Disclaimer: Fair use and transformative work.
A/N: Part three of the "Unclaimed" series.
Summary: When Obi-Wan sleeps, the Force blurs reality and memory into possibility.
ALWAYS IN MOTION
He is not yet thirteen, and there are Hutts and draigons and a crashing starship, Arconans and dacyl and death screaming through the Force.
And there is Qui-Gon Jinn, fighting alongside him, but not seeing him. Not yet.
Maybe not ever, whisper chance and possibility.
There are uncountable thousands of universes where Obi-Wan Kenobi becomes an Agri-Corps worker. In thousands more, he is killed before ever reaching his – first, last, only – assignment.
"Good to grow crops, Bandomeer may not be. But a good place for a young Jedi to grow it is."
There are an equal number where he dies on Bandomeer, falling from a rig to the sea or in an explosion in the mines or at the hand of the last boy taught by Qui-Gon Jinn.
There is a planet, and younglings his own age, some younger, who no longer want the war they are caught up in.
Qui-Gon Jinn leaves him without a second thought.
Obi-Wan can see the shadows of all the universes where he doesn't come back.
But none of that matters, because in all the worlds where Jinn comes back to him, where time and chance and choice keep them together until a small, dusty planet with two suns on the Outer Rim, it all comes crashing down. Always.
"…Obi-Wan has a destiny as important as Anakin's. If something happens to him – if we should lose him –"
He is twenty-five, and standing before the Council, entire body reigned in tightly, hands clasped in the folds of his robe. His eyes gaze forward, past the High Council to the Coruscant sky, but he can see it unfolding at his side.
Strong words, broad hands on small shoulders, a steady presence at the child's back.
This is what it looks like when Qui-Gon Jinn wants to train a youngling.
And there is a tiny part of him, tucked quietly away beyond layers of shielding and years of training, that spikes with pain and whispers, Oh.
He is twenty-five, and kneeling on a cold floor, entire body aching, hands clasped around the folds of Qui-Gon Jinn's robe. The Master's eyes gaze past him, seeing something further away.
Weak words, shoved from a body on the edge of failing, pulling a promise from him that will send the galaxy spiraling into Darkness.
This is what it looks like when Qui-Gon Jinn dies.
A pyre, and he is alone –
No.
There is the boy.
"Why do I get the feeling you're going to be the death of me?"
The boy has blond hair. Three days of Coruscant's relative humidity compared to the bone-dry air of Tatooine sends it into a riot of curls.
It never regains that straw-straightness.
There is another fight.
And another.
And another.
It will never end.
Obi-Wan never knew how bright the galaxy was, until the brilliant pinpoints of light scattered across its expanse began to go out.
He doesn't feel every single one of his family die. Just most.
"I think you know in your heart that you're meant for something extraordinary."
"And you, Master. What does your heart tell you you're meant for?"
"… Infinite sadness."
The boy has a son.
Obi-wan watches him grow, under the twin suns his father fled.
This child's hair stays straight.
There is a chasm in the Force.
"…. As if millions of voices suddenly cried out in terror, and were suddenly silenced."
The boy is dead. Darkness has taken his place.
His lightsaber is red, now, and Obi-Wan is made old by grief and the desert and time.
But he is still going to win.
Anakin never really grasped that in some cases, victory depended on nothing more or less than one's own point of view. Some things don't change.
Anakin.
"Always in motion, the future is. One cannot be sure, but I have sensed . . . a kinder destiny for you."
He is almost thirteen. And deep in the Underlevels of Coruscant, Obi-Wan wakes up.
Fin
