Chapter One
Ill Tidings Cometh and Goeth
In a forest like many other forests across the galaxy, on the banks of a river like thousands of other river banks across the galaxy, a mother carried a woven basket in her arms. Down she crouched by the water's edge, opening it to reveal a baby swaddled with soft blankets, hair as red as gems. Tenderly, she pressed a kiss to its blue lips before replacing the lid. Gently she set the basket into the water. It floated, and with one last whisper of love she pushed it gently into the flow of the water. She wept as she sent her child off, a child who doomed to die before living long enough to bear a name.
The basket bobbed along the river for many miles. After the first hour, the occupant drew its last breath. Its heart stopped beating. For a moment, it returned from that which it first came. Miraculously, its heart began to beat again five minutes later. Then it drew breath and air filled its lungs. In—and out. In—and out. In—and out. Beat-beat-beating of the heart, and slowly the heart carried color back into the babe's face as the air filled the lungs with oxygen. With rosy cheeks, the babe drew in a deep, deep lungful of air andscreamed.
Miles down the river from the woman sat a robed figure carefully exposing ancient ruins from muddy silt. Diligently he worked, having discovered an important structure that would change history forever. He was excited and hopeful—then he heard a pitiful cry. Upon investigation, the stranger discovered a babe floating in a basket down the river, screaming endlessly and with rare determination.
Life takes precedence over those long dead, and a young jedi knight carried his precious cargo to the nearest settlement. He found no parents who had given their baby—well-loved by the make of the clothes and accessories—to the river. He learned that the parents must have been desperate to save a sickly child to send it to the river gods. He also learned that all those blessed by the river gods all bore the same name henceforth: Obi-wan Kenobi. Literally translated to mean "mortal-child god-child". In Basic, it meant something more akin to "gods' blessed child".
The jedi knight marked the ruin to excavate at a later point, and took the newly named Obi-wan Kenobi to Coruscant. The babe projected so loudly into the Force, felt so deeply. While he left the forgotten Mandalorian of Stewjon, the area of the ruined temple saw a once-in-a-millennium flood. The river swelled and washed away eight towns, and the lost temple of Tarre Vizsla.
A reminder from the Force that what's fallen is already fallen, and that the living shall rebuild with what they still know and have. The temple stood for centuries to fulfill one last purpose: bringing Obi-wan Kenobi to the attention of the Jedi Order. Descended from Mandalorians, destined to be on the precipice between two people, a child overlooked and underestimated simply because he did not shine like the others around him.
But in him lay the perfect qualities of both the Jedi and the Mandalorians. Even more subtly would he possess inherent gifts that few would learn to recognize…even after he led them to see.
A child lay in a pile of younglings, happy and content. He was loved, and loved in return.
A child woke screaming, dreaming of terrible things he did not understand or remember. He projected too loudly, often waking and frightening his peers. Once, the entire floor, clan after clan, simultaneously woke screaming.
A child slept alone. He still dreamed of awful things. All efforts to halt the unwanted connection failed. They kept him in an isolated room so that he could not scare the other children. There were no more warm cuddle-piles to burrow into for comfort. The child was different, and unable to be in control of himself like the other children. The crechemaster and little green master told him that the visions would fade with time and meditation. It was still so lonely.
He tried to compensate. He excelled at nothing. Whatever he did well in, he earned through hard work and stubbornness. The child was inadequate, incapable, possibly defective. His peers began to notice the difference between him and themselves, like the blond bully. Adults tried to help comfort him with words. He failed even at accepting their efforts.
They put a kiffar in his rooms, gifted in psychometry and a prankster. Life wasn't so lonely or bleak with his roommate. The little green master began to make progress with the child. Slowly, the visions became less frequent. They offered to move him back with the other younglings. He remained with his new friend, who still struggled and suffered from his own gift.
The years passed. Visions faded, but always the childknew. No matter how hard the child worked to be good at anything, he would always be found wanting. Everyone received praise for something. He was never quite good enough and thus never received praise for anything. Closer and closer loomed the dreaded thirteenth birthday. The older children were claimed, and then even his own agemates. He was left behind. No one chose him. No one wanted him.
In a single tournament, he gave himself to the will of the universe. For the first time, his skills shone brightly and he moved like he was meant to. Yet they told him that he was too violent and covetous, too emotional. The child did not see his thirteenth birthday before they sent him away from the only home he'd known, sent him to be a farmer even though he was terrible with plants. The child quickly learned that outside the safe walls of the temple the only things awaiting him in the large and cruel galaxy was a life in chains. In the end, he proved that he had the heart of a true jedi, and finallyfinallya master was willing to accept him as an apprentice. A begrudging master who did not really want him, as the boy discovered. A master who wanted no student at all, and somehow ended up with one so flawed and unremarkable.
The child tried his best to become a padawan worthy of his master, tried to be the perfect student. Sometimes he felt like he didn't do so badly, like when the man gave him a small smile. Most times, his master did not smile and the child would clutch tightly to the river walk he'd been gifted. It was the only tangible proof he possessed that their bond was made willingly. He tried not to think of his master's reluctance, of the feeling of still being unwanted.
A child stepped onto a war-torn planet andknewhe was needed there. He looked into the faces of other children who were willing to die for peace and he felt their purpose and fire become his own. The child knew he was a jedi at his core and stood up to his master when he was commanded to leave. He lost his lightsaber and padawan braid, the natural bond between the two of them severed. The child was no longer a member of the Jedi Order. He had not been wanted. Now he was unclaimed. All of thathurt. And still none of it could hurt half as much as his guardian leaving him without a hint of remorse or hesitance. Every moment they spent together within the last year meant nothing, that the child himself wasnothing.
But there were battles to be fought on the world that forgot what peace felt like, and battles to be won. There was little time to spend wallowing in self-pity or grief when waging war against far greater numbers, against those better equipped and better trained. The child thanked the Force that he'd studied so many wars and listened to his friend's instructions of how to handle first aid. He saw death—felt much death. Every night, the child would count the deceased, keeping record in his heart just how many he'd failed to save. He used it as a fuel to keep going, to bring the peace that they died for.
Away from the Temple and its doctrines, removed from meditation and yet more reliant on the Force than ever, the instinctual feelings he always seemed to possessed grew stronger and more defined. He began to dream again. Oh how the former padawan grasped onto the visions that showed him that his friends were safe and happy in the Temple. He cursed the ones in which he witnessed the violent, tragic deaths of his comrades. He dreamt of war even greater than the one he was fighting in, of strange white helmets that looked Mandalorian but were somehow not. He dreamed such terrible things…children as young as three or four held in his arms as bled out, succumbed to infection. In his mind, hew saw thousands of men wearing the same face. Sometimes they stood before the Temple, burning it down, shooting padawans and initiates that tried to defend themselves.
Men wearing Dar'manda Fett's face.
"This is the dream you had?" Jaster asked softly, holding his ten-year-old tightly in his arms. Recently adopted or not, he loved this child and felt helpless at the possibility of him being manda-touched to the point he would have to give him up to the jetiise.
"Yes," Jango said miserably. "It's just pieces. Some jetii'ad's life, I guess. I don't really remember all of it."
"It could be important," Jaster replied. "Or that ad is important. Do you know when any of this happened?"
"Sorry, buir. I don't know. There weren't dates. Only a name. Obi, I think."
Jaster gave Jango gentle reassurances, soothing his ad back to sleep. Discretely, he tested the blood beneath Jango's nails for a midichlorian count. He was very surprised to see the test results identify his son as Force-null. He felt relieved, but not comforted.
All things are possible through the Force, he'd once heard a jetii say. Jaster hadn't given that ominous phrase much thought, but now he was beginning to believe it might have had more merit than he'd originally assumed. He dreaded to think what could be so important that the omnipotent Force might be showing his ad such frightening things. Jaster could only hope that these dreams would fade with time. Right now, he had no idea how to help Jango.
