Hey there - I had a two day break from work for the first time in three weeks so I whipped up this interlude in a day and a half. After this we'll be on to the next arc!
And a note: Yarael Poof is an established canon Jedi Master on the Council, and this chapter also references a dream sequence in chapter 36 - that's where to go if you need a refresher on that reference.
Music for this chapter: The Year Turns Round Again (War Horse)
"Welcome to advanced weapons training, Senior Padawans."
A thrum of anticipation flickers through the Force between the six young Jedi stood at attention. Obi-Wan clenches his hands where they are clasped tightly behind his back and attempts not to look too eager. This session is his first proper introduction into the Senior Padawan curriculum and it would not do to appear impatient.
That does not prevent the buzz in the Force ricocheting between the six newly minted Senior Padawans and filling the entirety of the high-roofed lightsaber arena. Obi-Wan also notes that several of his counterparts are stealing surreptitious glances at him, but he ignores this in favour of tuning his focus.
"Until now, you have been instructed in the art of lightsaber combat purely against an opposing lightsaber or blaster," Yarael Poof's reedy voice says. His sinous neck undulates as he moves between the various pieces of weaponry set before him. "While undoubtedly the large proportion of combat you will encounter in your lifetime will comprise of blasters, vibroblades and the like, you are no longer Junior Padawans, and the Council is in agreement that there are variations of lightsaber crystal use that you must have at least some knowledge of, even without mastery."
The Quermian Master's four arms hover over the array for a moment before picking out a long, slivery staff with almost delicate care.
"This," he says calmly, "Is a lightsaber pike. One activates it like so," a hiss-snap, and a yellow bar of plasma extends from the tip of the pike, spitting sparks. "This particular weapon is two millennia old; the emitter even older, hence the slight imbalance in the emitter focus. One uses it in a manner not dissimilar to a double-bladed lightsaber, save that the lightsaber pike has a much longer reach. As exemplified here."
At a motion, the arena's training guns flare to life. Obi-Wan watches with interest slowly bleeding into delight as Yarael Poof blurs between the guns with sinuous dexterity, his flexible Quermian form allowing him movement that would be impossible for a human.
As the blasters power down and the plasma-scented smoke begins to clear, Obi-Wan finds himself for the first time in close to a year utterly delighted with the prospect of learning; the knowledge that this is an art passed down through thousands of generations of Jedi and about to be passed on to him.
The barest hint of a smile touches his lips.
"Now," Master Poof says as he deactivates the pike and reaches for an unassuming cylinder not unlike a lightsaber hilt, "This next piece is of a variety used both by the Jedi and the Sith in the last great war. This is an earlier variation, as evidenced by the lack of central filaments for support. Many later lightwhips used flilaments for whip cohesion."
The lightwhip snaps to life, flaring bright, electric indigo in the still air, a thick thread of pooling plasma snaking from the hilt.
Five padawans rock forward on the tips of their boots in eager interest. The sixth only remembers to breathe when black spots begin to swim in front of his vision.
Obi-Wan forces air into his lungs and calms the terrified floundering of his heartbeat with savage determination. His shields rise, adamantine steel, wreathed with the bilious clouds of Nal Hutta. He is placid, unbothered, unshakable; a wall of impenetrable calm in the Force.
He knows he has succeeded in the deception when Yarael Poof glances at him with approval and directs to the other padawans: "This is where an over-eager mind might do you harm. A lightwhip without central filaments requires a well-controlled hand. I can sense you have your excitement firmly under control, Padawan Kenobi. You may come forward."
The lightwhip flashes indigo-blue, washing the faces of everyone present with fickering, electric hues. Obi-Wan moves forward in a half-dream.
It is not the same, he tells himself. The lightwhip has a steadier hum than a vibrowhip; there is not that same crazied, barely-witheld scream that vibrowhips cage in their shuddering forms, eager for blood. This is a refined weapon simply at rest; awaiting the use of a steady hand.
But there is someone screaming from somewhere beyond the fabric of the world, above the ringing in his ears. Two voices, eerily similar.
Tarun and Tuari.
Master Poof places the lightwhip hilt in Obi-Wan's hand. Obi-Wan's sweat-slick fingers almost slip over the burnished casing but tighten automatically, fingers shuddering in sympathy with the relatively less-stable shake of a crystal pouring its power through a flexible emitter.
"Ah, I see you have noted another difficulty associated with the lightwhip – the emitter, though flexible, requires a stronger wrist for stability than a lightsaber. Now, let us begin with an immobile target and see how you fare."
A humanoid mannequin made of ballistic plastiform rises up from the arena floor at Yarael Poof's waved hand. Obi-Wan blinks at it, shaking his head to clear the cacophony of screams echoing through his mental plane. The lightwhip judders in his hand.
The mannequin has a plastiform face.
The mannequin has a Trandoshan overseer's face.
Obi-Wan smells iron in the air; the iron of spilt blood vaporising as it meets electrified vibro-whip .
He remembers that nightmare he used to dream, with the hard wooden pallet of the slave quarters digging into his torn shoulderblades; a dream of watching himself race up the ramp of a slave ship with yellow eyes, the vibrowhip in his hands lashing out at every slave-trader and overseer and guard until he stands drenched in a pool of their blood, and Shmi weeping, holding the small still form of a week-old Anakin–
His shields, his shields, he must keep them up–
The whip nearly rips itself out of his hand as plasma sears a burning gash across the overseer's throat where the carotid pulses with blood; dazzling sparks burn in his vision as he brings the whip back again for a second strike.
"Good, Padawan Kenobi, good precision! That is exactly the efficiency one should have with the lightwhip–"
The crash of the arena doors smashing open.
"Obi-Wan!"
Strong, familiar hands grasp his shoulders. "Padawan!"
Qui-Gon's voice.
The mannequin has a plastiform face. There is no blood in the air. Tarun and Tuari's screams cut off as sharply as though they are silenced with blasterfire. The wound in the mannequin's throat is neat, and scorched perfectly black at the edges.
Obi-Wan jars as his vision refocuses on his master's face. Qui-Gon is holding him quite steady, one hand on his shoulder and the other at his face, thumbtip at his cheekbone.
The lightwhip drops from his nerveless fingers and clatters to the arena floor, shutting off with a snap.
There is something very close to panicked worry in Qui-Gon's eyes as he holds Obi-Wan's gaze. Beyond him the other five padawans stand a little ways off, expressions of mild confusion on their faces. Yarael Poof's features, on the other hand, softens with a look of sudden understanding.
"You and your padawan are excused, Master Jinn," he says, whispery voice quiet. "My apologies."
Qui-Gon nods tersely, not taking his gaze off his padawan's for a single moment. The bond is alive with a strained echo of Obi-Wan's desperation.
Obi-Wan allows himself to be led away from the scent of plasma and burnt plastiform, out the door and into the familiar corridors of the Temple proper.
Halfway down the corridor he stops in place. Qui-Gon halts, too, and looks at him with an assessing glance.
Obi-Wan flexes his hands and slowly brings them up to speak. "I didn't expect that," he says, hands shuddering a little between the signs. "I didn't expect…any of that."
"Perhaps we should have," Qui-Gon says, closing his eyes briefly. "Your first session with Master Che is tomorrow. I was remiss in not arranging it sooner. I apologise, Obi-Wan."
Obi-Wan nods.
He quite determinedly walks all the way back to quarters without his master's aid, and though Qui-Gon hovers, Obi-Wan chooses to ignore it.
This is something he will conquer.
(:~:)
"I thought we might begin by allowing you to speak of whatever you wish," Vokara Che says, leaning forward to place a steaming cup of Sapir tea before Obi-Wan's knees.
The chamber has that hushed quality that all rooms in the Healer's Wing does – the scent of fresh-brewed Sapir curls lazily towards the low ceiling, wafts over the two Jedi knelt opposite each other on simple meditation cushions.
Obi-Wan's hands tighten for an instant on his knees, unbidden, scrunching the coarse cloth of his tunics.
If Vokara notices, she does not comment on it. Her stylus and datapad rests unused in her lap.
A long, slow breath. Obi-Wan forces his fingers to loosen and raises his hands to speak.
"No questions, Master Che?" a wry smile quirks at his features.
"I am here to listen and help heal the damage that the past year has wrought on your mind," Vokara says calmly. "This is not an interrogation. Take as much time as you need."
Obi-Wan looks from the master healer's steady gaze to the silvery wisps of steam rising off his tea. The ceramplast is warm under his calloused fingertips when he lifts it, and the tea a soothing stream in his unnaturally parched throat. Noorian-blossom Sapir, he notices. Tahl's blend.
It reminds him of quiet evenings in quarters with Qui-Gon, his master pruning his latest botanical collection and Obi-Wan working on his course assignments, neither of them opening their mouth or lifting a stylus to speak but together all the same, bound as tightly as two hands could clasp.
The memory calms his hands enough to speak.
He raises his head to meet Vokara's gaze. "Anakin's first word was mama," he says, framing each word in his grasp with care. "And his second was Obee."
(:~:)
"Kenobi…hey, Kenobi! Oafy-wan!"
Obi-Wan halts, blinking. He had been tracing the path back to quarters automatically, his mind solely occupied with a somewhat stupefied surprise that the mind-healing session with Master Che had actually helped – so much so that he had completely missed the voice calling for him until it sounded right over his shoulder.
White hair. Ice-blue eyes. A face that is altogether too inclined to sneer, now wearing an easy smile.
Bruck Chun.
His childhood tormentor.
"Oafy-wan, get it?" Bruck is saying, now, an amicable smile on his amicable expression, with an amicable tilt to his shoulders. "Brings back memories, doesn't it? But it all happened a long time ago, so water under the bridge, yeah?"
Obi-Wan stares at him. He has to look up a little to do so – the other young man has few months on him and it seems a few centimeters too – but Obi-Wan does not move even a finger to reply.
Bruck had used to trip him in the refectory and call him Oafy-Wan when he fell. At seven years old, Obi-Wan had thought that pain, then.
He knows what pain is now.
Bruck chuckles. The empty corridor takes the sound and ricochets it sharply around them like blasterfire. There are the beginnings of rust growing along the edges of Bruck's lightsaber, Obi-Wan notices. The sign of a lack of care for one's equipment.
"Anyway, the…the point is," Bruck says, smile slipping at Obi-Wan's complete lack of movement, "I thought – that is – you're Crown Prince of Stewjon now, and since I come from quite a prominent political family on Telos IV, I thought we could…you know…wipe the slate clean? Our families will probably end up meeting every now and then at political functions, you know."
Obi-Wan continues to stare.
A he does so, something remarkable happens. Bruck – taller, wider of shoulder, with a year's worth of good food in him that Obi-Wan does not – seems to shrink under the weight of Obi-Wan's gaze.
Bruck's Force-signature collapses in on itself like a stratt curling in to protect its vulnerable belly.
"Right. I'll…see you around, Kenobi," he half-mumbles, eyes averted. Then he turns, clumsily – like an oaf trying to fill shoes too big for himself – and is gone.
Obi-Wan looks at the length of empty corridor, down which Bruck Chun had fairly fled, and wonders how three years could have put such a distance between them – one a Senior Padawan who has walked the stars, and the other forever a boy with a powerful father and no more than that.
To be a Jedi is–
The galaxy is–
The Force is–
–so much more.
"Obi-Wan!"
A young female voice, filled with delight.
Obi-Wan turns in place and finds Siri Tachi standing before him.
"I'd heard from Master Adi that you were back!" she says, smiling up at him. Her blonde hair has been cropped closer to her chin some time in the last year, and her padawan braid whispers over her shoulder. "I hope you're well?"
Obi-Wan nods.
"I'll catch up with you with Bant and the others soon, then," Siri says. "Apologies, I've got galactic history in five minutes and Knight Ima-Gun-Di's a stickler for discipline, as you know. See you."
And Obi-Wan is left feeling hollow and alone in the centre of the empty corridor for the second time in as many minutes.
After a moment, he pivots in place and resumes his steady pace.
It occurs to him as he emerges onto the busy concourse that leads from the Temple entrance to the Room of a Thousand Fountains, that his thirteen-year-old self had once harbored something of a secret admiration for Siri Tachi.
This is something he knows he once felt – but it now hovers there in his memory as though beyond a layer of blurred transparisteel, childishly fond, before the galaxy opened up before his feet and he came to know the meaning of love.
Anakin, babbling laughter in his arms. Shmi's motherly embrace at the end of a long day, when all he has to speak for his labours is a packet of bitter tea and a face too drawn to smile.
He stands there for a moment, with Coruscant's setting sun blazing through the western entrance of the Temple. Knights, Masters, Padawans and Initiates pass around him in an ever-constant tide; each caught for a moment in the dusk rays and their shadows thrown out beyond them as though they are many-shaped sundials.
Obi-Wan breathes in the familiar air of the Temple, laced with the brilliant starfire of ten thousand Jedi Force-signatures, and walks on.
(:~:)
"So whaddaya think?"
Ezhno twists his hands in his lap, quite glad that Master Windu cannot see them underneath the table.
Mace examines the sheet of flimsi between them. One 'saber calloused hand taps at his chin.
"If you are quite sure," he says, the shapes of the words on his lips clear and unhurried. "This will take no less than five years at least."
"I'm sure," Ezhno says immediately, with his hands, not his mouth, because he wants to get the point across exactly how he wishes. "This is what I want to do."
"Very well, then," Mace says, and there is something like – daresay Ezhno suppose it – pride, in his expression. "You may."
Ezhno's eyes widen. "What? That's it?" His hands fail him. "Aren't you gonna, I dunno, think 'bout it a lil' more?"
"Why should I?" A glimmer of a smile in Mace Windu's usually stern face. "Medicine and healing arts is an extremely competitive and difficult field. I see you have the determination for it. If this is what you wish to do, I don't see why not. As of this moment, you have the Order's full funding for study at Coruscant's premier medical university. This of course depends on whether you pass the rigorous exams needed for ent– oh."
That last part fades into a somewhat embarrassed expression of stoicism as Ezhno launches himself across the table and throws his skinny orange arms around Mace's middle.
"Thank you, Master," Ezhno mumbles into Mace's shoulder.
After a moment, Mace's arms come up to curl around him, gently, and Ezhno is all at once surprisedly, gloriously, happy.
(:~:)
"How did you fare?" Qui-Gon enquires the moment Obi-Wan steps over the threshold.
"Better than expected," Obi-Wan replies, once he has hung up his cloak and freed his hands. "It helps."
Qui-Gon leaves the Felucian cactus he was tending to stride behind hs padawan as Obi-Wan moves for the small kitchen. "Are you hungry? I have some stiklii-root stew in the conservator."
Obi-Wan smiles and shakes his head. His hand moves towards the water heater.
"Tea, then? Sapir, I presume?"
Obi-Wan's hand covers Qui-Gon's and gently pushes it away before moving in gentle words. "I'm fine, Master. I have it."
Qui-Gon stills. He stands there, hands empty, for a moment, then returns to his plants. He steals surreptitious glances at his padawan as the water boils and hisses into two ceramplast cups, and the scent of fresh Sapir curls into the living space.
Obi-Wan sets a cup by Qui-Gon's knee where he sits cross-legged tending to his plants, and takes his own cup to his room.
Qui-Gon sips the tea.
It is perfect.
Qui-Gon decides to ignore the incomprehensible emotion churning in his gut.
(:~:)
"I've had a thought," Feemor says happily from somewhere to Huei's right.
"Oh, Force preserve us," Huei says, leaning back into the sweet-smelling grass and chewing contentedly on a Koja nut. This earns himself a sharp sting as a nut shell collides with his temple. "And ow, master. What sort of mentor takes advantage of their blind apprentice like you do?"
"Me," Feemor says, beaming so brightly that the image ricochets through their bond to flash before Huei's mindscape. "Point being, I thought it'd be a good idea for you to train in the diplomatic corps."
"Oh," Huei says. He stops chewing quite abruptly.
"Hmm."
"What."
"Nah."
"What, Master."
"Nothing, padawan. You're the one who started the single-syllable replies."
"I don't know how Master Jinn survived teaching you, Master."
"Qui-Gon survived by necessity. Anyway, is there any particular reason you're practically broadcasting your hesitancy to any Force-sensitive within a hundred metres?"
Huei fixes the patch in his shields automatically. The scent of the garden around them fills his headtresses; somewhere over to his left a criffian hummingbird's bright life-signature darts through the Force.
"I'm not sure I'm suited for the diplomatic corps," Huei says, quietly.
"Why ever not?" Feemor says, crunching obnoxiously on his next mouthful. "I've seen you work for the past year. You've got the talent for it."
"I'm too…" Huei sits up, feeling the grass dig into his webbed fingers. "I think I want to win too much. I was taught to."
Dooku had insisted on nothing less.
Feemor allows him a moment to breathe and think. Huei appreciates it. It is something Dooku never did.
"You know," Feemor says contemplatively, "You forget that you and Qui-Gon once shared a master."
Huei frowns. "Your point being?"
"What area of operations does Qui-Gon specialise in?"
"Diplomacy."
"Do you see him acting in any way like your former master?" Feemor continues.
"No," Huei says shortly. "But he and Master Dooku are completely different. You have to admit I'm more like Master Dooku than Master Jinn ever was."
"Well yes," Feemor says noncommittally, and Huei hides the flash of hurt that springs up within him at the words. "But then again, Qui-Gon chose to be who he is today. You too have a choice, Huei."
The hurt melts away into an odd feeling of comfort.
"Oh," Huei mumbles.
"Hmm."
"What."
"Ha."
"Stop it," Huei retorts, giving his end of the training bond a firm yank.
Feemor laughs. "So what do you say?"
"I'll…I'll try," Huei says, slowly. "I'm good at it. I know I can do even better."
"Great!" A rustle of cloth as Feemor's Force-signature bounces up to his full height. "Let's go. We're going to be late for evening meal. It's Master Uvain's turn, which means I can make a show of it being much better than Qui-Gon's just to see him glower."
If Huei was planning to say anything else, it is lost as his master takes a firm hold of his shoulders from behind and herds him off with nary another moment lost.
And if Huei sticks rather close to Feemor all the way to Master Uvain's quarters, Feemor blithely does not comment.
(:~:)
Coruscant Prime rises, and sets, and rises again.
The weeks and months pass in a steady progression of ordered time. Obi-Wan eats, and trains, and learns, and heals both body and mind with a dogged determination that has even the Council murmuring praise.
Even Qui-Gon finds himself with unexpectedly little to do.
Obi-Wan wakes without needing to be told; eats little in the beginning days, then increasingly voraciously as his appetite returns to him. He attends his classes and his training with pinpoint focus, and asks for advice and aid only when he truly requires it. He returns from his twice-weekly sessions with Vokara Che feeling lighter and lighter; he even brings Qui-Gon along occasionally. He no longer asks permission before doing certain things that he knows Qui-Gon will not oppose; sometimes Qui-Gon returns to quarters in the evening to a note from his padawan saying he and his friends are out to Dex's Diner and Qui-Gon is welcome to join them should he wish. On missions Obi-Wan needs little supervision; fulfills his part of each plan to perfection.
For Qui-Gon, it is...both a source of pride and regret, his padawan's independence. Where is the newly-minted padawan that used to seek Qui-Gon like a snow-ruffled akk pup when they trekked through cold weather, or fell asleep on Qui-Gon's shoulder during long hyperspace journeys between missions?
Qui-Gon sometimes looks at Obi-Wan and feels as though his chest could burst with pride; but there is also an inexplicable sense of loss.
He seeks out Tahl increasingly as the months pass; they speak quite candidly and calmly of their disagreement on Nal Hutta, decide firmly to become friends again, and carry on as if nothing ever happened. There, too, is an ache – the ache of wishing for something more but never quite opening that door.
Feemor forgives Qui-Gon as easily as breathing; Qui-Gon has barely opened his mouth before Feemor claps him on the shoulder, says he forgives him, and that is that.
"How do you do it?" Qui-Gon says unexpectedly, one fine evening as he and Feemor sit at the table nursing glasses of Corellian brandy. Obi-Wan, Huei, Garen, and a few others of their age are two planetary sectors north in a night-time training exercise; both Qui-Gon and Feemor's padawans had packed without needing their masters' help and set off completely at ease, lithe shoulders bearing their heavy equipment packs without difficulty.
"How do I do what?" Feemor grins, throwing back his glass and reaching for the bottle.
"How do you deal with Huei's…growth?"
"Ah," Feemor says, and his grin turns knowing. "That. How I deal with him not needing me as much as he used to, you mean."
"…Yes." Qui-Gon mutters. "That."
"Well, for one, Huei and I make it a game between us that I like to jokingly coddle him," Feemor says. "I know he's not quite adverse to it – you know how Master Dooku used to treat him. But over it all he knows I have utter confidence in his abilities and he can come to me for help should he require it. He trusts that I trust him." A pause. Feemor's eyes sharpen out of their alcohol-induced blandness to slide across to him. "Do you trust Obi-Wan?"
Qui-Gon's glass halts halfway to his lips.
"Yes," he says, quietly. "Beyond anyone else."
"Then you'll be fine," Feemor says, cheerfully filling Qui-Gon's glass again. "He might not need you to hug him or carry him or to check him over for injuries as much as he used to, but he needs you to be there just as much as he did when he was thirteen."
"How ever did you become so wise, my former padawan?" Qui-Gon smiles as he takes anther sip.
"I had an excellent teacher," Feemor says, quite earnestly.
"Thank you, Feemor."
"You're welcome, old man."
(:~:)
Eight months after his return to Coruscant, Obi-Wan notes that there is something different about his master.
Qui-Gon is not…subdued, exactly, but there is an air of wistfulness about him that had not been there previously.
Obi-Wan muses over it for a little while, discusses the topic with Huei (yielding very insightful results) and makes a resolution a little while later.
The next time he attends a night exercise for senior padawans, he very deliberately forgets to pack his waterproof field cloak. He has checked the Coruscant weather system schedule beforehand; knows that there is rain scheduled after midnight.
Huei sends him a questioning poke in the Force when he senses it, which Obi-Wan blithely ignores in favour of getting as drenched as possible.
When, the next morning, he feels the beginning of a headache start up behind his eyes and notes the slightest increase in his core body temperature, he does not move to control it with a light healing trance, as he has been taught.
He allows it to grow, instead.
Qui-Gon enters their shared quarters early in the evening to find a thoroughly flushed padawan attempting to finish his inter-system diplomacy essay without face-planting into his datapad.
Two leonine steps takes Qui-Gon across to the table; one broad hand presses to Obi-Wan's forehead.
"You have a fever," Qui-Gon comments. "The rain last night?"
Obi-Wan nods, wincing as the motion forces him to move his head. He allows his head to curl into his master's side where Qui-Gon stands beside his chair. The datapad hits the table with a pathetic thunk.
Qui-Gon tuts in disapproval. "You did not pack a weather-resistant cloak, I take it."
Something in Obi-Wan's Force-signature exudes embarrassment.
A sigh. Qui-Gon's lightsaber-roughened hand runs through Obi-Wan's hair, feather-light.
"Come, padawan. Up with you."
Obi-Wan sags pitifully in his master's grasp and allows himself to be half-dragged over to the sofa and tucked in with the Noorian blanket there. He accepts the cup of steaming Sapir, medicine capsule, soft Fern-potato stew, and the extra blanket that follows in short order without complaint.
He falls asleep that night tucked into a warm corner between the sofa and his master's side, curled under the weight of warm blankets and Qui-Gon's cloak.
When he wakes in the morning his fever is gone, and Qui-Gon's worry melts to relief when he feels Obi-Wan's forehead. Soon, there is a distinct spark of happiness in Qui-Gon's Force-signature as he putters about the kitchen preparing broth for Obi-Wan's breakfast.
Obi-Wan hides his knowing smile behind the rim of his soup-bowl.
(:~:)
Nine months after Nal Hutta, Obi-Wan stands before the Jedi Council and makes a request.
"I would like to take three months' leave," he says, the words clear under his fingers. "With your permission, masters."
"Some purpose in mind, have you?" Yoda garrumphs.
"We Jedi serve the Republic," Obi-Wan replies. "I wish to see more of it."
Yoda's gimlet eyes narrow. "Go without your master, will you?"
"With respect, Masters, I am a senior padawan," Obi-Wan continues, holding back a smile with difficulty as Mace Windu looks at him sharply. "And there is something I need to do alone."
Master Windu sounds less than amused. "And what might that be, Padawan Kenobi?"
He tells them, his hands framing the words in simple shapes.
The Council gives him leave.
"That young man vill be extremely trying to deal vith in a few years' time," Even Piell comments after Obi-Wan has gone.
"Fortunately," Mace Windu says, a smile spreading behind his steepled fingers, "That will be Qui-Gon's problem."
(:~:)
Obi-Wan allows Qui-Gon to fuss over him a little, in the short days before his trip. When everything is packed to his master's satisfaction and there is no more to be done, Obi-Wan watches the sunset with with Qui-Gon on their little balcony and waits for Qui-Gon to speak.
"You'll be careful," Qui-Gon begins.
"Yes, Master," Obi-Wan replies, before folding his hands back into his cloak sleeves. His expression is all placid calm.
"Comm me if–"
"If there's anything I need, I know," Obi-Wan replies, signs so sharp they cut off Qui-Gon's next words completely. "I'll be fine."
"I know," Qui-Gon exhales. "I know."
They watch Coruscant Prime dip below the horizon together.
Obi-Wan taps Qui-Gon's elbow, then when the older Jedi turns to face him, signs, "Thank you."
Qui-Gon's eyes glimmer with something other than the first rising stars. His hand finds Obi-Wan's shoulder.
They stand there until evening comes properly, and go in to eat together.
(:~:)
Obi-Wan steps into the wider galaxy with nothing but a pack over his shoulder and his flute in his sleeve.
He has credits enough to live and travel in luxury, but he books himself simple booths in inter-system transports and eats plainly. He stands in the brilliant waterfalls of Alderaan and climbs the bustling shipyards of Corellia; he treks through the wild sands of Jedha and shares tea with a blind young man of the Force-sensitive order there; only a few years younger than himself but a brilliant star in the Force that shimmers off and on like a quasar's beam. He scales the vibrant emerald of the forest platforms of Kashyyyk and is welcomed by the Wookiees there. He visits Naboo, and brings gifts to Eir's family, the old man whom he could not save four years ago, at the start of his apprenticeship.
He sees suffering, and gladness, and a hundred thousand stories he would never have heard on Coruscant alone. Every planet he steps on he meditates, and searches for two Force-signatures dear to him; it is not unexpected that he does not find them, but he searches nonetheless.
In places where the Republic's reach is little he walks with his hood down, padawan braid tossing freely in the wind; in places where the holonet news is commonplace he keeps his hood up, and plays his stone flute in the town squares when there is nothing else to do.
It is all well and good until someone takes a holo of him when his guard is down, notes the similarity with a certain Crown Prince of Stewjon, notes the flute in his hands and the padawan braid behind his ear, and sends the holo viral across the holonet.
"Your padawan is holonet famous," Tahl comments to Qui-Gon the next time they meet up with Feemor for tea.
"He's brought this upon himself," Qui-Gon returns. "It's to be expected. Whereabouts are Huei and Ezhno now, Feemor?"
"Oh, a few sectors away from Obi-Wan, I think."
"I should be glad they are together," Qui-Gon says.
"Oh, I think you're underestimating their penchant for mischief," Tahl murmurs. "Wait and see."
Huei and Ezhno find Obi-Wan exactly where he had told them he would be; in a disrepeutable bar off a seedy hangar in a half-crumbling space-station a little ways away from the Stewjon system proper.
"Oy, you look well," Ezhno says as he throws himself onto the barstool to Obi-Wan's left, automatically reaching for a handful of the Neka nuts in front of his friend.
Obi-Wan saves his snack from Ezhno's long reach, but the next moment the Force flares and the bowl is out of his grasp and in Huei's webbed hands.
"Tough luck," Huei says around a mouthful of Neka nuts.
Obi-Wan rolls his eyes as his friends settle on either side of him.
Two hands settle over his; an orange-skinned one and a navy blue.
"Thank you for coming," Obi-Wan signs into each.
"Aww, 'E's all sentimental."
"Getting emotional, are we, Obi-Wan? Qui-Gon know you're drinking?"
Obi-Wan pulls his hands free and makes a sharp series of movements.
"'E says the legal drinkin' age is sixteen on this 'ere space station and 'e's drinkin' in moderation as per 'is promise to Qui-Gon, 'Uei," Ezhno translates.
"Hmm," Huei says contemplatively. "I think I'll take one in moderation too."
But whatever might have happened next is cut short by Ezhno accidentally jamming the large spice-trader beside them with a gangly elbow; the spice-trader, a huge, four-armed Besalik, snarls a guttural growl and promptly makes a swing for Ezhno's head.
If the punch had connected Ezhno might have found himself without a head; as it is, Obi-Wan's barstool crashes to the floor as he pulls Ezhno clear.
The spice-trader takes in the three young men with a piggish expression made further dull by five flagons of cheap Huttese moonshine, and decides that since he has four arms and only three targets, he has the upper hand.
His first punch misses entirely – he is sure he aimed properly but the young human man with the russet hair and the impish smile seemed to just disappear – and his fist continues its momentum to smash into the jaw of the Zabrak guard-for-hire directly behind the human boy.
That knocks the Zabrak into the Twi'Lek arms dealer behind him, then the mercenary behind her, and suddenly the bar fills with flailing limbs and smashing flagons and blasterfire.
Over it all, there is a higher, frenzied hum. Two blue bars of plasma and a shorter silver column flashing through the tossing chaos with fluid surety, gold-striped montrals flickering to view between them every now and then.
A young human and a Nautolan drag their Togruta friend from the mess of the bar fight and behind a corner to the alleyway, shutting off their lightsabers with a snap.
"Owww," Ezhno moans, holding his jaw. There is a purpling bruise along its edge where it met a plastiform table.
"Why didn't you duck when I told you to, then?" Huei says exasperatedly, flailing a hand in the general direction of Ezhno's face until he feels where Ezhno's fingers press.
"Couldn't lip-read fast enough," Ezhno groans.
A soft wheeze sounds beside them. Huei turns first, then Ezhno, following his movement.
They turn to find Obi-Wan doubled over in laughter, air wheezing through his vocal cords where his laughter is silent.
The mirth is infectious; they collapse next to each other in the grimy alleyway as an explosion rocks the bar beside them, and if anything, this only makes them laugh harder.
(:~:)
"Names?" the immigration officer says as he reaches for the three identity chips through the gap in the transparisteel window.
"Huei Tori, Ezhno of the Jedi Order, and Obi-Wan Kenobi," a voice says promptly.
"Right, mister Tori, and what would be the purpose of your visit to Stewj–" the officer stops. Stares at the three identity chips before him that flash with the Jedi Starbird, then slowly raises his head.
The young Nautolan's opaque, silvery scarred eyes and the Togruta's gold-head stripes are one thing, but the immigration officer's jaw drops when his gaze alights on the young man standing between them. Obi-Wan Kenobi, Crown Prince of Stewjon, standing there in his travel-stained Jedi cloak with an expression of wincing expectation.
"Your highness!" The immigration officer gabbles as he stands up. It is the crash of his chair and not the exclamation itself that turns heads in their direction; but soon many catch sight of the russet padawan braid and the Jedi tunics and the face so like the Queen and First Duke of Stewjon, and a murmur rises sharply around them.
Obi-Wan closes his eyes briefly and raises a hand.
Ezhno steps forward to interpret. "There is no need to–" He stops.
Obi-Wan freezes, too, mid-sign.
The immigration officer is signing.
"Of course," he says, each sign separate and lacking the flow of long practice – but still recgonisable as Galactic sign language. "I apologise – if you would follow me, your highness?"
Obi-Wan nods, and, trailing Huei and Ezhno, follows the officer through the narrow immigration aisle to the long hall beyond. All around them sentients are bowing – one hand to their hearts and an incline of the head as Obi-Wan had seen on the Stewjon ship Aquline, a year ago above Nal Hutta – but after they straighten, each move their hands to speak as well as their mouths.
"Blessings, your highness."
"Welcome home."
"We are glad to see you, your highness."
A lump grows in Obi-Wan's throat. Heat rises under his eyelids.
They can sign. They can all sign.
"Thank you," Obi-Wan returns, hand to his chin and away. "Thank you."
"I apologise if my sign language is less than clear," the immigration officer is saying now, walking parallel to Obi-Wan so as to speak more clearly. "I only took the basic state-provided classes."
"State-provided classes?" Obi-Wan asks.
"Yes," the immigration officer says. "The ones Queen Alephi and the First Duke started – and here we are. Through this door, if you please, your highness."
Obi-Wan has no time to thank the officer – he, Huei, and Ezhno are shuffled off to an official air transport and before any of them can begin to comprehend it, the transport halts and the door is opened by a white-gloved guardsman with a Stewjon songbird on the lapel of his uniform.
Obi-Wan steps out into the bright mid-afternoon sunlight.
Before him a wide set of white stone steps, and above them – the royal palace, white marble and stone with the blue silken pennant of the royal house of Stewjon flaring clear and brilliant from its highest spire.
Huei and Ezhno, by some unspoken agreement, hold back a pace; Obi-Wan ascends the steps with them a pace behind and to the side of him, his Jedi cloak whispering over the sun-heated stone, boot steps steady. The pack on his shoulder seems no weight at all, and the breeze takes his braid and whips it back over his shoulder in mimicry of the pennant high above.
The tall gates at the top of the steps open as he draws closer; guards in their high-collared coats clash to attention.
Obi-Wan steps from the sunlight onto the cool blue carpets of the palace proper – a towering entranceway filled with fresh flowers and colourful paintings, and a ceiling etched with glazed transparisteel in an intricate flurry of Stewjon Songbirds.
And there, hurrying down the steps from the gallery above, are the Queen and First Duke of Stewjon.
His parents.
Obi-Wan finds himself smiling as he takes two last steps forward and allows himself to be caught up in Alephi's embrace. Ben-Avi joins them a moment after, ink-stained hands wrapping around them both.
"Obi-Wan, darling," Alephi murmurs into his hair. "You are most welcome." Her armourweave jacket is digging into Obi-Wan's cheek. He doesn't mind.
"And welcome to you both," Ben-Avi says to Huei and Ezhno. Then, to Obi-Wan, with his hands: "Come. There's someone you should meet."
A russet-haired blur comes hurtling down the carpeted stairs and collides with Obi-Wan's middle. All the breath is knocked out of him at once, but he looks down to see a spiky-haired head and an enormous set of brown eyes, and recognition sets in.
"Kifi-Ra," Alephi admonishes gently. "Don't strangle your brother."
"You're my brother!" Kifi declares with the bluntness of a four year old. "Obi! I remember you!"
Obi-Wan smiles down at her. She is dressed quite neatly in a little jacket and trousers but half of it covered with mud – as is Obi-Wan, now he notices it.
Alephi sighs. "Kifi, you were clean five minutes ago."
"But there was a Ryuu-frog in the garden."
"So?" Obi-Wan says, watching Kifi's eyes track his hands with delight.
"So I had to catch it, of course," Kifi says shortly.
"Of course," Obi-Wan replies, and his little sister beams up at him. Then she notices Huei and Ezhno standing a little off to the side, and the next moment Obi-Wan is treated to the sight of Huei using Soresu footwork to avoid a four-year-old's attack hug – and failing, at that.
The motley group climbs the stairs together, laughing.
(:~:)
On a clear summer evening two days later, Obi-Wan straightens the circlet on his head, and squares his shoulders, nodding to the two attendants at the double doors.
The doors open to fanfare of silver horns. Obi-Wan steps into the sunlight carefully, the weight of the heavy blue cloak pulling at his shoulders. The soft richness of his tunics is foreign to him, but at least his boots are his own; that grounds him and allows him to make his way down the length of carpet to the foot of the dais set at the entrance to the Palace. Beyond, down the white stone steps that Obi-Wan had ascended two days ago, the boulevard is packed with thousands of Stewjon citizens, each craning their neck for a look at their prince.
The Stewjon sun lances through the gaps in the clouds high above, glimmering on the intricate etchings of Obi-Wan's silver circlet and turning his eyes to blue-white ice. There in the crowd he catches a glimpse of Huei and Ezhno; Ezhno's eyes are wide at the sight of Obi-Wan's splendor, and Huei wears a small smile, one hand pressed to a tall pillar to sense the thrum of the Living Force.
Obi-Wan reaches the dais. There his mother sits, resplendent in her crown and a formal frock-coat of armoured silk; a few steps down from her throne and to her right is a smaller chair of dark blue wood, where Obi-Wan's father sits, his own simple circlet flickering with the pride in his eyes.
Kifi stands a little off to the side, dressed very smartly in a formal dress and boots and with a look that saus very plainly she knows to behave or suffer the consequences.
Obi-wan kneels at the foot of the dais, presses his hand to his heart, and bows once.
Then he rises in the hushed silence, turns, and begins to speak, hands clear. A seneschal standing at the edge of the dais raises a booming voice to speak for him.
"His Royal Highness the Crown Prince of Stewjon, Obi-Wan Kenobi, on this day his seventeenth life-day, does hereby renounce his title and claim to the crown and will confer said title and claim therewith to his younger sister, Kifi-Ra Kenobi."
Obi-Wan reaches up and takes the circlet from his head. It leaves his skin as easily as a breath – unfettered and freely taken. Kifi hurries forward, and Obi-Wan smiles gently to reassure her as he kneels before her and places the circlet atop her head – it slides down as far as her forehead where it had rested among his hair, but fits as exactly as if it were made for her.
They turn to their parents as one and bow, Kifi-Ra somewhat clumsily copying her brother – and the boulevard erupts into cheers behind them.
Obi-Wan smiles as he rises, and turns to face the people of Stewjon.
There, amongst the wildly jubilant crowds, he spots a familiar face.
His grin widens as he meets Qui-Gon's gaze where the Jedi master is squished between an openly sobbing middle-aged man and matronly woman waving so frantically that she almost appears faint. Qui-Gon's expression is one of longsuffering patience, and Obi-Wan nearly laughs.
He makes the tiniest movement of his shoulders instead, as if to say, what do you think?
Laugh lines crinkle at the corners of Qui-Gon's eyes, and the bond thrums between them with the words: Very well done, padawan. Very well done indeed.
They smile at each other across the cacophony, Master and Padawan, content.
Next up: Another arc, leading us to new heights!
Thank you for sticking with this story, everyone. Obi-Wan's character progression really hit me as I wrote this chapter; the quiet young initiate to the independent senior padawan. In a way he grew up with me as I started this story as a fresh secondary school graduate in the summer before university, and now am in my first year as a junior doctor. And good news for life updates - I got offered a residency post at the end of 2019 (literally on the afternoon of Dec 31st) and I'll be starting there this coming July. At the moment it's still the crazy schedule I've mentioned before. Because of this I haven't had time to answer reviews, but I've read every one and they all are so very dear to my heart. Thank you.