Disclaimer: Fair use and transformative work.
A/N: AU of Star Wars Prequels, starting with the Jedi Apprentice books – Book 1. Distinct from my "Unclaimed" series.
Summary: He is many things: alone, surrounded, unwanted, and Padawan among them. He may be all or none of them at any time; nothing is certain, from his future to his present. Not even his name.
Qui-Gon Jinn was not assigned to Bandomeer when Obi-Wan Kenobi was reassigned to the Agri-Corps. Many futures spin away from that change. This is only one of them.
TO GROW YOUNG JEDI
The return to Coruscant didn't take anywhere near as long as the initial trip to Bandomeer. Granted, he wasn't hijacked by pirates, derailed by battles with draigons, or delayed by negotiations with Hutts, which might have accounted for it.
Obi-Wan pressed one palm against the cool transparisteel of the observation room window. Faint yellow-green splotches decorated the back of his hand and spilled onto his wrist where his Master had grabbed him. The body reflects the mind, Master Vant had been fond of saying when trying to teach his clan their first meditations.
Beyond the clear barrier, ships of all shapes and sizes waited in queue to enter Coruscant's atmosphere, impatient for permission to land. One small freighter broke away, lights flashing, with an escort from Judicial's fleet. Low fuel or medical emergency, Obi-Wan guessed. Only diplomats and couriers were exempt from the wait-times that regular citizens had to endure. The only exception was for immediate peril to life or limb, in which case emergency escort allowed the beleaguered vessel to bypass both official niceties and the wait.
At the curve of the planet, backlit by the blazing star central to Coruscant's orbit, stood the gleaming spires of the Temple.
Once, he might have seen them and thought, Home. Even a few weeks ago the instinct had existed. Now, though.
They hadn't wanted to keep him. They didn't want him back.
"You were chosen as a Padawan, Kenobi, however briefly. A Padawan you will remain, until the time of your Trials. Unless you decide to leave." Implicit in his reaching his Trials was that a Master would speak for him to guide him on his way.
Or that he would decide himself to withdraw, if none did.
Home was a place that always wanted you. It wasn't something that measured your value, or threw you away. Or at least it's not supposed to be. Master said –
He caught the remainder of that thought and held it warm and close, before it could turn into pain.
The Temple wasn't home anymore. Maybe it never was, a little voice whispered. It was a place that would shelter him. Until a Master chooses you. If a Master chooses you.
And how long would that take? More than twelve years hadn't been enough; another twelve wasn't likely to change that.
Obi-Wan's forehead pressed to cool transparisteel; even when he closed his eyes the glow from the planet's surface seeped through his lids to paint the blackness of his vision with oranges and reds.
Surely there were some limits, despite what Master Kurésa had implied. The Order wasn't likely to keep someone who would never be of use; without a Master to train him, there was no way he could learn enough to pass the Trials for Knighthood. Eventually they'd decide he would be of more use back in the AgriCorps, regardless of what tradition dictated. He'd only been a Padawan for a handful of days, after all.
How long before they throw me out again?
Not right away. Maybe not even for a while. Maybe, maybe, long enough to learn enough to survive. And he would have to learn. Every day could be his last.
Funny. He'd travelled into the galaxy, almost been killed, gained a Master, lost his home and future twice, and ended up right back where he'd started; almost as if none of it had happened at all.
"Can you find your way to the Council chambers from here?" Master Kurésa wasn't looking at him any longer; attention on entering information into the pad he'd been handed upon checking Obi-Wan into the Halls of Healing.
Obi-Wan nodded.
The motion caught one of Kurésa's bright blue eyes; while common for a Quarren, the shade was striking against the salmon pink of his skin. "Good." One of the prehensile tentacles descending from the Master's mouth flicked. "Report there following your examination."
Handing the pad back to the Padawan at the reception area, Kurésa inclined his head in Obi-Wan's direction. "May the Force be with you, youngling."
He could only bow in response; by the time the motion was completed, Master Kurésa had exited the Halls – headed to the Council to report.
I wonder if I'll see him again.
His own skepticism at the idea, a harsh and new thing, obscured what possibilities the Force might have whispered to him. Sitting on the hard bench running along the wall in the entryway to the Halls, Obi-Wan waited.
A Master would have meditated, he was sure. Even a knight or a senior padawan would have taken the opportunity to clear their minds, center in the Force, and seek peace. But he wasn't any of that; not yet, maybe not ever.
Obi-Wan could only reach out, anchored deep, breathing in the Force the way he'd been shown only days ago –
Tears strangled the back of his throat. Master!
Voices lilted in the corridor approaching the broad entryway to the Halls – less a door than a gaping arch easily the width of an air-traffic lane. Refusing to turn his head, equally unable to look away entirely, Obi-Wan peeked from the corner of his eyes. Robes, braids, lightsabers – together, the quartet laughed and jostled down the corridor, followed by the increasing noise of beings traversing the halls.
The chrono on the wall solved the puzzle for him; midmeal was being served. The Initiate and Padawan classes must be letting out.
More bodies shifted along the hallway, some quieter than others. Obi-Wan hunkered down under his shields, pulling into himself and making his presence small in the Force the way he refused to cringe in body.
I don't remember the Temple being this – loud.
It wasn't a noise, but it was nonetheless near-deafening in weight and pressure, only increasing as more and more beings funneled past.
Not one spared him a glance.
Two fingers rubbing gently at the hem on his AgriCorp grays, Obi-Wan was distantly grateful for the reprieve.
Impatience snapped sharply across the edges of his shields, and he jerked in his seat hard enough to crack his head against the stone wall at his back. His right hand ducked beneath his left cuff, finding the faint points of pain lingering from his bruises and pressing, seeking impossible physical contact in response to the intangible stinging left by the other Jedi's irritation.
"Kenobi."
Not the first time he'd been called, by the Healer's tone.
Oh.
Master Che.
Pushing to his feet, Obi-Wan staggered on his first step, his lower back long since gone numb from being pressed against unyielding stone. The next stride was smoother, as was the one after, and he earned only a tilt of the head from the Healer. "Come," she ordered tersely.
The short walk to the examination room seemed to take nowhere near long enough; too soon for comfort, he was sitting on an examination table, samples already pulled and being tested. Master Che hmmed as she ran one hand the length of his torso, stretching out to him through the Force even as she dictated his vitals into his file.
The bruises on his wrist, torso, and legs were catalogued. No broken bones. No pain worse than a particularly strenuous 'saber lesson; at least, not anymore. His wrist earned a sniff from Master Che, a soft length of bandaging beneath a sturdy brace, and a strict instruction to keep it strapped up for two weeks with a prohibition on 'saber training. Nothing else was worth noting; and far, far too soon he was shuffled back to the waiting area, with an immobilized wrist and inexplicable slew of follow-up appointments for Master Kurésa's troubles.
Standing in the entranceway to the Halls, the exam itself blurred in his memory; more a dream than reality. His only evidence otherwise was the plastisteel brace spiderwebbed down his forearm, replacing the torn strips of his master's robe that had previously extended from elbow to palm.
Council. Obi-Wan's eyes clung to the sight of gray plastisteel, even as it started to blur. He blinked the sadness away, and rubbed his fingers against the soft cloth he'd snatched from the exam table at his side and shoved deep into one pocket while Master Che's back was turned. I have to report to the Council.
Whatever that even meant.
Time seemed to have congealed into a moment that stretched, unbroken, into infinity.
Report?
What was there even to say? Obi-Wan Kenobi, Initiate re-assigned to the AgriCorps on Bandomeer for fighting, taken as a Padawan mere weeks before turning thirteen. Back now, in the place of someone the Council had actually wanted here, a Master who would never return –
He wanted, more than anything else, to sleep.
Without dreams.
The lift to the Council Spire was mercifully empty.
He couldn't muster up the energy to huddle in a corner; was only just able to hold himself out of a slump in the center of the lift.
Traversing the hallways hadn't been as horrible as he'd anticipated; most of the dining areas were full and he'd managed to skirt the more populated areas, trading off by taking longer ways around.
It wasn't as if he'd been given a time to report, after all.
What am I going to say?
Silence filled his mind.
The few Jedi he'd passed in the grand arching halls and narrower corridors had spared him neither word nor glance. Maybe it was his Support Corps grays; maybe it was his presence in the Force. Maybe it had nothing to do with anything about him. Or maybe it's just me.
Before he'd turned thirteen, the fact that he'd never caught a Master's eye was a source of despair.
Focus does determine reality.
He'd never imagined that there'd be a time he'd be grateful for the eyes that slid past him without registering enough to make him worthy of dismissal.
What am I going to say?
He didn't have an answer four long minutes later, when the lift opened into the corridor before the Council chamber, barren but for a Senior Padawan – Mace Windu's, Obi-Wan thought distantly – manning a circulation desk.
He could feel her focus in the force, laser-bright, narrow in on him as his feet hit the floor of the hallway. The lift doors closed soundlessly.
She didn't look up as he approached.
Obi-Wan drew to a stop before the desk, and had barely taken in breath to say – what? What should he say? – before the Padawan instructed him, "Sit to the side. The Council will see you shortly."
Mouth closing, he did as he was bidden.
Closer inspection showed stone benches recessed into the windowed alcoves along the hall leading to the Council's chamber, cleverly designed so that they nearly blended into the wall. Comfort was clearly not at the forefront of the architect's concerns.
Obi-Wan sat.
And waited.
The sunlight was nearly gone, shadows darkening the narrow strips of the corridor where transparisteel had been forsaken in favor of stone and duracrete. Dust motes swirled in the slanting, golden rays. A soft tapping noise from the Padawan's station reached him, echoing oddly against the air and uninsulated rock.
The loudest sound in his ears was the air rushing through his lungs.
Nothing came from the door at the end of the corridor, clamped shut as it was against sound and light.
With little else to do, Obi-Wan stretched himself into the Force, the way his Master had taught him – their first lesson. Reach out, the soft voice said in his memory. So much kindness, in that voice. Just breathe it in.
Sorrow tightened its stranglehold on his throat.
Give it what you feel. That is the path to serenity. Emotion, yet peace.
Breathe. Just breathe.
Eyes falling half-closed, Obi-Wan relaxed into the hard stone at his back. Gradually, the sound of his breathing quieted, overtaken by the barely-discernible vibration of traffic outside the Spire's windows.
The Force was a gentle presence along his senses, quiescent, but not still. A short distance away, the Council's deliberations stirred small eddies into the Force that rippled out, lapping against Obi-Wan's consciousness in a way he could feel, but not quite understand. Anchored in his body, he pressed thinly outward the way his Master had shown him – reaching out with his feelings, blending his awareness into the Force. Spreading himself within its currents, and resting quietly there. Not hiding – just not making himself known. Being.
The Force churned, foreshadowing a tall figure making his way from the lift, cloak a swirl of darkness in his aftermath.
Obi-Wan couldn't see his face, but shivered all the same. I have a bad feeling….
The lift doors opened soundlessly, but the Knight's boots rang a sharp staccato against stone with every stride.
"Master-!"
Rudely pulled from the Force, Obi-Wan blinked.
"Padawan Billaba." A deep voice. Familiar, but only just.
The steps, ever louder, never faltered.
Obi-Wan curled into his alcove, but the full-grown Jedi that passed never glanced his way – unsurprising, given the burst of emotions radiating from him. The silhouette jarred something deep in his gut that had him pulling in a gasp – long hair, proud nose, and stern mouth. Master Jinn.
Without meaning to, Obi-Wan found himself pressed into the corner of the alcove, fervently glad to have escaped notice.
"It is better not to train a boy to become a Knight if he has so much anger. There is a risk he will turn to the Dark Side."
Put him face-to-face with the boy who had beaten Bruck Chun in the Initiate Tournament, and Obi-Wan wasn't sure he would recognize himself.
The Force curled along the line of his hand as Jinn flicked one wrist. The doors to the Council chamber popped open, just briefly enough for the Master to walk through before they bounced closed once more, the motion as smooth as the opening and closing of a mouth that had swallowed Jinn whole.
The chill he left behind lingered.
It is a good thing, that he didn't agree to be my Master, Obi-Wan thought distantly. Qui-Gon Jinn was . . . many things. Certainly renowned for his skills, and doubtless sought after for his wisdom and connection to the Living Force. But if he had ever been kind, he was not known for it now.
Securely shielded from both Padawan Billaba at her desk and any other eyes, he drew his hand free of his pocket, bringing with it a short length of threadbare cloth. He feathered it against his cheek, testing the gentle softness against his fingers. The memory of a warm connection in his mind, of patience and compassion and the slightest tinge of laughter, had him pressing the side of his face briefly against the stone at his shoulder, seeking coolness to combat the heat in his eyes. Master. I miss you.
A spike in the Force had him tucking the cloth away. Wary eyes darted once to the doors, contemplative. He was not, however, so lost in thought that he neglected to shift to the opposite side of his narrow bench. There was no need to be in anyone's direct sightline upon emergence from the Council chambers; giving up his shield from Padawan Billaba's eyes was a fair trade-off. It wasn't as if she was even looking.
Curiosity prickled faintly as the Force continued to churn, tempestuous but lacking the sudden flares that had prompted him to move.
He… probably shouldn't.
But.
It was certainly better than sitting here wasting time trying to decide what he was supposed to say about – any of it.
Besides, what would they do if they caught him? Kick him out?
Too late.
The thought ticked up the corners of his mouth, even as he fought and lost against a small smile. It really wasn't that funny.
Decision made, Obi-Wan let his humor fade, and the Force come seeping into the space where it had been. There was a trick to it, one he'd stumbled into accidentally on the Monument, with his Master, who'd given an undignified hoot of victory when Obi-Wan had tumbled out of the vision, surprised at his own success.
Settle. The Force, so warm – familiar shallows that Obi-Wan had ventured into, but capable of vast depths where mysteries dwelled, hidden only due to the lack of imagination to seek them. It wasn't reaching so much as it was asking, and following where the currents could lead.
The trick was finding the right one.
Breathe.
That, too, was simply a matter of asking the right question.
For a long moment, looking past the darkness of his closed eyes into the nearest edges of the Universe, Obi-Wan thought.
Just breathe.
Something like a chime quivered through him when he found the right question.
Obi-Wan opened his eyes in the Council chamber.