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There was a tattoo every Jedi was forced to get, when they came of age.
Other sentients might look forward to their name day, throw a party or go out with friends when they could now be called an adult. It was spent with family and friends, a celebration of another life lived and many more to come, or by themselves uneventfully.
Padawans huddled in fear and cried for what was coming. When they became an adult any semblance of protection they had before would be taken from them. Their tattoo would mark them of age for anything that was requested of them.
Their masters would try to protect them as long as they could, but they couldn’t help for long. The archivists would run interference for perhaps a few weeks or even months on paperwork before a padawan was ‘officially’ declared an adult. But eventually, every Jedi had to face the Senate with pounding hearts.
[An aside about the Jedi: They, like slaves, knew the value of obscuring one’s age for as long as they could. Children would stay in the créche for years longer than they needed to, helping the créchemasters with the younger children, until they looked far too old to be hidden there any longer.
They’d be sent to join the Initiates, where they would be thoroughly taught the unspoken rules of the Order. The Jedi tried to keep their children from their horrible reality as long as they could, but every child has to grow up someday. They just wished it wasn’t so soon.
Every once in a while an initiate might have the chance to go to one of the Corps, but- the Senate didn’t want to lose their pets. It was hard, to leave The Order. Even knowing what was waiting for you as you grew up, it was difficult to leave the only people you knew to a galaxy that didn’t care to look further into the Jedi’s ‘service’.]
Thus, the padawans huddled. They would comfort the one leaving for the Senate- the ones who had been through this before walking them through what would happen, the younger comforting as best they could. Some younglings would pile onto the padawan, knowing that something was wrong but not what, and doing their best to help.
However they couldn’t stay forever. Though their masters tried to give them as much time as they could together, knowing just how important that time together could be, they would have to be torn away one by one eventually.
The padawans would be collected by their own masters, or Force forbid- off to fulfill their own requests. The younglings would have to be collected by their créchemaster and herded off to their beds, or activities. It was bittersweet to watch them go, so innocent, not knowing what would be in their future.
[An aside about créchemasters: They cared for each and every child they took care of. They cherished their first steps, first words, first moment of sinking into the Force with awe and wonder. And they cried. They cried behind closed doors, tears slipping down cheeks and turning back towards the rest of the children they would have to raise to the same end.
Créchemasters cared for each child they raised and there was nothing worse than passing a knight with dead eyes that they took care of, and realizing: you failed. You knew this was coming, you tried to keep them safe, and you failed.]
Eventually, their master would come. It was a somber affair- some would try for joy, at first, but it would always melt into the same heartbroken acceptance.
The master would gather up their padawan in their arms, doing their best to comfort them before heading to the Senate together. They would shake together in the privacy of their Temple before and after, but become stone in the Senate building. Under the gazes of the senators who knew why they were there they the Jedi were not scarred and heartbroken. They were the perfect, cold, unfeeling Jedi the public thought them to be.
Together, the two would venture into the lion’s den under those hungry gazes. They would travel to register the padawan as an adult, the master whispering words of comfort to the padawan all the while. Through the process there was no emotion, nothing that could be held against, thrown in their face them later.
After paperwork came what the padawans actually feared. The thing that would mark them- not- not safe anymore, for whatever that meant. Some senators ignored the unspoken rules of not requesting children, others went out of their way to choose those underage- but they were still safer young.
Though their master didn’t physically touch them through their procedure, they were wrapped in a warm hug in the Force the entire time. They closed their eyes and tried to sink into it as they ignored what was being permanently etched into their skin.
[An aside about the Masters: They cared, and they cried. This was the child they had found bright in the Force- innocent, joyful, and oh so young. Their padawan who was excited to be a Jedi, who couldn’t be sent away, saved- and so had to be prepared. The child they watched grow, still oh so young but not nearly as joyful or innocent. The one they sat with in their rooms after their first request with distant eyes. The one who they taught, raised, loved, and could not help. Their hearts ached and the Force cried out with them, parents grieving for their children.
They never understood why so many Jedi refused to take padawans after their first until they themselves went through it. The body can survive for years but the heart can only take so much.]
It was placed in the same approximate area for every Jedi, the back of their left hand. Not easily hidden, hard to forget about. It was simple and unassuming, a small circle in the symbol of the Galactic Republic. The public was told that it was a sign of service to the Republic, that the Jedi would always serve the Senate and the people. The Jedi knew what it really was. A brand. A mark of ownership, of not being recognized as sentients but little more than property.
They always hurt far worse than they should. It was more than simple ink under skin, that they could handle. But this needle felt as red- hot as a brand fresh from the fire and caused twice as much pain.
When the artist was finished, the master and padawan would make their way out of the Senate, both sick to their stomachs. They would leave as quickly as they could, avoiding as many people as possible to minimize the chance of being stopped by a senator or aide.
Once they arrived back at the Temple, they would be greeted by their friends and family once more. Some of the Council would be there as well, as solemn and heartbroken as their own master.
It was silent at first, and the Council would bow as one. It was the bow of the most sincere, deep apology they were able to offer- of a superior to their subordinate, parent to their child, teacher to their student- of failing them, not being able to protect them, and of a guilt soul-deep.
[An aside about the Council: They cared. They were tired. They were tired of sending their family to the Senate to be used, abused, and discarded. They wanted to take their old who had lived through this their entire lives until they were considered ‘undesirable’. They wanted to take their young who knew nothing of the life which was waiting for them, and they wanted to take those who were experiencing suffering now. They wanted to take them out of the senator’s clutches and give them time to heal away from countless requests and whispers of conquests.
But they knew they couldn't. To leave would be to invite the wrath of the Senate, they would be chased down and slaughtered as deserters despite the fact that the Jedi were not an army. Or they would be led back to Coruscant in chains for an even worse future. The Council was tired. But they had no more tears to give.]
And the padawan would hide their hands in their robes as they were taught, bowing back. A bow of acceptance- that they tried, everyone did, to protect them- and they failed, but it was not held against them. That they too would try harder to protect those who had not yet gone through their coming of age.
They were always taught to hide their hands.
They didn’t realize how important it was as younglings, and wouldn’t for years. Not until they had something to hide.