Chapter Text
The crèche had its fair share of visitors. Jedi masters entered the hallowed nursery searching for padawans as parents and siblings said their final goodbyes. Some afternoons Grandmaster Yoda could be found at the crèche, fawning over the younglings like a grandfather. During these visits he’d hand out tidbits of vague wisdom alongside sweets kept in the pockets of his robes, the younglings looked forward to the syrupy candies wrapped in shiny, red foil, smiling in delight when he’d place them in their hands. When the crèchemasters voiced their worries that the children would end up spoiled, the Grandmaster simply smiled and handed them some candies.
The crèchemasters would speculate about their futures. It seemed to be a favoured pastime for the Jedi, a lighthearted game played into the late hours of the night as they guarded the nursery. They’d guess what colour lightsaber each youngling would wield, which form each of them would master, which Master would take who on as a padawan as the children played amongst themselves. This game seemed to have caught on with the rest of the Masters as well, Master Windu and Master Billaba in particular spent afternoons doing so.
“Initiate Offee is diligent and knowledgeable beyond her years in a variety of subjects but prone to overthinking, which leads to hesitation,” Master Windu says, contemplative as he looks at the Mirialan girl at the corner of the room practicing her katas. “She would do well under the tutelage of Master Unduli, she could be able to bring focus and assuredness to Offee’s mind.”
“Hmm, yes I agree,” Depa replies. Windu’s apprentice sits on the floor of the crèche's play area, tickling a laughing boy in her lap. “And as for me, I think I’ve found the most perfect, bravest padawan to take under my wing.” A teasing smile forms along her face as she looks down at Dume, poking his nose which earns her a joyful giggle.
Depa lets Caleb crawl out of her lap and run over to a boy a bit smaller and younger than himself seated on the other side of the play area. The boy uses the Force to carefully stack colourful blocks on top of another, squinting his eyes in deep focus at the floating cubes. The boy’s concentration is quickly lost when he sees Caleb run up to him, dropping the blocks as Caleb goes to whisper something in his ear, something that makes him laugh with glee.
“And what of Cal Kestis?” Windu asked. “Who do you think will choose him, Depa?”
“Why Obi-Wan, of course,” Depa replied. “Obi-Wan dotes on him as if he were already the boy’s master.”
“Yes,” Windu agreed without hesitation. “With Skywalker nearing the end of his apprenticeship, it is only right Kenobi take on another padawan, and who better than the boy brought to him by the Force? The Force revolves around Kestis the exact same way it revolves around Kenobi when he was a child.”
Visits from Masters Secura and Fisto entailed stories of their adventures into the Outer Rim, the children listening intently as they sat in a semicircle. The crèchemasters loved Master Junda the most, however, who lulled the most chaotic of younglings into a serene calm with the strumming of her hallikset. Her visits to Coruscant were few and far between though, always on the move from planet to planet as is the job of a Seeker.
Master Kenobi had become a frequent visitor. The man would pace down the hallowed halls of the Temple, his robes swaying behind him, solemn, and every time he entered the nursery he would be found next to a red-haired youngling. When Obi-Wan had first brought the baby to the crèche, he’d spent every night at the boy’s side. He’d cradle the boy when he’d wake up sobbing, rubbed soothing circles into his back and murmured words of comfort, wispy words lost to the darkness of the night, words meant for the boy and the boy only.
The crèchemasters believed Obi-Wan felt he had a duty to the boy, as the one to retrieve him from his family it was only natural he’d wish to continue protecting the boy. They had seen the same with Master Koon and the young togruta girl. The visits continued as Cal grew, Obi-Wan never truly abandoned him. He’d return to check on the boy’s progress, a soft smile adorned the man’s face when Cal would run up to him, the boy’s eyes bright.
Anakin was not blind. Though he’d gladly be for Obi-Wan’s sake, just as Obi-Wan was for his and Padmé’s. Anakin stayed silent because the idea of saying something to Obi-Wan, to persuade his Master to stay away from his son, his own flesh and blood, made Anakin think of his mother. She had been aged by the desolate, unforgiving sands of Tatooine, her son taken from her. She was alone, stuck on a cruel, rotting planet and Anakin had left her. What kind of a monster would he be to take a parent away from their child, a child away from their parent? He wouldn’t do to Obi-Wan what was done to him.
A part of Anakin knew Obi-Wan would’ve made a good father. Ever since the night of Qui-Gon’s funeral, when his Master looked down at him and smiled sadly, the fire illuminating his face in the dark, Anakin knew. Anakin never had a father, but he saw in Obi-Wan patience and fortitude built on selfless love that befit one, one that any child would be lucky to have. So, yes, Anakin did consider himself and Cal lucky in a way.
So when Anakin finds Obi-Wan in the Halls of Healing, he isn’t surprised. Jedi don’t pray, they meditate, and yet, as Cal lies on the hospital bed, so still and so pale under the sterile light, Obi-Wan looks like he’s praying to every single deity he can think of in the vast galaxy, somehow he looks as if he’s even praying to the force. Anakin didn’t know if such a thing was remotely possible. Obi-Wan holds the boy’s hand gently in his own, hand concealed by a bantha hide glove. Anakin had seen Obi-Wan like this only one other time in his life when Anakin had fallen deeply ill as a child, too fatigued to even leave his bed.
Human toddlers all looked alike to Anakin. Their faces all blended together in his mind and he had a sheepish habit of mistaking one for the other whenever he was put on crèche duty, much to the mild chagrin of the crèchemasters. He’d never forget the look of judgement on Obi-Wan’s face when he accidentally called Cal ‘Caleb’. It wasn’t his fault their little round faces and chubby cheeks all made them look the same, and it definitely wasn’t his fault Cal and Caleb Dume had pretty much the exact same name.
Thankfully, the names and faces of each youngling started to stick with Anakin as they got older, their personalities and features became more defined over time. Cal, for instance, was small for his age. He was eight years old and shorter than the rest of his crèchemates. Obi-Wan would often fret over him, his mouth pulled into a frown and his brows furrowed as he wondered aloud if Cal got enough to eat that day. Cal’s hair was a richer shade of red than Obi-Wan’s. If Obi-Wan’s was pale copper then Cal’s was a warm and steady flame, red like the fire Anakin’s mother would light on the coldest of Tatooine nights, when the house’s heater refused to work. She would then wrap them up in thick blankets as he stared sleepily at the flames.
Cal also had freckles dotted all over his face. Anakin once found an old holo of Obi-Wan during his crèche days and, to his amusement, found that Obi-Wan had the same freckles as a kid. He kept the holo for future blackmail of course.
“Cal collapsed in the Room of a Thousand Fountains, he was seizing,” Obi-Wan sighed deeply, not looking away from Cal. “Crèchemaster Mizan dropped her lightsaber and Cal went to pick it up. It took forever to get him to let go.”
“Picking up a lightsaber did this to him?” Anakin said. A bit of himself feels sheepish at such a callous response.
“An unusual reaction, yes,” Obi-Wan says. “The healers believe he has psychometry, same as Master Vos.”
Anakin had been twelve the first time he’d seen psychometry. He and Obi-Wan had gone to Dex’s for dinner with Master Vos, to catch up with Obi-Wan’s crèchemate. Master Vos picked up his fork, the Force alight around him, and he relayed to them the location of the factory that manufactured the fork, the name of the twi’lek man who had just previously used it to shovel crumb cake into his mouth, and what brand of dish soap was used to clean it. Anakin gaped in awe and confusion while Obi-Wan scoffed lightly at Master Vos’ use of the Force, a cheap parlour trick Obi-Wan had grown all too familiar with.
The second time, Anakin had accompanied Obi-Wan and Master Vos on a mission, sent to track down a senator’s missing daughter on Ryloth. Again, the Force spoke to Vos, every wall he touched, every footprint, directed him to the girl and her captors.
“Cal’s teachers have arranged for him to take on lessons with Master Vos. In the meantime, he will wear gloves at all times to prevent future breakdowns.”
But it wasn’t just psychometry that worried Obi-Wan. As Anakin’s master stared down at the pale, unmoving body of his son, waves of distress leaking through his shields and into the Force, his brow is deeply furrowed, wrinkles carved deep into his forehead. Anakin was too used to the sight of stress in Obi-Wan, it was in his very nature to worry and overthink. It was a miracle Obi-Wan hadn’t gone completely gray the second Anakin became his padawan.
“There’s more that’s plaguing your mind, isn’t there, Obi-Wan?”
“You are correct, Anakin,” Obi-Wan said, his free hand going to massage the bridge of his nose. “Perhaps another set of ears will help me sort out my thoughts.”
Anakin raised his eyebrows. “You? Asking me to listen? Have you finally gone mad, my old master?”
“Most likely, I fear.” Obi-Wan sighs. He lets go of Cal’s hand, gently placing it on the bed, and sits in one of the chairs beside the bed. His hand outstretched towards the empty chair beside him, offering it to Anakin. As Anakin sits next to him, Obi-Wan sighs, stroking his beard. Anakin notices the exhaustion in Obi-Wan’s shoulders and the bags under his eyes. Obi-Wan had just returned from a mission, he must’ve rushed immediately to the Halls of Healing to see Cal, giving himself no time to catch his breath.
Obi-Wan sighs deeply, solemn, his eyes never leave the sleeping child. “I had planned to take on Cal as my padawan once you were knighted, but I fear I find myself hesitant,” he said. “I fear that by making him my padawan I will lead him down a path to the dark side.”
“How so?” Anakin asks. A part of Anakin finds Obi-Wan’s worry over the subject ridiculous. How could a son of Obi-Wan ever succumb to the dark side? How could such a thing be possible when the Force shone so brightly upon Obi-Wan, like warm sunlight filtered through a window? The man could’ve fallen that day on Naboo, the day that left him broken, as he held the lifeless body of his Master, and yet he didn’t.
“I fear that he will become attached to me if I take him under my wing,” Obi-Wan says. “I have already interfered too much with his development, and further involvement may not only lead to attachment but to distrust from the Council, they will distrust my abilities, my faith as a Jedi. If they begin to doubt me they will begin to doubt Cal, and if worse comes to worst, they will have him excommunicated before he even reaches adulthood.”
Anakin tried to understand Obi-Wan. Truthfully he wanted, in all his heart, to agree with him. He wanted so badly to agree that Cal should be placed elsewhere away from his father. But there is a voice in the back of his head, a growing, slithering voice that can’t help itself, that thinks the Order is being cruel, cruel to both Obi-Wan and Cal. Why is it a sin for a parent to love his child, for a child to love his parent? How could it be a sin to love deeply when that was the inherent nature of love? Anakin didn’t understand, a part of him didn’t ever want to.
But he could never voice such doubts to Obi-Wan, to the council. Such sentiments were not the way.
“With his gift, he will be more vulnerable to the dark side than the rest of his peers,” Obi-Wan continued. “If my presence will endanger him further, agitate him during his training, then I will do what I must to ensure the safety of Cal’s well-being.”
“Obi-Wan,” Anakin says. “As much as I get your concern, you should have more faith in Cal’s self-discipline, as well as your own. You haven’t fallen, even when tested by the Sith. What makes you think Cal wouldn’t be the same?”
“It… is not a matter of faith, Anakin, but rather caution,” Obi-Wan said, voice quiet. “I promised his mother that I’d keep her son safe. How could I fulfill that promise if I myself may pose a threat to his safety? I could never take that risk.”
“But how does being a father to your son endanger him? You raised me like you do Cal and I turned out just fine.”
Obi-Wan didn’t respond to that. He remained quiet for a long time as if lost in thought. Whether Obi-Wan agreed with Anakin or he was too exhausted from everything to argue his point or if it was a mix of both, Anakin wasn’t sure, but he was eternally grateful their disagreement hadn’t turned into a full-blown argument. Besides, such a conversation would be better had at a later date, with Obi-Wan well-rested and Cal awake.
The silence was not uncomfortable. Obi-Wan finally let his shields down and Anakin could feel his presence in the Force, anxious but not mad. Anakin put a hand on his master’s shoulder. Quiet reassurance, Anakin’s way of telling him that everything was going to be okay. Obi-Wan offered a dejected nod and a sad smile, his anxiety seemed to have quelled for the moment but Anakin knew it would return soon.
“Master Kenobi? Padawan Skywalker?” Cal’s voice, quiet and scratchy, breached the quiet. Obi-Wan rushes to the boy’s side, a hand supporting Cal’s back as the boy sat up.
“Careful, Cal,” Obi-Wan said. “You’ve taken a nasty fall.”
There’s a glass and a carafe of water on the nightstand next to the bed. Anakin pours a glass of water and hands it to Cal.
“Drink, kid,” Anakin says. The boy whispers a soft ‘thank you, Padawan Skywalker’ before he takes a deep gulp from the glass. When he finishes the glass Anakin takes it and places it back on the nightstand.
“Are you feeling okay, my dear? Are you nauseous? Dizzy?” Obi-Wan asks, a bit frantic.
“I’m okay, Master Kenobi,” Cal says, yawning and rubbing his eyes as he speaks. “A little tired though.”
“Tell me, Cal, what do you last remember?” Obi-Wan asks.
“I was… in the Room of a Thousand Fountains, Master Kenobi,” Cal says. “Master Mizan dropped her lightsaber so I went to pick it up, but everything started to hurt and then I saw Master Mizan fighting someone but… she was younger.”
Obi-Wan nodded Cal’s words. “The healers have informed the Council that you have a rare gift, Cal.”
“A gift?”
“Psychometry, it is called, you can see echoes of the past in the objects you touch. When you touched Master Mizan’s lightsaber you saw a memory of her,” Obi-Wan said, his voice slow and careful. “It is a gift that can easily hurt you, as you saw firsthand, if you don’t learn to control it. Thankfully, Master Vos has promised to teach you.”
Obi-Wan took something out of his belt’s pouch, a pair of brown gloves. Similar to the gloves Obi-Wan wore but made of a softer, lighter material, breathable for sensitive skin. “To stop the echoes from hurting you, wear these as you go about your day. As you learn to master your ability the less you will need them.”
Cal carefully took the gloves from Obi-Wan, as if they’d fall apart into pieces, and slid them onto his hands. Cal looked down at his hands, his face pinched up in discomfort. Waves of nervousness made their way through the Force to Anakin and Obi-Wan.
Anakin could see and feel the inner workings of the Force just as well as any Jedi. If Obi-Wan was warm, undiluted rays of sunlight against Anakin’s skin, gentle and kind in a way so unlike Tattoine’s suns, then Cal was rain pour after a drought. The Force around him felt like an outpouring source of potential, of power, that rained down on Cal, like water to a sprouted seedling. All younglings and padawans felt different in the Force to Anakin but what they all had in common was that feeling of raw potential; potential that required nourishment and guidance. The youngling’s anxious discomfort felt like the furious, rough fall of raindrops against skin during a storm, cold and rough on impact.
“What’s wrong, Cal?” Obi-Wan asked, voice soft.
“I’m scared, Master Kenobi,” Cal whispered, quiet as if he dared speak any louder he’d start crying. “I feel out of control… I’ve never felt this way before.”
Obi-Wan sat beside Cal on the bed, wrapping an arm around the boy’s shoulders reassuringly. Suddenly Anakin feels like he’s intruding on a private moment between the father and son. “Do not fear, Cal. Slowly but surely, you will find your way back, and when you do you will be stronger than ever. It is not a journey you will make alone, the Jedi and I will be with you to help guide you back home.”
“Promise?” Cal’s voice was thick. Tears started to stream down his cheeks. Obi-Wan wiped them away, murmuring words of reassurance. Anakin thinks back to his first year at the Temple when he’d sleep on the floor next to Obi-Wan’s room. He was so scared, so vulnerable. Obi-Wan would wake and join him on the floor, brushing the tears from Anakin’s face and stroking his hair till the boy in his arms finally fell asleep.
“I promise, my boy,” Obi-Wan said, sure and confident. “Fear is only temporary, our bonds through the Force are eternal.”
A healer soon arrived, poking and prodding Cal with various medical tools, much to the boy’s chagrin. Finally, the healer gave the go-ahead and Cal was allowed to return to the crèche.
-
Obi-Wan and Anakin escorted Cal back to the crèche, the boy sitting comfortably atop Anakin’s shoulders. Whatever tiredness Cal talked of before seems to have worn away because the initiate is currently talking Anakin’s ear off.
Anakin says he doesn’t like kids, that he isn’t good with them, but Obi-Wan knows that that’s what he wants everyone to think. He tries to appear nonchalant and cold to Cal, the image of an untouchable stoic and wise future Jedi Knight. Then Cal looks up at Anakin, eyes gleaming like stars, hands bunched up in Anakin’s robes, and bombards him with questions about his and Obi-Wan’s adventures.
“Is it true you’re the best pilot in the galaxy!? Can you teach me to fly, please!?”
“Can you please tell me about the time you and Master Kenobi and Master Vos saved Senator Rivu’s daughter from pirates!?”
“Did you really meet Senator Amidala!? What’s she like!?”
Anakin puffed up his chest like a proud Coruscanti pigeon, letting out a bashful chuckle and goofily rubbing the back of his neck, and that oh-so-wise Jedi Knight facade came crumbling down at Obi-Wan’s feet.
“Well, since you asked so nicely, I’m sure I can tell you a story or two.” Anakin then grabs Obi-Wan’s son, the youngling squealing in delight, and places him onto his shoulders.
“Can I stay with you and Master Kenobi before I go back to the crèche? Just for a little bit? Please?” Cal asks, eyes bright.
“Cal, we wouldn’t want to worry your friends, now would we?” Obi-Wan says. “You’ve had a bit too much excitement for today, it’s best if you regain your strength in the crèche and get something to eat.”
“Aw come now, Master of mine, you were never as fretful over my eating habits when I was a kid.” Anakin says, voice full of glee.
“You’re remembering wrong,” Obi-Wan said bluntly. “I was just as fretful with you, I had to stop you from eating live beetles you found in the gardens… and when you did stop you instead started terrorizing the Council with said beetles.”
Obi-Wan could never forget the look of horror on Windu’s face when he found the pouches of his belt stuffed to the brim with beetles and caterpillars… nor could he forget the gasp Luminara let out when Yoda stuffed one into his mouth and started crunching.
Cal simply giggles.
“They’re a good source of protein,” Anakin shrugs.
Obi-Wan sighs and rubs his nose bridge.
“He can regain his strength over stories and tea.” The eyes Anakin and Cal give him are damnable. They look like stray tookas pleading for scraps.
“Anakin, Cal, absolutely not,” Obi-Wan says. “No, don’t give me those faces.”
“Master Kenobi, please?” Cal asks, his voice as sweet as can be.
Oh, Force be damned.
“… Fine, very well,” Obi-Wan says, he’s lost the battle. “A cup of tea can’t hurt.”
Anakin and Cal whoop for joy, Anakin running circles around Obi-Wan much to the initiate’s loud amusement.
Obi-Wan feels his heart cry and his stomach sink, the same way they did the night Obi-Wan brought Cal to the temple, just a small thing swaddled in blankets. No matter how many years would pass, the feeling would come to haunt him for the rest of his days.
Obi-Wan found that he didn’t seem to mind.