Everything is green. He has never seen so much green in his life. In the distance, a thickly vined forest stands silently, its towering trees clothed in soft mosses and rooted in damp earth. Wide open fields lay between the compound and the forest, and they are green too. There are flowers popping up sporadically, little clumps of purples and blues and pinks dotted across the grassy plains. Rows upon rows of crops grow on the other side of the large building. It is here that he finds himself early in the morning.

The sun is just beginning to rise, colors are dancing across the clear sky, and clouds are catching fire as he watches. Not even a week has gone by since he arrived and he swears to himself that he will never, never take such a sight for granted ever again.

Coruscant never had anything like this.

"Pay attention, young man."

Young man. Not padawan. Never padawan. Something inside of him tightens, but he banishes the feeling as soon as he transfers his gaze from the golden sky to the stern gaze of his teacher. Mister Mathudun's white eyes stare back at him, strangely devoid of any other color. Arkanians are… different. He is not sure how else to describe them.

"Sorry, master," he says reflexively and then winces in both embarrassment and shame. There are no masters here. Only teachers.

Snow-white brows beetle together and white eyes blink. Then the man is gesturing to a tiny sproutling below them. It looks half-dead already, having already begun to brown and sport a few shriveled leaves. "Let me show you something, Obi-wan," he says. Somehow, this stern man who is usually so cold and aloof sounds gentle. "Watch closely," he murmurs. Then he is lowering a four-fingered hand to lightly grasp one of the wrinkly leaves.

To Obi-wan's astonishment and delight, the leaf begins to straighten out and slowly turn green. The rest of the tiny shoot loses its brown and turns slightly into the rising sun. When Akan Mathudun withdraws his hand, the plant is thicker, greener, a few millimeters taller and looks as though it will survive at least another century. "You are not here to learn how to farm, Kenobi," he says, drawing the teenager in with his milky eyes and a gentle smile.

"I… I'm not?" Obi-wan is confused. He knows that the Order holds the AgriCorps up as an honorable pursuit worthy of respect, but among the Temple's initiates vying for apprenticeships, it is seen as the work of dropouts. Flunkies. Those not worthy to be Jedi, but only worthy to be farmers.

He is not sure that he even deserves to be a farmer, considering he left many disappointed masters and a dead thirteen-year-old boy back at the Temple.

"No." The Arkanian's deep, cultured voice captures his attention once again. "The AgriCorps exists to assist those in need. We grow crops, yes, but not for the purpose of turning a profit. This," and here he gestures at their surroundings. "This is to give others a chance at life."

To give life. No. Obi-wan doesn't think he can do this. Not after he –

"Obi-wan."

Not after –

"Look at me please."

He does.

"You are not a killer," his new teacher says. Obi-wan imagines that if the man had pupils they would be a vivid green. The color of grass. The color that he'd just stoked back into a dying plant. The color of life. "You are not a killer."

The young Jedi – no, farmer – feels something wet on his face. Only later does he realize that he had been crying. "But I killed him," he whispers.

Mister Mathudun laughs softly. It is an oddly comforting sound. "And now look at you: so bogged down in grief and guilt and consumed with self-disgust that you've forgotten who you are. Killers don't feel guilt or disgust towards their actions, young one, but you do." He pauses to put on some dark glasses and Obi-wan remembers reading somewhere that an Arkanian's eyes are sensitive to the light of younger, stronger suns. "You were raised a Jedi, Obi-wan, as was I. I was not apprenticed because I was not strong enough in the Force. They sent me here because I wanted to be here. I knew that I could serve others in this capacity and I knew that I could do it well. Do you know why they sent you?"

Obi-wan shudders a little under the intense scrutiny and looks away. "Because I failed," he mumbles.

"No."

He looks back.

"You made a mistake. I big one, but one that others have made as well. And in the process you lost your way. They sent you here to remind you what you are capable of and to give you the opportunity to try again." His teacher doesn't give him another chance to speak, but instead gestures to another dry and fading plant. "What is the technique that I used on the other plant?"

He blinks at the change of topic. "I… I'm not sure. It looked similar to something used in combat, but here you're using it to farm…"

"To save a life, Obi-wan. Yes, many Jedi who can use this power use it to ensnare an enemy in a tree's vines or use other plants as weapons of a sort." The Arkanian sighs. "They use it to defeat an enemy and sometimes to kill them. Here we use it for a different purpose. It is called Consitor Sato, and I am going to teach it to you."

Obi-wan dares to smile a little. "Do you… do you think I would be good at it?"

Though his teacher doesn't smile back there is a warmth to his voice that hadn't been there before. "I think you have the potential to be great at it," he murmurs in return. Then he turns his attention to the small sapling and kneels down in the dirt. "Now. Watch again…"

When green starts to bleed into brown and the plant begins to straighten, Obi-wan wipes his face and lowers himself to kneel beside his teacher. This time, a flower the color of brilliant sunlight begins to bloom under Mr. Mathudun's gentle care, and the former initiate starts to think that he would like to be able to do something like this. To create beauty from sickness.

To give life instead of take it.