been searching for you.”

“Please don’t tell me you’re the rescue.” Jango grumbled, and Qui-Gon snorted, and he looked at Obi-Wan. “Whatever you did last night, it worked, didn’t it?”

“I think so.” Obi-Wan shrugged, then immediately regretted it because pain flared, red-hot and blistering. “I hope so.”

“Get some rest, Ob’ika. You’re not going to dig around any bomb-collars with your hands shaking like that.”

Obi-Wan huffed, but he couldn’t deny how tired he was. It was a mixture of natural exhaustion, of his body’s response to the loss of the Force and the infection that had coursed through him. It was also a manufactured thing from whatever it was Xanatos had kept him unconscious with, and whatever it was that had been in the syringe.

Probably an attempt to make sure I don’t reach out again… He didn’t have to bother, I’m not even sure I know how I did it.

But that sense of threat, threat, threat , that pressure that had loomed as Xanatos had loomed, vanished when Jango patted his thigh, Obi-Wan’s balled up top a twisted sort of pillow. Jango was still threaded with evergreen safety, the colour of Master Yoda’s lightsaber, the boy realised.

Master Jinn was simply grey, undetermined. It seemed as if Obi-Wan’s odd instincts didn’t know what to make of him yet.

Jango fixed his gaze within the darkness as his head ached. His cheekbone was probably fractured -again-, and he knew the tightness in his torso meant he’d be sprouting colourful bruises. None of that seemed to matter when Obi-Wan rested against him, still alive, still fighting…

Jango was man enough to admit, even if only to himself, that he had been terrified when Obi-Wan was taken. Jango, even in his weakened state, starved and aching, had managed to put down six before Du Crion himself had shown up…

Then it hadn’t really been a fight. All the smug bastard had to do was flick his wrist and Jango was being forced into the wall by an invisible wave. He had been powerless to stop the darjetti from scooping Obi-Wan into his arms and leaving with an order to clean up the corpses.

But Obi-Wan was back now, and Jango curled his fingers around the thin, pale skin of his wrist and he felt as Ob’ika’s lifesblood pulsed, alive and rhythmic and soothing. The boy’s skin was always cold to the touch, but it would flare with warmth after only a moment, another oddity that Jango couldn’t explain.

It didn’t matter to him at all. Oddities were what made clans family…

Ah shit, I’m too young to be a buir, and I don’t think he’d want too…

Still, the conjured image of Obi-Wan running rings around Jaster and Myles and Arla was too good to ignore, even if the quiet chuckle set his ribs aflame. Jango cursed but he didn’t dare move lest he disturb Obi-Wan who was resting against him.

“Are you badly injured?” Jinn inquired.

“No.” Jango said, because he liked Obi-Wan, but Jinn was an outlier who had simply just appeared. Jango didn’t trust easily, and he didn’t trust many and he surely didn’t trust a Jedi Master that had gotten kidnapped. “I’ve had worse.”

Which was true. The last time he and Arla had sparred she’d nearly broken his teeth and that was worse than any bruising or broken bones could ever be because jango had an odd thing about teeth, especially his own. His sister hadn’t been repentant in the least.

Jango knew she was searching for him, knew that Jaster was, that Myles and every other member of Ha’at were. Still, six weeks of solitude and survival and caring only for himself was hard, especially when it turned on its head and became about keeping Ob’ika as safe as he could.

If Du Crion thought that Jango would be the monster in the shadows so he could be the saviour, he’d show the prick just exactly what Mandalorians did to beings that threatened their family.

And Jango’s Mandalorian hindbrain had claimed Obi-Wan like duckling imprints on its mother.

We’re nearly out, Obi-Wan. We’re nearly there.

Obi-Wan made a noise, torn half-way between sleep and the calling waters of his own mindscape. Tired as he was, there was something rejuvenating, purifying , about the rush of its silken caress over his cracking skin. The dragged his hands through it, and memories drifted on past him;

Depa’s furrowed brow as she worked on her classwork while he and Master Mace played Push and Pull to hone Obi-Wan’s fine control of the Force.

Him and Quinlan and bubbles, a notion that had Master Yoda’s Force signature blossoming like verdant jungles.

Master Sifo, tired and haunted by a vision of marching men that Obi-Wan had caught sight of, the two of them together, drinking Syrillian tea while Master Yan ranted about the failures of the Galactic Senate.

Komari and him, in the depths of the Force in the solemn, loving winds of the hall of Memorial, both of them working through their fear and anger at never being worthy enough for the family that loved them so freely.

Bant and Siri and Reef and Garen and Quin at dinner, stealing from one another’s plates knowing that it would be freely given because they were family

Master Yana’s rumbling delight when Obi-Wan had been younger, the sensation of her paw as it carded through his hair when a vision made it difficult to settle until the harmony of the Jedi Temple and the love of his family, his people, reached out and kept the fear away in a lattice of twisting colours, each one so very unique.

That is what family is. Xanatos is wrong , Obi-Wan thought, so pure and good of heart that he wished it could have been different, wished that Xanatos had made different choices, that he did not suffer as he so obviously did.

A path to walk for all of us, there is. Lost we may be, and found again, we can be, Master Yoda had said, forever reminding Obi-Wan that hope existed even in the darkest of places…

He understood now that hope thrived in the dark, and so long as there was hope, there was light.

Obi-Wan watched the flowing waters, as they rushed toward the edge of the waterfall and cascaded down the glimmering rock that chimed. Kyber, he realised, the rocks in his mindscape were kyber.

Why? Why was he like this? What was he?

But Obi-Wan’s ruminations were cut short, for there, flowing in reverse, was an image that had the chime of the kyber trilling in the same way the very essence of the Temple did:

“Careful we must be, in this endeavor of ours. Close by, Xanatos will have them. Know, hurt, our children are, know where they are, we do not.” 

“If we can find Jango, we’ll find your jetti’ad. ”

“ We can locate him, his Force presence is known to us.”

Obi-Wan sat up with a lurch, startling Jango who growled, thinking there was a threat.

“They’re coming.” Obi-Wan whispered, grinning. “They got the message.”

“What do you say we start a little rebellion to help ease the way?” Jango asked, smirking. “Du Crion’s got a decent security force, but if he’s too busy trying to suppress the slaves, he’ll miss whoever’s coming.”

“He’ll sense them; Master Yoda’s come himself. Your father too, and two others that I remember from Galidraan… Gold and red, and grey…”

“Oh great.” Jango huffed. “Arla’s never going to let me hear the end of it. Please tell me the other one didn’t have a blue Mythosaur on a gold pauldron…”

“They did.” Obi-Wan confirmed cheerily.

“Well, the good news is Du Crion’s going to be sliced no matter how good his security is.” Jango grimaced. 

“And the bad news?”

“Myles is going to laugh at me.”

“Komari says that’s the price of having older siblings, they get to laugh at us.”

Qui-Gon, who was seemingly forgotten as the two of them spoke, wondered just how well acquainted Kenobi was with his own lineage sister. Furthermore, he wondered how exactly Kenobi knew what he did because Qui-Gon might have had his differences with his Master, but he’d been raised with Master Sifo too…

Force visions didn’t work like that.

He also wondered how, in just a few days, the boy had become attached to a Mandalorian of all beings.

“How do you intend on starting a slave revolt?” Qui-Gon questioned.

“The same way you start a prison riot; throw a punch at the guards.”

“I don’t like that plan.” Obi-Wan murmured, frowning. “Chips, remember?”

“The only explosives are in your collars. Offworld chips for cargo and sorting, not to prevent escape.” Jango continued. “There’ll be light soon enough, when they come to feed us. Still think you can get them off?”

“Probably.” Obi-Wan said. “Just need to cut the right wire to stop the connection between the charge and the detonator. Then we can find something to pry them off with and be on our merry way.”

“Who taught you how to deactivate explosives, initiate Kenobi?" Qui-Gon questioned.

“Master Tholme.”

Well, if there was ever a Jedi to pass on the skills of deactivating explosives it would be Master Tholme. At least it wasn’t my master, he isn’t particularly tech-savvy , Qui-Gon thought with humour, I hope my head doesn’t get blown off…

**

The transport was an odd mix of trepidation and peace. The three Mandalorians paced while the Jedi sat serenely, meditating. Their plan was a simple one, too simple, but with Myles slicing Offworld’s security they’d have eyes and ears where they needed them.

Healer Che and Depa would remain with the transport, readying it for whatever injuries may crop up. The other eight, well, they’d infiltrate Offworld’s mines once they’d figured out which one held their cargo. The mission was a rescue one, they were ten against an unknown number, and they doubted that Xanatos would meet them in their challenge.

Yan knew he wasn’t that foolish. 

But if he did, well, Fallen Jedi usually ended up dead for a reason…

“What happens if Du Crion senses your presence? Jedi can do that, can’t they?” Jaster inquired, both for his own interest and in the interest of the mission.

He wondered, for a moment, if his question could be considered disrespectful. It was one thing engaging with the Grandmaster of the Jedi Order over holocom, but it was another thing entirely to do so in person. The Jedi were the antithesis of Jaster, Arla and Myles, dressed in flowing robes and leather…

Arla and Myles, who’d fought with them on Galidraan, had said that their apparent lack of protection didn’t make that much of a difference. If anything, it aided them because the Force made them defy gravity.

Jaster wondered what it would be like to see a Jedi in action.

“Cloak, for short periods of time we can.” Yoda explained, his eyes cracking open slightly. “Muted, your presence already is. Beskar, opposite to kyber, in that regard, it is. Hubris, undoing of the darkside, it is. Expect us together, Xanatos will not.”

“So we’ll have the advantage of surprise for a bit.” Arla’s modulated voice hummed. “Will your ad be able to sense you?”

“Uncertain, that is.” Yoda admitted, frowning. 

Personally, he believed that Obi-Wan might be able to, but he could not be certain of it, and he would not place all of his faith on it either. Yet, the Force pressed gently against his presence in the metaphysical and Yoda released his own negative feelings into its gilded warmth.

“Do you have information on the slaves in the mines?” Mace inquired.

“Criminals who have had their sentence sold off.” Jaster grimaced. “Just as likely to kill us as to help us.”

Depa frowned, and she extended her mind to brush against her Master’s in silent confusion.

How can there be slaves if slavery is illegal in the Republic?

Slavery is illegal because you cannot buy a sentient being… Indentured servitude isn’t illegal because you’re buying the sentence, not the person. The difference between the two exists only in datawork and legislation.

Obi-Wan…

I don’t know what condition we’ll find him in, Padawan, but that’s why Healer Che is with us.

Depa’s presence blossomed and quivered, concern and fear building before she released it. Mace was proud of her, and he knew that soon, he would be severing her braid and greeting her as a Knight.

It was Mace’s greatest honour to accompany her on her journey.

The ship left hyperspeed with a lurch, the vast expanse of space replacing the cosmic hues of the hyperlane. Yoda immediately cloaked their presence, but even if Xanatos sensed them through the Force, it was possible that he would simply think them members of the Agri-Corps.

Myles got to work, three datapads working simultaneously. Beneath his helmet, he gnawed on his lip, mentally reciting the Resol’nare. It wasn’t often Jango needed help, but somehow, when he did, he needed it in excess.

Honestly, Jan’ika, how did you get yourself kidnapped this time?

Five minutes.

Ten minutes.

Fifteen minutes.

Then finally, nearly twenty minutes later, Myles was in. It was easy to sort through the codes until he came along the one used by Offshore Mining. He pulled up the feed of Du Crion’s office, and he was just sitting there, cross-legged and floating .

Okay. Because that’s not weird as fuck…

Myles left that feed alone, because it seemed as though his office also acted as a command over-ride terminal, and if they got control of that well…

It would make exfil easier if they didn’t have to worry about locked doors and stubborn turbolifts.

Thinking that perhaps Du Crion would want to keep his prized prisoners together, Myles cycled through the cameras for the entire facility. It seemed it was still early in the day, because the prisoners were only being ferried to their workstations and there…

Oh for fuck’s sake, Jan’ika.

“You owe me ten credits.” Myles huffed in Arla’s direction.

“He started a fight? Now? My brother has the worst sense of timing.”

“Or the best.” Mace hummed, looking between Yoda and Yan. “Do you think Obi-Wan got our message?”

The three of them hadn’t meant for their signatures to thread together in a braid of hope-light-hope , and they didn’t expect it to be carried away by the Force’s flow. Perhaps it was simply luck, or maybe it was the Will of the Force, or there was every chance that it was entirely unrelated…

One of them was far more likely than the other two, especially where Obi-Wan Kenobi was concerned.

"Well, it means our entry just got easier." Komari shrugged, always able to see the pessimistic bright-side in all things.

Chapter Text

There were old stories of what would happen when Jedi and Mandalorians clashed. The outcome of the story usually depended on who was telling it, but there was one thing both sides could agree on; it was deadly, it was beautiful, it was horrifying . 

It was the same when both sides worked together with a single minded focus, a core belief shared by both groups; protect your young. There were more lightsaber colours on display in that single group of Jedi than there had been since the waning days of the High Republic;

Green for wisdom,

Blue for steadfastness,

Purple for strength,

Yellow for guardianship.

It was humorous, Jaster believed, that the meaning of the Jedi colours and their hearts were not that different from his own people. He remembered stories of the darksaber, his quiet quest to find it and finally end Mandalore’s civil wars…

Green for justice,

Blue for reliability,

Purple for luck.

The yellow of the Temple guardian, however, was the outlier. Too orange to be gold of vengeance, but so too was it too yellow to be the orange of a lustful life…

Peculiarly, a thought voiced only to himself, one that shocked even himself, Jaster wondered what colour lightsaber the Jedi vision-seer, -the child who had saved his life-, would have…

(Oh what a sigh it would be when he eventually saw it. When he saw the two of them, together, a soul-forged of fire and ice, twisted around each other like the strands of DNA, for one another were built so intrinsically into their essence that they alone were the suns and waters of life that see the future flourish rather than despair.

Soon, soon he would be born and his birth would ripple across the waves of the Force, reaching, forever reaching for the tie that binds.

 Whether she could cry out in salvation or ruination would not be seen for twenty-six years, but the Force, like her children, had hope. ..)

“Ready, are you, Mand’alor?” Yoda inquired lightly, his brethren feeling the lightness of his Force presence, but the knowing look in his eyes was for those clad in beskar’gam.

“Ready are you, Master Jedi?” Jaster returned, listening to Myles and Arla snorting over internal comms.

They entered the facility under false pretenses, the group of eight splitting into a team of two and six; Komari and Myles went to secure the command post to allow for easy movement in their rescue quest, as well as surveillance and security overrides in case they were needed.

The other six, with a little help from the Force and a casual suggestion on the droid manning the waiting area, were on the move.

“Du Crion’s on the move.” Arla informed the group, relaying Myles’ words from the surveillance system he’d sliced. “He’s going to suppress the riot.”

The Jedi hummed as one, their bonds flaring. They had spent ten long years searching for Xanatos, and in that time he had caused pain and suffering because he himself had been in pain and was suffering. It was their duty to capture him, to try him for his crimes.

Today, they hoped, would be that day.

(It would not. They would make the choice of life, of protection and sacrifice, as they always would.)

Jaster would deny it, but he was a little concerned to see the diminutive form of the Grandmaster of the Jedi Order casually strolling through what could very well be their end, especially when blaster-bolts began to fire and the alarms blared, doors closing with hydraulic hisses…

Blaster bolts that were knocked of course with knowing swipes of lightsabers, content in their edict to defend and disarm rather than kill. Jaster himself didn’t relish the kill as most beings would suspect of his people, but it was often-times harder to take a target alive than it was to take one dead.

But this? This was mesmerising. Hearing tales of Galidraan did not compare to seeing it in action.

The Jedi, it seemed, had turned defanging and neutralisation into an art form. Battle was home to a Mandalorian, its chaos, their peace, and as much as they denied it, as much as they tried to be different, the Jedi were no different.

Though where Mandalorians were the sword, Jedi were the shield. 

That became all the more prevalent when the security droids were released, two dozen or more. The compact, narrowing space of the mines meant that his and Arla’s jetpacks would be more of a hindrance than a help, and so they used their blasters.

The Jedi had their glowing sticks that cut through the droids like butter .

Jaster, though he didn’t share the sentiment, understood why people, why his people, were wary of the Jedi and their abilities, especially when he saw the Jedi Grandmaster vault through the air, taking out three droids with a throw of his green lightsaber while freezing a blaster bolt meant for Arla’s midsection.

It wouldn’t have done his daughter any harm, her beskar’gam would have disbursed its lethality, but it struck Jaster that defence was forever the reason the Jedi fought. Master Yoda hadn’t thought twice about it, protection instinctual, even to those he did not know.

The droids were dealt with in a matter of moments, nothing left of them but sparking wires and twisted metal. It was a prelude to the war that could come for them all in twenty years.

(Oh how the Force cried, for some things could not be changed, the plans of the Sith too deeply entrenched in the very foundation of the Galaxy.)

“Master Jinn is here.” Komari’s voice sounded over the coms. “I have his lightsaber.”

“And Jango’s beskar’gam is on display.” Myles added, furious. “Things are getting heavy down in the mines, security forces are advancing and they’re not taking any prisoners, either.”

“What’s Jango doing?” Jaster inquired.

“What Jango does best; getting the job done.”

Jaster did not roll his eyes but it was a near thing. Jango getting the job done had been what had gotten him kidnapped in the first place; he’d completed his bounty and was on his way home when Du Crion thought better of letting his pride suffer the insult.

“Randevous on you, once we have our younglings, we will.” Yoda hummed. “Returned, our artefacts will be. Dishonour them, allow that, we cannot.”

Lightsabers were like beskar’gam, Jaster realised, so wholly and uniquely representative of a single being. Mandalorian’s only parted with their vambraces during marriage, but Jaster didn’t know the cultural significance of a Jedi using another’s blade…

He so badly wanted to learn.

(Maybe Jango and Arla had a point about him being a nerd.)

The fighting was growing thicker now, more harried. It seemed that the security forces had been overwhelmed by the prisoners, who were just as content to fight one another as they were to fight their captors. It was only the strange pack of Jedi and Mandalorians that worked together as one, united in a singular goal.

Then the compound shook violently and there was the hiss of explosives. Yan felt it in the Force then, that bright flaring nebula of sage and saffron. Qui-Gon had gotten his Force-supressor off.

“Oh Master Tholme is going to be so proud.” Komari’s glee was infectious over the communication line. “That’s our boy.”

“Get in line, Knight Vosa.” Mace huffed, waiting, waiting…

The touch of Obi-Wan’s starlit waters didn’t come.

Yoda’s ancient heart seized, waiting, waiting. But their stolen youngling’s light did not come. He reached out in the Force and pressed himself against Qui-Gon’s shielding with a happy little noise, and there, there was Obi-Wan…

It wasn’t his signature, suppressed deeply within himself as it was because of whatever nefarious means Xanatos had used. No, it was his essence, his oddities as a Sithspawn, the reason that his people had been culled, that was flaring liquid-smooth and cooling.

Here, in this place marred by pain and suffering, by loss and longing, anger and hate, the Force flowed as it always did, as it always would. It flowed though Obi-Wan as though he was kyber-crystal, its malfeasance healing, clarifying and perhaps, most brilliantly, purifying, and returned back to the currents of those ever-flowing waters…

Hope, hope we have.   

Meanwhile, seventeen levels below, in the bowels of the mines where fighting was thickest, Qui-Gon huffed out an amused sound as he worked on getting young Obi-Wan’s collar off. Jango, meanwhile, had taken leave of his scalpel blade, and instead looted an electro-staff from one of the security guards who had made his way for Obi-Wan and Obi-Wan alone.

Du Crion still wants him. Too bad, they’ll have to get through me and the grown one.

“The others are here.” Qui-Gon said, using the Force to deactivate the bomb-collar, which was much easier than whatever it was young Obi-Wan had done. “It seems you were correct, Obi-Wan.”

He made to finally pull the collar off, but small, trembling hands covered his. Oh, Qui-Gon was sure the child’s terrified, haunted face would plague his dreams for years to come.

“Don’t. Master, please don’t.”

“Okay.” Qui-Gon nodded, wishing he could soothe some of the child’s fear because despite it all, it still leaked into the Force, released into rushing waters that soothed Qui-Gon . “Just remember to stay between myself and Fett. I’m going to lead us to Master Yoda and he’ll know what to do.”

I hope he does, anyway. If he doesn’t, my master will, and if they don’t, we together will find out If help my brothers and sisters require, help they shall have. We are the Force. One mind. One body. One soul. We are the Jedi.

Master Yan had taught Qui-Gon that, and he had, no doubt, learned it from Grandmaster Yoda. The child across from him already had the mannerisms of his lineage…

It seems, Qui-Gon thought somewhat amused, its yellow-blue blossoms floating along the rivers of the Force , I have a new brother to help.

Obi-Wan swallowed, nodding. For over a week all he had wanted was the Force back, but it had cried out a singular warning when he felt the nearest caress of its love; not yet. Not yet. 

Threat. Threat. Threat. 

Storm. Storm. Storm.

Danger. Danger. Danger.

DANGER. 

THREAT. 

STORM.

Obi-Wan didn’t know why taking the collar off might be dangerous, but when the Force spoke, he listened. He was placed between the two men now, and Obi-Wan had a feeling that if Jango wasn’t so focused on making sure their rear was secure, he’d have an arm wrapped around Obi-Wan, ready to yank him back like an errant pup.

Which was fair, because Obi-Wan had bitten three beings in the last half hour. Still, with a protective, bloodied Mandalorian at his back and a serene Jedi Master in front of him, Obi-Wan had never felt as safe…

The Jedi Temple didn’t count, obviously.

“We’re going to auxiliary tunnels, we can’t rely on the security controls.” Qui-Gon said, eyeing the Jedi youngling who was already so weakened by sickness and suffering,

“Myles will have the control centre locked down. He’s already watching us on the cameras, he’ll make sure we’ve got a clear run at it.” Jango dismissed, because that was what Myles always did.

“Are you willing to bet your life on that, Ser Fett?” Qui-Gon inquired, suspending two droids in the air so they could casually walk on by them.

“I’m willing to risk Ob’ika’s life on it. He said Myles is here, and so Myles is here. Since Myles is here, he’ll be in the command centre.”

For the first time in two decades, Qui-Gon reached down a withered and wilted bond. His master’s presence flared brilliantly in recognition, reaching out almost tentatively.

(There had once been a time where Qui-Gon would pull on it for no other reason that he could, because he knew it annoyed his master. When had all of that changed?)

Qui-Gon…

Is a Mandalorian named Myles with you, Master?

He and Komari have secured the control centre in his office. Cin and I are following him now. Continue on to Yoda and the Mand’alor.

“You know your people well. He and my lineage sister are securing the command post.” Qui-Gon nodded, appraising the Force that told them it was safe to proceed. “Masters Dooku and Drallig are moving to secure Xanatos.”

“Master Drallig’s here?” Obi-Wan whispered, confused.

The head of the Temple Guard, their Battlemaster, did not leave the Jedi Temple. 

Ever .

( Oh my sweet son, soon you will learn just how much you are loved.)

They followed Qui-Gon, who listened to the Force intently, following its winding path with impressions of peace and safety. He had only a split second of warning before Qui-Gon was forcing both Obi-Wan and Fett into what seemed to be a sanitation closet.

“Automated weapons fire; Active.” Came a cold, emotionless voice system. 

A barrage of blaster bolts fired past the opened door, fired with such intensity that even with a lightsaber deflecting them would be near impossible. Qui-Gon exhaled his thanks to the Force.

“They’re not even supposed to be on the market yet.” Jango raged. “How did get his chakaaryc hands on an IXR?”

“You sound jealous.” Obi-Wan huffed, amusement leaking from his tone. 

“I am. I wanted one…” Jango looked inquisitive, eyeing Obi-Wan and Jinn. “It’ll need to change its cylinder in thirty seconds, think you can pull it down? Otherwise we’ll be stuck here and I don’t like being stuck in killboxes, Master Jedi.”

“Well, I'd rather not be stuck in a kill box Ser Fett, so I suppose I must.”

Exactly thirty seconds later, the IXR, the newest, yet unreleased model of gatling turret, was nothing more than a twisted pipe-dream of crushed metal. Jango, though he would dismiss it later on, made a noise of such sorrow that Obi-Wan petted his arm in mocking consolation.

Jango flashed his teeth and Obi-Wan, immune because Quinlan had been doing that forever raised an eyebrow that would one day become known. Jango rolled his eyes and nudged Obi-Wan forward because this was not the place to get into a snipping match.

And they would forever snipe. It was the way of brothers, after all.

Meanwhile, now only nine-levels above them, Mace and Yoda, Jaster and Arla, faced their own problem There was not a turret or an invasion of droids or rioting slave prisoners or anything similar.

No, their issue was the fact that Xanatos had quite literally ripped the turbo-lift off its tracks and twisted it into a rigged shrapnel bomb. The two Jedi and the two Mandalorians shared a look because seriously?

“Disarm this, I cannot.” Yoda grumbled, his ears twitching in annoyance. “Contain it, we can, if blow it up, you do.”

“That still leaves the issue that this is the turbolift we need to take.” Mace reminded drily, because Xanatos had done this because he, like all in Yoda’s lineage, were dramatists at their core.

Mace would know, he was a part of it.

“We can go down on our jetpacks.” Jaster said.

“I saw your people leaping on Galidraan. Can they make it that far?” Arla added, her head cocked to the side.”

It wouldn’t surprise her if they could. She’d seen them move in ways that still made her body ache just thinking about it. Even the old ones, especially the old ones.

“That far, we cannot jump.” Yoda huffed, his ear twitching in amusement at the young woman’s muted Force-presence and the inquisitiveness of it all. “Your aid, grateful we are. Move back you should, so contain this, we can. Shoot here, would you?”

“C’mon buir, please?” Arla all but begged.

Jaster snorted. Arla only called him buir when she was wanting to blow things up, or after she had already blown something up. He sighed, retreating to where Master Windu had pointed at with an amused smile, before he nodded. 

Ah yes, he has his jetti’ad. He’d know.

Jaster liked history. Jango liked knives. Myles liked slicing. 

Arla liked explosives.

A little too much sometimes, if her wiggling shoulders were anything to go by as she took the shot. The Two Jedi contained the blast in a transparent field, and in a flash that whited out Jaster’s vision it was gone. Then Master Windu grunted and the debris fell, harmlessly.

“ I like them .” Arla said over her internal comms. “ They’re not like the stories.”

“Neither are we. ” Jaster reminded.

“Safe, it is.” Yoda hummed, peering into the emergency lighting of the turbolift shaft, it cast the shadows in a bloodied hue. “Know we had friends, Xanatos did not. Thinks, only Jedi here, he does.”

“Well, you did say hubris is the downfall of darksiders.” Jaster said, and then he was gone, as was Arla.

Style, they have. Approve of friendship, I do.

Arla and Jaster activated their jetpacks and floated down the shaft, the clinking sound of their boots and the disengagement of their jetpacks the only sound travelling. Mace took a step away from the edge and he cast his senses out, releasing a breath for there was nothing on this level with him but Yoda.

“They are not what I was expecting.” Mace admitted, his eye twitching.”

“The same, true for us all, I think.” Yoda smiled. “Spoke with the Mand’alor I did. Not in a position at the moment, is he, to use the holocron. Told him, that offer, there it will be. Interfere in Mandalore’s politics, we cannot. Make right our mistakes, we must. Help me do that, will you?”

“You know we all will.” Mace hummed, slipping into the structured path of the Force here Shatterpoints near and far glowed like gemstone pustules. That one that had been hanging over Obi-Wan before he was taken, and its twin indeed, were nearing. They were ready to rupture or to vanish, depending on the choices made and not made. “There’s a Shatterpoint here.”

“Always is, with Obi-Wan. Maybe, adopted him, young Fett has.” Yoda snorted, but he hoped not, because they’d only finished formalising the schedule. Yoda didn’t want to think about adding in another section. “Tie that binds he is, but still, feel him I cannot.”

“You’re worried about what having his connection suppressed will mean, even if it doesn’t actually work on him.” Mace nodded in understanding, even if he didn’t actually understand . “Does this have something to do with the deathless waters I heard you and Dooku talking about?”

Yoda hummed, but his ears twitch in discomfort at the memory of the holocron’s oil-slick touch. It was dark and twisted, one of the worst Yoda, who had experience with such vile things, had ever felt. So much pain and suffering had gone into creating the Stewjoni to be their loyal hounds…

And then some of them were Force-sensative and that was when the true problems arose, as far as Yoda and Yan could discern. Still, they would have to compile everything they knew and everything they suspected before they told Obi-Wan the truth…

It was, in a way, his culture after all. The Jedi did not keep familial ties with those who shared thor blood, but culture and tradition, both that of their home planet and that of their home , were forever theirs.

It made Yoda think of the vow he had made, the words he had said on that holocom years ago now; truth, honour, justice. They were Mandalorian virtues, but so too were they Jedi values.

Want us together you do, but why?

The Force did not answer, but Yoda did not expect it to. Instead he reached out and petted his claw atop Mace’s arm, both physically and metaphysically; the touch of skin and the touch of phantom energies. 

Together as one, Yoda and Mace released their turbulent, darkened fears into the Force alongside their burning sense of shame and failure. Obi-Wan was here, and he would need them when they rescued him, and so they would ready themselves.

That was their way; peace, protection, safety, harmony and above all, love eternal and light.

“Now, the time, it is not.” Yoda said cautiously. “Already, did poor Obi-Wan think that wanted him, we did not. Little did he know, scheduling issues, there were. Entering puberty he is, when most changes happen, it is. Keep an eye, we must. More than sharpening teeth and eyes that gleam in the dark he will have.”

Already there had been so much that made Obi-Wan just that little bit different from the other human children, and things that made him different from all other Jedi younglings…

“Don’t forget the pearlescent tears, -they’re odd-, and don’t you forget that he’s practically living with me already.” Mace reminded with a look, Yoda only smirked because he had tea . “Depa will be ready to face the trials soon.”

“Called our youngling odd , you did.” Yoda shook his head reprovingly. “Do that, you should not.”

“Oh hush, he calls himself odd. The kid ate his own teeth. ” Mace added, remembering Depa’s amused admission. It was apparently an accident but Mace wasn’t sure he believed that.

Yoda hummed in acknowledgment. Young Depa would indeed soon be ready; she had been ready for nearly a year, but just because one was ready did not mean the time was right. Patience was a virtue that all beings should strive for.

The ancient being extended his presence outward, found his Padawan and his grandpadawan -Cin disliked being called his grandpadawan because he was the same age as Yoda’s last padawan- and they were somehow deep below them, nearing Qui-Gon’s presence, and indeed that twisted pustule of hate that had become Xanatos…

(He had once been so bright; his presence a blossom of pinks and soft lilacs. Now it was gone, the light of love and hope, peace and harmony, replaced by shadows and flaring geysers of clotted blood, thick and dark and dead .)

He extended himself further, toward the mimicry of the Halls of Healing. Already had Vokara begun to thread healing energies around the ship in case there was a medical emergency. The other thing Yoda noticed was the chime of the purified kyber crystal she had brought with her in case it was needed should Xanathos attack with the darkside…

Well, all will be.

All was not well.

For, less than five minutes later, there was a psionic scream , one that left the Jedi’s mental defences splintering and cracking. Yoda prevented Mace from face-planting, rushing to thread his own aching presence over the man, but there was too much interference in the Force for Yoda to know the status of the rest of his charges…

There was only water rushing over those great jagged hearts of kyber, its smoke thundering with the force of it all. There was only one being in the Galaxy that Yoda knew to be such an artifice…

Below, a few minutes before, as Arla and Jaster advanced on Jango’s position, following Myles’ instructions, they could hear the buzzing sound of a lightsaber in the background of the communication, the fizz of blaster bolts. Neither Myles nor his Jedi partner sounded too concerned, and so Arla and Jaster continued on.

Only to walk into a scene that had them inhaling sharply because it was not good.

Oh, it was no good at all.

Cin Drallig stared down the Fallen Jedi that held a screaming, screeching, damnable blade of vermillion plasma so close to Obi-Wan’s throat that he could scent the singed flesh. Yan, meanwhile, was extending his own mental shielding, because Xanatos had dived deep into the Dark and it was calling, calling, calling.

Jango was down, blood trickling from his nose, from his ears. Already around his throat there were bruises purpling, veins and capillaries brutalised. Qui-Gon stood, breathing harshly, his tabards stained with blood that nobody knew the origins of…

Blasters were leveled, not only at the Jedi, but at the Mandalorians too, only Jaster realised that no, no they were not blasters…

T hey were slugthrowers.

Shabuir’s smart. He wanted the Jedi, but he didn’t count on us, Jaster thought savagely, looking at his son’s fallen form. There was the rise and fall of his chest, the only thing that kept both Jaster and Arla still.

That and the plasma-blade at the child’s throat, though honestly, Obi-Wan didn’t look too concerned. Instead, his eyes were on Jango, guilt heavy in his gaze.

“Put your lightsabers down.” Xanatos began, knowing that so long as he had Obi-Wan he had all the power. “Let me leave here with my little brother and I’ll call off the order to wipe this hemisphere from the surface. I’ll even let you all leave.”

“He is not your brother, Xanatos.” Yan said, batting away the call of the dark for there was a youngling in need. “You cannot replace one lost sibling with a stolen one. Look at what you have wrought. You’re holding a lightsaber to a child’s throat. Our child .”

Obi-Wan tensed in Xanatos’ hold, and he gentled his grip on Obi-Wan’s shoulder but did not move the blade. It was still too close for comfort, hot and scorching. Obi-Wan knew that if he tried to move, if he did anything then he’d probably be headless, and cybernetics hadn’t gotten that good yet…

He knew that the weapons would stop the Jedi, because they looked a little off. Master Qui-Gon had been hit with one, and it wasn’t a usual blaster shot like Obi-Wan had seen in the holo-films or in the Temple training rooms. There had been no bolt, only a cracking sound and then Master Qui-Gon had crumpled…

And then Xanatos had Jango in the air, Force heavy around his throat. That was perhaps the first time Obi-Wan had been afraid, and it was only because Jango had been afraid, because he’d been clawing at his throat against the invisible grip. Obi-Wan had gone willingly then, feeling the bite of terror and tears as Jango was thrown to the side but it was so much better than the the sickening snap of bone Obi-Wan’s hindbrain welcomed…

Xanatos could have him if it meant the others would be safe. 

But then Master Drallig and Master Yan had arrived, and now there were two Mandalorians as well, and all of them could die because of Obi-Wan…

Obi-Wan who had no weapon other than waters of his soul, had no shield other than hope.

It might be enough.

“I’ll go with him.” Obi-Wan declared, looking at Master Qui-Gon who looked so terribly sad. “I’ll go with Xanatos, but only if he promises to let you all go.”

“Obi-Wan-” Master Yan had that tone in his voice, the tone that usually meant whatever you’re about to do, don’t. “ Padawan- ”

“I’ll let them walk away now… except Jinn. You believe in justice, don’t you Obi-Wan? Surely the man who killed my father should face justice.”

Obi-Wan looked at Master Qui-Gon, he cleared his throat. Master Qui-Gon only blinked, but Obi-Wan hoped …

Sometimes hope was enough.

“Justice and vengeance aren’t the same thing.” Obi-Wan swallowed, pressing the weeping, split skin of his back further into Xanatos’ ridiculously soft clothes. “Let them go, Xanatos. Otherwise, I’ll throw myself on that lightsaber and we’ll all be blown-up.”

Xanatos chuckled. Master Qui-Gon exhaled. The blade came closer, singing Obi-Wan’s skin now, blistering from how close the metal of the collar was, how the heat seeped and leached. Obi-Wan grunted.

Then Master Qui-Gon pulled the Force-suppression collar from the boy’s neck. There was nothing for a nano-second and then there were screams ; violent and brutal, dark and twisted, the hisses of cracking ice and splattering plasma. They thundered, and Obi-Wan brought his teeth, those teeth he had envisioned dripping with blood and venom, into Xanatos’ flesh.

The man yowled. The fog, thick and sepulchric, settled like a miasma of doom. The Jedi were staggered from the effects of the psychic scream, and even Jaster and Arla felt something but that did not stop them, nor did the fog stop their heat-vision. Arla went for the slug-throwers, her blaster-shots pin-point and precise. Her buir, it seemed, had taken a bit of a linking to the Jedi and their defences, because he was keeping everybody safe.

In the ten-seconds since it happened, Obi-Wan scrabbled across the white-tiled floor and he forced the collar back onto his neck. His connection to the Force was suppressed once again, and then so too did the screaming stop, and so too did the darkness abate.

He settled on his haunches, rocking back and forth, a dreadening chill alight down his spine

He spat out a glob of Xanatos’ flesh, his instincts warring with his upbringing to chew upon the fascisca, to feel it pop and split between his jaw’s power. Obi-Wan’s vision, perfect and grey-scale, found the red-threaded threat of Xanatos’ form and the former Jedi was moving toward Master Qui-Gon who was closest to him, who was held beneath the Force’s unbreakable hold.

The blade never found its home in the Jedi Master. Obi-Wan was as quick as a wraith, a haunted spectre that emanated light; silver and azure and there was a chime, one that the kybers in the lightsabers joined, crying out for their corrupted kin…

Xanatos dropped the blade, his hand burned down to the bone. Obi-Wan sagged, then Xanathos roared and back-handed him and then he was gone, gone, gone.

“I’ll be back, little brother.”

The taste of blood and plasma, his own, and Xanatos’ was the last thing Obi-Wan remembered before the Force claimed him, holding him in its purified embrace.

Meanwhile, those gathered in the area of ruination, stared in horror for there, the child they had come to save had been impaled upon the twisted metal of the wall Xanatos had forced between them to allow himself time to escape.

Blood, shimmering blood, human yes, but threaded with silver ichor that would only grow and grow, dripped and dripped and dripped.

Chapter Text

 Depa knew something had gone wrong the moment she’d felt the water rising in her mind. She’d only experienced it once before and it had been when Obi-Wan was scarcely more than a toddler who had just lost a few more teeth. It had occurred after a disastrous mission, her own fears and anger at the failure heavy…

Or it had been until Obi-Wan had reached out his hand and offered her a gummy smile, the Force lighter, weightless around them when only a few moments before it had coiled oppressively around  Depa’s neck.

But for all that it was similar it was different.

This wasn’t Obi-Wan soothing her hurts through whatever means he could do so, no, this was Obi-Wan hurting. Depa swallowed, calmed only by Healer Che’s hand on her shoulder and the lattice of her gilded Force-presence sweeping around Depa’s turmoil.

She didn’t understand why Obi-Wan’s pain felt like purified kyber in the Force, for none of them had ever truly experienced him being in pain before. 

“Breathe, Padawan. All will be well. You must center yourself, for if you’re ungrounded, unguarded, you cannot help.”

Depa nodded, a headache brewing behind her temples. Whatever that sound had been -shrieks, the screams of the damned as they were drowned for centuries- had rattled her, but it had rattled the esteemed Jedi healer too.

It had rattled them all, in truth.

So, with the patience her Master had taught her over many long meditation sessions back when Depa was restless, she bid herself to stay. 

Vokara hummed approvingly and she set to work, readying her equipment. There had been so little by way of medical care in what they’d found in the rather thin documents that relayed the information about the Sithspawn that she was forced to work as though Obi-Wan was simply baseline human.

However, Vokara knew there was nothing simple when it came to one Obi-Wan Kenobi and so she prepared everything. He’d no doubt need a nutri-pack, and so would the young Mandalorian also captive with him, probably more so since Fett had been gone neigh on eight weeks.

Still, there was not much she could do until she actually assessed the patient herself, since the garbled words in the Force and over the comm meant nothing when none of her kin were trained as she was.

Vokara wasn’t even sure she believed what she had heard.

Yet still, they waited, together, both finding peace in the simple breathing exercises Master Yoda taught to all the younglings that passed beneath his loving care.

They did not have long to wait, for they came. Komari and Myles first, the closest, a lightsaber and beskar’gam secured and sanctified, never to be lauded as an instrument of victory or conquest. 

Komari had blood on her skin, and more of it was staining the silver-white of her hair. Depa, needing to do something, set about wiping it away with cool, bacta-infused gauze. Myles had waved off any sort of medical attention, safe beneath his armour. Instead he paced anxiously, awaiting the return of his best-friend.

He’d watched, powerless to do anything, as Jango’s throat was crushed beneath the darjetti’s power. There was a debt to be paid, and when Jango received it, Myles would be right beside him because that was their way.

Then came five beings; The Grandmaster of the Jedi Order was perched on the mythosaur emblazoned pauldron of the Mand’alor, who held his unconscious son aloft in his arms. In the arms of Arla Fett, blood the red of humans but with the threading silver of the legend, was Obi-Wan.

It dripped and dripped and dripped.

Arla moved with sure but soft steps, and with tender care she placed the far too still boy onto the table where the Healer stood to the left. Vokara’s eyes roved over him and she took a step back, disbelieving because how?

“There’s nothing I can do.” Vokara admitted, yet still she placed a pillow beneath Obi-Wan’s head.

She didn’t even dare inject him with a nutri-pack in case it would disturb him.

“Heal him, you cannot?” Yoda inquired, leaping from Jaster’s shoulder. “Correct, am I?”

“A version of it.” Vokara agreed, mystified in truth. “Come, I can still help your son, Mand’alor. If you’d allow me, of course?”

Jaster nodded, somewhat stupified. All of that, and they were just going to leave Obi-Wan Kenobi to bleed out? It was a nasty wound, veins and possibly arteries shredded by unyielding metal, but surely there was something they could do. Truthfully, something prickled within Jaster at how they did nothing.

“In a healing trance, he is.” Yoda said, his voice thickened with emotion that he released as easily as breathing, and he looked knowingly at the Mand’alor. “Interfere, we cannot. Kill him, surely, it will. Will know, we will, if it works.”

“If?” Depa breathed, staring at the pallid, bloodied form of her little brother. 

“Healing trances are fickle things.” Vokara explained, setting Jango to rights with hypos of antibiotics, bacta and nutri-shots. As she wrapped a bacta-laced bandage around his throat she continued; “If they’re disturbed before they’re finished, the patient’s midi-clorians become inert, and when that happens, death is imminent. His life is in the hands of the Force and his own constitution, now."

A hand, free of oil and blood now, came to tangle their fingers together. Komari’s presence, so familiar to Depa now after years, was pressed against her own shields; it was the colour of peony and snow, curling like wisps of ephemeral steam. Depa pressed her own signature closer until they were coiled around one another in a thread of havefaith-peacepeacepeace-harmony-Iamherewithyou.

Depa exhaled and she tightened her fingers around Komari’s in physical thanks. Komari, forever more expressive in the Force with those who she loved as dearly as she did, sent a bust of sweet, endearing love that coloured the Force with buds of lavender and citrine.

Yoda huffed, his eyes flicking between Obi-Wan and the starlight shimmer of the Force that surrounded him. Around him, currents of azure and cobalt flowed and cycled, growing darker as they passed beneath the child’s prone body only to lighten on the other side.

The ancient, wizened being hid his amazement well, and his confusion. No longer could he deny the need to call those two who were older than even he.

Yoda knew that they would answer the call, just as all Jedi would.

It was only a few moments later when Yan and Mace, with Qui-Gon slung between them, Cin to their front in a protective stance, returned. Vokara cluckled her tongue when she eyed the blood, and then winced when she saw the wound…

A slugthrower. How uncivilised.

“Leave, we should. Regrouping, Xanatos could be. Deep pockets he has, this land, his it is.” Yoda reminded, building an ephemeral blanket of peace-love-wearesafesafesafe around his comrades. 

He did not dare to shroud Obi-Wan for fear it would do something to the healing trance that was so obviously working. He understood now how the Stewjoni had survived, why the Sith exalted them as their bloodied, unkillable hounds…

Their bodies, their souls, it was nourished by the rushing waters of the Force even when they were not Force sensitive, and yet, if they were, it seemed as though the effects was magnified, that the currents continued to cycle, breathing life and healing energies into every atom beneath its gauzy veil.

The more pain and suffering that surrounded him, that was indeed within him, only seemed to make the last remaining Force-sensative Sithspawn of Stewjon heal faster.

Swords of flesh and blood, Yoda remembered them being called, loyal hounds and beasts in the skin of man. No matter what we did to them, they were faster, stronger, better than anything ever seen before and indeed anything that ever would be seen.

“Can he even travel?” Mace inquired, jerking a head toward Obi-Wan who looked serene and far too still in the echoes of the Force.

 “So long as he’s left undisturbed, yes.” Vokara nodded, fishing some twisted metal out of Qui-Gon with the Force. He grunted and tipped his head back. “You’re lucky you didn’t have your lightsaber otherwise there’d be dozens of these.”

“One is quite enough, I assure you, Healer Che.” Qui-Gon said with a winning smile.

It was that moment Jango decided to regain consciousness, and what a moment it was. Half-wrapped in bandages, a drip in the crevice of his forearm and looking like a stiff breeze could knock him over, he came out swinging…

Only to hit his sister in the chestplate. Vile words fell from his lips as hot pain lanced through his knuckles; Komari looked impressed, Depa, gladdened by the moment of levity, tittered. Yan sniffed dismissively because really, there was no need for such uncouth words.

“Jan’ika. What have I told you about getting kidnapped?” Jaster huffed, removing his helmet to gaze upon his son with his own eyes. “Ah, ah, don’t try to speak. That darjetti osi'yaim  did quite the number on your throat.”

Jango winced but bared his teeth in the face of his father, petting at his head like he was a tooka. Jaster only smirked, because his son was here, finally in front of him after weeks of the unknown.

 Jango glanced around, and he recognised his family of course, and four of the Jedi; the two he’d met on Galidraan, the other just the night before, and one he’d only ever seen coloured in the blue-hues of holo-communications.

Where was Obi-Wan?

Jango moved his head, searching out the sight of fire-touched hair but it hurt, it hurt so much, yet that didn’t mean he would stop. Myles, apparently, took pity on him, and he knew Jango would care only about the ad, and so he’d positioned himself to take up most of Jango’s sight, guarding his back, but also guarding something else, but in the end he moved…

No. No. This wasn’t supposed to happen. He was supposed to be safe.

“Jan’ika.” Jaster said, dark eyes narrowed on his son’s face, knowing that he was about to do something. “It’s Jedi oisik. He’s still alive.”

The Jedi snorted, even Qui-Gon who winced as he did so. The Mand’alor was not wrong, but he was also very far from right. It wasn’t Jedi, no, the Sith had delved so far with their macabre elements that Obi-Wan’s healing trace and subsequent healing was all down to them….

Jango, with a speed and skill that belied his injured state, yanked Myles datapad from him with a scowl. Myles simply flicked him on the temple. Jango tapped with knowing fingers, hoping that Du Crion wasn’t dead because jango had unfinished business and he’d take his payment in blood and flesh.

What happened? I thought your glowsticks are hot enough to cauterize? 

“He wasn’t stabbed with a lightsaber.” Mace said, stressing the word because no, he’d not have some Mandalorian Depa’s age call their most revered possessions glowsticks. “There was an incident with the Force… Xanatos backhanded Obi-Wan with enough Force to cause him to be impaled upon a ruined wall.”

Where’s Du Crion?

“Gone.” Yan informed, hawk-like eyes appraising the young man who stared back unflinchingly.

Vicious satisfaction lanced through Jango and he typed back a single word; Good. Arla scoffed, because of course her brother would forget that he was in no position to go chasing after a darjetti, but she also knew that this was when Jango was his most dangerous.

He was made for the hunt, and it had only grown over the years. The little boy who had once plagued her for stories and sweetcakes was gone, and what was left was a hunter forged in blood and tears, anguish and vengeance.

She glanced back at Kenobi’s body and then back at her brother who was still staring.

Ah Jan’ika, you can’t adopt a jetti’ad. These people around us are his aliit.

“Sit with Obi-Wan, you can.” Yoda said, a brittle smile upon his face because unlike the other Mandalorian’s whose essence was muted by their beskar, Jango Fett’s was not. It was a stunning thing; ruby and bronze thread bound by glimmering silver. “Do him no harm your presence will.”

Jango regretted swallowing, but he nodded in the face of the little green being who seemed to know Jango’s own soul with a single glance. It was discomforting in a way he couldn’t describe, but his own comfort meant little because Obi-Wan was right there…

On the table, almost luminous and far too still. Jango wasn’t sure if he was even still alive, but his buir had said Jedi oisik, and in a little over a week, Jango had borne witness to it more than once. It wasn’t for him to understand, and so he wouldn’t try to.

Instead, he sat beside the table that held Obi-Wan’s body but he didn’t dare touch him for fear that even the slightest movement would cause his end. Arla hovered anxiously by his shoulder, her gauntleted hand upon his shoulder in a showing of physical comfort.

And in the metaphysical the Jedi comforted one another as their child lay upon shores of the Force and they waited to find out if their mother wished him returned to her watery embrace…

Mace hoped not. Enough of Obi-Wan’s kin had been drowned, and that water had touched him, so endarkened with death as it was, yet now it seemed to be what kept him alive.

As Vokara said all those years ago, I never thought I’d thank the Sith for something….

“If you’re going to meditate, meditate as far away from him as possible.” Vokara ordered, her eyes narrowed, wondering if one of them would challenge her.

They, wisely, did not.

“Will he survive?” Jaster asked quietly, once the youngest Jedi had retreated to the back of the ship that was surrounded by the whorls of hyperspace.

Jango huffed, and oh he was going to struggle until his throat no longer felt as crushed and embedded with glass as it was; He better, he typed.

I might be able to formally adopt him, but Ob’ika’s mine. Congratulations, Jas’buir, you’ve got your first bu’ad at the ripe old age of 42.

“He will.” Vokara nodded, periodically checking on him, marvelling at the way every fiber of his being seemed to stitch itself back together. “With the rate he’s healing, I’d think he’ll be awake before we exit lightspeed.”

Jaster gave his acknowledgement, but his eyes lingered on the boy’s blood. Jaster had seen much blood over his lifetime, most of red even if the species it came from were not baseline human. Some of it had been green, some of it the colour of sulphur deposits, more still the colour of the sky…

Never had he seen threads of silver in the veins of mortal men before. Oh, but seen it he had, back when he was chasing the myths of Mandalore and her people, but even then it had only been in words.

Silverbloods. 

There was only one reference of it, a single entry so old it was carved in archaic runes that even now none could decipher, with only a partial, ancient Mando’a translation from nearly four millennia ago;

Beware, it had said, beware the spawn of the yellow-eyes. Beware the blood that runs as silver as starlight; they are the bringers of vengeance, of salvation, of ruination.

**

Mace rubbed at his eyes, a headache brewing deep in his mind. This one was not caused by the still-quivering Shatterpoint that would no doubt rupture with momentary blindness and agony, but rather because Obi-Wan Kenobi was still unconscious.

His wounds had healed while they were in hyperspace just as Vokara had predicted, but when they’d all expected him to wake up with a startled gasp as one usually would when they’d clawed their way back from near-certain death, Obi-Wan had not.

Which was typical of him, really.

Mace sighed and reclined in his seat, watching Obi-Wan’s chest and it rose and fell beneath the blanket. Vokara had said he was in perfect health, as though he was entirely untouched by the events of the last week, and physically he was…

Mentally and emotionally would be another story because Mace would be having words with his padawan because one should never agree to walk off with a despot holding a corrupted lightsaber to one’s throat.

Nor should they bite out a chunk of flesh that never appeared sharp until they were. Though Mace had been thankful to learn Obi-Wan’s spit was in fact not corrosive or anything other than normal back when he himself had been in danger of its effects, the not very Jedi part of his mind wished that it were…

If only to make Xanatos hurt just that little bit more.

No. No. I cannot wish harm upon him, only justice. Only lawful justice. For if I wish him to hurt as Obi-Wan did, am I really any different than Xanatos? Than any other darksider that ever was or will be?

“Dark thoughts have their hold on your mind.” Yan said, leaning against the door with a knowing look. “They are natural of course; we cannot control our thoughts and emotions, only what we do with them, and what we allow ourselves to do unto ourselves and others because of them.”

Yan would know. He had listened for decades about Sifo’s vision of a white army and the Jedi at war. He had once thought that perhaps he could fix it, that he could make his brothers and sisters be more than what they are. 

He had thought it better that the Jedi be shackled and chained, defanged and little-more than beaten pups that could come to his call rather than the Senate’s, but that had been long ago. 

Because Yan believed that he was right, and it was only in the months, years even, after his Master had come looking for him, looking for his help because one of their young was in need of a dire defence because if anybody knew what he was that his mind had been swayed.

It was only then that Yan realised that his line of thinking was not all that dissimilar to the Senate’s, and then he’d been in a snit for weeks. 

Now, however, he understood that they must free themselves through freedom and not through tyranny.

Yan struggled with the dark-side, as all Jedi did, but he had allowed those baser instincts to take root, and they were so very hard to shift once they’d been fed by hate and anger, and most powerful of all fear.

He would not let the Jedi before him, and indeed their shared charge, fall to the same.

“Thank you for your advice, Master.” Mace dipped his head, because Yan Dooku had been a Master longer than Mace had been alive. “Has the Mand’alor run off with our esteemed head librarian yet?”

Yan snorted. Yoda knew what he was doing when he opened the archives to their Mandalorian cohort until Obi-Wan woke up, because Stars knew Fett wasn’t going to leave until he had tangible proof of life.

Komari had taken to sparring with with Arla beneath Cin’s watchful eyes. Their only rule had been no explosions, no death and no biting.

“I left them with Sifo; that way they’ll change topic every twenty minutes and be less likely to steal off to some long-forgotten ruins.” Yan quipped dryly, and in an uncharacteristic show of solidarity, he reached out and clapped the Jedi’s shoulder. “Sitting by his bedside will do neither of you much good, Mace. Come, I was going to meet with my Master, meditating with three is always better than two.”

Mace swallowed. It seemed silly to voice his concern, especially when Obi-Wan was as connected to the Temple, to them, as he was, but he didn’t want the poor boy to wake up alone. It was only a few hours ago that he had forced Depa to leave them, to avail of classes in the Temple rather than from her holopad, to find peace and harmony with their kin rather than just her Master…

Then Mace sensed it coming closer.

It being Quinlan Vos, and his very exacerbated Master if Tholme’s greeting was anything to go by…

“Now, I know they argue about whether or not beings who are unconscious can actually hear-”

“-Quinlan, dear child, the dead can hear you-” Tholme sighed, petting his Padawan’s locs before he bounded over to Obi-Wan’s bed, and promptly launched himself onto the bed as though Obi-Wan was only asleep and not…

Whatever it was he was.

“-But the Force’s always been weird around you, Obi, so I reckon you can hear me. So, budge up and listen, young man, because I’m going to tell you everything you missed while you were kidnapped by an evil ex-Jedi and probably got adopted by some Mandalorians… It’s those cheeks, I’m telling you. Anyway, I brought your lightsaber, so here, I’m going to leave in over there just in case you turn it on-”

Quinlan Vos was the ever-changing wind of a ferocious cyclone, and yet, none of the Jedi Masters present could speak against him, for his lemongrass signature threaded around the silver and azure of Obi-Wan’s. Their bond, brilliant and bright and so, so light in the Force, practically shone, and the chime of Obi-Wan’s kyber all but trilled as Quinlan placed it beside Obi-Wan.

They’d been inseparable since the very first day. Something had just clicked, Fate and the Force together as one in a way that was all too rare. Apart from Sifo and Yan, there were only four other truly bonded pairs that shone the same way.

(There was a seventh, and soon they would be home for the first time in centuries.)

Mace looked at Yan, who simply raised an arched brow and held out his hand in a gesture that clearly said yes, my offer is still open, and so Mace followed him to Yoda’s quarters. They were not surprised to find Master Yaddle there, sitting happily on Yoda’s sofa, drinking that swamp tea that was beloved only by their species and Obi-Wan…

What was surprising was the fact that Yoda was cleaning. He was in his kitchen, and due to his diminutive statue, it had been retro-fitted to accommodate him, as all species’ with different needs’ were. He was there, putting the knives that were along a magna-strip on his wall into a locked drawer.

What the fuck? 

Their incredulity was colourful and loud in the Force. Yaddle sipped her tea as though this was a most common occurrence. Yoda looked back at them, his eyes narrowed, but his signature blossomed and grew beautifully in the Force as it rose in greeting.

“Knives around younglings, dangerous that is. Learned that the hard way, the first time, I did.” Yoda said, the sort of pain only unconditional love and accepted loss could bring plain in his voice. “Need to be stabbed again, young Obi-Wan, does not.”

“Technically he was impaled.” Yan corrected.

“Semanatics.” Yoda waved him off, carefully lining up the knives on the magna-strip in the drawer. He’d even capped them in a transpa-silicon. “Made ready for our padawan, our rooms must be, when wakes up he does. Likes shiny things, Obi-Wan does.”

“Do you know why he hasn’t woken up yet?” Mace inquired.

“We have theories.” Yaddle nodded, her auburn hair braided with tiny white blossoms which had been gifts from the younglings she’d brought through meditation that morning. “Come sit. Yoda, stop playing with the knives.”

Yoda flicked his companion in the Force, and she responded in kind. Though he was the elder by nearly three centuries, Yaddle liked to mother Yoda, who in his quest to mother the entirety of the Jedi Order, oftentimes forgot that he too needed care. 

Still, they four sat together on the precipice of understanding, for in the Jedi archives Jaster Mereel made his decision, amazed at how well he and his people had been welcomed by the Jedi.

(The Force, so alive in this place, so proud that the choices had been made to allow for this to be possible, crooned soft and sweet. In the Halls of Healing, it reached its touch out along the presence of the gilded lemongrass that was coiled around the colours of her Sithspawn son for theirs was a bond as old as the might of the Stewjoni.

Theirs was the bond of brothers who would forever pull the other back toward the mortal coil, back toward their hearts and hearths, back toward the light of love and harmony.)

Yan knew what his Master was thinking, but he was sure there was something else to it. He had been the only one there when the lashings of the river made themselves known. He looked at Yoda and then exhaled;

“Master, I would add another observation to your own; Obi-Wan feeds on the darkside. May I show you what I saw in the moments before-?”

Yoda, Mace and Yaddle nodded. It took them a moment to sink into the Force’s currents in a way they four shared with synchronicity. Such a thing was vital for the memory, the imprint of Yan’s vision, of his own emotions, and indeed of the Force’s touch in that moment.

Xanatos held the lightsaber aloft Obi-Wan’s throat, close enough that pain and terror should have been leeching into the Force. Obi-Wan, a child who had never known violence done unto him, should have recoiled, should have been afraid, and yet Yan had never seen him more peaceful, nor had he seen the boy look more dangerous…

The Force was thick around him, grey and ghostly, and the shrieks of the damned were rising from everywhere and nowhere. The boy’s usually silver-blue eyes were all silver in that moment, gleaming and glowing with the hint of otherness that dwelled in his flesh and blood.

The Jedi watched Yan’s memory as it floated atop the currents of the Force, as their child, a weapon forged to be the sword but instead found his calling as a shield, called for the waters of his mind and pulled them forth to the mortal realm. They had materialised as that psionic scream, as total darkness that lashed and snarled yet never once did it hurt.

They saw as Obi-Wan tore flesh from bone, as blood dripped from his maw as though he was some sort of divine hunter…

Mace recoiled, stricken. 

“Recognise this, you do?” Yoda inquired, threading peace-peace-peace, around Mace.

“It’s the river he was going to be drowned in… Where all the others left this existence.” The Korun Jedi whispered. “It’s the same river, the same screams… I’d never hoped to hear them again, I had thought I only imagined it…”

Yoda hummed. Yaddle put down her teacup. Yan clucked his tongue, eyes on his master.

“Deathless waters, a myth they were. Old legends from Tython, older, even. Told us the holocron did, Stewjoni, hold the deathless waters, they do. Deathless waters they are, I suspect. The Force, energy it is, but flows, it does, in currents, in waves. Their vessel, Obi-Wan is, vessel of them all.”

Yoda’s voice had taken on a grave tone as he spoke. Oh how he wished he was wrong, but with the way the Force sweetened and turned maudlin, regretful even, he knew he was not. Their youngling was the vessel of the essence of all those who came before, the sum of their suffering and the holder of their vengeance.

“The rivers in his mind-.” 

“Yes. Believe I do, that like kyber, Obi-Wan is. Remember, what you told me, hmm, about when last meditated, with Obi-Wan you did?”

“He absorbed it. You think that he can what, purify the Force?”

Mace wasn’t sure he believed that. The Sith had created the Stewjoni to be weapons of flesh and blood. Mace had seen it in Obi-Wan over the years, how his every instinct was superior to even the most apex of predatory species. He’d read about what handfuls of Sithspawn had been capable of back in those dark days…

“Why culled, Force sensitive Stewjoni were. If purify the Force they can, heal it, they can…” Yoda reminded raising a hand. “Be sure of this, we cannot. Reason, there is, that Sithspawn were named biological weapons. Weapons they were made to be; stronger, faster, heal from even the most severe wounds they can. Hunter, they are, that hunts the hunter. Know fully what that entails, we do not. Oddities, there have been, over the years, yes? More, I think, to come.”

“We have to tell him soon.” Mace said.

“We will.” Yaddle nodded, her presence a soothing sliver of sunlight. “My only concern is how the poor child may take it. Already it seemed he thought he would find no Master because you were all too busy arguing amongst yourselves about who could claim him..”

The reproach was gentle, warning. The three Jedi’s presences in the Force were coloured with shame, twisted and bitter. They had never meant for that to happen, all of them, any of them, all of them together, they would have been proud to call Obi-Wan their Padawan but there was a truth shared by all three beings seated;

They didn’t think they were worthy of him. 

But they had been the constant in his life since he had arrived, or close enough to it in Yan’s case. It wasn’t only they three, either. 

There was Sifo who already taught Obi-Wan methods to deal with the lingering effects of visions that made him drowsy. There was Komari who meditated with him in the embrace of the Hall of Memorial. There was Vokara who had taught him acupressure through the Force to soothe the pain of headaches caused by Obi-Wan forever grinding his jaw.

There was Depa who walked him through advanced Katas when the itch beneath Obi-Wan’s skin, the inaction which caused his predatory instincts to go hay-wire, grew too much. There was Tholme who had apparently shown Obi-Wan how to disarm bombs as though that was a normal pastime…

The Jedi were first and foremost scholars and teachers.

**

Obi-Wan Kenobi felt at peace. There was something heavy on his chest, a warm, familiar weight that grounded him. He knew it was Quinlan immediately. The fledgling bond they shared sparkled in the Force and Obi-Wan reached out and tugged on it. Quin continued to snore. Obi-Wan huffed and he cracked his eyes open, and he was immediately greeted with a pair of dark eyes just inches from him.

For the first time since they’d met in the darkness of Bandomeer’s depths, Obi-Wan Kenobi could sense Jango Fett’s Force signature. It was scorching hot, bended wisps of ruby and bronze and there, threaded amongst it all, was a woven lattice of ivory that pulsed.

Obi-Wan, free of the Force-suppression collar, free of the taint of whatever happened when it had been pulled from his neck, all but basked in the golden glow of the Jedi Temple. It reached out to him, the sound of its stone alive like a beating heart.

“Hi Jango.”

Jango scowled and worked his throat. Obi-Wan frowned and he caught sight of the bruising that was ringed around the tanned skin of Jango’s throat. Jango rolled his eyes, huffing. 

Of course he’d feel guilty. I’m pretty sure that’s all you, Ob’ika, not the Jedi oisik like the rest.

“Is everybody okay?” Obi-Wan’s eyes held the sheen of sleep, even though it was no natural sleep he had awoken from. Then he remembered his final moments… “I don't have a hole in my chest.”

“Shh, Obi. ‘m trying to sleep.” Quinlan murmured.

Jango raised an eyebrow. Obi-Wan moved his free hand and he counted down on his fingers, three, two, one.

“Obi-Wan.” Quinlan all but shrieked, suddenly alert. “You’re not dead. You’re never allowed to get kidnapped again, do you hear me? And you’re always going in front of me. I’m sorry, I’m so sorry. I never should have left-”

“-It’s alright, Quin.” Obi-Wan hummed, peace-love-calm-it’sokayI’mhere all but radiating from his essence in the Force. “The Force wants what the Force wants, and besides, I made a new friend. Aren’t you always telling me I need to do that?”

“Yes.” Quin nodded seriously, then turned scrupulous eyes toward Jango who had to bite his cheek to stop himself from laughing. “I suppose he’ll do.”

“I will, will I?” Jango asked, his voice a croaky, ruined thing. “It’s good to see you awake, Ob’ika, though you’re not allowed to terrify me like that again, d’you hear? No more getting impaled.”

“Healer Che fixed me right up.” Obi-Wan pouted, snuggling into Quin’s warmth as the Force titttered, the rest of his family coming closer. However, what intrigued Obi-Wan the most was the chime of his kyber; that sound of marching feet and fizzing blaster bolts. “Quin, why’s my lightsaber here?”

“Seemed fitting since you meditate with it so much.” Quinlan tried to shrug, but it was difficult with Obi-Wan’s head on his shoulder.

Obi-Wan was going to thank him, but the door opened with a hiss. Healer Che came in, scurrying about, checking on him once Quin had hopped down off the bed. Then she waved off the two sets of eyes that were watching because her patient needed privacy. 

She shook her head in disbelief as she finished her examination, her lekku twitching before she poured Obi-Wan a glass of water. Vokara was truly amazed because there wasn’t a touch of injury upon Obi-Wan’s flesh; no sign of the lashes that had parted flesh and had been bleeding constantly if Fett’s words were to be believed -and they did, because Obi-Wan had imprinted on him like a baby duck.

There was no sign of that gaping wound to his chest either, nor the effects of the infection she was sure would have grown. In fact, Obi-Wan Kenobi was the picture of health if one were to disregard his abnormal core temperature of 35.2 degrees.

His Force signature was as it always was; curling wisps of silver and azure that curled like liquid. It still had its soothing touch when Vokara reached out, ready in case it would react but it didn’t.

“Are you up for some visitors?” Vokara inquired gently, already knowing what the child’s reponse would be.

Obi-Wan nodded, his throat tight. He could feel them outside the door, all of them, and perhaps it should have been overwhelming but when their own individual presences reached out, forming a patchwork embrace of love-home-peace-safety, Obi-Wan had to rub at his eyes because they burned.

He was home. 

The door opened. Master Mace and  Master Yan were there, but Obi-Wan couldn’t bring himself to look upon them, fear and concern leeching the gilded harmony. Master Sifo hung back but he was smiling in the Force alongside BattleMaster Drallig and Master Tholme. Komari and Depa hovered, watching him, but only Quinlan continued on until he was sitting on the edge of Obi-Wan’s bed.

Obi-Wan bit his lip, his Force presence curling in on itself, welcoming the threads of its family. None of them would surely want him and his freakishness now. Not when they knew just how odd Obi-Wan was.

It grew worse when Master Yoda arrived, but the wizened Grandmaster of their people only leaped onto the bed and brushed his nails along Obi-Wan’s scalp. It was a gesture of comfort, of love, one that had begun all those years ago when that first vision had rattled the Temple all those years ago…

“Home, you are now. Recover together we will.” Yoda murmured.

“But I feel fine.” 

“Healed yourself you did. Rare skill that is to have, unique it is. Healed your flesh it did, young one, but help, your mind will need. Help, you will need. Help, we will give you, if you would have us.” Yoda said, his big eyes blinking up at Obi-Wan. “Our Padawan will you be?”

“What?” Obi-Wan croaked, confused, disbelieving. 

Because a padawan never had more than one master, even if the lineage often came together to train their newest member in their specialties. They were a family, a padawan raised by one was a padawan raised by them all, such was the way of their people.

But to have multiple masters was unheard of…

“You want me?”

“Oh padawan, that was never the question.” Master Mace murmured even as that red pustule of a Shatterpoint quivered and readied itself to rupture because this, this was the moment that everything changed. “The question was who got to claim you.”

“In the end, we decided it was best for us all to.” Master Yan said casually. “Otherwise I fear Komari would run off with you.”

“I still might.” Komari huffed. “Better me than the Mandalorians. At least with me you’d still get to see him.”

“Holocalls are a thing, Vosa.” Jango snorted from somewhere.

“It’s your choice of course.” Cin added, having to add himself into the mix. “Just remember, nobody else can teach you to reach your full potential with battle meditation.”

Suddenly, Obi-Wan was overwhelmed. All those days and nights spent thinking that he would have to leave his family, that he wouldn’t be good enough, had made him miss what was right in front of him…

His family wanted him. They loved him in the way he loved them. They loved Obi-Wan as he was, oddities and weirdness and all, and that was what love truly meant; it was acceptance and understanding with people who would help you grow into the best possible version of yourself.

“You honour me, Masters.” Obi-Wan bowed his head, his Force-presence flaring not with pride but love. “I accept your tutelage.”

“It’s you who honours us, Padawan.” Master Yan said, and perhaps, for the first time in decades, the man was smiling for all to see. 

(Around them, the Force hummed, her Temple singing its jubilation. Its delight was so strong, so pure, that Mace Windu never felt the agony of the Shatterpoint rupturing but he watched as it healed and settled in a kaleidoscope of colours that made up the base signature of all those who had woven their presence over Obi-Wan.)

Chapter Text

A day after he awoke from his mystifying healing sleep, Obi-Wan Kenobi knelt before Grandmaster Yoda in the Hall of Memorial. They were not the only two figures in that hallowed place, for Mace and Depa, Komari and Yan and Sifo, and Cin and Vokara, were there too. 

They formed a circle around the ancient being and the youngest son of their sprawling lineage, each of them a point from which the Force flowed and twisted, luminous and loving. It arced from them, reaching for the centre of their circle where atop the head of their youngest child, it wound itself atop his head.

Obi-Wan’s hair was long enough to braid by itself, or to begin it anyway, but when Komari and Depa had both offered long locks of their own hair to braid around his own before the ceremony, Obi-Wan could not refuse them. So already a braid sat upon his scalp; Depa’s inky strands and Komari’s silver-blond entwined around the red gold of Obi-Wan’s own.

Together like the void of space, brightened by silver starlight and the luxurating flame-touched bronze of suns. Together like they three were, brother and sisters bound by the cosmos by something far more sacred than the fleeting importance of blood.

It was showing that they too would help him on this journey and not just the esteemed Jedi Masters who saw something in Obi-Wan that he himself was blind to. It was a reminder that Obi-Wan had many masters in many forms, many teachers in that great family of theirs.

So Obi-Wan knelt in the embrace of the Force, Master Yoda’s claw upon his shoulder as he named Obi-Wan not his padawan, but theirs. Those six esteemed Jedi would see Obi-Wan to Knighthood, and one day, far into the future Force-willing, Obi-Wan would introduce his own padawan to the beings who had raised him, loved him, and helped him become the best Jedi he could be.

What a great honour that would be.

Obi-Wan tipped his head forward, still unused to the sensation of the braid that flicked and moved, but it would become his constant companion over the next decade and beyond. It would serve as a reminder that though he may be with one Master of his, there were more of them waiting for him at home; teaching, guarding, and loving their brothers and sisters because that was their way.

The tri-strand braid, a reminder that Master and Padawan were bound together by the Force. It was a symbol of their commitment to one another, and to their edict that had been laid out for them, a reminder of the path they had chosen.

Obi-Wan would always follow the path of the Force, listening to its whispers. He would endeavour to parse out the meaning of the visions the Force gifted him with for the betterment of not only his people, but for the Galaxy at large.

Though blood and tears had been spilled, though pain and fear had lanced him throughout his ordeal, Obi-Wan’s faith had never wavered; his faith in the Force and his family, and the faith that had so easily existed between himself and Jango in the beginning.

(Funny isn’t it, how faith and Fate come together in these lucent moments.)

The Force had wanted it to be this way, for whatever reason that was not yet Obi-Wan’s to understand, but he accepted that. Just as he accepted his masters’ tutelage and their unneeded apologies. He accepted that he was just a piece in the great cosmic game, just a drop in a sea of trillions. He accepted that he may never be the best, that  he may never be the most learned, that he may never be the most accomplished.

He and his people were teachers, scholars and healers; pride and hubris had no place amongst them, for when once believed they were above others, they would refuse to see the universe from the eyes of another, fearful that they would once again have to touch their boots to the ground of normality.

And most people didn’t want to be normal. They wanted to be better. The Jedi knew how easy it was for those thoughts, however well intentioned, to spiral. It was why they made the choice, day in and day out, in the brightness of light and the shadows of darkness, to walk the path.

(One day, in twenty years, they would learn that they were the sword and oh how they would weep for their failed children. The Force, always watching, always present, looked upon those gathered here, those who would fight and bleed and quite possibly die to see the scourge vanquished.

She wept for them now, knowing what was to come, just as she would weep with them when the future becomes the present and the present is the past, and yet always, the future lingers forward constantly changing because of choices.

Just like this was the only timeline is the great vastness of possibility where this choice would be made.) 

Yoda looked upon their child, his head bowed and limbs liquid with the hues of harmony and tranquility. As he had done since Obi-Wan was a toddler, Yoda brushed his nails along the boy’s head before he caught the existing braid between two fingers. 

Around them the Force was gilded and warm and so very clear. It cried out in jubilation, its song reverberating around the Temple that basked in its gentle harmony, in its trilling hope.

Yoda slid the first bead; pure white, untouched and unmarred, along the braid, and he felt as his kin, all of them bound to their beacon of silver and azure that glowed like a guiding light toward a better future. It was the customary first bead, one of only a few beads shared by all Jedi padawans, for each of them accomplished different things, none mattering more than the other.

Obi-Wan stayed kneeling. It was an old custom, from days long past, but none had commented on it. Perhaps there was something more to it, but at that moment, it did not matter.

 Then, Yan stepped forward, and in his hand was a bead the colour of crimson.

“For your show of courage in the face of adversity.”

Mace followed after a moment, settling a yellow bead just below.

“For the kindness you showed to a stranger.”

Vokara came next and threaded a bead that seemed iridescent in the light, its hues shifting like a brilliant pearl.

“For the blood spilled in defence of others.”

Depa came forth and held aloft in her palm as though it was the most precious thing in the world was a bead the colour of Master Mace’s lightsaber. Obi-Wan could not sense Force echoes like Quin could, but that bead was so different from the others, already so entrenched in the Force as it was.

“For the love and support you offer freely to our brothers and sisters.”

Her fingers were gentle as she settled the bead below the pearlescent one. Her Force-presence, a stalwart grey smoking thing that came alive with the hues that vines around it like brilliant blooms, reached out and tangled around Obi-Wan’s in a caress of familiar love and affection.

It was Komari who placed the bead as silver as Obi-Wan’s own presence in the Force, along the braid.

“For the path we walk, together as one.”

Obi-Wan exhaled. Something about this made his emotions flow uninhibited. They flowed like a river, its stream strong and steady, cooling and soothing, like a balm for those who sought the nourishing waters of peace and harmony.

It caused his throat to thicken, his eyes to warm and dampen. It only worsened when Master Cin threaded a burnt orange bead along the braid. Obi-Wan knew that one, it was one that all Jedi Padawans received after their first mission in service to the Force.

Obi-Wan thought it was to signify Bandomeer, but he was wrong. His first mission had been undertaken nearly a decade ago.

As old as Yoda was, as many padawans he had tied himself to, none had ever been like this. He extended his presence outward and brushed it along Obi-Wan’s and he was struck by how it seemed so alive in that moment.

Yoda alone was the only being present who could see how the threads that bound them all twisted like a spider’s web of gossamer, their tones shifting and pulsing like hearts of kyber in the metaphysical.

My honour, to teach and guide and love, this is. Our honour, this is, to teach and guide and love you as you are. The best of us, you may grow to be, Obi-Wan Kenobi.

It was Master Sifo who came last. He was the only one who put his hand atop Obi-Wan’s flesh, who tilted his head upward so he could see. Sifo’s thumb brushed away the singular crystalline, pearlescent tear that cleansed the ache of Sifo’s soul by virtue of existing.

He had never taken a padawan of his own, fearful of the position his visions would leave him in. Alone, he could never raise a child as they should have been raised, but he had seen three raised to Knighthood with Yan by his side, and now he would see his fourth and final.

They did not speak in words as their eyes met; a blue too silver to be natural, ethereal and otherworldly in the shadows that crested Obi-Wan’s face, and Sifo’s own green ones. The Force passed between them like liquid, flowing from one vessel to the other without a single drop being spilled.

Memories of the past to ward off the fear from the future dripped and flowed along the river of Obi-Wan’s mind’s eye. He smiled up at his Master, one of many, and his throat tightened, his heart clenching as though fang and claw had claimed it as their own.

The black bead.

The black bead.

The rarest of them all. It had been nigh on a thousand years since it had been placed upon a youngling’s braid. It was a bead that would turn heads, that would leave questions dripping on tongues.

It was a bead that reminded the Jedi that the Force had once again chosen its Voice. Not since the ending of the war and proclamation of the Rusaan Reformation had there been an Oracle.

They knew what it meant, but it was Yoda and Sifo who understood.

Sifo was silent as he threaded that blessed, cursed bead upon the braid. It was the finally one, and so it was up to Sifo to tie it off with a silent, shielded prayer that the Future he had forever known had been altered, that the glimpses Obi-Wan would receive would find the path that would lead them to the light.

I would take this burden from him if I could, but the Force is cruel in its kindness and kind in its cruelty. I had Yan, our padawans, and my master. Obi-Wan has us all. Let that be enough, let us be enough so he is not lost to the currents.

He stepped back into the circle, Yan and Komari’s presence entangled with his own as they always were. The solemnity returned in that moment as their heads dipped, their eyes closed. Yoda stepped forward and placed his own forehead against Obi-Wan’s, and around them the Force shone, its beaconry of silver and azure emanating through the cosmos.

(It searched for one not yet born.)

“Arise, Obi-Wan Kenobi, Padawan of the Jedi Order.” Yoda whispered. “Welcome you, we do, to our lineage.”

**

Jango grimaced as he worked his throat. The Jetti healer said he’d have his voice back within the week, though the tenderness might linger. Myles had bemoaned the loss of silence and Arla had sighed, shaking her head. Still, it was annoying.

It felt odd, getting ready to leave. More odd than it should have. The Jedi Temple should not have been as warm and welcoming to Jango’s soul as it was, as it was to his buir and his family.

He wasn’t sure if it was Force oisik or Obi-Wan oisik. He was leaning toward the latter, especially when he caught Jaster’s eyes upon him. Jango recognised the look from when his buir would find some historical document or another that made him salivate with nerdiness that Jango and Arla teased him about.

Jango didn’t like that Jaster looked at Obi-Wan like that. Sure, Jango might never have formally adopted Obi-Wan, but formalities were more Jaster’s thing anyway. Formalities were why they were in one of the Jetti salles, the four Mandalorians in their beskar’gam, Arla and Myles tussling like errant tookas.

Jaster had promised there would be no explosions this time.

The assembled Jedi, noticeably those who had gone to Bandomeer, as well as the limpet barnacle that had managed to wake Obi-Wan through sheer will-power and the fact he didn’t stop talking and his shadowy Jettibuir that Jango recognised from some seedy place or another, were watching.

It reminded Jango viscerally of the Ha’at camps. He wondered why they had spent so long killing each other if they were so similar, but maybe that was why…

There was also the Dral’Han to contend with, though according to Jaster there might, might, be hope to undo some of the damage, it would have to wait until he was rightfully recognised as Mand’alor by all three factions.

Easier said than done.

Jango was so busy ruminating everything, that he missed his buir slinking off to speak with Master Yoda and Master Windu. However, he’d have to be dead -and even then, he wasn’t quite sure- to miss Obi-Wan vanishing from across the room only to reappear at his side, his tag-along beside him.

Vos, it seemed, was holding true to his vow to never let Ob’ika out of his sight again. Jango approved.

“How are you feeling?” Obi-Wan asked.

“Like I got my throat crushed by a darjetti.” Jango huffed, his voice dry and cracking. “But I could be dead, so.”

“I’m very happy you’re not dead.” Obi-Wan grinned, the beads in his braided hair glinting beneath the harsh light. “This is Quinlan, since I doubt he introduced himself before he claimed his spot at my vigil.”

“I did.” Quin protested. “Besides, I got you to wake up, didn’t I? Tell me, Obes, did the sound of my voice beckon you back to the land of the living, or was it my tears?”

“It was my lightsaber actually.” Obi-Wan teased, petting the lightsaber that was clipped to his belt. “It begged me to save it from your play-by-play, since you told it what happened when it happened.”

“See, if it was anybody else, I’d think they were joking, but I did talk to your lightsaber when you were gone and well, you’re you, so anything’s possible.” Quinlan said breezily, bumping their shoulders together and then he pouted theatrically. “My lightsaber doesn’t talk to me.”

Yeah, okay. So Ob’ika’s odd even by Jetti standards, I was right.

“Neither does mine.” Obi-Wan rolled his eyes. “And at least yours is a normal colour.”

“Green is very nice.” Quinlan agreed. “I like yours too, though.”

“Is the colour of your glowstick important?” Jango wondered, knocking his gauntlet against the silver and blue of his armoured chest. 

“Stop calling it a glowstick.” Obi-Wan whined. “You’re only doing it to annoy me.”

“Of course I am. You’re adorable when you’re indignant, Ob’ika.” Jango smirked. “What was that you said about the rights of older siblings…?”

“I don’t remember the Mand’alor offering to adopt me.” Obi-Wan sing-songed, his amusement tangible both physically and metaphysically. 

It was then that Quinlan tilted his head, his eyes narrowing. It occurred to him how eerie it was that Obi-Wan and Jango both raised their eyebrows at the exact same time, but he was focused on something else. His senses, heightened as they were, could pick up on the melodic chime of all the lightsabers in the room because Master Tyvokka had taught him and Obi-Wan how to do that.

Obi-Wan’s was the same; the marching of ten thousand steps, the crunch, crunch, crunch and fizzes of blaster-fire as it always was. That alone, wasn’t what interested Quinlan in that moment, nor was the quiet hum that was threaded into the very essence of the beskar that seemed to amplify the sound so it was backed by the curling liquid of a river.

No. What interested Quinlan was what he saw. 

He scurried off, searching for Komari or Depa or Master Tholme because there was something there. Something that was supposed to be understood.

“These are your people.” Jango said quietly, unconcerned by the oddity that was Quinlan Vos and his cyclonic tendencies. 

“Family is more than blood, that’s true for both our people” Obi-Wan hummed. “You know, of all the beings in the Galaxy to be thrown into a cell with, I’m very glad it was you.”

Jango snorted. “I’d probably still be stuck there if it wasn’t for you. That’s three times now.” Obi-Wan tilted his head in confusion. “Korda 6. Galidraan. Bandomeer. The three times you’ve saved my life. A debt like that can’t be repaid.”

“It’s not a debt.” Obi-Wan shook his head because helping a person wasn’t bound in debts and paybacks, it was simply the right thing to do. “It’s not. I didn’t even do much, just said what I saw.”

“That’s not the way I see it.” Jango said gently, because he knew, deep down, that Obi-Wan would never accept anything for securing a chance for the Ha’at, not even a thank you, but still, it needed to be said. “Think of it this way, we took a chance to listen to you, and because you were right, we met the Jedi on Galidraan with half-raised blasters…”

Obi-Wan shivered and he looked away as the images of what could have been . When he had seen Galidraan it hadn’t been like that, though. One choice was never enough to sway the collective, but choices, they ripple.

Obi-Wan had made the first decision, but the power lay in the decisions that had been made after.

Still, he could never put to words what he had seen. Not now, not ever. The Jango beside him was not the same one from his vision, so different yet so similar; he was still the colour of cloying, clotted blood bound by burnished orange and ivory, but that was in the Force.

Once it had been the gore and viscera of Obi-Wan’s brothers and sisters.

“You asked if lightsaber colours matter; not usually. They don’t tell a story like your beskar’gam does, but they do, in essence, show our soul, especially when you listen to the chime of the kyber.” Obi-Wan admitted. “Mine’s weird.”

“Everything about you is a little weird Ob’ika.” Jango sniffed, shaking his head. “Am I allowed to ask or will buir tell me I’m being insensitive?”

“Do you care?”  Obi-Wan challenged, a half-laugh stuck in his throat.

“I don’t if you don’t” Jango shrugged. 

Obi-Wan acquiesced, a smile gracing his lips. His eyes flicked over to where Quinlan was gesticulating wildly, their bond thrumming with anticipation, and around them all, the Force did the same. Obi-Wan stood up and unclipped his lightsaber, the kyber beneath pulsing in greeting.

It was nothing like the screams of the damned that had emanated from Xanatos’ vermillion blade.

He thumbed the ignition switch and plasma, the colour of settling orange suns and distant, golden sands crackled to life but it was different. Its song, so familiar to him now, soothing despite the nature of it, rang out.

There was a thum, thum, thum, to the sound of crunching gravel and war song. Obi-Wan cocked his head and looked first to Jango who was staring at the colour of the plasma as though he couldn’t quite believe it, and then his gaze fell to Quin…

Quin, who was beside Master Yoda, nodded as though he had just answered an unknown question that had never once been voiced in the universe. The Force, rapturous and harmonic around them, settled upon Obi-Wan’s shoulders.

“Ob’ika.” Jango’s voice was amused, so terribly, terribly amused. “I don’t know what spectrum you see colours on but it’s not the same spectrum I see colours on, because that’s not orange, that’s gold.”

“It’s orange.” Obi-Wan muttered. “The kyber is orange.”

“If you say so.” Jango held up his hands placatingly.

“See now what you mean, Padawan Vos.” Yoda hummed, petting Quinlan’s gloved hand.

Because he did. All those toughed by the Force did and they had wondered how they had missed it. Perhaps it was because they were so used to the presence of the Force that they had forgotten that baskar told its own stories both in paint and in song.

And the sound that reverberated along Jango Fett’s beskar’gam was the sound of water rushing, trickling. It could have been a coincidence that the colours Jango had chosen to adorn him were the twin of Obi-Wan’s Force-presence, but they had long ago stopped believing anything to do with Obi-Wan Kenobi was coincidental.

Yet, perhaps the most surprising reaction came from the Mand’alor himself, though he contained it. Jango was both correct and incorrect; to most of the galaxy, the colour of Obi-Wan’s lightsaber was orange, but it was only to the Mandalorians that it was gold…

The colour of vengeance.

Once again those words sounded in Jaster’s mind: beware the spawn of the yellow-eyes. Beware the blood that runs as silver as starlight; they are the bringers of vengeance, of salvation, of ruination.

He looked at Master Yoda who, unsurprisingly, was watching him. Their gazes didn’t waver even when Komari and Depa stepped onto the mats and bowed to one another, or when Quinlan scuttled back to Obi-Wan.

“Know, you do.” Yoda hummed, his voice scarcely above a whisper.

“You know.” Jaster confirmed, confused.

“Gave it away, what did?” 

“His blood.” Jaster returned. 

“Know of that, we did not.” Yoda admitted. “Compare notes, we should.”

“What else are bu’buirs supposed to do when the younglings tussle like over-excited pups?” Jaster inquired lightly.

Yoda’s response was a knowing nod and a smile that revealed his sharp teeth and so much more.  

(In the recesses of its churning waters, the Force watched with a thousand and one eyes as hope, bright and light like a silver-touched dawn crested the towering shadows of darkness and despair.

It dripped and dripped and dripped, singular drops that would one day be unleashed with a torrential wave that would heal and cleanse all it touched;

Salvation was not without destruction, and upon flooded plains, prosperity and peace would flourish, untouched and uncorrupted by the garden of bones and rot it was built upon.

One day.

One day.)