Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

“Obi-Wan!” Dex calls out the moment he sees him. The besalisk makes his way around the counter, and Obi-Wan waits for the bone-crushing hug he knows is coming. Dex’s Diner is as busy as ever, and the lunch crowd adds a low chatter in the background.

“It’s been a while, Dex.” The greeting comes out in a rush as Dex picks up the padawan and squeezes the air out of him. He hasn’t seen Dex since before Melida/Daan. The familiar hug soothes Obi-Wan's nerves, and he can't quite help grinning into Dex’s shoulder as he hugs back.

“So it has. You haven’t been here in months.” Dex keeps one of his upper arms on Obi-Wan's shoulder and steps back. “What can I get for you? The special is always good.”

“I need a favor, Dex.” Some of his nerves must still show on his face because the besalisk frowns.

“You in some trouble?”

Obi-Wan grins back and shrugs. “Not yet.”

--

“What do you need?” Dex asks as he returns from the kitchen when the lunch rush is over and sits down in the booth where Obi-Wan is just finishing his nerf burger.

The kid looks up at him, and Dex once more feels a flash of worry for the young Jedi. He hasn’t seen Obi-Wan in some time, and now that he is here, Dex can see how skinny the kid has become. He had felt it when he hugged him, and the dark circles under his eyes do nothing to ease his concerns, neither does the measuring gaze Obi-Wan levels at him.

“I need to contact a Mandolorian.”

Dex blinks. That was not what he had expected. But then again, Obi-Wan had never done as he expected, not even the first time they had met when the little Jedi had looked at him and decided to save his life. Not that Obi-Wan would ever take credit for it. According to him, he had been at the right place at the right time and only done what everyone else would have done. Dex wants to snort at that. As if anyone else would have been mad enough to get him out of that mess.

Before Dex has a chance to answer him, Obi-Wan pulls some flimsi out of his robes and hands it over.

“Specifically, this Mandalorian.” Obi-Wan points to a drawing on the flimsi. It depicts a Mandalorian in full armor with a mythosaur skull sigil on his shoulder plate. Dex sucks in a breath.

“You sure about this Obi-Wan?” Their gaze meets, and Dex gestures with the flimsi. “Mandalorians and Jedi do not have a good history, and this particular mando does not like Jedi at all.”

“You know who it is?” Yet again, the kid surprises him with the sudden urgency in his voice and the hope in his eyes. Dex hesitates for half a second before nodding. “Sure do. I used to do business with him before I had a career change. What do you need from him?”

Obi-Wan leans back in the booth, crosses his arms, bites his lip, and doesn’t answer. Dex keeps his face neutral and tries not to smile at the nervous baby Jedi in front of him.

“If you need to hire him to kill someone for you, I can point you in the direction of someone cheaper.”

“NO, I don’t- That’s not-” Obi-Wan splutters in indignation. “The Jedi do not kill people!”

The look of outrage on the kid's face forces Dex into laughter, but he quickly sobers when it’s replaced with a look of despair and Obi-Wan hunches in on himself.

“At least that’s what I have always been told.” The kid sounded devastated. Dex is worried now. The kid has never been prone to overreactions.

“Hey, what's going on?” He keeps his voice soft or as soft as he can. Dex is not the gentlest of sentients, but he can give it a shot for Obi-Wan's sake.

The answer he gets does nothing to reassure him.

Chapter Text

An hour later, Obi-Wan is working on his second shake when Dex waves him into the backroom. Apparently, having someone's comm number and actually getting them on comm are two entirely different things.

As he steps into the room, Dex stops him with one of his lower hands. “I got in contact with the leader of the True Mandalorians.” When Obi-Wan only looks at him, Dex huffs and runs an upper hand over his head. “He is not the one on the drawing, but he should be able to help you.”

Frowning, Obi-Wan looks into the room. There is an ongoing holo call, and Dex is right. The Mandalorian on the hologram has similar grey armor to Obi-Wan's dreams, but where that mando had blue trimmings around the visor, this one has red. The holo also sports a red half cape and a yellow-painted four-sided diamond on his chest plate.

“Come on, kid, I'll introduce you.” Obi-Wan follows Dex into the room and steps into view of the holo.

“Jaster, this is Padawan Obi-Wan Kenobi.” Obi-Wan folds his hands into his sleeves, gives a short bow, and looks back up at the hologram. “Obi-Wan, this is Jaster Mereel, Mand’alor, and leader of the True Mandalorians.”

Then Dex steps back, turns around, and walks out of the room, shutting the door behind him, leaving Obi-Wan alone with a man he was not prepared to speak with. He gives the mando a wide-eyed look. The man on the holo, the kriffing Mand’alor, is still wearing his helmet, so Obi-Wan can’t read his expression, but the set of his shoulders gives off the impression of amusement. Right, he can do this.

“Mand’alor Mereel-” He barely gets out his greeting before Mereel cuts him off.

“When Dex told me a Jedi wanted to speak to me, I expected a full-fledged Jedi, not a fresh-faced half-pint. How old are you, kid? Are you even allowed outside without supervision?”

He can feel his neck starting to burn, cursing his light skin and small frame, and he hopes it’s not visible over the comm. “I’m fourteen, and the Order doesn't know I’m here, so technically, I'm unsupervised.”

That seems to surprise Mereel, or he heard the underlying stress in his voice because he keeps quiet, watching him. Obi-Wan takes a deep breath and steels himself; if he is going to commit treason, he might as well do it right.

“Mand’alor Mereel, you and your people are in danger.” Whatever reaction Obi-Wan expected, it was not the low snorting laughter and for the man to remove his helmet.

“Kid, we’re mercenaries. Being in danger is kind of in our job description.” The man under the helmet is in his late thirties and has short black hair and brown eyes. He is grinning at Obi-Wan.

“Mand’alor Mereel...” Obi-Wan trails off. He is not sure how to explain the last couple of weeks in a way that will make Mereel believe him and then act on that belief. He needs to be direct. “Three days ago, the Senate ordered the Jedi to intervene in a situation where you and your people are involved.”

Mereel’s face closes off, eyes suspicious.

'Keep your breathing calm, do not center your anxieties '. He repeats the mantra in his head. It is one of the many lessons his master keeps repeating. “The confrontation will lead to the massacre of the True Mandalorians.”

The Mand’alor’s expression does not change, but Obi-Wan knows he has the man's undivided attention. The intensity of it burns.

Never before has Obi-Wan been so glad that he and Master Qui-Gon spend a lot of time in high stakes negotiations. It means he knows not to fidget under Mereel’s scrutiny, knows how to keep his face carefully blank, and to meet his eyes head-on. Obi-Wan tries to project an air of trust and sincerity. He’s pretty sure he misses the mark and instead lands squarely in the ‘oh dear Force, please believe me’ camp. But as long as this works out, Obi-Wan doesn't give a shit.

There are a couple of seconds of silence, and then: “How do you know my son?”

“What?” Obi-Wan blinks, opens his mouth and shakes his head. Mand’alor Mereel keeps a sharp eye on him, but Obi-Wan is too confused to notice. “You have a son?”

Now it is Mereel’s turn to look confused. He reaches out of view of the holo and comes back with a datapad. He takes a second to find something, and then he turns it around. On it is the drawing of the armored Mandalorian Obi-Wan had given to Dex earlier.

“Dex said you gave him this and that you needed an introduction.”

“Oh.” Obi-Wan takes a moment to gather his thoughts. He needs the Mand’alor to believe him, but how much can he tell him without losing what little trust he has been given? The truth is probably best.

“I don’t know him.” He rushes to finish when he sees Mereel open his mouth to question him. “but l have been dreaming of him.”

That came out wrong, and he feels the blush spreading from his neck to his face. Obi-Wan continues a little hurriedly, hoping to cover his embarrassment. “I have always been prone to visions.”

It’s all true, of course, but the last part is also the understatement of the decade. When Obi-Wan was still in the crèche, he had visions often, loudly, and he had woken the rest of his crèchmates with his crying. It had gotten better with the help of Master Yoda, but it had never gone away.

They had actually helped during his time in the field, especially on Melida/Daan, as long as he did not mention them to his master and only acted on them in small ways. Because Master Qui-Gon was right, just because you know something will happen in the future does not mean you know what’s going to happen in the now.

“And for the last couple of weeks, I have had dreams of...” Obi-Wan gestures weakly at the air, “the confrontation between the Jedi and your people.”

There is a sharp movement on the holo, and Obi-Wan refocuses on the man in the hologram.

“You said it was a massacre.” Mereel’s voice is harsh and demanding. It is not a question.

“Yes.” Obi-Wan swallows. He can't quite hold Mereel’s eyes. “There were no Mandalorian survivors.”

That’s a lie, but as Obi-Wan has learned, you do not need to end a life to kill someone. Nor does he want the survival of one person to take the focus away from the holistic picture. He needs to move away from this line of questioning.

“The visions started almost three standard weeks ago. At first, I thought it was just a nightmare, memories from previous missions.” He had been sure it was just memories from Melida/Daan coming back to haunt him, but none of the bodies had been children. “When I realized that it was a vision, it was brought up to the Jedi Council.”

Another almost truth. He has been Master Qui-Gon's padawan for a little over a year now, and he has learned what to say and not to say to give off the impression he wants. What had really happened was that he had almost fallen asleep in the Council chambers during a debriefing, and when the Council asked the reason for his Padawan’s state of being, Qui-Gon had informed them of his recurring visions. There had been some questions, and he had answered as truthfully as he could. It had been a relief to tell someone about it. The masters would know what to do. They were the High Council. He could trust their judgment. Or so he had thought.

Obi-Wan tries to hide his frustration and disappointment, but Mereel must have seen something. “They didn’t believe you.”

He meets Mereel’s gaze. There is nothing soft about the man, but there is an understanding in his eyes. Obi-Wan clings to it. Since they are still talking, it must mean that Mereel is willing to listen; that’s more than the Council did. Then the question registers, and Obi-Wan barks out a sharp laugh.

“Oh, they believed me. Not that it made a difference.” He slides a hand down his face and tries to find a way to explain what happened to someone outside the Order. “The Council is aware of my precognitive abilities, and with the support of Master Yoda, I was able to convince them to heed the warnings the Force was giving me.”

His voice comes out too tired and formal, and Obi-Wan grimaces. “They listened to the wrong warnings.”

When the Council had heard the vision in its entirety, there had been a lot of questions. Some irrelevant, others hard to put into words. The hardest part of the vision to explain had been the feeling of anticipation and satisfaction. As if having the Jedi and Mandalorians fighting and killing each other was the desired result. There had also been a feeling as if someone was watching him from the shadows, but the masters had been more interested in tripping him up in his explanations of the things he had seen, not the feelings he had gotten.

When he had told the Council about the last Mandalorian, the one in grey armor with blue trim around their visor, who had killed six Jedi with his bare hands, they had grown quiet. Master Windu had asked if he recognized any of the Jedi, but Obi-Wan had not.

“A small mercy, that is.” Master Yoda had said. “Discuss this. The council will. Rest you must, Padawan Kenobi. Remember; always in motion is the future.”

And that had been it from the Council for weeks, until three days ago. He had been called back for more questions, and this time there had been an intensity to them that had been missing the first time around. Obi-Wan still thought they were asking the wrong questions, but he had answered them even if the Force was whispering caution in his ear. It was not until he had, in great detail, described the Mandalorian in grey and blue armor to the gathered Council and Master Dooku that he had realized what the Force was trying to tell him.

Mereel has crossed his arms again, and the look on his face is closed off. “And what warning did they heed?”

Obi-Wan's smile is a little bitter, but he is sure Mereel will not blame him. “Send more Jedi.”

Chapter Text

Jaster Mereel was having a good day. Sure, it had been a stressful week, finishing the job on Galidraan, gathering up the last of the supplies and getting ready to collect the payment, but it was a good day.

Then Myles had called him to the command center. Apparently, Dex Jettster wanted a word and would not take no for an answer. Even going so far as to call in that favor Jaster owed him for Outland.

Stepping up to the holo, he had watched Dex through his helmet. The besalisk had looked the same as ever, wearing a food-stained white shirt and apron; the only unusual thing was the lack of cheerful greeting.

The explanation for the comm was quick: a Jedi had come to Dex and asked for an introduction to Jango, or as the besalisk explained, an introduction to the man in the drawing. Myles had handed him a datapad, and Jaster had felt frozen looking at it. There was an incredibly detailed drawing of his son on the pad; the artist had even gotten the new scuff marks on his armor from the latest job here on Galidraan.

“Do you trust the Jedi?” The voice coder usually made it harder to interpret his tone, but nothing could hide the underlying ice now.

“I don’t trust the Jedi farther than I can throw them.” Dex had answered. “But this one has saved my life before, and if you give him a chance, he will save yours as well.”

That had brought him up short. Studying the besalisk, he had seen no lie or ill intentions, just a steady presence that had made him such a good information and weapons dealer.

So, he agreed to the meeting.

To say he had been surprised when the Jedi in question turned out to be a 14-year-old kid with the name of Obi-Wan Kenobi was an understatement. And it had not gotten better. The kid obviously knew his history, if the wide-eyed look he sent Jaster when Dex had introduced him as the Mand’alor was anything to go by, but it also meant he hadn’t known who he was going to be talking to. Interesting.

The kid had clearly felt nervous, so Jaster ended up removing his helmet to help calm the kid down. He had ignored Myles’ knowing grin. Everyone knew the Mand’alor had a soft spot the size of a small moon for ade. But apparently, the jetii had good reasons to be nervous.

“The confrontation will lead to the massacre of the True Mandalorians.”

Jaster carefully does not react to that.

He looks towards Myles, and he gets a sharp nod in return as Myles reaches for a datapad. If anyone can find anything on the holonet about this kid, it's Myles, but he will need something to go off of.

He needs more info about the kid, about the validity of his claims. The Jedi looks earnest, if a little desperate, but he doesn’t know if he can trust him. Dex’s words came back to him: if you give him a chance, he will save yours as well.

“How do you know my son?”

The look of absolute befuddlement he gets is incredibly cute, and the answer that the jetii has been dreaming of Jango makes Myles snort in the background, but Jaster keeps a sharp eye out for any signs of lies. He finds none.

When the kid mentions having not just visions, but dreams of his people being massacred, every single one of them, Jaster has to put a hand down to steady himself. He knows how many of his people there are, and he knows that they would not have gone down without a fight. To witness that in his dreams for weeks... And what kind of missions do they send their kids on, if he first thought it was a dream built of his own memories? Yeah, Jaster really hates the jetiise and the Force osik.

Then the kid - Obi-Wan, he should really start calling him by name if he is doing what Jaster thinks he is doing - gets to the part about the Council and their reactions or lack thereof.

“They didn’t believe you.” And really, Jaster thought he had hit rock bottom when it comes to jetiise osik, but here he is. Learning new depths of banthashit.

Apparently, the Jedi are coming here to kill them all, and because they have been warned that there will be heavy resistance, they are sending more of them. To kill him and his people, his children, Jango and Arla. Jaster has to take a deep breath and push down the anger. That is not going to happen.

“So, what do you suggest we do?” He knows what he wants to do, but the jet’ika has a different view of things, and he might bring some insight into the situation. The answer comes quickly, even if it’s not the one he wants.

“You disperse, get off the planet and disappear into the black.”

“You want us to run away?” He raises a challenging eyebrow.

“It’s not running away. It’s a strategic retreat.” The smile Obi-Wan directs at him is grim. “When you are fighting an enemy with overwhelming numbers, you can’t meet them in open battle. You need to be sneaky.”

Jaster snorts. “You don’t think we can take the jetiise?”

The second he says it, he grimaces and pinches the bridge of his nose. They can’t take the jetties. It is literally why Obi-Wan is going against the Order to warn them of what’s coming. But the kid does not take offense.

“You're not fighting the Jedi.” Obi-Wan rolls his eyes at him. “The Jedi would never have-” He cuts off, takes a breath to gather his thoughts, and tries again. “The Jedi have been ordered by the Senate to intervene on behalf of the local government.” The kid makes a face and gestures at the air again. “Or whatever passes as an authority where you are now.”

“You don’t know where we are?” The kid shakes his head in response.

“No, but I suggest you gather what intel you can get and retreat. The Jedi left Coruscant two days ago.”

Jaster strokes his chin. If the jettise left from the core two days ago, they should still have another two days until they get here. Plenty of time to take a little trip to the governor and ask some slightly pointed questions. Better put Arla on that, Jaster muses. Jango was more likely to put a blaster bolt in the governor's head. Arla, on the other hand, would keep to knives. Jaster is incredibly proud of his ade, a little worried sure, but he thinks he did alright, considering.

“Hmm, agreed.” He looks up at Obi-Wan and smiles; it seems that he has surprised the jet’ika.

“I-” a loud beep from the Jedi's comm cuts Obi-Wan off. It takes a second for him to fish it out of his robes, but when he does, his eyes widen. “Shit, I've got to go. Class starts in twenty.”

“Just one more question.” When the jet’ika meets his eyes again, Jester gestures to himself and the rest of the camp. “Why are you helping us?”

The answer comes quickly. “Because the High Council is making a mistake." The jet’ika pauses and looks off into the middle distance. “I told them that there is someone else who is interfering with this, but...” The jet'ika trails off.

“Any idea who?” Jaster asks, but Obi-Wan is already shaking his head.

“I didn’t get anything duracrete, and it was only a feeling, so the Council dismissed it,” He tells Jaster.

Jaster nods slowly. He has heard rumors of Death Watch being here on the planet, which sounds like something they would do. That was part of their mission, after all. Help the governor and get info on Kyr'tsad.

But now. Well, if he plays his cards right, he should have time to send Jango out to see what he can find before the jetiise shows up, and maybe it will stop his son from sulking when he sends Arla after the governor. Jaster would not mind if Jango put a blaster bolt through a couple of Kyr’tsad buckets, not after the close call on Korda Six. Suppose Arla hadn't been there, if Jango had been slower, if, if, if. He pushes the thoughts away. Focus.

“You could have chosen to do nothing.” Jaster presses on. He wants an answer, wants to know why this jet’ika went behind the jetiise Council’s back for a group of Mandalorian mercenaries. Especially since they don't have the best history with either the jetiise or the Republic, it’s not outright hostile at the moment, but that could change.

If this ever gets out, the consequences for Obi-Wan could be dire. Manda’yaim is not a part of the Republic itself, and even then, only the New Mandalorians were recognized by the Senate. In the heart of the Republic, he doesn’t think anyone will even know the difference between the True Mandalorians and Death Watch. It doesn't help his conscience that Jaster has seen treason charges being brought forth with less than what Obi-Wan has done today.

“Choosing to do nothing is not a neutral choice.” Obi-Wan's voice is soft, but when he catches the kid’s eyes, they are blazing with conviction. “If I had done nothing, you and your people would have been killed, and I cannot, will not, stand by and watch as people suffer.”

The ‘again’ goes unsaid, but it hangs between them, and Jaster wonders what the jet’ika has seen. There is a slight pause, then Obi-Wan smiles bitterly and adds, “And I did not join the Jedi to become the Senate's executioner.”

---

Jaster looks back at the holo when the jet’ika sketches a quick bow and excuses himself.

Jaster can’t quite hide his grin. When the holo started, the kid had been as stiff as a board, and now he had just left the Mand’alor on hold.

There’s a slight commotion over the holo, and then Dex steps into view.

“Where the kriff did you find that kid, Dex?” The besalisk snorts.

“Pretty sure Obi-Wan found me.” He finishes wiping his hands on his apron and looks up at him. “So, did he save your life?”

Jaster lets out a long-suffering sigh. “Yeah, probably.”

“Then you still owe me that favor.” On the holo, Dex is grinning.

Chapter Text

Shooting a glance at her opponent, Arla reaches for a knife and stabs it at the board, where they are playing a stripped-down version of cu'bikad. Her opponent, an older red male twi'lek by the name of Tre Sana, makes a low noise of dissatisfaction, and Ara stumps viscously down on the urge to bury her face in her hands and scream. Sana only makes that sound when Arla has made an avoidable mistake, and Sana is very disappointed in her. He smiles fondly, so some of her thoughts must show in her expression, but that does not stop Sana from taking ruthless advantage of her mistake. A mistake that will cost Arla the third-best knife she owns. She pauses for a second; the knife might actually be Sana's originally, won in a previous game of cu'bikad.

Out of the corner of her eye, Arla spots a familiar set of grey and blue beskar’gam, but she doesn't turn her head. Sana might seem like a sweet old man (he would protest, saying he is only in his forties), but he will cheat her out of her second-best knife as well if she gives him the opportunity. Frowning, Arla considers the board and the knife in question; she might have won that one off of him as well sometime in the past. Considering that Arla had technically met Sana before she met Jaster, it’s a possibility. Not that she knew it was Sana at the time, but there are not that many red twi'leks with three lekkus in the Haat Mando'ade.

The grey and blue beskar'gam marking Jango’s return from patrol moves closer to the command center, followed by two verd'ika to give their reports. Arla glances at the sky and can't stop herself from frowning. First, Jaster is pulled into a high priority comm meeting, and now Jango is back two hours early; something is wrong. Sana knows it too if the way he runs his hand down his middle lek is anything to go by. Arla needs to speak with her brother, who is only a stone throw away now, without bringing too much attention to the situation. No need to bring panic down on her people.

Someone, she can't remember who had told Arla during her first full year with the Haat'ade that a Mandalorian is at least 50% sneaky bastard, and she had taken that to heart. So during that first year, she had systematically gone through the older Haat'ade, gotten them drunk, and gathered as much blackmail material about Jaster as she could get her hands on. It had not been sneaky. And when Jaster had called her out on it and asked her to stop getting his verde drunk, he needed them focused, goddammit. She hadn't blinked an eye but instead asked him if it was true, what they said about that mission on Corellia, and did it really involve a tooka, a fighting ring, and a half-naked togruta Jedi? Jaster had blushed as red as his cape, stuck his bucket on his head, and walked out. Jango had later told her that she lacks in sneakiness she makes up for in being an absolute bastard.

So, when the idea hits her, Arla does not dismiss it.

“Whatever you are going to do, please don't?” Sana sounds long-suffering, but Arla can read the amusement in his eyes. Instead of answering, Arla gives him her best innocent look.

It doesn’t work, but he makes no moves to stop her. Arla always knew she was his favorite.

Reaching down to the ground, she finds a suitable rock, weighs it in her hands, and throws it at the back of Jango's head. It hits the helmet with a dull clank.

Her little brother spins around, and she wiggles her fingers at him in a mockery of a wave. One of the verd'ika, from Clan Bralor, by the look of their armor, makes a choking sound. Arla ignores it and instead nods her head meaningfully at the command center and flashes a quick hand sign. Jango tilts his bucket, looking first at the door and then at her. He pauses for half a second and then proves to everyone watching that they are indeed cut from the same cloth by deliberately turning his back to her and continuing with his conversation.

Arla blinks, once, twice. Huffing, she reaches down for a second rock.

“Arla.” With practiced ease she ignores Tre Sana’s warning and flings the rock at her target.

This time, the other verd'ika (she doesn’t recognize the clan colors on this one) makes a move to push Jango out of the way when she throws the rock, but they don’t need to worry. Her vod’ika takes one smooth step out of the way, that little shit, and the rock hits the stunned verd'ika from clan Bralor on their chest plate and falls harmlessly to the ground. The verde Jango is talking to makes no visible sign that this is in any way an unusual occurrence, but the rest of the Haat'ade can't quite hide their muffled laughter.

When Jango deems the report concluded, he turns on his heel and walks to join her in the corner she has claimed as hers. The crate she is sitting on is big enough for two, but he chooses to stand, back leaning against the wall, arms loose by his sides, to cover the lines of sight she can't while sitting as she is. It's the only sign of worry he allows himself to show.

Arla considers going straight for the answers she wants but instead tilts her head at the verd'ika that her brother left behind at the command center. “How're the recruits doing?”

Jango raises his hand in a seesaw motion. “Not bad, but they are Mando'ade.”

Arla watches the verd'ika’s very new and shiny armor, and she knows what he means. All Mando'ade are good fighters, it's what they are raised to be, but good fighters do not an army make. If you can't work and trust the mando next to you, if you can't walk in lockstep with the rest of the squad, you put all of them in danger. It usually works out fine within your own clan, but the Haat'ade is not composed of just one clan or house. Nor will they ever be if Arla has anything to say about it, and she does, being the oldest ad of the Mand'alor.

“I’m thinking of giving some of them to Myles.” He continues.

“That bad, huh?” She smirks at Jango and, although he'll deny it to the day he dies, he makes a face at her. She might not see it, but his shoulders give him away.

Myles, being Jaster's second-in-command, has a way of beating sense into recruits that Jango, and Arla, for that matter, lacks. It could be that they were only 19 and 24 themselves, which usually meant that they were younger or the same age as the recruits.

“No, I meant putting them in Vertigo Company.”

Raising an eyebrow, she looks back at the verd'ika. Vertigo Company was a division of the Haat Mando'ade with flight experience, forming an air-attack unit. Myles was its current leader, and he had high standards for new personnel. That Jango was considering sending them there meant that they had potential. Interesting.

Arla takes a quick look around the open plaza. It had formed when the True Mandalorians had set up camp here two weeks ago and was most often used as a communal space to hang out, eat and play games. When she confirms that no one, except Sana, pays them any special attention, she goes straight for the kill. Metaphorically speaking.

“You're back early.” Arla keeps her voice light, but Jango knows her. He can read the tension in her spine, but he doesn’t answer other than a low sound of agreement. After the stunt she pulled with the rocks, she's not surprised. He wants answers as well, but he won't give them first. She briefly considers not saying anything and making this into a long game of who will break first, but she dismisses it. Arla knows herself; there's a reason Jango is trained in the art of tracking and hunting. She has seen him sit absolutely still for hours as he waits for his target to make their move, to make a mistake that he can capitalize on, and she knows it's better to meet him halfway.

“Myles called buir into a high priority holo meeting about an hour ago.” Arla turns back to the game of cu'bikad she’s been playing with Sana that has, coincidentally, been going on for about as long. “Dex wanted to speak with him.”

“The weapons dealer?” Her brother's voice is as soft and unhurried as hers.

She reaches for a knife and makes a move on the board.

“Former weapons dealer.” She corrects. “He’s been an information broker only, for the last couple of years.”

Jango pauses for half a second before contributing his own info. “Myles ordered all squads still active in the field back to base half an hour ago.”

Across from her, Sana deliberately does not watch the exchange, giving them the illusion of privacy, and makes his own move in the game while Arla's mind is racing. The Haat Mando’ade was at the end of a contract. Everything had gone smoothly so far, but to call everyone back like this? You add in that an information broker had called? The situation had changed, and it was changing rapidly.

“Do you know anything about this, Sana?” Arla kept her head down towards the board, but her attention was on the twi'lek.

Sana shakes his head. “I'm not high enough in the chain of command for that.”

Arla and Jango turn twin looks of disbelief on him. They both know that the only reason he is not higher up in said chain of command is that Sana is a seasonal worker, not because of a lack of trust or skill.

Sana, like many of the old guard of the Haat'ade, did not stay all year round. He usually showed up around winter or when his clan needed credits. Arla and Jango had both met his riduure and his ade several times, and there was a betting pool going around about when he was finally going to let his oldest ade come along on a job and then finally retire. Arla had put good credits down that next year would be his last year on the job. His ruduure, both of them, was more than slightly terrifying.

Sana grins at them but answers the question. “No, I don’t know anything.”

Any further questioning or speculation is cut short by Jango straightening and gesturing for Arla to follow as several other verde do the same. She looks down at her vambrace, and sure enough, there's a message waiting for her on her comm. Tucking her helmet under her arm, she stands up, throws a sloppy salute at Sana, who has remained seated, and follows her brother. Maybe now she'll get the answers she wants.

Chapter Text

The briefing had been short and to the point; they had been betrayed, the Jedi were coming, and Jaster wanted everyone off-planet within 32 to 38 hours. Some of the younger verde had protested that they could handle the jetiise, but Jaster had shot them down hard. Said something about how it wasn’t about the jetiise themselves, and more about the Senate gunning for them, and did they really want to fight the whole kriffing Republic?

Those who, like Arla, had been with the Haat'ade the longest could see that Jaster was worried about something, and it sharpened their own instincts, and when Jaster had given the assignments, Arla had felt Jango’s discomfort. There were pretty good reasons to suspect that she was walking into a trap, but she had used the slight hesitation to her advantage.

“Dibs on Stryver.” The gathered Haat'ade had stifled laughter as her buir had gone white, but he had granted her request easily enough. The contract with the governor had asked for as little structural damage as possible, and they had kept to it, but now, when the contract was broken... Arla grins.

There are a lot of rumors running around about Stryver. One said she had grown up in the fighting rings, which frankly Arla doesn't believe. Stryver is a Gektl, a bipedal reptile species, and she wouldn’t have lasted a week in the pits. Another said that she had wiped out an entire cell of the Black Sun syndicate on one of Coruscant's lower levels by herself. It would have been more believable if it had happened anywhere but on Coruscant, where the Black Sun Syndicate is the strongest. But Arla’s favorite rumor was the one about how she had crashed an auction on Nal Hutta.

Stryver had, apparently, infiltrated the palace, knocked out half the guards with Obah Gas, broken into a secure vault, while a Jedi and an unknown infiltrator had tried the same, beaten them both in combat, and gotten away with the merchandise.

It had been Jaster that told Arla that last one, and she wanted to believe it, but… To do that alone was just plain stupid.

Nevertheless, standing at shy of 2 meters and built like a mountain, Stryver cuts one impressive figure in her grey and green armor, and for all the talk and speculation, everyone agrees that Strayver has guts and spirit in spades- she has mandokar.

--

Having stowed the last of the equipment she isn’t going to need for this mission in her room on Jaster’s AIAT/I transport, Arla closes the door and heads for the ramp where the rest of her squad is waiting. They had decided to take Stryver's modified Kuat D-Seven starship, the First Blood, to the Governor's Mansion, and knowing Stryver as she did, all should be ready by now.

Jango meets her at the edge of the ramp, decked out in full armor. The only thing they’re missing is the when and where to launch the assault on Death Watch. The siblings stop and then take turns going over each other's gear. Jetpack, rifle, and energy packs, it’s all inspected for flaws and sabotage. Coming up clean on all fronts, Arla brushes her right vambrace against Jango’s. “Hukaat’kama.” Watch my six. She says and she can all but see Jango roll his eyes in response.

The customary goodbye between them is an old habit by now, born out of fear and desperation, whispered to each other under blankets in the dark of space when Jaster had first decided to separate them after Arla’s rescue from Death Watch. Looking back, Arla knew it had been for the best, but at the time, there had been screaming, shouting, tears, and murder attempts.

Not that Arla had succeeded in her quest to murder the Mand’alor, she had been only 11 after all, but she had come surprisingly close. Jaster still has a scar on his back from when she had surprised him in the fresher.

“K’oyacyi.” Stay alive. Come back. Jango answers, and Arla smiles a little.

The meaning has changed since they were kids. It’s no longer a desperate plea to the manda for the only remaining part of their clan to come back alive, or if they couldn’t, a hope that they could still watch out for each other in the beyond. Nowadays, it‘s more a reassurance that they’ll handle things when the other is away.

Arla puts her bucket on her head and strides out. She has a governor to visit, and it would be rude to keep him waiting.

--

“It's a stupid plan.”

Even though Stryver can’t see it, Arla raises an eyebrow at her. “The plan is good. I go in the front to talk to the governor, we leave the verd’ika to watch the ship, and you sneak in the back. You see what you can find on the servers, and by the time I need help, you’ll have made your way to the main hall to mack me up. I mean, back me up.”

Arla was a professional, so she did not blush or stutter over the slip-up. Luckily for Arla, so was Stryver, who completely ignored it. The verd’ika, on the other hand… There was a slight choking sound before they turned off their speakers, and Arla vowed to have a conversation with them before they returned to basecamp. Jango could never learn about this.

“You should take one of the kids with you, just in case. The ship will be fine.” Stryver counters, but Arla is already shaking her head.

“I don’t care that you’ve modified the ship’s security to hell and back, Kyr’tsad can still blow it up, and we need a secure getaway.”

One of the “kids”, a mando that was at least two years older than her, interrupted the argument. “Your plan involves you going into a situation, alone, that you know will escalate to the point you'll be needing backup. I agree with Stryver on this one. It’s stupid.”

Arla huffs and brings out a hologram of the Governor’s Mansion. She points at a spot on the map. “This is my exit if all goes to plan.”

There’s a stunned second of silence, then. “You mean if the plan fails, right?”

Arla is grinning under her bucket.

“If all goes to plan, that will be my extraction point. You will be here,” she marked the spot on the hologram, “and in the perfect position to cover my back with the ship's guns.”

Stryver makes a thoughtful sound. “I recognize the security system; I should be able to put the main hall on lockdown from the server room. Then it would only be you, a couple of guards, and the governor. If you think you can handle that without backup?”

Not having to deal with the hallway guards will make Arla’s job so much easier.

“Oh, I’m sure I can manage just fine.” Arla lets the hologram fade back into nonexistence and leans back in her seat. “You think you'll find a way into the halls on your own, or do you need another exit point?”

“Oh, I’m sure I can manage just fine.” Stryver copies her lax posture and rests a hand on her assault cannon. Arla is suddenly reminded of her favorite part of the Hutt story: ... Stryver was using the weapons in her arsenal to blast a way through the palace. Where doorways or corridors didn’t exist, she wasn’t above making her own .

A thrill of anticipation shoots through Arla. This will be fun.

--

The governor’s mansion's main hall is a long rectangular room that looks like a throne room more befitting a king than a humble governor. The whole mansion is built more like a castle, with stone walls and long winding corridors, unlike any Republic governor’s mansion Arla had ever seen before. There are beautifully painted pillars running every 10 feet down each of the long sides, and the room’s floor is a painted mosaic. It's made all the more stunning by the splay of lights shining through the massive floor to ceiling windows overlooking a truly spectacular view of the mountainside. They had seen on the flight that the mansion’s back wall faces a steep cliffside, and it's this cliff that's on the other side of that glass display. A shame really, it’s quite a beautiful room.

The governor is sitting on a throne facing the doors she just walked in through, with two guards on either side, and the only other guards are the two escorting her in. There are others in the hallway, but Arla isn't worried. The doors swing shut behind her, and really, he’s making it too easy for her. She is maybe 30- 35 feet away from the throne when her helmet comm crackles to life. Showtime.

By the time Stryver starts at three on the countdown to lockdown, Arla is already moving.

The Governor had asked her to leave her weapons behind on the ship, and she had agreed reluctantly, removing all her visual weapons while the guards watched her, but she had refused to remove her helmet. She was sure the others in her squad would have pulled the plug on the whole operation if she had.

Stryver had made a sound of protest over the comm when Arla started removing her guns, but a sharp order to stick to the plan and trust that Arla could handle herself made Stryver subside. Arla had made a mental note to avoid Stryver in any sparring matches in the near future if she didn't want to feel Stryver’s displeasure at the rebuke. Or maybe she should seek her out afterward and not let this fester into something more difficult to handle - a thought for later consideration.

Arla had taken her time complying with the guards, making a show of arguing so that Stryver would have plenty of opportunities to get into the mansion and find the server room. It looks less and less likely that this is a trap, but to be fair to the governor, they are two days early.

Now, kicking the guard on her left in the kneecap, she follows up with an armored elbow to the man's face when he falls to his knees, and he’s out like a light before Stryver hits the count of one.

She hears the doors click shut behind her as she spins to grab the guard on her right by the front of his jacket. A quick headbutt, or two but who was really counting, and she hears the crunch of his nose as it breaks. Arla spins again, using his body as a shield, so he has his back against the governor and the two guards flanking him. Dropping her hold of the guard, she produces her next best set of throwing knives, a gift from Sana on her 18th birthday, from her vambrace and hears the first blaster bolt hit the guard in front of her. She launches herself around him and rolls forward, throwing one of her knives as she comes up, aiming for the right guard’s center mass. It misses but works as a distraction because the guard yelps and then drops his kriffing weapon! If Arla hadn't been busy trying not to die, she would have stopped and stared.

The governor screams, tries to get up to cover behind his chair, but tangles his feet in his robes and falls flat on his back.

Arla hits the unarmed guard at a run and body checks him onto the floor. Turning towards the last guard standing, she lets the beskar’gam absorb the blaster shot. The look on the guard's face is priceless. Arla throws her second knife,hits him in the neck, and down he goes, gasping for air. Picking up the weapon the third guard dropped, she aims it at its former owner.

“Stay down.” When he only whimpers and makes no move to stand up, she looks at the governor. “We need to talk.”

--

Five minutes later, the left-hand wall gets blown in and Stryver steps into the hall, assault cannon in hand. The front doors are still locked, but Arla knows people are working on getting them open - she can hear them yelling. The governor whimpers from where he is tied up behind the throne. It had been decided that it was best to leave him alive. No need to give the jetiise a real reason to hunt them down, and killing a Republic official seemed a little excessive even for Arla - there had been no deaths from the Haat’ade’s side on this job.

Stryver surveys the room and tilts her helmet at Arla. “Seems you managed just fine on your own.” There is definitely a grin in her voice.

Shrugging, Arla answers. “I try. You get what we need?”

“Elek, al’verde, you?”

“Elek.” She turns to the windows, gesturing. “You want to do the honors? We have a ride to catch after all and a schedule to keep.”

After a slight pause, Stryver comes up next to her and, using her assault cannon, shoots out the windows.

Seconds later First Blood flies into view, ramp lowered and ready for them.

“I believe this is yours?”

Arla blinks and looks down at what Stryver is holding out to her. It’s her throwing knife, the one that missed its mark.

“Vor entye.”

“I'll hold you to that.” It's the last thing Stryver says before she activates her jetpack and jumps out the window.

--

When Jango finally gets a comm from Arla, all it contains is a long string of numbers and two words: “ Happy hunting .”

Chapter Text

The coordinates lead Jango to an unassuming village, more like a collection of houses, in the mountains about 50 klicks from the governor’s mansion. There are ships parked at the outskirts, and Jango can see people walking between the houses and the ships, loading up crates and other equipment.

The village forms a semicircle with the outer edge facing Jango, with the hill he's lying on giving it cover from the elements, and in the middle of the courtyard is the command center. The Kyr’tsad ships are parked at the open space beyond the half-circle, near the edge of a steep drop, and to the left of them, Jango can see what looks like a road.

“Looks like they're getting ready to leave. What's the plan, Al’verde?” Silas asks. He’s lying next to Jango, looking through his scope. A couple of hundred feet behind Jango and Silas' position, hidden behind some trees, are four squads from the infantry battalion under Jango’s command. Montross had once called the battalion “Jango’s Grunts” because Jango had been so young when he took command, and the name stuck. Jango really wishes it had gone away when Montross had turned traitor and was exiled from Mandalore space.

Jango does not like the picture he is getting. That Kyr'tsad was packing up, not unlike how he had left the Haat Mando'ade, could mean that they had eyes on his people. If Kyr’tsad had seen Jango or Arla leave, they could know the Haat’ade are coming for them, but the people packing don’t seem to be in a hurry.

He moves his gaze to focus on the houses that would give Kyr’tsad cover while leaving his verde exposed and considers his options. He doesn’t know Death Watch's timetable - are they going to spend another night here on the planet, or will they leave the moment they’ve packed up?

When Jango had started the trudge up the mountain, he had left Susru and the other pilots at the drop zone where they could be called upon for medevac or air support, but they only had four ships against Kyr’tsad’s eight, and Jango did not like those odds.

Either way, time is not on Jango's side. Jaster had only given them 24 hours to complete the mission, and they had already spent hours trudging up one side of the mountain and then down the other. It had given them the high ground and the element of surprise, but if Kyr’tsad had eyes on the Haat'ade and had seen them leave the camp, it could end up being all for nothing.

“We wait until dark." Jango says. The way the day cycle works up here in the mountains means that daylight is fading fast, but as Jango and Silas watch another ship take off from the village, something in Jango’s chest burns.

--

When the scouts return with their reports, confirming that there are no other people in the village, only Death Watch, Jango is not surprised. If the village was abandoned before Kyr'tsad arrived, there are no signs of when they left, but Jango suspects there will be a shallow ditch somewhere around the village with several bodies inside. The buildings look too well maintained, and Kyr’tsad did not get a reputation for violence for nothing.

Jango looks at where the sun disappeared about an hour ago and gives the order. Death Watch is still packing, and most of the ships have left, but it looks like the rest of them have decided to stay for the night.

The Grunts split up into four squads, the smallest one staying put on the hill and the rest moving silently down to approach the village. Their name might have been given to them as an insult since Jango was only 13 when he was given command, but the name stuck because his verde is the best. And because Myles has a surprisingly vicious streak in him. Or maybe not so surprising considering he is Jaster's second, and one of them has to bring the backbone to that partnership, and it's not his buir.

(As the story goes, Jaster took one look at Jango, who had just blown up a tank and killed the Kyr’tsad that killed his parents, and adopted him at the spot. Jango did not remember it happening like that, but he had only been 5 at the time.)

When Jango and his squad reach the nearest building of the little village, hugging the wall and creeping towards the left of the house to come up the main road, if you could call it that, the helmet's comm crackles to life and Seonaid's chipper voice fills the silence. "Contact on your left, al'verde, one Kyr’tsad coming up in three….. two-"

Jango stops at the edge of the corner and waits.

"-one." The Kyr’tsad mando comes into view, and there is sound, like metal on metal, as the blaster bolt hits beskar, and the beskar gives.

Jango reaches out, pulls the mando behind the wall, and waits. When they get the all-clear, he turns the corner and continues down the road.

"Silas, up on the roof on your right, contact in three, two, one." Jango hears the crack of the MK-modified sniper rifle but doesn't stop. The familiar tide of battle falls over Jango, the push and pull of clearing houses and streets as his squad makes their way towards the village center. Over the comm, Seonaid and Cags, the other sniper, are calling out targets and warnings to the other squads, keeping an eye on them from above.

He trusts these people to watch his back, to handle their own, and to keep going. They are not from his clan, not even his house, but they are his. He loves them all, and if he were to lose them... Jango doesn't think he would survive it. But that could have happened. If Kyr’tsad had gotten their way, if they hadn't been warned. Jaster hadn't said as much in the briefing, but Jango can read between the lines; the Haat Mando'ade were not supposed to leave Galidraan alive.

"Osik. They know we’re here, Al'verde, better call Susru for part two." Cags calls over the comm. Jango grunts and opens his mouth to do just that, but he gets cut off by the man himself.

“I thought you had forgotten about me,” Susru’s smooth voice comes over the commlink. ”You should all be ashamed of yourselves, hogging all the fun.”

“How could we forget about you, your ego is the same size as your ship.” Seonaid answers and Jango knows what's coming, as sure as the sun will rise again. He just wishes they would keep it off the open comms.

“It's not the only part of me that’s big.” the Zabrak's eyebrow wiggle is audible, and Jango is seconds away from turning and banging his head against the nearest wall. He tries to remind himself that he loves these people, but he would die for them does not stop him from wanting to strangle them sometimes.

“Stop flirting on comms, and get moving.” His voice is maybe a little strained, but they have been going at it for years now. Jango has seriously considered locking them in a closet. Still, Seonaid is a terror with her sniper rifle, he would never see her coming, and the thought of spending the rest of his life looking over his shoulder is not appealing.

There is a short silence and then a crisp “Yes, al’verde” from them both, and now Jango really wants to murder someone. If they’ve stopped denying their attraction to each other, then they’ll probably get together soon, and that would mean Arla wins the bet. Jango isn’t looking forward to being stuck with the dishes for months. He needs his own ship.

When Jango and his squad reach the village center, they step into chaos. Kyr’tsad was not prepared for a full assault team, and Jango had brought three. They catch Kyr’tsad in a crossfire, Jango and his squad from the left, and Silas and his squad from the right. He hears loud swearing over the comms and a quiet “man, down.” He doesn't have the time to think about it, and the best he can do for them is to keep the enemy pinned down. As Jango keeps a steady fire, he can see out of the corner of his eye some smarter Kyr’tsad making a run for the ships.

“Susru!” Jango is not panicking, but they do not have ground to air missiles to bring down enemy ships if they take off.

“I see them, Al’verde, keep your baskar on.” Seconds later, a line of blaster fire from a ship hits the running Kyr’tsad. Most of them go down, and those that don’t try to run for cover, but the second ship takes them out with some well-placed blaster fire and a small missile.

Jango takes a couple more shots, and then the battle is over. After making sure that the last of Kyr’tsad is down, he walks over to Silas, taking stock of the Haat’ade he can see. “Any casualties?”

Silas shakes his head. “No, but Athenn took a blaster bolt to the side. He should be fine with some bacta and rest.”

Jango takes half a second to breathe. He knows Atheen. The Nautolan is strong and has taken harder hits and walked away before. “Start stripping the databanks. I want to get out of here before the rest of Kyr’tsad shows up.”

Silas nods. “And the ships?”

The ships in question look fine, but who knows what nasty surprises Death Watch has left in them. Jango considers the consequences of stealing them and decides it’s worth it. They probably won't get paid for this job, and some of the Haat’ade could use an upgrade on their own ships.

“Check them for traps. We’ll take them and see what Myles thinks. Take everything we can with us,” Jango looks at the crates.”What we can’t take we destroy, no need to leave behind anything Kyr’tsad can use.”

Turning, Jango heads to the nearest crates to start sorting through them. The faster they finish this, the faster they leave. It’s time to get the kriff off of Galidraan.

--

Stepping out of the corridor and into the lounge on Jaster’s AIAT/I transport, aptly named Atin Vercopa , Jango is met by the sight of Arla watching the holorecording of the comm between Jaster and Padawan Kenobi. Again.

The moment the Haat Mando’ade had left orbit and jumped into hyperspace, Arla had been on Jaster for more information on why and, more importantly, who had warned them about the jetiise. There had been a slight argument when Jaster had thought to keep the identity of their contact secret, but it had lasted for all of five minutes before he folded like a wet paper towel. Arla had a way with words that Jango envied.

Currently, she’s watching the part where the jetii explained that there were no survivors, about the visions and the Council’s reaction to said visions. Jango walks over to the table and watches the conversation unfold.

“He is haa’ii.” Seer. Jango says and Arla grimaces, but she nods her agreement.

“Buir seems to think so.”

When Jango had been thirteen standard and Arla seventeen, Jaster had sat them down at the galley table and explained, as best he could, about the Force, the jetii, the dar’jetii, and about Mandalore's long and complicated history with all of it. Jaster had shown them numbers and graphs of Force sensitivity averages of different species and planets. Jango had been amazed to learn that there are force-sensitive sentients but who are neither Jedi or Sith. Jaster explained that just because there hasn’t been a Mandalorian Jedi since Tarre Vizsla doesn't mean there aren't Force-sensitives on Mandalore now. Roughly 2% of Mando’ade were, in fact, Force-sensitive. Jango had been delighted, asking if they had their own Force traditions and if he could learn.

Laughing, his buir had told him that Force sensitivity was not something you could learn, but something you were born with, and like with every other muscle group, the more you trained it, the stronger you got. But Mandalore did have its own Force traditions, of a sort. The training all mando’ade went through as a child was part of it, to learn self-discipline, and to control your emotions, so they did not control you. To hone your reflexes and mental shields. Arla had been the one to ask why.

Buir had paused then. “Because untrained Force users can be dangerous, to others and themselves.”

There hadn't been much more Jaster could tell them about the training of Force users since he wasn't one and had never raised one himself, but he had told them about some of the verde he had served with that had been Force-sensitive. About pilots with incredible reflexes that far outstripped their species’ normal range, about verde who could change the mood in a room to match their own, and who could read a room in seconds. Empaths and their ability to change someone's feelings could help calm down a crowd and in intimidation tactics, and empathy was also useful in knowing when someone was lying.

“The most common skill you will see, though, is verde taking a shot at an enemy without seeing them.”

That had gotten both Arla and Jango’s attention, and Jaster had pulled up a holo taken from his helmet. On the holo, they had seen a verd, a zabrak judging by the horns on the helmet, in blue armor with black and gold vambraces firing rapidly at an enemy in front of them and then, without turning, pointing their blaster over their shoulder and shooting once. The holo recorder had spun around and watched as an enemy, who had gone unnoticed by both, fell dead to the ground.

“Sekar could also go faster and hit harder.” Jaster had looked at the holo with a small grin. “She could last longer without food, and she always knew when shit was about to hit the fan.”

There had been hundreds of questions, and Jaster had tried to answer them all. No, not all Force-sensitives could do all of what Sekar could do, at least without training, and even then, she had been a special case. No, not all Force-sensitives wanted training. Some just wanted to live their lives, so their ability to use the Force grew weaker. Partly because of disuse, part because they didn't want to use the Force. Yes, we have Force-sensitives in the Haat’ade. No, I'm not telling you who. They deserve their privacy. Yes, we can have you tested, but I don't think you are Force-sensitive.

The questions had stuttered to a stop, eventually, and then Jaster had told them about the haa’ii, the seers. Those who dreamed about the future and then had those dreams come true. But they were incredibly rare, even among Force users, even among Jedi. And you could not always trust what you saw or were told. There were horror stories about parents dreaming about their children's death and doing everything trying to save them, only to have their dreams come true because of the choices they made.

“We can't always control what goes on around us.” Their buir had looked grim when telling them this. “But we can control the choices we make.”

Jango hadn’t quite known what Jaster meant, but watching the jet’ika on the holo, he thought he understood. Padawan Obi-Wan Kenobi had gone to the council in search of help but had instead been left to make his own choice, and he had chosen to help them, to save Jongo’s vode. And Jango would very much like to thank him for it.

Arla’s voice brings him out of his thoughts.“This is my favorite part.”

She rewinds the holo and hits play. There is dread pooling in Jango’s stomach, he thinks he knows where this is going, and he is proven right as Obi-Wan’s voice filters through the speakers.

“I don’t know him, but l have been dreaming of him.”

“Someone’s got a stalker~” The delight in Arla’s voice is entirely unnecessary, and Jango can feel his face heat up. Thank the ka’ra that his dark skin makes it harder to see that he’s blushing.

“Arla, stop embarrassing your brother.” They whip their heads around and watch as Jaster walks down the stairs. How he can be so silent is a mystery. Jango has tried sneaking around the ship before, but the stairs creak, so he is always caught.

Jaster has a datapad in his hands, and when he walks past, Jango snatches it from him to see what’s on it. Jaster only sighs and heads to the galley to get something to eat, muttering under his breath about kids and how they have no respect for their elders. Jango is going to remind him he called himself old later when he least expects it.

“I’m not embarrassed. And I do not have a stalker!” He yells after Jaster as he looks over the information on the pad. There is a file, composed by Myles, on a Jedi Master Qui-Gon Jinn and his unnamed Padawan. He feels his eyebrow rise as he reads on. That is quite a list of accomplishments; the last mission was on Melida/Daan, and where had he heard that name before? Jango needs to do some investigating of his own. Arla can’t know; she would never let him live it down. There is also a mention of a former Padawan, no name, but it does imply that the Padawan left the Order years ago.

“Who’s Master Jinn?” At his question, Arla looks up and makes grabby hands for the pad. Jango ignores her.

“Myles believes he is Obi-Wan’s Master.” Jaster calls out from the gally.

“Believes? Doesn’t Myles usually know?” Arla narrows her eyes at him, and Jango narrows his own right back at her.

“Usually, yeah, but we didn’t have much time, and the jetiise are good at keeping their Padawans out of the news and gossip rags.” Jaster explains.

“Can't we just hack the Order?” Arla asks as she gets up and rounds the table, stalking towards him. Jango shifts his feet and lets the hand holding the pad fall to his side.

“Sure we can, I just don't want to bring more heat down on his head than necessary.” Jaster’s voice is muffled, probably head first in the cupboards looking for the good stash of ration bars; too bad Jango has already eaten all of them. Arla is bouncing on the balls of her feet, grinning at him. He grins back, ready to throw down. He needs to pay her back for the stunt with the rocks, and this is perfect timing.

“I sent a message to Dex asking him to set up a meeting.” Jaster’s proclamation brings them up short.

“You want to meet him?” Jango doesn’t like the tone in Arla’s voice. It usually brings nothing but trouble.

“Sure, we owe him a life debt, don't we?”

“Oh, I can think of ways we can pay that back.” The look on Arla's face is incredibly smug, and Jango is feeling a little attacked right now, so he does what any sane and rational being would do when their ori’vod is being a shabuir. He launches himself at her fists first. Arla blocks, of course, but Jango follows up with a kick and gets her in the side. The datapad drops to the floor with a thud, and Jester storms out of the galley, yelling as he goes.

“THERE WILL BE NO FIGHTING ON THIS SHIP!!!”

--

When the Atin Vercopa drops out of hyperspace, two messages are waiting for them, one from Myles and one from Duke Adonai Kryze.

Myles had elected to stay on Galidraan to “greet” the jetiise. Jaster had argued vehemently against leaving anyone behind, and there had been a long fight with a lot of yelling, where Myles had argued that like kriff was he going to give up the chance to rub it in the jetiise’s faces that they had been played like a cheap bes’bev. In the end, Jaster had acquiesced when a younger verd, a human woman named Alysayla from Clan Goran, in green armor with silver and teal vambraces, had volunteered to stay behind with the older Mandalorian to keep an eye on him. Jango knew that Alysayla would soon be up for a promotion, probably within the intelligence branch of the Haat Mando’ade. To step between the Mand’alor and his second in command when they were a hair's breadth from starting a brawl took guts and more than a little idiocy.

“The look on their faces when I presented them with the contract was glorious . And with the info Stryver gathered we were cleared of all charges.” The recording of Myles is grinning. “We’ll head to Mandalore and wait for you there, Mand’alor. Myles out.” He puts his fist over his heart and bows, and the message winks out.

“Oh, I bet the jetiise were not happy to hear that a Republic Official had contracted out to Mandalorian mercenaries.” They had all wished to see the jetiise’s faces, and maybe they could bribe Myles into sharing the helmet recording of the exchange. Smiling, Jaster opened the comm from Duke Kryze and frowned.

The message turned out to be an invitation to a meeting between the Old Clan Leaders and the New Mandalorians. It was scheduled for the beginning of the new year. They had about six months to get ready.

“That is going to be an interesting meeting.” Jaster comments as he sinks back in the pilot chair with an air of despair. The weariness in Jaster’s voice is bone-deep. They have been locked in an ideological civil war with Death Watch for years, and the situation on Mandalore has not gotten better as time passed. The Old Houses were being pulled apart as individuals chose sides. Simultaneously, the Clans themselves claimed neutrality, and the New Mandalorians were not helping by spewing hate on all who followed the Resol'nare and the old ways. The whole planet was a powder keg about to explode.

“More like a bloodbath.” Jango counters.

Jaster had tried to keep them all together, but he could not fight Kyr’tsad and accommodate the Clans at the same time, and some of the Clans were more inclined to follow House Vizla than House Mereel, for all that they talked about not choosing sides in this war.

“So what's the plan, buir?” Arla is unusually somber, but they are all tired, and the mess on Galidraan has yet to sink in fully - and what a mind breaker that is. Jango meets Arla’s gaze over their biur’s shoulder, and he knows she’s thinking the same thing: what would have happened to Mandalore had the Haat Mando’ade, and the Mand’alor himself died on Galidraan?

“We continue to Mandalore, meet up with the rest of the Haat’ade, send them home to rest, and then, hopefully, we have a meeting with Padawan Kenobi to get to.” Jaster plots the next jump and gets up from his chair. “Now you two are going to start cleaning up this ship; I want it sparkling by the time you are done.”

“What?” Jango looks at Arla, but she is just as surprised as him.

“You know the rules. No fighting on this ship.” Folding his arms and glaring at them, Jaster is the textbook definition of a disappointed dad.

“We aren’t children anymore. You can't punish us like this.” Arla tries to argue, but the glare she’s rewarded with is equal parts “I'm disappointed in you” and “I know you can do better.”

“When you stop fighting like children, I will stop treating you as children. Until then, get going.” Their buir’s voice brooks no argument, and Jango thinks it’s a little hypocritical of him, considering he had been ready to throw down with Myles not that long ago. But Jango is not a di’kut, so he keeps that thought to himself; no reason to make this worse.

Arla obviously thinks the same thing, but she doesn't argue. She does, however, try to trip Jango down the stairs on their way down.

Chapter Text

Obi-Wan might be a teeny-tiny bit nervous; he has been walking on eggshells for a week now, ever since that meeting at Dex’s, and even Quinlan had remarked on his distraction in class. Once, Master Nu had called his name in the hallway, and he had been sure this was it, he was going to be called in front of the Council and held accountable for his actions. The terror flowing through him must have been felt in the Force because Master Nu had, when she finally reached him, put a gentle hand on his shoulder and assured him that if he needed more time with the datapad, she could give him an extension, try to have it delivered back to the Archives before his next mission.

He had thanked her, reassured her he would do so, and would you look at the time, he was late for a very important thing. Obi-Wan had bowed and practically sprinted away, leaving a concerned Master Nu behind.

It must have gotten back to Master Qui-Gon because that evening, he had, with all the subtlety of a bantha in a china shop, asked if Obi-Wan was feeling alright and told him that Qui-Gon was here for him if he needed to talk.

“I know you are entering a very difficult time in your life. You are growing up and certain changes happening to your body, and if you ever have any questions about…” Qui-Gon had trailed off, blushing almost as hard as Obi-Wan, while gesturing uselessly at the air.

“I’ll ask one of the healers, Master.” His voice had decided to crack at that exact moment, and Obi-Wan had wanted to die.

“Oh.” Master Qui-Gon had looked relieved. ”A sound idea, Padawan, but I’m here if you need me.”

The smile Master Qui-Gon had directed at him was so kind and understanding that Obi-Wan wanted to spill everything, but he had nodded and gone to bed instead.

--

There is no other place in the entirety of the temple in which Obi-Wan feels more relaxed than in the Room of a Thousand Fountains. Over the many years of exploring the different rooms, he has found that his favorite spot is here, behind a tree the size of a small skyscraper with leaves the color of silver. Obi-Wan doesn’t know where the tree came from in the galaxy, but he finds it very calming, and he likes to imagine himself walking in a forest of these trees with a roof of silver.

It has been over a week since the visions had stopped, and Obi-Wan has not heard anything about the True Mandalorians or if they are even still alive. He is stressed and worried, so after class, he had slinked into the Room of a Thousand Fountains to hide behind his tree. Obi-Wan needs some time alone to meditate and collect his thoughts.

He tries to meditate, but he can’t clear his head. Leaning back against the tree, he pulls his comm out to check the time and blinks at it. There’s a message from Dex. Frowning, Obi-Wan clicks it open and gasps. It’s a short message, but the implications are immense: ‘ Mereel wants to meet. ’ followed by a date for next month.

Putting his head on his knees, Obi-Wan breathes out a sigh of relief and types out a reply. He has no missions for the next two months; he needs time to catch up on the work he missed while on Melida/Daan.

Putting his comm away and leaning his head back to look up at the silver leaves above him, Obi-Wan can’t help bleed relief into the Force around him. They lived; his actions had saved the True Mandalorians. Whatever happens next, he can handle it. If the Council wants to throw him out of the Order, it will have been worth it. Obi-Wan is almost giddy in relief and happiness.

And that is how Master Yoda finds him, curled up under a tree in the Room of a Thousand Fountains, weeping relief into the force.

“Master Yoda!” Obi-Wan gets to his feet and bows to the elderly Master.

“Good news you received, hmm?” Master Yoda asks, sitting down and waving for Obi-Wan to join him in the grass. Obi-Wan takes a seat, watching the Master with uncertain eyes and trying to find the best way to answer. He decides on honesty; he is too happy to hide it, and anyway, hadn’t he decided he can handle anything that happens?

“Yes.” He meets Master Yoda’s eyes squarely. “It was good news.” Obi-Wan feels his anxiety rising, but he shoves it down. He will not allow his fear of being a disappointment to ruin this moment.

“Failed you, the Council has.”

Obi-Wan startles and blinks at the old Master but doesn't speak. This is not how he saw this conversation going. The old Master studies him for a second, and then his ears droop in sorrow.

“Warned us, you did, about what would happen, but too set in our ways we were to hear it.” Master Yoda looks away and closes his eyes. “To protect you from the choices the Council had to make, I thought I did. Worse, I fear, my choices made it. My apology will you accept?”

“Master Yoda, that’s not-” Thwack! He yelps as the diminutive Master smacks his grimerstic lightly against Obi-Wan's shin. Yoda frowns at him.

“Necessary it is to apologize for one's mistakes. Do you not agree, hm?” When Obi-Wan nods, Master Yoda continues. “A grave mistake the Council made, a grave mistake I made when dismiss your concerns. My apology for not listening, will you accept?”

“Master Yoda, I don’t think-” He cuts off when Master Yoda raises his stick again. “I accept your apology, Master.” Obi-Wan feels his lip twitch, and Master Yoda matches his amusement, but it quickly disappears.

“Hmm, a good start, that is. And perhaps someday, your trust I will regain.” Master Yoda looks thoughtful. “Hmm, yes, a lot of trusts has been lost between the members of our lineage.”

Obi-Wan frowns but doesn't deny the statement. After Melida/Daan Obi-Wan had found it difficult to turn to Qui-Gon for help; there had been something lost between them. And Obi-Wan knows his own Master doesn’t talk to or about Master Dooku if he can avoid it. The first time he had met his Master’s Master had been in that last meeting with the High Council. Obi-Wan glances at his Great-Grandmaster. He hadn’t seen Master Yoda and Master Dooku talk to each other, either.

There's a moment of comfortable silence before Yoda speaks again.

“Fix that we must.” Master Yoda gets up to his feet. “Have dinner with me, you will. Legendary, my stew is.”

Blinking at him, Obi-Wan gets up as well, brushing off his knees. “You want to have dinner with me?”

“It has been too long since we have talked. Tell me about your studies you should, talk through your fear and the Council’s failure we must, if any trust we shall rebuild.” Master Yoda starts down the path out of the Room of A Thousand Fountains, but he stops, turns, and looks back at Obi-Wan. “In contact, you are, with the True Mandalorians?”

The spike of fear that shoots through him makes Obi-Wan miss a step, and he spends a second gathering his balance. “I- Master Yoda-”

Yoda looks up at him and smiles a little. “Next time you talk, relay my apologies to Mand’alor Mereel, will you? You were not the only one we failed, hmm?”

Taking a deep breath and letting it out slowly, Obi-Wan releases his anxieties into the Force. “Of course, Master Yoda.”

The old Master perks up and set off toward his quarters at a surprising speed. "Now come, come. Dinner we shall have, and tea. Too long it has been since I had anyone of my lineage over for dinner.”

Trotting to catch up, Obi-Wan walks beside Master Yoda as a thought hits him. “The stew will be edible for humans, right?”

The cackle Yoda lets loose does not answer his question, but he follows along; how bad could it be?

--

Obi-Wan sips his tea in the hope it will wash out the taste of Master Yoda's stew and almost spits the tea back out again when the taste finally registers. He swallows and sets the cup back down off the table. "What tea did you say this was again, Master Yoda?"

"Not to your taste, is it?" The old master asks, and Obi-Wan swears he is being laughed at.

"Not quite." Obi-Wan agrees and considers reaching for the biscuits but abandons the idea. They sit in silence for a while until Obi-Wan has to ask. "You said you made a mistake in regards to the True Mandalorians. What did you mean?"

Master Yoda watches him for a moment, then sighs. "Ordered we were, by the Senate to stop the massacre committed by the True Mandalorians on Galidraan."

Obi-Wan feels his heart stutter to a stop. "But they hadn't done anything wrong." At least he hopes that's the truth.

"No, they had not." Master Yoda agrees. "The Senate was tricked, and the True Mandalorians and the Jedi almost paid the price for it."

Taking a deep breath, Obi-Wan lets the last of his anxieties go into the Force. "I did the right thing."

"You did." Master Yoda catches Obi-Wan's eyes and smiles sadly. "The Council and I let our history with Mandalore get in the way of our duty to the galaxy. You did not." Master Yoda takes a sip of his tea and hums quietly to himself in thought. "Make sure we must, that such a thing does not happen again."

"What do you mean, Master?" Obi-Wan reaches for his cup, takes a sip, and then remembers why he put it down in the first place. He grimaces and watches Yoda's ears go up in amusement, then fall back down as he answers the question.

"This request from the Senate was not an unusual occurrence." Master Yoda studies his tea. "Perhaps a change is due, a more hands-on approach with the Senate."

"Hm." Obi-Wan doesn't say anything; he and his Master don't spend a lot of time at the Senate.

"Easier it would be to build trust with Mandalore and its people if we could speak with their leader." Master Yoda muses. "But the Senate does not recognize Mereel as the Mand’alor."

Frowning, Obi-Wan considers what he knows about Mandalore. It's not much beyond the history of the Mandalorian Wars and the Mandalorian Excision.

"Couldn’t the Council just send an envoy to apologize?" Obi-Wan asks.

"Go behind the Senate’s back, you suggest?" Master Yoda asks, amused, and Obi-Wan blushes. "Not a bad idea." The old Master hums. "If we could make sure our presence was not unwelcome."

Obi-Wan considers telling Master Yoda about the meeting he has planned with Mereel but decides not to.

--

Qui-Gon watches in concern as his apprentice marches into their apartment and heads straight for the kitchen with a slightly queasy look on his face.

“Did you have a good evening, Obi-Wan?” he inquires hesitantly. It is several hours after dinner time, and he has not seen his Padawan since that morning, but Obi-Wan has been tense and snappish all week.

Obi-Wan returns to the living room with two cups of tea and a ration bar. Murmuring a thank you, Qui-Gon takes a sip of the scalding hot liquid and watches as his Padawan grimaces and sits down.

“I had dinner with Master Yoda.”

Qui-Gon puts on a sympathetic face. “The stew?”

“The stew,” Obi-Wan confirms.

He watches in amusement as Obi-Wan devours the food and sips at his tea. “You had a good time, aside from the food, I mean?” Qui-Gon asks, pleased. Obi-Wan looks better, more relaxed, and he's smiling.

“Yeah,” Obi-Wan shrugs and drinks his tea. “I haven't spent a lot of time with Master Yoda since I became your Padawan. We haven't spent a lot of time in the Temple, and it was nice to talk to him again.”

The flash of guilt was not unexpected, but the regret was. Yoda is his Grandmaster, yet it has been years since Qui-Gon has taken the time to talk to him outside of the Council business. And he has never invited Yoda to dinner with him and Obi-Wan. That had been something they had done when Qui-Gon was a Padawan, before Master Dooku and Master Yoda had their falling out. Perhaps it is time to change that.

“What did you talk about?” The question is an easy one, so Qui-Gon does not think it deserves the reaction it gets. Obi-Wan goes stiff, and he's not smiling anymore. Instead, he lifts his chin and keeps his face neutral. Qui-Gon recognizes the blank look on his face. It's a mask Obi-Wan slips on during especially hard and difficult negotiations when he feels the need to hide his true emotions, his hurt, and fear. It makes Qui-Gon realize that he has missed something important regarding his Padawan, something Yoda had picked up on and talked to Obi-Wan about. It hurts that his Padawan had not felt comfortable turning to him for help.

Before his Padawan can find a way to change the subject, Qui-Gon interrupts. “You don't have to tell me, but… did it help to talk to Master Yoda?” He knows that the visions had stopped and that had been a weight off his shoulders, but Obi-Wan had not relaxed and over the last week had been even more nervous than before. The Council had called him back to discuss the visions further, and Qui-Gon had thought the matter settled. Perhaps he had been mistaken.

Looking conflicted and chewing his lip, Obi-Wan hesitantly nods. “It did, we...”

Obi-Wan runs a hand through his hair in frustration; he often does that when he can’t find the words to explain his thoughts. “We talked through it, and I’m gonna be okay.”

Obi-Wan smiles at him, and Qui-Gon smiles back; he’ll have to trust that his Padawan has it under control and that Obi-Wan will come to him, or Master Yoda if he needs help.

“That's good.” He takes another sip of his tea and watches Obi-Wan do the same. “The council has asked me to teach a class on the Living Force for some of the Knights.” Qui-Gon watches Obi-Wan digest this information.

“It means we will have to stay in the temple for next semester.” Obi-Wan doesn't sound displeased at the prospect of more time in the temple, no, quite the opposite. Qui-Gon recognizes that look in his Padawan's eye; it tends to appear just before trouble, or Padawan Vos. He huffs to himself. Padawan Vos is trouble, so it’s perhaps better to say that trouble follows where Quinlan goes. Not that his Padawan is any better.

He meets Obi-Wan’s eyes again. “Try to keep your scheming to a minimum. There's only so much ignorance I can fake to the other Masters.”

It’s only after hearing his apprentices’ laughter filling the living room that Qui-Gon realizes he has not heard Obi-Wan this carefree in months. Not since before Melida/Daan. Another regret and mistake he needs to fix. It’s a good thing then that they will be staying in the temple. It will give him the time to do some scheming of his own.

Chapter Text

“What are you doing?” The question comes from right behind his left ear. Jerking, Obi-Wan brings his elbow up and plants it in Quinlan’s gut, knocking the air right out of him.

“Oh kriff, I’m sorry, Quinlan.” Wheezing, Quinlan waves off Obi-Wan’s apologies.

“It’s fine. I’m fine. I deserved that.” He stands bent over with his hands on his knees for a second, catching his breath. “Didn‘t answer the question though, what are you doing loitering in the hallways?”

Before Obi-Wan has a chance to answer, a delighted look enters the Kiffar’s eyes, and he grins like a madman. “Are we stalking someone? Is it Sarrissa Jeng? She’s cute, but this is not how you ask someone out, Obi-Wan, you have to talk to her if you want to get a date.”

“There is no ‘we’ in this.” Crossing his arms, Obi-Wan glares at Quinlan.

Quinlan leers at him, and Obi-Wan wants to punch his smug face in, but he knows from experience that it won't actually stop Quinlan, quite the opposite. “So you do not deny it then. If you want advice on how to ask someone out, all you had to do was ask. I’m a fountain of information.”

“The only advice you can give me is on how to get dumped.” If Obi-Wan is growling slightly, he must be forgiven; it has been a stressful few days.

Quinlan makes a wounded noise and places a hand over his heart, but he's still grinning. “You know what, Obi-Wan, that might have hurt more than the elbow to the gut. But you're still avoiding the question - what are you doing?”

Obi-Wan feels his ears heat up. Quinlan had hit the nail on the head; he is technically stalking someone. After the dinner with Yoda yesterday, he had decided to be more proactive in his decisions. “I'm waiting.”

Raising an eyebrow at him, Quinlan asks, “On what exactly? The sun to burn out? For life as we know it to end in the cold vacuum of space? You have to give me something to work with here.”

Clearing his throat, Obi-Wan answers, putting as much Coruscant primeness in his voice as he can muster. “If you must know, I’m waiting for Knight Drallig.”

Knight Cin Drallig is a lightsaber instructor, one of the best swordsmen the Jedi Order had ever seen, and rumored to be next in line for the Battlemaster position when Master Anoon Bondare retires.

Both of them had instructed most of the temple in different Forms, including Obi-Wan and Quinlan as initiates.

Quinlan looks skeptical. “I don't know Obi-Wan. He might be too old for you.”

“QUINLAN! That is not what I meant, and you know it!” Blushing profusely, Obi-Wan looks around and watches in horror as several nearby Masters and Knights look at them in confusion and concern.

“I want him to teach me Soresu,” Obi-Wan admits in defeat and watches as Quinlan frowns at him.

“Form III? I thought Master Qui-Gon was teaching you Form IV?” Grimacing, Obi-Wan nods.

Obi-Wan is studying Ataru, and he has put effort into learning Shien, Form V, for the times he needs to deflect blaster bolts and to get comfortable with the reverse grip. There had also been a class or two on Niman, Form IV - it was also called the diplomat’s form, and it had no great strengths, but neither did it have any great weaknesses and it was a balance of all the Forms, making it not as aggressive nor as defensive as some of the other Forms.

After the vision… He needs better defensive skills, and Soresu is the best defensive Form of them all. And if he could incorporate some of his Ataru into it, he could round out some of the inherent flaws in both Forms.

He could perhaps ask his Master, but Obi-Wan doesn't want to risk Master Qui-Gon saying no, and Master Qui-Gon can be stubborn. So he had looked up Knight Drallig’s schedule and is hoping to catch up to him as he finishes a saber class in one of the bigger salles.

“Hey.” Quinlan waits until Obi-Wan meets his gaze before asking, his voice low in concern, “Are you okay?”

“No, but I will be. I had dinner with Master Yoda yesterday.” Obi-Wan has to believe that. He smiles at his best friend, but Quinlan only frowns harder at him in response. They've known each other since the crèche, and there were few things they didn’t share between them, so for Obi-Wan to be so evasive is almost unheard of.

“The nightmares, the ones that started up days after you got back from Melida/Daan.” Quinlan suddenly straightens up and looks over Obi-Wan’s shoulder, eyes unfocused. “You had a vision.”

It’s not a question, but Obi-Wan treats it as such. “Yeah.”

“And now, a month later, you want to learn a new saber form.” Again, not a question, but a statement. Obi-Wan sometimes forgets that it isn’t just because of his psychometry that Quinlan is considered for investigation work. He’s whip-smart. For all that, he hides behind easy grins and loud actions. He’s studying Obi-Wan now, in consideration, instead of in concern. “Okay.”

Blinking at Quinlan in confusion, Obi-Wan echoes him. “Okay?”

“Yea- Oh, look, there's Knight Drallig.” The exclamation is followed by Quinlan making a beeline for said Knight, leaving Obi-Wan standing there in confusion.

“Quinlan, what the kriff are you doing?” Running after his best friend and trying to catch up, Obi-Wan curses Quinlan's existence.

“You are never gonna get a move on, so I’m making one for you,” The Kiffar looks over his shoulder, and when he sees Obi-Wan’s murderous glare, he speeds up, calling out to the Knight and trying to get his attention - and Quinlan is very good at grabbing attention. “Knight Drallig!”

“Padawan Vos, Padawan Kenobi. Is there something I can help you with?” If Knight Drallig is puzzled at having Quinlan almost run up to him and then have Obi-Wan careening into his back, resulting in a small shoving match that ends with Obi-Wan in a headlock, he doesn’t show it.

Quinlan bows as best he can while wrapped around Obi-Wan and goes straight for it. “Knight Drallig, I was wondering if you had the time to teach me and Obi-Wan Form III.”

Ignoring Obi-Wan’s muffled yelling about how there's no ‘we’ in this, the Knight pauses, glances between them, and asks, grinning slightly: “Have you asked your Masters?”

Quinlan grins back. “Nope.”

Knight Drallig folds his arms and meets Obi-Wan's gaze, asking, “Is Master Jinn being a stubborn bantha again?”

Choking on-air, Quinlan’s laughter drowns out Obi-Wan’s spluttering.

“Probably.” Quinlan is unrepentant in his answer as he finally lets go of Obi-Wan’s head.

Putting a hand to his chin, still smiling, Knight Drallig looks thoughtful and then nods. “I have a beginner class on Suresu starting in two weeks if you’re interested.”

Obi-Wan grins in relief, meeting Quinlan’s eyes. He looks extremely pleased with himself. “Afternoon classes?”

“Yes.” Knight Drallig agrees.

“That should work. Thank you, Knight Drallig .” Obi-Wan bows and elbows Quinlan until he follows suit. “We’ll be there.”

--

The first couple of Soresu classes had been brutal. Knight Drallig is a good instructor, but he is also strict, and he takes great pleasure in pushing his students past their perceived limits. There had been more than one student in the class with unsteady feet and sore arms from the many katas Drallig had put them through. Even some of the Masters had looked perturbed and like they regretted their life choices.

Form III, Soresu, is a defensive form of saber combat that relies heavily on endurance and economy of motion. Still, it’s the tight blade work and subtle dodges that are giving Obi-Wan problems. Ataru, the form he is more familiar with, is an aggressive form with offensive attacks, wide powerful swings, and more Force leaps and acrobatics. Soresu is all about being ‘within the eye of the storm’ and keeping a calm center.

Obi-Wan is currently working through some katas by himself in an empty salle. His lightsaber has been giving him problems since he got it back after Melida/Daan 10 weeks ago, and he's trying to work through the issues. He lets his arms fall and looks at his lightsaber in frustration. The blade doesn’t feel right anymore. When he had first made the blade, the lightsaber had felt like an extension of his hand, but now it's off.

He knows that every kyber crystal is different and that the blade reflects the Jedi, but now there is a disharmony between Obi-Wan and his kyber crystal that he's never felt before. He does have a theory about why the crystal is being difficult; Obi-Wan himself has changed, and the crystal has remained the same.

Usually, the lightsaber, and by extension the crystal, never left a Jedi’s side, but Obi-Wan had left the Jedi Order. It was only for a short time, but so much had happened during that time, and he had not had his lightsaber with him for it. He had grown up, but the crystal hadn’t followed him. Obi-Wan sighs. He should probably meditate on that and ask Master Yoda for advice.

“Padawan Kenobi.” The cool, collected voice of Master Dooku comes from behind him, and Obi-Wan spins around. Master Dooku is standing in the doorway to the salles, hands clasped behind his back, impeccably dressed and poised as always.

Trying to discreetly brush out his tunic and straighten his posture, Obi-Wan bows. “Master Dooku.”

“So, you are my grand padawan. I don't believe we have ever been formally introduced.” There's a challenge in his voice that Obi-Wan can't decipher, but he doesn't flinch away from it. ”An oversight on Qui-Gon’s part, I'm sure.” The older Master's eyes are inscrutable as he studies Obi-Wan. “Your footwork is abysmal. For all Qui-Gon’s faults, I did not think him such an incompetent teacher. Nor did I think he would favor Soresu; it's too subtle for him.”

Keeping his voice and feet steady, Obi-Wan answers the not-question. “You are correct, Master Dooku. Master Qui-Gon doesn’t practice Soresu. I joined a beginner class for Form III last month.”

Dooku’s eyes narrow, and Obi-Wan suddenly remembers that Master Dooku had been the one sent after the True Mandalorians and that Dooku knows about his vision, in all its violent glory. Swallowing, he continues. “I thought it best to strengthen my defense for future missions, and Knight Drallig is one of the best swordsmen in the Order.”

There's a slight pause - Obi-Wan would have called it a hesitation had he been talking to anyone else - before Dooku continues the conversation. “I have decided to stay in the temple for the coming year, and as such, the Council has asked me to teach a class on Makashi.”

Dooku stops and looks at Obi-Wan expectantly. Obi-Wan blinks before his brain connect the dots, and he bows again to the older Master. “If you allow beginners in your class, Master Dooku, I would be honored to have a Master of your caliber to learn from.”

When Obi-Wan straightens from his bow and looks back at Dooku, he could swear the older Master is smiling. Or maybe he's having an uncontrollable facial twitch.

“Hmm, perhaps with you there, the class wouldn't be a complete waste of my time.” With those words, Master Dooku turns on his heel and walks away, leaving Obi-Wan behind in the salle, grinning, if also slightly confused, wondering if that had been a compliment or not.

Chapter Text

After leaving Galidraan, they had met up with Myles and the Haat Mando’ade on Mandalore and had gone over the information gathered from Kyr’tsad. Over a month later, they still didn’t have much to go on, so Myles had spent the rest of his time gathering information on the Jedi Order for Jaster so that he would be prepared for the meeting with Padawan Kenobi. They had decided not to tell the rest of the Haat’ade about Kenobi and the visions yet, but Jango knew it would get out to them soon. They were all terrible gossips. Afterward, the Haat’ade had split up, several of them had gone home, and others had taken up bounty hunts and other odd jobs around the galaxy.

Jango didn’t know what he had expected when he had followed Jaster down into Coco Town to Dex Diner, but he had not imagined this. Looking around the diner in interest as he was shown a booth by a WA-7 waitress droid that had introduced itself as FLO, Jango has to admit this is a good place to gather information and have clandestine meetings. He takes a seat and scoots in against the wall, making room for Jaster, as Arla sits down across from him. He sees a Besalisk, probably Dex if Jango had to hazard a guess, sticks his head out from the kitchen, and makes a complicated gesture with his lower hand at Jaster before he disappears back into the steam of the kitchen.

“It seems our Jet’ika is running a little late,” Jaster says, taking off his helmet and runs a hand through his hair. Jango grins at the sight, glad his helmet hides his expression. His buir always did that after wearing his helmet for hours, and without fail, he always made it look like a disaster, with tufts of hair standing up straight in the back and flat in front. Myles had called him duck butt once, and Jango had to agree.

Jango removes his helmet and meets Arla’s amused eyes as she does the same. Their buir looked ridiculous, and no way in nine Corellian Hells were they doing to tell Jaster that.

They only have to wait another five minutes before the door swings open, and Dex rounds the counter calling out as he goes. “Obi-Wan! It’s good to see you.”

Arla cranes her neck around to watch as the Besalisk picks up a Jedi in a hug that sweeps the kid off his feet. Their table is close enough that they can hear Obi-Wan protesting about bruised ribs, hoping to get put back down on his feet. Dex lets him down and then leads him over to their booth, a hand on the Jetii’s shoulder, asking questions. “I thought you didn’t have any missions. How did you get injured?”

The kid, Obi-Wan, grins at Dex. “Turns out learning Soresu involves having the instructor trying to beat down your defenses, by any means necessary.” He shrugs. “And I'm not that good yet.”

Reaching their table, Obi-Wan bows to Jaster. “Mand’alor Mereel, it’s an honor meeting you again.”

Jaster snorts and gestures for the jetii to take a seat. “Please, call me Jaster. This is my daughter Arla,” she waves at him,” and you already know my son, Jango.”

Obi-Wan bows to Arla but does a double-take at the mention of Jango and then looks at him.

“What?” Jango winces slightly, that might have come out a little gruff, but the kid deserved it. He was staring at Jango, and it was making him uncomfortable.

“My apologies, I didn't recognize you.” The kid sits down and breaks eye contact. There was a blush creeping up the back of his neck, and Ka’ra blesses those redheaded genes. It was somewhat adorable. Then the answer registers and Jango frowns.

“How the hell did you not recognize me?” Jango demands.

Jaster had shown him the flimsi, and Jango had to admit the artist had been good and very detailed. It had depicted Jango in full armor with the helmet on. If it hadn't been for the circumstances surrounding it, Jango probably would have been flattered.

The jetii was full on blushing now. “I didn't see your face in the vision.”

Jango meets Obi-Wan’s eyes again, nods, and concedes that it was a pretty fair point. The jetii relaxes and looks up at Dex as the Besalisk starts handing out menus, breaking the slightly awkward tension. Jango focuses on Dex as well, studiously avoids looking in Arla’s direction.

When they had all ordered, Dex left them to talk, and it was Jester that asked the first question. “How are you holding up? Any more dreams we should be aware of?”

Obi-Wan hesitates, then shakes his head. “No, I’ve had no more dreams regarding the True Mandalorians.”

They were all looking at the jetii now; that had not been a no. But before Jaster could continue the interrogation, the jetii looked up, meeting Jaster’s eyes squaring his shoulders.

“Master Yoda is aware that I contacted you.” If Obi-Wan noticed the tension ratcheting up, he did not show it. Instead, he continued in a clear and steady voice. “He wants to arrange a meeting between you and the Order to make a formal apology for what almost happened at Galidraan.”

Here, the kid stops to grimace slightly but continues with determination. “Master Yoda also wants to assure you that he will be taking steps to make sure something like this will not happen again.”

Jaster sits back in the booth, eyebrows raised. “That was not the reaction I had expected.”

The kid huffs in agreement and slumps down on the table. “Master Yoda lives to upend expectations.”

“Does he know you're here?” Jaster asks, and Obi-Wan shakes his head.

“No,” Obi-Wan wrinkles his nose. “I think the Council themselves should make the apology. But if you could try not to shoot the Jedi the moment you see them, that would be nice.” Obi-Wan smiles at Jaster, who laughs.

“You know, Master Yoda well?” To Jango's eternal surprise, he was the one asking that question. The kid looks at him again, he had really blue eyes, and shrugs.

“Better than some of my age mates at least. He is my great-grandmaster, after all.” When all the Mandalorians did was blink at him, he huffs and explains. “I’m a part of his lineage. His former Padawan is my Master’s Master.”

“He’s your ba’buir.” Arla only grins wider at Obi-Wan’s confused expression.

“I don't know what that means.” He answers, sounding distrustful of Arla’s expression, but she’s saved from explaining herself when FLO rolls up and starts handing out the food.

“Careful, hon, the plate’s hot.” When she rolls away, Jango picks up his burger, a little skeptical, and bits into it. There was no way in hell he could stop the noise coming out of his mouth. This burger was the best thing on this side of the galaxy.

“Why have we not been here before, buir?” Jango demands and turns to look at Jaster. Out of the corner of his eye, he caught the jetii looking at him with wide eyes, the blush creeping further up his neck.

His buir, that bastard, only hums before answering. “Too close to the Core, and there's never any good workaround here anyway.”

Jango scoffs and turns back to his food. That was a misdirect if he had ever heard one. They ate in comfortable silence, letting the kitchen's noise and the other patrons wash over them. It lasted a whole minute before Arla couldn't keep her curiosity at bay any longer.

“How did you know that Dex could get in contact with us?” She wiggled her fingers next to her temple.” Or did you know?”

Obi-Wan swallows his food, takes a sip from his milkshake to wash it down, and shakes his head. “I didn't, but I do know what Dex used to do for a living, so if anyone would know, it was him.”

“A gamble, then?” Arla sounds unimpressed but brightens up at the winning smile Obi-Wan directs at her.

“Let’s call it a well-founded guess.” He suggests meeting Jango’s eye and quickly looking away. Jango narrows his own eyes at the jetii. There had been guilt in the jetii’s face.

“What?” He demands again, and this is quickly turning into a pattern with the jetii. He’s usually better at keeping his temper down. There’s maybe half a second of panic before the kid clears his face of all emotion.

“I’m just surprised, that’s all,” Obi-Wan says, and Jango frowns, but Arla beats him to the question.

“About what? That this di’kut can string a sentence together? Then trust me, you’re not the only one.” Jango tries to kick her under the table, and Arla only grins wider at him when he misses. Jester sights and continues eating, but he was keeping a close eye on the smiling jetii.

“No, I only meant that in my vision you were so angry and- .” Obi-Wan shudders. “I thought I was going to drown in the rage flowing through the force. And now,” he gestures at Jango. “you are so-.” Coughing to clear his throat, he continued a little red face. ”Different.”

There was no doubt in Jango’s mind that ‘different’ was not the word Obi-Wan was originally going to use. “Yeah, well, I haven't lost everyone I cared about to the jetiise, so forgive me for being a little different.”

The kid flinched, bit his lip, and slowly raised his head to meet Jango’s eyes. “No, you haven't.” The agreement ringed hollow between them.

“Kid-” Jaster began, but Arla cut him off.

“You're lying about something.” Arla says, her voice as cold as a snowstorm on Hoth, “I watched the conversation with you and Jaster a few times. When you said there were ‘no Mandalorian survivors,’ you were lying.”

Jango feels his breath catch and watches as the kid nods miserably. He thinks he knows where this is going, but Jango's brain refuses to acknowledge the thought, the nightmare being presented to him. When he finally found his voice again, it was raspy with emotion after what felt like hours. “Who survived?”

Obi-Wan meets his eyes, and there is pure misery in them, but his voice is clear. “You were the only survivor. It’s why I was able to draw that picture - you were the clearest part of the vision.” Obi-Wan doesn’t look away, and Jango feels his blood run cold. “I saw you kill six Jedi with your bare hands before they were able to subdue you.”

The thought of watching his family being slaughtered when there’s nothing he can do about it makes him nauseous and then being left as the only one still alive...Jango thinks he would rather die with them than live on without them. “I need some air.” He stands up, pushes Jaster out of the way, and hurries out of the diner.

Jango is aware of Jaster following, but he doesn’t care. Jango walks into the back alley and tries not to lose his dinner all over the nearest wall. The worst part is that he can see it happening as clearly as if it did happen. The broken bodies of Arla, Jaster, Myles…

He hears Jaster come up behind him, and when Jaster pulls him around, Jango doesn't resist, letting Jaster pull him close and lean their foreheads together. Jaster keeps his breath steady, and Jango tries to match it.

In his mind's eye, the bodies shift to his parents, their bodies lying in what's left of the Fett Farm. To Kordia Six, when they had been so close to losing Jaster, where he and Arla watched Jaster bleed out in front of them, watching once more as they lost another Buir. To every other battlefield, the Haat’ade has been on where they have lost people. Jaster doesn't say anything, stays where he is, his forehead resting against Jango’s in comfort and support.

The thing is, what Jango is feeling isn’t fear. That would have been too easy. No, Jango is angry. This is the rage that made him blow up the tank with Tor Vizla still inside it (too bad it hadn't killed the fucker), the rage that made him point a blaster and kill the man that killed his parents when he was only five. This is the rage he felt when he realized Arla was still alive and that Kyr’tsad had her.

This anger, he knows, will not let him rest until he has found every one of those hut'uun in Kyr’tsad and burned them to the ground. The only thing that scares Jango is that he doesn't know how far he will go to get his revenge; what part of himself he will give up in the process.

He had seen this anger in Arla when they finally got her back from Kyr’tsad. The way she had been raging and shouting at everyone and anyone that got close, even Jango. The way she wanted to drown the whole of Mandalore in blood, and then the galaxy if she could. The first and only time Arla had injured Jango in her rampage, she had not even looked sorry. There had been nothing but contempt in her eyes.

Only after she had calmed down had Arla been allowed to see him again, and then they had not been left alone. Tre Sana had taken Arla away three days later, and Jango had not seen her for months, and when she finally came back, Arla had been more like the sister he knew from before. Arla had gotten better, but it had taken time, and there were still occasions where she lost herself in the rage lurking right under the surface.

Here in the heart of the Republic, there’s no convenient enemy to take his anger out on like he usually does, just one jetii that has done everything in his power to save Jango and his people.

Jango takes a deep breath, opens his eyes again, and finds Jaster already watching him. They look at each other for a second then Jaster pulls him into a hug. “Need more time?”

Jango tightens his hold on Jaster, then let's go. "No. I'm fine.”

Chapter Text

Jango takes a second to control his breathing and his shaking hands then heads back into the diner with Jaster, where he finds Arla at the tail end of a story involving a mission that had not gone according to plan, and if the smile on Obi-Wan’s face is anything to go by Arla is not spearing him any of the gory details.

Jango huffs and slides into the booth. He meets Arla’s worried eyes, and the last of the tension melt out of her when she can see that he is fine. Arla finishes up the story as he rolls his eyes at her and glances at Obi-Wan, but the jet’ika is already watching Jango. He holds Obi-Wan's gaze for a second and then grins at him, and Jango is rewarded with a smile that shows off the jetii’s dimples.

Jaster clears his throat and looks around the table, amusement clear on his face. “So, now that we have all calmed down again,” Jaster nudges Jango’s knee. ”Let’s get to the reason we are here.”

Obi-Wan squints at Jaster when he asks. “It wasn’t just to meet me?”

“That was part of it,” Jaster reassures Obi-Wan and then makes a gesture that somehow encompasses not just Arla and Jango but the whole of the Haat Mando’ade. “But we owe you a life debt, and we want to know how we can repay you.”

“You don’t owe me anything,” Obi-Wan protests, he looks confused, and it makes him look unreasonably adorable. “I didn’t do it for a favor.”

“We know, but that doesn't change the fact that you saved our lives,” Arla informs him in a way-too-chipper a tone.

Obi-Wan looks ready to protest again, but he stops and bites his lip instead. He studies Jaster. “Anything goes?”

“Within reason.” Jaster amends.

Jango keeps the frown off his face and watches as Obi-Wan takes a second to think something through and then come to a decision. “There is a woman I would like you to find for me. She, as far as I’m aware, currently in Gardulla the Hutt’s court on Tatooine.”

“This mystery woman has a name?” Jaster inquires.

“Her name is Shmi Skywalker,” Obi-Wan meets Jaster’s eyes with determination. ”And I want you to free her.”

Jaster doesn't react visibly to the statement, but Jango knows his buir. He is intrigued. “Why her? There are thousands of enslaved beings out there, why this woman?”

There is no judgment in the question, but Obi-Wan flinches and looks away. “Is not about her. It’s about her s-, it's about her child, who she hasn’t even given birth to yet.”

Obi-Wan runs a hand through his hair in aggravation and continues with his explanation. “I had a vision of her and her child. And I know if I do something to help her now, I might change that, but… I have to do something, I can’t just let her suffer like this, it’s-” He breaks off, and they are left in silence. Arla is the one who breaks it.

“You can’t save them all. You are just one person, jet'ika.” Her voice is soft, and Jango has only heard her use that tone of voice with him or Jaster.

Obi-Wan looks at her, and there is anger in his eyes, but it’s directed inwards. “I’m a Jedi, and the Jedi should be helping! We are the ‘protectors of the galaxy,’ yet we are not doing anything!”

Jango watches the jetii simmer in anger, and he takes strange comfort in it. The jetiise of the stories always seemed so distant and unfathomable. At the moment, Obi-Wan is everything but.

“Oh sure, we save individual sentients when we can, but we do nothing about the system of slavery!” The anger is spilling over into his voice and posture now.

Jango grimaces and looks at Arla, who meets his eyes and pulls a face of her own. The whole galaxy has turned a blind eye towards the slave trade, and even though there are laws against it, the Senate has not given Law Enforcement enough funds to enforce the existing laws.

“I know why the Jedi can’t just go into Hutt space and just start-” Obi-Wan knuckles turn white. He is clenching them so hard. “We are supposed to be representatives of the Republic. To go into Hutt's space and start liberating people would be seen as an act of war, and the Senate would never allow the Republic to go to war with the Hutts. We can’t afford to anger the Hutt Council.” Obi-Wan’s lips twist in disgust. Whether at the Hutts or the Senate is hard to tell.

“So the Jedi open education centers and medical centers and hopes that runaway slaves will find their way to our door for help. So that we can make them citizens of a Republic that have decided to do nothing. And you want to know the worst part?” Obi-Wan doesn’t give them enough time to answer before he barrels on. “I’m no better. If I hadn’t seen Shmi Skywalker in this vision, I would have done nothing to help her. I wouldn't even have cared.”

There are a thousand thoughts in Jango’s head, but before he can voice any of them, Jaster speaks up. “I have a hard time believing you wouldn’t have cared, jet’ika.”

“I wouldn’t even have known about her if not for the vision.” Obi-Wan counters, and he glares at Jaster, but they can all see that the Jedi’s anger is still directed at himself.

Jaster sighs. There are a hundred regrets in that one sound. “You can’t take all of this on your shoulders, Obi-Wan.”

“But the Jedi-”

“You are only one person,” Jaster huffs and smiles gently at Obi-Wan. “And even the jetiise can make mistakes.”

“This is one hell of a mistake,” Obi-Wan mutters.

Jaster hums in agreement. “But the jetiise can change. Now, tell me about the vision, why this kid?”

Obi-Wan closes his eyes and takes a second to breathe. “The kid is force-sensitive, but unlike anything I've ever felt. Where Master Yoda feels like a distant star in the force, this kid feels like a supernova. The power, the connection with the force, it’s unbelievable.” When he opens his eyes again, Obi-Wan is smiling softly, and Jango can't help but mirror his expression.

“You want us to free Skywalker so you can make her kid a jetii?” Arla wrinkles her nose, and Jango can read the disappointment in her face, but Obi-Wan blinks at her in confusion.

“I- no?” The jet’ika shakes his head, and Arla relaxes somewhat. “Whether the child joins the Order or not is up to Shmi Skywalker. The Jedi Order does not steal children from their guardians, nor do we take the unwilling.”

Jango can sense a ‘but’ coming, except Obi-Wan stops talking, looking slightly shifty. When it’s clear, Obi-Wan won’t say anything else, Jango leans forward on his elbows to ask. “What?”

Obi-Wan meets Jango’s eyes, and then his shoulders slump forward. “Untrained force users are vulnerable, and with this kid’s power, he can be dangerous.” Obi-Wan furrows his brow and makes a sharp gesture with his hand. “Considering that the kid is already enslaved, the danger is even more present."

Jango studies the jetii and considers the conversation so far. “That’s not all, is it?”

Obi-Wan glances at Jango, and he doesn't look away.

“No,” Obi-Wan finally admits. “The force has felt...” He trails off and shrugs. “I don’t know if this is a new development or if I just notice, but the force feels darker. More malicious.”

“What does it have to do with the kid?” Jango asks.

“The Jedi believe the Darkside is corruptive, and if an untrained force-user reaches for the force in anger, they will reach for the Darkside,” Obi-Wan explains. “A force-user doesn’t have to be trained in the Dark Side to use it and be a danger to themselves and others. I don’t want the kid to end up like Xanatos.”

“Xantos?” Arla leans forward to get Obi-Wan’s attention. “Who's that?”

“He was my first Masters Padawan. He fell to the Darkside years ago.” Obi-Wan grimaces and shudders. “The way he felt in the force, all that anger and darkness, it was sticking to him like oil.”

Obi-Wan stops and blinks before muttering mostly to himself. “Just like the force…”

“Was he darjetii?” Arla asks, and Jango’s eyebrows shoot up.

“I don't know that word,” Obi-Wan admits.

“Sith.” Jaster translates, and Jango watches the jet’ika glances between all of them and shakes his head in denial.

“The Sith are gone from the galaxy. They were all killed over a thousand years ago during the Last Jedi-Sith War.” Obi-Wan tells them. The words come out strange, like he is quoting from a book or a mantra he has been told.

Frowning, Jango tries to think back to what Jaster told him about it. Still, one of the only things he can remember is that the conflict had lasted almost a thousand years and that Jaster had been very clear on one thing: a Jedi might betray you, but they will not stab you in the back. A Sith, on the other hand, will betray you and they will stab you in the back.

“Right,” Arla drawls. “And how many times have the jettise thought that and then had the darjetii come back to bite them in the ass?”

“No,” Obi-Wan’s voice is steady, but Jango can see that his fist is clenched so hard it's turning white. “The Jedi would have felt it if the Sith had returned.”

“You just said that the Force felt darker,” Jango argues, not quite sure why he is so insistent on this.

“Wouldn’t the Masters or the Jedi Council have felt it if the Sith were back?” Obi-Wan questions, and Jango glances at Arla in resignation. They are not gonna get any further with this line of questioning. Jaster must feel it too because he reaches out to grasp Obi-Wan’s forearm, putting them wrist to wrist in a traditional Mando greeting.

Not that Jango thinks Obi-Wan recognizes the gestures or their significance because the jet’ika only blinks at their clasped hands and then looks at Jaster in confusion. “You should talk to Master Yoda about this. He might have a better insight into this Force osik, unlike three Mandalorians that are about as Force Sensitive as a rock.”

Arla rolls her eyes and looks at Jango. They are apparently going to be helping Obi-Wan with his force vision.

Obi-Wan huffs and informs them that he does, in fact, have a force-sensitive rock and would you like to see it. Jaster smiles as well and, to Jango’s disappointment, declines. “We have to leave soon. After all, we have to make a stop at Tatooine.”

That makes Obi-Wan grin, and it's like the cloud parts, and the sun shines through. “You will help me then? To free Shmi Skywalker?”

Jaster chuckles. “Yeah, we’ll help. Do you have anywhere, in particular, you want us to take her afterward?”

“No.” Obi-Wan shakes his head. “That should be her choice, but can you make sure she gets her chip removed first?”

“Can do.” Jaster agrees easily. “You don’t happen to have a drawing of her too, by any chance? Would make it easier to find her.”

“No, but I should be able to draw on for you easily enough.” Obi-Wan glanced at Arla.

“I already gave him the ship’s comm number. just in case.” Arla grins at the jet’ika and nudges Jango’s foot under the table. Jango is going to kill her.

“Okay, just hold on a second. Be right back.” Obi-Wan stands up and disappears into the back of the diner for all of three seconds, and then he is back again. “Can you give this to her as well, it’s not much, but it should be enough to get her on her feet.”

Jaster takes the credit chip Obi-Wan is holding out. “Do I want to know where you got the credits from?”

“I’m a fair hand at sabacc, and Dex usually keeps it safe for me.” Obi-Wan smiles at them.

Jango huffed at Obi-Wan. “The Jetiise plays sabacc?”

“Not in the temple. I usually go to the lower levels.” Obi-Wan looks extremely pleased with himself, and it makes Jango’s lips twitch.

“Oh, I like you, jet’ika, we have to meet up again sometime,” Arla says, and Obi-Wan grins at her. Jaster stands up, complaining about his knee all the way. It never completely healed after Korda Six.

“Obi-Wan!” At the sound of his name, Obi-Wan turns to look at Dex, who is leaning over the counter, eyeing him wearily. “You better not be thinking about paying for your food. You know I won’t stand for it.”

Obi-Wan gasps, placing his hand over his heart and with as much mock offense as he can muster answers the Besalisk. “I would never disrespect your honor like that, Dex. To pay for my food would be a great insult to your name and legacy.”

The ridiculous posture and words coming out of the jetii’s mouth make Jango stifle laughter. Arla makes no such attempt and is laughing outright at Dex, who narrows his eyes at Obi-Wan. Jango catches his eyes, and Obi-Wan winks at him. “I am, however, paying for my lovely companion’s dinner.”

Obi-Wan puts some credits on the table, bows to an outraged Dex, and, after a moment's hesitation, offers his hand to Jaster, who takes it and pulls Obi-Wan into a hug. The jet’ika hugs back, and Jaster whispers something in Obi-Wan’s ear, and when he lets go, Obi-Wan is slightly pink in the cheeks. Obi-Wan turns to Jango and Arla, bows, and leaves with a quick goodby.

Dex steps up to the table moments later, cursing Obi-Wan under his breath, sweeps up the credits with one hand, and takes the plates with the others. Dex looks at all three of them in turn and nodes to Jaster. “Your welcome back anytime, Jaster. I’ll be in touch.”

Jango watches Dex go and wonders how he met Obi-Wan. That must be one hell of a story.

“Alright, kiddos, that's enough drama for at least the rest of the year for me. Let's get out of here.” Jaster says and ushers them out of the diner.

“You're such an old man, buir, it's embarrassing,” Jango says and leaves Jaster behind, spluttering. He feels more than sees Arla speed up to walk next to him.

“Turns out your stalker is kinda cute.” She remarks cheerfully.

“I don't have a stalker,” Jango grumbles back at her, eyes narrowed.

Arla grins in triumph, and Jango feels his stomach drop. “So you don't deny that he is cute.”

Jango kicks her in the knee, puts his bucket on his head, and storms off, trying and failing to ignore her laughter and that his ears are burning.

Chapter Text

Obi-Wan had approached the old Master and asked for Yoda’s help with the crystal earlier in the day, and during dinner in Master Yoda’s quarters, Obi-Wan had confessed to having met up with Mereel the week before. Master Yoda had hummed and said he had expected Obi-Wan to send a comm, not an in-person meeting, but if Obi-Wan were becoming acquainted with the Mand’alor, Yoda would not stand in his way.

“Remember to be careful. They are Mandalorians.” It had been the old Masters only warning, but Obi-Wan had gotten the feeling that Yoda was amused about the whole thing.

Now he watches as Master Yoda handles Obi-Wan’s lightsaber and hopes everything turns out well. Master Yoda hands Obi-Wan's lightsaber back to him. “Meditated with the crystal, have you?”

He grimaces and shakes his head. “No, not the way we are taught to do when we first attune to them.”

“Hmm.” Master Yoda looks troubled. “Try that first. We will. The crystal is the heart of the blade. The heart is the crystal of the Jedi.”

“The Jedi is the crystal of the Force. The Force is the blade of the heart. All are intertwined. The crystal, the blade, the Jedi, you are one.” Obi-Wan finishes the poem that every youngling is taught before they go to Ilum to get their first crystal as an Initiate.

“Reminded you needed to be. Sit down.” Master Yoda gestures to a meditation mat under a window, and Obi-Wan takes a seat, holding his lightsaber in his hands, and sinks into meditation. He spends a moment clearing his head of fears and concerns.

When his head is clear, and Obi-Wan feels the Force flow through him, he reaches out to his crystal. It sings back to him the same way it had on Ilum, and he feels their connection. It's not muddy how he thought it would feel, he has heard stories of Masters clearing crystals of dark side influence, but this is not it. It’s not his crystal that has seen darkness and suffering, it's Obi-Wan, and he doesn’t think he can change that part of himself back to how it was before, even if he wanted to.

Obi-Wan sits with that knowledge and lets it sink into him, to feel how Melida/Daan had changed him. For better or worse, he doesn’t know. Better, some part of him whispers, the Obi-Wan before Melida/Daan would never have gone behind the High Council’s backs the way he did. Worse, another whisper, he had been whole before, unbroken. No, not broken, just less and more at the same time. It didn't make much sense to him, but Obi-Wan now knows what he is willing to give and what he is willing to endure for his beliefs, and that is a strength.

He decides to spend some time imbuing the Force into his crystal, the way all Jedi do before building their lightsaber. When Obi-Wan feels he is done, he blinks his eyes open and sees that the room has gone dark, Master Yoda sitting next to him on the meditation mat.

“What did you learn?” Yoda does not open his eyes as he speaks, and he waits patiently for Obi-Wan to gather his thoughts.

“I-” Obi-Was swallows and grips the saber tighter. “I have outgrown the crystal.” When he looks at Yoda out of the corner of his eye, he can see the older Master’s ears droop, and he nods in agreement.

“A trip to Ilum is in order.”

“But I don't want to replace the one I have.” Obi-Wan protests loudly but let his emotions fall quite again when he sees Yoda smiling at him.

“Say that, I did not, a new crystal you need, but grow we will not by throwing away the lessons we have learned.”

Obi-Wan gaps at his grand-master. “You want me to build a multi-crystal lightsaber as a junior Padawan!”

Usually, that only happened right before a knighting, when the Jedi in question would face the trials of Ilum again. To reaffirm their path as a Jedi Knight of the Republic, it was at this stage the Order lost most of their members when Jedi decided that this was not their path and resigned from the Order.

It didn’t happen often, but some found the way of the Jedi to be too constricting, who found that they could not give up the things a Jedi swore to do. Obi-Wan had seen the aftermath of such a decision twice, and he had been furious both times. He had seen it as a betrayal to give up something he was fighting so hard for, to walk away, but had he not made the same decision on Melida/Daan? Sure, the situation was different, but the result had been the same. He had found a cause worth fighting for and one he could not give up.

He looks back at Master Yoda, who had stayed silent, while he worked through his emotions.

“All right, I’ll go to Ilum.”

“Good.” Master Yoda’s ears perk up. “Scheduled to go in two weeks, one of the Initiate Clans are. Join them, you and your Master will.”

Obi-Wan groans. Two weeks stuck on a ship with 15 younglings would not be fun. “What about Master Qui-Gon’s class?”

“Handle it, you don't think I can?” Yoda asks, and Obi-Wan huffs a laugh. “Something else there is, hm. A heaviness there is on your mind that was not there before.”

Obi-Wan should not be surprised Master Yoda had noticed, but he let out a huff of displeasure either way. “I had another vision, Master Yoda. It was of a child - and the way he shone in the Force, Master, he was like a supernova! I have never seen anything like it.” Obi-Wan smiles and then bites his lip. ”I also know that he hasn’t been born yet.”

“Always in motion, the future is.” Yoda intoned, but it was not a dismissal, just a reminder.

Obi-Wan nods in agreement. “I asked the True Mandalorians to free his mother from slavery, and in doing so, I might have made it so he will never be born.”

Yoda is quiet for a moment. “Regret it, do you?” There was no accusation, just quiet curiosity.

After taking a moment to think, he shook his head. He had felt an incredible connection to the kid, and he was sure that that kid was meant to be his Padawan, but Obi-Wan did not regret saving Shmi. “I can not save everyone, but I could save her, Master Yoda. If this boy is going to be born, it will be by the will of the Force.”

“Hm,” Yoda hums, but Obi-Wan didn't know if it was in agreement or if he was thinking. “Was that all?”

“No.” Taking a deep breath, Obi-Wan continued. “I talked with Mand’alor Mereel about the Force, and I mentioned that it had felt dark lately and-” Obi-Wan cuts himself off, he hesitates on how to explain this best, and Yoda turns to look at him.

“The vision, there was a cloud of darkness hanging over all of it, all hatred and malice. I thought the darkness came from the fact that they were enslaved, but something Arla asked made me wonder if I was wrong.” Obi-Wan swallowed and clenched his hand to make it stop trembling. “They asked if it could be a sign of the return of the Sith.”

Master Yoda didn't react visibly, but in his Force presence flared in alarm and then pulled back behind his shields.

“Mand’alor Mereel advised me that I talk to you about it, Master Yoda.”

“Would you, if the Mand’alor had not asked?” Yoda meets his gaze, and Obi-Wan has to look away. No, he probably wouldn’t have. Yoda let out a long sigh.

“A great claim this is, but if it is indeed a warning from the Force, one the Jedi can not ignore.” With that, Master Yoda stands up and gestures for Obi-Wan to do the same. “Late it is, to bed you must go. Meditate on this, I will, and bring it along to the other Masters. Do not worry too much and get some sleep.”

“Thank you, Master Yoda, and have a good evening.” He bowed to Master Yoda and left for his quarters, feeling much lighter. He was not alone in this.

--

Yoda watches as Padawan Kenobi shut the door behind him and then reaches for his comm. If Obi-Wan’s instinct was right, then the Jedi Order had more trouble ahead of them than they could handle. They need information. Yoda used one of his claws to write out a short message to Master Alxa Kress. There were few secrets the Council kept so close to the vest as the Master of Shadows' identity, and Yoda was one of the few who knew.

Yoda goes to put on a fresh pot of tea. Hopefully, Master Kress would be willing to dispatch some of his Shadows to investigate this matter of the return of Sith.

--

Master Alxa Kress was a male Anomid with pale purple skin. Like all Anomid’s, he had six fingers and no vocal cords. The Anomid usually communicated using sign language, but it was hard for others to learn since they had six fingers. Instead, they had vocalizer masks that converted subtle movements of the wearer's jaw and throat muscles into audible Basic.

When Alxa had gotten the message from Master Yoda about a meeting at the earliest convenience to try out a new blend of tea, Alxa had recognized the wording for what it was, a call for a discreet meeting with the Master of Shadows. So he had concluded his business with his Padawan and left for Master Yoda’s quarters. He did not bother knocking at the door. Master Yoda had no doubt sensed him and would be expecting him either way.

“Glad you could make it, I am.” Master Yoda turned to look at him as Alxa close the door behind him. There were three cups on the table, only one unused .

“Master Yoda, what can I do for you?” The vocalizer mask had a low male voice, and it was specifically made to fit and interpreted Alxa’s subvocal harmonics. He took a seat and picked up his teacup when Yoda gestured him to step in. Yoda had even been considerate enough to provide a straw, so Alex took a quick sip. The tea was perfect as usual.

Alxa studied the old Master, and there were clear regret and heaviness to his shoulders that had not been there yesterday during the council meeting.

“Many mistakes I have made.” This is what Yoda says when he has finally gathered his thoughts.

Alxa nods. “Mistakes all off us will make, to the day we die. You have lived longer than most other sentients and will, therefore, have made many more mistakes.”

One of Yoda’s ears twitched, and he huffs, looking up at Alxa. “Forgotten I have, how an upstart you younglings can be.”

“Hmm, yet my council you seek.” Alxa retorts, his amusement being translated through the vocalizer mask.

Yoda huffed again, and then his ears droop. “What do you know of the Potentium?”

Alxa taps his fingers against the mug, and the mask makes a humming sound. The humming always came through the vocalizer mask weirdly, but it made his intent clear, so he had not reprogramed the mask. “I know they believed there was no light or dark side- only the Force. I know they were expelled from the order almost 80 years ago.”

“Yes.” Yoda nods. “But know, do you, of how they came to be?”

Alxa stops the tapping and shakes his head. “They have never been a problem, and I have seen no reason to investigate them further.” Maybe that had been a mistake.

“About 150 years ago, we, other Jedi Masters and I felt the Force fluctuate and become darker.” Yoda meets his eyes. “Murkier. Agreed we did, that the Darkside was growing. Foreshadow the birth of the Chosen One. I believed it might.”

There were times Alxa was glad the mask hid most of his expressions and that he had learned to control the movement of his jaws not accidentally to translate something he did not wish spoken aloud, and this was such a time. He didn’t put much stock in prophecies. In one way, they were all true, and in another way, they were all false. It all came down to how you interpreted them, and hindsight always made it easy to see patterns where there were none. Alxa believed much more in personal choices and decisions and how they affected the future and the people around you.

Before Alxa could say anything, Master Yoda continues. “There were others that believed that it was proof of the return of the Sith.”

There was nothing Yoda could have said that would have shocked the Anomid more than that. The mistake Yoda had referenced. “You did not take their claim seriously.”

“I did not,” Alxa noted the use of past tense and studied the Master as he nods. “We discussed the change. An agreement we did not reach, eventually they splintered into the Potentium. Unsure I am, if they remember the reason they first disagreed with the council, but I remember.”

“You have changed your mind,” Alxa states. “You now believe that the Sith has returned?”

Yoga’s ears drop. “The Potentium’s teachings are wrong, too close to the Darkside they are, but in this, they might have been right.”

“You need to tell me everything.” Leaning forward, Alxa looms over Yoda, it was quite intimidating with Alxa’s light purple skin, Opalescent eyes, and the mere fact that he was almost 1.9 meters tall. That all Anomid’s were cultural, pacifists did nothing to lessen the impact of his appearance. “Starting with who was here before me.”

“Padawan Kenobi was here before.” Yoda sighs. “But start this, he did not.”

Alxa stares at Yoda and doesn’t say anything. Master Yoda will speak when he is ready, and Alxa is a patient man.

“Dooku has long claimed the Jedi has grown complacent and let the Senate control us.” Master Yoda stops and reaches for his tea.

Steepling his fingers in front of his face and sitting back, Alxa considers Master Yoda. He is stalling. Curious. Alexa thinks back to when he was a youngling. He and Master Dooku were about the same age and had gone through most classes at the temple at the same time. “We are bound to the Senate by our own will.” He settles on.

“Yes,” Yoda agrees. “And yet the situation on Galidraan avoided could have been if investigated the claims ourselves, we had.”

“Master Dooku must have had a lot to say about that,” Alxa says, smiling slightly. “He is not known for holding his tongue.”

“He did.” Yoda sips his tea. “Advocating that we pull back from the Senate, Dooku is. Become more active in the galaxy on our own. He believes we should.”

Alxa closes his eyes and sighs. There is a reason they don't do that, and Master Dooku should be old enough to have learned that lesson himself. “And whose authority would we be acting on?”

“Our own as given to us by the Force.” Master Yoda looks at Alxa and smiles sadly. “Argued against it, I did.”

“Of course.” Alxa nods, but he pauses before continuing. “But if you are right about the Sith.” He taps his fingers against the voice coder mask and studies the old Master. Yoda holds his gaze. “Perhaps we should be more involved in the galaxy.”

Yoda’s ears twitch, and he folds his hands in his lap. “Suggesting you are, we become more involved with the Senate?” When Alxa nods, Yoda continues. “Get involved in politics. We do not. Seek power. We do not.”

Humming Alxa looked at Master Yoda in surprise. Before, Alxa’s statement would have been met with a more negative response. At present, Yoda’s words were more of a reminder, not a rebuke. “No, we do not.” Alxa agrees. “But lending our support to causes we believe in could not hurt.”

“It might,” Yoda argues. “Not many there are that trust the Jedi. Understand they do not, the power we wield.”

“Then perhaps we should make more allies willing to support us in those causes,” Alxa says. “And against the Sith.”

“Believe my claims, you do?” Yoda asks.

And that was the heart of the matter. If Master Yoda is right about the Sith, Alxa had missed something and that all his predecessors had missed something. As the Master of Shadows, it was his job to seek out and, if necessary, destroy Darksiders and artifacts. To believe what Master Yoda claims were to admit he had made a mistake. “Grandmaster Yoda, if you have changed your mind about this, I would be a fool not to listen.”

“Then wiser than I was, you are.” Yoda compliments, and Alxa smiles.

Chapter Text

Fifteen younglings are running around the ship, and Master Qui-Gon had lost control five minutes into this trip. Master Kannumai Doune had gone to the cockpit and was now making her way back, with some slight difficulties. Master Doune was a Herglic, and Qui-Gon had not been on many ships that fit her species height and weight. Standing at 2.1 meters, Master Doune was too tall for most doorways, and with the width of her shoulders, she had to walk sideways to through most of them. Master Doune had black hairless skin, and she breathed through a blowhole on top of her head. Qui-Gon had read somewhere that the Herglic believed to have evolved from water-dwelling mammals, but if they had, their fins had been replaced by arms and legs a long time ago.

"Master Jinn." Master Doune claps him on the shoulder, and Qui-Gon is sure it's meant to be gentle, but the force of it almost makes his knees buckle. "It seems you are not the best at keeping track of children in your care."

Or maybe not so gentle, he eyes the other Master warily. The Herglic is known for their kindness, but not everyone had been impressed with Qui-Gon when he returned from Melida/Daan without his Padawan. Tahl, least of all.

Qui-Gon can't find any bad intentions in Master Doune's face or Force presence, so he lets it go. "They seem to be happy to get away from their Crèche Masters."

"That they do." With one last pat on his shoulder, she steps past him and, with impressive speed, has all the initiates gathered around her for storytime.

Qui-Gon breathes a sigh of relief and goes looking for the galley; if he remembered anything right from his time as a youngling, they would be hungry soon. Best to start preparing dinner.

--

Obi-Wan is listening with half an ear as Master Qui-Gon tells the Initiates about Illum and about the time limit. He knows it's a test and how the test will play out, but he can see how the Initiates are getting nervous. Illum is usually the first part of the Initiates Trials, and not every Initiates that walk into the caves comes out with a crystal. Those that can't overcome their fears and anxieties don't become Jedi. The Council of Reassignment usually transferred them to one of the Jedi corps, where they learn a trade and finish their schooling. They can choose to continue working with the Jedi Order, or they can set out on their own in the Galaxy.

The trail begins, and the Initiates set out into the caves. Obi-Wan lets out a deep breath, clears his mind, and lets the Force guide him. He follows the path to his left, and not long after, it starts sloping downwards. There are several forks in the path, but Obi-Wan keeps heading straight forward even when the path bends around corners and leads over pitfalls so deep he can't see the bottom.

Illum is an ice planet, and the cold doesn't get any better the further down he goes. As he walks, Obi-Wan lets his thoughts drift. Part of the trail is to face his fears and walking here alone; he can't avoid them.

Master Qui-Gon is one of them. Something has changed between them, but Obi-Wan can't put his finger on what, and that worries him. But down here, there is nothing he can do about it, so he lets his thought continue to drift, and that leads him to the Visions.

By following one of them, Obi-Wan has saved the True Mandalorians. By following the other, he has most likely made sure his own Padawan will never be born. It's a solemn thought, and Obi-Wan has been trying to ignore it, but he can't escape it here on Ilium, so he stops, takes a deep breath, and lets the vision fill his mind.

The boy, Anakin, runs toward Shmi, laughing at something as he throws himself into her arms. They are happy, or as comfortable you can be in their circumstance, and because of Obi-Wan's actions, he will probably never exist.

The sudden tightness in his chest makes Obi-Wan dizzy, and he reaches out to steady himself against the cave wall. Instead of fighting the feelings or suppress them, Obi-Wan goes through them one after another and lets them go into the Force. Fear, regret, joy. Obi-Wan has made his choices, and he will stand by them. He can't change the past, but he can learn from it and do better in the future.

--

Obi-Wan feels like he has been walking for hours when he finally finds it, his crystal. The Force leads him to a corridor, and after taking a second to look around, he spots it sitting high up on the wall. Standing on his tiptoes, Obi-Wan can almost brush it with his fingers. Blowing out a breath, he eyes the wall and placing his feet, Obi-Wan jumps.

His fingers close around the crystals, and it comes free from the wall surprisingly easy. Obi-Wan slips a little on the ice when he lands, but he keeps steady.

Opening his hand, Obi-Wan takes a moment to study the crystal. His old crystal is blue, but this one is a pale yellow, and it is also a little bigger than his old one. It feels warm in his hand, in contrast to the cold of Illum.

Feeling a sense of satisfaction and victory, Obi-Wan turns around to head back the way he came but stops in his tracks. There is no way back. An ice wall that Obi-Wan would swear wasn't there before blocks the path. He has a moment of pure panic at the thought of being lost here in the caves of Illum, to walk them alone, never finding the way out. Of being forgotten. The crystal flashes in heat, and it distracts Obi-Wan from his panic, makes him think.

They won't leave him behind. He'll make sure of it. If Obi-Wan's way back is gone, he will make his own. He has the Force; he is alone.

Take a deep breath, hold, breath out. Obi-Wan reaches for the Force, and the Force sings back. He turns to the only path that is clear to him and walks forward deeper into the cave. The only way out is through.

--

When Obi-Wan finally finds his way back to the temple, it's not Master Qui-Gon waiting for him, but Master Doune.

"You took your time Padawan Kenobi," Master Doune smiles at him and puts a gentle hand on his back. "Well done."

She is so warm, and Obi-Wan has lost all feeling in his arms. "Master Qui-Gon?" His voice comes out hoarse.

"Master Jinn would be here, but he was wearing a hole in the floor and causing stress to the Initiates, so I sent him back to the ship." Master Doune answers and Obi-Wan nods in understanding. She smiles at him, and they head toward the doors together.

One of the things all the Master tells the Initiates before they head into the caves is that if they are not back before the sun goes down, the doors will freeze over, and they will not open, trapping them inside the temple. So when Obi-Wan reaches the doors, he is not surprised when they won't open. But he is cold and tired, and he is emotionally exhausted.

Obi-Wan looks imploringly at Master Doune, who only laughs at him. She lifts a hand, and together they open the doors using the Force, and the freezing wind blasts Obi-Wan straight in the face. He thinks longingly of warm water and clean sheets.

--

After returning to the ship and getting a hug from his Master, Obi-Wan had gone straight to bed and slept for almost 12 hours straight. He would have slept longer, but Qui-Gon woke him up for lunch. Witch Obi-Wan appreciates.

And now he is here, looking out over the lightsaber components spread across the table, frowning at the hilt in his hand. Something is missing. Obi-Wan is not building a new saber, but he has to fit a new crystal into it, and something about his old hilt felt off. The new design has come together quickly enough, but something still doesn't feel quite right, but he doesn't think the components he wants is here. There are substitutions, and it's working fine like it is, but he knows something is missing, and it irks him.

Huffing in frustration, Obi-Wan clears his thoughts and holds the lightsaber in both hands in front of him, and activates it. He blinks in surprise at the new color and twirls it in his hand to hear the familiar humm as the lightsaber cuts through the air. The blade is yellow, almost gold, and it's a stark difference to his previous blue, but it feels right, and the crystals are singing in harmony with each other.

"Padawan?"

"Yes?" Grinning, Obi-Wan turns to see his Master watching him.

Master Qui-Gon studies him for a moment, then he smiles and tilts his head towards the door and walks out. Obi-Wan disengages his saber and jogs to catch up. "Master Doune and I were thinking it would be a good idea to hold a lightsaber class for the Initiates, and I volunteered you for this task."

A year ago, Obi-Wan would have kicked up a fuss and complained endlessly. Now he only twitches his fingers in frustration and agrees to the idea.

--

Qui-Gon watches his apprentice walk the Initiates through a kata in Makashi and can't stop himself from frowning. Obi-Wan had started with Ataru, and when he had seen some of the Initiates struggling with that Form, he had shown them Soresu instead. That was all well and good, but today he had started them on Makashi, and Qui-Gon recognized the kata as the ones his own Master had taught him as a Padawan.

Qui-Gon knew Master Yan Dooku was in the temple and was teaching a class on Form II, but he had not known that Obi-Wan had joined those classes, which irritates him. Perhaps it stung his pride a little that Obi-Wan is taking lessons from his former Master in a Form Qui-Gon is proficient in, but he knew himself well enough to know that even if Obi-Wan had asked, he would not have thought him Makashi. Too many bad memories.

Soresu was also a surprise, and the fact that Obi-Wan was comfortable enough in both Forms to teach the basics meant that he had been training in them for some time. Suddenly the last month made much more sense. The late classes and the extra course work. The "late nights in the salles," which turned out to be actually late nights in the salles. It leaves Qui-Gon feeling bereft. Why hadn't Obi-Wan told him?

"Your Padawan is quite accomplished, Master Jinn. You must be very proud." Master Doune says as she joins him in looking over the Initiates Obi-Wan was leading through a Makashi kata. She sounds incredibly pleased by something. "Not many junior Padawans are so proficient in three different Forms."

"There are reasons Padawans usually only focus on one From until they are older." Qui-Gon counters. He tries not to sound so irritated, but he doubts he can hide it. "Better to be a master of one than a master of none."

The Herglic Master hums. "A jack of all trades is a master of none, but often better than a master of one."

Qui-Gon huffs. He has heard that one before, thank you very much, and usually, he is on the other side of that quote. He never realized how annoying it is to be on the receiving end of it and how that irks.

"Are you going to stop him?" That question jerks Qui-Gon out of his thoughts, and he looks up at the towering Master. It is not often he has to look up to someone. They study each other for a while until Qui-Gon huffs a laugh.

"No." He looks at his Padawan again. "If he can keep up with classwork and don't lose out on sleep, I see no reason to interfere."

"Good, Master Dooku is always in a better mood when Padawan Kenobi is there."

Qui-Gon blinks and blinks again. "Pardon? I must be losing my hearing. I thought you said Master Yan Dooku was in a good mood?" He looks up at Master Doune in disbelief.

She is grins at him. "You must be getting old then, I said in a better mood. I don't think anyone has ever seen that man smile."

"Truer words have never spoken." Qui-Gon shakes his head and turns back to watch Obi-Wan.

"But, I truly believe Master Dooku enjoys having Padawan Kenobi there to teach." Master Doune informed him solemnly. "If only so he can gripe about how a Padawan, his Gran-Padawan, that is half our age is learning Mahashi quicker than us."

"That sounds like my Master." Qui-Gon's smile might be a little brittle, but Master Doune doesn't remark upon it. Instead, she changes directions.

"It must have been difficult being his apprentice." Her voice is carefully neutral. Qui-Gon doesn't notice.

"It was." He retorts." It was incredibly demanding, and you could never receive an honest compliment. But..." Qui -Gon trails off before huffing. "He did make me into the Jedi I am today, even if he sometimes was a prideful bastard."

"When is the last time you paid your Padawan a compliment?" Her voice is not cold or angry, just very disappointed in him.

"What?" Qui-Gon turns to look at her fully. "What are you implying?"

"I'm implying that the apple doesn't fall far from the tree, so to speak."

"I'm nothing like Master Dooku." Qui-Gon is not yelling, but he is keeping his temper down by the sheer force of will.

"True." Master Doune agrees, but it rings hollow between them. "But then again, I don't think Master Dooku would have left his fourteen-year-old Padawan in an active warzone."

There is nothing Qui-Gon can say to that. "Obi-Wan chose to stay; he chose to leave the order."

"He was a child. He still is a child." The Hergelic steps into Qui-Gon's space. If it's an intimidation tactic, he refuses to be intimidated. "He was a child entrusted to your care. And you left him behind."

"We had a mission." He lifts his chin and grits his teeth. "Master Thal was injured and in need of a healer. We didn't have the time for a debate."

Master Doune makes a dismissive sound. "You are a Master, and he is a Padawan Learner. Could you not have knocked him out and taken him with you by force?"

"The Jedi Order does not take the unwilling, and forcing him would have destroyed all trust between us." Qui-Gon counters.

"Are you saying no trust has been lost between you now?" Master Doune challenges right back. "Did your Padawan tell you about the Soresu or the Makashi lessons he was taking? Does he still go to you with his fears and concerns?"

"You weren't there-"

"You are right, I wasn't," She looks down her nose at him, or she would have if Herglic had noses. "But if I had been, I wouldn't have left MY Padawan alone, unarmed to fight a war where both sides had no issues killing children."

"He made his choice." Qui-Gon grits out.

"And so did you." Master Doune steps back to a more respectable distance." I had wondered if his survival was due to your teachings or Padawan Kenobi's own skills. It seems I have my answer."

She turns to look back at the class his Padawan teaches, and it seems that Master Doune is done with this conversation, but Qui-Gon is not. "Master Tahl was dying. I couldn't just let her die."

"Finally, the truth." Master Doune doesn't look at him. "You were both running high on emotions and letting it cloud your judgment, but you as the Master should have taken responsibility and gotten you both to safety."

"Tahl-" He doesn't get far before Doune speaks over him.

"If Padawan Kenobi had died on that planet and Master Tahl found out you had abandoned him to save her-" She looks at him, and her eyes are sad. "Do you think she would have ever forgiven you?"

I could have lived with that decision, as long as Tahl lives. He doesn't say it out loud, but she must have read it on his face.

"Then you are not half the man that I or the rest of the order thought you were, Master Jinn." The customary title comes out like an insult, and Master Doune opens the door to join the initiates in their Makashi lesson. She shuffles sideways through the doorway and takes out her lightsaber, and joins in the opening stance. Minutes later, Obi-Wan goes up to her and corrects her grip. Master Doune thank his apprentice, and even from here, Qui-Gon can see how Obi-Wan blushes bright red.

Qui-Gon needs to meditate; he needs to walk the anger off; he needs to puke. There are a lot of things he needs to do, but instead, he does nothing. He stands there and watches as his brilliant Padawan teaches a group of younglings how to defend themselves. He remembers the children on Melida/Daan. Some of them could not have been older than these Initiates.

If Obi-Wan had died there on Melida/Daan, would he have even known about it? Qui-Gon steps backward until his back hits the wall. No, he decides. Qui-Gon would never have found out if Obi-Wan had died in Melida/Daan.

Qui-Gon takes a deep breath, buries all of these feelings, and turns to walk away. He needs to meditate.

Chapter Text

Obi-Wan massages his temples and puts the datapad down on the table. When he had decided to look into the Republic's history with Mandalore, he had not expected it to be this bloody, but that was his mistake. Obi-Wan looks around the archive's reading hall and then stands up to stretch his legs. It is just before lunchtime, so he is mostly alone, at least in this part of the library.

He looks around once more than pulls up his lightsaber and settles into the opening stance for Soresu, but not activating the lightsaber. Obi-Wan wasn't an idiot; if Master Nu found out, he would never be allowed into the archives again. He brings the saber down in front of him in a slow deflective arc, holds the position, and then steps forward to bring the lightsabre back up again. The trip to Illum had been the right choice. The lightsaber feels much better in his hands now, and even Master Dooku had complimented his improved form over the last couple of weeks. Of course, only after he made a snide comment about missing out on class.

Obi-Wan runs through a couple of more katas before he stops, puts his lightsaber away, and turns back to sit down at the desk. Only to come face to face with Master Nu.

Obi-Wan's reflexes are up to par, and his fight or flight instincts are good. They had to be, to survive Melida/Daan and Xanatos, but here and now? Facing Master Nu? Obi-Wan freezes.

"Master Nu." Obi-Wan squeaks.

"Padawan Kenobi." Master Nu replies evenly, but she looks distinctly unimpressed, and when Obi-Wan is unable to find his voice, she looks at the datapads he was reading and back at him. "Having trouble concentrating?"

Obi-Wan wrinkles his nose and shakes his head. "More like I needed a break from all the war and destruction."

"Reading about Mandalorian history from the Republic's perspective will have that effect on people." Master Nu agrees. "In the future, I suggest you walk outside the archives before doing katas." She levels a look at Obi-Wan that makes him hunch his shoulders. "I would also appreciate it if you don't wear down the floors of my archive with relentless pacing."

Obi-Wan blinks. "I don't do that."

She raises an eyebrow at him. "Perhaps not, but your grandmaster does. We are not scheduled for renovations until next decade so keep all excessive pacing and mumbling to your own quarters."

Obi-Wan opens his mouth to argue, but the image of Master Dooku roaming the library, mumbling to himself, derails all other thoughts, and he nods in agreement.

Having made her point,

Master Nu turns to walk away, and Obi-Wan lurches forward. "Wait, Master Nu." When she looks back at him, he gestures to his books. "What you said about the books."

"About it being the Republics' perspective?" Master Nu asks, and when Obi-Wan nods, she takes a moment to study him. "I meant if you want an accurate picture of the culture you are studying, you should read text written by people from that culture."

"Do we have any?" Obi-Wan asks.

"Not as many as I would like. Most of Mandalorian history are told through song and stories passed down among themself, but we do have some." Master Nu says. "Do you want me to send you a list of recommended readings?"

"Yes, please." Obi-Wan smiles.

"Include the ones in Mando'a?" Master Nu asks. Obi-Wan thinks it over before he agrees. "I'll add a translation program and a Mando'a language module to your datapad." Master Nu says and heads back to the front of the archive.

Obi-Wan sighs, picks up the datapad, and opens the book again. It seems like he just added more work to his schedule. He has maybe half a minute of silence before he is interrupted. Obi-Wan hears the sound of hurried footsteps, and when he looks up, he is greeted by Bant coming at him at a run, followed by a blond human Bant's age.

"Bant?" Obi-Wan stands up in alarm. "What's going on-" Is all he gets out before Bant collides with his chest and wraps him up in a hug.

"She chose me, Obi-Wan!" Bant squeals, tightening her hug so he can barely breathe. "She chose me!"

Obi-Wan looks at the other girl in confusion. She huffs and twists a lock of her hair to make a braid behind her ear. Obi-Wan blinks, then grin in understanding. "Congratulations, Bant. Who is your Master?"

"Master Tahl." She lets go of him, and they grin at each other. "She was impressed with the way I handled the Xantos crises, and she thought we would be a good team."

"That's fantastic," Obi-Wan says, he looks back at the other initiate, but she crosses her arms and doesn't meet his eyes.

"Oh, right." Bant turns to look at the blond. "Obi-Wan, this is Siri Tachi. Siri, this is Obi-Wan Kenobi."

"I know," Tachi says, but she doesn't move from her place at the end of the lines of desks. Obi-Wan glances at Bant, but she only shrugs.

"Do we know each other?" He asks.

"No." Tachi looks at him, and Obi-Wan can read the anger in her force signature.

"Ah, Padawan. There you are." Qui-Gon interrupts, and they all turn to look at where he is striding down the hall towards them. "Have you had lunch yet?"

"No, Master." Obi-Wan answers and Tachi bows to Qui-Gon and introduces herself.

"Nice to meet you, Initiate Tachi." If he notices the tension between them all, he doesn't say anything about it. "I was thinking we eat in the mess hall today."

"Can Master Tahl, Siri, and I join you?" Bant asks, and Qui-Gon blinks in surprise at her.

"Master Tahl has taken on Bant as her Padawan," Obi-Wan explains and watches in confusion as Master Qui-Gon goes blank-faced for a second. He doesn't think either Bant or Tachi noticed, and then Master Qui-Gon smiles and nods in agreement.

"Of course, congratulation Padawan Eerin," Master Qui-Gon says in agreement. "Will you comm Master Tahl?"

"Ugh," Bant fidgets. "I dont have her comm number. I ran out on her to find Obi-Wan." She admits, and Obi-Wan barks a laugh. Bant's right eye swirls to stare him down, and Obi-Wan gins back at her.

--

Qui-Gon closes the commlink and gestures for Obi-Wan and his friends to follow him. "Tahl will meet us there."

They set off, and Qui-Gon tries to keep his anxiety behind his shields, but he is a little distracted, and the walk to the refractory goes by in a blur. There is a sudden silence, and Qui-Gon blinks and looks down on the younglings. They blink back at him, and he realizes they had asked him a question. "My apologies, did you ask something?"

They glance at each other, and Obi-Wan speaks up. "We asked about Master Tahls fighting style. She uses Ataru, right?"

"Yes, she is a fantastic acrobat and an accomplished fighter." Qui-Gon agrees, and when he looks up, he can see Master Tahl standing outside the refractory. "We are about evenly matched in a one-on-one duel."

"Master Tahl." Padawan Bant shouts, and since Bant is Mon Calamari, her voice carries. Qui-Gon winces, but Tahl grins at her Padawan, who blushes and mumbles a quick apology.

"Padawan Bant," Tahl says, and the Calamari lights up again. "Padawan Obi-Wan, Initiate Tachi." She turns to smile at him. "Qui-Gon."

Tahl is as beautiful as ever, and Qui-Gon can't do anything but smile back. She extends a hand, and Qui-Gon takes it and guides it to his elbow to lead her into the refractory. Qui-Gon knows she doesn't need it, but they had spent decades walking together like this while discussing (Dooku had said it was more like arguing) different topics, and it had not changed just because Tahl now had to take a little more care in where she placed her feet.

Not long after she was released from medical, Tahl had been approached by a Miralukaian Jedi, and they had spent months working on her Force Sight. There were still some hoops to jump through, but Tahl was almost ready for active filed duty again.

"I'm glad you could join us for dinner," Qui-Gon says and follows Obi-Wan and the others into the hall to get food.

Tahl hums and squeezes his elbow. "You have been avoiding me."

Her voice is soft, and Qui-Gon glances at the younglings, but they are busy arguing over what is best; fish or meat. Even Initiate Tachi has been drawn into the debate.

"I have been busy." He deflects and reaches for a tray. Qui-Gon waits for a second to see if Tahl wants help, but she has a tray in hand and moves up the line.

"Too busy to see an old friend?" Tahl asks, and Qui-Gon huffs.

"We're not that old." He argues.

Tahl stops and turns her head to give Qui-Gon her most unimpressed expression. "We are almost in our fifties." She tells him. "Face it, Qui-Gon. We are old and a part of the establishment of the Jedi Order now."

"Talk for yourself. I'm still a maverick." Qui-Gon grumbles. "I'm only in my forties."

"Late forties, didn't you turn forty-eight earlier this year?" Tahl asks. Qui-Gon makes a good impression of Master Dooku by turning his nose up at the question and following his Padawan to find a seat. He can hear Thal laugh at him, and Qui-Gon feels his lips twitching up in an answering smile.

Qui-Gon sits next to Obi-Wan and listens with half an ear as they discuss the upcoming classes. Both Padawan Bant and Initiate Tachi are a couple of years younger than Obi-Wan, so he answers questions about their teachers and the course work they will be getting this year.

Tahl sets her tray down opposite Qui-Gon and takes a seat. They eat in silence for a minute before she nudges his ankle and asks, her voice still soft. "You didn't answer my question."

"There might be gray in my hair," He points his fork at her. "But I'm not old, and if I am, so are you."

"You're deflecting again." Tahl looks unimpressed but gets distracted by a question asked by her Padawan.

Qui-Gon watches as Thal talks and jokes with the teenagers and feels his throat close up. Tahl must feel the shift in his Force presents, and she nudges her foot against his in question and support but makes sure to keep the kids' attention on her.

"If Padawan Kenobi had died on that planet and Master Tahl found out you had abandoned him to save her-" Now she looks at him, and her eyes are sad. "Do you think she would have ever forgiven you?"

Qui-Gon hadn't answered Master Doune's question, but watching Tahl here and now, he has an answer.

No. Master Tahl would never have forgiven him for leaving Obi-Wan to die to save her, and he would have lost them both.

The thought sits heavy in his chest, and it feels hard to breathe. Qui-Gon takes a deep breath and holds it. This is not the time to deal with this. He will deal with this later. When he breathes out, he lets all his emotions go into the Force and makes himself relax. Qui-Gon nudges Thal's foot back in thanks and lunges into the debate about lightsaber colors and designs.

Dinner goes quickly, and afterward, Obi-Wan runs off to join one of his many lightsaber practices. After a quick word with Tahl, Padawan Bant and Initiate Tachi go with him, so Qui-Gon assumes it's a Soresu class. Master Dooku would never allow non-participants in the sal when he is teaching.

Qui-Gon offers his elbow to Tahl again, and after a second of hesitation, she takes it. They walk out into the corridor and head towards the Room of a Thousand Fountains. When they reach the room, Qui-Gon finds a bench, and they sit down.

"You are right, of course," Qui-Gon admits after a while. "I have been avoiding you."

Tahl crosses one knee over the other and rests her hands on it. She twiddles her thumbs and turns her face away. She is nervous, Qui-Gon realizes, and he straightens up to give her all of his attention. "Tahl?"

"Is it because..." She trails off and gestures at her eyes. Qui-Gon blinks and feels himself go cold.

"No." His voice feels raw, and he reaches for her but stops halfway and lets his hand drop. "Tahl, no. I would never…." He trails off and starts again. "I have been avoiding you because of my own issues, not because of you."

Tahl's shoulders sag in relief, and she bows her head, letting her hair fall over her face.

"I'm sorry," Qui-Gon says. "I didn't mean to abandon you, Tahl."

"But you did," Tahl tells him, and Qui-Gon closes his eyes in shame. He scoots closer until their shoulders brush, and Tahl leans her hands on Qui-Gon's shoulder.

"I've hurt you," Qui-Gon rests his cheek on her hair and puts an arm around her waist. "That was not my intention, and I'm sorry."

They sit in silence and bask in the living Force and the peace of the gardens.

"When I asked Bant to be my Padawan, I was afraid she would say no," Tahl confesses into the silence. "That she would see my blindness as a weakness and refuse to be my Padawan."

"You are not weak," Qui-Gon affirms, and Tahl chuckles.

"I know, but I could have used your support before I asked," Tahl says, and Qui-Gon sighs again.

"I'm sorry," he repeats. Tahl sits up, straightens, and takes his hand in hers.

"I know." She squeezes, and after a small hesitation, she continues. "Will you spar with me?"

"Of course." Qui-Gon doesn't even hesitate and gets to his feet. "Just go easy on me. As someone just reminded me, I'm getting old."

Tahl grins and gets up to take his elbow. "I make no promises."

They walk out and into the nearest training hall, but before walking in, Tahl stops, and Qui-Gon looks at her in confusion.

"Don't go easy on me," Tahl demands.

Qui-Gon smiles and squeezes her hand. "If I do, I'm sure you would mop the floor with me."

Tahl's answering grins says that she definitely will if Qui-Gon gives her a chance.

Chapter Text

Obi-Wan straightens up from his stretch and offers Quinlan a hand up when Knight Dralling calls the class to an end.

"Why did I agree to this?" Quinlan complains, running a hand through his hair, trying to keep it out of his face. Knight Dralling had spent the last half of the class testing Quinlan's defense, and every time Quinlan had gone on the offense, Knight Dralling had stopped and restarted the exercise from the beginning.

Obi-Wan grins at him. "Because you were kind."

"Well, that was a mistake. I'm never doing that again." Quinlan grumbles, and Obi-Wan laughs at the misery in his voice. Quinlan turns, blinks, and tilts his chin at something behind Obi-Wan. "Who is that with Bant?"

"Initiate Siri Tachi," Obi-Wan answers but doesn't turn around, and Quinlan shoots him a look. He had been late to class and had not seen the two of them arrive. Obi-Wan grimaces and adds a little sourly. "She doesn't like me."

Quinlan gasps in mock offense, slings an arm around Obi-Wan's shoulders, and places a hand over his heart. "How could she? You are a gift from the Force itself. How can she not acknowledge your brilliance?"

"You're an asshole." Obi-Wan can't help smiling and shrugs off Quinlan's arm.

"Aww, you love me anyway." Quinlan grins and skips over to Bant. "Hey, Bant. How's it looking, good looking?"

Bant rolls her eyes, independently of each other, and Quinlan's grin widens. "Quinlan, this is Siri Tachi. Siri, this is Quinlan Vos."

Quinlan bows exaggerated to Tachi, and he looks at her from under his eyelashes. "You're charmed, I'm sure."

Tachi snorts. "I'm sure." She looks over Quinlan's shoulder, meets Obi-Wan's eyes, and all traces of humor disappear. She looks down and shifts her weight. "May I speak with you, Padawan Kenobi?"

Quinlan opens his mouth to say something, probably teasing, but Bant punches him in the stomach knocking the air right out of him. Bant smiles at them, grabs the back of his shirt, and drags a protesting Quinlan out the door. "We will be waiting outside."

Obi-Wan and Tachi watch them go, as does the rest of the reminding Jedi. When the sal is almost empty of people, Tachi turns back to Obi-Wan and shifts awkwardly on her feet.

"I talked to Bant during your class." Tachi starts, pauses, and Obi-Wan decides to cut to the chase.

"You don't like me," he says.

Tachi grimaces, nods, and starts explaining. "You left the Jedi Order, and then you just walked right back into the Temple like you hadn't thrown away your apprenticeship, an apprenticeship I would do anything to get." Obi-Wan frowns, and he wants to defend himself, but Tachi isn't done. "I didn't handle it well, and I… I was angry."

"I had my reasons for leaving the order," Obi-Wan tells her and looks away. He knows not everyone was happy with him. "And for returning."

"I know, Bant told me," Tachi says, and when she sees Obi-Wan's expression, she hurries to explain. "She didn't tell me why, just not to judge you before getting to know you."

Obi-Wan exhales in relief and rubs at his eyes. When he drops his hand, he finds Tachi already studying him.

"Can we start over?" She asks and holds out her hand. "Nice to meet you. I'm Siri."

Obi-Wan takes it and smiles at her. "Likewise." Obi-Wan lets go of her hand, and then they are just standing there. Awkwardly. In silence.

Obi-Wan raises an eyebrow at her and asks. "Just to be clear, you are doing this as a favor for Bant, right?"

Siri blinks at him and then catches on. "Absolutely," She says as straight faces as she can. "I would never do anything to disappoint her. Bant is the best."

"Agreed," Obi-Wan folds his hands into his sleeves, protecting as much Jedi serenity as he ca. "She gives the best hugs."

Siri makes a slight grimace. "When she is not squeezing the life out of me."

Their eyes meet, and they both burst out giggling. Obi-Wan tilts his head towards the door when they have calmed down, and Siri takes the hint. They walk out onto the hall, where they find Quinlan and Bant lounging against the wall, talking. Quinlan jumps up when he sees Obi-Wan and gestures at Bant.

"Did you know Bant is now a Padawan?" Quinland asks, grinning like a madman.

"Yes, Quinlan, we knew." Obi-Wan looks at Siri and rolls his eyes. "If you had shown up to class on time, we would have told you then."

Quinlan waves the accusation away and bounces from foot to foot. "We need to celebrate. I suggest we-"

"No!" Bant and Obi-Wan yell at the same time, not that it stops him.

"-sneak out of the temple and head down to the lower levels." Quinlan finishes.

Siri blinks at them all and leans closer to Quinlan. "Can I come?"

"Yes." Quinlan grins, and Obi-Wan glances at Bant, who has closed her eyes in defeat.

"How about we raid the kitchens and retreat to one of our apartments instead?" Obi-Wan offers, and Quinlan shoots him a betrayed look. "I don't think running off into the lower levels is a good idea."

Obi-Wan glances at Siri and then back at Quinlan, who takes the hint and nods, reluctantly, in agreement. They would have been fine on their own. Padawans exist in a grey space, and on most planets, they are considered adults. But taking a Initiates down into the lower levels whit them is beyond stupid, especially one as young as Siri. Even if Bant is the same age.

Bant wastes no time and jumps on the suggestion. She slings an arm over Siri's shoulders and heads towards the commissary. Obi-Wan can hear her talking about what food to get, and he sprints to catch up. "No, Bant! There will be no fish sticks! They stink."

Bant ignores him.

--

Shouting the door to Tahl's quarters, Qui-Gon rubs at his eyes and heads towards his own. Padawan Bant is still missing, but they had agreed that she was probably still with Obi-Wan and, therefore, not in too much trouble. Or at the very least, not in a situation they can't handle. Qui-Gon is sore and tired, so he doesn't notice when he almost steps on Master Yoda, but he does notice when the Master smacks him in the leg with his grimmer stick.

"Ow," Qui-Gon leans down to rub his shine and looks at Yoda. "Was that necessary?"

"Yes," Yoda replies, his ears lift, and he looks quite pleased with himself. Then he sighs. "Fortunate, our meeting is. Speak, we must."

"Does it have to be tonight?" Qui-Gon grumbles. He wants to take a shower and go to sleep. Tahl hadn't gone easy on him during the spar, and he can feel the bruises forming.

Master Yoda looks contemplative, then shakes his head. "Too long have you been unaware. Need to know what you Padawan has done, you do."

Qui-Gon blinks then straightens up. "Is Obi-Wan in trouble?"

He can't remember Obi-Wan getting into any, but then he has been distracted with class and his own thoughts.

"No," Master Yoda reassures him. "But speak, we must."

That doesn't help Qui-Gons' nerves, but he holds his tongue and follows Master Yoda to the nearest unoccupied meditation room. They take their seats, and Qui-Gon waits while Yoda gets comfortable.

"Hear you did, what happened on Galidraan?" Yoda asks, and Qui-Gon sighs.

"Yes," He agrees. Master Dooku had been in quite the mood after his return from the outer rim, and Qui-Gon doesn't think there is a Master on Coruscant that hadn't felt his temper in the force.

"Then know you do, that the Mandalorians were gone when Master Dooku arrived?" Yoda asks. "And that innocent they were off all crimes they were accused of?"

"Yes," Qui-Gon folds his hands into his sleeves. That piece of information had spread through the Temple as wildfire and left just as much devastation in its wake. "We should have been better informed and not placed our trust in the Senate."

"But we were," Yoda says, and Qui-Gon frowns at him. "Better informed that is. A vision Padawan Kenobi had."

"Yes," Qui-Gon agrees hesitantly. "About Mandalorians killing Jedi."

"Or the other way around. Our history clouded our decision with the Mandalorians," Yoda counters. Qui-Gon takes a second to consider this, he had heard Obi-Wan describe the vision, and it had been a bloody one, but had they misinterpreted it?

That Yoda was even asking him about this was indicating that the answer to that question was yes.

"What does this have to do with Obi-Wan?" Qui-Gon asks.

"Contact the True Mandalorians, Padawan Kenobi did," Yods says, and Qui-Gon feels his mouth fall open in shock. "Warned them that we were coming, he did. Save us all. He might have."

"He did whAT?!" Qui-Gon almost gets up and storms off to find his Padawan, but the look on Master Yoda's face makes him sit still.

"The right thing to do it was." Master Yoda tells him, and Qui-Gon huffs a laugh.

"That is not the problem," Qui-Gon runs an agitated hand through his hair. "He should have come to me."

"Padawan Kenobi's trust we have lost. Rectify this, we must," Master Yoda sighs, and Qui-Gon freezes in his seat.

"Are you saying no trust has been lost between you now?" Doune challenges right back. "Does he still go to you with his fears and concerns?"

Master Doune's words ring in his head, and Qui-Gon sucks in a surprised breath. Obi-Wan had not come to him. Instead, he had found a way to contact the True Mandalorians all by himself.

Qui-Gon rubs at his eyes. "I kriffed up."

Yoda looks at Qui-Gon. "Mistakes we all make, to the day we die."

Qui-Gon huffs. "Not everyone is as wise as you, Master Yoda."

When Yoda doesn't say anything, Qui-Gon looks up to meets the old Master's eyes. "Not my words, this is. Reminded, I had to be by others."

Qui-Gon looks away at that. It seems that everyone needs a reminder from time to time.

Yoda doesn't say anything for a while before he turns his attention back to Qui-Gon. "Told Obi-Wan, have you? The reason you dislike prophecies and Force visions?"

"No," Qui-Gon looks back at Yoda and grimaces. "But perhaps it's time we had that conversation."

Yoda's ears twitched, and he hums in agreement. "Perhaps it is."

They sit in comfortable silence for a moment while Qui-Gon studies the older Master. "Do you have time to come over for dinner later this week?"

Yoda looks at Qui-Gon in surprise, and his ears lift. "Time for my lineage, I always have."

Lineage. The word strikes Qui-Gon between the ribs, right in the heart. There is a well of sorrow for his mistakes regarding those he is supposed to call lineage. The Master he hasn't spoken to in years, a sister padawan he has only seen in passing, and a former Padawan he all but renounced after Xanatos' fall.

And, of course, the Padawan, he is actively failing. Qui-Gon is seconds away from asking Master Yoda why he was so insistent that Obi-Wan become his Padawan, but Qui-Gon stops himself. Does it even matter? He can't change the past, only the future. And there lies the crux of the problem.

"Master Yoda, I need a second opinion."

--

Saying good night to Master Yoda, Qui-Gon heads back towards his apartments, taking the long way around. It gives him time to gather his thoughts and settle his emotions into something manageable. This has been a week of revelations, and Qui-Gon needs time to himself to settle down. Time he doesn't get.

"Hi, big brother," comes a voice from behind him, and when Qui-Gon turns, he is met with the sight of a grinning Komari Vosa.

"Padawan Vosa," Qui-Gon greets her and folds his hands into his sleeves. "You're out late."

Padawan Vosa shrugs and copies his move, a sardonic tilt to her mouth. "Master Dooku is in a mood, so I decided to get some air. You know how he is." She looks around and raises an eyebrow at him. "Where's Padawan Kenobi? You didn't lose him again, did you?"

Qui-Gon takes a deep breath and relaxes his shoulders. There's no need to get defensive. He recognizes the question as a tactic his Master often used on him when Qui-Gon was a Padawan. But if Padawan Vosa thinks he will be so easily flustered or angered, she is sorely mistaken.

"He is with Padawan Bant and Padawan Voss," He tells her. "If you want to talk to him, I can deliver a message."

"No need," Padawan Vosa smirks. "I'll catch up to him after the next Makashi class."

"You participate in them?" Qui-Gon raises an eyebrow at her. "I thought you would have been proficient in Makashi by now."

Padawan Vosa tilts her head to study him, then she grins. "It seems Master Dooku was wrong about you."

Qui-Gon grips his forearm tight but otherwise doesn't react. "Oh, how so?"

"He said you had lost your edge, become soft in your old age." She smiles brightly at him, and Qui-Gon makes himself smile back.

"Master Dooku doesn't make mistakes often," Qui-Gon settles on. "But he is not infallible."

"No," Padawan Vosa huffs a laugh. "But he is a hard man to impress."

"That he is," Qui-Gon agrees, thinking back to his own apprenticeship with the man.

"But Padawan Kenobi managed," She tells him, making Qui-Gon blinks in surprise. "When he went behind the Council's back and contacted the Mandalorians. That, according to Master Dooku, showed initiative."

Qui-Gon takes a second to consider this while Padawan Vosa keeps a close eye on his reactions. "I'm not surprised. Master Dooku likes to go against the Council."

"The same can be said about you." She counters. Qui-Gon snorts, and Padawan Vosa looks delighted. She has probably never seen Master Dooku make any undignified sounds in her life.

"I like to think I'm not as argumentative as Master Dooku." Qui-Gon settles on. He looks her over once more. Vosa can't be older than 19, and she's not far from being knighted. "What about you? What are your thoughts on the Council?"

Vosa looks startled for half a second, and then she smoothes her face out. "I believe the Council is stagnating and are too far under the Senate's control to be effective."

Nodding, Qui-Gon studies her. "Is that your words or Master Dooku's?

Vosa narrows her eyes at him. "Does it matter? According to the grapevine, you have the same concerns."

"I have concerns about the Council, yes," There is no way Qui-Gon can deny it. His opinions are too well known. "But they are formed of my own opinions, are yours?"

"Really?" Vosa looks him up and down. "From where I'm standing, you sound just like Master Dooku."

"He did make me into the Jedi I am today," Qui-Gon tells her. The comment hits a little too close to home for Qui-Gon's sake, but he can see the truth in it.

Vosa grins at him. "Then, we can only hope I reach the same heights as you, big brother."

"It is every Masters hope that their Padawan, and the younger generation, will one day grow beyond them," Qui-Gon says the mantra he has heard other Masters say all the time, but for the first time in a long time, he feels the words deep in his soul.

Vosa rolls her eyes at him, and in doing so, she looks all of her nineteen years. It makes Qui-Gon smile, and for half a second, he considers inviting her to join Obi-Wan, Master Yoda, and him for dinner later this week, but he lets it go. If Qui-Gon asks her, Master Dooku will surely follow, and he is not ready to handle several hours in the same room as his former Master. Not without talking with Obi-Wan first.

"It was nice meeting you, Padawan Vosa," Qui-Gon says. Vosa raises an eyebrow at him and looks him over before shrugging.

"It was nice to meet you too, big brother."

Chapter Text

The moment Qui-Gon opens the door, he is met by the sound of shouting, and he barely ducks in time to avoid a cushion to the face courtesy of Padawan Bant. He sighs and bends down to pick it up.

"I'm so sorry, Master Jinn! I didn't see you." Padawan Bant hurries to his side and plucks the cushion from his hand.

"It's alright-" Qui-Gon starts, but he is cut off by Quinlan launching himself from somewhere to tackle Bant to the floor. She goes down with a yell. He watches in amusement as they wrestle on the floor, and he has to admit he is impressed. Tahl has made a good choice. Padawan Bant is keeping up with Quinlan, even though she is two years younger, and Quinlan has far more experience as a Padawan.

Tachi and Obi-Wan poke their heads over the sofa to see what's going on, and Qui-Gon meets Obi-Wan's eyes.

"Your back, Master," Obi-Wan squeaks.

"Indeed, I am," he gestures to the two Padawans still on the floor. "Do I want to know?"

"Quinlan is cheating," Tachi explains, and Obi-Wan grimaces.

"He is not cheating. He is using every advantage available to him." Obi-Wan says.

"Using the Force to see your opponent's card is allowed?" Tachi sounds less than impressed with this argument.

Obi-Wan grins at her. "If you can get away with it."

Qui-Gon closes his eyes in defeat. He will be very popular among the other Masters, with his Padawan teaching the other Padawans how to play Sabacc. Tachi makes a sound of frustration, and Qui-Gon can see that this situation is going, and decides to head that argument off. "Initiate Tachi, does your Crèchmaster know where you are? It's getting late."

She blinks at him, then looks at the clock and goes wide-eyed. "Oh, shit."

He considers commenting on her language, but instead, Qui-Gon holds the door open as she jumps over the back of the couch and pats Bants shoulder. "You coming?"

Bant gets in a last hit and springs to her feet. "Yeah, let's go." She holds out a hand for Quinlan, pulling him to his feet.

They all wave goodbye to Obi-Wan as they file out. Qui-Gon can hear them laughing as he shuts the door to be young and carefree.

"Is everything alright, Master?" Obi-Wan asks. "Don't worry about the mess. I'll clean it up."

Qui-Gon laughs and takes a look around. "It's not that bad." He considers his Padawan and then decides there is no better time than the present. "There is a conversation we need to have, one I have been avoiding."

"Alright." Obi-Wan studies him and then nods decisively. "I'll make tea."

Qui-Gon feels a wave of gratitude towards his Padawan and starts cleaning up the mess in the living room, if only so that he can find a seat at the table. When Obi-Wan joins him with the tea and sits down across from him.

"There are several things we need to discuss," Qui-Gon looks over the table to study his Padawan. "But let's start at the most," He hesitates, searching for the right words. "Important one." That's not quite right, but it's the best Qui-Gon can do at the moment. "Have you wondered about the reason I don't like visions and prophecies?"

The question takes Obi-Wan by surprise, and he blinks at Qui-Gon. "I know that it is easy to misinterpret visions and that they can lead to worse outcomes."

"All true," Qui-Gon agrees. "But there are other reasons, more personal reasons." He takes a sip of his tea to buy himself time. "When I was still a Padawan, Master Dooku and I…" He trails off. This is harder than he expected. "We studied ancient prophecies. We dived into the history of the mystics, and we-" Qui-Gon grimaces. "We lost ourselves."

It's an understatement, but Qui-Gon is not ready to tell his young Padawan everything yet. "My Master became obsessed, and I had to put all of it aside to stop him from going into the deep end."

There is a long silence before Obi-Wan speaks up. "And you?" Qui-Gon raises an eyebrow at his Padawan, who licks his lips in a nervous gesture and continues. "Did you become obsessed?"

"I-" Qui-Gon cuts himself off. Did he? Tahl would say yes. She had been the one to get through to him finally. She had saved him from his own arrogance and brought him back to a shared reality. The question is simple, just as the answer should be, but Qui-Gon feels his throat close up. They sit together in silence while Qui-Gon searches for the answer, and when he finally looks back at Obi-Wan, he finds nothing but patience.

"That was a long time ago, and I thought I had reached a healthy middle where prophecy and visions were concerned, but it seems that I was wrong about that. I have gone the other way and once again ended up in an unhealthy place." Qui-Gon says, and Obi-Wan furrows his brow in thought.

"It doesn't seem unhealthy. You have taken steps to distance yourself from something you know is a problem for you. I don't-" Obi-Wan cuts of and frowns at Qui-Gon, who has started laughing.

"My apologies Obi-Wan," Qui-Gon says when he has calmed down. "You are right, of course. I have taken steps to protect myself, but in doing so, I have neglected your training."

Obi-Wan blinks at Qui-Gon. "I don't- What?"

"Your visions are a part of your abilities, and you need to be trained in how to handle and use them to your advantage, but I can't do that, and in not finding another teacher for you, I have not done my duty as your teacher," Qui-Gon explains. "I have spoken with Master Yoda."

"Is he gonna teach me?" Obi-Wan asks, and Qui-Gon pauses. That had been his intention when he asked the older Master, but he had declined. Master Yoda had said something about other duties and projects he needed to work on, and Obi-Wan deserved more time and effort than Yoda had to give at the moment.

Qui-Gon had the feeling that Master Yoda was, if not lying, he was hiding something, and that he was reluctant to take on the responsibility.

"No," there was no need to give Obi-Wan all the details. "We discussed possible teachers, but I have not asked anyone yet. I was thinking about Master Sifo-Dyas or maybe Master Windu."

"Master Windu?" Obi-Wan blinks. "I didn't know he had visions?"

"He doesn't, but he sees shatter points," Qui-Gon takes a sip of his tea. "From what Master Yoda told me, you received training from him when you were an Initiate, and that you took to it well. What you need to learn now is interpretation, judgment, and how to use them to your advantage. Master Windu has mastered these skills."

"But," Obi-Wan gestures uselessly at the air. "He is Master Windu."

Qui-Gon lifts an inquisitive eyebrow.

"I mean, he is so…." Obi-Wan trails off.

"Finish your thoughts, Padawan," Qui-Gon chides, but he can't help smiling at him.

"I mean, Master Windu is the youngest council member in history. He developed a new lightsaber form before he was 30, and he is rumored to be elected the next head of the Order." Obi-Wan gushes. "He is so awesome."

"We'll have to ask him if he has the time then," Qui-Gon hides his smile behind his teacup at his Padawans expression. It caught somewhere between excited and nauseous.

"There is one other thing we need to discuss." All traces of humor leave his face, and Qui-Gon sets his cup down. "The reason why I haven't thought you advanced Forms of lightsaber combat but kept you at the basics cadences."

Qui-Gon looks up at Obi-Wan, but his Padawan is looking down at his own teacup, refusing to look up.

“Padawan?” Qui-Gon calls out.

Obi-Wan grimaces and turns his head away. "I thought it was because you think I'm not ready for more. It's why I went to Knight Dralling for Soresu lessons instead of asking you."

"That is not-" Qui-Gon cuts off and takes a second to breathe. "I have held you back because many Padawans -and full Jedi Knights, for that matter- forget that the most basic techniques is the most important technique. The purest. The most likely to protect you in battle, and the foundation of all knowledge that is to come."

He has Obi-Wan's full attention now, and Qui-Gon smiles at him. "Most apprentices want to rush ahead to flashier styles of fighting, and most Masters let them because we must all find our preferred form eventually. But I wanted you to be grounded in your technique. I wanted you to understand the basic cadences so well that they would become instinct so that you would be almost untouchable. Above all, I wanted to give you the training you needed to accomplish anything you set your mind to later on."

There is a long silence before Obi-Wan nods. "I understand, but-"

"But?" Qui-Gon asks when he trails off.

Obi-Wan looks up and meets Qui-Gon's gaze. "You could have said so." They look at each other for a moment before Obi-Wan continues. "Do you want me to stop taking lightsaber classes from other Masters?"

"No, I will not deprive you of learning Maskashi or Soresu from the best in the Order," Especially since Qui-Gon probably would not have taught Obi-Wan Makashi at all, to many bad memories. But he didn't need the hear that. "But it will mean that whenever we train together, we will be working on the basics only."

"Until I can do them backward and forwards in my sleep," Obi-Wan recites, and Qui-Gon bursts out laughing.

"Where did you get that from?" He asks, tears in his eyes.

Obi-Wan has the decency to blush. "I might have been complaining to Quinlan." He mutters into his teacup, and Qui-Gon loses it again.

When he gets his breathing back under control, he finds Obi-Wan beaming at him, and Qui-Gon smiles back. "I might have to start using that myself."

"You know what they say, Master. Students the best teacher makes." Obi-Wan empties his cup and looks around the living room.

"That they do," Qui-Gon tells him and looks around at the mess that is their apartments. "Leave it. We'll clean up in the morning before we go looking for Windu."

"Alright, Master," Obi-Wan smiles at him. "Goodnight."

"Goodnight, Padawan."

--

Mace was not having a good day. The headache he had developed yesterday was not going away, and he was blaming it entirely on Master Yoda and his lineage. Perhaps it was not very generous of him, but Mace wasn't feeling very generous after the meeting with Master Kress. The kriffing Sith.

His head was hit by another wave of pain, and Mace stops to rub at his temples. Using the Force, he eased the headache a little. He needed a vacation, but instead, he was heading out for a mission with Depa in a couple of hours.

"Master Windu," a familiar voice calls out, and Windu can feel the little peace he has gathered disappear. Speak of the devil.

Mace turns to greet the approaching pair. "Master Jinn, Padawan Kenobi. What can I do for you?"

Master Jinn walks up to him and folds his hands into his sleeves. "I have a favor to ask."

Mace looks Qui-Gon over and then glances at Padawan Kenobi, who meets his gaze head-on even if Mace can feel his nervousness in the Force. "What can I do for you?"

Qui-Gon explains the situation, and Mace feels his headache return with a vengeance. He rubs at his temples again, and Qui-Gon trails off.

"Are you alright?" Qui-Gon asks.

"My apologies," Mace glances at the pair. "I have had a headache since yesterday, and it is not going away."

"A shatter point?" Qui-Gon asks, and Mace pauses.

"I don't think so, just bad news," Mace smiles at them. He considers Qui-Gon's proposition. It does have its merits. Master Kress had told him that Padawan Kenobi had been the one to set the whole debacle with the Sith in motion, add in the incident on Galidraan, and Mace was rapidly gaining interest in Kenobi.

"I have a mission with Depa that will probably last a month," Mace tells them.

"You are going to the outer rim?" Qui-Gon asks.

"Yes. The mission is scheduled to last a couple of weeks, but with our luck, it will be longer," Mace crosses his arms. The galaxy has become a darker place, missions are getting longer, and the Jedi are too few. Mace looks down at Obi-Wan. "If you can wait until then to begin the lessons, I'll be happy to help."

"Yes," Kenobi answers quickly and then beams at him. "I can wait."

Chapter Text

Shmi watches as the last of the stars disappear and the first sun peaks up over the horizon. She lets out a short breath. It won't be long until the rest of the palace wakes up, and Shmi has duties to attend.

She glances up at the sky once more. It has been two years since the slavers brought her to Tatooine, and Shmi can still remember the marvel that was hyperspace. The stars rushing past the transparisteel, so close she could almost touch them. They seem so distant from here.

Sometimes, Shmi dreams of just grabbing what she has and walk out among the stars. To live up her name, of being a sky-walker. She wonders if this is how her parents felt. If this feeling in her bones is something that they felt, and if that is why they sold everything and headed out into the outer rim.

Shmi can't remember their faces, but she remembers the love and safety she felt when she was with them. Enslaved children stay with their mothers until they are five. Shmi had been six when the pirate attack happened. She had never seen her parents again.

Heading back into Gardulla's Palace, Shmi ducks her head and slides into the shadows. The best way to avoid trouble is to go unnoticed. There is a grand feast planned for later this evening, and the kitchens will be busy all day. This moment before the suns rises all the time. Shim can get it for herself, and she tressures it.

Hours later and the party preparations are in full swing. Gardulla is in a good mood, and that never bods well for the slaves. It's almost worse than if she was in a bad mood.

Shmi is leading the cleaning with Liana and some of the other slaves in the main hall, where Gardulla is lounging on her throne when a low murmur sweeps through the room, and the Mandalorians walk in.

Mandalorians are not a common sight here on Tatooine, but these three had walked into the palace about a month ago and, after some back and forth, agreed to do a job for Gardulla. It's why they are having a feast tonight. The job they had agreed to do brought good fortune to Gardulla, and she wants to celebrate.

That was not the first time Shmi had seen a Mandalorian. Their presence didn't often grace the slave markets, but there had been one or two at the Zygerrian slave market. Their handlers had gotten a fair price for them and their armor.

Shmi takes a second to study them. The leader, or the one she has assumed is the leader, had gray- metallic armor and helmet with red trim around the visor, brown under armor, red shoulder plates, and red cape. Their vambraces were also gray but with gold details. The one on the left also had gray armor, but they had blue trim around their helmet, and their vambraces were red with blue details.

But it was the one on the right that drew the most attention. That Mandalorian's armor was a deep red, and the helmet was black with red trims. They had black under armor, and their vambraces were red with gold details. Among the filth and washed-out color of Tatooine, the three of them stood out as only strangers and outsiders could.

Keeping half an eye on them, Shmi continues with her duties and doesn't pay much attention to the negotiations, but from what Shmi can hear, there is a problem with the agreed-upon terms and conditions.

One of the Mandalorians raises their voices, and Shim glances at Liana, who nods at her. Time to leave. They gather up the equipment and directs the others to walk out ahead of them.

They are halfway across the hall when Shmi hears one of the Mandalorians mention her name. Liana shoots her a look before she turns and continues out the door, grabbing some of the others who have stopped to look back at Shmi with worry.

Shmi's heart stops and then starts beating in double time as she turns to see Gardulla agree to the Mandalorian's terms, and then she calls Shmi forward.

"Pleasure as always doing business with you, Mereel," Gardulla says in Huttese. Shmi watches helplessly as a guard hands a tracking transmitter to the Mandalorian in gray armor.

"As always, the pleasure is all mine, Gardulla." The Mandalorian, Mereel answers, and then he turns and walks out, followed by the Mandalorian in blue. When Shmi hesitates, the Mandalorian in red gestures for Shmi to follow, and she does.

They don't stop in the palace but heads straight out and for their ship. The ship is unlike anything Shmi has ever seen. Its engines are massive, and it looks to be partly amphibian. They wait in silence as the ramp lowers, and when it does, Shmi can see that it leads into a vehicle bay with a couple of speeder bikes parked to the side, and then the rest of the bay cleared off.

The Mandalorians walk up the ramp, and Shmi is about to follow when she hears the sound of running feet. She turns and sees Liana running towards her with a bag in her hand. She stops a distance away from the ships and bows to the Mandalorians.

"Masters, I have gathered Shmi's belongings. May I give them to her?" Liana keeps her head down and waits for the Mandalorians to speak.

After a long pause, the one on gray nods, and Liana waste no time in striding forward to give the bag to Shim. Their eyes meet and hold. There is so much to say and no time to say it. Instead, Liana squeezes Shmi's hand and then turns and walks away. She doesn't look back.

When the ramp is fully closed behind Shmi, the engine starts up, and they take off. The Mandalorian in gray is waiting for her, and after a second, he removes his helmet. He is, and he is not what she had expected. He has short black hair and dark skin, a couple of shades darker than her own. His face is stern, but he has kind brown eyes.

"My name is Jaster Mereel. The other two are my children, Arla and Jango." He is studying her, but there is nothing unkind about it.

"Yes, Master." Shmi is watching him closely, and it is only because of it that she sees the way Mereels hand clenches around his helmet.

"No-I." Her new Master runs a hand through his hair and looks at her in distress. "I am not your Master, Lady Skywalker."

Shmi bows low and, in her most soothing voice, asks. "f you have another preferred form of address, I…" She trails off as Mareel sticks the chip transmitter in her face.

"Please, take it," Mereel says, but Shmi doesn't move. Depur is known for playing tricks on their slaves, and this was not the first time Shmi has been promised her freedom and then had it taken away. Shmi does not grimace at the thought. Pi-Lippa had vowed to free Shmi, and the fact that she had died before she could do as she promised was not Pi-Lippa's fault.

"Lady Skywalker," Mereel starts, and the continued use of the title makes Shmi look up at him. The distress is still apparent on his face, but so is determination. "I am not your Master."

Mereel then does something Shmi has never seen Depur do. He turns off the chip transmitter and holds it out for her to take. Shim, in growing disbelief, takes it from him and clutches it to her chest.

They look at each other in silence, and then Mereel smiled at her. "I think I owe you an explanation. Will you join me for caf?"

He waits for Shmi to nod in agreement before turning and walking into the ship. Shmi follows.

--

Jaster keeps his movements slow and visible as he serves Shmi caf. He takes the seat opposite her and reaches for his cup, and only after he has taken a sip of his caf does Shmi follow suit.

It still takes another minute before Shim asks a question. "Why did you buy me?"

Jaster wants to grimace, but he keeps the reaction off his face. "It was a" He pauses, how to keep this as simple as possible, "Let's call it a contract, but until we have removed the chip, the contract isn't done. We can have it done here on Tatooine-"

"No. Not here," Shmi cuts him off, and Jaster can't help but agree.

"Yeah, I don't recommend that either, but there are several other options. We could take you to one of the Jedi Order's med centers. They will have the right equipment, and they will help you become a Republic citizen. Or one of the other charities that run similar programs, but the Jedi is the best of them." When Shmi doesn't say anything, he continues. "We could also take you with us to Mandalore. I have a doctor on call that should be able to help you take out the chip."

He watches her, and still, she doesn't say anything. "You don't have to decide now, but when we leave Tatooine after resupplying, we need to know where we will head next. I have a meeting on Mandalore I can't miss in about three weeks, and I need to set up the hyperspace jumps."

"Your client? Will you take me to them?" Shmi asks, voice steady. But Jaster can see her hand tightening around her cup.

"No," He pauses and thinks about Obi-Wan. "I don't think the client can help you any more than they already have." Jaster reaches down into his belt and pulls out the credit chip Obi-Wan gave him. "The client asked me to give that to you and to let you make your own choice afterward."

"Why?" Shmi's voice breaks at the question, and Jaster has to pushes down the urge to reach over to comfort her.

"I can't tell you that," Jaster says, and he feels a little bad for the lie, but he doesn't think telling Shmi the truth will help right now. Instead, Jaster shows her to her room.

"It's not that big, but as long as you stay here on the ship, it will be yours," Jaster looks at Shmi, and she seems a little overwhelmed. He shows her how to lock the door, and then he leaves her alone. The moment the door closes behind him, the sound of the lock rings out.

--

Shmi sits down on the bed, crosses her legs, and leans back against the wall, with her transmitter in one hand and the credit chip in her other. She checks the balance on the chip and almost drops it in surprise. There were enough on it to keep her comfortable for months. Of course, the credits were useless here on Tatooine, but still, this was more money than she had ever remembered owning before.

Shmi bites her lip to keep from crying. Water is precious on Tatooine, and even though she had only been here for two years, the desert and the suns had seeped into her bones. But she feels numb with all the choices she now has at her disposal.

She is a Free Woman with no idea of what to do with her newfound freedom. Shmi tries to keep her composure, but a sob breaks free, and she curls over her knees, trying to stay quiet. The chip is still in her, things could always change, but in her bones, Shmi knows that this is the truth: Depur would never enslave her again.

--

The ship lands in one of the many hangers at Mos Espa, and Shmi opens the door to her room to go looking for the others.

She walks out to join them at the ramp, and she walks straight into an argument. From what Shmi gathers, Mereel and Arla are about to head out to buy supplies and leave a disgruntled Jango behind.

"What if your stalker comms? We have to make sure he can reach you." Arla teases Jango, who is about to retaliate, but Mereel steps between them.

All of them have removed their helmets, and it allows Shmi to study them. She can see the family resemblance between Arla and Jango, but what surprises Shim the most is that they are younger than her. Arla has to be at least three years younger, and Jango almost a decade younger than Shmi.

"Arla, stop." Mereel glares at his daughter and turns to Jango. "We need someone to stay behind to- Lady Skywalker!"

Giving his children a warning look, Mereel walks up to her join Shmi at the top of the ramp. "Please ignore their manners. I want to say they are not always like this, but that would be a lie. What can I do for you?"

Arla and Jango shifts on their feet, and with a start, Shmi realizes that they are discussing who is going to say behind to protect her. It's sweet, in a way, and it confirms her instincts that these are good people. It gives her the courage to answer the question truthfully. "I would like to go into the market if that is alright with you?"

Mereel blinks and nods. "Of course, I can exchange some of your Republic Credits for Wupiupi if you want?"

Now it's her turn to blink. "I would like that, thank you."

Mereel walks up the ramp again and past her, keeping at a respective distance. There is a short scuffle between the other two before Jango steps up to her. "Would you like some company in the market, Lady Skywalker?

Watching out of the corner of her eye, Shmi can see Arla as she gives her brother a thumbs up. She has a feeling that this is not a question, and no matter what she says, they would not let her walk alone.

Shmi considers her options, and wasn't that a novel feeling? She had options now, and after a second, agrees to his request. As amusing as it would be to see if Jango can follow her at a discreet distance, the protection his presence would offer is not unwelcome.

Mereel comes back out and hands her the Wupiwupi. "My apologies, Lady Skywalker. I have to use the rest for resupplying and gas. You would not believe the exchange rates here on Tatooine," Mereel says as he put on his helmet. "Can you believe that they take almost 50% exchange rate?"

Shmi watches in amusement as his children roll their eyes at him, and Arla put her helmet on, grabs Mereel's arm, and wave goodbye at Shmi and Jango.

Hesitating, Jango glances at her, then walks back up the ramp. He comes back out, sans helmet, and closes the ship back up.

--

When Shmi had first gotten to Tatooine, she had been taken to the slave market here in Mos Espa. It was not as big as the Zygerrian slave market, but there was just as much suffering here as on every other slave market Shmi has seen. She had spent the first year on this planet working for a Master in the merchant ally, so Shmi knows her way around. It doesn't take her long to find the correct stall and, more importantly, the women who own it.

"Jira." The older woman at the fruit stand looks up when she hears her name, and then her eyes widen when she sees Shmi.

"Shmi! I thought Gardulla had you." Jira stands up and pulls Shmi into a bruising hug. They separate, and Jira looks suspiciously at Jango, who takes a step back to give them some privacy, looking very awkward as he does so. It makes Shmi want to laugh. Jira is at least three times his age and only half his mass. But Jango looks like he would rather walk through fire than insult Jira further.

Shmi and Jira take a seat behind the stall, and Shmi takes the hand Jira holds out. "You're right, Gardulla did have me, but I have been Freed."

Jira's eyes go wide, and she shots a sharp look at Jango. "And him?"

"His father freed me on the behest of a client." Jira looks alarmed, so Shmi hastens to assure her. "They won't tell me who, nor are they taking me to them. They are bounty hunters, and they have given me a choice; go to the Republic, or go with them. And I don't know what to do."

Jira smiles gently at her. "I can't make that choice for you Shmi, you have to trust yourself and hope that Ar-Amu is looking out for you." The older woman squeezes Shmi's hand. "What do your instincts tell you?"

Shmi doesn't answer immediately, even knowing the answer won't change, but it's Jira who is asking. So, Shmi takes a deep breath, quiets her mind, and searches her feelings for the truth.

"I will go with them to Mandalore." Shmi smiles and looks back up at Jira. "It will not be the easiest path, but it's the one that feels the most right."

Jira hugs her, and her grip is bruising. "Then you have made the right choice." She lets go, and there are tears in both of their eyes, but they won't fall. Water is precious, and they will not waste it on this. "Until we meet again, go Free."

Chapter Text

Shmi wakes up the first day as a free woman to the sound of the fresher door opening. It's early, but Shmi decides that she has slept long enough. Not that she can go back to sleep now. Old habits die hard.

Getting up and getting dressed doesn't take long, but it's long enough for whoever has been in the fresher to walk past her door and into the galley. Shmi hesitates for a second before she follows. She finds Arla standing in the galley by the table, looking thoughtful.

"Good morning," Shmi says and joins Arla in studying the empty table.

"Morning," Arla smiles at her and looks back down. "You want eggs for breakfast?"

"What kind?" Shim asks.

"The good kind," Arla responds and grimaces. "I'm not making that shit Jaster likes. Eggs are not supposed to be black. That's just wrong."

Shmi nods in agreement. She has tasted black eggs, and they are not worthy of the name. "Do you need any help?"

"Not really, I'm just trying to avoid dinner," Arla says, and Shim blinks at her. Arla laughs and located bacon, eggs, and bread in the cabinet closest to the oven.

"Whoever makes breakfast doesn't have to make dinner." She explains and starts breaking the eggs. "When we were young, Jango and I just to compete to see who could get up the earliest to make breakfast and avoided dinner duty," Alra smirks. "I usually won, Jango doesn't like mornings."

Shmi smiles and takes a seat at the table. The cold of the kitchen sweeps into her, so she hunches her shoulders and folds her arms around herself. It has been a long time since Shmi has left the desert of Tatooine.

"Ah, osik. Do you need warmer clothes?" Arla asks and looks at Shmi. "I should have some that fit you. We're about the same size, right?"

Shmi blinks at Arla. "I think so. You are broader over the shoulders than me, but otherwise, we are about the same size."

"About the same age too," Arla adds. "Hold on. I'll go get them."

Arla returns with a wool sweater she hands over to Shmi, who accepts it gratefully and puts it on. As Arla picks up a spatula, Mereel walks down the stairs.

"Good morning, Arla, Lady Skywalker. Is Jango up yet?" Mereel asks through a yawn and joins Shmi at the table.

"No, he was on the hyperspace jump last night," Arla answers. "I don't expect to see him before noon, at the earliest."

Nodding, Mereel pills put his datapad to check the time. "If he is not up before 10, I'll wake him."

"Water to the face?" Arla asks hopefully, and Jaster barks a laugh.

"Do you want him to shoot me?" Mereel asks and shakes his head. "No, I'll just turn on the lights."

Arla grins conspiratorially at Shmi, who gets a bad feeling about this. But luckily for everyone, Jango is up by the time the rest of them are done with breakfast, and he escapes whatever rude wake-up call Arla had planned.

"Jango, are you working on the engineering modules today?" Mereel asks and looks up from his datapad. Jango blinks sleepily at him, and after Mereel repeats the question, Jango nods and starts shoveling food in his mouth.

Mereel rolls his eyes and shoves a glass of milk in Jango's direction, taking care not to spill any. "Arla, what are your plans?"

"Math, with a side of galactic law," She answers, and Mereel nods before he sees Shmi expressions.

"We try to have a regular schedule while in hyperspace," Mereel explains. "Mornings are usually spent studying or, in my case," He glowers down at his pad. "Paperwork. Afternoons are used for sparing or other activities."

Shim nods, hesitates and pushes through. "Do you have any teaching modules I can use?"

Mereel pauses and frowns. "You need access to the holonet to download new modules, but we should have some datapads with Mandalorian history on them."

Both Arla and Jango roll their eyes at Mereel, and Shim raises an eyebrow.

"Jaster is a history nerd," Arla explains, and Jango nods in agreement. "He has every book ever written on Mandalorian history."

"That's an exaggeration," Mereel protests, but he turns to Shmi with a sheepish expression. "I have books on other topics too if you want to look through them instead, Lady Skywalker." Mereel makes a thoughtful noise. "We'll make time to download new modules when we drop out of hyperspace for the next jump."

Shmi nods, and Arla reaches over to steal a piece of bacon off Jango's plate. He doesn't seem to notice, but when Arla tries it again, Jango almost stabs her hand with his fork and glares at her.

Cackling, Arla pushes away from the table and heads into the lounge, where she picks up a datapad and sprawls out on the floor.

"We have a perfectly good couch," Mereel comments, not looking up from his own datapad.

"We sure do," Alra says. "Shmi, you heard him, come join me."

Shmi glances first at Mereel and Jango, then at the mess that is the kitchen, but Arla cuts off her train of thought.

"The cook doesn't clean up." She says. Shmi considers protesting that she didn't cook, but she has a feeling it will fall on deaf ears.

When she steps out of the galley, Arla hands Shmi several datapads for her to look through. Most of the books on them are in Mando'a Arla explains, so Shmi puts them to the side, but the rest are Basic, so Shmi starts reading and finds herself sucked into the old Mandalorian legends.

After what feels like hours, Shmi is pulled out of her reading by the sound of cursing. She looks up in time to see Mereel drop his datapad on the table and run a hand through his hair in frustration. Shmi turns to meet Jango's eyes and raises an eyebrow in question.

"The last operation with the True Mandalorians went sideways," Jango explains, and Arla snorts.

"Understatement of the year," Arla grumbles. "It was almost a kriffing disaster."

Shmi looks back at Jango, but he only grimaces and turns back to his datapad.

Mereel seems unaware of their conversation as he stands up and heads up the stairs to his room, but he turns to look at Arla when she calls out to him.

"You can't shoot your paperwork," Arla says. " Myles would kill you."

Mereel throws his hands up. "He can't kill me. I'm his boss! Besides, if he does, he is stuck with you lot, and I think he would rather shoot himself." Mereel look meets Shmi's eyes. "Not you, Lady Skywalker. You are a delight, and we are happy to have you here."

Arla makes a sound of protest, but Jango speaks up. "You know it's true, Arla. You have been on Myles's shit list since you were fourteen."

"And I told you, it was an accident!" Aral scowls at her brother.

Mereel uses the distraction to escape up the stairs and leaves Shmi with the bickering siblings.

--

Later that day, Arla and Jango hand their datapads over to Shmi, and she spends some time reading through them. The business and accounting modules on Arla's datapad are almost incomprehensible to her. Jango's ship engineering modules are much more to her liking, but Shmi gets distracted by the sound of fighting coming from the vehicle bay. She pokes her head around the doorway and is met by the sight of Arla and Jango fighting barehanded. It takes her breath away, and Shmi feels her heart start beating in double time.

Shmi has never been allowed to learn how to fight or defend herself, and watching the two of them trade punches and kicks with skill and precision is mesmerizing.

"Are you alright?" Mereel asks, but Shmi can't tear her eyes away from the spar to look at him as she answers.

"I'm fine," She says and watches as Jango gets his feet swept away from under him and goes down hard, but not for long. He comes up swinging, and Arla takes a step back to avoid the punch. "I have never seen anyone fight like that."

Not that she is an expert, but you pick up things here and there.

"You wouldn't have," Mereel confirms. He smiles down at her. "It's even more impressive in armor."

Shmi takes a second to consider it and has to swallow. She can imagine. There is a reason Mandalorian armor is so valued, and it must make them almost indestructible.

Not that any of them have been wearing armor since they took off from Tatooine. The thought makes her pause, but she is distracted from it by Arla trying a high kick to Jango's head that he blocks and then punches her in the abdomen. Arla gets the breath knocked out of her, and she staggers back. Shmi holds her breath and waits for Jango to go in to finish the fight, but he doesn't move. He waits until Arla is standing back up to resume the fight.

Right, this is a spar. Shmi shakes her head to clear her thoughts. Mereel studies her for a second to make sure she is alright before he walks off to start dinner.

That night, Shmi dreams of blaster fire, fighting, and the heavy feel of armor.

--

The second day goes much the same as the first, but as Mereel promised, after breakfast, when they drop out of hyperspace, they spend a couple of hours hovering by a planet downloading a couple of learning modules for Shim. There are so many courses, but Shmi decides to get the one on navigating and a couple of modules on languages. She's already fluent in Huttese and Basic, but Shmi is curious to see how good she is in any other languages she has picked up over the years.

Mereel has taken the opportunity to talk to Myles, so Arla ends up in the cockpit, plotting the course with Shmi in the copilot seat.

"How long will it take to get to Mandalore?" Shim asks. She tries to see what Arla is doing, but it's all gibberish, and only partly because the controls are in Mando'a.

"From Tatooine? It takes 6-7 days, depending on the route, so we have about five days left," Arla frowns at the Nav Computer. "Maybe longer if any roving blackholes have moved since last time we passed through."

Shmi almost drops her datapad. "Excuse me? What?"

Arla grins and glances at her. "Or if pirates have moved any asteroids around."

Narrowing her eyes at Arla, Shmi crosses her arms. "Please explain."

Arla's grin widens. "At least several ships a year are destroyed by 'wandering' black holes. It's why we have hyperspace beacons. They tell us if anything has shifted since we were last here."

Shmi frowns. "How do the beacons know that they haven't?"

"Depending on who 'owns' the hyper lane. In the Republic, several companies travel the routes and check up on things, but the Jedi exploration corpse is most well known." Arla puts in some info to the Nav computer. "They make sure the coordinates on the beacons matches the one in real space."

"And the thing about the pirates?" Shim glances at Arla and grips her datapad until her knuckles turn white.

"All things in real space have a 'shadow' in hyperspace," Alra waits until Shmi nods in understanding before continuing. "There is a Nav computer program that drops you out of hyperspace if you get too close. Pirates use that to their advantage by hauling asteroids closer to the hyperplane, and then they sit back and wait until an unsuspecting ship is forced out and they attack."

Shim swallows, and Arla smiles gently at her. "Don't worry. We are Mandalorians. We can handle a couple of pirates."

Shim nods, but Arla is not as reassuring as she thinks. Wandering black holes. What the kriff?

--

It's only on the third day, late into the afternoon, while watching Arla and Jango going through katas that Shmi gathers up the courage to ask the question that has been burning in her mind since she saw that first spar.

"Can I learn?" Shim looks at Arla, who blinks and eases out of her movements, while Jango continues. "To fight, I mean?"

Arla studies her before yelling for Mereel to join them.

"What?" Mereel walks in and looks at Arla.

"Shim wants to learn Mando'paru," Arla tells him.

Mereel blinks slowly at Arla and then looks at Jango, who shrugs. "Alright," He turns to Shmi. "If that is something you want to learn, Lady Skywalker, I will teach you."

Shmi hesitates and looks at Arla, but it's Mereels who answers her unspoken question. "Arla is a good fighter, but she has never taught anyone before, I have. But if you want someone else to teach you, we can wait until we reach Manda'yaim. I'm sure one of the Haat' ade will be your baji'buir."

The new words make Shmi frown. It must be Mando'a. Not that she would know, non of the Mandalorians has spoken the language in her presence.

Shmi takes the time to consider the offer and to study Mereel for any anger or displeasure at her hesitation. She finds none. "If you are willing to teach me, I will be honored to be your student," Shmi says, and Mereel smiles brightly at her.

"Right," Mereel claps his hands. "Arla, do you have any work out clothes for Shmi to borrow? If that's alright with you, Lady Skywalker?"

Nodding, Shim watches in amusement as Arla rolls her eyes and walks to find the clothes in question. When Shmi has changed, Mereel starts the lesson.

The lesson starts with basic stretches, footwork, stamina training, and the proper way to throw a punch. About halfway through, Mereel starts issuing the instruction in Mando'a, or he will say a word or sentence in Mando'a and wait until Shmi has repeated them back to him before moving on to the next one stance or kick.

It's exhausting and exhilarating, and Shim can't stop smiling all the way through. It's the most fun she's had in years.

--

"I didn't think anyone else was awake at this time." It's the middle of the ship's fift night cycle, so Shmi feels entirely justified in jumping with surprise when Mereel speaks up from behind her. Shmi turns to frown at him, and he chuckles sheepishly. "My apologies, Lady Skywalker, I didn't mean to scare you."

How a man of his size can be so quiet, she can't even comprehend. Mereel tilts his head at the pilot's chair in question, and she nods. Jaster sits down and brings up the nav computer. They must be closer to the next hyperjump then Shmi realized.

Shim turns back to look out at the stars streaking by.

"I have always loved the stars." It's a quiet admission, and Shmi smiles to herself. "I have always wanted to travel among them."

She looks over at Mereel, but he is looking out the transparisteel. When he speaks, it's in the same quiet tone like her. "I could never settle down on one planet, in one place." He meets her gaze, and he is smiling too. "To give up this freedom; to be able to travel wherever I want. I don't think I can do that."

"Not even for your kids?" The question slips out before Shmi can stop herself, but Mereel only laughs.

"I adopted them when I was twenty-four, and I was not ready for fatherhood." He admits. "I had no idea what I was doing and had it not been for Myles and Sana. I would have failed spectacularly. It did not help my situation that I had only been in charge of the Haat Mand'ade for a year and some months."

Mereel chuckles. "I was also trying to reform the Mando'ade. To get them to follow the Supercommando Codex, and we were in the middle of a civil war." He rubs at his eyes, and Shim can see the exhaustion in the lines of his face. "Still are, to be honest. Kyr'tsad just won't die."

They fall into silence again, but Shmi keeps quiet. She doesn't think Mereel is done talking.

"But for my kids, I would try." He chuckles. "I would probably go mad, but if staying in one place is what it takes to keep them safe, I would give it my best shot."

There is quiet again. Only the hyper engines are audible, and Shmi takes a breath to gather her courage. "Can you teach me?"

"Yes." Mereel paused, smiles at her. "What did you want to learn?"

Shmi nodes at the nav computer, and Mereel takes a second to gather his thoughts and then looks speculative at her. "You know how to pilot?" When she shakes her head at him, Mereel grins. "Then, let's start with that."

That how Arla finds them when it's time for breakfast. Mereel pointing things out to Shmi and explaining how to calculate a hyperjump. "Buir, it's time to eat. Get up."

"Ade these days, no respect for their buir." Mereel huffs but gets up. He stops to hug Arla before he leaves the cockpit, and Shmi waits until he is gone before she looks at Arla. Shmi is not nervous, per se, but there is a question she needs to ask, and Shmi is not sure she is ready for the answer.

"Arla," Shmi waits until she has the younger women's full attention before continuing." What does baji'buir mean?"

There is a moment of silence before Arle huffs and sits down in the pilot's chair. "It means teacher, but the direct translation is teacher- guardian."

Shmi is not surprised. She has learned what buir means, but she is 27 years old and a little too old for a guardian and a parent... Shmi can feel Arla's gaze on her, but it doesn't bother her. Arla is curious about what Shmi's next step will be. "I'm not Mandalorian."

"No." Arla agrees. "But you can be if you choose our way of life." Arla catches Shmi's eyes again. "Either way, we will not abandon you if you choose something else, we will help you along as far as we can."

Of that, Shmi has no doubt. "Do you have the Supercommando Codex onboard?" The question catches Arla by surprise.

"You want to read it? It's like 70 000 words! I don't know what buir was thinking of when he wrote it. It's almost so long it's unreadable." Arla is perhaps ranting a little, but Shmi is used to it by now.

"A better starting point would be the Resol'nare and the older poems instead of that mess of a Codex." Arla huffs, but she looks back at Shmi and rolls her eyes. "But yes, we do have it onboard. I'll get you a copy."

"Vor entye, Arla."

--

When the ship drops out of hyperspace days later, and Shim can see Mandalore for the first time, she is struck by all the green and blue of the planet's surface. There are patches of gray and white, and she knows from her reading that it's the planet's desserts, but they are so small compared to Tatooine. It has been years since she has seen so much color on one planet, and Shim had almost forgotten what it looked like.

"Welcome to Manda'yaim, Shmi," Jaster says, and she looks back at the planet with new eyes

Yaim. Home. Maybe one day, it could be her home as well.

Chapter Text

As they enter the atmosphere, Jaster claps Shmi on the shoulder and heads back to the comm station to sort out landing clearances, leaving Jango and Shmi alone in the cockpit.

"Where are we headed?" Shmi asks and leans over the checks on a display. She frowns at it, and Jango leans over to flip a switch that makes the display clear up.

"Clan Sana has a homestead on the outskirts of a town called Bayrath. We will have your chip removed there," Jango keeps an eye on what Shmi is doing, but he is not worried. She had taken to flying as if she had been born to it, and Jango makes a mental note to introduce her to Susru when they meet up with the rest of the Haat'ade.

"Do you know them well, and has the doctor removed slave chips before?" Shmi doesn't sound worried, but Jango wouldn't blame her if she were.

"Tre Sana is a part of the Haat'ade, and his husband, Adzos, is the doctor. He does work for us from time to time." Jango pauses. "I dont know if he has moved chips before, but I wouldn't be surprised. When Adzos met Sana and Lanoree, she is their third, he was working at a" Jango stops to search for the right word, but comes up empty. "Let's just call it a "hospital", where he helped people that had nowhere else to go."

Shmi raises an eyebrow at him, and Jango shrugs. "I know he is good at what he does and that we can trust him. We dont ask questions."

"So, he married Sana and moved to Mandalore?" Shmi adjusts a lever, and the ship's engines make a low whining noise. Shmi glances at him, and Jango shrugs. They will have to take a look when they land.

"Other way around," Jango says, answering Shmi’s question, and she blinks at him. "Sana and Lanoree married Adzos and left their past behind, and moved here. Adzos was born to House Kass, and his family technically owns Bayrath."

"How do you only 'technically' own a town?" Shmi asks voice amused, and Jango smiles at her.

"It started as House Kass' clan compound, but it has grown over the years. Mostly outshoots of House Kess, like Clan Sana, but other Clans have moved in to seek protection from House Kess. They are an old House, and they have a lot of political power on Mandalore." He explains.

They fall into silence. Shmi is clearly turning something over in her mind, but Jango lets her be. He can wait for her to be ready to ask, and his patience is rewarded. "Are House Kess aligned with the True Mandalorians?"

"Yes, and no." Jango pulls a face. "They will not take a side in the war, but we know they won't turn us away either. As long as we don't gather the Haat'ade on their land, we are fine. They dont want to antagonize Kyr'tsad."

"Jaster mentioned that there is a civil war going on," Shmi looks out at the landscape rushing past them. They are flying over a lake that sparkles in the sunlight. Bayrath is located at the edge of this lake, which is so big that it technically could be called an ocean, and Jango had spent many a day on its shore when he was younger.

Jaster walks back into the cockpit, and Jango has to drop the subject in favor of landing the ship. Bayrath has its own spaceport, but Jango is directed towards Sana's homestead by the local traffic tower. The homestead is close to the lake, and combined with the AIAT/i's amphibious capabilities, and it is easier to land it on the water than to find space in the farm's courtyard.

The landing goes smoothly, a little shaky when Jango lets Shmi steer the ship, but they land in one piece. Better than Jango did the first time he tried to land a ship. At least he didn't 'borrow' Myles’ ship the way Arla had.

Following Shmi and Jaster down the stairs, Jango picks up his bag and meets up with Arla at the ramp, and they walk out together, where Sana and one of his daughters meet them. She has the same red skin as him, and she is trying to keep calm, but her short lekku keeps twitching in excitement.

"Mand'alor." The two twi'lek places their fist over their heart and bows to Jaster, who nods back.

"Sana, thank you for offering us your Clans and your family's hospitality. Vor entye." Jaster replied and moved to clasp Tre's hand in the traditional mando greeting.

"It's our pleasure. You remember my daughter, Tasha." Sana can't quite keep the exasperation out of his voice when he turns to his ad.

"Of course." Jaster reaches out and grasps her hand as well. "Last time I saw you, you were about as tall as my hip. I'm glad you are looking well."

Tasha's lekku turns an impressive shade of red as she answers. "Thank you. Welcome to our home." She finishes a little awkwardly.

Jango rolls his eyes and turns to look back at Arla and Shmi, ignoring Jaster's conversation as he introduces Shmi to them. He frowns. Aral is grinning at Tasha, who beams back, but Shmi is looking wide-eyed at Jaster, but Jango is pulled back from his thoughts and back into the conversation when Jaster asks about Adzos.

"Elek, he should be back from work soon. One of the other Clans had a premature birth, and he was called in early this morning." Sana explains as he gestures for them to follow him back to the house. "I can show you to your rooms in the meanwhile. Tasha, find Lanoree. She is supposed to be back by now."

Tahsa huffs and looks pleadingly at Sana, but when he only raises an eyebrow at her, she does as he asks and runs off to find her buir.

They set off towards the main house, and Shmi falls into step with Jango. She grips his elbow, and Jango turns to look at her in question.

"Mereel is the Mand'alor." She says, voice low.

"Lek." Jango agrees and raises an eyebrow at her, but Shmi only stares at him, and Jango frowns at her. "What?"

"He is the king of Mandalore," Shmi squeezes his arm and glances at Jaster. Jango knows that she has been reading the old legends, so she knows what the title entails. She looks back at Jango and hisses at him. "No one told me."

Oh.

A slight oversight, but what could you do.

"I'm sorry, Shmi. We must have forgotten to mention it." Jango tries to smother his laughter. But some of it must come through because Shmi narrows her eyes at him, but Shmi's lips are twitching, so Jango doesn't think she is too mad.

"Gardulla doesn't know, does she?" Shmi asks.

Scratching at his jaw, Jango considers the question. "I dont know. We haven't mentioned it. But she does have a pretty large information network of her own so that I won't put it past her."

Shmi looks thoughtful, then shakes her head. "She doesn't know. There is no way Gardulla wouldn't have made a bigger show of it if she knew she had the influence to hire the ruler of Mandalore to do her leg work."

Jango nods in agreement. "If you say so, I trust your judgment."

The words make Shmi smile quietly to herself as they step into the house and a hallway cluttered with shoes.

"Just put your shoes wherever," Sana says, defeat evident in his voice. "We try to keep it organized, but with four children and three adults, we are fighting a losing battle."

"You should have stopped before the kids outnumbered the adults," Jaster teases, and Sans points a threatening finger at him, lips twitching.

"You have lost any right to comment on it, considering you are outnumbered three to one. At least we are three capable adults and one droid," Sana smirks at Jaster. "Speaking of capable adults, does Myles know that you have picked up another stray?"

"That's not a fair comparison. Mine are at least full-grown," Jaster protests, and then he turns to look apologetically at Shmi, who raises an eyebrow at him in amusement. Jaster's lips twitch, and he turns to look at Sana again. "And what does Myles has to do with anything?

The front door opens, cutting off the bickering, and a blue-skinned Nautolan walking in, follows by an older black man.

"Kin'ade, Adzos," Sans says and pushes past Jaster to hug his daughter and kiss his husband.

"Tre," Adzos says and smiles at Sana. "Lanoree?"

"Still out," Sana replies and turns back around. "We have guests."

"Mand’alor," Adzos looks at Jaster and places a hand over his heart, and bows. "It's good to see you again."

"You too, Adzos, and you too, Kin'ade," Jaster moves forward to grip his hand. "Vor entye, for helping us."

Adzos straightens his spine and holds Jaster's gaze. "Nyce, bic kih'parjai."

Jaster looks down for a second before he meets Adzos gaze again. "Of course." He turns and gestures for Shmi to join them. "Shmi, this is Adzos."

"Nice to meet you, Shmi," Adzos says and shakes Shmi's hand. "Would you like to get started now, or do you want to wait?"

Jango can see Shmi hesitate. She doesn't know these people, but in the end, her desire to get the chip out wins. "Now, please."

Nodding, Adzos turns and heads back out again, and after asking Arla to join her, the two of them follow after him. If Jango remembers correctly, the big building to the left is Adzos' clinic. He has an office in Bayrath where he has regular checkups on patients, but any significant surgeries are done here.

"Buir, let go. I need to help," Kin'ade complains. Sana huffs but lets her go, and she runs after Adzos and the others.

The rest of them turn to head into the living room but barely a second later, the door flies open, and Lanoree walks in with three children on her heels. It had been several years since Jango had seen them, but he recognized the dark-skinned boy as Dalien and the Pantoran teenager as Ion, with Tasha bringing up the rear.

Dalien, who went by Dale, was the youngest of the children, and he runs up to Jango and grabbing him around the leg. "Are you a True Mandalorian?"

He gave Jango no time to answer but launches into a battery of questions. "Do you know how to fight? Can you shoot a gun?" Dale's eyes go wide. "Can you teach me how to shoot a gun?"

Feeling a little like a bantha caught in the headlights of a Sandcrawler, Jango looks at Lanoree, who only smirks at his look of panic but picks her son up by the back of his shirts and shakes him softly. "I have told you no, Dal'ika. Now go and wash up for dinner, or you'll eat out back with the chickens."

"But buuuiiirrr!" Dale whines, but Lanoree shows no mercy, hand him off to Ion, who goes to wash him in the bathroom.

"Good evening, Jaster, Jango," Lanoree smiles at them and leans up to kiss Sana. "Dinner?"

"It should be done soon," Sana answers. "I left FAV in charge."

"I'll set the table," Lanoree says and steps back to grasp Tasha and slings her over her shoulder. The twi'lek shrike in surprise, but Lanoree doesn't stop walking, and the two of them disappear into the kitchen.

"How old are your kids now, Sana?" Jaster asks and takes a seat on the couch in the living room. "Last time I saw them, Dale was barely a year old."

"They are too old," Sana complains and sits down in an armchair after removing a miniature spaceship from behind the cushion. "Ion and Kin'ade are almost eighteen, Tasha is nine, and Dal'ika is five."

"Time goes by too fast, old friend." Jaster agrees and laughs at Sana's protest of being called old. "Will they be joining the Haat'ade?"

Sana drags a hand down his face and groans. "Lek, I can't keep them here forever, but Kin'ade hasn't decided yet if she wants to stay here and become an apprentice for Adzos or go out into the galaxy."

"She's a baar'ur?"

"She is, and with Adzos and Lanoree's," Sana hesitates, glance at Jango, and then looks meaningfully back at Jaster." Teachings she will be a fantastic baar'ur."

Looking between them, Jango tries to understand what Sana is talking about, but there is no clue and no time to ask because Tasha comes running back in to tell them that dinner is ready.

Jango spends the next minutes fighting for a plate and a chair at the dinner table. The house is pretty big, but it is not made for almost ten people. It reminds Jango of mealtime in the Haat'ade. You find a seat where you can, and you eat until the food is gone.

Except here, he has a five-year-old hanging off his shoulder and babbling his ear off. Lanoree had offered to take him, but Jango had declined. He likes kids, and Dale didn't expect Jango to talk or answer every question, not that Jango didn't try, but he couldn't get a word in edgewise.

Halfway through dinner, Adzos and Kin'ade walk in, with Shmi and Arla nowhere to be seen, and Adzos leans down to speak to Jaster, who nods in understanding. Jango tenses, but Jaster gives him the all-clear hand sign, so he goes back to his food, but Jango doesn't fully relax until Shmi and Arla join them at the table. When Shmi meets his eyes, he can see that she has been crying, but she beams at him, so Jango smiles back.

All clear.

--

The next morning, Jango is barely two steps out from the room he shares with Jaster when he hears a warcry, and something fast and small collides with the back of his legs. Jango almost punches his attacker in the face before he recognizes the mop of hair as Dale.

Closing his eyes, Jango drags a hand down his face. "Good morning, Dale."

"Good morning, Jango. You are finally awake! Buir said I want allowed to wake you up," Dale smiles and reaches up to take Jango's hand. "She said it was a bad idea."

Taking a moment to consider what he could have done had Dale tried to wake him up in an unfamiliar place, Jango can't help but agree. "Your buir is right. That would have been a bad idea."

Dale looks up at him with somber eyes. "Do you have the same bad dreams as buir?"

Jango doesn't know which buir Dale is talking about, but the answer is probably the same anyway. "Yes."

"Alright," Dale says and starts walking towards the kitchen, and since he is still holding Jango's hand, he follows. Dale looks back up at him again. "You gonna join us for training?"

"I dont know," Jango answers honestly, and Dale nods sagely.

"Probably," Dale misses some syllables in the word, but Jango gets the gists. "For the best, buir would kick your ass anyway. She is the best fighter ever. No one can beat her."

Jango feels his fingers twitch and takes a deep breath, but the urge to find Lanoree and challenge her to a spar doesn't go away.

It wasn't about anything as stupid as pride, but Jango had seen Lanoree spar only once, a couple of years ago, and it had been one of the best spars he had ever witnessed. He had asked for a spar afterward, but Lanoree had refused to fight a child. Jango had complained that he was not a kid, but Lanoree had raised an eyebrow and told him, in no uncertain terms, that as long that he was underaged by Galactic standard, she would not fight him.

He tries to keep his grin to a polite smile, but when Jango walks into the kitchen and meets Lanorees' gaze, he is sure he is showing too many teeth for it to be anything but a challenge.

"Good morning," Lanoree greets and looks down at Dale. "Did you wake him?"

"No," Dale jumps up and down, still clutching Jango's hand. "Can Jango join us for training?"

Lanoree blinks and meets Jango's eyes, a grin of her own threatening to break out. "It would be my genuine pleasure to have Jango join us."

His instincts tell Jango that this is a bad idea, but his blood is pumping, and he grins back at her. "When do you usually train?"

"In the afternoon," Lanpree gestures for Jango to take a seat at the table where a modest breakfast is laid out. "Kin'ade goes with Adzos to work in the morning, and I have a farm to look after and kids to teach, your welcome to join us in the field if you want?"

Jango looks out the window and considers it. "No, thank you. I have my own studies."

Lanoree looks at him, and Jango feels like she can look straight through him and his excuses. But she only nods in agreement. "Alright, I will see you later."

--

It seems that the way Dale had greeted Jango that morning is now going to be a routine, or so Jango learns later that day when he is heading back from their ship, Atin Vercoopa, and Dale throws himself at Jango with a cry. Since Jango's hands are full, he goes down with a yell, and Dale screams out in victory before he scampers off to bother the chickens.

From where he landed, Jango can hear both Arla and Lanoree laughing so hard they can barely breathe, and he suppresses the urge to curse them out. There are children present, but Jango will have his revenge.

--

The spar with Lanoree goes pretty alright if you ask Jango. They had agreed not to wear armor to make it more equal since Lanoree didn't use armor, and it had resulted in Jango getting punched in the face. Repeatedly.

Lanoree is incredibly fast, and some of the moves she pulls don't uphold the laws of gravity, but it's fun, and it lets Jango let out some steam. After a couple of rounds on the mat, Arla takes over to take some of the damage Lanoree is dealing out.

They have been here on Mand'alor for almost three days now, and Jango has nearly forgotten that they are still at war with Death Watch. That there are possible darjetii out there and that Mandalore is moments away from a civil war. A civil war that could devastate what little there was left of the surface was not already a wasteland. He can see the same thoughts reflected on Alra and Jaster's face when they have a moment of quiet for themself.

"It's a good reminder of what we fight for," Arla says. The two of them have gone down to the lake to get a moment of peace. They have their pants rolled up to their knees, and they are watching the sunset over the lake. "We fight to stop Kyr'tsad, sure, but this peace is what we are willing to give our lives for."

She is right, but Jango isn't going to give her the last word on this, and the mood needs some lightning.

"I heard an interesting rumor about you and Stryver." Jango only grins wider when Arla turns a narrow-eyed look at him.

"Is that so?" She doesn't cross her arms. That would be a beginner's mistake. Instead, she holds her hands at her side, ready for a fight. "What did the rumors say?"

"Not much." Jango did not turn to face her. "Just that you had a small slip of the tongue."

Jango waits until Arla shifts her weight and opens her mouth for an appropriately scathing retort before he hooks a foot behind her ankles and pushes at her shoulders.

She goes down with a yell, and Jango wastes no time in turning and running for the shore, trying to get to safety, but he is laughing too hard. There's a shrike of outrage as Arla breaks the surface of the lake, and then something grips his ankle and pulls.

--

Jaster looks at his ade, who are both in their twenties, and who are dripping what looks like half a lake onto the courtyard. He wants to roll his eye, but he needs to keep a straight face for this, so Jaster glances at Shmi in support, but she is valiantly trying to smother laughter and in no hurry to back him up.

Turning back to his ade in resignation, he catches the look of mischief they exchange. "Don't you kriffing dare-!"

It is as far as he gets before they wrap around him in twin hugs, drenching him in water and running his clothes.

"You're lucky I love you both." He mumbles and hugs them back. "Now, get inside and get changed your freezing."

"We know," Arla says in agreement and ruffles Jaster's hair before pulling back to do as he asked. Jango follows his sister's example before tripping Arla on the way through the door. There is a screech and a crash as something or someone hits the floor.

Shim has given up her effort to hide her laughter and is grinning outright at sight behind him. There is the sound of a war cry as Dale jumps into the fray, and Jaster closes his eyes.

It’s was going to be a long couple of months.

Chapter Text

It was incredibly easy to slide into a routine here, and it did not divert much from what Shmi had grown used to on the ship. She usually got up early in the morning to help with breakfast, not because she had to, but because she wanted to.

She was almost always joined by Adzos, as he was the only one of his spouses with any skill in the kitchen.

"It's why we got the droid." He admits one morning. "It's a pretty decent cook."

The droid in question went by the name FAV and had the head of what looked like an FA-5 valet droid, the arms of an IG unit, and the rest was an assortment of other droid parts Shmi could not name.

At Shmi's dubious look, Adzos explains further. "I know he dont looks like much, but one of my cousins is great at programming, and FAV hasn't poisoned us yet."

"Don't say that, Master Kass. I would never do such a thing to the children," FAV replies, and Shmi notes it did not say anything about the adults.

After breakfast, Lanoree goes into the fields with the kids while Adzon and Kin'ade head into town to open the office. Shmi had been invited to join them both, and she usually split her days between the two.

Kin'ade had decided that if Shmi was going to join them at the Medcenter, she should learn how to do first aid. Shmi had no formal training, but she had picked up a couple of things over the years. Slaves were usually not important enough to get 'proper' medical attention.

"The plant you mentioned," Kin'ade says while looking through a medical journal. "It only grows on Tatooine?"

"I think so. I haven't seen it anywhere else," Shmi answers. Kin'ade hums in response and continues her search through the book. The Nautolan had wrinkled her nose at the thought of a desert planet but had seemed interested in the medical knowledge Shmi had.

Shmi smiles and turns back to her filing. They have finished up with the cleaning, and they are on break for the moment. At least until the next medical emergency.

-

In the afternoons, Shmi usually joins Lanoree and the kids in their workout and combat training. She learns quickly that the style Lanoree practiced is very different from the one Jaster had taught her.

"Mereel is from Concord Dawn," Lanoree says, after the second time Shmi goes left when the kata goes right. "Different Clans have different techniques. I can teach you ours if you want?"

Shmi agrees and spends the next couple of days getting the crap beat out of her by Lanoree. Apparently, she didn't know the meaning of going slow.

After one of these workouts, Lanoree sits down next to Shmi to watch as Ion leads her siblings through the rest of the katas.

"Have you decided what to do next?" Lanoree asks and takes a sip of her water. Instead of answering, Shmi keeps her eyes on Dale, who is trying to copy his sister's movement, but can't quite keep up. When she doesn't get an answer, Lanoree continues. "Jaster didn't tell us much about your situation, but this is not the first time Adzos has removed a chip like yours."

"You do this often? Help slaves remove their chips?" Shmi asks.

Lanoree hesitates, and Shmi turns to look at her, Lanoree is many things, but she is never indecisive.

"I used to," Lanoree settles on. "I worked for an organization that helped out when and where we could."

Shmi studied the woman. There is a weariness in her face that Shmi hasn't seen before, and Shmi realizes that Lanoree is older than she thought. "Why did you leave?"

The question makes Lanoree smile, and she tilts her head at the kids. "I left because of Kin'ade. The organization I worked for was unable to accommodate her, and I was unable to let her go, so I left." Lanoree shrugs as if uprooting everything she knows for a child was an easy thing to do, and maybe to her, it was. "There were other reasons, of course. I had just lost my brother, and I was unwilling to.." She trails off and looks up at the sky. "Let just say I was unwilling to take the help they were offering, so when I won Kin'ade, I clung to her just as much as she clung to me."

"And you left?" Shmi prompts after a long silence, and Lanorre looks back down at her.

"Yes, my employers gave me a generous severance package, a ship, and then I was on my own for the first time in my life," Lanoree laughs. "Luckily for me, I had already met Tre at a previous mission, so when I ran into him again, and I saw that he had also gotten himself saddled with a kid, we decided to team up." She gestured to Ion. "She was so small the first time I saw her, and she clashed horribly with Tre, but she loved him, and he loved her."

Shmi can imagine. Sana is a deep red, and Ion is a vibrant shade of blue. They would have made quite the picture.

"We decided to join forces to try to keep our children safe, and somewhere along the line, we ran into Adzos and fell in love, or was it the other way around." Lanoree muses, and they sit in silence, watching the kids before Lanoree nudges Shmi. "You didn't answer the question. What's next?"

Shmi hesitates.

"Your welcome to stay with us," Lanoree says, and Shmi turns to look at her in surprise. "There is always room for more people here, and if you want your own house House Kess is very generous with their land and new settlers."

Shmi can see it, staying here, surrounded by kind and decent people, but is it what she wants.

Lanoree snorts and looks back at her kids. "You have already decided. You are not staying."

It's not a question, so Shmi doesn't feel the need to answer.

--

The times she doesn't join either Lanoree or Adzos at their jobs, she trains with Jaster. The lessons are still done in Mando'a, but Jaster has taken advantage of their time on Mandalore to show her how to use blasters.

Shmi did not like the blaster pistol, but Jaster had told her she at least needed to be proficient in it. But the blaster rifle, on the other hand, was much more her speed.

"Your good with it," Jaster says in approval. "Will see if we can find you a better model, though. This one's old, and the scope is off." And that had been Mereel's opinion on the matter.

-

In the evenings, she sometimes joined Alra and Jango in the quiet of the ship. The homestead was lovely, but it was crowded with eleven people and a droid walking all over each other.

"The ship's name, Atin Vercopa, what does it mean?" Shmi asks. She is curled up on the lounge seats reading a book while Jango is working on a project at the technical station.

"Atin has several meanings depending on the context," Jango answers. "It can mean 'stubborn' or 'tenacious'."

"My favorite translation is 'capable of endurance.'" Alra pips up from the floor where she has laid out all of her weapons and is cleaning them. She was currently sharpening her beskad, and Shmi had been fascinated by them. Arla had promised to let her borrow them at the next training session.

"Vercopa can mean 'hope', 'wish' or 'dream'," Jango continues. He turns around to look at Shmi. "So Atin Vercopa can be translated as Stubborn Hope."

Shmi hums, that does fit Jaster and his hope for Mandalore and its people.

Arla doesn't look up from her beskad as she answers. "I like to call the ship the Enduring Dream."

Shmi studies her. Yeah, that fits too.

--

There are many good days spent here on the homestead. But Shmi's favorites are the ones where, in the evening, they all gather either in the living room or in the back yard where they sit around the fire, and the adults shear stories and songs of the history of Mandalore.

"You think House Kass will stay neutral, or will they join the Haat Mand'ade?" Arla asks one evening after Tasha and Dale has gone to bed.

"I don't know." Adzos answers and looks down at his drink. "But if they try to join Kyr'tsad, I'm gonna kick my buir in the face and then challenge her for the position of Clan Head."

"Don't say that," Sana says and shudders theatrically. "If she hears you, she will join Kyr'tsad just to get you to take the position."

Adzos laughs. "Oh, please. She is not that petty." Sana gives his husband a skeptical look, and Adzos huffs in amusement.

"Speaking off," Jango leans forward to look at Jaster. "How did the meeting go with Lady Kass go?" Jango asks, and everyone turns to look at Jaster, who grimaces.

" It went," Jaster says. "The last time I was skewered that bad, it involved an actual knife. I'm was hoping that I would be able to convince her to join the meeting at Kalevala."

"She is not sending a representative?" Arla asks.

Adzos snorts. "Lady Kass is not going to be summoned to a meeting. If there is going to be a gathering, it will be on her terms," Adzos shakes his head and looks into the fire. "I'm just glad I dont have to be involved in that."

"You are next in line for Clan head?" Shmi asks.

"Was," Adzos corrects. "But I ran away when I was eighteen."

Shmi blinks and blinks again. "Why?"

"I wanted to be a doctor, and my buir wanted me to marry well-"

"Meaning someone from a well respected House and not scoundrels like Tre and me," Lanoree says and smirks at Adzos, who ignores her comment.

"- and go into politics, but I do not have the patience for it. Running away might have been an overreaction, but my cousin is much better suited for the job anyway," He looks at Lanoree. "But buir came around on you two eventually."

Sana snorts and takes a long pull of his during." When she realized we came with grandchildren, she was more than welcoming." He smiles at Ion and Kin'ade." The two of you charmed your way straight into her heart."

"Ba'buir is not that bad, right?" Ion says and looks around at the group. She ends up looking at Adzos, who shrugs.

"She has mellowed out in her old age."

Jaster chokes on his drink.

--

Shmi sets down the Codex she had gotten from Arla and rubs at her eyes. It's a long and complicated read, and Shmi desperately needs to get her hands on some of the older texts, preferably in basic, and maybe then some of the concepts Jaster had written about would make more sense.

The Resol'nare was easy enough to understand, and Shmi was in agreement with five of the six actions, but the last one was holding her back.

When called on by the Mand'alor, rally to their cause.

Or, as Arla had said when she explained it, obey the Mand'alor.

But Shmi has just gotten her freedom, and she is in no rush to follow any rules other than her own.

Shmi can feel a headache building, and she needs a break, so she heads out of her room on the Atin. There is no way to get a quiet moment in the house, so Shmi had come out here, and Shmi thought she was alone, but there are raised voices coming from the galley.

"No!" That is Lanoree's voice, and Shmi freezes in her tracks. She has never heard Lanoree that angry. "No, I worked in the shadows. I know what hides there, and there is no way we missed something like that!"

There's a short answer, and Shmi recognizes Jaster's voice, but she can't make out what he is saying.

"Harchaak! Kriffing Sith's spit!" Lanoree shouts before she bursts into laughter, but it's tinged with hysteria. Shmi's heart is thundering in her chest, and all her instincts are screaming at her to run! But her feet are rooted to the floor.

The laughter cuts off sharply. "Shmi?" Lanoree sticks her head out into the hall. "What are- Are you alright?"

Shmi tries to smile at her, but it can't have come out right because Lannoree steps fully out into the hall.

"Hey," Lanoree's voice is low and soothing, and Shmi can feel herself relax slowly. "You're fine. We are all fine. Nothing to be worried about." Lanoree lays a hand on her shoulder, and Shmi finds herself leaning into it. And seconds later, Lanoree has her wrapped up in a hug. "I'm sorry, Shmi. I didn't mean to scare you."

"It's fine," Shmi mumbles, but Lanoree only snorts.

"It's not," She answers before looking back over her shoulder at Jaster. "Make yourself useful and brew some tea." Shmi can barely see through Lanoree's long black hair, but she can see Jaster disappearing back into the gally.

"I'm fine," Shmi protests again, and Lanoree pulls back to look at her.

"No, you are not," She says, and Shmi feels like Lanoree can see into the depths of her soul. "But you will be."

The truth of the words hit Shmi in the chest. Lanoree reaches out to brushes her fingers over Shmi's cheeks, and when she pulls her hand back, they come away wet.

"Come on," Lanoree curls her arm over Shmi's shoulders. "Like my teacher always said: tea fixes everything."

Shmi dabs at her eyes and suppresses a chuckle. "I dont think tea can fix this."

"No, but tea always comes with a long talk, and that always helps," Lanoree smiles at her, and Shmi smiles back. They stop in the doorway at the sight of a panicked Jaster rummaging in the drawers.

He turns to look at them in despair. "We dont have tea," Jaster pulls up a container. "But we have hot chocolate."

Lanoree glances at Shmi and rolls her eyes.

Yeah, Shmi will be alright.

Chapter Text

They have been at Clan Sana's homestead for over a month when Jaster finally has to admit defeat and sit Shmi down to talk about what she wants to do next. The chip has been removed, so the "contract" with Obi-Wan is done, and Jaster has a meeting at Kalevala in the new year, which is a month away. But if Shmi wants to leave and settle down somewhere, that is not Mandalore. He needs time to set it up.

It's a beautiful day, so he invites Shmi to walk with him, and they sit down at the lakeshore, a stone throw away from the Atin.

"Have you decided what you want to do next?" Jaster looks out at the lake. He tries to keep his voice light and carefree, but Shmi is a perceptive woman. She probably sees right through him. "There are many options for you out there."

Shmi copied him and looked out at the lake. "I had hoped to stay with you, Arla and Jango."

Jaster takes a deep breath. It is both the thing he wants to hear and the last thing he wants to hear. "We would love that, but Shmi, you do know that staying with us will be dangerous, right? Mando'yaim is a powder keg about to explode, and I don't want you caught up in it."

He turns to face her and finds her already staring at him in slight disbelief. "I have been living in terror and danger for almost all my life," Shmi states.

"I just want you to have a choice in how you live the rest of it," Jaster counters, feeling his temper flare, and Shmi rolls her eyes at him.

"And I'm telling you," She meets his eyes. "I'm choosing you and the Haat'ade."

"Alright," Jaster snaps and looks back out at the lake. "That settles it then."

"Alright," Shmi echoes. They sit in silence for a moment before she continues. "Besides, I have other choices. Lanoree already offered to let me stay here."

The tension breaks, and Jaster rubs at his eyes, chuckling

"Of course she did. Ni N'epar, Shmi. I want you to make the right choice." Jaster meets Shmi's eyes. "You have heard Adzos talk about his clan. You know the tension between the Old Clans is rising and that we are plunging towards a breaking point. And with Kyr'tsad gunning for every Haat'ade they can find, and the New Mandalorians are still trying to eradicate us, we will not be the safest option."

Shmi frowns and plucks at the grass at her feet. "The New Mandalorians are pacifist. Isn't eradicate a little too strong a word?"

Jaster tries to hide his bitter snort of laughter, but he probably fails. "The New Mandalorians believe that everyone that follows the Resol'nare is warmongers and terrorists. They want to burn down everything it means to be Mando'ade. Beskar'gam, Mando'a, and even the Clan system. They preach peace and harmony, but you haven't seen their city. It's all white, no color, and everyone marches to the same beat. There is no diversity. No life. Peace sure, but only if we give up our culture and everything that makes us Mando'ade."

By the time he is done ranting, Jaster is almost shaking; he is so angry. So he gets up, heads down to the edge of the lake, and splashes water in his face trying to cool down. When he sits back down next to Shmi, he is calmer, and she waves away his apology.

"As I understand it, there is no mention of war and conquest in the Resol'nare," Shmi says, and Jaster nods in agreement.

"Your right, there is none, but you have been reading our history. There is a lot of it in our past. The New Mandalorians believe that it stems from the way we teach our ade the Resol'nare and how to follow it." It's an old argument he has heard so many times, and he is tired of it. "But it's not like I disagree with their end goal. I also want peace for my people, but not by destroying our culture."

"The Super Commando Codex. You wrote it to give your people a different set of guidelines," Shmi says.

Jaster huffs. "Yeah, and instead, I had Kyr'tsad rise to challenge me."

Shmi hums. "I read it and-"

Jaster whips his head around to stare at her. "You what?"

Shmi blinks at him and raises an eyebrow at him. "I read the Codex and-"

"All of it?" Jaster asks in surprise, and at Shmi's look, he continues. "It's just- the Codex is pretty long read."

"I know, I read it," Shmi says, her voice as dry as the desert of Tatooine. "I would have started on the source material, but most of it is in Mando'a, and I'm still struggling with reading the older style of writing. I- "She cuts herself off. "What?"

Jaster gaps at her. "I- all of it?" When Shmi only rolls her eyes at him, Jaster grins. "I don't think even Arla or Jango has read it."

"Probably not," Shmi agrees, and Jaster laughs, but Shmi is not done surprising him.

"I would like to join the Haat'ade on contracts too," Shmi looks at him. "I know I'm not a fighter, but I have other skills. You need someone to run logistics, and I have valuable experience."

Jaster sighs. He will not win this fight, not that he doesn't want Shmi with the Haat’ade, but they are probably headed into a full-on civil war. "It's your choice, and we would love to have you come along."

"Thank you," Shmi says. Jaster glances at her out of the corner of his eye. Just because she was going to come with them didn't mean she should be completely unprotected. If Shmi was going to join them on contracts, she was going to need the proper equipment.

--

Later that evening, Shmi runs into Ion and Kin'ade outside her room. They are clearly up to something, and Shmi glances up and down the corridor. "Can I help you?"

Both teenagers jump in surprise and spin around to face her.

"Shmi, hi," Ion starts, and Kin'ade elbows her. "We got you something."

Kin'ade holds out a bag, and Shim takes it. "Thank you, but that wasn't necessary."

"Uhu," Kin'ade crosses her arms. "Except it kind of was." When Shmi only raises an eyebrow at her, Kin'ade huffs and uncrosses her arms. "We heard you would be joining the Haat'ade."

"And we thought you could use a proper medkit," Ion finishes and grins at her sister. "Kin'ade suggested it. She said you have been learning first aid when you joined her and buir at the Medcenter."

"I-" Shmi swallows. "Thank you, Ion, Kin'ade."

"Your welcome," Kin'ade smiles. "Now open it!" And Shmi does.

The medkit turns out to be a black sling bag, with several compartments filled with medical supplies, but there is one bag that makes her pause. "Is this…" She trails off and looks back at them.

"Did we get it right?" Kin'ade asks and leans forward to see better. "We asked mom if she could help us get a hold of the seeds, but we were unsure if we got the right ones."

"It's the right ones," Shmi says through the emotions choking her up. When she had described the plant and the seeds she had used for medical purposes on Tatooine to Kin'ads a slow day in the Medcenter, she hadn't expected her to find them for her.

"Vor'e," Shmi repeats.

"Your welcome," Ion says and smiles at her.

--

Arla runs a hand through her hair in frustration and looks around her room on the Atin. They have spent almost two months here, but Arla still isn't sure how she has managed to move so much of her stuff from the ship and into the house.

Ion had found her beskad under the kitchen sink, and no one could understand how they got there. Arla suspected it was FAV, but the droid was denying any involvement. Next on her list was Dale, but the kid only giggled and shook his head in denial.

Speaking of Dale. Arla headed out the door and down the ramp to find Jango trying to dislodge a weeping Dale from his leg.

The look of rising anxiety on Jango's face as he tried and failed to get a sobbing five years old to let go of him is much funnier than it should be. It seems that Lanoree agreed with her because she was hanging off her husband's shoulder, trying desperately to breathe through her laughter. Adzos was attempting to intervene, but Lanoree would not let go of him. He was the only thing keeping her upright.

In the end, Sana steps forward and peels his son off Jango's leg. Dale hides his face in Sana's lek, and Sans pulls a face as he smears snot and tears all over it.

After saying goodbye to all of them, Arla takes one last look back at Mandalore. There is no way of knowing when they will be back.

--

Arla throws herself down on the lounge as the ship takes off, and she doesn't move until Jaster pokes her in the side. "Family meeting, Arla. Get up," He says, and Arla grones.

She sits up and scoots over to make room for Shmi, and Jango takes the seat on her other side, leaving Jaster standing in front of them. "We are going into hostile territory in Kalevala."

The wording makes Arla snort, but he is also not wrong, so she keeps quiet.

"I know the Duke has orders peace, but Kyr'tsad will probably not listen." He looks at all three of them in turn. "You will be representing House Mereel at this meeting, so try to behave," The last point is directed more at Arla and Jango, but all three of them nod in agreement.

"Which brings me to this," Jaster turns to Shmi and hands her a package. Shmi hesitantly reaches for it. Arla leans over her shoulder to see what it is and is left blinking at the vambraces Shmi has unwrapped. In shining beskar, no less.

"Jaster, I can't-" She begins, but Jaster laughs at her, and she trails off.

"I know you haven't sworn the Resol'nare, and that is fine, but you have decided to join the Haat'ade, to fight for my people. To keep them safe," Jaster's voice is steady and with a layer of beskar underneath. "Let me offer you my protection in return." He holds out his hand, palms up. "I, Jaster of Clan and House Mereel open my House to you, Shmi of Clan Skywalker."

Arla sucks in a quick breath and glances between them.

Shmi swallows once, twice, and then she stands up to clasp his hand. "I, Shmi of Clan Skywalker, accept your offer." Then the biggest smile they have ever seen splits her face, and she pulls Jaster into a tight hug.

Arla leans back in her seat and looks at Jango. "Time to break out the paints, I think. We can't have a member of our House walking around without proper paint." She raises an eyebrow at Jango, who nods in agreement.

"On it."

--

Jango glances over his datapad at Shmi, who is fretting over how to paint her shiny new vambraces. She had asked for a list of colors and their meaning, but now she seemed unable to decide which colors to choose.

"Need any help?" he asks, and Shmi shakes her head, grimaces, and then nods.

"Why did you choose your colors? If it's not too personal a question."

Jango puts down his datapad and considers the question. How to best describe the cultural significance of beskar'gam.

"We dont wear beskar'gam to hide behind it. We wear the beskar with pride, and we paint our armor to match our souls." He looks at Shmi. "We paint it so that everyone can see who we are and where we come from."

He lays his own vambrace on the table to show Shmi. "Blue for reliability." He raises an eyebrow at her, and Shmi pulls up her list of colors.

"Red is for honor," She frowns. "Honoring a parent/ legacy or maintaining your own honor in difficult circumstances."

"Right, now to make it even more complicated," Jango says and smiles at her look. "Red is House and Clan Mereel's color, so Arla and I wear it to show our loyalty to our House."

” Arla wears gold,” Shmi comments and looks at Jango. ”For vengeance.”

Jango hesitates. ”She does, but that's not my story to tell.”

Shmi studies him, then nods in agreement. "Do Clan Fett have a color?"

"Yes, yellow," Jango pulls his arm back. "But we dont really use it."

"Why not?" Shmi asks.

"My father was from Clan Fett, but his branch of the family migrated to Concord Dawn a long time ago, and they joined the Journeyman Protectors," Jango tells her. "Concord Dawn is in a weird place where they share a lot of Mandalorian cultures, like language, armor, and such. But they are not considered Mandalorian."

"That seems.." Shmi trails off. "Interesting."

"Yeah," Jango chuckles. "So we are Fett's of Clan Fett, but we dont use their colors. Not that there are many of us left now."

Luckily, Shmi seems to be too distracted by her own thoughts to notice Jango's bitter tone, giving him time to gather himself.

"So we paint out armor to show everyone who we are and where we come from," Shmi mumbles. "But what if you don't want anyone to know where we come from?"

"Cin vhetin," Jango states, and Shmi blinks at him. "It translates as white snow, to start with a clean slate."

He watches as Shmi considers this concept and find it wanting. She reaches for the paints. Jango has a feeling Shmi isn't going to hide who she was or where she came from, and he is proven right when she selects orange as her base color.

Chapter Text

Mace has been back in Tempel for under twenty-four hours, after a mission that lasted way longer than it was supposed to, and now he is walking into the Chancellor's Office with Plo. He is tired and worn out, but Mace had agreed when the Council had asked him to do this.

The office is an elegant room, with a massive desk set in front of a window overlooking the Coruscant skyline. Chancellor Kalpana has a conversation with an aide as Mace and Plo enter, but he is quick to end the conversation and turn to the Jedi with a smile.

"Congratulationsuy, Master Koon. I heard about your appointment to the Jedi Council," Chancellor Kalpana tells Plo as he shakes the Jedi's hand.

"Thank you, Chancellor," Plo replies. "And congratulations to you on your reelection to Supreme Chancellor."

"Thank you. It was a close race, but I came out victorious in the end," Chancellor Kalpana smiles and turns to shake Mace's hand before he turns to take a seat behind his desk.

Mace and Plo sit down on the chairs in front of the desk, making even Plo a couple of inches shorter than the Chancellor.

"Now, let's get down to business. We dont have much time before my next meeting," The Chancellor opens a drawer and pulls out a folder. He sets it down on the desk but doesn't open it. "I have read both of your proposals, and I can say immediately that the first one won't happen."

"We feared as much, but you must understand," Mace leans forward in his seat. "The incident on Galidraan has shaken the Jedi Order's faith in the Senate process. We were hoping to change that."

"I understand your frustration, but the Galactic Senate is unwilling to give the Jedi any more power," Chancellor Kalpana says, and Mace wants to grind his teeth.

"So the fact that the Senate judged an innocent party guilty, and, in essence, ordered them executed by the Jedi," Plo folds his hand in front of his mask and meets the Chancellors gaze. "Is not an incident worthy of review and changes to the Senets guidelines?"

"But this is not a simple review of Senate guidelines," Chancellor Kalpana leans back in his chair and eyes Plo. "The Jedi Council is proposing a change that will require any Senate Committee that considers assigning a Jedi tasks force will have to "consult" a Jedi Councilor before signing off on it. That is unacceptable."

Chancellor Kalpana taps sharply with his knuckles on the closed folder. "The Jedi Order is under the Senets supervision, specifically under the Judicial Department. It would be improper for a law enforcement agency to have any say or influence over the body meant to hold them accountable." Chancellor Kalpana raises an eyebrow at the Jedi. "You must see how this would look to the rest of the Galaxy."

"We understand that it wouldn't look good, but the Jedi is not comfortable with being used as a hammer where every problem is a nail," Mace explains. "We need to be sure we are not executing innocent people."

"But were they?" The Chancellor asks, and at the confused expression on the Jedi's feces, he explains. "They were Mandalorians, and from what I heard, they are a Mandalorian splinter group. Terrorist, by all standards."

Mace takes a second longer than Plo to get his thoughts back in order.

"The True Mandalorian was innocent of all charges level at them by the Governor of Galidraan," Plo says, and it's only because Mace knows him so well that he can hear the rebuke in his tone. "Furthermore, the elected leader of the Mandalorians was among them. Killing him could have sent all of Mandalore into a civil war and caused irreversible damage to the people."

"As far as I'm aware, the New Mandalorians are the elected leaders of Mandalore, and the Senate has thrown their support behind them." Chancellor Kalpana raises an eyebrow and looks between the two Jedi. "But I understand your concerns, and we will be taking the appropriate measures to make sure something like this never happens again."

Chancellor Kalpana leans forward and folds his hands on the desk. He looks like every other politician Mace has ever meet. "I realize this was a harrowing experience, but the Republic will always be stronger when the Senate and the Jedi stand together."

"Of course," Mace smiles thinly, but the assurances sound hollow to his ears. "But if the Senate will not approve the proposal, we would like to amend it and resubmit it."

"What did you have in mind?" The Chancellor asks.

"When the Senate dispatched the Jedi as a strike force, we are allowed to send an investigation team, either in advanced or if that is impossible, with the strike team," Plo tilts his head to the side and studies the Chancellor. "And give them twenty-four hours to corroborate the Senets information."

Chancellor Kalpana leans back in his seat and folds his hands on his belly. "Can't you do that without the Senets permission? Just add investigators to the strike team?"

Mace nods in confirmation. "We could, but that would not give the investigators the authority or time to find and act on any information they discover."

The Chancellor hums thoughtfully. "I see. I will take it to the Committee and have them work through it. Now unto the second proposal," He reaches out, flips open the file he pulled out earlier and reads the title out loud. "Senate internship for Jedi Padawans. I have read it, but if you could walk me through it."

"As I said earlier. The incident on Galidraan has shaken the Jedi Order's faith in the Senate," Mace explains. "We were hoping that by having our Padawans interning in the Senate, they would have more practical experience in how the Senate works and a better understanding of the bureaucratic prosses."

"This would be a trial run," Plo picks up where Mace left off. "We would select Padawan we think would do well in this program and then have them working with any Senate office that volunteers to participate."

"I see. You are aware that several Senators will call this a power grab?" The Chancellor looks between them. "That you are planting spies among them?"

"The possibility did occur to the Council," Mace answers. "But we think the benefits outweigh the concerns. It is also why we are asking for volunteers in the Senate."

"I will be sponsoring this," Chancellor Kalpana flips through the file. He glances up at them and grins. "I might even volunteer to take a Padawan as an intern myself."

Mace lets his shoulder relax and leans back in his chair. The Jedi Council's debate of this proposal had been a fairly contentious one, but they had agreed in the end. To have the Chancellor sponsor the proposal would ease several of the Counselor's minds.

"Of course, there is much the Senate needs to discuss considering the Jedi's existing position and how that will affect the internship. But we should have the program up and running by the Senate's summer or fall session," Chancellor Kalpana says and reaches for a datapad. "I will send you the necessary paperwork."

Mace and Plo take that as their cue to leave, and after a quick bow, they head out of the office.

--

Rubbing at his temple, Mace lets out a long sigh as the elevator doors close behind him and Plo. "That went well."

"We got both proposals through, so I'm inclined to agree," Plo says.

Mace snorts but doesn't comment further.

"Are you up for a spar when we return to the Temple?" Plo asks, and Mace shakes his head.

"No, I have a lesson with Padawan Kenobi later this evening," Mace tells him, and Plo hums.

"Are you teaching him about foresight and prognostication?" Plo asks, and Mace blinks. Pulling away from his thoughts about the Senate and the upcoming votes, he glances at Plo. Mace had almost forgotten who had been Plo's Master.

Master Tyvokka had been renowned in the Jedi Order for his intuition and ability to sense the future.

"Yes," Mace turns to face Plo, "Padawan Kenobi was apart of the Jedi task force sent to Troiken, did you or Master Tyvokka sense anything back then?"

Plo gives Mace a look but answers the question. "No, I did not sense anything, and if Master Tyvokka did, he did not mention it to me before he died."

"And?" Mace asks.

"And nothing," Plo counters. "Padawan Kenobi behaved appropriately, and he followed orders as instructed."

Mace crosses his arms. "You have read the transcripts of the meetings before Galidraan. What do you think? Did the Council act inappropriately?"

Plo takes a moment to gather his thoughts, and Mace lets him be. Plo had not been on the Council at the time of Galidraan, so his insight would be invaluable.

Master Tyvokka had asked Plo with his dying breath to take his seat on the Council, but Plo had needed time to consider the responsibility. It had also given the Council the time it required to discuss whether Plo was the right choice for the open seat, and in the end, it had been an almost unanimous vote. Mace had abstained from the vote since Plo was one of his closest friends, and the Council had accepted his decision.

"I think that the Council has had a difficult year," Plo says, and Mace barks a laugh. Plo tilts his head in acknowledgment that calling it a difficult year is an understatement.

"First the Stark Hyperspace War, in which a prominent member of the Council was killed in action," Plo's voice doesn't betray his grief at his Master's death, but Mace can feel it in Plo's force presence. "Then the Xanatos crisis, where Xantos took the battlefield to the Temple and another Jedi Councilor is almost killed."

"Master Yoda is too stubborn to die," Mace huffs and looks at Plo. "Mark my words, he will outlive us all."

"That might be true, but he is one of the most dependable beings in the Order," Plo says. "To have him almost taken from us must have influenced us."

Mace sighs and nods in agreement. Master Yoda had raised almost all the Jedi currently serving in the Order, and to have him almost killed by a bomb in their own home where they were supposed to be safe had been a shock to the system.

"Then there was the" Plo hesitates.

"What?" Mace raises an eyebrow at him, and Plo tilts his head to look at him.

"The Council was one member short at the time of Galidraan, with two new members, and with a Senate hearing into the death of a former Initiate hanging over our head," Plo shakes his head in defeat, and Mace feels his stomach turns.

He and Master Tiin are the newest members of the Council, and even though they are not inexperienced Jedi, they were both sworn in this year, and they had much to learn.

"I think the Council was stretched thin and that they did the best they could," Plo concludes.

Mace runs a hand down his face and asks. "You think we were rash in our judgment?"

"You don't?" He asks.

"Of course I do," Mace says and gestures at the air. "But what can we learn from it?"

Plo hums as the elevator doors open and steps out. "That remains to be seen."

--

There is a knock on the door, and Mace almost lets out a sigh of relief. He extracts himself from the argument with Depa, to her obvious irritation, she is winning after all, and stands to open it.

"Good afternoon," Mace says in greeting when he sees Padawan Kenobi waiting. He turns to look back at Depa. "Are you staying for our lesson? This first one will be short."

Depa huffs, reach down to grab her lightsaber, and walks past them. "No, but we will continue this conversation later." She points a threatening finger at him and disappears down the hall.

Kenobi looks after her. "Is everything alright?"

"No," Mace grumbles. "But it will be."

He looks down at Padawan Kenobi, who blinks back up at him.

"I can come back later?" He offers, and Mace smiles.

"No, it's fine. Come in," Mace steps back, closes the door after Padawan Kenobi, and shows him to the table.

Mace steps into the kitchen to make tea, and when he returns, he finds Padawan Kenobi almost nose deep in one of his cactuses.

"Is this plant semi-sentient?" Kenobi asks, vice awed.

"It is," Mace raises an eyebrow at him. "It's also highly poisonous to humans."

Padawan Kenobi doesn't pull back in fear like Mace expects, but he eventually sits back and accepts the tea.

"Thank you," He mumbles and takes a sip.

"So," Mace takes the seat opposite Kenobi. "I have talked with Master Yoda and Master Qui-Gon about your visions and what we need to address, but I would like to start with a discussion of how you see your visions."

Kenobi frowns. "Like what I see when I dream?"

"Yes, but also on a more conceptual level," Mace blows on his tea and takes a sip. "How do you understand and explain the concept of visions to others. And how do you understand the Force."

"I…." Kenobi blinks and frowns down at his tea. "The Force flows through everything. Through me and you, and every living thing, even though the past, present, and future. And some Jedi can see that flow and get a glimpse into time." Kenobi looks back up at him.

"As we are all taught in the crèch," Mace says, and Kenobi frowns, opens his mouth to ask a question, but Mace gets to it first. "And how do you perceive time?"

"Like how do I describe time itself?" Kenobi asks, and when Mace nods, Kenobi narrows his eyes at him but answers the question. "I… I see a river. Flowing from the past and into the future."

"Linear? As in we start at birth and goes in a straight line to death?" Mace asks, and Kenobi nods. "So when you act on a vision and change the future, you bend the river to your will?"

Kenobi opens and closes his mouth. "That sounds incredibly arrogant when you put it that way."

"But not untrue," Mace says. "With a big enough decision, you can bend the fate of the galaxy if that is how you look at it."

"But that is not how you look at it," Kenobi says, and Mace hides his grin behind his teacup.

"No, it's not how I conceptualize time," Mace says with a smirk.

"And how do you look at it?" Kenobi leans forward over the table.

"Let's continue with your water metaphor," Mace sets down his teacup to use his hands better. "I see time as a lake. No future, just the past and the present a-."

"I- What?!" Kenobi interrupts, and Mace huffs in amusement. Kenobi goes beat red and mumbles an apology.

"Always in motion is the future," Mace says, the mantra every Initiate is taught in the crèche, usually by Yoda himself. "In your metaphor, the river is everflowing and set in its path."

"It's the will of the Force," Kenobi repeats a saying popular among the Jedi.

"Yes, now let's put the flowing river, taking us further away from our births and dragging us into our deaths, aside and focus on the lake," Mace mimes, putting the river to the side. "The lake off infinite size-"

"Like the Galaxy," Obi-Wan pipes up, and Mace pauses.

"Yes, exactly. Now, every being in the galaxy is throwing stones into the lake, creating ripples that spread, tuches, and overlap each other. Every stone is a different size or shape, and they represent our actions. We are the one who throws the stones, but we can't change the ripples once we have thrown the stone," Mace looks at Obi-Wan to see if he is paying attention and finds him frowning into his cup, so Mace continues.

"The ripples are never the same, but at some point, we are all connected as we live in this infinite lake of actions and consequences," Mace finishes and watches as Kenobi bites his lip in a nervous gesture.

"So in your way of thinking, I stopped the Council from throwing the stone when I contacted the True Mandalorians," Kenobi says and looks back up at Mace.

"No," Mace answers, and Kenobi blinks at him in surprise. "We threw the stone, we can argue that you changed the shape and size of it, but we threw it. We, the Council, still have to face the consequences of our actions, but you threw a different stone that affected and overlapped the ripples of ours. Minimizing them in some aspects and amplifying them in others."

"How do you explain shatter points?" Kenobi asks.

Mace pulls a face and leans back in his chair. "To continue our metaphor, I can sense which stone to throw to change or shatter an outcome, minimizing or amplifying the ripples." Or who is going to throw the stone, but he doesn't say that.

"And visions?" Kenobi asks.

Mace raises an eyebrow at the Padawan. He had thought that would be pretty clear. "Vision shows us the consequences of the ripples."

Nodding, Kenobi leans back in his chair and crosses his arms, mimicking Maces posture. "So if we throw a big enough stone, we can change the galaxy?"

"Yes and no," Mace says. "Time is not linear. There are actions taken years, decades, centuries ago that still ripples on the lake. You are affected by your parents' choices and actions, as am I, and we are both limited by the actions taken by the Jedi Order centuries ago. I understand time as a series of interconnected events, each affecting each other, and because of the Force, I dont always experience time in a linear fashion. And neither do you."

"I see the future," Kenobi muses. "And since the Force flows through everything, we can also see the past."

"Some easier than others," Mace agrees. "Like Padawan Vos. He can touch something and see that object or person's past actions. And because of that, I see Fate not as a destination with a beginning and an end, but as a series of crossroads. I can choose to go down one path, and a series of other paths will open up to me. I will meet other people who show me paths previously unavailable to me, but there will also be paths I can't take. That will be closed to me forever, either by my own actions or by others."

Mace raises a hand to gesture at himself and Kenobi. "For example, I can never experience the childhood I could have had, had my parents not given me to the Jedi. And likewise, a child born unable to use the Force will never be able to experience a childhood in the Temple."

"Master Qui-Gon says that we should be in the moment," Kenobi pauses, and Mace gives him the space to gather his thoughts. "That if we clear our mind, we can hear the will of the Force and that we should follow it. To not be caught up in what might or might not be. That the Jedi are agents of the Force."

Mace nods in agreement. That is indeed what some Jedi teaches, but he gets the feeling Kenobi has more thoughts he wants to share, so he keeps quiet.

"But if the Force has a will of its own, aren't our choices already predestined?" Kenobi looks up at Mace. "And nothing happens by accident?"

Taking a sip of his tea, Mace uses the time to think through his response. He decides to answer the first statement.

"How do you know that you are acting on the will of the Force and not something else, like your own desires?" He asks Kenobi, who frowns in thought. Mace waits for a second before asking another question. "How do you know the vision you have is just not a dream conjured by your own mind?"

"Discernment," Kenobi answers, and when Mace only raises an eyebrow at him, Kenobi finishes his thought. "We are thought to seek out counsel from other Jedi and to meditate on the visions ourselves, to learn how to judge if its a true vision or something else."

"Yes. Even seasoned Masters seek out the advice of others," Mace agrees. "And even seasoned Masters have trouble following the will of the Force."

"You didn't answer my question about destiny," Kenobi challenges, and Mace hums in agreement. "You talk about choice and change, but what if our path is already made?"

"So the Force always meant for the people that are enslaved to be enslaved?" Mace asks. "The Force meant for the people who died to die? The Force meant for the people who staves to starve?"

Shrugging, Obi-Wan looks down at his cup of tea. Mace looks out the window and lets his eyes unfocus. He can sense the mass of people on the lower levels. Not all of them are suffering, but the farther down you go, the darker it gets.

"Were you always meant to save the True Mandalorians?" Mace asks, voice low. The question makes Obi-Wan twitch, but he stays silent.

"I don't believe that is true," Mace closes his hand into a fist. "I believe that every day we have to choose the light by acknowledging the darkness in us and then denying it any fertile ground."

Mace meets Obi-Wan's gaze. "I believe that we can let the light side of the Force guide our choices and actions, but that we must always discern if what we are following is the Force or our own desires. That by following the light side of the Force, we can do the most amount of good, but we must choose to do so, and our paths are always ours to choose. And our choices affect others. If we have a destiny, as foreseen by the Force, it's still our choice to follow that path."

"So is Master Qui-Gon right or wrong? Should we just let go and follow the will of the Force?" Obi-Wan asks.

Mace wants to laugh, but instead, he taps his fingers on the table in thought. "Master Qui-Gon is not incorrect, the Jedi are agents of the Force, but the Force is not concerned with laws and regulations."

The comment makes Obi-Wan snort. "Neither is Master Qui-Gon."

Mace feels his lips twitch in amusement. Qui-Gon has been know to bend the rules at times, but Mace lets that comment go. If he has a problem with it, he will take it up with Qui-Gon himself, not his teenage Padawan.

"So we can't freely follow the Force as we please, and even then, getting to that level of understanding and mastery of the Force and off yourself takes time," Mace explains, and Obi-Wan looks thoughtful.

"That's not really an answer," Obi-Wan says, and Mace shrugs.

"Tell me if you find one," Mace says. Obi-Wan has a look of shock on his face for half a second before he burst out laughing.

"I'm not kidding," Mace says through a grin. "Jedi have been arguing this for centuries, and I think we will continue to argue about this for the next couple of centuries."

Obi-Wan calms down and lifts his teacup to take a drink, but he finds his cup empty.

"You want another cup?" Mace asks, but Obi-Wan shakes his head.

"I think it's time for me to head back. I have class in the morning," Obi-Wan says.

"Alright," Mace agrees and stands up. He places a hand on Obi-Wan's shoulder and meets the Padawan's eyes when he looks up. "I don't think I have said it yet, but you did well."

Obi-Wan raises an eyebrow at him. He glances at the table and then back at Mace. "I just asked some questions."

Mace huffs and looks up at the ceiling and back down. "I meant with the True Mandalorians."

"Oh," Obi-Wan shuffles his feet awkwardly.

"Never let anyone tell you that saving them was the wrong choice," Mace catches Obi-Wan's gaze. "Saving people is never the wrong choice. No matter who they are or what they have done."

Obi-Wan holds his gaze for a long while, searching for an answer, and whatever he finds must be answer enough because he smiles and nods.

"Alright," he says and walks out.

Mace rubs at his temples as the door closes and lets out a deep breath. He had seen it during that first council meeting almost half a year ago, and he hadn't been sure then, but he is now.

There are several shatter points connected to Obi-Wan, some of them years out, and all of them have the potential to send ripples that will change the galaxy in ways Mace cant predict.

"Oh, Force," Mace mutters. It's going to be an interesting couple of decades.