A/N: Hey, everyone. I took most of November off from fandom because handling that and my daily schedule was getting rather exhausting; I'm glad to be back, though!

Summary of the arc so far:

Obi-Wan has been a slave for close to a year now, under Gardulla the Hutt, an elder of the Hutt clan and Nal Hutta's criminal circles. Anakin is a bubbly eleven-month old thanks to the efforts of Shmi and Obi-Wan, but Obi-Wan is determined to prevent Anakin from ever having to take the slave-chip; he planned to contact the Jedi Temple by breaking into Gardulla's security centre, but the plan went horribly awry. Unbeknownst to Obi-Wan, an Alderaani intelligence operative recognised him in Gardulla's household; Alderaan was duly informed and Bail Organa took the intelligence to Huei Tori and the Jedi Order. Obi-Wan, wracked with guilt over the consequences of his failed attempt at escape, is serving an arms dealer in Gardulla's presence when he looks up and finds that the arms dealer none other than Qui-Gon Jinn; his master has come for him at last.

Music for this chapter: Dad - Tyler Bates

"The boy is fast on his feet. Is he for sale?"

Obi-Wan clutches the shoe-cloth in trembling fingers. Qui-Gon's voice is even, amicable – but Obi-Wan knows him too well. There is an undercurrent there of molten steel.

Gardulla regards her guest for a long moment. "No," she says, voice dangerously sweet. "Mister…?"

"Jinnson," Qui-Gon says languidly, moving past Obi-Wan with nary a glance and throwing himself into a casual sprawl across the seat opposite Gardulla. "But I'm open to negotiation."

Gardulla's slitted eyes sharpen as she gargles a slime-throated laugh. "I do not negotiate over my property." Her gaze settles heavy and saccharine on Obi-Wan's features.

There was a time that he might have almost flinched at her regard, but the Hutt's slime-rasped tone is all too familiar to Obi-Wan; he slips quickly back to her side, head bowed in submission. His hands are rather less steady than he would prefer as he takes the wide stem of the swamp leaf from another slave and begins to fan Gardulla again, but the hammering of sudden hope behind his sternum shudders through his fingers, as well, and it is all he can do to keep hold.

The Force is still a singing, glorious thing between master and padawan reunited, and it shines in and out and through him so brightly that Obi-Wan wonders, detachedly, if he could simply let go and fall into its embrace – the true, unfettered sleep he has not had for a year now.

But not yet, not yet – there are still things to do, to tip this delicate balance into a chance for freedom.

Obi-Wan blinks the sweat out of his eyes, breathes in the Force. It steadies his hands.

"I see." Qui-Gon's voice is all affability, but his smile remains vibroblade-sharp, slicing each word into precise syllables. "He must be quite the product for you to hold on to him with such insistence, Madame."

"Oh, he is," Gardulla returns, taking a long pull from the glass of Alderaani wine in her hand; the sound a horrible, gurgling thing, like the death-rattle of a duracrete slug. It would have been laughable, if her every movement did not dictate life or death for those in her grasp.

Obi-Wan suppresses a shiver as Gardulla's heavy-lidded gaze settles on him again, coiling at the line of his jaw and neck like a Deryvian snake.

"Look at those features," Gardulla sighs. "When I first acquired him I had half a mind to carbon-freeze him for this very receiving-room. But then, I thought – why fix an art piece in one singular view?"

Obi-Wan keeps his gaze fixed on the Hutt-slimed floor.

Qui-Gon is not speaking. His end of the bond is a seething maelstrom of tightly furled rage, bleeding fiery crimson into the very air.

Gardulla's smile widens, slightly, and Obi-Wan realises with a thrill of horror that he cannot read the motive behind it, even as attuned to her volatile preferences as he is.

"Mister Jinnson," Gardulla says, "If I didn't know better, I would have thought you misunderstood the meaning of non-negotiable."

A single heartbeat.

Qui-Gon's shoulders slide languidly across the back of his seat; he suddenly radiates amicable defeat. "Ah," he murmurs. "Simply a salesman unused to being defeated so thoroughly in the art of trade. I should have expected no less from as famed a master of the craft as you, Madame Gardulla."

Gardulla's smile turns sickly-sweet. "Ah, a flatterer. I encounter many, but rarely as well-spoken as you, Mister Jinnson. I might be inclined to indulge it." She lowers her wine glass. "But you did not come here for small-talk. And I'm sure a man of your eloquence is well aware of the peculiars of my hospitality."

Obi-Wan feels the change in Qui-Gon's Force-signature like a seasoned warrior might hear the click of a blaster being set to full power. Qui-Gon's intentions shine out in the Force like blazing warning-lights, in the glow of the crystal in the lightsaber concealed in his sleeve, and Obi-Wan's lightsaber, achingly familiar, swathed in a hidden pocket.

"Indeed," Qui-Gon returned. "I did not come here to simply speak." His eyes slide casually around the chamber as he reaches for his own wine glass, marking targets with languid ease; Obi-Wan finds himself very nearly abandoning his post by Gardulla's side and sliding into a point equidistant from both of them, a binary star moving into a practiced position to best aid its partner.

Then Obi-Wan blinks, and inhales sharply.

The Force flares bright and hot and discerning for him as it has not done in a year; a moment where the galaxy stops itself in place for him alone, holding its breath to the suddenly-slow thud of his heartbeat.

The swamp leaf in Obi-Wan's hands rises and falls once, a slow, heady motion in the humid air; Qui-Gon lowers the glass of wine from his lips, half-full, as his other hand begins its first infinitesimal movement towards his sleeve, where his lightsaber lies, hidden; the slave-chip activation switch trembles slightly on the cushion beside Gardulla as the Hutt shifts her massive weight to better enjoy the waft of air from the swamp-leaf fan–

–and Anakin's Force-signature flares once in the kitchens, a brilliant, curious thing of childish laughter – he has found a slime-bug to chase around the kitchen floors, and Shmi's rare smile is a flash of sunlit luminance beside her son–

Freedom beckons beyond a gate in the Unifying Force. For a moment, Obi-Wan is tempted. He needs only reach out to open it – to drop the leaf in his hands and leap for the closest guard's vibro-whip.

And yet–

Only one could pass through the gate: Obi-Wan, if he wishes it.

Anakin.

Qui-Gon's wine glass meets the surface of the low table with a final, soft, click–

– and Obi-Wan allows the heavy stem of the swamp-leaf to slip from his sweat-slick fingers. It crashes down on the low table, catapults broken crystal and Alderaani wine over Qui-Gon's clothing.

Qui-Gon jerks back, fingers a bare handspan from his opposite sleeve.

Obi-Wan meets Qui-Gon's gaze in a flash of shared blue irises; he folds himself to the floor, a picture of submission and trembling fear, the slave who has made a terrible, terrible mistake in service.

Listen to me, Obi-Wan pleads through the training bond, though he knows he cannot speak through it, as much as he cannot use his voice. Please.

Gardulla's guards move in, unclipping vibrowhips from their belts; Gardulla's hiss of rage is a shaft of pure, trained dread into Obi-Wan's chest, halting the breath in his lungs.

The slaughtered slave at the slave auction. Tarun and Tuari. The old man two nights ago, an explosion of…things…against grimy floors, the gagging, sanguine mist at the back of his throat as he scrubs at floors stained forever carmine and scarlet…

Obi-Wan swallows past the bile in his throat, and relinquishes control.

It is Qui-Gon's moment, now; Obi-Wan has done all that he could.

The electric crackle of vibrowhips activating drowns out all else, and Obi-Wan tenses for the blow that he knows will cleave flesh from his back–

–and Qui-Gon's hand closes around his neck, yanks him to his feet, and slams him bodily into the wall.

Through the explosion of stars and nebulae behind his watering eyelids, Obi-Wan glimpses the guards lower their vibrowhips. Gardulla has paused, one thick-skinned arm still raised to motion the guards. There is a somewhat surprised but still-pleased expression on her slimy features.

"It seems I was mistaken," Qui-Gon says, voice like ice-sharpened steel, even as his eyes stare into Obi-Wan's, twin pools of hardened regret for his padawan's gaze alone. "This slave is sorely lacking."

Obi-Wan gasps for breath. His hands scrabble plaintively at Qui-Gon's wrist.

I am sorry, Qui-Gon's voice echoes across the training bond, aching, furled in horror, guilt, and rage. I am so sorry, padawan-mine.

The epithet burns away the agony at the back of Obi-Wan's head, where his skull meets the wall. Reminds him of the feel of a lightsaber in his hand, the weight of a padawan braid behind his ear: of service to a higher cause than his own survival.

Obi-Wan grasps the bond in between shaking, numbing hands. His shields are crumbling and crashing around him, the Force-plane howling as he flashes a single memory across the bond where he cannot form words.

Anakin's first word had been mama.

Tears had come to Shmi's eyes; she who wept so little in a life of bondage, undone with a single word from her son.

Obi-Wan, smiling, watching them both.

Qui-Gon's inhale is a sharp, pained thing.

Obi-Wan's lips quirk painfully. It is the only apology he can offer.

He sees the moment Qui-Gon nearly refuses; an instant where Qui-Gon's free hand nearly reaches for his lightsaber, to take back his padawan in such a way he could be sure to have control of, this woman and her child be done with.

But another memory rises, not from master or padawan, but from the Unifying Force itself; of earnest words on flimsi and Qui-Gon's confidently quick speech, and Obi-Wan's stylus hesitating, and then halting, and then folding away in the onslaught of his master's opinions.

Qui-Gon had not listened, then.

But now…

Qui-Gon's eyes open and close once, agony and defeat.

The hand around Obi-Wan's neck loosens; he is shoved unceremoniously aside, and his wrists jar painfully as he collapses to his hands and knees.

He raises his head.

Qui-Gon's eyes are damp.

Be careful, padawan. Qui-Gon's mental voice is a picture of tightly-leashed anguish. He strides back towards his seat without looking back, allowing the guards to come forward and jerk Obi-Wan to his feet with roughened hands.

Obi-Wan floods the Force with his gratitude, even as the guards' grasp tightens enough to bruise.

Gardulla is looking at her guest with newfound appreciation.

"Impressive," she says. "I am glad to see one who values discipline as much as I do. How might we repay you for my slave's misstep?"

Qui-Gon motions carelessly. "It is of no consequence; one dysfunctional servant is like any other. But if I might be permitted to bring my wares and show them to you personally at a later time? Say, tomorrow?"

"Of course," Gardulla says, looking as though she has just found a particularly exquisite vintage. "I look forward to it, Mister Jinnson."

"Thank you, Madame Gardulla." Qui-Gon inclines his head, rises to his feet, and turns to go, not sparing Obi-Wan even a single glance.

Gardulla does not wait before he is gone to address her wayward slave. "Flute-player," she says, with the tone of one who is displeased with a pet. "I am most disappointed." Her voice turns sugary-sweet as she motions the guards. "You know what to do…and remember, spare his face."

At this, Qui-Gon's step falters slightly. His head turns the barest amount, profiling the aquiline ridge of his nose against the swamp-light of the open door.

The Force aches.

Qui-Gon's shoulders straighten, and set, and his boots sound confident and unfettered as he disappears through the door, which shuts after him with a final, shuddering thud.

Obi-Wan allows himself a smile as the guards pull him from Gardulla's sight and into the dim filth of the servants' corridors; smiles, still, even as they reach the cellars and the vibrowhips unfurl, smiles until he has to bite his lips against the pain that follows.

There is a hard lump in his tunic, where a familiar hand had thrust something into them before slamming him against the wall.

And when the blows finally cease and Obi-Wan lies curled like a dead thing on the rusty-stained surface of the cellar floor, left alone to lick his wounds and stumble back up to the slave quarters – he slips a trembling hand between the folds of his filthy Jedi tunics and removes two objects.

A small comm unit, and something else.

A smooth, oval stone. Obsidian shot through with streaks of red and gold.

His river stone.

The flute in his sleeve glows with Force-fed warmth the same time the stone does, and as he raises his head to stare at the precious things in his hands with wonder, the braid in his bound hair slips out and hangs once more at his ear; swinging with the gravity of a Jedi's duty.

Tears finally leak out of the corners of Obi-Wan's eyes; though from joy or pain, he does not know.

Your move, Padawan Kenobi.

(:~:)

The first thing Qui-Gon does when he rounds the corner from Gardulla's estate is strike the closest wall so forcefully his fist puts a sizeable dent in durasteel.

Non-Hutt passersby lower their heads and scurry away into the yellow mist. Nal Hutta is a place where locking eyes with the wrong stranger might lead to slit throats in fetid alleyways.

The air heaves musty and damp in Qui-Gon's lungs; he leans his forehead to the curled fist still pressed into the wall, and struggles to centre himself. It had been the hardest thing he had ever done – putting his trust in Obi-Wan's methods and relinquishing control.

Part of him wishes to rush back in, lightsaber blazing. It is the memory of Obi-Wan's expression – that apologetic, trusting quirk of his lips even as Qui-Gon had a hand to his throat – that convinces Qui-Gon to do otherwise.

"Well, Sith-spawned stars," a voice sounds, lightly. "You were right. He's worse than I thought."

Qui-Gon spins in place and finds himself cornered by familiar faces. Two shielded Force-presences flare to full luminance.

"We thought we recognised your style," Feemor Ner'iah says blandly, below the rim of his hood. "That particular combination of brooding angst and guilt-fed anger. I see you've already taken out some of that on this poor wall here."

Qui-Gon would have spared his former padawan more than a glare if he had not recognised the other figure – one that lowers her hood and stares at him with wrath-filled green-gold eyes.

"Tahl," he says, suppressing a wince. "It's been…"

"A while, I know," Tahl says, words short and sharp. "Six months, in my case. More, for Feemor."

Feemor shifts, but he does not speak. Now that Tahl mentions it, Qui-Gon senses the veil over his former padawan's Force-signature; something akin to anger, well-hidden.

Qui-Gon does wince, this time. "I–"

Tahl's hand darts out and grasps him by the collar of his weapons-dealer disguise; pushes him back against the durasteel wall with no little strength. "Did you think that we were simply acquaintances?" she hisses, voice forcibly lowered. "Did you not consider that we should receive news of your search for Obi-Wan?"

Qui-Gon allows his head to turn to the side. He finds himself staring at the dent his fist made in the wall, moments ago. Tahl's fists are curled tight and firework-hot at his collar.

Inhale. Exhale.

"I would have come to both of you if I had any news," he whispers.

Tahl's knuckles whiten against his collar.

"Do not give me that excuse," she snarls. "Even if there was no news of Obi-Wan, we wished to know of you."

I wished to know of you, the unspoken words ring.

Feemor looks away sharply from this suddenly private moment.

"I had to go to Mace," Tahl hisses, breath furious and hurt against Qui-Gon's turned-away chin. "Not that your reports to him said much, even – and now, when Obi-Wan is found at last, you ignore the Council and bypass Coruscant to come here on your own? What foolishness, Qui-Gon Jinn. How shamefully selfish."

She releases him. Qui-Gon staggers back against the wall as if struck.

The alleyway is filled with the sound of Tahl's furious breaths; the yellow-green swamp-mist filters around them and through them and into their lungs, insidious even as it blurs their figures from the main road.

Qui-Gon takes a moment to regulate his own breathing, pushing himself up with his fist curled tight on the wall behind him.

"I am sorry, Tahl," he says.

There was a time when saying so would have been even more difficult than it is now.

But the Force has given him a padawan who says those words as easily as breathing, and with it, revealed Qui-Gon's many, many faults.

Tahl sighs. Scrubs a hand over her face, and nods. Feemor tilts his head for a moment, and inclines his head as well.

Qui-Gon's lips quirk. "Not going to say your piece, Feemor?"

Feemor's eyes sharpen. "Tahl covered most of it," he says, blond hair swinging in its single tail as he shakes his head. "But don't push it, old man. I'm still pissed at you."

"Fine." Qui-Gon sends out a questing tendril of the Force; the plane between the three of them is still nothing like the easy camaraderie they had a year ago, but it will have to do.

"I saw Obi-Wan," he begins, bluntly. There is no point in mincing words. "He's…still sharp," he continues, holding up a hand to halt the questions that immediately come flying his way.

"Still sharp," Feemor repeats.

"Yes," Qui-Gon says, closing his eyes momentarily against the image of pure dread on his padawan's features when the guards had electrified their vibrowhips.

Feemor pauses. "That's a very…specific phrase."

Qui-Gon fights the urge to snap. "Yes." He would have said more, if the bile did not rise in his throat.

An awful silence.

Tahl is the one who steps up to say what Feemor does not. "So we are to assume that Obi-Wan is also all the things not included in that phrase?

Not healthy. Not well. Not safe, or cared for, or even unhurt.

"Yes." Qui-Gon pauses. Blinks once. "He's grown taller," he says, detachedly. "I didn't realise at first when I–" he glances at his right hand. "He's taller," he repeats.

The Force trembles with Tahl's next inhale. "I see." Her eyes glow in the greenish glow swamp lights, emerald and gold and predatory. Feemor's Force-signature has lost its usual happy-go-lucky aura and is rapidly crushing into a hardened core.

"I've passed him a holo and text-based comm," Qui-Gon says, after a moment, tucking his right hand into a pocket where he does not have to look at it. This is easer to say; better to state what has been done and what could be done. "I–"

Between one breath and the next, the air is knocked out of his lungs. The ground lashes up in an attempt to strike his face. It is only after he wrestles himself back out of the grasping hands of the Force that he realises his hands and knees are pressed to the filthy ground and the contents of his rushed breakfast that morning is pooling between them.

Obi-Wan's end of the bond is locked down, now, behind adamantine shields; beyond those, what had been fireworks of agony have now dampened to pulses of sanguine light that writhe beyond Qui-Gon's reach, obscured from his vision by clouds of bilious yellow smoke.

It occurs to Qui-Gon, then, as he spits the rancid taste out of his mouth and waves away Feemor and Tahl's worried hands, that Obi-Wan has made Nal Hutta a part of his shields; strengthening what should have been weak in a place with the Living Force so watered down.

His clever padawan; his clever, suffering padawan–

Tahl's fingers are cool and reassuring on the back of his neck as Qui-Gon raises his head, face white.

"Don't ask," he says – begs, almost. "Don't."

Tahl's eyes soften with understanding, and Feemor presses a hand to his face.

Qui-Gon staggers to his feet. "I assume Mace has given you the coordinates of a safe-house?"

"Yes," Feemor replies, voice hard.

"Let's go, then." Qui-Gon forces another breath of putrid air into his lungs – how has his padawan survived for so long on air as foul as this?

As they stride down the alleyway, Tahl's hand slips into Qui-Gon's, and Feemor pretends not to notice.

Holding Tahl's hand is a good thing; it allows Qui-Gon to forget, if only for a moment, the feel of a thin, voiceless neck beneath his palm.

(:~:)

When Ezhno finally locates Huei Tori in a lesser-used sparring salle, he can do nothing but stop and stare.

"Wot's up with 'im?" he says, not bothering with subtlety. It was never his forte, anyhow. He makes sure to push his voice out a little more, even if he cannot hear the difference – something about the carefully controlled chaos in the salle suggests that it is very, very loud.

Garen Muln twists around from where he leans casually against the wall, as far removed from the warzone in the centre of the salle as possible – and signs, "Can't you tell? He's pissed as a provoked rancor." A shrug, and a roll of the eyes.

The fact that Garen had signed instead of letting Ezhno lip-read his words suggests that Huei is making quite a lot of noise indeed. As Ezhno draws even with Garen this is confirmed; the shudder of stun bolts meeting plasma and the whir of mechanics vibrate up his ankles in sync with the whirling figure twenty paces before them.

Well, then.

"Yeah, he's in a snit," Ezhno agrees, orange fingers sliding over the shapes of his words.

Garen nods, mock-gravely, and his hand flashes out lightning-fast to pull Ezhno aside so a stray stun bolt does not strike him in the face, and scorches the wall behind him instead.

Ehzno nods his thanks, brushes a stray ember off his uniform, and settles on his heels to watch.

He has to admit, though, that there is something terrifyingly graceful about Huei Tori in fury.

Every standard training salle in the Jedi Temple is equipped with at least a dozen training guns; devastatingly precise weaponry raining plasma that, at its highest setting, packs the punch of a stunner from a heavy blaster.

Every standard training salle, that is. Those reserved for senior knights and masters have far, far more hidden weaponry in its arsenal. All non-lethal, of course, but this particular salle – and Ezhno has to wonder how Huei even succeeded in booking it for use – has no fewer than twenty fully automated, self-reloading heavy-stun blasters.

Huei, it would seem, has activated all of them.

The thud-thud-thud of active blaster shots lances painfully up Ezhno's bones; each punctuated by a bright burst of ringed fire. The centre of the room is a solid maelstrom of blue stun bolts, packed so closely and flaring so bright there seems hardly any air to breathe for smoke–

And in the middle of it all, a single, navy-skinned figure in cream tunics flashes from floor to ceiling and back again, lightsabers flickering from bolt to bolt in a blur of azure and silver blades. There and again is the flash of pearlescent white in navy blue, like pearls adrift on a tossing sea – a silka-bead padawan braid bound to dark blue headtresses.

Ezhno cannot hear Huei's dance – the whir of his lightsabers or the shouts that no doubt fall from his lips – but he sees Huei carve out an eye in the storm, an ever-shifting counterpoint to the brilliant blaze of stun bolts and smoke. Already, every exposed surface is covered in streaks of ash and the molten remains of lightsaber burns; every surface, it seems, except the small patch of wall that Garen and Ezhno stand against, which remains as pristine as the day it was made.

Ezhno reflects that Huei might actually be terrifying in more ways than one.

"How long has this been going on for?" Ezhno says, thrusting his hands in front of Garen so the other boy shifts his focus from Huei's deadly dance to Ezhno's signing.

Garen replies with the sharp motions of a pilot-in-training. "Two hours, give or take."

As though he senses Garen's words, Huei begins, impossibly, to move even faster; the guns, keyed to respond to their user's equilibrium, speed up in turn, blasting out round after round faster than the eye can even track.

But Huei does not need his eyes to see them.

"What's got his headtresses in a twist?" Ezhno says, as Huei draws a seven-hundred-and-twenty-degree vault over a gun and ricochets a stun bolt right back down at its barrel, the white-blue of bolt meeting automatic force-shield so bright it sears a ghostly memory across Ezhno's field of vision. He blinks rapidly to clear it, and nearly misses Garen's reply.

"Master Ner'iah didn't bring him along to Nal Hutta." Old pain hovers faintly behind Garen's gaze: a pain that Ezhno shares.

It has been a long year.

The fact that Garen stands here is a testament to that; where he and Huei had previously done nothing but chafe at each other before Obi-Wan's disappearance, the past year has mellowed their dynamic into strange balance.

"Master Tahl didn't bring Bant, either," Ezhno returns. "It's to be expected, innit?" He has to finger-spell that last bit, but he has long decided he will not give up his speech patterns even in sign.

"Good luck explaining that to him," Garen says, not even flinching as a circled stun bolt slams into the wall a handspan above his head.

Ezhno frowns.

He has been occupied with matters outside the Temple with his friend Fyrnock for the last two days, and while he had been as elated as any of their friends when Huei came forward with Bail Organa of Alderaan to say Obi-Wan had been found, Ezhno has not noted Huei to be in any sort of mood except urgently eager for Obi-Wan to be brought home.

Garen's eyes widen and he starts forward suddenly, teeth bared in what must be a shout.

Huei's fluid form stutters between one flip and the next.

The guns power down immediately and retract into the walls, leaving a haze of acidic smoke, burn-marked floors, and a single Nautolan padawan crouched in a cloud of ozone and smoke, head lowered, chest heaving, lighstabers chambered at his sides.

Garen's mouth moves quickly as he strides forward, "You've done it now, Tori," he says, and Ezhno misses the second half of the sentence as Garen jogs over to their friend.

Huei's head comes up and tilts in that familiar way that means he is listening intently – and the next moment, he has deactivated his lightsabers and said, through gulping breaths, "Ezhno."

"You look like a bantha went an' trampled all over ya," Ezhno says, by way of greeting.

It is telling that Huei is breathing too hard to even attempt to answer him.

Ezhno looks at Garen.

"He's an idiot," Garen says.

"Y-you're an idiot," Huei says. Or at least that is what Ezhno thinks he says – the shapes of the syllables broken up by Huei's gasping for breath.

Garen rolls his eyes. "What are you, like, four?"

"The only…toddler here…is you, Muln–"

Ezhno snaps his fingers by both padawans' ears – he knows by their shared flinch that it must have been loud enough.

Garen is staring at him. Huei's scarred eyes are boring a sightless hole at some point in Ezhno's chest that Ezhno assumes must be his Force-signature – a telling sign that the Nautolan padawan might be still be a little too embedded in the Force.

"Righ'," Ezhno begins a little slowly, keeping that in mind. "I can't believe I'm actually the bloomin' voice 'f reason 'ere righ' now, but I 'ave a beautiful solution to yer problems, like."

"What problems?" Huei says, tense, and Ezhno looks pointedly at him.

Ezhno knows his friend has sensed it when Huei's cheeks turn darker blue and he ducks his head, a little.

"I happen t'know there's a very important meetin' goin' on 'tween Master Windu an' lil' Obi's parents."

The effect is instantaneous.

"What?" Judging by the stretch of Huei's lips, he is very nearly shouting. All the coiled tension is gone from his form; he seems ready to sprint at any moment.

Garen, too, has taken a half-step forward, one hand outstretched as if to clutch Ezhno's shoulder.

Ezhno grins, baring his sharp canines; they have matured and lengthened in the past year, and his montrals rise above his head in twin gold-striped peaks, now.

"Wha' say we go an' listen in?" he offers. "I was goin' to go meself but then I realised I'd need an interpreter to listen, like."

"Voice of reason, ha!" Garen says, throwing his head back in delight.

Huei is already moving, re-binding his head-tresses as he does so. "I assume one of you knows how to access the air vents above the Council chamber?" he says, head turned over his shoulder so Ezhno can lip-read.

"'Course," Ezhno says, even as Garen's lips echo him in the corner of his vision.

Already three paces ahead, Huei shakes his head ruefully and says something, though Ezhno does not catch it.

"What did he say?" Ezhno signs as he follows, so that Huei cannot hear.

Garen's eyes flicker from Ezhno's fingers to Huei's back. "He said he had two criminals-in-the-making for friends," he replies, a slow grin spreading above his hands.

Ezhno's smile at that is fettered only by the sudden thought that he wishes nothing more than for Obi-Wan to be here.

Ahead, Huei's head turns slightly, silver-scarred eyes searching for something in the Force that they cannot seek with light; but the next moment Garen indicates a halt, and they slip one after the other through a vent-cover in the wall.

(:~:)

Several things that make up Huei Tori, at sixteen, mere months from senior padawan:

Azure primary lightsaber, silver shoto, secondary; Silka-bead padawan braid brushing the shoulder; Navy blue headtresses tied back between lean shoulder blades held straight-backed and ready.; Eyes, silver-white and opaque where once they were slate grey and clear, discerning still, but tempered with new maturity and patience born from a year of forced waiting; Thoughtfulness learnt from a dear brother-in-arms, paired with sudden, intense focus at the slightest aberrant sound – the latter of which is a side effect from the hard-handed teachings of his previous mentor.

Sarcasm, and dark humour; A foil to his current master's sunny personality, but beneath smirking laughter and quick-tongued wit, the earnestness of one who has experienced what it is to serve an unworthy master, and now knows what truly deserves loyalty.

Dreams of a distant sea, and murky swamp-lights beneath the water; Faint guilt, even after a full year, for leaving his brother-in-arms and closest friend to a battle he had no hope of winning, in order to save another.

Huei Tori would do anything in his power, beyond even his last breath, to bring back Obi-Wan Kenobi from the fringes of the galaxy.

Which, he supposes, is why he finds himself flat on his stomach in the vent systems above the Council Chamber, crawling on his elbows and knees towards the faint voices echoing ahead. The Force thrums through him and the durasteel underneath his webbed fingers, and Huei slithers through the small space near-silently, knowing without sight where the passage narrows by the feel of the air against his headtresses and the twisting of sound.

…Not that there is any point in stealth when he has these two bumbling buffoons on his tail.

A hollow thunk.

"Oi," a sunny, all-to-loud voice says from the general vicinity of Huei's right ankle. "Was this pipe-thingymabob 'ere two seconds ago, 'Uei? 'Cause it just whacked me a good 'un righ' on my left montral–"

Huei breathes a silent note of despair that he cannot turn and accurately fingerspell a retort in this enclosed space.

A pause, in which there is the sound of shifting tunics and a muffled "Yowch!" as Garen Muln's Force-signature spikes further back along the vent – which suggests that the other padawan has given Ezhno a physical reminder to shut up.

Huei forces down a sigh and continues to crawl, sending cautious Force-borne pulses ahead to feel his way through the vent system. When they entered the hatch a few minutes previous it had seemed a good idea for Huei to go first, given his hyperacute Force-senses and hearing; but he is now rapidly coming to regret that decision.

He pauses when the change in airflow suggests a fork in their path, and tilts his head to listen closely, headtresses tasting the air. The faint scent of ink and armoured silk filters towards him on the right-sided breeze.

Ink, for a calligrapher – the Republic Cultural Minister, First Duke of Stewjon – Ben-Avi Kenobi.

Armoured silk, from the Queen of Stewjon and high general of its military forces – Alephi Kenobi.

Obi-Wan's parents.

And, a little further on – a presence in the Force so furled in purple lightning and restrained thunder that it can only be Master Windu.

With some difficulty, Huei twists an arm behind him to where he knows Ezhno and Garen will see and flashes a signal of success. Then he moves towards the three Force-presences as quietly as he is able.

Judging by the sudden drop in volume of movements behind him, his companions understand the need for care – even Ezhno tries his best, his presence in the Force dimming with an effort to control gangly elbows and knees.

Sound stretches ahead, indicating a widened space – and there, a flicker in the Force and a waft of fresher air – a vent opening.

Huei senses Ezhno and Garen move up beside him as he catches the first clear words from the chamber below.

"Master Jinn has made contact?"

Smooth alto, a note of reserved command. Alephi Kenobi may be a Queen, but she was a General first – and it shows, even when the subject at had is her son.

Mace Windu's calm baritone. "Yes, your majesty. He was unable to extract Padawan Kenobi, but Kenobi now has a functional multi-input comm. The team on the ground at Nal Hutta is currently on standby awaiting communications."

Yes! Huei nearly fuddles the last fingerspelled letter into Ezhno's hand, and feels his friend shift with restless energy as meaning catches up with signed letters.

A whoosh of exhaled air. Another male voice, wearier, but familiar to Huei from countless hours at the Senate Building: Ben-Avi Kenobi, First Duke of Stewjon. "I am glad."

Tasting the air carefully, Huei notes with some surprise that this seems not to be the Council chamber proper, but rather a side receiving-room. Certainly, there are no life-signatures present except Obi-Wan's parents and Master Windu; the emerald nebula that is Master Yoda is far, far below, somewhere in the vicinity of the gardens.

Master Windu's Force-signature flares suddenly, a compressed supernova.

Sucking in a shallow breath, Huei pulls his shields tighter, throwing a mental net over Ezhno beside him; it would not do for Master Windu to notice them. He dimly senses Garen tighten his own shields, blurring the Force between them.

A pause, in which Huei listens the hardest he has ever listened, trying in vain to calm his thudding heartbeat.

"Might I ask what Stewjon's course of action will be?" Master Windu continues. His signature has settled, and Huei exhales as quietly as he is able.

Alephi Kenobi's voice cools a few degrees. "That would depend on Master Jinn's progress."

"And in the event that Master Jinn's efforts encounter significant interference?"

The Force shifts.

Huei very nearly startles. Alephi Kenobi's smile is razor sharp and utterly resolute, flashing so brilliantly through the Force that Huei forgets, for a moment, that he cannot see.

Curious. Alephi Kenobi has not the Force-sensitivity of Jedi, but this…

"Stewjon will stop at nothing to retrieve her citizen." A challenge.

"I understand your eagerness to see your son return safely, your majesty. But I must urge caution. The Jedi Order serves the Republic, and it follows that we do not interfere in inter-system conflicts without the Senate's discretion."

"Stewjon is not asking ask you to interfere," Alephi says, as effortlessly as if she is requesting tea. "Nor will we be asking the Senate, for the time being. Our navy is competent enough."

A pause.

The furled storm of Master Windu's Force-signature coalesces into hail, although his voice does not change. "Your Majesty, this involves Hutt Space and Gardulla Besadii the Elder, one of the Hutt Clan's most prominent matriarchs. There are more than three systems under Hutt governance. With her influence, Gardulla can no doubt scramble an impressive number of fleets with short notice."

Ben-Avi's signature flares in warning, just as his wife's does the opposite – curl in on itself like a hunter that has sighted its prey.

"Precisely, Master Windu," Alephi says, like frozen silk. "And who, might I remind you, is responsible for allowing the Hutt Clan to exhort governance over what is technically Republic space?"

Intangible lightning, lashing through the Force. "Hutt Space has been a centre of unspeakable crime for millennia, your majesty. Do not blame the failures of the generations before on those today."

The three boys packed side-by-side in the vents forget to breathe, at once; the two Jedi because they sense the impeding collision, and the other because Huei breaks off his rapid finger-spelling and clasps Ezhno's wrist urgently to ground himself, instead.

A moment, in which the Force rises to a crest–

–and Ben-Avi's clear baritone inserts itself into the fray.

"Master Windu," Ben-Avi says, the very voice of a quiet scholar. "I know better to ask if you have children. I suppose you do not."

"…No. I do not."

Strangely, an image of an orange-skinned face with sharp white markings drifts to the forefront of Mace's Force-presence, wreathed in something like parental affection; a heartbeat later, it is gone.

The Force wavers, folds back in on itself like a collapsing wave.

Huei breathes, and loosens his grasp on Ezhno's wrist.

Ezhno immediately stuffs lean fingers under his and signs rapidly, "W-H-A-T-I-S-H-A-P-P-E-N-I-N-G."

Huei shakes his head to clear the faint ringing echo in the Force, and re-focuses on the conversation, fingers flicking to follow. Despite his best efforts, he cannot quite keep up; Ezhno's impatience flares anew.

Ben-Avi is speaking again. "Perhaps I will ask the closest equivalent. Do you have a padawan?"

"Yes, I did," Master Windu concedes. "She is a grown Knight now."

Master Depa Billaba, Huei recalls. Kindess and ferocity in one.

"Then imagine if she were captured, beyond rational hope of rescue," Ben-Avi says, quietly – earnestly, like a kind man smiling as he pushes a blade into another man's soul – "would you leave her be, at the discretion of the Republic?"

And just like that, Master Windu is disarmed.

It is a breathtaking, unbelievable thing – as though Vapaad is vanquished in a single, well-placed blow from a master of Soresu.

The Unifying Force thrums once.

The future is always in motion.

Master Windu inhales and exhales once, a storm surge of air. "I cannot answer that question."

"Then I will not ask you to," Ben-Avi says.

"Just as I will not ask you to aid Stewjon's intentions. Only to observe," Alephi adds, with a note of gentleness that suggests regret, if not an apology. "My thanks, Master Windu."

Another sigh, and Master Windu's baritone voice continues, calm. "I will need to advise the Chancellor."

"Then do so," Alephi says. "Please inform us of any updates regarding our son."

"Of course. Good day, Your Majesty. Minister Kenobi."

Huei takes advantage of the sound of shifting clothing and fading footsteps to feel for Garen's shoulder, tap it twice, and then repeat with Ezhno. The trio slide backwards as one, carefully–

"Not so fast, young ones."

Huei freezes in place. Garen hisses something that would have gotten him ten hours' worth of non-stop lightsaber drills if his master ever heard it.

And Ezhno, completely unaware, crawls right into a suddenly still Garen and bangs his left montral into the vent wall. Loudly.

"Yowch! Garen, why'd you sto– OW! What'd you do that f– oh. Righ'. I'm s'posed to be all quiet an' stuff, ain't I."

Master Windu's next sigh is very, very prolonged.

"Padawan Tori. Padwan Muln."

"Yes, Master Windu," Huei acknowledges, crisply and clearly. There is no reason to avoid the inevitable, now.

"Yes, Master Windu," Garen echoes. He, on the other hand, sounds very much like he would like to pretend the inevitable does not exist.

Another breath, as though Master Windu is centering himself.

"Ezhno."

Huei obliges to translate.

"Ahoy, Master!" Ezhno calls, all haphazard, incongruent joviality. "Any chance 'f lettin' us crawl away an' pretendin' we weren't 'ere?"

Garen's groan is a palpable thing that melds with the thunk of his forehead meeting durasteel.

Master Windu's voice comes again, less severe and edged now with a exasperation. "Get out of the vent."

Huei complies immediately, feeling for the edge of the vent opening and lowering himself out of it to hang by his fingertips; once he can make a reasonable guess as to where the floor is by sound, he allows himself to drop. Garen and Ezhno scramble far less gracefully after him, judging by the noise.

"I will not ask why you are here," Master Windu begins, each syllable crisp – so that Ezhno can lip-read well, Huei knows. "That is evident enough. Understand I did not immediately remove you from this chamber upon discovering you because interrupting that interview would have had greater repercussions. We can ill afford to argue over Padawan Kenobi's rescue. I trust I do not need to mention that none of the information you overheard leaves this room."

A chorus of, "Yes, Master Windu."

"Padawan Muln, I will be speaking to Master Rhara. Ezhno, you have been assigned crèche duty for the next three service rotations, effective immediately."

"Aww, Master!" Ezhno does not bother with adding Windu, as is his habit. If Ezhno thought that this would lessen his punishment, he is very quickly proven wrong.

A swell of amusement, almost fond. "Ezhno, you should know very well by now that you cannot tempt me into changing my mind. Now," – Master Windu's Force-presence focuses on Huei – "Padawan Tori, in view of Master Ner'iah's absence from the Temple, I will decide on how best to discipline you."

In view of Master Ner'iah's absence.

Perhaps it was not meant to be jarring – but it is precisely the wrong thing to say in Huei's presence at this moment.

When Huei had asked his master for permission to join the mission to Nal Hutta, Feemor had responded distractedly from where he was loudly throwing items into his field-utility-belt and replied in the negative. So Huei had asked again, more insistently, and Feemor had placed a hand on his shoulder, told him to trust Masters Qui-Gon, Tahl, and Feemor himself, and departed in a straight sprint of bootsteps against stone.

And Huei was left to himself and a hundred things he wished to say.

Foremost of which was Take me so I can make amends for leaving Obi-Wan behind.

Dimly, Huei becomes aware that Garen and Ezhno have acknowledged Master Windu and are turning to go, the squeak of their boots against larmalstone – but this is one of those moments that Obi-Wan had told him of, before, where the Force stretches out time stitch-by-stitch.

Huei considers his options.

On one hand, the logical thing to do as a padawan before the Master of the Order would be to cut his losses and accept punishment – to admit that there are things for Masters and Knights that an almost-senior-padawan cannot do.

That would be what Dooku would have instructed.

On the other hand, Dooku is no longer his master.

And one of the things Feemor has trained into him after taking over his training is to ask – ask everything and anything, as much as possible – and if the answer is no, then at least one has explored the possibility of yes.

Huei makes a half-turn on the spot to face Ezhno's Force-signature so Ezhno can lip-read his words. "Go on," he says. "I'll catch up with you."

Ezhno's hesitation shines like a firework – until Garen's bootsteps quicken towards him, and there is a mutter of "I'll explain it all in detail, Ezhno, now get!" that ends in the hiss of a closing door.

In the ensuing stillness, Huei focuses on the furnace in the living Force that is Mace Windu. "I have a request."

A shift of cloak over tunics. "Indeed, Padawan Tori."

Huei raises his chin. "I wish to join my master on Nal Hutta in rescuing Obi-Wan."

"Denied." If anything, Mace sounds impressed at Huei's sheer nerve.

"Then I will amend my request, if I may."

A mutter, too low for human ears but entirely too obvious to Huei's sensitive hearing – "Qui, your blasted lineage," – and then: "Continue."

Huei begins to speak. Stops. Considers an alternate approach. "You are concerned about Stewjon's possible actions in this matter."

"Yes," Mace concedes. "But that is not a request."

"It follows, then, that we either need to have Senate approval for a Stewjon mustering of arms, or persuade Stewjon to cease amassing their navy and leave the matter to the Order."

"…That is correct."

Huei allows himself a smile, thin and curved at the corners like a longbow and just as precise. "I can render aid on both counts."

Incredulity, shining through the Force. "Specify."

"As you are aware, I have been aide to the Chancellor for nearly a year now. He values my opinions in that I do not have motive for personal gain, unlike many of his colleagues. As for Stewjon, both Minister Kenobi and the queen are fond of me. I have been a regular student of Minister Kenobi's for touch-signing, and I am friends with Bail Organa, his Senate apprentice, as you know. It is not so far-fetched to believe that I may be able to influence Alderaan's opinion on matters, as well."

Silence.

Huei waits.

A slow inhale. "I had forgotten who previously trained you," Mace says. "I do not think that anyone could have heard that and been surprised that you once were Master Dooku's apprentice."

Huei does not flinch, but it is a close thing.

Instantly, a warm hand finds his shoulder. "I apologise, Padawan Tori."

Huei lifts his chin further. "Your answer, please, Master Windu."

"…I will allow it."

Huei relaxes.

"But," – and here, the hand on Huei's shoulder tightens, and the baritone voice speaks closer, directly in front of his face – "Tread carefully, Padawan Tori. There is more than Padawan Kenobi's life at stake. And while I am offering an opportunity for you to…test the waters, so to speak, I do not yet know your true intentions. And that, I do not like. Am I understood?"

"Yes, Master Windu."

"You may use your connections. But I will dictate how you do so, after I confer with Master Yoda."

"Yes, Master Windu," Huei repeats.

The hand slips off his shoulder.

"And for that additional request, you have added five more laps to the seven around the Temple that I originally planned for your discipline. Twelve laps, now. Dismissed."

Huei inclines his head and swivels to go. Something is rising in his chest – a euphoria born of disbelief. He cannot quite believe he has succeeded – and without having to explain his motives, either.

"And, Padawan Tori?"

Boots slide to a stop. "Yes, Master?"

"I caution you to be careful with this new skill of yours. It is a double-edged blade."

Huei feels his lips quirk despite himself. "A lightsaber has an infinite number of cutting edges, Master Windu."

It is something Obi-Wan might have written – impish humour and all.

"Fourteen laps."

"Yes, Master Windu."

(:~:)

"Obi-Wan!"

The moment Obi-Wan staggers over the threshold of the tiny cubicle, Shmi rushes to him.

"I heard–" the rest of her sentence breaks off in a gasp as the limpid candlelight illuminates the maze of weeping lines across his back.

Head still reeling from crawling up three flights of rancid servants' stairways on his hands and knees, Obi-Wan allows himself to be helped up onto his wood-board cot, leaning heavily against the wall. The warm, musty air of the tiny space stifles him; the lines on his back flare far worse than they did a few minutes previous, when adrenaline pushed him up those last few steps to the slaves' quarters.

Eyes half-shut shut against a dizzy spell, Obi-Wan glimpses Shmi turn to the door; he reaches out with a still-trembling hand and grasps her wrist. It takes two tries before his fumbling fingers brush a sleeve and latch on.

Shmi pulls his hand away with the gentle efficiency of one who has seen the results of a beating far too often, and knows exactly what to do. "Obi-Wan, I need to find you water–"

Obi-Wan shakes his head once. Winces at the ensuing surge of nausea in his stomach. Shmi's sleeve slips out of his fingers as he forces his limbs to obey him and sign, "Stop. Stay."

Shmi pauses, one hand on the flimsy piece of wood that is their door; the yellow candlelight warps and blurs the edge of her silhouette, and Obi-Wan blinks away the shadows that dart out between them. Every colour and every sound is echoing in on itself, focusing and defocusing too fast for his scrambled mind to keep up.

But his hands can still move.

Out comes the comm and river stone, tumbling across his worn wooden pallet.

Shmi's gasp sucks the air out of the small chamber. Her hands fly to her mouth.

Obi-Wan scrabbles at the comm, blood and grime-slick fingers working at the smooth casing.

"Obi-Wan, what…how–"

He shakes his head. To explain would require releasing the precious comm to sign. Obi-Wan has to know if the comm can establish a working frequency, and he has to know now–

His fingers find a switch embedded in an engraved recess, keyed to his Force-signature as he expected; one sharp flick of the Force, and a holoscreen unfolds from a hidden emitter, translucent green light coalescing into a familiar profile–

Obi-Wan's eyes widen, and he clasps a hand over his lips despite knowing no sound could come from it, holding back a silent sob that threatens to choke him.

"Padawan," Qui-Gon says. The warmth in his eyes is still visible even cast in stuttering emerald. "Obi-Wan."

Qui-Gon's voice is rough with unshed tears and edged with static – but still the voice of tea and meditation, lightsaber katas and warm hugs that smell of clean tunics and 'saber smoke.

Home.

The galaxy rights itself again, a celestial map unfurling in the Force between them.

Tears slip over Obi-Wan's eyelids, tumble freely down his cheeks. Master and Padawan stare at each other, wordless, taking in every detail of each others' faces that they could not earlier, with Gardulla's poison between them. Qui-Gon's gaze dims as it settles on the faint bruises at Obi-Wan's throat.

Shmi has shrunk back against the opposite wall, chest rising quick and shallow as she watches, wide-eyed with disbelief.

Obi-Wan takes a shuddering breath, scrubs at his cheeks with the heels of his hands.

There is something he needs to say.

He jabs himself in the chest – so hard it bruises his skin – taps his chin and brings his hands close and out again, as though they tremble under the weight of his emotion as he signs:

"I missed you so much."

It does not matter if Qui-Gon does not understand – does not matter that Obi-Wan does not have spare flimsi to write his words. He simply needs to say it.

For a moment, Qui-Gon's flickering image seems frozen.

And then those broad, familiar hands rise carefully, and repeat the motion – myself, miss you – and the sign-letter for Yirt shaken side-to-side, together meaning–

"–I missed you too." Qui-Gon smiles above his signing, a bittersweet smile of old guilt and new joy.

Joy, to finally share in his padawan's language where he did not before.

Obi-Wan meets Qui-Gon's gaze, jaw slack in shock. His hands rise, numb, and construct a sentence the shapes of which seem foreign to him. "You know sign language."

Qui-Gon eyes glimmer with moisture. Then, with both his voice and hands: "I learned. For you."

Oh.

Oh, it is too much; it fills Obi-Wan's heart and pours over.

And so it is here, faced with a gift where he least expected it, the storm breaks at last; swollen clouds, bringing the first cleansing rains of a new spring.

"Padawan," Qui-Gon says with his voice again, thick with his own emotion, as Obi-Wan curls down in front of the comm, exposing the weeping, sanguine trails across his back as he fights against the onslaught.

A sharp, agonised intake of breath from the comm.

"Oh, Padawan. I'm so sorry."

The tears come fast and thick. And through it all, Obi-Wan cannot help the chuckles when they come; silent, shaking chuckles that hiccup where they meet his sobs.

When his shaking only increases, a note of desperation enters Qui-Gon's words: "Obi-Wan, I– please. Raise your head."

Silent sobs diminish into faint, wheezing breaths as air gushes through Obi-Wan's raw throat. He dimly hears Shmi rise; a hand brushes through his hair, fond and reassuring, the door opens and closes, and Obi-Wan is alone.

Alone with his master, for the first time in close to a year; and to speak with him, as they have never done before.

A single, deep breath. The stink of Hutt slime, and swamp fog.

When Obi-Wan raises his head and scrubs away the blurring, sticky tears, he sees that Qui-Gon, too, has been overcome; his beard is seeded with crystals from the twin tracks down his cheeks, and one hand is raised towards Obi-Wan, as though Qui-Gon wishes he could reach through the hologram to brush away Obi-Wan's tears himself.

It is a few more moments before they collect themselves enough to continue.

The candle gutters in melted tallow; Obi-Wan feels cool darkness flash over his face as the flame flickers. Somewhere amongst the rows of cramped cubicles comes an echoing shout.

Obi-Wan's head snaps to it immediately, every line of his shoulders tense; it is five thudding heartbeats where he searches the Force, before he relaxes minutely.

Qui-Gon's eyes flash sharply as they catch the motion.

"In sign," Obi-Wan replies to the unspoken question, fingers sharp. "We do not want to be overheard."

A pause. "Very well, Padawan," Qui-Gon signs.

Obi-Wan runs a hand through his hair and musters a smile. He knows he must look like something dragged him through the Corellian hells and back – who knew that joy could be so exhausting?

Silence and stillness, and Obi-Wan is suddenly almost afraid that the frequency is lost until he realises Qui-Gon is patiently waiting for him to speak first.

Another thing that Qui-Gon never did, before.

"You came for me," Obi-Wan begins – mostly because he can barely believe it, still, and also because he needs an excuse to occupy his hands before they start trembling with emotion again.

At that, Qui-Gon smiles properly – that rogue, challenging grin that so often brings headaches to the Council back on Coruscant – and signs back, "I didn't come alone."

The older Jedi barely finishes his last word before his hands are knocked aside by a very exuberant Feemor Ner'iah jumping into the communicator's pickup field, knocking Qui-Gon aside as he does so.

"Obi-Wan!" Feemor shouts – well, signs, but something about the way he fingerspells obscenely close to the communicator's visual receptor suggests that if he could use his voice, he would be shouting very, very loudly.

Obi-Wan barely has time to smile through his tears before a lithe elbow jabs Feemor in the ribs and straight out the edge of the hologram all together. Feemor's yell at that is cut short and muffled – Qui-Gon's handiwork, no doubt.

And then Tahl is there; Tahl Uvain of green-gold striped eyes and wicked smile fading away into concern as she stares at him and taking in the prominence of his cheekbones and the thinness of his lips.

Her signing is beautiful – a dance of fluid, precise movements where her companions' were jittering, separate words.

"Obi-Wan," she says with her hands. "I'm so sorry."

Seeing her brings an unexpected fresh wave of longing to Obi-Wan's heart – the memory of another embrace, one of gentle compassion and understanding. Walking between Qui-Gon and Tahl in his early padawan days, Tahl's fond hand on his head–

He closes his eyes against the memory. When he opens them again, Qui-Gon is there once more, waiting for him to speak first.

A single, deep breath of musty air and Hutt-slime.

"Master," he says, hands calm and composed for the first time in what seems like forever – "I want to introduce you to someone."

He turns and motions. A tendril of the Force eases the door open at his calling; a scant two handspans is all he dares with the comm activated like this, but it is enough for Shmi to slip back into the small abode again with a sandy-haired form in her arms.

There is hesitation on Shmi's features, but Obi-Wan smiles, takes her free hand, and tugs her down to sit beside him so the pickup field of the comm washes over her and Anakin.

"Master, this is Shmi," Obi-Wan says, spelling her name slowly so that Qui-Gon can be sure of it. "My friend."

Understanding enters Shmi's gaze, and she smiles at him as he turns to her to add, "Shmi, this is Qui-Gon. My mentor and teacher."

If Obi-Wan had expected distrust between them – a natural result of Shmi's life of bondage and Qui-Gon's personality – he is thoroughly proved wrong.

Qui-Gon and Shmi exchange nods of the head, and share a single, perceptive gaze – perhaps seeing the same priorities mirrored in each others' eyes.

Watching, Obi-Wan suddenly comes to the realisation that there are many, many people in the galaxy who care deeply about him. It is a discovery that shakes him to his core – to know that beyond the stars and into the darkest reaches of space, there are yet those who would give themselves up for him.

"Obi!" comes an insistent babble. "Obeee!"

And here is what Obi-Wan would give himself up for.

Shmi laughs as Anakin wriggles across her lap to get to Obi-Wan's, and Obi-Wan's smile turns affectionate in turn as Anakin settles into his hold, fat slaver's anklet tapping against Obi-Wan's knee.

Fondness enters Qui-Gon's gaze.

"And this is Anakin," Obi-Wan continues, sticking out his tongue at Anakin and getting a giggle in response as Anakin attempts to bat at Obi-Wan's moving hands.

And it is in moments like these, with Anakin babbling into his ear, and Shmi, smiling sat next to him, that Obi-Wan wonders how to describe what they are to him. To call them friends as he did previously seems inadequate. But to call them another word beginning with forn strays dangerously into unseemly attachment; even Qui-Gon cannot be called that word, no matter how true it might be.

But now the words come to him.

"They're with me," he states, lowering his hands with finality.

Qui-Gon watches the three of them for a moment, inscrutable, hands folded across his chest. Obi-Wan meets is master's eyes evenly, and the bond between them pulses with intensity even stretched across such a distance.

The chances of helping a slave escape alive are minimal, in the first place.

The chances of escaping with two or more others – one a child, no less – are astronomically bad.

Anakin makes a delighted noise; he has found Obi-Wan's river stone, one bright object of colour in a world drenched in greys and greens. His mother and the two Jedi watch as he runs chubby fingers over the smooth, gold-streaked surface and promptly jams it happily between his gums.

"Obeee, dah!" he babbles.

Obi-Wan raises his head to meet Qui-Gon's eyes again.

Something gives in the older man's gaze; like the sigh of the tide retreating from the shore.

Qui-Gon nods once, and unfolds his hands. "Then let us begin."

Soon, Anakin crawls out from Obi-Wan's lap and settles behind his mother, bored. The others are too busy conversing to pay him much attention.

And so, none of them notice when the river stone in Anakin's hands begins to glow.

Next chapter: The Force, it seems, plans in ways no one can expect. Huei discovers that making a power move is a double-edged blade indeed, and Obi-Wan makes a move of his own.

If anyone's interested in The Dragon Prince, I've written a six-chapter fic in that universe on tumblr and FFN! Check that out if you'd like!

I'll be posting a Silent Measures chapter looking at Huei and Garen's uncommon road to friendship sometime soon! Thanks for all the reviews and favourites, everyone - even if I haven't replied to you, I take the time to read every review and detail and treasure all of them. Much love!