Brief one-shot (with a companion piece to follow) exploring Obi-wan as a Jedi Sentinel during Order 66. I have a somewhat extensive head-canon going with this, so there are flashes of backstory in here. Not much, but a few... ;) I found this scenario intriguing and will probably write more one-shots taking place during the years leading up to this one. Anyways... enjoy! (Let me know in a review if this sparks interest from any of you. I would love to hear backstory ideas even though I already have something in mind!)
When the 501st arrives on the Temple steps, Obi-wan Kenobi is seated at a desk in a musty classroom located in a seldom-used hallway of the Jedi Academy. Three stacks of flimsi sit before him and a fourth is being blasted with brutal sarcasm and witty praises, courtesy of the red pen distributing his chicken scratch across its pages. How he got himself wrangled into teaching four classes this term is beyond him. They must have caught him at a weak moment. Or an exhausted moment.
Or both.
"You're done, Kenobi. Take a break. Get some rest."
"I can't. There's too much to do, too many enemies to count. The Force is –"
"Strong enough. The Force is strong enough. You are not. This is not up for debate. Your duties have been delegated to other qualified agents and you've been assigned to the Academy for the entirety of the next term. If you're not up for that, I'm sure the kitchen or janitorial staff could always use an extra set of hands. Especially a set as capable as yours."
He'd cast a desperate, frustrated look to his former master, but the older man had remained silent, lips pursed in obvious disagreement. And yet Obi-wan had felt a pulse of warning as well. A not so subtle acknowledgement that Obi-wan must have looked like he'd been sat on by a Hutt for the last year.
So. Here he sits. Grading essays while the galaxy continues its slow implosion around him. It's a moment worthy of a single, weary, colossal sigh and he grants it, pinching the bridge of his nose as he pauses to steady himself. Two years of chasing shadows in active warzones and on supposedly neutral planets had left their marks. He supposes a few months' time at the Temple had, in hindsight, been very much needed.
Stop it, Kenobi. Force, he broods too much. Moving on…
He's in the middle of penning a particularly waspish comment when the Force drops to ice and he freezes. Briefly. "What in the blazes…" he mutters, standing.
Standing turns out to be a mistake. Two tiny threads, newly-formed bonds burning steadily in the deepest recesses of his mind, snap. Frances and Truun, both initiates he'd seen just hours ago, are gone. Dead. Done for. He groans, bringing a hand to his head. "Force, no…" he pleads. No more. And how? They'd been here, at the Temple. Safe. Right?
Coruscant is hardly safe, Ben. You know that.
So how –
Obi-wan jerks to his feet, steadies himself on the corner of the desk, and braces his mind against the icy undercurrent threading its way through the Temple. Guard duty. They'd both been assigned a shift that afternoon. He glances at the chrono hanging on the wall and grits his teeth.
A shift that would have ended in under an hour from now.
"Blasted fools," he spits, grief and anger pushing him through the door and down the dimly-lit corridors at a dead sprint. He and Vos had been warning the High Council for months now to up the security. To set more watches. To make sure the Order's youngest and most vulnerable would no longer be assigned shifts through which they could learn. The galaxy's capital hadn't been safe enough for such nonsense for over a year.
Maybe now they'll listen.
He feels tears prick at the backs of his eyes and he furiously holds them at bay. The Force is screaming, bleeding through some gaping wound that's been suddenly ripped open. This is very bad. Nevertheless, Obi-wan sinks into it even as he tightens his shields and locks his precious self inside. Only in the Force will he be ready and efficient, able to face whatever he's running towards –
"Blast it! Oh kriff…" He comes to a stop and throws a hand against the nearest wall. Inwardly he's chastising himself for the crude language even as he's desperately trying to find some semblance of balance. An anchor to grasp. Something.
But there's nothing. The Force is sharp, heavy, and cold. So cold. And… and… familiar.
Train the boy. He… will… bring balance.
Groaning through gritted teeth, Obi-wan shoves off of the wall and just breathes. There is no time for an emotional response. None. "Emotion," he whispers through another deep breath, "yet peace." It's not quite orthodox, but it's true. "Emotion," he repeats, "yet peace."
The Force is strong enough. You are not.
"Perhaps the reverse?" he mutters, somehow dredging up a crooked smirk. It's an arrogant thought or it would be considered arrogant by the majority of the Order, but for many Shadows it isn't so farfetched. The Force is a double-sided coin; it thrives on all sorts of emotions, it grants power to both sides of the war, and it's able to take life as easily as it gives it. In this exact moment, the Force is a chaotic mass of suffering and confusion that feels entirely un-Force-like, entirely untrustworthy, something foreign and baffling.
But not to Obi-wan. Not to his Jedi brothers and sisters in the small Sentinel task force. They have all encountered this before in its various forms, though this is arguably the strongest he's encountered in a while. What is new is the signature attached to it. It's powerful, reckless, angry, wounded, and young.
A supernova gone cold.
Breathe in, breath out. Steady, Kenobi. Slowly, carefully, he pulls the Force around him and filters it. There in a dimly-lit corridor where blasterfire, death, and Skywalker's thrumming presence have yet to reach, Obi-wan does what he's done for the last decade of his life. He inhales the suffering around him and exhales the hope within him.
The galaxy itself might be damned, but its people don't have to be.
Skywalker doesn't have to be. He can still remember the boy, towheaded and blue-eyed. A scarred lover of life. A lover of people.
Who did you lose? Obi-wan blinks at the question. It's the only thing that would send that kid over the edge. "Kriff this blasted war to the Nine Corellian Hels," he spits to absolutely no one. The corridor is empty and still silent. He stands there for a few more minutes, flinching when another Force-anchored thread snaps. That one had been thicker than the other two, full of more memories, tightened by struggle, laughter, and shared mistakes. Another friend gone.
Anakin Skywalker, meet Obi-wan Kenobi.
Amber fire, super-heated and shorter than the average Jedi weapon, spills out of the hilt that's suddenly in his hand. Its low hum speaks life into the silence around him. In his mind, behind reinforced, cross-threaded, nigh impenetrable shields, grief and anger dissipate beneath swirling eddies of hope and truth. It's a trick taught to young Jedi, mastered by knights, and honed even further by those who regularly encounter darkness and evil.
Icy, rage-driven shards slam into these well-worn shields now. He flinches, glances at his blade, and smiles sadly. "Well, Anakin. I guess I'll finally come to you. We'll see if it's too late."
His has been a life filled with too-lates.
Sighing once, because he's brooding again, he pushes himself into a steady jog, using the Force to guide his steps. With his off-hand he snatches up his comm link. "Master Dooku."
The pause is not long, thank goodness. "Ben! Where are you?"
Obi-wan can hear his old friend's blade deflecting fire and slicing through… something. Or someone. He chooses to ignore the sounds. "The Academy. But I'm headed your way. Where is Anakin?"
"Near the Archives. Jo's in there still and I'm trying to –" There is a muffled curse and the sound of rustling cloth. "Just a skim…" The man's breathing is heavy.
Obi-wan frowns. "Ditch the cape, master."
"Lose the lip, padawan."
A morbid smirk dances across Obi-wan's face. "Be there soon."
Please, Jocasta. Just hide.