Upadana
The furry protagonist of this tale was invented by Valairy Scot. I hope she doesn't mind sharing, because –after all – attachment is forbidden.
Scene 1
Reeft started it.
In the sense that he brought the matter to the attention of Ali Alaan, thereby initiating the chain of events that followed. The four-year-old Dressalian did not mean to make trouble, but trouble was the inevitable result of his innocent if vocal request.
"You can't have him all for yourself!" he complained, mildly. "You have to share."
Jedi younglings must share everything. They are not allowed toys earmarked specially as their personal property. Their sleeping mats and pillows and blankets are laundered together and redistributed every few days, without regard to ownership. Even their clothing is only properly their own because it has been measured to fit – rather roughly, that is. Too much detail lavished upon garments would be a form of luxurious personal ornament.
The culprit immediately handed his cherished companion over. T'k'ta's tattered velveteen fur had already been smoothed by several prior generations. He was missing an eye, and one of his ears was suspiciously ragged. His whiskers visibly drooped. His stuffing, originally suggestive of the powerful muscular build of his original, was now the flabby and toneless fluff of a well-loved sleeping companion. And yet, he still somehow commanded a great deal of respect within the borders of his tiny kingdom.
"Careful," Obi-Wan advised his playmate. "He bites. He's always hungry."
The Dressalian was not intimidated, likely because he shared these traits with T'k'ta. He clutched at his prize and toddled away, content. Which was a mistake.
"Hey. You can't have him for yourself. You have to share," another small voice piped up.
Reeft hesitated, flustered by the sudden reversal. He squeezed T'K'ta a bit closer against his chest, silently protesting, but the other boy was not to be so easily put off.
"Give him up," he commanded.
There was no ready objection to be made to this directive; after all, the bully had a point. Sharing was the right thing; hoarding was bad. Reluctantly, Reeft relinquished his newly acquired prize to the tow-headed interloper.
"Ha!" this person triumphed, dashing off. He dragged T'k'ta by the tail, bumping his already battered nose against the playroom's floor.
It was dreadfully discourteous.
Obi-Wan, roused to action by the crestfallen slump of Reeft's shoulders, and the abuse being inflicted upon the long-suffering T'k'ta, placed himself in the brigand's path. "Hey! You can't do that! You're hurting him!"
Bruck thrust his lower lip out churlishly. "You're not the boss of me."
Which, though it had the obvious advantage of truth, was an ineffectual argument. Obi-Wan had a trump card to play. "He's not yours."
A pair of pale eyes narrowed in resentment. ""So?"
Another pair of eyes danced with the first seeds of combative wit. "So maybe you should share."
The irony was not wasted upon Bruck; though he could not quite parse out the logical fallacy that had landed him in the loser's circle to this argument, he clearly felt the other's delight at having scored a point. Those nearby, who were in a position to serve as first hand witnesses, all gave conflicting accounts of the resulting ruckus. It was unclear therefore who managed the impressive feat of Force-pushing the other one onto his behind, and who managed the same feat by the more direct method of a swift punch. The immediate upshot of the dispute was that T'k'ta sustained a gash in his already disintegrating seams, and bled fibrofill onto the polished floor; Bruck suffered a wounded dignity and wept angry tears onto the polished floor; and Obi-Wan ended with a bloodied nose which added bright scarlet droplets to the already messy floor.
Ali Alaan intervened swiftly, shooing away all but the main three culprits into the adjacent chamber.
"What's this all about?" the tall master inquired, kneeling to bring his aquiline face level with his tiny charges.
"He started it!" Bruck thrust a finger at his opponent's face.
"He ripped T'k'ta!" the other boy retorted, halfway between lamentation and outrage.
The crèche master sighed in disappointment. "We do not fight over a mere possession." He issued the stern reminder with a frown that silenced both boys. He icked up the bedraggled victim – and occasion- of the dispute. "Such behavior is most unbecoming. In fact, I think T'k'ta shall spend this evening with me. He needs to be repaired."
Obi-Wan scrubbed hands over his round cheeks, smearing salty moisture into the crimson trails already dribbling down his chin. "I can't sleep with him tonight?"
"No," Master Ali told him, fishing about for the med-kit and a clean cloth.
Bruck made a terrible face at his rival while the tall Jedi was distracted.
"That's enough," the crèche master growled at him, back still turned. "You may join the others." He watched the tow-headed boy scamper away, spite overriding any remorse he might feel, and wiped down the remaining child's face.
"I always sleep with T'k'ta," Obi-Wan insisted.
"Well," Ali Alaan reasoned with him gently, "This will be good practice. You are going to join a clan soon, and leave T'k'ta behind. It's time you grew accustomed to sleeping without him. He is an attachment you will have to give up."
The boy nodded, eyes wide and sorrowful. "Will you fix him?"
"I shall restore him to his former glory," the tall man assured his small charge. "After all, he is T'k'ta, fearsome Scourge of the Creche."
Obi-Wan stared at him solemnly. "I always sleep with him" he repeated, this time more in helpless bemusement than anything else.
"Not tonight, you aren't," Ali Alaan gently informed him.