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Chapter Text

Obi-Wan was numb with shock. This was not helped by the frigid cold of space leaking through the wall of the transport shuttle, leeching away any lingering warmth and freezing his back. There was a pack laying on his knees containing his few belongings that he took with him from the Temple. His life reduced to a spare set of robes, the river stone Master Qui-Gon had given him, a comm with his friends’ frequencies already saved, and his lightsaber hanging from his belt. 

The padawan had been in uneasy meditation for the past three days, diving deep into the Force-bonds connecting him to other Jedi. With every light-year travelled, his training bond with Master Qui-Gon strained as it was pulled thinner and thinner.  His web of creche bonds was stronger, but Obi-Wan knew that when he arrived at his destination, the distance would still be too much and they would only be able to send impressions back and forth. No words, no messages: just feelings. The only bond he had that was not being pulled at like Corellian taffy was his dyad bond with Quinlan. If Madame Nu’s records were correct (and Force help him, they had better be) they could be at opposite ends of the Galaxy, and their bond would still be strong as ever. His bonds pulsed gently at the back of his mind, worry, comfort, and affection soothing him - and his friends were right to worry. Here he was, all of sixteen years old and alone, a new Senior Padawan on a transport bound for Mandalore.

Mandalore, a planet full of people who have no reason to trust the Jedi, and who certainly did not like any of his people. After all, it was only three years ago that Mand’alor Jaster Mereel began a legal campaign against the Republic and the Jedi following the complete debacle that was Galidraan. A year into the investigation, the mind-healers working with Master Dooku found the Sith Bond wreaking havoc on his mind and shields. They, along with the Master of Shadows, followed the bond to its source before destroying it, and lo and behold! The team found both Darths Sidious and Plagueis on the other end of the bond. Once they knew what to look for, it didn’t take long to find the evidence to unmask them as Senator Sheev Palpatine of Naboo and Hego Damask of the Intergalactic Banking Clan. Both were tried for treason and sentenced to death. They were executed under the watchful eyes of the Jedi Council and the Security Council - which should have been the end of it.

But the Mandalorians were not satisfied, and the Senate needed a scapegoat to appease them. After all, if word got out to the general public of the survival of the Sith - who were previously nothing more than the worst of ancient, extinct monsters lurking in the closet - there would be riots in the streets. It would be a cold day on Mustafar before the Senate owned up to its mistakes (or self-caused diplomatic debacles) and so that particular blame inevitably fell on the Jedi Order. 

At that thought, memories of the visions that plagued his sleep came rushing to the forefront of his mind causing Obi-Wan to shudder and his stomach to turn. It felt like the Force swooped in to enhance the blurry images: an attack on the Temple, his home being razed to the ground and the death of his people. The identity of the attackers was still hidden from him, they were just blurs of motion, tearing through the Temple in his visions. Sometimes he glimpsed the shape of armour. Sometimes he saw homemade weaponry. Knowing how Mandalorians and the Coruscanti populace both felt about the Jedi, neither possibility reassured him. 

The visions had eased somewhat when a Senator had put forward a motion for the “cultural integration and reconciliation” of a Jedi to act as a bridge between the two cultures. At the time, he could barely help his relief and joy - especially once the Mandalorians agreed, with the stipulation that the Jedi could be no older than 20. Then the Senate, no doubt looking to soothe their ruffled feathers, chose someone from Dooku’s lineage. Obi-Wan had been infinitely less glad to be the only Jedi to fit the oh-so-specific description.

The transport jolted out of hyperspace, knocking him out of his uneasy meditation. The jolt signified the last of the planned jumps - he had arrived, possibly to his doom. As the ship broke atmosphere and went through its landing procedure, he looked out of the viewport. There were Mandalorians in full armour surrounding the landing pad, three rows thick. Obi-Wan gulped, took a deep breath, and then released his fear into the Force. It would do him no good here. Steeling himself, he gathered his belongings and stood before walking slowly over to the door of the transport. He nodded to the flight droid and palmed the hatch open.

Immediately, he felt the Mandalorians’ eyes centre in on him and stare through their dark visors. In the Force, he could sense a tidal wave of hate rise and roll over him. As if next to him, Quinlan spoke through the dyad bond to give him the courage to leave the craft.

“I’m right here with you, Obi. Just one step in front of the other, you can do this.” For once, Quinlan’s voice had none of his usual levity, but his presence was an empathetic shield to the pure aggression rolling off the helmeted warriors around him. He raised his head and walked forwards, one foot at a time until he stood before the Mand’alor. He bowed exactly the way the etiquette instructors at the temple had drilled into him, holding it and keeping his eyes down. Above him, he heard a seal disengaging and saw the Mand’alor remove his helmet. He flinched at the six gold tally marks scattered across the helmet, knowing exactly what those tally marks meant and fearing becoming number seven.

“Look up Jetii.” The order pierced the silence of the landing platform like a knife. Obi-Wan could do nothing but obey, straightening out of his bow and doing his best to appear as non-threatening as possible. At first glance, Jaster Mereel was a tough man who had been through a tough life. Across his visible skin were dozens of minute scars caused by blasters, lightsaber, and Force only knew what else. His black hair was cropped close to his skull, uncomplicated and out of the way so a helmet would easily fit, and was greying slightly at the temples - likely from stress or his face was deceptively youthful. His dark eyes, wary and cautious, did not overlook a single detail as he stared at Obi-Wan, looking him over from top to the bottom. 

As he looked over Obi-Wan, the silence stretching longer and longer , his brow deepened what was already an intimidating scowl further, pulling on the fading scars across the tan skin of his face. In the Force, the Mand’alor was a mountain of beskar, unbreakable and completely blank - unfortunately for Obi-Wan’s stress levels, his face divulged even less of his thoughts. 

After an eternity, Mereel relaxed slightly and sighed, resigned and unhappy. “For the duration of your stay, you are the ward of House Mereel. You will stay in the Mand’alor’yaim and you will attend classes at the Keldabe Academy for Clan Heirs. You may contact any friends you have once every five-day, though any and all of your calls will be monitored. Do not try any Jetii mind tricks on any Mando’ade or other sentient here. There will be no second chances, do I make myself clear?”

“Yes, Mand’alor.” Obi-wan tightened his grip on his small pack. Force, only three days of travel and he already missed the Temple with its welcoming atmosphere and friendly beings.

Mereel turned on his heel and walked down the path to where a four-seat speeder awaited. Obi-Wan trailed behind him and flinched when the Mandalorians closed ranks around the two of them. Their footfalls, hundreds of metal boots striking hard stone at once, were as loud as explosions in his ears and threatened to bring unpleasant memories crashing into his perception of the here-and-now . Obi-Wan grimaced and tightened his shields again, hooking his shaking hands around the straps of his pack to hide his nerves (and to keep them in sight of the more nervous warriors). Getting lost in his memories within the first hour would help no one, least of all him. Following the directions of a harsh gesture, he shuffled into the back seat with his eyes firmly trained on his boots. Mereel followed him and gave a sharp order to the driver in Mando’a. He heard the dull roar of jetpacks igniting - guess that answered how everyone else would travel. The “honour” guard followed them through the winding streets of Keldabe, all the way to the palace at the center of the city. When the shuttle rounded a bend and slowed, Obi-Wan looked from his boots to peek further ahead. A teenager was waiting for them at the landing pad with his arms crossed, scowling in his general direction. Obi-Wan assumed this was the Mand’alor’s son - the armour appeared to match the blurry holos they had. Mereel jumped out of the shuttle before it even touched the ground and strode to the boy - young man, really on closer look - and pressed their foreheads together. When Obi-Wan caught up, they were speaking rapid Mando’a in low angry tones, clearly in some sort of argument. It broke off as soon as he got within a meter of the pair.

“Jetii, this is my son, Mand’al’ad Jango Fett. He will give you a tour of the Mand’alor’yaim and then show you to your room.” Jaster motioned for the teen - Jango - to come forwards. Jango looked at Obi-Wan with barely disguised disgust, his eyes sweeping up and down.

“This way, Jetii.” He said, all warmth gone from his voice with a careless gesture of his hand. Obi-Wan nodded, shouldering his small pack.

Jango led him at a brisk pace through the palace doors, nodding to the guards as he passed. “This is the entrance hall. The dining hall is on the floor below us and the Main Hall is through those doors.” His reluctance to give a tour to a potential enemy was clear: he bit out each word like they tasted foul, his Force signature rolling with dislike and he made sure to only point out the most basic of things. Jango pointed to a large set of ornate doors across the atrium. “That’s where Buir does most of his business, so stay out if there’s a council meeting in session. Actually...just stay out.” He led them to the stairway on the right of the ornate doors and began to climb the steps to the second floor. “Remember to take the stairs on the right, or you’ll end up in the West Wing which is where the guard barracks, armoury, and training grounds are.” He paused before reluctantly issuing a warning “Don’t go there unless you’re looking to get yourself killed. These stairs, lead to the East Wing, which is where your room is.” Obi-Wan hurried to keep up with the Mand’al’ad as he led the way up the flights of stairs until Jango turned to a hallway on the third floor. “This is the wing that houses the Mand’alor and his family. Your room is the one there,” he gestured at the fourth door on the right, “and mine is right across the hall if you need anything.” The look on Jango’s face made it clear that any help given would be done extremely begrudgingly and that he better not need anything. Obi-Wan nodded politely and palmed open the door.

Just as he crossed the threshold, Jango called out to him, “Oh, and one more thing.” He pointed at Obi-Wan’s belt, then opened his hand palm up. “Your jetii’kad. You’re not allowed weapons outside of training until we know we can trust you, so hand it over.”

Obi-Wan drew in a shaky breath. He had to hand over his lightsaber? One of his only possessions, the blade he had built with the crystal attuned in the Force to him and him alone? The only constant he had throughout his apprenticeship, which had seen him through the debacle that was Melidaan? His mounting horror must have alerted Quin through the bond because his projection was suddenly next to Obi-Wan. Dimly, Obi-Wan registered his brother’s outrage leaking into the Force as he unclipped his ‘saber from his belt with shaking hands and laid it carefully in Jango’s.

“Obes, no!” Quin’s blue arm reached forward as if he could somehow stop Jango from taking Obi-Wan’s lightsaber. As usual, his projection could not affect the physical world, and his arm passed right through Jango’s. The Mand’al’ad shivered, frowned, and narrowed his eyes at Obi-Wan.

“That better not have been Force osik, you hear me?”

"I didn’t do anything! I wouldn’t!” He raised his hands in surrender, or maybe to ward off a blow, he wasn’t sure which. Jango sneered at him, then stormed into his rooms, leaving Obi-Wan alone in the hallway.

Chapter Text

The rooms he had been assigned were neat, orderly, and utterly devoid of personality. The bed, sheets, desk, and shelves were white, with the walls being only a few shades darker. With a sigh, he stepped inside the unwelcoming space, the door closing behind him with a pneumatic hiss a moment later. He crossed the room in a few long strides and fell onto the bed. Quin’s quiet fury bubbled beneath his skin, the foreign the not-mine-but-almost-mine feeling building and feeding into his own - when feeling something strongly, their emotions tended to intertwine to the point it was hard to tell who was feeling what. Realizing he was initiating a feedback loop, the kiffar took a deep breath and released his emotions into the Force.

“They can’t just do that, Obes!” Quinlan paced to and fro, his Force projection hovering a few centimetres above the ground. “They can’t just take your-”

“My weapon? The one that was used to slaughter their people and caused this whole mess? Believe me, while my lightsaber is my life, picking a fight to keep it might also cost me my life. After all, who’s going to tell them that? Is Master Yoda going to call the Mand’alor to explain that,” he pitched his voice lower to sound like the tiny green master, “a lightsaber, a Jedi’s life, it is, hmm? Return an incredibly powerful weapon, you should. Give it back to your enemy, you should. No problems, there will be, hmm?” Obi-Wan buried his head in his hands and groaned.

“But you should at least get to keep the crystal?” Obi-Wan looked up at the light note of hysterics in Quin’s tone. Their separation was obviously starting to wear on his brother. The yellow stripe over Quin’s nose was scrunched up in a newly-permanent scowl and some of his dreadlocks were unravelling. It was jarring to see, but Obi-Wan could only accept it as another thing that had changed over this hellish ten-day. He raised a tired hand to his face and smother a bitter laugh with it.

“So I can build a second one in secret? They don’t know how they’re made and it’s one of the few things I’m not allowed to tell them! By agreement - the Mand’alor doesn’t want another darksaber running around. Come on, Quin, they don’t trust me!” He raised a finger to stop the argument about to come out of Quin’s mouth “And they have a damn good reason not to! We,” he hushed his voice “slaughtered them, not just at Galidraan, but nearly every time Jedi and Mandalorians have interacted since the Excision!”

“I just-” Quin released a breath. “I just don’t want you to lose another piece of home.” Instead of speaking, Obi-Wan closed his eyes and sunk into their Dyad-Bond, relishing in the warmth, acceptance, and love. He let himself be cradled by Quinlan’s Force presence and the echo of the Temple and the feeling of belonging.

Across the hall, Jango was fuming. The Jet’ika was decidedly underwhelming, after all of the horrifying accounts of Galidraan he had heard. Ba’vodu Aden’tra said that the Jetiise at Galidraan had a deadly grace about them, a sense that you were looking at a predator and that you’d better not be prey. 

Maybe , Jango mused, this Jet’ika was playing the long con. Maybe he hadn’t learned how to use the kad’au now in Jango’s hand. His finger curled around the metal hilt, searching for the switch. Jango thumbed the blade to life, startled at the humming under his hand. The beam of light buzzed like a caged rancor in the air before him. If he had to give it a label, he’d call the buzzing angry, but that was ridiculous.

“A weapon’s just a weapon. It’s the person wielding it who matters.” He found comfort in repeating his Ba’vodu’s words as he examined the blade. The kad’au shone a clear, deep blue like the sky over Keldabe just before sunset. Jango tried a few of his beskad sequences, but the kad’au moved wrong through the air and felt unbalanced in his hand. The longer he held it, the more the angry humming continued. He kept at it until he had to clench his jaw from the way the sound rattled inside his brain before he extinguished the blade. Jango considered the hilt for a long moment. He took in the scuff marks and scratches in the metal with a frown. “What have you been through, I wonder?” He snorted. “I bet your Jet’ika has dropped you one hundred and one times and that’s what gave you those marks. There’s no way he’s seen real combat yet.” The idea of the redhead dropping his weapon often enough to dent what felt like a hard metal (durasteel perhaps? Maybe tungsten...) made Jango crack a small smile as he clipped the kad’au onto his belt.

With his curiosity appeased, he turned his mind to the strange feeling that had come over him in the hallway, the cold on his arm as he took the Jetii’s outstretched weapon. That had been some Ka’ra-damned Force osik - he was sure of it. That the Jet’ika said he had nothing to do with the sensation only proved that he was a liar. Jango shook his head to clear his mind of thoughts about the Jetii on the other side of the hallway and picked up the holonovel he had been reading before the summons came. He fell backwards onto his bed then propped his head on his hand and let himself fall back in time to the age of Mand’alor the First.

The buzzing of his comm dragged him back to the land of the present just as the sun’s rays were dipping below Jango’s window. He stood and stretched, working out lingering stiffness and relishing the pops from his joints. He flicked the screen to ‘accept call’ and yawned as his Buir’s face came into view.

“Jan’ika, dinner’s in thirty minutes. Make sure the Jet’ika’s on time, would you?” Jas’buir dragged a hand down his face, still gaunt from the rationing of the last war. “Why did I agree to this?”

“Because the hut’uune in the Senate shoved a Jetii out here and you refused to take a full-grown one?” Jango’s lips pulled upwards into a smirk as he teased his buir. He froze when a thought occurred to him and carefully asked, “How fancy do I have to get and how fancy does he have to get?” Jas’buir chuckled at his antics.

“No buy’ce, but otherwise full plate, cape, and cord for you. For him...” he sighed, something all the more common these days, “Whatever he has, I guess. See you in thirty.”

“See you in thirty Buir” The holocall clicked off with a small chime and Jango buried his face in his hands with a drawn-out groan. “Why me?” he asked of the universe at large, wallowing in self-pity for a moment. Sighing, Jango then crossed the hallway and knocked on the door opposite his. No answer. He knocked again. Still nothing. He knocked a third time and yelled, “Hey, Jetii! Dinner in thirty! If you’re not there, we’re sending a search party!”

Finally, the door swished open to reveal the redhead: disgruntled and somewhat dishevelled. So, it seemed he could be bothered by worldly affairs, thought Jango. This teenager standing in front of him seemed a completely different person from the one who landed on Manda’yaim not three hours ago. When he first saw the Jet’ika, Jango had thought him to be much like a tooka, but now he was having to reassess that idea. The figure before him was more of a nexu, separated from its pack and waiting for the moment to strike. “What’s the dress code?” The smaller boy snarled, apparently ignoring any courtesies in favour of cutting to the point.  Internally, Jango raised an eyebrow at the tone of the question. Prickly nexu, indeed.

“Wear the fanciest stuff you have. It’s a state dinner, so you’ll be introduced to the Ruling Council as well as a few of your classmates. I’ll see you out here in no less than twenty minutes.” Without waiting for a reply, Jango turned and strode back to his rooms.

Well, Obi-Wan thought, half an hour was not the warning he would have liked, but he’d made do with less. Jango’s first set of knocks had brought him jolting out of his joint meditation with Quin (to the grumblings of his brother) and his second set of knocks had gotten him moving towards the door, working blood back into his sleeping legs. The yell just annoyed him, so he hoped Jango was on as short notice as he was. With Jango gone again, he rummaged through his pack for his clean set of robes and his dress tabards. Obi-Wan spread them on the bed (not his, not yet) and made sure all the stitching was intact on the seam of his tabards. He took his hygiene kit and shuffled over to the refresher attached to the room.

After a short, efficient sonic, Obi-Wan pulled on his clean leggings, followed by his inner robes and then lastly his outer robes. He then spent a minute or two making sure he had arranged the folds correctly in front of the mirror in the refresher. Sure they were sitting right, he put on his tabards, pulling the cloth so that his right tabard hung off his shoulder, then did the same for the left. He pulled his obi to him quickly with the Force, tying it into the same habitual knot he had used since he was old enough to tie it. Lastly, over the simple obi went his belt, wrapping around his waist and then clipped. He lifted his hand to call his ‘saber to him, before remembering where his ‘saber was and had a moment of relief that he hadn’t called it. He didn’t want to know Jango’s reaction to a sabre moving from wherever he’d put it to fly into the air.

Looking at his reflection, he was somewhat irritated by the state of his hair after so much time travelling. Well, if they were expecting a prim and proper Padawan, then a prim and proper Padawan they would get. With a burst of apology towards Master Qui-Gon, Obi-Wan re-did his padawan braid, repositioning the beads denoting his achievements and tied it off at the bottom. He re-tied his nerf tail and went over his outfit one last time, ensuring there were no creases or wrinkles. 

Leaving the fresher, Obi-Wan then glanced at the chrono on the desk to see that eighteen minutes had passed. He slipped his boots on and buckled them in quick succession before walking out the door to wait for Jango.

He didn’t have to wait long before Jango walked out in polished armour, sans helmet. A blue cape trailed from behind his shoulders to his knees and a braid of green, black, and red cord was looped over his right shoulder and under his arm. All in all, he looked like what one would expect of the Crown Prince of Mandalore. He looked over Obi-Wan dismissively before turning his back to him and starting to walk.“Let’s go, Jetii. You don’t want to be late”

 Obi-Wan rolled his eyes behind Jango’s back.“Indeed.” 

Jango led them back down the stairs to below the entrance hall. The guards stationed on either side of the doors to the Dining Hall nodded to Jango, who nodded back and tapped something onto his thigh-plate. The guards thumped their right fists against the center of their chests in a salute and opened the large doors to reveal a long room with a gently sloped ceiling. That, combined with the tapestries covering the ceiling and walls, made the hall very reminiscent of a canvas tent. Obi-Wan was quickly distracted from the room decor as he instead took note of the sheer number of armoured people who had stopped their conversations to stare at them. A zabrak woman in swirling green and gold armour came up to them in quick strides to gently touch foreheads with Jango. After releasing him she turned to Obi-Wan with a sharp glint in her eyes.

“Aden’tra Cuyan, House Mereel, she/her/hers, Sol’Al’Verde. That means I’m in charge of all the soldiers.” She said all this almost like a test, one Obi-Wan was determined not to fail.

“Padawan Obi-Wan Kenobi of the Jedi Order. Pleased to make your acquaintance and at your service.” He inclined his head and was about to straighten up again when he felt a warning flash through the Force. He spun on his heel as he brought his hand up to catch the knife less than a hand-width from his face. “Well then,” he said in the silence that ensued. “I believe that means Garen won the bet. He’ll be insufferable after this.”

Chapter Text

The guards patrolling the room leapt into action, six of them encircling Obi-Wan, Jango, and Mand’alor Mereel, the rest searching for the attacker. The glint of their armour gave the would-be assassin away. A squad of guards flew up with their jetpacks to tackle them; catching and herding the attacker into the room at blasterpoint and shutting the doors behind them. While Lady Cuyan pushed him behind her, Obi-Wan examined the knife in his hand. Utilitarian, no visible embellishments or marks, not even from a crafter’s seal - the weapon of an assassin. He flipped it in his hand a few times, testing the weight and balance. Distantly, he heard Mand’alor Mereel tearing his attacker a new one. 

“Jetii or not, I announced on a system-wide newscast that he would be under the protection of House Mereel last week !! Not only do you dishonour me and my house, what if you had succeeded? What if you killed the Jet’ika and brought his entire Order down on our heads?” As the Mand’alor drew a breath to continue his tirade, Obi-Wan interrupted.

“They wouldn’t do anything. Or rather, they wouldn’t be able to do anything. We’re on strict restrictions right now and can only take missions from the Senate.” He snorted, voice distant and numb. “The day the Senate faces its problems instead of throwing money they don’t have at it is the day it snows on Mustafar.” Next to him, he felt Lady Cuyan frown.

“Isn’t that a good thing, though? More oversight -” Obi-Wan held up a hand.

“It was a Senate mission that got us all in this predicament in the first place. More oversight is needed, yes, but not on the Jedi. Were it not for the orders of the Senate, those Jedi would have never been sent to Galidraan.” You could have heard a pin drop as gasps and whispers broke out around the room at his declaration. An older Mandalorian stormed up to him and grasped his shoulders with one hand of blood and bone, and one of servos and wiring. The Nautolan stared him in the eyes with something akin to desperation.

“Riddle me this then, Jetii.” They growled, though their Force presence was tinged with grief rather than anger. “Why were their ships ready to go so quickly?” Each word was emphasized and it was all Obi-Wan could do to answer - with the confusion, anger, and grief pressing in on his shields.

“The ships were already prepped because they were scheduled for a rescue mission to a warzone. It’s a common tactic we use: if it’s a Senate mission, but we see the people need more than the Senate allows, the Jedi on the mission will find a reason to be split up so that only one of them makes it back to Coruscant. That way a rescue mission can be justified and then launched. We hide whatever we need to help the people in those rescue missions. Three years ago, the first mission was to negotiate a peace treaty between two warring factions so that they could join the Republic. Neither faction was willing to stand down, so the Jedi were ordered to return. They wanted to stay because of a third faction they wanted to help, so they split up. Those ships were meant to go to Melidaan, back when it was Melidaa-Daan.” The Nautolan closed their large eyes and shook in a sob.

“You mean to tell me,” they heaved in a great breath, “that my ad died because the Senate gets a power-trip off ordering the Jedi around?! That those power-stealing chakaare are the reason I added my ad’s name to my remembrances? Is that it?!” By the end, the Mandalorian was choking through, great, heaving sobs. Without thinking twice, Obi-Wan ducked forwards and wrapped his arms around the sobbing parent and pressed the armoured figure as close as he could. It took all the restraint he had not to envelop the Mandalorian in comfort through the Force. It wasn’t likely to be welcome or appreciated.

“I am so sorry.” He murmured. “It should never have happened, and I am so sorry it did. Words cannot express my sorrow at your loss.” He lifted his head to look at the other Mandalorians watching him. “All of your losses, I am so sorry.” By the time he had looked every armour-clad Mandalorian in the eyes to try to convey his sorrow, the Nautolan had begun to hug him back and their sobs were beginning to ease off.

“You have a kind heart, Jetii.” They said as they dried their eyes. “I am Dral Gotab, House Rook, they/them. I am the Head of the Armourers Guild.” Lord Gotab seemed ready to head back to their seat when they froze. “You said it was a pair of Jetii sent to Melidaan back when it was still Melida-Daan. Who was sent?” Obi-Wan winced. Internally, he wished he had put a notice-me-not suggestion over his words, but it was too late for that now.

“It was my Master, Qui-Gon Jinn, and I. The mission was supposed to teach me how to solve complex diplomatic problems.” The hand on his shoulder tightened. 

“And which one of you stayed behind?” The few conversations that had started again died back down. Looking around, he could see all eyes on him.

“Master Qui-Gon was the only one who could authorize a rescue mission and I was the only one who would justify needing it. A Jedi Master can get through a warzone and off a planet easily, not so a Padawan. For those reasons, I stayed behind with the third faction and I had a commline straight to Master Jinn. Once he arrived on Coruscant, I had every other Master and Knight who’s ever been in so much as a firefight to guide me.” Instead of the constant low-level anger he had felt from the Mandalorians, he now felt their rising horror. Mand’alor Mereel in particular seemed to choke on air. 

“Your file says that you’re sixteen standard years old.” The Mand’alor’s dread was rising enough for Obi-Wan to taste. The horror spiked in the room as all caught the implications even as Mereel’s voice dropped to near a whisper. “You would have been thirteen !” He visibly struggled to get his emotions under control but when he next spoke his voice had regained its deep timbre. “You should have been nowhere near a battlefield! Your Master should have dragged you onto that ship regardless of-” Obi-Wan was content to keep quiet and listen to the Mand’alor rant, but he drew the line at insulting his Master.

“And I suppose we should have left those children to die?” Once again, dead silence followed his outburst and the emotions in the room spiked again.

“Children?” Lord Gotab’s hand on his shoulder tightened again. 

“The third faction was made up of the children of the Melidaa and the Daan who were sick and tired of constant war. They called themselves the Young. I was one of maybe five thirteen-year-olds and everyone else was younger than that. There was no way we were leaving them to fend for themselves, not if we wanted to still call ourselves Jedi. So we resorted to tricks to try to get them what they needed. Now, are we done prying into my past, or can we eat?”

Chapter Text

With a wave of the Mand’alor’s hand, the attacker - as shocked as the rest of them - was marched from the hall. The Mand’alor seemed to regain some of his composure as he looked Obi-Wan up and down.

“Yes, I suppose we should. Your seat is-”

“He can sit next to me, Mand’alor. Ni bajur kaysh.” Lord Gotab said in a carefully even tone. Obi-Wan didn’t know what the Mando’a meant but he felt the surprise rise in the room. At this point, he mused, some eyebrows or species equivalent had reached orbit and were unlikely to come back down. 

At Mereel’s nod, Obi-Wan followed Lord Gotab to the other side of the long, low table at the end of the hall. The Nautolan sat on one of the cushions at the right of the center close to the cushions being taken up by Jango, then Jaster beside him, and finally Lady Cuyan on his left. Noticing Obi-Wan floundering, Lord Gotab patted the cushion to his right. 

Obi-Wan followed the cue with relief, sitting obediently while taking the chance to survey the room. Nearly fifty Mandalorians were taking their places around the table and the rest were patrolling around the low columns and behind the tapestries. As his gaze swept the room again, Obi-Wan’s eyes landed on the belt of the Mandalorian coming to sit across the table from him. A lightsaber hung from a clip over their right hip. He couldn’t help it - he gasped as he recognized the crystal’s song. He tried to discreetly rub at his face, begging his eyes to stay dry and conceal his reaction. He could tell it didn’t work when he felt Lord Gotab frown and the Mandalorian with Masma’s ‘saber smirk.

“What is it, Jetii? Did you happen to know the last owner?” Lord Gotab tapped a rhythm against the table, frown growing at the blatant goading. Obi-Wan steeled himself but replied nonetheless; he was here to help educate Mandalorians about his culture while learning theirs. This was a good opportunity, personal feelings and hurt aside.

“I did.” He said softly, grief tingeing his voice. He saw the Mandalorian’s face drop at his reaction, clearly not expecting him to respond this way. “She was Master Manra Kop, she was the first kata instructor for every single Jedi for the last fifty years, and we called her Masma. She taught us the basics because she never liked fighting, but found joy in the repetitive motions of the First Form. She loved to teach us: in her office, there were holos of every class of initiates she’d ever taught together with her. Now those holos hang in the Hall of Memory with her name.” He wiped at his eyes again, eyes decidedly not cooperating with his plan of staying dry. “She was a non-combatant who took simple pleasure in guiding young children.” Her killer paled dramatically and cleared their throat.

“If she was a non-combatant,” they whispered, “what was she doing on that planet?”

“It was meant to be a rescue mission, remember? In the Order, those are volunteer-based and many wished to go protect the Young along with rescuing me. They had enough fuel to make the round trip from Coruscant to Galidraan, then to Melida/Daan, and back to Coruscant. The faster they finished their surprise assignment, the sooner they could bring us aid!” He growled out the last few words as tears finally started to leak from his eyes. He wiped them again and sighed, releasing his grief to the Force. “Please forgive me for my outburst, it’s been so long since I’ve felt Masma’s Force signature.” He gestured to her ‘saber. 

Mand’alor Mereel spoke up with a frown. “Feel? What do you mean, feel ?” 

Obi-Wan looked him right in the eyes while he chose his words carefully. If this was to be the first true exchange of culture and explanation of customs, he refused to kark it up. “People, their emotions, and their overall,” he waved his hands over his body, “soul, spirit, mind, however you want to call it, leave impressions on objects and places. The longer an object has been in a person’s possession, the more of their presence is steeped into it. The more emotion involved in an event, the more stable the sentient’s impression on the object or location. There is a reason Korriban is so dangerous for Jedi (or anyone really), and it certainly isn’t the Sith tombs themselves… but I digress.” 

He looked around the table to see that all the attention in the room was on him again; with warriors visibly craning their heads to hear better. Great. Well in for decicred, in for a credit; he projected his voice so he could be heard. “We make our lightsabers at the beginning of our apprenticeships and most Jedi will use the same lightsaber their entire lives. Those who change lightsabers usually just change the hilt or other components, but keep the original crystal, or add crystals. For the vast majority of Jedi, we will keep the crystals that we find as new Padawans for all of our lives. We also don’t choose our kyber crystals, they are semi-sentient and choose us. We meditate with them, we grow with them, we have Force bonds with them, they sing to us, they are extensions of us.” He drew in a tight breath. “They become a part of us and leave a very strong impression… I haven't heard Masma’s song in over three years.” With every word, Obi-Wan could see Jango out of the corner of his eye who seemed to grow more and more uncomfortable, for reasons Obi-Wan couldn’t guess. 

“If your lightsabers are extensions of you, then they’re like Beskar’gam!” The speaker was a Pantoran teenager of around Obi-Wan’s age who was seated across from Jango. He looked horrified by his words, as did most of the Mandalorians.

“If what I know about your armour is true, then yes.” Lord Gotal’s eyebrow rose.

“If it’s true?” they asked, “Do you not take us at face value, Jet’ika?” Obi-Wan chuckled. 

“Not at all, it’s only that there’s so little we know for sure about Mandalorian culture, Lord Gotab -”

“There’s no need for that, call me Cabur Dral.” More mutterings broke out around the table. Obi-Wan considered for a moment.

“Before I agree, what does Cabur mean?” He prayed to the Force this wasn’t another joke.

“Guardian, shield, protector, anything along those lines. Children use it to denote adults they trust but have no familial ties to.” Either Lo- Cabur Dral had very good shields or they were telling the truth, so Obi-Wan relaxed.

“In that case, please, call me Obi-Wan. I only ask because, well.” He broke off into chuckles at the memory. “When I first received this assignment, I went searching in our archives for a guide to Mando’a. I found a single such book in the very back of the Mandalorian section and began to study it. I never got very far into it, and I do believe it was someone’s idea of a joke…  That or they were trying to get their readers killed. It claimed that - and please, don’t stab me either for what I’m about to say or how badly I may pronounce it - kote lo'shebs'ul narit is a common greeting.” For a moment there was dead silence and Obi-Wan wondered if he hadn’t miscalculated. Suddenly Jango dropped his hand to the table as a bark of laughter escaped him. He had a huge grin on his face, the first Obi-Wan had ever seen.

“They didn’t.”

“Oh, I assure you they did.” Cabur Dral snorted a laugh. Then again. Then they gave a full-out chuckle. Then little gasps escaped them, their ahwey shaking. The Mandalorian across from Obi-Wan also began to chuckle, recovering from his shock. One after another, all the Mandalorians began to laugh until they were all doubled over and gasping for breath. As Cabur Dral leaned on him, trying and failing to catch their breath, Obi-Wan thought that there was no better way to bring people together than laughter.

Chapter Text

Conversations started back up once everyone had caught their breath. Cabur Dral turned to him.

“That was well done but you can’t fool me. Little ad, I know a deflection when I see one. As an armourer, I am also a keeper of our culture’s stories and history so many people come to me for advice or counsel. However, you’ve successfully diffused the situation and lightened the mood. Now, before we sat, I told the Mand’alor I’d show you the ropes by which I meant that I’d tell you about how your stay with us will work. First things first, as you may already know Manda’yaim works on five-day weeks and our months are three weeks long. Every month you have one week of core schooling, one week of specialized apprenticeships, and one week off. In total, ten days of work and five days of rest. We have 24 months in a year and one week of holidays. That’s the week where we have that year’s Verd’gotens, we honour those marching far away, celebrate our aliite, and generally have a good time. The words I said, ‘Ni bajur kaysh,’ do you know why that’s relevant to the topic at hand?” 

Obi-Wan considered the foreign words carefully, hoping that those hours spent listening to holonovelas and reading what few text resources he could find had paid off. “Is it because education and raising are the same words in Mando’a?” 

Cabur Dral broke into a wide grin, looking to Obi-Wan like an older, more scarred, Knight Fisto. “Ori’jate! That means very good, by the way. What I said means that I’m taking you under my wing as your guardian. Not as a parent, I don’t think either of us would have done well with that at the moment or perhaps ever considering our peoples’ history. However, it does mean that I have taken at least partial responsibility for your education and well-being until your Verd’goten.” 

Obi-Wan frowned for a moment. “I’m sixteen though not thirteen and have more than seen combat: I’ve fought and won a war. I think I proved my mettle long ago, why do I need to pass a Verd’goten?” Servers came from behind one of the tapestries with carts piled high with covered bowls. Obi-Wan leaned back to allow them to place a bowl in front of him and lift the cover. He thanked the server and then raised an eyebrow at the glass and jug of blue milk placed in front of him. Cabur Dral laughed at his expression.

“Believe me, Ob’ika, you’ll need that milk.” Privately Obi-Wan disagreed but he didn’t interrupt, not wanting to offend an important ally. “As for your Verd’goten, it’s mostly a formality- albeit an important one. When you apply for an apprenticeship, your Verd’goten witnesses and schoolteachers are your main references. It’s where you earn the right to wear kom’rke - vambraces - outside of training. Once you have those, you can work up to a full suit. It’s a huge cultural milestone, one you will need to understand and complete for this to be considered a ‘cultural exchange’ by any standard. Festival Week is in three months, so your apprentice-weeks are going to instead be spent preparing your hand-to-hand skills, aptitudes with different blasters, proficiencies with different weapons, wilderness survival, hunting, that sort of thing.” The smell of the food was almost overpowering and upon seeing Obi-Wan’s eyes dart from him to the food and back (along with hearing his stomach growl), they took pity on Obi-Wan. “We’ll keep talking in a bit, alright?” 

Around them, the noise reduced to a soft murmur as people began to eat. Following their lead, Obi-Wan picked up the long, thin sticks next to his bowl and held them between his thumb and first two fingers. He looked into his bowl to see thin, long noodles with flat strips of meat mixed in that was then covered in a bright red sauce. Given the colour and the comment about the blue milk, Obi-Wan was of the suspicion that the food in his bowl was spicy, very spicy. He reached out with the Force and felt most of the attention on him - discreetly in some cases, in others, not so much- with no small amount of glee. He picked up a few noodles and a piece of meat with his sticks and put them in his mouth. The Mandalorians were losing their subtlety, waiting for a reaction.

“Very good, this. I love the spice blend, but I only recognize a third of them.” He relished in the disappointment bleeding into the Force but outright guffawed at the Mandalorian across from him staring with their jaw on the floor. He chewed through small giggles. “What?” He said, laughter clear in his voice. “I survived a year on bland rations that probably tasted worse than the crates we found them in. Since spices keep forever and they made the meals somewhat palatable, we used a lot of them when we could get them. Now, is there a place to get these spices on Coruscant? I need to be prepared for the next crèche war.” 

Cabur Dral shook their head, huffing a quiet laugh. “We don’t have time to unpack the first nor is it really the time… yes to the second, it’s in Little Keldabe, and I won’t even ask about the third.” 

Obi-Wan laughed. “That’s probably for the best.” On his other side, the cushions shifted as someone sat down and then cleared their throat.

“I thought Jedi were peacekeepers? Why do you speak of war so casually?” The speaker was a young Mandalorian with blond chin-length hair and clear eyes. Their pale face was narrow and delicate but set with fierce determination. They were beautiful, Obi-Wan mused, then flushed slightly at the thought. Surprisingly, they wore no armour save their vambraces, which were lavender with white Mandalorian lilies engraved around the beskar. They smiled, just a small upturn of the mouth, but it was enough that Obi-Wan knew he wanted to see them truly smile. He smiled in response, praying to the Force that he wouldn’t insult them accidentally.

“While we normally try to talk our way through conflicts, we can’t stop the fact that sometimes people will refuse to back down. So yes, while Jedi avoid violence whenever we can I was in a situation where I was stuck fighting a war because the original two factions refused to de-escalate and because I believed in the cause along with the people behind it. I can talk about it so casually because I’ve had numerous sessions with the Temple mind-healers on the subject, and I’ve spent countless hours meditating on my experience and coming to terms with it. But I do believe you were referring to what I called crèche wars, Mx…” He trailed off, waiting for them to fill him in. They smiled a few centimetres wider and Obi-Wan mentally counted it as a victory. 

“Satine Kryze, House Kryze, she/her. And yes, that was where most of my concern came from.” 

Obi-Wan swallowed another bite of his food and laughed. “In that case, my Lady, there is no need for you to worry! The crèche is where younglings in the temple live until they are old enough for an apprenticeship. So crèche wars are nothing more than prank wars among crèche clans. The last one involving my clan ended…” he counted tendays on his fingers and then did the mental conversions to Mandalorian months. “Three Mandalorian months ago, due to Council intervention.” 

Satine raised an eyebrow, her smile growing by the minute. “And what, pray tell, warranted Council Intervention?” 

Obi-Wan smirked.“Twelve councillors with robes dyed various colours, eleven glitter bombs, ten jump-scares in the showers, nine mock duels, eight disrupted initiate meditations, seven arrests, six small - controlled - fires, five greased puffer pigs listed one through four and six, four slip’n’slides in the Temple halls, three accidental marriages, two initiate clans on week-long sugar highs, and one Temple-wide 0300 wake-up call.” He punctuated each item on the list with a jab of his utensils. Once again, the entire table was silent and staring at him in disbelief. Obi-Wan’s focus, however, was on Satine and doing his level best to make her laugh.

“Truly? Is this what the mystical Jedi Order does in its spare time?” 

Obi-Wan’s ears flushed red and he rubbed the back of his neck sheepishly.

“Well, only its younger members are this enthusiastic about it, but yes. At the end of the day, we are but sentients too.” Satine burst into laughter, a smile glowing from ear to ear. Obi-Wan laughed with her, a strange feeling in his stomach. It wasn’t Force-related, so he pushed it to the side. Around them, the other nearby Mandalorians were off laughing again, wiping their eyes and leaning on each other or the table for support.

Over the din, Obi-Wan distantly heard Jango ask his father, “Why did we get the crazy Jet’ika?” They were Mandalorians, he thought, it was probably a compliment.

Chapter Text

“Buir?” Jango stared at the jetii’kad in his hands, the starlight bouncing off the metal.

“‘Lek?” Jas’buir stepped into the small sitting room between their separate rooms, a space just for the two of them. “What is it, ad?”

“What do we do about Kenobi’s kad’au?” Jango could hear his Buir’s smirk and instantly regretted his words. “No, Buir I-”

“Well, I’m far too old for him, if that’s what you’re asking-”

“BUIR!!” 

Jas’buir roared with laughter, slapping his unarmoured thigh. 

“I’m just teasing you, Jango. What about his kad’au?” 

Jango gave him the stink-eye but forged on anyway. “We can’t keep it on ourselves. Not if a jetii’kad is to them what beskar’gam is to us. But, we can’t give it back to him, either. I don’t trust him, but…” He drifted off, not knowing what exactly he felt about the teen across the hall. 

Obi-Wan Kenobi was a paradox. He was outspoken, yet moved conversations away from himself with the ease of a career politician. He was meek when he arrived, yet was already battle-forged. Jango put the tightness in his chest up to the children Kenobi had spoken about. Children under thirteen should not be anywhere near a battle, yet Kenobi said children as young as five had participated in fully-fledged assaults. Jas’buir sighed.

“Well, we’ll talk to him about that in the morning, Jango. There’s not much we can do on that front until we have more intel. But I agree with you. For one of us to carry it as openly as you did tonight would be extremely disrespectful.” They sat across the low table from each other, inspecting their beskar’gam, and placing it back on its rack. Once the racks were full and Concordia high in the night sky, Jango turned to the window to light their candle. 

“Ni su'cuyi, gar kyr'adyc, ni partayli, gar darasuum.” They murmured the phrase together, then alternated names. Jango counted himself lucky that he only had three to say.

“Rusaan Fett.”

“Kot Mereel.”

“Brii Fett.”

“Gev Rook”

“Arla Fett.”

“Bric Mev.” The list of names went on into the night, memories kept alive by both father and son. 

Obi-Wan sat on the bed, staring at the stars through the window. Tomorrow, Cabur Dral had explained, he would shadow Jango through his classes, then, after the school day was completed, he would meet with the Bajur’Alor to discuss his courses. The discussion would involve himself, the Bajur’Alor, Cabur Dral, Mand’alor Mereel, and Master Jinn and parts of the High Council as well. Cabur Dral had assured Obi-Wan that all his courses would be in basic unless he chose otherwise, but there was still a huge cultural gap to be breached. 

He drew in a shaky breath at the memory of Masma, brought close for the first time in nearly a year by her lightsaber. Obi-Wan would have known it anywhere, he had seen it often enough. Obi-Wan centred himself in the Force until he could feel his bond with Quin, then let himself fall into it. He opened his eyes to a hazy version of the Temple, in the refectory. Judging from the kind of food around him, it was firstmeal, though the atmosphere was significantly more sombre than most firstmeals Obi-Wan had eaten there. Everyone seemed sluggish, heads low and shoulders down. He frowned and followed the bond further, to the Tholme-Vos residence. More specifically, the tug in his mind led him into Quin’s room, which was in more disarray than usual. His brother walked out of the ‘fresher, piling his dreads on the crown of his head. 

“Hey, Quin.” Obi-Wan couldn’t keep the smile out of his voice. “How are you?” Quin shouted wordlessly and bounded over to his projection, doing his very best to hug Obi-Wan. 

At first, when they were children, the bond only allowed them to hear each other across great distances, like any other pair-bond (regardless of the fact that most pair-bonds only formed at around 20 years old), but by the time they reached thirteen, the two could completely project their consciousness to anywhere within five meters of each other, from anywhere in the same system. Now, they could project themselves anywhere within a click of each other, from anywhere in the galaxy. They’d gotten a few odd looks for it in the past, from Force-nulls and Jedi alike. Lately, though, other Jedi seemed able to sense the projection's Force signature and the projections were quasi-physical to the other, like silly putty. To put it mildly, it made their first projected hugs a little… odd. Given that Quin had spent every night of the trip to Mandalore hugging the life out of Obi-Wan, they were used to it.

“You’re here! Oh, thank the Force, you’re here!!” Quin nearly sobbed in relief.

“Quin,” Obi-Wan chuckled, “you can see me whenever you decide to project yourself. This isn't any different.”

“Yes, it is.” The Kiffar glared at Obi-Wan. “When I go see you, you’re on Mandalore, with people who actively hate you at best, or tolerate you, at worst. When you come here, you’re coming home.”

“Well, I can’t argue with that logic, now can I?” Obi-Wan let himself enjoy the embrace for a moment longer. “Quin, I need you to request an emergency audience with the High Council. It’s important.”

“Why, has something-” “Nothing bad has happened to me,” Obi-Wan cut his brother off, not wanting Quin to panic at imaginary scenarios. “But it’s important, and the Council needs to hear it.” 

Quin nodded, slipped his boots on, and walked into his living room. “Master Tholme’s in the archives writing reports on my progress, so we’re good to go on that front.” As they stepped into the hallway, he grinned at Obi-Wan. “Race you there?” he said, as he took off running.

“Oh, it’s on,” Obi-Wan muttered to himself before dashing after Quin. He made it a few hallways before smirking to himself and thinking of a new solution. He closed his eyes and pushed his projection to the audience chamber’s foyer. He folded his hands behind his back and waited for Quin to arrive. 

Unsurprisingly, Quin arrived not by lift or stair, but by bounding up the center of the stairwell in great, Force-assisted jumps. When he saw Obi-Wan grinning at him from across the chamber, he groaned and murmured under his breath. Panting slightly from exertion, he ambled over to the desk beside the Council Doors where one of the Council Padawans was organizing the schedule for the day.

“I need to speak to the Masters, it’s urgent,” Quinlan said, with a serious look on his face. 

The Padawan-secretary smiled placidly. “I’m sure it is, but their schedule is already very heavy and-” 

“It’s about Padawan Kenobi!” Quinlan interrupted, his serious expression sliding towards a scowl. 

The Padawan-secretary stopped in his tracks, typed something into one of the datapads on his desk, and said, “The Council will see you momentarily.” 

After less than fifteen minutes, the doors opened and Quinlan strode briskly into the room. “I’m here because Obi-Wan wants to say something. I promise this isn’t a prank. I’m not here to say anything really, just pass along the message.” 

Master Koon nodded to him.  “I assume that Padawan Kenobi is with us now?” Quin nodded. “Very well, what news has he for us?” 

Obi-Wan took a few seconds to collect his thoughts. “Up until a few hours ago, Mandalorians as a whole had no idea what our lightsabers meant to us,” Quin repeated what he said word for word. “It is common for one who has,” he swallowed thickly, “killed a Jedi to carry their ‘saber as proof of their skill in battle.” Murmurs broke out among the council and muted grief slipped through their shields. Obi-Wan carried on. “I found this out because, at last night’s dinner, the Mandalorian sitting across from me was carrying Masma’s lightsaber.” Now all the Masters bowed their heads.

“Hurts, it does, to hear that disrespected, her ‘saber has been.” Master Yoda’s ears drooped with the reminder of the beloved Master’s death. 

Master Mundi let his face fall into his hand and said, “Is there a way we can recover their lightsabers? Any possibility, at all?” 

Obi-Wan thought for a moment: “If we offered to return the Mandalorian armour in the archives as an exchange? It would highlight how similar the two are in terms of importance to the bearer and would demonstrate a willingness on our part. Right now, Mandalore believes me to be here at the behest of the Senate and not much else. Returning their armour would go a long way to soothe ruffled feathers and further diplomatic relations.” 

Once Quin finished repeating, Adi Gallia, the newest addition to the High Council, drily commented, "And this is how we know it truly is Padawan Kenobi speaking." “And this is how we know it truly is Padawan Kenobi speaking.” Soft laughter sounded around the chamber and Quin’s face pinched mock-annoyed.

“I resent that remark.” he griped. 

Obi-Wan turned to face him. “Do you mean resent, or resemble?”

“The peanut gallery will be silent or be ignored.” The last sentence set off another bout of laughter in the chamber.

“I must speak to the Mand’alor about this, see if I can get permission for one of our ships to enter their space, see if they’ll allow it in the first place.” Said Obi-Wan. 

Yoda nodded. “Very well, young Obi-Wan. Rest, you should. See you soon, we hope too.”

“And you as well, Master Yoda.” Obi-Wan bowed to his Great-Grandmaster even though he knew the green Jedi couldn’t see him. He closed his eyes and fell into unconsciousness.

Chapter Text

Obi-Wan rose with the sun, as was his usual. He stretched out his muscles, then placed the palms of his hands on a sunny patch of floor, kicked his feet up, and closed his eyes. He reached out with the Force, first to himself, his heart, his lungs, his breath. He extended his senses to beyond himself, feeling the humming in the walls from the electricity. With his next exhale, he reached out to the hallway. He could feel who he assumed were Jango and Mand’alor Mereel. The former was dead to the world, the latter, in the process of waking up. There were two guards at the end of the hallway, another on every landing of the stairway. The palace was waking up, more and more people starting their day. Keldabe was a beacon of energy, people already commuting to work, ending the night shift. Ships were beginning to arrive for the day, imports of grain, seeds, livestock, durasteel, and what he believed to be beskar. Beyond the city, the Northern forests rang to life with birdsong. 

Obi-Wan turned his senses to his bonds, ensuring that none of them were under dangerous strain. He soothed the frayed edges of his smaller bonds and fed the larger ones, praying to the Force that he’d remain sane without other Jedi around. With practiced ease, he let the shuddering memories of Melidaan pass into the Force. Fear would do him no good here. Sensing as Jango began to move around, Obi-Wan let his senses shrink back into himself, opened his eyes and righted himself. Obi-Wan felt more balanced than he had since leaving the Temple. 

Once his morning routine finished, Obi-Wan stepped into the hallway to find Jango waiting for him. The Mand’al’ad’s amber eyes scowled at him, as per usual, and his voice was gruff from sleep.

“Since it’s only firstmeal, we aren’t eating in the big hall. It’s just down the hallway, follow me.” Jango led him to a cozy dining room with a low table set for three. Laid on the table were fruits, strips of meat, and cheese. Light, but filling. Obi-Wan sat down across from Jango and filled up his plate. While they began to eat, Mand’alor Mereel joined them. He and Jango held eye contact, seeming to have a silent conversation before the Mand’alor sighed.

 “Kenobi?” Mereel seemed … resigned, but somewhat sad, at the same time.

“Please, do call me Obi-Wan, Mand’alor. Since I am to be here for a length of time, I see no reason for you to be unnecessarily formal with me. Can I help you in any way?” As he spoke, Obi-Wan tried to imagine what the Mand’alor could want to speak of with him. Had he done something wrong already? Maybe it was about the knife no one took from him during or after the dinner?

“In that case, there is no need to be so formal with me, either. Call me Jas’lor, or, if you’re comfortable, Cabur Jaster. I understand if the latter will be a while coming.” He smiled wryly. “I wanted to speak to you about your lightsaber. I hope you understand that we do not trust you as of yet, simply because we don’t know you well enough to.” Obi-Wan nodded. The logic was sound, he had used it himself when he was with the Young. “However, given what you’ve told us, it would be wrong for us to hold on to it as we have.” Jas’lor looked to Jango, who took advantage of the pause.

“I’m sorry for wearing your kad’au last night. If I’d have known how disrespectful it was…” Jango drifted off, seemingly lost for words. 

“Thank you Jango, I appreciate and accept your apology. There’s no way you could have known about our customs. After all, that’s the point of this venture, is it not?” Obi-Wan forced himself to smile at Jango, hoping to avoid further discussion on the topic. 

The truth was, he hoped the Mandalorians would trust him with his ‘saber again soon, if only for the focus his crystal gave him. “Jas’lor, I trust that you can safeguard my lightsaber until I earn the right to wear it again?” at his nod, Obi-Wan continued cautiously. “Given what I learned last night, lightsabers and your armour share cultural significance. In our archives, we have a few crates worth of beskar’gam from the last Mando-Jedi war.” Seeing both Jas’alor and Jango tense up, Obi-Wan forged ahead. “Once the war ended, Mandalorian space had a strict no-Jedi policy, and so there was no way to return the armour to its people. However, with me here, I was wondering if you’d allow a small team, just a two-person archivist-escort pair, to land in Keldabe and return the armour?”

Jaster was impressed. This Jet’ika was far from home — in what had to feel like enemy territory — and within 24 hours he was already proposing a dangerous venture for his people. 

Jaster considered the idea for a moment, then said, “I’ll talk it over with the council today, but I don’t see why not.” Obi-Wan beamed with the force of a thousand suns. Internally, Jaster sighed at the look Jan’ika shot the Jet’ika. His child was smitten, even if he was unaware and unwilling to consider the idea. “Now, Obi-Wan, here’s your school bag. It’s got a datapad with an academic comm frequency already uploaded, some flimsy and a stylus if you need to take physical notes. Do you have clothes you can exercise in?” at the kid’s hesitant nod, Jaster raised an eyebrow. “Do you have a set to last you all five days?” he shook his head no. “After your classes today we’ll go get you some. Pack up a set for today, get a canteen of water, then Jango’ll drive you over.” 

Jan’ika’s head shot up. “I can’t fly over like usual?” Jango’s pout could be weaponized, and the little womp rat knew it . 

Jaster not-so-subtly glanced over at Obi-Wan and said, “You have a guest who doesn’t have a jetpack, and you got your full license over a year ago. You can drive.”

Chapter Text

Jango huffed as he brought the speeder to a halt in his barely-used parking spot. The Jet’ika - Obi-Wan - hopped out of the passenger side and waited for him to walk towards the entryway. He glanced up to see the smaller landing pad for the flyers. Myles and Silas would be there, as would most of his other verd-inclined classmates. But he had to take the speeder. Because of the kriffing Jetii. The atrium was as calming as it could be, for a Mandalorian school. Small scuffles, mostly roughhousing, were visible here and there, and half the students were wearing armour. Barely anyone wore their full kit to school, but nearly all of them wore their kom’rke. 

The first order of business, getting to History class. Jango strode forwards with only a glance to ensure Obi-Wan was following. The Jetii was scanning the large room, taking note of movement and exits without overtly staring. Jango was almost impressed. Of course, the morning couldn’t go completely smoothly. The others started to notice the two of them, nudging each other and whispering. Jango steeled himself and walked through the corridors, marching on autopilot to the classroom. He palmed the third-floor door open, waved Obi-Wan through, and walked to his usual spot. 

“Err, Jango?” He sighed and turned to face Obi-Wan. “Where should I sit?” 

Jango pondered for a moment. Myles always sat to his right, and Silas, to his left. But he felt he needed to keep an eye on the Jet’ika, so he pointed to the seat in front of him. “This way, no-one will kick you from behind.” 

The redhead raised an eyebrow. “Oh? And what, pray tell, stops you from doing the same?” 

Jango could see the way Obi-Wan’s lips tugged upwards slightly in amusement. He let himself lean back and enjoy the joke. “Mutually assured destruction. You sleep across the hall and I remember the list you gave us last night. I don’t want to be your enemy in a prank war.” Seeing the way Obi-Wan smiled, a voice in his mind whispered that maybe, just maybe, Jango wouldn’t want to be Obi-Wan’s enemy in any war.

"Very well, I admit, I’ve had much practice. Do you know what particular period of history we’ll be studying?” Obi-Wan asked. 

As Jango went into the curriculum of the course and what they had covered so far, the other students began to file in. Myles dropped into his usual seat at his right and clasped arms with Jango. The Pantoran started talking his ear off about his baby sister’s gote’tuur, and how she was the cutest four-year-old ever. Silas collapsed on Jango’s left, his best friends on either side of him. 

“Su cuy’gar Jango, Myles, Jetii.” Silas nodded to them all in turn. 

Obi-Wan spun in his seat, arm outstretched. “Obi-Wan Kenobi, it’s a pleasure to meet you. I presume ‘su cuy’gar’ means hello?” Obi-Wan’s Mando’a came out hesitantly as if his mouth wasn’t sure what sounds to make. Jango was sure that the Jet’ika would speak his buir’joha beautifully, he just needed to learn. Jango suddenly wanted to be the one to teach him. 

As he pondered how to approach the topic, Silas brought his hand in a so-so gesture. “It translates to ‘you’re still alive’, but yeah, that’s the sentiment.” Obi-Wan nodded, smile brightening. Silas leaned forwards to clasp forearms with the Jet’ika, adjusting his hand placement as he went. “And this is how Mando’ade greet each other.” 

Jango cleared his throat. “If you’d like, Obi-Wan, I could teach you Mando’a in the afternoons after class?” Myles blinked at him confusedly. Ah, yes. Obi-Wan hadn’t been on Manda’yaim for a full day yet and Jango had been complaining about having to live with a Jetii for months . “It’ll make it easier to understand our culture if you know how we speak and what we place value in.” Jango could feel his ears heating up, but Obi-Wan’s smile made it worth it.

“I’d love to, thank you. I quite enjoy learning languages, I believe Mando’a will be no different.” Obi-Wan said. 

A new voice broke in, “Perhaps, but most of that language is rooted in violence, which we should be trying to distance ourselves from.” Satine Kryze. Of course, she would show up just as he was having a good day. Jango bit back a groan, but let himself sigh.

“Is your usual seat taken, Kryze?” Usually, the blonde sat at the front of the class, so she “wouldn’t have to see any armour or weapons”. What she was doing near them, halfway back, was anybody’s guess. 

“No. I just thought Obi-Wan here would appreciate some civilized conversation while our teachers vilify his culture for the next six months.” She put her bag down on the desk in front of Myles with a dull thunk. The Pantoran let his head flop back in a muffled groan. If Kryze was here, they’d have to hear all about her “opinions” on Manda’yaim: what it means to be Mando’ade, what Mandokarla really was, and everything else she’d picked up on Coruscant.

“Come now, Satine, I’m sure it won’t be too bad. I’ve heard it all already anyway. Jango, Myles, and Silas are perfectly respectable, is there an issue?” Obi-Wan said with an innocent expression.

Jango’s stomach clenched. Obi-Wan was defending them, even after the cold welcome he got. The redhead’s eyebrows pinched in the center of his face and Jango wanted nothing more than to smooth those worries away.

“Nothing much. Just a difference in ideologies. See, Satine went to a Core-world school when she was younger, so she thinks a little,” he tried to find a polite word to describe her di’kutla ideas, “differently from those raised here.”

“Do not insult my Father’s choice! He did what was best for me! I learned many things on Coruscant, things that would move Mandalore forward, if I ever get the chance to implement them.” Satine said, her face hot with displeasure. 

Jango felt himself shift from Schoolday Jango to Mand’al’ad Jango Fett. “I didn’t bring your Buir ,” he emphasized the Mando’a word, “into this, but those snobs would rip Manda’yaim’s teeth out and call it ‘progress’. They’d have us lose our way of life in the name of reform while ignoring the reforms already happening!”

“Oh, so you agree with him because he’s your Father , I thought you were being trained in politics, Fett. All the change has been external. Nothing has changed internally.” Satine said self righteously. 

Now the other students were watching them, some with their comms out and recording. With Satine rejecting violence of all kinds since she had returned from Coruscant, fistfights were out of the question. These verbal battles were as close as he could get to punching her face in. He wouldn’t fight someone who wouldn’t or couldn’t fight him back, but oh, she made it tempting.

“I agree with him,” he said through his teeth, “because his reforms stopped the clan wars.” 

She smirked at him, rebuttal ready. “No, his reforms nearly got him killed on Galidraan, along with his family.” Shocked gasps rang around and everyone in half-armour or more shot to their feet, Jango included. 

“HOW DARE YOU-”

“MY ORI’VOD’S MISSING A LEG -”

“Just because you won’t fight-”

“[ENOUGH!!!!]” Ruus’baji roared, eight feet of Wookie poised to lift anyone by the scruff of the neck if they didn’t comply. “[Enough. Class, sit. Down.]”

They sat.

Chapter Text

Obi-Wan glanced at the trio behind him with worry. Even without looking at the Force, he could tell that Satine’s comment hit them hard.

“Are you alright?” he whispered to Jango.

“I’m fine. We can talk after class?” Obi-Wan nodded and only just stopped himself from sending a wave of support and comfort through the Force. Jas’lor had been very clear. No mental manipulations and no second chances. Obi-Wan wasn’t going to risk anything so soon. He settled for smiling.

“[Are you done?]” The Wookie in front of the board growled out. “[As I’m sure you’ve noticed, we have a new student joining us. Could someone translate for him?]” Some people raised their hands, so Obi-Wan butted in.

“[That won’t be necessary. Shyriiwook is my first spoken language.]” More than one jaw dropped open at that. “But I’ve been told that any human who speaks it has a horrible accent, and it was much cuter when we were five.” He felt the teacher light up in the force and grinned.

“[Very well. I am Ruus’baji she/her/hers, I teach Level 5 History.]” Ruus’baji stepped back and turned the holo-board on. “[For the next term, we will study the Neo-Crusader era. I cannot stress the importance of this unit and each of you must take it seriously.]” She took the time to look all the students in their eyes. “[Many atrocities were committed by all sides. We will examine them, and by the end, you will know what not to do. Ever.]” She growled out the last words. Obi-Wan winced. 

The Neo-Crusaders had a reputation for having been vicious, merciless, ruthless, and borderline barbaric. At the Temple, they had glossed over the era during ancient galactic history, but this seemed it was going into the nitty-gritty. More than one helmet turned to stare at him. Ah, yes. Satine’s words came back to him. While they vilify his culture for the next six months, indeed! His ancestors would be the villains. He opened his datapad to take notes, remembering the countless ancient texts he’d gone over with Madame Nu and poli-social debates with Grandmaster Doo. He’d be fine, he reasoned. He knew his history.

“I’ve never heard of that history before, am I in the right galaxy?” Obi-Wan walked with Satine to their next class, Jango having stayed behind to speak to Ruus’baji.

“No, just the wrong planet. I’m sorry in advance for what you will endure in that class. We’re turning right here.” Satine was a breath of fresh air among the angry and hateful Force signatures around him, and was friendly to boot. Obi-Wan smiled at her, hoping she’d keep talking to him.

“Jango said you went to school on Coruscant?” She lit up like a thousand suns, he’d obviously said the right thing.

“Yes, Coruscant Elite Academy. Father was worried for my safety during the Clan Wars, so he sent me there for a few years. They were the best teachers I could’ve ever asked for.” She led him down another flight of stairs. “They taught me how to lead, how to think for myself, and how to find a peaceful solution to everything.”

A Mandalorian Pacifist. Who knew? Maybe, if more Mandalorians thought like her, Mandalore might be less war-like in the future? He voiced his thoughts to Satine, who scoffed in derision.

“Mandalore is ruled by the clans, and as long as Mereel has their support, Mandalore can never change. He may call himself the Reformer, but he’s still cut from the same cloth. Most of them are, in fact. My family along with a few others are a part of a rising movement called the New Mandalorians. We aim to pacify Mandalore and move towards a prosperous new era where all conflicts will be resolved by words alone. Without the armour of the past weighing us down, Mandalore will rise into a new era of peace and prosperity, I am sure of it.” Her conviction dazzled him. In the Force, her determination to see her dream become reality was pulsing outwards like a flame in the night. It was admirable. She was admirable.

“So you believe that violence should never be used?”

“Never. Taking a life is abhorrent.” 

Obi-Wan remembered his days as an unshielded initiate, then as a general on Melidaan, and decided he agreed with her. Death was horrible, but something nagged at him. “Not even in self-defence? What if Mandalore were to be attacked?” He couldn’t help asking.

She waved her hand while laughing. “No one would, that’s the beauty of it! We’re already reconciling,” she gestured to him as an example, “with some of our oldest enemies, what’s to say we can’t do that with everyone else?” They walked into their second class, Galactic Ethics, all while Satine spoke about her dream for Mandalore. They sat in relatively the same area as in History, but one noticeable difference was the skylight in the second classroom. While Satine extolled the virtues of laying down arms, the thin clouds parted to fill the room with glowing light. Satine shone in the center, her pale hair enflamed by the sunlight. Obi-Wan’s heart skipped a beat, then continued in double-time.

Oh.

Jango huffed, staring at the chrono over the door. Finally, it hit 11:45 and they were free for midmeal. He bounced up, swung his pack over his shoulder, and started down towards the door.

“Hey, Obi-Wan.” The redhead hummed acknowledgment and turned from his notes to look at him. “Would you like to eat lunch with Silas, Myles and I? We know all the best spots to get food.” 

Obi-Wan beamed at him. Kark, but that smile was going to kill him one day. “Of course, just give me a moment to pack my things.” 

On the other side of Obi-Wan, Kryze squinted at Jango. “You know, Obi-Wan, you could come to eat with me and my friends instead. There’s this delightful restaurant a few blocks away with food right from Coruscant, you’ll feel right at home.” She was getting on his nerves and she knew it. There was no other explanation for it. She was a complete non-combatant, there was no way she could have seen his deadly grace or his cunning in every situation. She couldn’t have noticed how he scanned for danger in every move, how he positioned himself to defend as many people as possible, or how he always stayed on his guard. And she hadn’t seen him with his guard down, his easy laugh, the way his eyes sparkled, how a twitch of the corner of his mouth was often the only indication of his mirth. There was so much she didn’t know about him, how could she be possessive of him already?

“It’s your choice,” he said, deciding to ignore her, “I was hoping to show you around the market, a little bit? So you know where to go if you need or want anything.” Please come with me. He pleaded silently.

“I’ll have to catch up with you later, then, Satine. I’ve heard stories of Mandalorian food, and I feel I must try it to believe it.” Jango pumped his fist internally, trying not to let his smugness show.

Ten minutes later, the four of them made their way to the small market at the edge of the ori’bajiya. Myles and Silas probably still thought he was a di’kut of epic proportions, but they had agreed to help him with his cya’kaanui. The rudimentary design of a kom’rk shield pressed against his heart as he showed Obi-Wan around his hometown.

Chapter Text

“But you’ve already had Mandalorian food? Last night I mean.” Myles, who had sat near Obi-Wan at the banquet spoke up, perplexed. “And I assume you ate firstmeal today, so why did you imply you had yet to taste it?” 

Obi-Wan hummed as they turned onto a street with food carts dotting the sides. “Perhaps, but I have yet to taste Mandalorian street food, which I hear is in a class unto its own. Besides,” he said with a smirk, “two meals do not an experience make.” Behind Obi-Wan’s back, Silas raised an eyebrow. 

As they wandered over to Old Mev’s Diner, Jango pointed out some of Keldabe’s features to Obi-Wan. “This area is mostly food vendors, school supply shops, arcades, and toy shops because we’re right outside the school district. There are a few armouries and forges, but those are further away.” They turned into the Diner, nodding to the few patrons already seated.

“Jan’ika, Myl’ika, Sil’ika! It’s good to see you again!” Mev was an old zabrak who had been making food on this street for as long as anyone could remember. To the ade of Keldabe, he might as well be older than the city itself. His kind gaze sharpened by a fraction as he caught sight of Obi-Wan. “And you must be the Jetii sent to Manda’yaim.” 

The redhead glanced at Jango. He nodded slightly to encourage him. “Yes, sir, my name is Obi-Wan Kenobi. I got here yesterday.” He trailed off, as if unsure of what to say. 

Mev turned to the food counter. “Well, you don’t seem too bad, but I suppose we’ll see.” he gestured to Jango, Myles, and Silas. “You three, your regulars?” they nodded. “And you, Kenobi, what would you like to eat?” Mev gestured to the menu board. Obi-Wan frowned at the carved letters with confusion. His eyes flitted around the display, as if he did not know where to look. The realization hit Jango like a speeder.

“He hasn’t learned Mando’a yet, Mev. Obi-Wan,” the Jet’ika turned to him, “What I’m having, the rancor wrap, is kind of what we had last night, but wrapped in flatbread to make it easier to eat. Would you like to try that?” Once Obi-Wan nodded, Mev rang up their order and started making their food.

The four of them found a table and sat down, making light conversation. Jango wasn’t surprised at Obi-Wan’s confusion in their History class, it was no wonder that Jetii and Mando’ade taught different sides of history. That was, he pointed out, probably the point of Obi-Wan coming to Manda’yaim. To bridge the gap between Manda’yaim and the Republic. While they spoke, Mev brought them their food and they dug in, eating in comfortable silence. 

The bell tied to the door chimed to mark the entrance of a traat’aliit of verde, Clan Viszla, by their armour. One of them noticed Obi-Wan and nudged the others. “Well, well, well. If it isn’t one of those child-snatcher cowards hiding back on Coruscant. You think you’re safe, Kih’Jetti?” 

Jango’s veins pulsed with anger. How dare they belittle him? 

Obi-Wan put down his food with slow, precise motions. Every line of his body was tensed for a fight Jango was sure he didn’t want. “If you are going to insult my culture and the people who raised me, at least be original about it.” Nexu kit, indeed. Obi-Wan’s glare could have frozen Mustafar and his body was coiled with tension. He was holding himself back by the skin of his teeth. “Furthermore, it would behoove you to be accurate in your claims.” Jango started to laugh internally at the look on these verde’s faces. “As you can see, I am clearly,” he gestured to himself, then to the city outside the window, “not on Coruscant, nor am I hiding. Now, if all you came over here for was to make a sixteen-year-old feel bad about their existence or for a funny story to tell your squad, you may as well quit while you are ahead, for you will not succeed. Your taunts are pathetic, ill-planned, ill-thought-out, and ill-advised. 

“Have you ever heard the saying about Jedi Padawans? It’s very common throughout Hutt space, the Outer Rim, or any slaver rings?” at their hesitance, Obi-Wan leaned towards them and smiled. With all his teeth showing, it was an unsettling sight. “Never go after the Padawan unless you’re sure the Master is dead.” Obi-Wan enunciated each word slowly and leaned back into his chair. “And my Master has faced down far worse than you to keep his Padawans safe.” His eyes flickered to Mev, who was ready with the verde’s order. “I believe your food is ready, so why don’t you just,” he flicked his hand out and to the side, “shoo?”

The verde left, grumbling the whole way. Jango’s heart beat in double time, thrumming against the designs hidden in his hal’kabur. He’d known that Obi-Wan had a fire in him, but seeing even a fragment of it in action was breathtaking. Obi-Wan’s chest heaved as he took deep, deliberately slow breaths. 

Silas broke the silence, “I guess the rumour about Jetii being emotionless is also banthapoodo?” Jango turned to glare at his friend but stopped once Obi-Wan snorted into his food.

“Yes and no. Short answer: we control our reactions to stay impartial. Long answer: we don’t have time for all the theology that goes into how we register and process emotions, but we can’t allow ourselves to react the way non-Force Sensitives react to their emotions. Practicing sabacc faces is a fun pass-time for us, although it got really competitive once we figured out how to send sound through our Force-bonds…” he drifted off, smiling at what must have been fond childhood memories. “One time, Quin and I amplified each other and blasted our Masters with the sound of a foghorn while they were in a High Council meeting, I still cherish the looks on their faces.” 

Myles frowned. “Were the two of you attending this meeting?” 

Obi-Wan laughed. “No.” 

Myles was utterly flabbergasted, so Silas took over. “Then how could you see the looks on their faces?” 

Obi-Wan snorted a laugh. “Through the vents, of course. Where else?”

After they had finished their meal and said goodbye to Mev, they walked towards the gymnasium complex for their afternoon classes. Jango remembered what Coach told them last month and was struck by apprehension and anticipation in equal measure. Coach said they would be playing dodgeball and other team-oriented games this week.

Oh no.

Chapter Text

Lately, Jaster finished very few days satisfied with the work he had done. It wasn’t that he felt that he was failing as Mand’alor or that he felt un productive, it’s just that, well, there was always so much to do. Ending the Clan War was easy, compared to the bureaucratic nightmare that followed. Not to mention the fallout from Galidraan. Oh, Galidraan. So many verde died there, so many families mourned. It had never sat well with Jaster, the involvement of the Jetiise. They had seemed so rushed, so frantic, so… unlike their reputation. His fury mounted now that he understood why. On the one hand, this meant that he and his verde were nothing more than a pitstop to the Jetiise, not even a full mission. The prideful part of him raged at the insinuation that his fighting wasn’t worth their time, but the logical side of his squashed that. There were six Jetiise who could attest to his martial prowess. Or rather, they couldn’t because of it. On the other hand, now he knew why they were rushed. A rescue mission, for one of their children. And Obi-Wan had been fighting alongside other children. At thirteen, he was one of the oldest. It made his blood boil. 

He heaved a sigh and turned back to the small locker his workout bag was stuffed in. He pulled the wrapping from within the worn canvas bag and slammed the locker door shut. He wrapped his hands as he walked into the gym and picked up one of the heavy duraweave bags to clip it to the low frame hanging from the ceiling. He nodded towards the other Chieftains who were setting up their respective workouts. His fists slammed into the bag, dull thuds racing up his arms. Every punch shattered the glass inside the thick bag into smaller and smaller pieces, until his hits landed in soft sand. Jaster unclipped the bag and heaved it onto the pile to be sent to the ade. He grabbed another bag from the ‘new’ pile and clipped it in. Over and over, his fists hit the thick duraweave, letting out his frustration and letting his thoughts quiet. 

The reason Jaster could be at the gym so early (shortly after midmeal, to be precise) was that the Ruling Council had, miraculously, gotten through everything on the agenda in record time. Nearly no complaints from citizens, no audience requests, and the Senate had finally shut up about their apologies now that their scapegoat was fully in place. It was very clear to anyone with eyes that Obi-Wan Kenobi was a scapegoat. Even if he hadn’t been on Melidaan (Jaster’s fists hit harder with the memory of the horrific story from last night), Kenobi would have been far too young to be on Galidraan. But then, why him? The Senate was sending a message to the Jetii, but what was it? Could it be because he was the object of the rescue mission? Jaster doubted it, but the idea was the only one he had. At the very least, the Council had agreed to allow two Jetii into Keldabe so they could return the beskar’gam. There was a meeting with the Jetii council scheduled for tomorrow, where they would see if the grown-up Jetiise were amenable to the idea. 

A muted thunk drew him out of his reverie. He turned to the direction of the noise, still in a fighting stance.

“What the kark?” asked San Rook to the open air.

“More importantly,” replied Jaster, “ how the kark?” The object of their bewilderment was a boot print on a window. That alone would not have been enough to stupefy them, enough spars had put enough marks on the gym for it to be normal. The thing was, this bootprint was on the other side of the glass. This window, in particular, was a favourite, as it overlooked the gymnasium used by the schools. They could see their ade playing, learning physical skills, learning to dance, or just goofing off. However, this window was three stories up. There was no logical reason for there to be a boot print on the other side of the glass. A beige shape soared up to perch on the windowsill, and Obi-Wan Karking Kenobi waved cheerily at them.

Chapter Text

Jango was torn between glee, horror, and awe. Glee because Obi-Wan was coming out of his shell and making Jango wish he was available for courtship (his Verd’goten couldn’t come soon enough), horror because Obi-Wan was nearly single-handedly decimating Jango’s team, and awe because, well. He was nearly single-handedly decimating Jango’s team at dodgeball. Said Jet’ika was currently perched on the ledge of one of the observation windows with a small cloud of foam balls floating around his head. Every once in a while, he’d grab one out of the air and throw it with deadly accuracy at one of Jango’s teammates, sending them to the sidelines. Jango ducked behind one of the mats set up as pseudo-trenches just in time for Obi-Wan’s latest throw to hit the mat instead of him. He sat for a moment, catching his breath and collecting his thoughts.

Obi-Wan wasn’t technically breaking the rules (No using the Force to deflect or aim a ball), but they needed better rules if he was going to keep playing like this. Usually, in cases like this, the modus operandi was to hoard the balls so the opposing team could no longer fire and then bombard the opposing team. Thanks to Obi-Wan, that was no longer an option. The Jet’ika simply summoned the balls back to himself after every hit and Jango’s team had dwindled to just him and Silas.

“Well, vod, I guess this is the end for us,” Silas said in a dramatic voice. “We shall march away and join the Manda, our souls shall be welcomed into the arms of our clans, to forever scout the path for Mando’ade and to - ugh!” Jango whipped his ball at Silas’s center mass and sighed with resignation as Obi-Wan’s latest snipe hit him ever-so-gently on the nose. The other team roared with cheers and laughter as Coach called the game to a close. The intercom crackled on and Jango could hear Jas’Buir trying to hold back his laughter.

“O Alor'ad! Ni'Alor'ad! Our forceful fight is done, The verde have weathered every salvo, the prize we sought is won, The end is near, the bells I hear, the adate all exulting,” Jango groaned as his father cackled his way through the ancient poem. Jango looked up at Obi-Wan, who had his head thrown back in laughter. He waved at the window, presumably at Jas’Buir (and had the council meeting been that short?) and jumped off the ledge, did a backflip, and landed in a crouch. He ran a hand through his short, red hair, spiky with sweat and let out a cheer as his team surrounded him. Damn, this was getting out of hand.

The sun was starting to set when they made it back to their rooms, Obi-Wan carrying two bags full of new clothing. Their bellies full of food from the kiosks along the streets, Jango and Obi-Wan bid each other goodnight and parted ways in front of the Jet’ika’s door. As usual, Jango followed Jas’Buir into their sitting room for their end-of-day debrief. Jas’buir sat down with a sigh, glancing at Jango like he wanted to say something, but was unsure of where to start.

“Me’vaar ti gar, Buir?” Jango asked, hoping to clear the air. 

Jas’Buir sighed again.“I’m worried about Kenobi.” Jango startled at the curt answer. “Not just the fact that he’s here, in Keldabe, but everyone I’ve spoken to today has nothing but good to say about him. And then there’s you. Twenty-four hours ago, you hated his guts and now,” Jas’Buir cut himself off, his voice thick with emotion. “Now you look at him like he hung the stars in the sky, ad’ika. That worries me.” 

Jango flushed at the realization that, yes, he was moving very quickly with the cya’kaanui.  “Buir, he’s not influencing my mind.” a raised eyebrow was the only reply. “If he was the cause of my --” Jango stumbled a bit before continuing, “-- interest, then he would be more receptive or he would have at least been aware of the hints I was trying to drop.” 

Jas’Buir’s mouth twitched into a slanted smile. “Hints, Jan’ika? What did you do?” 

Jango groaned. “I offered to tutor him in Mando’a, then I asked him to lunch with Myles, Silas, and I, and I know he doesn’t know what that kind of play-fighting means to us, but Buir, you saw him in the gym, right?” Intellectually, Jango knew he was being whiney, but it could be excused, right? Not even an hour before, Obi-Wan was all but proposing to him, showing off the way he did. The winks, the two-fingered salutes, the kriffing tap on the nose. It was enough to drive a lesser man insane. Thankfully, Jango thought, he wasn’t quite a man yet and was therefore insane anyway.

“Lunch can be written off, his behaviour in the gym, you’re right, he couldn’t have known what that level and that type of play-fighting means to us. But Mando’a, Jango? You may as well be giving him a soul!” Jas’Buir was wringing his hands, uncharacteristically nervous.

“Maybe, Buir. But we’re Mando’ade and he’s a Foundling who’s…” he drifted off, trying to put into words just what pushed him to offer his language to Obi-Wan. “He’s just a Foundling who was never lost, that’s all.” Jango saw his Buir tense and made the split-second decision to change the topic. “Your meeting ended quickly, did the proposal for the Jetiise returning the beskar go through?” 

Buir brightened up at the reminder of his abnormally smooth day. “Surprisingly, yes. We’re discussing it with the Jetii Council tomorrow. Now, bring Obi-Wan to our dining room, please. I have some questions for him.” 

“Lek, Buir.”

Obi-Wan had just finished putting all his new clothes away when someone knocked on his door. He opened the door to see Jango standing in the hallway, a slight flush darkening his face.

“Buir wants to talk to you, probably about your idea of returning beskar, from this morning. He’s just down this way.” Obi-Wan sent a small pulse out into the Force to check for danger. Once it echoed back to him with no hint of ill-will, he fell into step behind Jango. The other teen brought them to the room where they ate breakfast and invited him to sit down. 

Jas’lor had already been seated when they walked in and was now looking at him with a mix of worry and steel in his eyes. “Obi-Wan, why did the Senate send you?” He put up a hand when Obi-Wan opened his mouth, a frown tugging at his brows. “I mean you in particular. They could have sent any Jet’ika, why were you chosen?” 

Obi-Wan winced internally. Shit.

Chapter Text

Jango saw the precise second Obi-Wan understood Jas’Buir’s words. All the blood drained from his face and he put his hands together inside of the big sleeves of his tunic. It would be endearing, Jango thought, were Obi-Wan not so scared. The Jet’ika licked his lips before opening his mouth to reply. He tried to speak multiple times but stopped himself before the words could leave his mouth. 

Finally, he sighed. “The Senate sent me here as a message. For one, it’s very easy to blame the tragedy at Galidraan on the Jedi’s haste to complete their rescue mission. My rescue mission. The Senate has and is making it very clear that the ruse is up and that there will be no more rescue missions. Any Jedi who falls behind will be left behind.” Jango took note of the strain in Obi-Wan’s jaw and wished there was a way to comfort the Padawan. “The second reason,” Obi-Wan said carefully, “is a bit more personal.” 

Jas’Buir snorted. “How can it get more personal than that?” he asked, incredulous. Jango nodded to the sentiment. 

Obi-Wan winced again. “My Grandmaster,” their confusion must have been plain on their faces because Obi-Wan elaborated, “the man who trained my Master, in familial terms, he is my Grandfather.” Obi-Wan swallowed. “He was on Galidraan. He was at the thick of it, he-” Obi-Wan broke off muttering while tugging on his braid before steeling himself and looking Jas’Buir in the eye. “My Grandmaster is Yan Dooku.”

Jango’s thoughts screeched to a halt. Dooku. The monster under Mandalore’s bed for the last three years. Obi-Wan’s Ba’Buir? But that made no sense, Obi-Wan had seemed so earnest, so thoughtful, his smiles, the flashes of his fiery soul so genuine … Jango slammed down that train of thought. No. If he’d been raised by that man, who still gave Buir nightmares… could he be playing a long con? Hurt pierced through his heart like a beskad. Was everything false? He went over every interaction with Obi-Wan in his mind, only distantly aware of Jas’Buir and Obi-wan (Kenobi, his mind howled. Not Obi-Wan, not with this lie) what was he thinking , a cya’kaanui with a Jetii? 

Tears forming in his eyes, Jango growled out something about seeing them in the morning and stomped to his room. He took off his armour quickly, only just stopping himself from throwing the precious beskar. He yanked his sleepwear on through shaky breaths. His mind kept going over Obi-no, Kenobi’s words. Dooku. Grandmaster. Grandfather. The words rolled around in his head like thunder. 

He was shocked out of his thoughts when he heard his Buir yell, “He killed over a dozen of my verde! How can you defend him?!” 

Jango, not in the mood to listen to a shouted argument, pulled his pillow over his head to drown out the noise. It didn’t work.

"Tell me you wouldn't have done the same! Look me in the eyes, Mand'alor, and tell me you wouldn't have done the same if it were Jango stranded on the planet! Tell me you wouldn’t have moved the stars themselves to get to him and get him safe! Can you honestly tell me that?!" 

"You know I can't." Jango barely heard Jas’Buir, then wished he hadn’t. Jas’Buir rarely sounded so… defeated, lost.

"Then do not judge my Grandmaster for doing everything he could to save my life,” Obi-Wan said, softer. “Fault him for the lives he took? fine. Fault him for not spending longer looking at the intel? Fine. But do not presume that he left the Temple that day with the intent to kill you and yours."

Jango rolled over and blocked out the sound from the waking world. After some time, he fell into a fitful sleep.

Jango woke to screams. He bolted upright, disoriented. He jumped off his bed and into the hallway, where the screams were coming from. Jas’Buir and a pair of guards were sprinting towards him, but that didn’t make sense, he wasn’t the one screaming, so that meant- he jerked his head to Kenobi’s door, where the screams had cut off. Jas’Buir palmed the door open urgently. The four of them surged through the door, looking for attackers. The only person they found was Kenobi, ramrod straight on the bed, staring at them with terror in his eyes. It was odd, Jango thought disjointedly. Kenobi was looking at them as if he was seeing them, just not seeing them . 

His eyes looked onto the armour of the guards and Jas’Buir’s half-donned plate and he let out a whimper. “Please, no, no, please, don’t- no!” Kenobi kept spewing half-complete mutterings while his eyes darted to and fro like a cornered animal.

“Kenobi?” Jas’Buir slowly started walking towards Kenobi, arms outstretched to show his hands. “What’s going on? What don’t you want us to do, ad’ika?” Kenobi buried his head between his knees and started to rock back and forth.

“You killed them.” Jango’s blood ran cold. Could Kenobi be talking about Galidraan?! The nerve- “or, will kill them? Are killing them? I don’t know !” Kenobi’s words turned into a moan of pain. “But you can’t have killed them, because, because, I-I can feel them. If I can feel them, then tha- then that means that this was a vision. Which m-means it hasn’t happened yet, they’re not dead, oh Force-” Kenobi cut himself off and sprung up, before darting to the refresher. The door closed behind him, the lock clicking. 

Jas’Buir dismissed the two guards and came over to Jango. “Are you alright, Jan’ika?” he asked, concern etched into his face.

“I don’t know,” Jango replied, “it’s…” he paused to think of the word, then winced at the tell-tale sound of retching coming from the refresher. “Complicated.” They heard the tap come on, then turn off. 

Kenobi came back out into the room, wincing. “I… apologize for waking you, Jango. I have no control over this. And I apologize to you, Mand’alor,” he bowed to Jas’Buir, “for the accusations. It can be difficult, after strong visions, to make time linear again in my head. I meant no offence.” Kenobi kept his eyes on the ground. 

Jas’Buir sighed and ran a hand down his face. “Apologies accepted, Kenobi, but,” he waved a hand at the Jet’ika, “what was that?” 

Kenobi wrung his hands. “That was the aftermath of a vision. A bad one. I’ll, I’ll try to explain as best I can without diving into Jedi theology. The future is uncertain. Every action, every choice made by every creature, every moment, of every day, on every planet in the universe, affects the future.” Kenobi rocked back on his heels and he stared resolutely at the wall behind their heads. “Because of where my strengths in the Force lie, I am very… attuned to possible futures. The Force has been sending me visions for as long as I can remember, possibilities of things yet to come. I’ve had some that came true, some that didn’t. I always know the moment a vision is no longer a possibility and I always know when one has come to pass. The more likely a possibility, the longer and more in-depth a vision.” His hands started fidgeting. “This one was… bad. And very detailed.” 

He gulped and flicked his eyes between the two of them. “Please don’t ask me to explain what I saw, not now, please. It’s too fresh, and I have to get ready for class, and I have to be alright for class, and I have to calm down-” He turned sharply on his heel and started forcing himself to breathe deeply. “I don’t think firstmeal is a good idea today, I’ll eat a larger midmeal to make up for it. When do you want to meet at the speeder, Jango?” 

In shock at the onslaught of information, Jango replied, “thirty minutes?” Kenobi nodded and walked over to his dresser to get his clothes out. Jas’Buir tugged on his arm, and the two of them walked out of Kenobi’s room in silence.

Chapter Text

Jango stared at the skylane resolutely. He drove carefully, of course, but he could be forgiven for being a little tense. Next to him, Kenobi sat in the speeder with his head down. The Jetii hadn’t spoken a word to him since the… incident earlier that morning. Jango’s hurt aside, the other teen didn’t look too good, pale and unsteady. Jango’s brows scrunched up in concentration. Was he right to stay angry at Obi-Wan? Yes, the deception hurt, but was it a deception? Obi-Wan had only been here for a day and it was something he was afraid to share, but that had hurt so much to hear! But, Obi-Wan seemed to be so very hurt, Jango’s heart ached to comfort him while still screaming in pain at his betrayal. Jango glanced over at Kenobi and saw the minute flinch in the Jetii’s frame. No, it was best to let him be, for the moment. 

It didn’t surprise him that they were later than usual, what with the excitement that morning. He was disappointed when Kenobi made to sit with Kryze and her lot, but he supposed it made sense after this morning. Kenobi had flinched at armour after all. Still, it stung. One blow after another to his heart, it seemed. 

Myles frowned at him, sensing something to be off. “Who spat in your caf, vod?” 

When he didn’t respond, Silas leant forward and said, “Did something happen with Obi-Wan?” 

Jango sighed. He had to tell them, they were his most trusted vode, his best friends. But not here. Not when there were so many listening ears. Not for a tale that was not his to tell. “I’ll tell you at midmeal. Not here.” 

They accepted his answer easily and turned to face the front of the class when Ruus’baji called (roared, really) for their attention.

As their classes drew to a close, Jango looked around the room. Kryze was already dragging Kenobi off to whatever upscale establishment she deemed worthy of her time and he went along with her without a fuss. Fitting, he thought. He, Myles, and Silas made their way to a street vendor, bought some kelbab’s, and settled in the park. There were only a few people around, so Jango judged it safe. 

Once he nodded, Silas cleared his throat. “You said you’d tell us at lunch, so spill. What’s got you all worked up?” 

Jango took a bite and considered his reply as he chewed. In the end, he decided to do as Kenobi did and rip off the bacta patch. “Kenobi is Dooku’s Bu’ad.” The other two flinched back in astonishment. They ate as they considered their responses, watching the world around them. A jogger in greaves, kom’rke, and buy’ce stumbled over a root as they passed the three of them. 

“I feel for him, then,” said Myles. “He’s been sent here to send a message, and this might as well be a death threat to him. Gar taldin ni jaonyc; gar sa buir, ori'wadaas'la, right?” They hummed their agreements. Myles’s rationality soothed some of the hurt edges to Jango’s heart.

“This doesn’t go further than the three of us, alright?” Jango said. “I’m telling you this because I trust you, but if word got out…” They swore their agreement. Haat, Ijaa, Haa’it. Truth, Honour, Vision. They wouldn’t tell a soul.

Unfortunately, The jogger was an unplanned variable. And it only takes a spark to light a fire…

“The Jetii, who landed two days ago? He’s Dooku’s Bu’ad, I heard Fett himself say so!”

“I’m telling you, it’s true! Dooku’s Bu’ad is the Jetii on Manda’yaim!”

“The Jetii is Dooku’s Bu’ad, did you hear?”

“I heard the Jetii is related to Dooku, do you think the Demagolka trained him to kill us?”

“Dooku sent his Bu’ad here to kill us all!”

“The Jetiise are trying to take over!”

“Dooku sent his Bu’ad to kill the Mand’alor, it’s the only explanation!”

“I bet his Ba’buir taught him how to kill us.”

“I bet he’s already got a plan to kill the Mand’Al’Ad!”

“They sleep across the hall from each other! My vod is a palace guard, she told me so!”

“A Jetii, Dooku’s Bu’ad at that, taking the Verd’goten? It’s a disgrace!”

“What was the Mand’alor thinking, bring the Bu’ad of the monster here?!”

“If Dooku raised him, he’s little more than a monster himself!

“There needs to be a way to put an end to this!”

In a cantina, in Kih’Keldabe, on Coruscant, there was a Mando’ad in black and gold armour. Their helmet was on their head. On their HUD, they watched as messages from Manda’yaim flooded in about the kih’Jetii. The leather of their gloves creaked from the tightness of their grip. They turned their head to look out the window. On a billboard, above the streets, a broadcaster was announcing the Senate scandal of the week. In the background, the Jetii Temple stood proud and defiant, guarding its monsters like an egg waiting to be cracked. The Mando’ad stood from their table. They had work to do.

Chapter Text

Obi-Wan’s head throbbed through their two lessons. His hands took notes without his mind processing them. Flashes of his vision flared up with decreasing intensity as the day wore on, but he was still left exhausted. The Vision, as Quin had dubbed it, had started as a few flashes two years ago and had been growing ever since. What had first been flashes of blasterfire, the sound of lightsabers, and the dim glow of blood in front of a setting sun had grown into a despairingly clear sequence he could pause at any time, like a holovideo. On the upside, he didn’t have to see it all at once. On the downside, he only ever woke once he had seen the entire vision. It grew clearer every time. 

The last time the Vision had hit him, he’d been able to identify the Jedi as they fell. This time, he was able to identify the attackers as they came. Mand’alor Mereel, at the head of wave after wave of Mandalorians. 

He shook his head to clear it of lingering Force-touched images. Satine and her quiet Force-signature had been a balm to him this morning, none of the mental edges or physical armours of the other Mandalorians. Nothing to remind him of the ever-more-likely future. She was so kind to him, accepting his excuse of a bad night of sleep (not a lie, even) and comforting him how she could. He was lucky she considered him a friend. 

As he’d promised the Mand’alor, he ate a larger lunch than usual at the core-themed restaurant Satine took him to. It was… nice, just the two of them, reminiscing about Coruscant and their favourite spots. It turned out that they had gone to the same concert four years ago and had been less than a kilometre apart. Satine laughed when he told her so.

“I suppose some things are simply meant to be, my darling.” His heart fluttered at the pet name. “I do count myself lucky to know you, Obi-Wan. I am sure that, had we not met here, we would have met somewhere else, sometime else. You’re the kind of person I’d like to have by my side during my life, Obi-Wan.” He flushed at her words. 

He decided to take a risk and said, “I’d like to have you by my side too, Satine.” He reached across the table to take her hand in his. “I’d like that very much.” What was there not to like? She was kind, intelligent, beautiful - his flush deepened as he realized that yes, she was beautiful to him. Her hair caught the sunlight like a halo, bathing her in an ethereal light. Slowly, she lifted their joined hands and kissed his knuckles, all while keeping him entranced in her gaze. It was an unmistakably core-world signal of romantic intent. 

“I don’t believe,” he said in a rough voice, “that there was anything in my mission briefing that forbade me from dating locals?” 

She laughed, the sound as clear as bells. “The only possible contest to our relationship is the fact that you haven’t passed your,” her mouth twisted around the Mando’a word, “Verd’goten yet. As such you are not technically of age yet. But, it is an outdated custom. My mentor, Foreign Minister Almec, says that he is working on diminishing its importance and value in our society. It shan’t be an issue for us.” He blushed as she kissed his knuckles again.

Satine paid for their food and took him out to the glass-walled mall where all the core-world amenities were located. They wandered the kiosks, fingers intertwined. Obi-Wan was surprised to learn that Republic credits were accepted in this part of Keldabe, and instantly thought to buy a gift for Satine. They had already declared intent, once they had exchanged gifts, they would be a couple. When he announced his intentions, Satine giggled and lit up like a thousand suns. She agreed readily and they split off in different directions.

Quin appeared next to him while he was looking through some necklaces and whistled lowly. “Am I reading your Force signature wrong or are you picking out a date-starter?” 

Obi-Wan blushed. “The latter, Quin. Satine…” he drifted off at the memory of her lips on his knuckles, the two ( two!! ) times she had done it. 

Quin snapped him out of his reverie with a guffaw. “Ah, so the lady asked you out, did she?” Quin laughed freely for a moment. “Wait a minute,” he said, “what about Jango?” 

Obi-Wan’s mood soured instantly. The shady looks thrown his way, Jango’s skittishness around him, the way he tried to leave Obi-Wan’s presence as soon as possible… no. There was nothing there. And there would be nothing, now that Satine was in his life. “What about him?” 

Quin startled. “Well, the two of you seemed to be getting close, last I saw. Did something happen?” 

“Yes,” Obi-Wan said curtly. “Mand’alor Mereel and Jango found out about Grandmaster.” Quin inhaled sharply. “Indeed. Now, I’m stuck between these two…” they spent fifteen minutes looking over his choices before selecting a simple silver necklace. It was discreet, but so were they. The front of the necklace was made of small flowers, lilies, that linked together to form a strong chain. It would stand the test of time, just like they would. 

“This is it, Quin.” His heart hammered its way into his throat. “This is my date-starter.” 

Quinlan hugged him from behind, love and support flooding through the bond. “I’ll leave you to it, then. This bit is between you and her. But wait a few years before mini Kenobi’s yeah?” Quin cackled as Obi-Wan pushed his presence away forcefully. 

In a matter of moments, he was alone again. No, not alone, the weight in his hands reminded him. He had Satine now. He went up to the counter and paid, thanking the Force that his Republic credit chit went through. With his date-starter in hand, he searched for Satine’s presence in the Force. He smiled when he found her and walked over to where she was.

“For you, milady.” He said dramatically, offering her the necklace. 

She giggled and turned around, lifting her hair so he could put the necklace on her. “Oh, Obi-Wan, it’s so beautiful! Do you- do you know what these flowers mean?” He shook his head no, enamoured by her excitement. “They are Mandalorian lilies, they can only grow where the soil is undisturbed for five years. As such, they stand for peace. They cannot grow in war but prosper through all else. As we shall, my dear.” 

He smiled, helpless in the face of her joy. “I suppose it’s the will of the Force, then, that I found it for our date-starter.” 

She hummed at him as she rummaged inside her purse. “And here’s my gift to you! It’s a bead, for your braid. So you’ll have a reminder of us on you at all times.” 

Obi-Wan’s smile faded. His braid, that was sacred, the bond between him and his Master, a sign of his path as a Jedi. He said as much and her laugh tinkled through the air again. 

“Just on the end, then,” she said, “for our start.” Obi-Wan wanted to protest, wanted to push for another way to accept her gift. A leather cord, perhaps? For his neck or wrist? But he felt himself fold in the face of her smile. Alright, he thought, for her. 

When she reached to undo his braid, though, he grabbed her wrist gently. “Ah, Satine? It’s best if I do that. As I said, it’s sacred. Since I’m adding something that technically doesn’t go there, it’s best if I do it. Only Master Qui-Gon and I are supposed to do or undo it, anyways.” 

“Oh, alright, my dear. I only wish I could have started our relationship myself.” 

Obi-Wan, desperate for her not to be saddened by him, lifted her chin on his finger. “Darling, you did that when you kissed my hand. All this,” he gestured to his bead, her necklace, and them, “is because of you. Don’t doubt that, Darling.”

Using the Force to keep the strands of hair together, he undid the tie at the end of his braid. He took the bead from Satine’s hand, a tiny glass marble with an even tinier lily painted on the outside. He threaded the end of his hair through it and tied his braid off again. The new weight settled on his shoulder, a permanent reminder of his new girlfriend. Hand in hand, they walked to the gymnasium with a spring in their step. While admiring Satine, Obi-Wan realized that his vision no longer troubled him so.  Of course, his usual acrobatics were out of the question today, but still. There was something to be said about simple happiness. 

Had he been listening to the Force more attentively, he would have known that it would not last.

Chapter Text

“Hey, Kenobi!” Obi-Wan ducked behind a foam wall and turned to face the speaker, a blonde Mandalorian on his team. “No death-defying stunts today?” Obi-Wan laughed before levitating a pile of balls towards him. 

“No, not today,” he said, lobbing half the balls over to the other teen. “Didn’t sleep too well last night.” he closed his eyes, sank into the Force and threw his first ball over the wall without turning around. He grinned at the sound of impact and grunt of disappointment.

“Good shot!” The teen peeked over the wall and fired off a ball as well. “Call me Pre, he/him. Want to buddy up?” 

Obi-Wan grinned. A team-up would do him some good right about now. “Gladly! And call me Obi-Wan while you’re at it!” Together they fired off ball after ball until the end of the game.

Coming out of the locker rooms, someone knocked into Obi-Wan, pushing him off balance.

“Out of my way, Dooku ,” they said. Fear gripped Obi-Wan’s heart. They couldn’t know, there was no way for them to know, he only told Jas’lor and…. And Jango. Storming off to find Jango, Obi-Wan found him talking to Myles and Silas by his speeder. Anger and fear mixed to make a choking wave of emotion as Obi-Wan crowded into Jango’s space.

“Who did you tell.” It wasn’t a question, Jango had to have told someone.

“What?” 

Oh, Obi-Wan was not in the mood for games. “I’m not playing around, Fett, who did you tell?!” 

“Who did I tell what ?” Asked Jango.

Was he being serious? 

“About my Grandmaster , Fett, about the reasons I’m here. Who. Did. You. Tell.” He didn’t care that a crowd was forming or that this might blow up later, he was angry . 

“Only Silas and Myles, because I trust them with everything and they swore not to tell! But that’s it, no one else!” Jango seemed to be confused, so he was either a very good actor or genuine. “Why is this important?” And any empathy had gone out the window.

“It is important ,” Obi-Wan seethed, “because someone just knocked into me and called me Dooku. Do you have any idea what you might have done? You may have signed my death warrant, and perhaps even that of the entire Jedi Order!!” He was yelling now, but he didn’t care. Flashes from The Vision came rushing back: the bodies, the smoke, his home in ruins. 

Jango startled. “Well, that might be an exaggeration-” 

Obi-Wan cut him off with a barked laugh. “Exaggeration, he says! Do you want to know why I woke up screaming? What vision could possibly scare me that badly?” The crowd was getting thicker, he didn’t care, he couldn’t care, not with the little bodies in little robes, the creche drenched in blood- “I See the temple burning. At least twice a tenday, every tenday, I See my home in flames! I See waves of people attacking the Temple, slaughtering the inhabitants! See my family dying! I See the death of my home, my family and my culture!” 

The crowd was getting agitated. Obi-Wan wiped away the tears forming in his eyes. In his mind, he saw Fee, Xani, Master Qui-Gon, Quin, Bant, Benji, Bruck, everyone else, their bodies lying broken a hundred different ways. “And last night,” he choked on a sob. “Last night I Saw the attackers clearly for the first time. I Saw wave after wave of armoured Mandalorians flying around the Temple. I Saw Mandalorians torching the Room of a Thousand Fountains. I Saw a mythosaur skull drawn in blood in the Great Hall!” Jango’s face drained of blood with every sentence. Obi-Wan put his face in his hands and took deep breaths. His chest tightened. In, out. In, out. When he felt he could continue, he did so. “The clearer a vision, the more likely it is to happen. By telling anyone, anywhere, where someone could overhear you, you may have condemned me and nearly everyone I love to death. Don’t bother driving me back, I know the way.” It would exhaust him, he knew, to Force-jump his way back, but the alternative was spending twenty minutes in speeder with Jango. He’d take the strain.

Obi-Wan turned away from Jango and looked out. The teens crowded around them did their best not to look him in the eye. He scoffed and, seeing that they wouldn’t make way for him, he launched himself up to grab the ledge of the second-storey window, pushed off, and landed on the roof of the building next door. Heart pounding, lungs clenching, Obi-Wan took off running, jumping from one roof to another, using the Force to launch himself across the gaps. He found his room with the Force, following the small imprint of his Force-signature, and sank into moving meditation. He pushed himself to go faster, to get to the room sooner, to leave the gazes he felt on him. Surprise, followed by amusement, annoyance, or anger permeated the Force, but he ignored it. He was already unbalanced as it was.

Of all the things Jaster expected on this sunny day, the Jetii Council calling his council back an hour after their call ended was not in the top ten. It wasn’t even on the list. Yet, here they were. The bald Korun Jetii had opened the second call with a sigh and an apology for taking up their time.

“Mand’alor, do you know how Obi-Wan’s lineage got leaked to the public?” Jango was so grounded when he got home. 

“My son probably told his friends, I trust the three of them not to blab, but opsec is not yet something Jango has perfected. I’ll talk to him when he gets home.” Jaster said.

“Sir, I’m not sure you understand. We’ve been receiving death threats for hours, over half of which include Mando’a. This is becoming a credible threat.” The Jetii said. Murmurs spread through his Council hall. 

Aden’tra frowned next to him and turned to him. “Jast’ika, what’s going on?” 

Jaster sighed in tandem with the Korun Jetii, Windu, his name was. Some part of his mind laughed.

“Obi-Wan is the Grandpadawan of Yan Dooku. In non-Jedi terms, Obi-Wan is his grandson. It’s the reason the Senate selected him for this mission, even though there were plenty of other padawans who fit your requirements. We didn’t disclose his lineage history for his safety.” Windu rubbed a hand down his face. The other Councillors were muttering amongst themselves, getting agitated. Dral Gotab, in particular, was sitting with his face in his hands. 

“This mission would have been dangerous enough for him without an added target on his back. The Senate forced us to promote him to Senior Padawan - he was still a year or so away from that - because Junior Padawans aren’t eligible for solo missions. Part of his education was rushed so that we could try and prepare him for this, but Sir-” Windu inhaled sharply. Tears gathered in his eyes and the other Jetiise on the call were showing similar signs of distress. “We are at the point where we can no longer protect our children if they go outside our walls alone. We can’t protect Obi-Wan, who we watched grow, we can’t-” again he cut himself off, wrestling his emotions back under the “serene Jedi” face. The buire in his council, Jaster included, intimately understood that particular tug on the heartstrings. To not be able to protect their own children... “Protect him, Mand’alor. We will beg if we have to. Keep our child safe. Please.”

Chapter Text

Had he been feeling any better, Obi-Wan would have laughed at Jas’lor’s face. The man was in the Entrance Hall of the palace, speaking with Cabur Dral (If Obi-Wan still had permission to call him that) and a few other Councillors when Obi-Wan vaulted in through the window. All five of them spun around, weapons out and ready for a fight. Jas’lor registered him, then the window, twenty meters up from the floor and a kilometre up from the ground.

“Karking Jetiise,” Jas’lor said, exasperated. When Obi-Wan approached, Cabur Dral made to leave. 

They can’t go, Obi-Wan thought, not before I’ve explained. “Cabur Dral, a moment, please?” Obi-Wan searched in his mind. Cabur Dral had taught him how to say “please” in Mando’a, what was it, what was it, what was it- “Gedet’ye.” 

The nautolan stopped in their tracks. “Ob’ika,” Obi-Wan winced at the level of pain in their voice. “When were you going to tell me?” 

Obi-Wan stared at the floor. “When I felt sure I wouldn’t die for it, Cabur. I don’t think you would have killed me, but I’ve Seen others do it.” 

Cabur Dral crossed their arms. “How can you have seen people kill you?” ah, yes. The joys of explaining his death-dreams to non-Jedi. “You’re standing in front of me, aren’t you?”

“Visions, Cabur. I watch people die almost every night.” Realizing they had gone off-topic, Obi-Wan faced his… mentor? and bowed. “I am sorry for concealing the truth, Cabur. Especially when I knew it could hurt you.” He rose out of his bow. 

“Ob’ika,” Cabur Dral sighed, “the apology is not yours to give. You were a child, mine was an adult. She was a warrior in her own right and Dooku, as we now know, was fighting to get to you,” their hand came up to cup Obi-Wan’s cheek, “his bu’ad. I don’t forgive him. I may never forgive him. I will certainly never forget it. But I understand him, Ob’ika. I am hurt that you hid the truth, but that’s my issue, not yours. I understand why you did it and I’m not upset with you. Does that make sense?” 

After the ups and downs of the day, The Vision, Satine, their date-starter, his confrontation with Jango, the run back to the palace, and now this kindness , Obi-Wan was overwhelmed. His eyes shone with unshed tears and his breath became uneven. Cabur Dral opened his arms, almost a mirror image to two nights before, and enveloped Obi-Wan in a hug. Tears started to fall in the face of the genuine, warm, open kindness surrounding him. The tears fell until there were none left in his body.

When his tears dried, Cabur Dral held him in their arms a while longer. “Is there anything you need, ad?” 

Lifting his head from their chest Obi-Wan nodded. “Jas’lor said, well, he said that I could call home once a week? Could I? I know it’ll be monitored, but I need to talk to my family, gedet’ye.” 

Cabur Dral murmured his assent and sent a text comm to Jas’lor. “We’ll do it in the Council Hall, ad, there’s a nice, big, holotable there. You’ll have a great view and the call will be stable. That’ll be nice, right Ob’ika?” Obi-Wan nodded. Cabur Dral walked him into the Hall and sat him down in one of the chairs, murmuring to him all the while. “It’ll do you good to talk to your family, Obi’ka, you talk about them so fondly. The Jetiise are a family, aren’t they? I suppose we fell for the ruse along with the whole galaxy, but you feel so much, don’t you? Don’t worry, Jaster’s on his way, you’ll see them soon.” 

Right on cue, Jas’lor walked in with steady strides. Seeing the state Obi-Wan was in, the man crouched down to be at eye level with him. “Everything’s set up for you, Obi-Wan,” he said softly, “all you have to do is input the frequency.” 

Obi-Wan sat up and wiped his eyes. He’d needed that cry, but that wasn’t the face he wanted to show his family. Not when they were already worried. He reached for the terminal and punched in the numbers to Master Qui’s comm frequency.

It rang once.

Then twice.

Then thrice.

Then- 

“This is Jinn?” 

Obi-Wan almost broke down again at the sound of his Master’s voice. So far, the call was only audio, but that could change. Would change if his Master had anything to say about it.

“Hello, Master,” he said, a true smile on his face. There was a pause on the other end of the line.

“... Obi-Wan?” Master Qui sounded so small at that moment, so vulnerable. 

Obi-Wan nodded, then remembered his Master wouldn’t see it. “Yes, Master. I’m here.”

“Obi-Wan! Hang on, I will get the vid going-” he cut himself off, grumbling as he tried to find the button. In the background, Obi-Wan heard- he heard,

“Obi-Wan?”

“Obi?”

“It’s Kenobi!”

“Kriff, someone go get his brothers-”

“Get his crechemates, while you’re at it!”

“Obi-Wan!” And other exclamations of his name. Laughter bubbled up in his chest at the cacophony that was his family. Blue light expanded from the holotable to form a -frankly comical- picture. His Master was seated at his usual table in the Temple refectory but was squeezed in on all sides by other Jedi, the crowd getting thicker by the minute. The instant they saw him, the crowd of Jedi broke into cheers, clapping and chanting his name. It lit something warm inside Obi-Wan, just to interact with them again.

“Padawan,” Master Qui seemed at a loss for words, but pushed on, “how are you?” 

Obi-Wan giggled. If only Master Qui had seen him fifteen minutes past. “I’ll be alright, Master, it’s an adjustment, but-”

“BEN!”

“OBES!”

“OBI-WAN!”

“KENNY!”

“Shove off, I wanna see ‘im!”

“So do I, move your-”

“Padawan!”

“Butt, I was gonna say butt!” Obi-Wan’s crechemates had pushed themselves to the front of the crowd with their usual antics. Obi-Wan was laughing so hard his side was starting to hurt. It felt good to laugh.

“Oh! Garen! I almost forgot!” The boy in question looked at him through the comm. “You won the bet.” 

Denials and groans broke out among the Jedi while Garen’s voice went up an octave or two. “WHAT?! I took ‘under 24 hours’ because I never win! I was trying to get that luck to rub off on you!” 

All together the Jedi, Obi-Wan included, put on their best ‘serene Jedi’ faces and intoned, “There is no luck, there is the Force.” All of them cracked up again. 

Obi-Wan smiled. 

“In all seriousness, I’m doing all right. I’ve been dealing with the jetlag well, the food’s good-” 

Quin scoffed. “You say food, I say biohazard…” 

Obi-Wan gasped dramatically. “How could you? I am betrayed! By my very own brother, no less! Oh, I am wounded ! Wounded, I say!” Chuckles spattered throughout the Jedi.

“Yeah, yeah. Kenny, you better not fall behind while you’re away, you hear me?!” Bruck Chun was pointing at him sternly, but his eyes betrayed his worry. 

Obi-Wan rolled his eyes good-naturedly. The two of them had a rocky start, with Bruck being somewhat of a late arrival, new to the Temple and their ways, while Obi-Wan had lived there his whole life. Bruck had quickly become jealous and lashed out, sparking an intense rivalry between the boys. Through time and many mind-healer sessions, the two of them had found their way to a middle ground. They would probably never be best friends, but their now-friendly rivalry only ever pushed them further.

“Don’t worry, Brucky-boy,” he responded to one nickname with another, “When I get back home, I’m wiping the salle mats with you.” 

“Ooh”s and laughter bubbled across the call.

“Them’s fighting words, Kenobi!” 

Obi-Wan was about to respond but saw a growing disturbance among the Jedi. People shuffled to the side and looked down, chuckling. The reason for the disturbance became clear when two small hands could be seen waving at the bottom of the holo. Master Qui reached down and pulled a squirming three-year-old boy in his lap. 

The toddler saw Obi-Wan’s image and gasped, clapping his hands together. “Unca Obi! Unca Obi! I Saw you! I runned really fast!” Obi-Wan’s nephew was bouncing on Master Qui’s legs, getting closer and closer to the comm. A frown crossed his small face, which was adorable. “Are you ok? Unca Kin said so. But Unca Kin’s stoo-pid.” The toddler elongated the first syllable of his last word, making Obi-Wan’s heart tighten. Oh, how he wished he could scoop up his nephew and hold him close. The next time we see each other in person, Obi-Wan thought, I’m not letting go for an hour. 

Obi-Wan laughed through Quin’s sputtered denials. “I’m alright, Benji, and don’t call your Uncle Quin that,” he grinned internally at the small “THANK you” he heard, “It’ll hurt his delicate feelings.” The Jedi crowd went off again with a loud “HEY” from the Padawan in question. 

Two Jedi pushed through the crowd, both humanoid, one blond, the other raven-haired. The blond Master scooped up Benji from Master Qui and held the boy close. “What have I told you about running off, huh?” he turned to the sitting Master and said, “sorry about that, Master.”

“Nonsense, Feemor, always a pleasure to have my grandson around. But he did have a reason to run off, this time.” Master Qui pointed to the comm, where Obi-Wan waved at his Padawan-brothers.

“Hello, Fee. Hello, Xani.”

Chapter Text

When the ik’aad popped up on the holo, Jaster gave up on everything he knew about Jetiise. He surreptitiously looked around at the Chieftains and guards who were “monitoring” the call. Most of them were lurking clearly just to get good gossip and the Jetii were unknowingly providing plenty . One Jetii scooped the ik’aad up (their buir? But Jedi didn’t have families, everyone knew that), and started talking to Obi-Wan animatedly. 

Jaster moved his eyes away from his people and instead took the time to watch Obi-Wan as he talked to the Jetiise. The boy’s eyes lit up, his posture straightened and relaxed at the same time, his face smoothed from worries… it was jarring to see the dissonance between Obi-Wan now and the Obi-Wan from thirty minutes ago. Even more so compared to the Obi-Wan from this morning. Was being here truly so awful for the ad?

Mentally shaking himself away from that gloomy thought, he instead focused on the recipients of the holo. From what Jaster could gather, the Jet’ikase who had pushed their way to the front were Obi-Wan’s age-mates or the Jetiise he had been raised with. The two adult Jetiise, Obi-Wan had called them Fee and Xani, were his vode? They were both older than him by a fair margin, the black-hared one by at least a decade, the other by at least two - maybe even three. 

Jaster tuned back into the conversation in time to hear the older of the two say, “Obi, I heard it was your idea to give the Mandalorians their stuff back?” Stuff? Jaster’s mind glitched at the word. Did he just refer to their ancient beskar’gam, the second skins worn by their forebears as stuff? Lord Dral, incensed, sputtered out the word a few times in disbelief while others around the room mouthed the word with varying degrees of incredulity. The Jetii (Fee?) snorted, noting their reactions and addressed the room at large. “You didn’t think it was all armour, did you? Armour makes up a good chunk of it, but we have weapons, sculptures, some paintings - most forms of art, really - some children’s toys made of beskar, tablets carved in an archaic version of Mando’a, and a few sets of armour made from animal bones - which animal, we’re not quite sure. Cataloguing everything and readying it for transport will be a huge undertaking-”

“Mythosaur bones,” said Obi-Wan. Every head in the room turned to him. His eyes were unfocused, staring into a distance no one else could see. “Those sets of armour were carved out of mythosaur bones.” He blinked a few times and shook his head as if to clear it. “That was… odd,” he said with a small frown. “That didn’t feel like the Force, or at least not just the Force, there was something else…” he trailed off, but quickly turned back to the hologram. “A mystery to figure out later, not while I have all of you on comm… Oh, Quin, Siri, before I forget,” he put his chin in his hand, eyes shining with mischief, “How is your divorce going?” 

Again, the Jetiise exploded into an uproar, two voices screaming, “THAT WAS YOU?!” A pair of teens Obi-Wan’s age pushed themselves to be front and centre of the comm while Obi-Wan threw his head back into a roaring laugh. It was the sort of laughter that was infectious and many of the Mando’ade in the room quickly joined in either from the reactions of the Jedi or just for the sake of laughing.

“And what if it was me?” Obi-Wan said between chuckles, clearly amused at his own cleverness. “Whatever will you do about it now? Here I am, on the other side of the galaxy, safe from your shenanigans, while you must go through couples therapy. Word of advice, Quin: you should have stopped bragging about getting to eighteen without a single accidental wedding under your belt. Siri, this was convenient retribution, nothing personal.” 

The girl in question puffed up, affronted, “Nothing personal? I have on record that I was once married to this mother -”

“PADAWAN…”

“Motherlover, Master. I was going to say motherlover!” 

While watching the banter unfold, Jaster heard the soft chime in his buy’ce alerting him of Jango’s return and walked over to Obi-Wan, putting a hand on his shoulder in reassurance as he quietly said, “I’ll be back soon, Obi-Wan.” 

The boy nodded and Jaster walked out into the hall, towards their private landing pad. Before he could step through the doors, Jango burst through them while pulling off his helmet, chest heaving. “Is Obi-Wan alright?” he asked breathlessly.

Jaster raised an eyebrow and said nothing while crossing his arms across his chest in his patented buir-is-disappointed look. His ad had some nerve, to act concerned now after putting Obi-Wan in danger. “He was doing better when I left him a few moments ago, he’s on a call with the Jetiise and, quite frankly, the happiest I’ve ever seen him.” He held out a hand to stop Jango from running off to find the other teen. “He’s doing exceptionally well considering he came the Palace in tears ! Jango T’adad Fett, what were you thinking?” 

Jango’s face fell even more. “I was thinking that I needed a second opinion, Buir. That I was too close to the issue to look at it rationally! So, I followed the advice you always give me: to get someone else to help me see it clearly. I was thinking that I could trust my vode - and they swore to never tell, haat, ijaa, haa’it! We talked it out a bit, they helped me get over myself, but someone must have heard us, Buir. Ni ceta, I didn’t mean to, I swear.” The boy was working himself up, his face darkening with emotion. 

“We’ve got to work on your opsec skills ad.” Jaster sighed, exasperation in his tone. “And I’m not the one you need to apologize to,” Jango bowed his head again and pulled off his jetpack which Jaster then took gently from his hands. “I need to go back to Obi-Wan, but I think he still needs space from you right now. Go to your room and get started on your error sheet. You remember the drill?” 

“Lek, Buir. What I did wrong, why it hurt Obi-Wan, what I should have done better, and how I’m going to apologize and make it up to Obi-Wan.” Jango dutifully listed off his tasks, a common exercise to make ade understand their errors and help them work through solving them.  It was also a convenient way to identify subtle triggers that set off verde before they became a problem in the field

“Ori’jate, Jan’ika,” Jaster said, pulling Jango into a Keldabe, “I’ll be holding onto this,” he lifted Jango’s jetpack, “until you’ve earned it back.” He then looked at the stairs pointedly; Jango took the hint and walked dejectedly towards them.

Jaster sighed. That boy had good intentions, but Ka’ra preserve him, he had a long way to go. This was not the worst situation to learn that walls have ears, but it was certainly not a harmless one.  He walked back into the hall to find his councillors tense and Obi-Wan curled back in on himself.

“-alright?” Jaster only heard the final word of Obi-Wan’s question. The brown-haired Jetii with a beard, the one Obi-Wan called Master Qui-Gon, sighed heavily.

“He’s not doing too well. As we thought, your mission caused a setback, but it wasn’t so bad until yesterday.” The Jetiise were less rowdy, their shoulders more hunched, their heads lowered. Clearly, the discussion had moved to more serious waters.

Obi-Wan’s brow furrowed in concern. “Still no sign of them?” 

Master Qui-Gon shook his head. “They’ve been moved to the SoM roster, but we don’t know if they’re alive-”

“They still live,” said a voice that was both familiar and not, “my bonds with them are still intact, although they are clouded.” An older Jetii made his way to the comm in their end. Jaster blinked a few times, trying to place the familiar face, then had to force himself to keep still. That face, that same face that stared him down across a field of snow was now gaunt, the eyes and cheeks sunken. The hair was greying, though still as thick as three years prior. The biggest difference was in the voice. The once-booming voice that had ordered their total surrender, then their deaths, was soft, barely more than a whisper. Still.

“I am glad to see you well, Grandpadawan.”

“And I, you, Grandmaster.”

Dooku was unmistakable.

Chapter Text

Obi-Wan sat staring at the empty space where the holocall had been a few seconds ago, goodbyes echoing through his mind. His chest heaved with each breath, trying in vain to stop his emotions from bowling him over again. Getting to see his crechemates, his lineage, and Quin … it did him a world of good, even if only on a hologram. Jas’lor excused himself quietly, visibly shaken. Given his last interaction with Grandmaster Doo, Obi-Wan didn’t blame him.

He blinked back to awareness when one of the Mandalorians monitoring the call cleared their throat. “The ik’aad - the one who called you ‘uncle’ - where is his family?” 

Obi-Wan tilted his head, playing at being confused while hoping the conversation was not going where he thought it was. At the question, he could already feel the peace he’d gained from the call begin to degrade as the hostile atmosphere reasserted itself. “What do you mean?” 

“He’s so young, someone must be missing him,” they said, blustering at being asked to clarify. Obi-Wan resisted the very strong urge to roll his eyes. Yep, they were going there. They don’t know yet, he thought. It’s a common stereotype, Obi-Wan. Don’t lose your cool.  

“We are his family, sir. Benji is the son of my oldest Padawan-brother - my Master’s first padawan - and I am one of the only members of his family away from Coruscant at the moment. So yes, I miss him,” he looked down at his hands, twisting them together nervously. “I miss him very much.” 

“Alright, so your Pada-something-or-other adopted him once he was brought to your Temple.” Doubt filled the Force surrounding them as the council member scoffed gesturing dismissively with a hand, “Where are his actual parents? Where did the Jedi steal that baby from?” 

Obi-Wan felt his jaw drop. Surely, a member of the Mand’alor’s own council wouldn’t be so tactless and rude. Surely Mandalorians, of all people, knew the dangers of untrue stereotypes. The room dropped into stunned silence as Obi-Wan turned red with indignation and struggled to give voice to an objection (or even just a sound of denial). It took only a moment for the sound of beskar on beskar to ring in the air as the Mandalorian closest to the one who spoke punched them hard in the shoulder. "Honestly, Saxon! Could you be more insensitive! Why Alor Mereel appointed you on here when you do your best to pick fights with everyone - even ad! for shame! - It's..."

"How dare you" Obi-Wan interrupted their tirade to finally choke out , “How dare you stand there and insinuate that-” he cut himself off, unable to finish his sentence. He took a deep breath. “I will say this once. Should you ask at a later time, I will elaborate, but not now. I am not nearly emotionally stable enough right now to go too far into this today . Jedi. Do. Not. Steal. Children. In Benji’s case, he is the blood-son of my Padawan-brother ,” he stressed the term and felt a small burst of satisfaction at the way the councillor shifted under his gaze, “and of Master Kam Desal, another Jedi who is currently on a mission.” Recalling all he’d learned so far about the Mandalorians and from his Diplomacy 101 class, he adopted a neutral face and cuttingly said “I would have specified earlier had I realized that Mandalorians put so much value in genetic relations.” 

All of his senses were focused on the warrior who he had insulted with the implication of not living up to Mandalorian ideals, sure he was about to get into a fight. He was so fixated on the other, he barely registered the familiar presence slipping back into the room, pausing at one of the aides, then erupting into an irritated rage. However, while he missed it, the warrior with a clear view behind him did not. The Mandalorian muttered out an apology and left the room surprisingly quickly, discomfort echoing around them in the Force. Obi-Wan turned and saw Mand’alor Mereel glaring at the still-closing doors.

“I only have one question, Obi-Wan,” the Mand’alor said once it was clear no one else would break the tense silence. Obi-Wan nodded for him to continue. “Benji’s mother, why is she away? Why is she not with her ik’aad when he is still so young?”

Obi-Wan let out a mirthless chuckle. “Because when the Senate demands that we jump, all we can do is ask how high and pray that it is not off a cliff. We are lucky that Feemor wasn’t simultaneously summoned away this time.” He stood, grimacing at the popping in his knees. “May I go back to my room, please?” 

The Mand’alor grew pensive before replying, “There is one more thing I’d ask of you today, but I’ll explain in our suite, is that alright?”

Obi-Wan nodded again, the strain of the day wearing on him. It would be an early night for him tonight, and he hoped The Vision wouldn’t rear its ugly head at him again. It had ruined far too many nights of sleep already over the last two years. He wanted to enjoy the peace that a soft mattress and heavy blankets promised.

Jaster guided Obi-Wan to sit on one of the couches in the living room and lowered himself down to sit across from the Jet’ika.

“When Mandalorians mess up - such as an ad breaking something, a verd who had a bad reaction in training or on the field, or when an aliit gets into a big argument - we go through what I call an error sheet.” At Obi-Wan’s confusion, he then elaborated, “It’s a breakdown of what went wrong, what the individual could have done better in the situation, and what the individual will do to not repeat the situation. If someone was hurt, physically or emotionally, they will also go through how and why that person was hurt. Once the person finishes this sheet, they present it to a figure with authority over them: such as their Buir, a trainer, their squad’s Alor, a Goran - armourer - or another community leader, et cetera, and then they apologize to whoever was hurt by their actions. The last section asks them to work with all parties to come up with a way to atone for the error.” Jaster leaned back to gauge Obi-Wan’s reaction. “Jango’s filling one out as we speak.” 

The boy jolted, his spine going ramrod-straight as he tried to push out apologies and made eye contact for the first time since this morning. “There’s no need for that Jas’lor, he doesn’t need to be punished, I’m the one in the wrong. I’m the one who lashed out, not him. If anything, I should be filling one of those sheets out, oh Force,” the boy rambled on and Jaster’s right eyebrow nearly hit orbit in surprise. 

“You’re not in the wrong, Obi-Wan,” he said. “Jango should have thought it through when he told his vode. He should have at least considered standard OpSec measures before saying anything in such a public space. He should have done a great many things including asking you for permission to tell them . He is an officer in training and he was handed delicate information - regardless of who was involved, what information was shared, and the magnitude of the leak, Jango should have known better. ” Jaster sighed, rubbing at his face. “When Jango’s done, he’ll come out and apologize to you. It won’t just be a simple ‘I’m sorry’, he’ll have to demonstrate in his apology that he truly regrets his actions and that he’s taking steps to do better in the future. Are you up for that right now?”

Obi-Wan shook his head, the worry lines slowly but surely smoothing out around his eyes and face. Did he really think Jaster would blame him for Jango’s mistakes? Was that the impression Jaster had given the Jet’ika of his character? It was already somewhat concerning that the ad had automatically and immediately tried to shoulder blame that was not his to bear. If he expected Jaster to levy the fault at him, that was even worse. Clearing his thoughts of what was sure to become a self-deprecating spiral, Jaster made a mental note to address his actions towards Obi-Wan at a later time. 

“Maybe later? Around latemeal?” Obi-Wan said. Jaster hummed in agreement. That would give them all some time to cool off and it let Jango stew for just a bit longer. “I need to meditate, I’m nowhere near emotionally balanced and -” Obi-Wan cut himself off with a chuckle. “And while the comm did me a world of good, Jas’lor, I really need to spend a few hours in the Force.” Jaster nodded slowly, somewhat more apprehensive about the delay than before with the Force brought into it. Mystic Jetii Osik , he thought, but necessary Mystic Jetii Osik . If only he had access to the Jetii Archives, he could find a guide for guardians with Force-sensitive children and he wouldn’t be completely in the dark. Maybe the Jetii Council could send him one the next time they spoke? He shelved that thought to revisit later once the issue at hand was resolved. 

“Obi-Wan?” He asked.

“Yes, Jas’lor?”

“Tell me to stop or that you’re not comfortable talking about it now and we can pretend I never said anything.” He saw the boy tense and rushed to ask the question that had been burning at his heart since the man showed up on the holo. “What happened to Dooku? The last time I saw him he was...” Impressive, imposing, proud, determined, alive (if slightly terrifying as an opponent). “He seemed like he could have taken us all on, single-handedly if need be. In hindsight, I can see why, but-” he pushed a hand through his short hair, trying to reconcile the two warring images in his mind. The imposing nightmare against the quiet ghost.

Obi-Wan sighed. “A great many things, Mand’alor. Some I am not at liberty to share either for legal or personal reasons, but I can say this: that is what happens to a Jedi when they learn that their blade was pointed towards innocents. Grandmaster hasn’t touched his ‘saber since Galidraan, except to take his crystals out, not even to teach. Before I left, he was just getting back to doing katas using a staff.” Jaster took in the information but didn’t let himself react. He- he needed to think , hit something, and have a drink. Not necessarily in that order. “May I go, Jas’lor?” Obi-Wan broke him out of his reverie.

“Yes, go ahead Obi-Wan. I’ll call you over for latemeal? It’ll be just the three of us, after today.” 

Obi-Wan bowed and made his way to his rooms. Jaster turned and slowly trekked back to his office. He really needed that drink.

Chapter Text

Latemeal was tense. Not that it surprised Jaster - the day had been long and filled to the brim with… excitement. Jango kept sending small glances Obi-Wan’s way but didn’t speak a word. Obi-Wan kept his head down and ate slowly, his motions careful and deliberate to camouflage how his hand shook. 

That tremor in his hand , Jaster wondered, is that from nerves or exhaustion? But he didn’t voice his concerns - maybe if it persisted he would suggest Obi-Wan see a baar'ur, but he was pretty sure he knew what was causing it. All in all, it was certainly not the time to bring it up. 

Even eating slowly, Obi-Wan finished his meal faster than normal, and quietly excused himself from the table. He rose silently from his seat and turned away, his face still closed off. Jaster gave Jango a look to say, ‘ It’s now or never, and it had better not be never’. His son nodded, visibly steeling himself.

“Obi-Wan, could I talk to you?” Jango asked, pushing his chair back and standing from the table himself. At Obi-Wan’s hesitation, he added softly and with sincerity, “Please?” 

Obi-Wan cleared his throat, “Alright.” He settled back down, clearly preferring to stay in the kitchen than to have the conversation in the personal space that was his room. Jango sat back down but glanced over at Jaster again. He got the hint.

“I have some proposals to look over, I’ll see you both tomorrow,” he said, leaving the room. 

“Ret’ Buir.”

“Goodnight Jas’lor.”

As he walked through the door, Jaster heard his son begin to slowly stumble through his apology. One final glance behind him showed Jango sitting across from Obi-Wan with his head bowed, hands wringing below the table in his lap. The Jet’ika looked hesitant but was listening to the words tumbling out of Jango’s mouth. Jaster swallowed hard at seeing his ad looking so vulnerable as the door shut on the two teenagers. Sometimes, the hardest thing for him to do was to let his son stand on his own. But, he reasoned, he always gets back up in the end and is stronger for it. He was old enough to make his own mistakes, learn from them, and make his own reparations. Still. The urge to keep his son safe and happy was overwhelming sometimes. At least Jango was willing to talk things out when something went wrong. Jaster didn’t think he could bear it if his aliit was split up yet again because they weren’t clear with one another.

For lack of other places to go, he made his way to his private office, the one he used when he was alone and no longer had to put up a front or impress anyone. The room was small: his solid oak desk went from one wall to the other, forcing him to climb over it to get to his seat. Jaster powered up his terminal as he settled into his well-loved chair, leaning back to crack his back as it went through its start-up sequence. Once his chat opened up, he was mildly surprised to see a veritable flood of messages had surged since this morning in the masscomm he was in with some of the Alore he was closer to. There were so many messages that the chimes announcing their arrival blurred together into one long noise. He flicked the messages open and let out a low whistle at the speed of the new incoming messages flying in. His presence in the masscomm had been noticed, based on the questions suddenly flung at him by name. Most of them were about Obi-Wan and/or his call to the Jetii’yaim. He ran a hand down his face with a high-pitched and exhausted laugh. He had come here as a distraction and had certainly found one: it was going to be a long night getting on top of this.

Especially since even the normally quiet Goran Drak was fielding questions!

Obi-Wan lay down on his bed trying to fall asleep. His mind was still reeling from Fett’s - from Jango’s apology. He was sincere in his remorse and Obi-Wan could sense that he truly had meant no harm. 

Yet harm was still done.

 It would take some time, but Obi-Wan knew he’d be able to forgive Jango for his carelessness. He just had to move past the hurt first. 

He tossed and turned some more, but sleep would not come. Every time his mind dulled and began to drift into unconsciousness, he found himself jolted back to wakefulness, his mind wanting to rest but also trying to protect himself from The Vision. He knew with all the certainty of one who saw the future that he would be forced through it again tonight. 

But he still needed to sleep. 

Obi-Wan rolled over again, pressing his face deep into the soft pillow and tugging the sheets closer. After a length of time - he didn’t know if it was mere minutes or hours - he finally fell into a fitful sleep.

His rest didn’t last long, as Obi-Wan fell from his dreams to his bed - quite literally. He’d been levitating in his sleep, something he hadn’t done since he was still a youngling in the creche with half-formed shields. That coupled with the increase in the frequency of The Vision - or any of his visions - was… disturbing. He pushed those thoughts aside forcefully, focusing instead on restoring his calm. Now was not the time to worry about his shielding, he needed to get ready for school. It would have to wait for the next time he could dedicate more than four hours to meditation. He sighed and rolled out of bed and onto his feet. Day three of this madness was about to begin and it was sure to be as perilous as the previous days - perhaps even more so.

Jango looked over at Obi-Wan during firstmeal. The teen seemed alright, but… today would not be pleasant for him. And it’s all my fault , he thought. He swallowed the uncomfortable lump in his throat. He’d do better. He had to.

 “Obi-Wan?” he called for the Jet’ika’s attention. At the answering hum, Jango pressed on, “Because of what I did yesterday, I realize that I made the target on your back even bigger,” he said, repeating his sentiment from the night before. “I’d like to offer that you spend the day with Silas, Myles, and myself.” Obi-Wan raised an eyebrow at him and Jango hurried to add, “I’m not asking that you forgive me right now - or ever. I screwed up, I know I did. But we’re all the children and heirs of prominent figures in Mando’ad culture - the Mand’alor and some of his inner circle of ori’ramikade. I’m Jas’buir’s apprentice in government and military, Silas is the apprentice of the Sol’alverde, and Myles is apprenticed to Ruus Mereel, the Mando’ad responsible for training all of Buir’s company of verde. Our presence would signify that you have our support and the support of our Bajise - teachers - by proxy.” He added the basic translation at Obi-Wan’s look of confusion. 

Obi-Wan thought it over as he ate another bite of fruit. “I appreciate that you’re trying to help me through this and make amends, despite the enmity between our people and the tense situation. I accept… thank you.” He smiled at Jango and continued, “Besides, you said you would teach me Mando’a after school; I hope that offer hasn’t been rescinded?” 

Jango’s stomach fluttered as he smiled back. “Not at all, it would be my pleasure.” Obi-Wan’s smile widened a bit more before turning back to his food, finishing their meals in companionable silence. 

Once they’d grabbed their schoolbags, they headed down to the Palace’s speeder hangar. “Are you riding with me or are you going to leap through Keldabe again?” he asked teasingly. 

Obi-Wan tilted his head back in a laugh. “No, I’m conserving my energy today. Thank you.” A humorous glint grew in his eye. “Why, hoping you could fly over solo?”

Jango grimaced in mild embarrassment at the reminder of Jas’buir’s chosen consequence. “No, just asking. I’m, uh. Well, I’m grounded at the moment.”

“Ah,” said Obi-Wan, with the air of someone who understood the discomfort of admitting to an ongoing punishment - even when deserved. “Let’s get going, shall we?” Obi-Wan pushed on, graciously ignoring the dark flush on Jango’s face.

They arrived with fifteen minutes to spare, so they entered the building along with the usual rush of students. Unfortunately  - and unsurprisingly - the others gave Obi-Wan a wide, suspicious, berth. One even wider than it had been on the first day, now truly evident as a social pariah. Whispers stole through the throng of teenagers, age-old rumours of Jetii powers mixed with hearsay from the day before. Thankfully, it didn’t take them too long to reach their class and Obi-Wan sat down in front of Jango, in the same chair as two days ago. All conversations in the room silenced with their - with Obi-Wan’s - arrival. Jango kept an eye and an ear out for trouble, but no one spoke up, preferring instead to blatantly stare.

To Obi-Wan’s annoyance, physical silence did not translate to mental silence for the teenagers he was sharing a class with. Anger, suspicion, and fear battered against his shield like a particularly ill-tempered storm. He glanced at the chrono and winced internally - there were still ten minutes before Ruus’baji came in. 

Eventually, the mental discomfort grew too great and he said in a tone as dry as a desert, “If anyone has something to say to me, I ask that you get it out of your systems before our regularly scheduled throw-projectiles-at-each-other session this afternoon. The staring is exhausting.” A few snorts of unexpected laughter broke out from the Mandalorian teenagers, who quickly reigned themselves in. 

One of them stood up, a rhodian in a green and red cuirass. “Alright, I’ll bite: are you really Dooku’s grandchild?” Murmurs of agreement swept the room.

“In a sense, yes?” They started to frown at the non-answer, so Obi-Wan elaborated, “He trained Master Qui-Gon, who’s now training me. In Jedi culture, our Masters - our teachers - are similar to parents, so I am related to him in that sense. Were you asking whether I know him well?” 

“No, but that was my next question.”

“Yes, I do. I’ve known him almost all my life.” He sensed the rising tensions, so he decided to throw in a funny story to lighten the mood. It would also help them to see his Grandmaster from his perspective. “The oldest memory I have of him was from when I was… about four years old, I think? We were about to go on our first-ever outing from the Temple and he felt it imperative that we knew how to ‘walk like proper Jedi’ before we left.” He used air quotes around the phrase, his lips curling upwards at the fond memory. “This involved him strutting down hallways with his biggest and billowiest cloak while being followed by ten or so children aged four to six, showing them how to catch air on the edges of the fabric to create the really big swooshes when turning a corner. Of course, we were too little to have cloaks - they don’t come that small - and so we were bedecked in spare bedsheets, following him around the Temple like ducklings. And he did this all with all of the poise and grace that Coruscanti society expects of Jedi Knights, never once breaking character. This small act was purportedly all about preserving the Order’s reputation but was really so he could spend some positive time with us. Master Dooku really isn’t the best with younglings - he’s rather stern and imposing - but he knows how to make an entrance. We would all want to be like him so, once he realized Initiates were imitating him, he started doing this as his way of connecting with the youngest members of our family. He used to do it with every clan of initiates, without fail.” Chuckles swept the room, no doubt at the image Obi-Wan had conjured up for them.

“That doesn’t change what he did,” said a voice from the back. The speaker was a Twi’lek in red and silver armour with a fierce scowl dominating their face.

“No, it doesn’t,” Obi-Wan agreed with a grim smile. “But would it mean anything to you that his grief has also caused him to stop the practice?”

Chapter Text

History class challenged Obi-Wan. 

More than just by being a very comprehensive and high-level class. It was more than that: it was history as told by those who fought against his ancestors. Vaguely familiar facts and events but wildly different interpretations and focus. In short, it was completely alien to him. He couldn’t name the Mand’alore of the era in order (Surprisingly he still knew three out of five anyway) and the little that he did know was so blatantly different from the source materials on Mandalore that he didn’t even know how to bring it up. And to think of all the time Fee had spent with him in the Archives to help him to prepare for this assignment, he thought angrily at himself. No matter. He was a Jedi. He would endure, he would learn, and - if he survived this assignment - he would share his newfound knowledge with others. By the end of the lesson his hand was cramped from the sheer volume of notes and he'd resorted to his Crecheclan’s shorthand to get it all down. His second class passed with far less brainpower used: Galactic Ethics on Mandalore was just a slightly different version of Diplomacy 101 at the Temple - and he had completed that course years ago with top marks.

When he walked out into Keldabe at noon, he was glad to have Jango, Myles, and Silas with him. For all that much of the current unpleasantness was due to their indiscretion, it felt better to be with them when the populace parted around him like he had the Blue Shadow Virus. Even with the faint awkwardness that lingered as a direct result of the disaster that was the day before, their company soothed the wound that grew with each avoidance. Their conversation was pleasant and towards the end of their break, Obi-Wan thought he was well on his way to count the three of them as his friends. Over the hour they had for lunch, they had bought food from a stall vendor then, by wordless consensus, they kept walking. After all, it was preferable to stay on the move rather than tempt the willpower of a few of the more… maliciously-minded Mandalorians Obi-Wan could sense lurking. Luckily, the worst they’d gotten so far were dirty looks and dark mutterings.

But their luck could only hold out so long.

Obi-Wan was finishing his food with a snort at a joke from Myles when the Force rang with danger. Closing his eyes and pretending to savour the last bite, he cast his senses out. Where...? THERE! Oh no, he thought, there are… three, four, five, si- no, it looks like six is uninvolved, either goading or backing out. Five? He could maybe manage five. But could I manage five opponents without a physical fight? That question posed as much of a risk (if not more) than the Mandalorians slowly closing in on him. He didn’t want to learn the repercussions for starting a fistfight (one that could easily turn into a shootout) in a sovereign system in which he had no authority and where his people were almost unanimously despised. He made possible plans and disposed of them as quickly as they came. That’s too risky, that will never work, that’s likely to get me killed even faster… As his mind whirled through possibilities, his eyes scanned the high-level concourse for anything useful. Hiding’s out of the question, so I could maybe- His mind screeched to a halt. Oh. Oh yes. This is a high-level concourse.  

He hurriedly disposed of his pulp-plast plate in the nearest bio-waste bin, trying to keep body language as nonchalant and unaware as possible before he turned back to the other three boys. Once he was closer and sure his expression wasn’t easily seen, he allowed the smile to slip from his face as he filled in his companions. 

Despite his training, he was sure the others could hear a note of panic in his voice “We don’t have much time, so please just listen to me.” As he spoke, he began walking across the wide terrace they were standing on, subtly gesturing for the others to follow. "I can sense five Force signatures making their way towards us from behind - don’t look ,” he added quickly when Silas made to glance over his shoulder. “They are all projecting a fair deal of anger towards me in particular, and no, I did not violate their minds in any way to know this, they’re mentally screeching it at the moment,” he said, preemptively answering the likely-to-be-incoming question. “Now, I’m about to do something that may seem very foolish and dangerous. But it will put distance between me and them with causing a political incident or involving you. So, yes, I am doing this.” He added the last sentence to shore himself up a bit. "It'll be fine , I’ve done this countless times before and will meet you in the gymnasium.” The three Mandalorian teenagers all started to ask questions at the same time, but Obi-Wan was already in motion, peeling away from the group as they were only a few meters away from his goal.

No sense in dawdling, he picked up his pace.

A cry of, “HEY! Jetii! Don’t you walk away from us!” made him glance behind him, despite knowing better. As he had sensed, there were five Mandalorians storming towards him - surprisingly (or maybe not so, he needed to finish that virtual Threat Assessment 302 course) were those who had confronted him at the diner two days ago. 

Kriff. He didn’t want to deal with this.

He weaved through the throng of people on the concourse, rushing his way across it and getting away from Jango and the others. He felt the five soldiers pick up speed behind him when they realized he wasn’t slowing to fight, so he began to run. 

Thankfully the crowds continued to avoid him and thinned out as he went, neither helping nor hindering him, just… watching. “Stop where you are, Jetii!” one of his pursuers shouted at him.

Obi-Wan shot back, “No thank you!” and sped up even more. He glanced behind him again, searching for- perfect. He smirked to himself: none of the Mandalorians chasing him were wearing jetpacks. That made his plan much easier. In the back of his mind, he felt shock emanating from the bystanders as they realized his destination while sensing dismay and worry coming from his acquaintances - could he count them as friends yet? He had been starting to - maybe he should ask, it took two to be friends after all. Dismissing the thought to focus on the here and now, he put on a final burst of speed, pouring energy into his legs, before leaping over the railing. 

Then there was nothing but air.

Cries of shock echoed out behind him - above him, now - as he fell freely through the levels of Keldabe. As he plunged down in free fall, Obi-Wan laughed into the roaring wind while it tugged at his tunics s, a familiar friend to him thanks to his many (many, many) leaps into its arms and to safety. 

Contrary to what many thought, often leaping from a great height brought them further from harm rather than closer to danger.

The ground drew steadily closer as Obi-Wan tucked his form in tighter, relishing in the rush of adrenaline. Mere seconds before he would have hit the ground, Obi-Wan used the Force to flip himself feet first and slow his fall. Once he was standing on air a few feet above the ground, he let himself drop into a crouch, indulging in the dramatics of it all (he knew that he was being filmed, he might as well look the part of the careless Jedi).

Continuing the act of a lackadaisical Jedi, he gave a small laugh and flipped his hair slightly, using the movement to scan his surroundings for more attackers. Rising with a contented sigh, he was pleased when sensed none. With a smile, he smoothed out his hair and robes, and walked languidly towards the gymnasium, whistling a merry tune.

Chapter Text

As he made his way back to the gymnasium, Obi-Wan cackled internally. Based on the increasing number of disbelieving stares thrown his way, he could guess that rumours and/or footage of his escape were already making the rounds of the Mandalorian grapevine. He heard the people whispering - something about a jar? - and fought tooth and nail to not let his glee show on his face. 

When he arrived, he was surprised to see Jas’lor waiting for him, pacing before the double doors with his arms crossed. Once he caught sight of Obi-Wan at the foot of the stairs, he ran forwards and after a quick once over, gently grabbed him by his elbow and began incessantly tugging him inside. “You...! The recklessness! ” 

The man seemed at a loss of words as he pulled him towards the infirmary then began checking Obi-Wan over once inside as he pulled out a med-kit. All the while, he did a very good job of impersonating every Jedi Healer Obi-Wan had ever come into contact with - he shuddered to think of what would become of him when Bant was Knighted - by expressing his concern through an agitated and concerned lecture on his safety.  “What were you thinking?! You dropped over a dozen levels, you could have died !!”  Obi-Wan was quietly insulted at that, though he didn’t let it show restricting his reaction to just bristling slightly. He wasn’t a crechling , thank you very much . A small fall like that was hardly worth this level of fuss. “- and what would your Master say about this?!” The Mand’alor finished, breathing heavily and harshly thumping the med-kit open on the infirmary bed.

“In all honesty,” Obi-Wan began, “Master Qui-Gon would probably be disappointed that I didn’t take the opportunity to do a flip. He is always encouraging me to practice Ataru in my regular movements as much as possible.”  Jas’lor let out a high sound of dismay that Obi-Wan very carefully did not classify as a squeak. “Master Drallig would probably make a comment about my form and make me repeat it twelve times more - blindfolded at that. And if Quin were here, he’d probably rate it a ten out of ten on dramatics, eight out of ten for my entry into the freefall, and nine out of ten for my landing. He’d say I should have held the crouch longer, but I felt that it would push the drama a touch too far.”  By now, he couldn’t stop the grin splitting his face as he thought of his family’s reactions to his antics. He had gotten out of harm’s way and away from a non-diffusible situation without causing a political incident: his Master and other teachers would likely have been thrilled by his quick thinking. 

After a few more moments of silence, he looked over and realized that there was genuine concern on the man’s face. Oh. Right. This wasn’t Coruscant where he might get chided for such a move but it would be in jest. Jaster was serious in his worry, and not just for fear of losing political leverage. With this in mind, he decided to take pity on the alarmed man and reached a hand out to gently close the med-kit lid again. “Jas’lor. Using the Force to slow our fall is a skill Jedi learn by themselves almost as soon as they learn to jump. I was perfectly safe; I was not injured, I had no mental inhibitors in my system, nor did I have any Force-suppressant devices on my body. Jas’lor,” he said again, insistently. “I was fine .”

“You’re jare’la, that’s what you are,” the older man huffed but allowed him to put the med supplies away again.

Obi-wan drew his brows together in confusion. “I heard that word on the way here, what does it mean?”

“Jare’la is the adjective form of the noun ‘jaro’ which means a death wish or an act of insane recklessness,” Jas’lor said with a wry smile as he led Obi-Wan into the gymnasium. 

“If you think that little fall was “jaro”, I hope you never witness some of our classes back home Alor.” Obi-Wan snorted. “It is, however, good to know Mando’a has a word to describe any and all Jedi,” he deadpanned. 

Jas’lor let out a bark of laughter at that, then excused himself to go back to what he called “the incredibly important job of making sure the sector doesn’t go up in flames.” At Obi-Wan’s surprised laughter, he said, “Do you think I’m joking? When Mando’ade are upset about something, you can expect explosions!” Obi-Wan laughed again but winced internally. That statement lined up with his visions just a bit too much for comfort.

After he had changed into athletic wear and carefully locked his belongings back in his locker, Obi-Wan waited in the hall with the other students to be let into their gym room. Most of the others avoided him and he could hear them whispering about him behind his back. Whether it was over his lineage or his stunt, he didn’t know - and had no intentions of asking them to find out.

He felt someone lean on the wall next to him and glanced over. It was Pre, his friend from yesterday. The blond boy was staring determinedly at the ground, a flush turning his ears and the back of his neck pink. “I need to apologize,” he eventually blurted out.

Obi-Wan raised an eyebrow. “Whatever for?” he asked. 

Pre sighed. “The verde who’ve been harassing you when you go out for midmeal are my…” he paused for a moment, likely finding the most accurate translation of a Mando’a word Obi-Wan wouldn’t know. “My cousins,” he decided, “and I’m sorry that they blame you for actions not your own.”

Obi-wan gave a short laugh - but not an unsympathetic one. “Pre, judging by the last few days, if you’re looking for a list of people in this sector who would happily blame me for everything that’s happened in the past three years, it would be simpler to find a census and cross off the few people here who tolerate me,” he said wryly.

Pre smiled wryly back as if he was used to the sentiment. “Alright, that’s fair.” He turned serious again. “And I get having people look at you differently because of what a family member of yours has done.” He took a deep breath. “To my family, you represent my birth father’s inability to lead with honour - his cowardice . With him being in hiding who-knows-where, it didn’t take much for them to turn their ire against the Jedi as the next best thing.”

“And since I arrived, I became the target of this ire?” Obi-Wan surmised. At Pre’s embarrassed nod, Obi-wan laughed. Once things clicked into place, he stopped abruptly. “Oh. You’re a Viszla, aren’t you?” Pre nodded again, his eyes dropping down to fix on his shoes. “Pre, I’m not sure if you’ve noticed, but your family is far from the only ones to object to my presence. As a people, you’re all very loud - emotionally, that is.” He grimaced. “I’ve been shielding against an almost non-stop wall of rage, grief, and hate since I landed here.” Immediately, he cursed his big mouth and lack of volume control as a wave of fear and anger rose up from the teenagers around him.

Right, he should have realized that teens are the same no matter the planet and that this was not a private conversation.

“You’re reading our minds?!” a Bith cried.

“No! No, no, no. No,” he said, shouting down and cutting off any protests. “If you’re going to eavesdrop, then you’re going to have to listen to me explain too!”

He glared over at all the suspicious teens glaring back at him: “To enter someone’s mind without consent is considered a serious crime to Jedi; a truly unforgivable violation. Even more so if one were to rifle through their victim’s mind like a file folder in search of emotions or memories. If I had done so - which I would never - I would be stripped of all rank, titles, and privileges accorded to me as a Jedi Padawan, be imprisoned for life or some other similar punishment, and likely spend the rest of my days in a cell that wouldn’t allow me to touch anyone’s mind save my own. So no. Absolutely not. No,” he said firmly, looking each Mandalorian in the eyes as he swept his gaze across them all. “I am not reading your minds. What I spoke about is what we call ‘projecting’. It’s- Well, it’s the mental equivalent of blasting your emotions through one of those old-fashioned boom boxes at full blast.” He winced. “You’re all doing it now and in large enough groups with a great enough focus, it can become quite painful.”

When no one commented further, Obi-Wan turned back to his previous conversational partner with an apologetic look, “Apologies, you were saying?”

“Wait, what do you mean, ‘painful’?” Pre asked, his pale brows pinched in concern.

Obi-Wan tapped his temple. “Empath, remember? As a people, I’ve found Mandalorians to be very loud - emotionally, that is. Which is a good thing!” he exclaimed, putting his hands up to pacify the small crowd still rudely eavesdropping without looking. “It means that you feel everything to its utmost, that you allow yourselves to seize every moment you live in, that you do not shy away from your feelings, you embrace them and allow them to buoy you. It’s truly an incredible thing to witness.” He ran a hand down his face. “ My issue,” he continued, “Is that the grand majority of your kindred have turned this fierce state of emotion towards me in a bristling never-ending wall of anger, hate, rage, disgust, etcetera.” he winced, waving a hand dismissively at the list. He sighed to himself, not really wanting to continue as he did not want to reveal his weakness, but he had to if he ever wanted them to understand, ever wanted them to change. “It’s constantly pressing against my mental shields and weakening them to the point where I’m left vulnerable to the currents of the Force.”

“You had me until the last bit,” said Coach from behind, causing Obi-Wan to jump as he hadn’t heard the other join them. He then turned to face the hallway and address his new - and wow, much larger than he thought - audience. Other children, on their way to and from their afternoon classes, adult Mandalorians on their way to and from a workout, all these people had stopped their routines to hear him speak. Why didn’t anyone have any manners anymore? He had made it clear that he was happy to talk to people about his culture if they asked, but poor Pre had had to have everyone listen in on his apology! He didn’t want to deal with this... He gulped before biting on his lip in a nervous tell. 

“I have the dubious gift of foresight,” he began. “Sometimes, the Force shows me possible futures. For example, I know that someone in the galaxy has two tookas in their ventilation system, one tabby and one grey. They will have a litter of kittens in two days’ time. I do not know who this person is, nor where they live, but I know that they will have a big surprise soon.” A few chuckles swept through the crowd at the thought. Okay, Obi-Wan, he thought to himself, you can do this. “Unfortunately, I also See a lot of death. The Force is not inclined to idle warnings after all, and many of the incidents it shares foretell natural disasters, wars, famine, and disease.  In most cases, there’s nothing I can do but watch. It can get painfully depressing at times.” 

Just as the silence starting getting awkwardly long, Jango, Silas, and Myles came bursting through the doors, still wearing their normal clothes, and breathing so heavily one would think they had just run through all of Keldabe - thrice. “Where’s… Jas’Buir?” Jango panted out. 

“We heard he was here,” Silas interjected earnestly

“And we can’t find… ” Obi-Wan could see the instant Jango saw him. “Obi-Wan? What happened? You jumped, and then! And we thought you were… It was so high!” he paused to catch his breath and put his ideas in order. “We didn’t know what to think but you were gone and-” Jango shook his head, his curls bouncing with the movement. “What was that? Why would you do that? ”

“Well,” Obi-Wan said, drawing the word out, “Some of your citizens took umbrage to my presence. So I removed my presence from their vicinity. It eliminated the chance of a political incident and a fight.” He shrugged. “As plain and simple as that.”

“You could have died!” Myles cried.

Obi-Wan rolled his eyes theatrically. “Why does everyone keep saying that? I've been using the Force to catch me from falls since I was old enough to stand on two legs and jump! How else do you think we get around the Temple? Stairs?!"

The judgemental stares he got back from the last statement had him sighing. Clearly, there was still plenty for them to learn about each other in this forced cultural exchange.

Chapter Text

The next two days passed swiftly; though Jango did everything he could to make Obi-Wan feel safer, Obi-Wan felt he’d be better off journeying through the parts of Keldabe that were a little less… hostile towards him. As such, Obi-Wan spent his midmeals with Satine in the New Mandalorian sectors of Keldabe to avoid any other… incidents and was very careful not to walk anywhere alone. They cultivated their new romance through conversations about the Core, memories from Coruscant, and their shared passions for a better, more peaceful galaxy. He found her tales of Sundari — the centre of New Mandalorian ideology on Mandalore — particularly fascinating.

After the class-week drew to a close, early in the first morning of his apprentice-week, Cabur Dral met him in a side room of the palace to affirm how the next five days would pan out. Nothing surprising, but just to make sure that everything was clear and that there had been no miscommunications - there had been enough of those already. “I’ve spoken with the Mand’alor and he’s agreed to let me sponsor you for your Verd’goten. This means that your training for your Verd’goten will happen under my direction and instruction. We only have three months until then, so it will be more condensed and more intense than usual. Do you have any idea why that could be?” 

Obi-Wan thought for a long moment about what he knew about the Mandalorian coming of age ritual. “I’m older, so my trial will be more challenging than that of a thirteen-year-old?”

They nodded. “Correct. We know that you already have a solid base in some martial arts, namely unarmed combat and fencing, but we need to get you up to our standards in all areas. In addition: three months may sound like a long time to you, but you must remember,” they stressed, “a month here on Mandalore is fifteen days, only five of which are dedicated to your training. This is a good balance for us - work, train, rest - but it leaves you with only fifteen days to prepare yourself physically.” The Nautolan shook their head, their ahwey swaying with the movement. “It is not nearly as much time as I would like, but it’s what we have to work with.”

Obi-Wan grinned wryly, hoping it distracted from the way his hands were pulling nervously at the hem of his workout clothes. “Then we had better get started, no?” 

Cabur Dral clapped him on the back.“That’s the spirit, ad. The grounds are this way.” They lead him out into the Entrance Hall, then across to the West Wing. Obi-Wan gulped. “ Don’t go there unless you’re looking to get yourself killed.” Jango’s warning from a week ago repeated in a loop in his mind. Refusing to let any weakness show, he kept his head held high as he walked up the stairs, making careful note of the stares aimed at him. While they walked, Cabur Dral explained that he’d be starting with evaluations - beginning with hand-to-hand combat - as a way for them to see what level he was at. 

“There’s one more thing,” they said hesitantly. At Obi-Wan’s questioning hum, they continued, “Although lead by the sponsor - a buir or cabur of the ad in question - training is implemented by the clan’s verde. In your case, you’ll be helped towards your Verd’goten by the verde of House Mereel.”

“Ah,” he said, for lack of anything better to say. “I see.” If Cabur Dral picked up on his flash of fear and lingering nervousness, they said nothing. As they passed through the last few corridors, his mind raced. Was it House Mereel that “greeted” me? I know they hated me then, has that changed? Were any of them at Galidraan? He forced himself to calm his mind. No sense in borrowing problems, I’ll find out soon enough. Here and now, he repeated to himself. Here and now.

He heard it before he saw it. The sounds of muffled impacts, the clack of wooden weapons, and the yelling of the Battlemasters - or whatever the word for them was here - echoed down the last dozen steps of the corridor until they emerged into a huge outdoor arena. Once Obi-Wan’s eyes adjusted to the bright day, he noted that the grounds were full of soldiers and trainees of all ages starting their training either by independently stretching, pairing off to spar, or running drills in squads of six. The grounds themselves were in the shape of a long hexagon - the same shape as the small piece of armour that was in the center of Mandalorian chest plates - surrounded on all sides by the palace itself. The area was divided into three: two triangular spaces on the ends and the long rectangle in between. Seeing the overwhelmed look on Obi-Wan’s face, Cabur Dral pointed out what each section was for.  The triangle closest to them was walled in by the forge and armoury, while the far one hosted a medical clinic - one they said was complete with physiotherapy services as well as prosthetic maintenance and adjustments. The rectangle was where the training itself would happen - there were raised mats for hand-to-hand combat, ranges for target practice with any weapon of choice, and the rest of the field could be used to drill larger groups.

All in all, a very impressive and comprehensive training ground.

As he came into view, motion seemed to halt and an oppressive quiet seemed to follow in his wake. The heavy silence grew and filled the grounds as eyes and visors alike stared him down, causing him to quicken his step as subtly as he could — staying close to Cabur Dral as they went to a bench to set down his water bottle and towel. He did his best to ignore them and began his usual full-body stretches, loosening up all of the different muscle groups — he would likely need them all warm and ready if PE was any indication. Once his joints were loose enough, he went into deeper stretches, the ones that allowed him the needed agility and flexibility in Ataru. At the end of his routine, he split his legs, one in front of him and one behind him, pressing them flat on the ground before he bent his torso so he could lay his nose on his right kneecap. As he settled into the stretch, Cabur Dral made a strangled sound. “By the Ka’ra, do you even have a spine ?” they asked incredulously. Obi-Wan turned his head to the left to look at them and took the opportunity to flatten his upper half further against his leg— no longer needing to be considerate of his nose.

“I’m not sure I follow?” he asked jokingly. Just to stir the pot, he gently grasped his right foot and brought it backwards — moving into a deep over-split stretch as he moved his legs beyond the standard 180° angle that humanoids were typically capable of. Just for the sake of thoroughness, he clenched his core muscles and then raised his back leg a few millimetres off the ground as well. 

Their face was incredulous though they slowly arched an eye ridge, looking over at his leg then back at his face. “Uh-huh. I’m sure you don’t,” they said sarcastically. After waiting for him to hold the stretch for a few moments, they then spoke again, “Up,” they motioned, gesturing lazily with one hand. “If you’re done, we’ll get started. This,” they gestured to another armour-less Mandalorian - a Pantoran - who was walking up to them, “is Rylis Vaird. She’s a member of the Mand’alor’s inner circle of verde, Captain in the Palace Guard, sitting member of the Ad’yaim council - remind me to explain that later - hmm and what else? You have fingers in too many pies vod.” They trailed off for a moment, ticking things off on their fingers.

“And Myles’s Buir, I believe?” Obi-Wan interjected as he stood, finally realizing why the woman in front of him was familiar. He dusted his hands off on his pants, suddenly nervous all over again. At her silent nod, Obi-Wan bowed briefly at the waist — giving his culture’s gesture of sincere respect. “It’s a pleasure to meet you.” 

She stared at him for a while longer, her face as inscrutable as her presence in the Force. “Myl’ika speaks well of you,” she said at last. “He says that you are tenacious and have a habit of enduring in the face of challenges.” She crossed her arms. “The latter remains to be seen.”

“He honours me, madam... - ah, my apologies, what is the proper form of address for you?” he said sheepishly.

She cracked a small smile, the first expression he had seen from her. “You may call me Vaird’alor.”

Obi-Wan opened his mouth to repeat the odd title back, paused, and then scrunched his face slightly as he thought. After a moment, he leaned towards Cabur Dral and asked quietly, “Am I hearing things or is that a pun?”

They barked a laugh. “Yes, that’s a play on the title of Verd’alor, which she also holds. Well spotted.”

Obi-Wan faced the Vaird’alor, who now had a look of distinct amusement dancing across her features. “Then your son honours me, Vaird’alor,” he repeated. “I hope to live up to his words.”

“We shall see,” she said, flipping back into business mode. “With me, Kenobi.” He followed her to one of the sparring rings, where maybe a dozen soldiers were waiting, standing around out of their armour. They were only a few years older than him, maybe twenty at most, and most of them had visible scars. One, near the middle of the pack, was heavily muscled and Obi-Wan would place money on them ending up as heavy infantry or the like. A Togruta near the back was far leaner, so he suspected they relied on endurance more than brute strength. A white band wrapped around the edges of their sleeves, a mark of rank, perhaps? As he sized them up, they did the same to him, looking him up and down. They tapped rhythmic patterns back and forth on their thighs - Obi-Wan had seen it often enough to deduce it to be a sort of code known by most, if not all, Mandalorians. He wondered what weaknesses they saw, what they were expecting from him. He saw some sneers, as he expected, and breathed through the aggression pointed at him through the Force.

“You will spar with each of these trainees, one by one, so that we may determine your fighting style, proficiency, and endurance. Are you prepared to begin?” said the Vaird’alor.

Startled by the revelation, it took Obi-Wan a moment to reply. “No,” he blurted out. “I mean, not quite, Vaird’alor,” he amended, remembering his manners. “What are the rules? Is it a no-holds-barred spar? If not, what is off the proverbial table? What ends the spar? Is it to yield, unconsciousness, or first blood?” He very carefully did not mention fights to the death or even allude to them being on the said proverbial table. “I would rather not enter a spar when the rules are unclear.”

One of the soldiers huffed, elbowed the other closest to them and sneered: “Well look at that, there is a brain under all those robes.”

Obi-Wan nearly reared back in offence but stopped himself just in time, reducing his reaction to their rudeness to a twitch. “Thank you, but that doesn’t answer my questions.”

“It wasn’t a compliment.” The other responded, an ugly look twisting their face as they uncrossed their arms and balled their fists threateningly.

“I didn’t take it as one.” He refused to back down as the older human stepped forward and crowded him, looking them straight in the eyes. They kept up their staring match until the Vaird’alor forcefully pushed them apart.

“That’s enough, Saxon. Cool it, before I put you on the second watch for a month. You wouldn’t treat the older foundlings like this, would you?!” she exclaimed.

Saxon stepped back, eyes ablaze and body language still hostile. “No, Alor. But he’s not a foundling, he’s a Jetii. It’s different.”

She opened her mouth, but Obi-Wan interjected first, getting tired of facing this attitude everywhere he went. It may have made him blunter and harsher than he needed to be - especially as a diplomat in training - but Qui-Gon wasn’t here to chastise him or stop him. “Of course it’s different. I was born with the ability to manipulate the Force, meaning that the Jedi Temple was one of the only places in the galaxy safe for me. Because of where and how I was raised, I am a member of a culture that has been at odds with yours since they first interacted, made worse and worse by every confrontation. Given that I was sent here as a sacrificial lamb by a government that cares naught for me or mine, you are more than welcome - nigh invited, even - to take all of your pent-up rage out on the sixteen-year-old Jedi Padawan who can do absolutely nothing to stop you. I’m nothing like a foundling. Those are precious to you, I am a punching bag sent in a gift basket.” The more he spoke, the more the faces around him paled and people nearby stopped to stare at him open-mouthed. Obi-Wan glanced around and noticed the staring. “Again, what is with you eavesdropping on private conversations?! By the Force, you would think that I never left the Temple!”

Saxon, still recovering from Obi-Wan’s outburst, said nothing, they simply stood there with their mouth hanging open. Vaird’alor had no such issues. “Do Jedi eavesdrop often, then?”

Obi-Wan snorted. “Jedi gossip , that’s what we do. It’s a widely-held belief amongst us that, should we ever cease our gossiping, the Temple walls would collapse for lack of hot air holding them up.” 

The Vaird’alor barked a laugh. “Cheeky,” she said, then turned to the surrounding eavesdroppers scattered throughout this section of the training ground. “All right, you lot!” She hollered, “Back to work or it’s push-ups for all of you!” With a sigh, she turned back to Obi-Wan and the group of trainees. She pointed at Obi-Wan and said, “We will talk about what you said later, you need a mind healer.”

“With respect, I had one on Coruscant; perhaps the Mand’alor would allow me to comm them. No offense intended, I don’t know if I would trust any here yet with that sort of personal information. Especially considering how things have gone so far.” Obi-Wan smiled wryly, taking the sting out of his words. “If you please, the rules for the spar?”

“Right.” She turned her attention to the trainees. “A’sarad, list out the rules for sparring. Every rule you leave out is a lap around Keldabe, so don’t try it.”

A Zyggerian only a few years older than Obi-Wan stepped forwards with measured steps and stood at attention. “Elek, Alor. Solus: No live weaponry unless previously agreed and consented to by all parties with an Alor watching and medics on immediate standby. T’ad: All spars end at yield. Unconsciousness is for bar fights, first blood is for Challenges, and death is for Duels. Any lack of control causing the above will result in remedial training during free time or more severe punishments as warranted. Ehn: Straying out of the designated ring constitutes a yield. Cuir: No headshots or neckshots, all other parts are fair game. Rayshe’a: If no parties yield after half an hour has passed, the spar is declared a draw. Resol: No outsider interference. Only those within the ring are involved unless an Alor feels the need to intervene.”

Obi-Wan absorbed this information carefully, making sure he remembered everything correctly. All in all, it wasn’t too different from the Temple. He nodded. “I can do that,” he said “So!” he continued cheerfully as he hopped onto the mats, “Who gets to beat me up first?”

Chapter Text

Obi-Wan nodded. “I can do that,” he said “So!” he continued cheerfully as he hopped onto the mats, rubbing his hands together. “Who gets to beat me up first?”

Before anyone though could move, a padded half-cylinder bounced off his head followed by another. He turned slightly to see the Vaird’alor staring at him with a deadpan expression, more of the soft items in odd shapes in her hands and piled around her feet. “Not so fast Jet’ika. Do you not bother with proper protection before getting in the ring?”

Obi-Wan ducked his head sheepishly before ducking back under the ropes. “The Force provides?” he answered blithely, the quip camouflaging (he hoped) his embarrassment.

“Not good enough, Kenobi.” And so, under the watchful eyes of the Vaird’alor, his future opponents, and any other Mandalorian who deigned to watch, Obi-Wan put on the unfamiliar padded sparring arm-guards, shin-guards, chest plate, and thigh-plates. They were clearly modelled after Mandalorian armour and as such they moulded against his limbs oddly, feeling sort of like new boots that hadn’t been broken in yet.

When he was satisfied that the padding was secure - and done a few small ataru aerials to test it - he looked towards the Vaird’alor. “Who’s first?”

She gave him her own visual once over before replying, satisfied with the amount of sparring gear he had on “Your first opponent is Gar Saxon,” she said, gesturing to one of the Mandalorians in their group who was finishing putting on their own padding. There were three in total who had geared up - they were probably his next opponents.

Saxon’s head shot up and Obi-Wan recognized him as the Human who’d insulted him earlier. An uncharacteristic flash of fear crossed their face when they gave him their own once over but instead found the armour lacking… what had Obi-Wan missed?  “Not while he still has his Jetii magics, I’m not!” 

Oh. He hadn't missed anything. He was just dealing with another prejudiced Mando who wouldn't give him or his people a chance. Lovely.

Obi-Wan rolled his eyes. How can someone be that afraid to put their money where their mouth is? He wondered internally. “You want me to spar you without my biggest sense?” he said instead, raising an eyebrow. "That is quite the handicap to demand of an opponent when testing their mettle." Is that the only way you think you can beat me, he didn’t say, but it was a near thing.

“Let’s go with “yes”, at least for the morning,” Vaird’alor interjected before things could get heated with crossed arms. “I want to see what you can do without it.” 

It took only a moment for a Force-cuff in his size to be found, but then several minutes for padding for both the inside and around the exterior to be cobbled together - after all, it wasn’t like the Mandos to care for the comfort of their prisoners or whether the cuffs were safe for sparring. Once the device passed the Vaird’alor’s careful inspection,  Obi-Wan had a gentle Force-suppressant cuff that slid under his arm pads. He’d sent a quick message along his Force-bonds so his family wouldn’t worry at his sudden disappearance in the Force and snapped it on. He tried very hard not to ask just why the Mandalorians had a Force inhibitor - in his size no less - on hand, but it was hard to keep the creeping fear away.

During his spar against Saxon, Obi-Wan was able to ignore the Force-inhibitor to a reasonable extent - he was fresh enough that he didn’t need to lean on the Force for strength or endurance, and spite made for a very good motivator.

Saxon yielded within three minutes. Obi-Wan mentally patted himself on the back for his victory, then cursed himself for using up too much energy in his first spar. Rookie move , he thought to himself.

Obi-Wan graciously accepted his water bottle as it was handed to him by a Togruta (who introduced herself as Tari Wren) and took a large gulp. He nodded to his next opponent, A’sarad, the Zyggerian as they climbed into the ring. He shook his limbs a bit, feeling a heaviness he attributed to the cuffs. He strongly disliked the biting feel of the metal and the buzz of his blocked sense, making the world feel off . But even as he chafed under the suppressant, that feeling still paled in comparison next to the weight of their distrust and of their fear that would have them turn on him in a moment. Every second he wore that infernal piece of jewelry was another moment he was vulnerable - blinded - in hostile territory.

His distraction due to the insidious thoughts about why they had an inhibitor so handy was apparent in his second match. It was already a bad match-up to start: A’sarad had almost a whole head extra height on him and thus a much longer reach. While Obi-Wan was faster, he had less time to maneuver in and out of reach. Which, once paired with his distraction and disorientation from losing access to the Force, made him lose within a few minutes. His third match went somewhat better - he remained focused on the match and won using the leg-sweep/elbow jab combination Feemor taught him - and his fourth resulted in a draw.

While the ring was quickly wiped down between rounds, Obi-Wan took a moment to towel off the sweat building up in his hair and at his neck before greedily drinking the remainder of his water. Taking a deep breath, Obi-Wan sized up his new opponent. At first glance, Obi-Wan was sure that this Mandalorian would be a tank-style fighter and would use strength to try to overpower him.

His break was over all too soon as the ring was declared reset then the match's start was called. He was then quickly proven right about his opponent. As soon as Vaird’alor called “Begin!” the other darted forward, closing the distance with all the subtlety of a podracer. Obi-Wan found himself dodging powerful punches as the Devaronian herded him and tried to trap him by the edge of the ring. He could tell that the odds weren’t in his favour, so he adapted. He was tired and his opponent was taller, stronger, and not worn out.

He used as little energy as possible: redirecting attacks where possible and spinning away to conserve momentum when it was not. Even so, this sort of defence was tiring - sliding away from the punches thrown at him, weaving around the jabs, twisting away from kicks. He needed to conserve all his energy, and so focused on evasion instead of trying to breach the Devaronian’s defence. I’d be like a fly attacking a speeder’s windshield, he thought good-naturedly. Squashed in an instant. So he let the kicks and punches fly by where he may have otherwise captured and turned the fight into a grappling contest. Against an opponent like this, taking it to the ground would be the start of an inevitable end. With this game of rapid tooka and mouse, he still had a chance so long as he didn't take a hit full on and wasn't grappled. 

As time wore on, he did his best to keep his defence impenetrable. Biding his time until he would hopefully see an opening he could leverage without putting himself in a bad position. Unfortunately, while it worked for a while, the Devaronian managed to slip a fist under his arms to land a blow solidly into the pads around his chest.

His breath left him in a great whoosh as his torso curled around the blow. He tried to reorient himself quickly, but the Mandalorian knocked him down with a swift follow-up kick behind the knees.

The second he hit the mats, Obi-Wan rolled to the side for some distance before trying to spring back upright. It didn’t work. The Devaronian - he really should have caught a name - knocked him back over with a casual backfist and followed him down to grapple - hauling his arms behind his back and then flattened themselves to him, keeping Obi-Wan firmly on the mats through both weight and leverage on his arms.

He tried to wriggle his way out of the hold, but to no avail. The Devaronian simply laid a heavy hand on his neck to keep him down. When their hand first made contact with skin, their fingers tightened slightly in an implied threat before they suddenly froze. Obi-Wan tried to take advantage and weakly bucked but they were unmoved, slowly moving their hand to pull the collar of his shirt down a few centimetres. “What the-,” they exclaimed loudly, almost unconscious of their words.

Ice flooded Obi-Wan’s veins. He suddenly knew exactly what they had noticed and were now staring at. He tapped his hand on the mats twice, the non-verbal signal for “I yield.” Still in shock, the Mandalorian let him go on pure reflex. Obi-Wan leapt up as soon as he could and hastily pulled his collar back up in an attempt to hide the distinctive scarring.

“What’s going on?” demanded the Vaird’alor. When neither of them answered, she rounded on Obi-Wan’s opponent. “Rook, din’kartay. Jii .”

Still standing on the mats, the Devaronian - Rook - was staring at Obi-Wan with their red face pale with shock. “I- Kenobi, who did that to you?” they asked.

“I don’t see how that’s any of your business,” Obi-Wan replied coolly. He glared at Rook in a clear non-verbal sign to leave it the kriff alone , but it was to no avail.

“You're an ad under our Mand'alor's protection. It is certainly business of ours - if only to make sure we accommodate for those circumstances. While  the physical scars are fully healed, the trauma lingers.” Rook pressed on. “And I know what puts that kind of scar on a person, so when were you going to mention that you know what it’s like to have a bomb collar on your neck! I wouldn't have gone for a neck pin!” they finished hysterically. 

In the wake of Rook’s outburst, the nearby training grounds were once again silent as Mandalorians listened in and froze with the latest revelation - this time in horror.

Obi-Wan seethed with anger. This was why he’d kept a notice-me-not on his neck, this was why he chose high-collared tunics or shirts, and now everyone knew anyway. Great. 

“I wasn’t planning on sharing that particular piece of information,” he said through clenched teeth, “because my past is none of your damn business .”

The Vaird’alor crossed her arms. “Yeah, that’s not good enough, kid,” she said, staring him down.

“Too bad,” he replied. “I don’t owe you any explanation for my traumas. Unless of course, you'd all like to share the source of every single one of your past scars and what led to you getting them… what? No takers? No one else wants to share moments where they screwed up or were screwed over by someone? Almost like that's really personal .” He marched over to the bench where his water bottle lay on his towel. He took a big gulp and continued, “Calm down. It didn't happen to you or anyone you care about so stop acting like it's a personal slight. It's over and done with, and I'm fine so it’s not that big of a deal.”

“What’s not that big of a deal?” called a familiar voice from the side of the arena closest to their ring.

Obi-Wan closed his eyes and took a deep breath before turning to see the Mand’alor standing a few meters away, with his arms crossed and one eyebrow raised... Who ratted on him? There was no other reason for him to be in the yard aside from being summoned to come gawk at the Jetii dancing monkey. 

“Absolutely nothing,” Obi-Wan hurried to say. "It's in the past."

“He’s got scars from a bomb collar, Mand’alor!” interjected Rook as they came off the mats.

“And I distinctly remember telling you to stay out of it,” Obi-Wan shot back.

“I’m sorry,” Jas’lor said in an overly calm voice that betrayed the rage underneath, “you’re telling me that you’ve experienced wearing a bomb collar long enough that it left scars . An infernal device that is only ever used on slaves by depraved shabuire - and you want us to stay out of it?” With every word, the Mand’alor stepped forwards until he was close enough to lift a gentle hand and move the fabric by Obi-Wan's neck, exposing the jagged white lines on the bottom of Obi-Wan’s neck once more. “It may not be their business, but as the adult in charge of your well-being, it is certainly mine . And probably also the baar'ur if I know Br. Fen at all.”

Obi-Wan made a noise of extreme frustration, carelessly knocking Jas’lor's hand aside to fix his collar all the while staring defiantly at the King. “What does it even matter? It happened, it’s in the past. It’s done. There’s no way to undo it, so there’s no need to concern yourselves with it.”

The Mand’alor’s eyes went stony. Even without the Force, Obi-Wan could tell that he’d somehow gone too far. “It matters to me,” Jas’lor bit out, “Mandalore objects to slavers, especially those who deal in children. I have been charged with your safety and I will see it through. Now who did that to you and when?” His tone made it clear that it was an order, not a question.

Obi-Wan laughed humourlessly. “Surprisingly,” he said, his voice laden thickly with sarcasm, “While Mandalore objects, it was the reason I was in such a position. After all, Mandalorians are not the only members of the “Hate The Jedi” club. I mean really,” he scoffed, “between pirates, the Hutts, the Zygerrians, half the Republic, and the entirety of the Galactic underworld, you really do not have a monopoly of the Jedi kill-count - even accounting for indirect causes of death.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Asked the Vaird’alor. Offence coloured her tone - which he knew he’d regret later considering he would likely be working with her again - but Obi-Wan was very frustrated, tired of having his trauma demanded from him like it was their right and more than a little afraid of both the Mandalorians around him and his lack of the Force.

“It means that, regardless of whether or not you have the absolute best of intentions, I’m under no illusions that I will likely ever see the Jedi Temple again,” he said coolly. “It means that more Jedi have died in the last three years than in the decade before that.” he tilted his head slightly in a mockery of a question and went on, “I do wonder what could have happened in the interim that made Jedi hunting so easy, don’t you, Mand’alor?”

Jas’lor’s brown pinched in confusion. Fired up as he was now, Obi-Wan didn’t stop. “I mean, it’s not like you suggested that the Order be more transparent, right? And it’s not as if that lead to the forced and immediate declassification of all mission files, completed or ongoing, putting every Jedi in the field in danger.” Obi-Wan could see the instant the Mand’alor put two and two together by the way his tan face grew several shades lighter. “Despite the importance and vulnerability of these Republic-sanctioned missions, no courtesy was given to allow for even an hour's advanced warning. Oh, but it was fine, after all the Jedi could just send rescue missions for the undercover Jedi whose cover had just gotten blown. Those hiding on hostile worlds, those discretely investigating corruption, those undercover on rescue missions, and those infiltrating gangs, slave rings, and crime rings alike - oh wait,” he said, clapping his hands. The sound reverberated harshly against the walls of the arena, the only noise amongst the horrified silence. “We couldn’t do that either!” Obi-Wan exclaimed. “So when the Daan Elders found out exactly why the Young were doing so much better than before, they did the logical thing and removed the threat. Why would they care that the Jedi in question was just thirteen? It ups the selling price,” he sneered.

“They- they sold you?” whispered Jas’lor, horrified.

“Of course they did,” Obi-Wan shrugged. “Force-sensitives, especially trained ones, are difficult to hold unless you have the proper equipment, which they did not, and a young, trained, red-headed Force-sensitive goes for…” he drifted off, trying to recall the precise digit. “I was worth… I want to say upwards of two million credits?” he nodded, that seemed right. “I may not remember the exact figure, but I know that there were seven digits and that the first one was a two. Certainly enough to fund their war against their own children for a few more years at least. And I certainly wasn't the only one! Nevermind those fully trained Jedi who were unfortunate enough to not die when their cover was blown and are now in tenuous situations across the galaxy. Our records of Force-blessed children were also released by the powers that be in an effort to comply with the spirit of your request. Families across the galaxy who chose not to give their child to the Jedi have been attacked. If they're lucky, they escape with their lives, maybe even with their child, but all too often we've gotten reports of entire villages destroyed as anyone interested in unprotected, untrained, malleable Force-sensitives came calling." Obi-Wan couldn't help the painful words tumbling from his lips. They had kept pushing as though they could fix what they had unknowingly caused . As though they thought his Master had not taken care of the threat and that they instead needed to be saviours to the weak Jedi. "Surely you've heard the rumours and reports by now Alor of such things. More violence and raids, and fewer Jedi to follow up on them. I was lucky. I was able to escape and deal with those who had me. So now you know how I got these scars. Is your curiosity satisfied? Was the story good enough? Are you entertained? ” 

He turned on his heel abruptly, wrenching off his lower-arm pads as he went. He needed to meditate, he needed to get himself under control before he said or did something he’d really regret. He twisted the cuffs aggressively until he found the latch, unlocking them swiftly. He pulled them off his wrists and braced for the Force to flood back into him.

It wasn’t enough.

It was as though he'd walked into a tunnel with how the path stretched and distorted in front of him while sound began to echo and come from a distance. Distantly, he could feel his knees buckle as the Force swept his mind away. Before the vision fully took hold, Obi-Wan felt his head strike off the ground followed by muffled voices. The sound distorting further, sounding as if there were thick wads of cotton in his ears. Blurry faces swam in his dimming vision, then everything went black.

Chapter Text

Jaster was reeling from the implications of Obi-Wan's impassioned rant. When Jaster had pushed for accountability, he had wanted proof for his people that such a terrible event couldn't happen again.

He hadn't meant to cause a mini-genocide of his own!

Worse still, unlike the Jetiise, he couldn't blame it on sabotage and having to rush to try to save the lives of ade trapped in a civil war. That couldn’t be true, the ad must be exaggerating a bit from stress. Right? He couldn't have…

He was so distracted by his thoughts, he failed to see the warning signs until it was too late as the ad’s eyes rolled back and his knees buckled. Jaster sprung forward in an attempt to catch him before the Jet’ika’s head hit the unforgiving ground of the arena. He fell to his knees in his hurry to catch the ad, ignoring the flare of pain from his joints as they hit the hard rubber surface, only for the boy to slip through his hands, fingers closing over thin air.

But he didn’t react in time. In the holo’s people collapse slowly - dramatically, giving the hero enough time to close the distance and catch the victim. Jaster, on the other hand, reached Obi-Wan just as the boy’s head hit the hard-rubber mats with a painful-sounding “thunk”. Jaster only had time to lift Obi-Wan’s head when Dral gently pushed him out of the way, taking over checking the ad’s head and spine for serious injury.

Their glare acted as a deterrent to other potential do-gooders as Jaster called for a baar’ur. He shuffled over on his knees to begin doing a standard med-check on the rest of the ad, his joints complaining as he did so, but he deftly ignored it for now. The pain was temporary after all, and thus secondary to his worry. He carefully pulled off the remaining padding on Obi-Wan’s body, searching for any alarming coloured or rapidly blooming bruises, unnatural skin hardness, bleeding, breaks, anything that would explain his sudden loss of consciousness. He carefully didn’t examine any scars that he found on Obi-Wan’s torso - the ad had a point, they’d violated his privacy enough. His search yielded no results as he scanned Obi-Wan’s face for any twinges of pain as he prodded the boy’s ribs. Still nothing, so he reached for the other side, just to rule it out-

“Alor, the cuffs are off,” Dral said quietly. “He fiddled with them every free moment, I don’t think he was even aware he was doing so. Do you think…?”

“What?” Jaster said, abruptly breaking out of his hyper-focused pat-down. The Goran lifted Obi-Wan’s wrist, showing the small indents in Obi-Wan’s skin where the Force-suppressant cuffs had rested a few moments prior. “Is this Force-osik, then?” he wondered aloud.

“Oh, Ka’ra,” Rylis said abruptly from behind Dral, shock and horror lacing her words. Jaster glanced up to see his vod with her hand clapped over her rapidly paling face. “This happens to Malei sometimes, it- it can take hours for her to come back.” Her youngest, a four-year-old Twi-lek adopted on a raid in Hutt space, was Manda-touched - in Mandalorian space, it was as much of a death sentence as a chronic illness. Everyone knew an ad who was taken by the Manda and never returned to their bodies. Could something similar impact Jetiise? Did the Force work the same as the Ka’ra’s gift of the Manda? If that happened to Obi-Wan, on Jaster’s watch…

“He is not dying on us, I refuse to give up on him just because he’s not one of ours yet. He’s here because of me, so we are going to take care of him.” Jaster bit out, a plan forming in his head. 

“But I- Jaster, we don’t know how to save our own Kot’tigaanu ade! How can we keep him alive when he’s so much more powerful than them-” Rylis said, her voice getting faster and faster with fear. “We know nothing of the blasted Force!”

“Except now we do know who has that knowledge,” he interrupted his commander. “And from what I hear, they’re willing to share. Ryl, I need you to get the Jetii’lore on the comms - I don’t care how you do it.” She nodded and ran off with one last fearful look at Obi-Wan’s prone body.

Once they’d confirmed a lack of spinal injury, Dral shifted Obi-Wan’s head to ease the awkward way he’d landed and remove the strain on his neck and gasped as the skin of their wrist touched the back of the boy’s head. Their eyes went wide and the colour drained from their ahwey. “We’re singing,” they whispered. 

Jaster could only just hear their horrified muttering over the chaos around them. “Meg?” he demanded, confused by the non-sequitur.

“We’re singing as we slaughter them,” Dral repeated, their wide eyes glazed as they stared into the Manda. “Their home is burning and there are bodies all around, and we’re singing of Kote . As though it is great glory to cause an Annihilation like the one we hate them for.”

Jaster cursed. “I know what he’s Seeing then, or at least the gist of it.” If he focused, Jaster could hear the Manda swirling around the Armourer and Jetii. It was more concentrated around Dral but was mixed with… something around the Jet’ika’s head. Maybe that was the Force? Jaster shrugged mentally - he was as Force-sensitive as a rock and his strong, active connection to the Manda was due to his position as Mand’alor instead of any natural inclination - but there were more important things to focus on. “Do you think we can move him?”

“Maybe, if I keep contact with him the whole time?”

“Good. We’re getting him to the infirmary.” Right on time, a baar’ur came running across the field, pulling a sluggish hover-stretcher behind them and dropped next to them with a medkit. Jaster recognized him as one of Fen’s newer medics, a Bith from Aliit Kast. Jaster thinks he was introduced as Thadul Kast? Maybe Kadul Kast. Baar'ur Kast. “We’re going to need that stretcher.”

“Agreed,” muttered the baar’ur, rustling through his kit and pulling things out while casting a professional eye over his new patient, “we’ll do that once I’ve done a preliminary…”

“No, we need to do it now,” Jaster insisted. “Right now, he’s watching as Mando’ade slaughter his entire people, including ade and ik’aade, in the Jetii Temple on Coruscant. If he wakes up surrounded by armour, I don’t even want to imagine what could happen. We need to get him out of the arena.” For a split second, all motion ceased as the Mando’ade around Jaster, Dral, and Obi-Wan stared at the three of them in rising horror. There are whispers that spread like wildfire throughout the space as those close by filled in those further back, Jaster only catching snippets: “We take Coruscant?” “The ade AND ik’aade?” “Why would we do that?” “Good! Let them have a taste of their own medicine.” “But the ade?”

Blast. He may need to do damage control later, depending on how his people reacted to him blurting out Obi-Wan’s frightful vision.

Baar’ur Kast shook himself. “Right,” and without further delay, he got Obi-Wan on a stretcher and began making their way to the infirmary entrance on the side of the arena. As soon as they entered the bar’uure’s domain, both Dral and Jaster were pushed away from Obi-Wan’s prone body. 

“I need to keep holding him,” Dral protested, keeping their grip doggedly despite attempts to nudge them away, as the veritable horde of baar'ure tried to get them to join Jaster. They swallowed thickly, their gills making an audible pop as they did so. “I’m holding onto him in the Manda too. I don’t want to find out what could happen to Obi-Wan if I let go - in either sense.” The medics paused for just a moment to adjust from “medical emergency” to “Manda-medical emergency”. Once they made the mental shift, they quickly began examining Obi-Wan - the only thing Jaster understood in the flurry of activity was the vitals monitor they hooked the boy up to.

Just then, Rylis burst in, an active holocomm in her hand. “Alor, I have the Jetii Council!” she declared, still frazzled. Indeed, the hologram showed a Jetii - Jaster was pretty sure that was Windu - flanked by Obi-Wan’s Jetii’buir and a few others sprinting through wide hallways. They were moving far faster than any sentient should be moving without vehicular assistance, which Jaster found slightly unfair and slightly nauseating as their surroundings flickered past rapidly.

“Hello, Mand’alor,” Windu said. 

Ka’ra, he’s not even out of breath! Jaster thought. Baar’ur Kast bustled his colleagues alone as they continued with what little they could do for Obi-Wan while Baa’ur’alor Fen came to join Jaster.

“What, pray tell, prompted you to put our Padawan in Force-blocking cuffs ?” Oh, that man was pissed .

“We didn’t know it’d have this effect on him!” Jaster protested. “We just thought it would be similar to sparring while blindfolded, not that it would cause him pain - physical or mental!!” He was getting hysterical, Jaster registered. He forced himself to calm down - there was a time and place for hysterics and this was not it. “He didn’t say anything! We didn’t know this would happen, Master Windu,” Jaster said after a few deep breaths. “ I didn’t know. For whatever it’s worth, I’m sorry.”

Whatever Windu was about to say was cut off by a Kiffar teenager who dropped into frame after falling from some height to intercept the group of Jetiise. The Jet’ika was a few years away from adulthood, but already bore their clan tattoos on their face, the crisp yellow line distorted by how the ad’s face twisted up in a mixture of anger and fear. Could this be one of Obi-Wan’s agemates? “What the kark did you do to Ben?!!” they demanded, trying to snatch the comm from Windu, the older Jetii carefully dodging out of the way.

“Padawan Vos!” Windu exclaimed as they seemingly reached the Jetii hospital. “I understand your worry for Obi-Wan but-”

“It was like he died , he wasn’t there anymore, and then he was so scared - and- and now he’s slipping and-”

“Padawan!” another human rushed into the holo emitter’s frame and tugged the Kiffar (Vos?) out of frame, leaving Windu frazzled and calling for one “Healer Che! It’s Obi-Wan!”

A Twi-lek came bursting into the holo screen, a tasuki binding the traditional long sleeves of her robes and tunics back and out of the way. Mace put the comm down and rapidly filled her in, causing the other to dart around pulling out data-pads and flimsy while looking increasingly more concerned. 

Jaster didn’t understand half of the Force-medical jargon that flew between the Jetiise on Coruscant, but he did understand “- Obi-Wan might slip too far into the Force this time!” This exclamation by this Healer Che left the Jetiise Jaster could see reeling in various states of stupor - Jaster was fairly sure he could hear Vos crying off to the side.

He licked his lips nervously. “I’m going to need you to explain that,” he said, drawing their attention back to the comm. He hoped he sounded far more confident than he felt.

Master Windu and Healer Che shared a glance. “In a moment,” the Jetii’baar’ur said. “We need to stabilize him first. Qui-Gon, are you able to-” she began to ask, turning to Obi-Wan’s Master.

He shook his head vigorously. “Our bond is stretched too far - it takes all my strength to keep it stable.”

Che cursed before turning to the side, looking off-comm. “Quinlan, can you still reach him?”

Vos - Quinlan - entered the holo’s range again, sniffling through tears. “Yeah,” he said wetly, swiping at the tears still pooling in his eyes roughly. “We were able to talk a few times, but he said we should stop. Ben said he wanted to follow the spirit of your stupid rules, not just the letter.”

Jaster closed his eyes in self-reprimand. What else didn’t he know about caring for a Jet’ika? How was he even supposed to make sensible rules for his ward when he didn’t even know what the ad could do? “ When Obi-Wan is stable,” he began, doing everything he could to keep his voice steady, “I need you to send me resources for caring for a Force-sensitive teenager. I don’t want to hurt him, especially not through my ignorance of his needs. The logical answer to that problem is to remove my ignorance.” He took a deep breath before focusing his eyes again on the comm, “But that’s for later, you think you can help him?”

Fen who had been quietly watching off to the side then took the chance to interject, “What even is happening?”

Healer Che looked Fen over, and upon seeing the symbol on her pauldron, nodded from one professional to another. “It’s common for a Jedi with a strong connection to a certain aspect of the Force to get swept away in its currents. In some cases, they sink so deep into the Force that their bodies become… inconsequential. We are luminous beings and going so deep into the Force calls to that part of our being. They do not consciously choose to leave the physical plane, they just see so much more that they… forget to return. The link between their mind and their body dissolves and they fully join the Force.”

Next to Jaster, Rylis sucked in a fearful breath, Her poor ad… Is that what happened with their Kot’tigaanu? Those who marched ahead welcoming them so thoroughly amongst them that they forget to come back and pass on the report to their living Aliit? 

“Normally, if this happens in the Temple, the Jedi in question is surrounded by other, more experienced Jedi who try to coax their minds back into their bodies. In the field, their Masters or mission partners do this. If they are on their own, a Jedi must rely on their shielding and their strength to resist the flow of the Force. It is one of the reasons we limit solo missions to Senior Padawans and above - even with time limits on their missions. Currently, Obi-Wan has none of those failsafes. Furthermore, he has reported a rapid deterioration of his mental shields - frighteningly rapid deterioration.”

Jaster felt a sinking feeling in his stomach. Is that what those odd comments were about during those supervised comms? He thought. I dismissed them as headaches, why did I dismiss his comments so quickly? Especially considering how quietly concerned those on the other end of the comm had been. Jaster berated himself mentally and strengthened his resolve to learn as much as he could about Force-sensitives so that he wouldn’t be caught off-guard again. 

During her impromptu lesson, the remaining baar’ure gathered around the comm to glean some information on how to treat their patient, as what little they could do had been accomplished. One enterprising baar’ur was even taking notes, a stubby little piece of graphite stylus flying over the flimsy. In the background of the holo, Windu and the unknown Jetii were helping Vos calm himself and lie down.

“That’s where Quinlan comes in,” Healer Che said, gesturing to the trio. “He and Obi-Wan have the strongest Force-bond in our recovered history - if anyone can reach far enough to tether Obi-Wan’s mind back to its body, it’s him. He will be in a guided meditation with two Masters of the Force, so he doesn’t slip as well. With the distance involved and their age, we don’t want to take any unnecessary risks.”

“So,” Baar’ur Fen said, “this is just Force osik? Is there anything physically we can do to help?”

Che sighed, rubbing an absent hand over one of her smooth lekku. “When it comes to Jedi, Mand’alor, just about everything is. An IV to hydrate and provide essential nutrients for a near-human will help sustain his physical body, but the real fight is all in the metaphysical.”

Jaster turned his focus back over to where Dral was sitting, holding one of Obi-Wan’s hands while their other hand rested on his forehead; the boy’s breathing had both deepened and steadied. Both are good signs, his mind whispered. Unsatisfied by a visual assessment, Jaster pulled on the Manda to get a better look at what was happening in the room. In its swirls and echoes, he could clearly see Dral, a bastion of strength and knowledge. Wrapped in their embrace was a bright spark - Jaster could only assume that spark was Obi-Wan - as harsh currents of… something buffeted over Dral’s mental beskar’gam. Jaster reached out with the Manda, trying to reach Obi-Wan, but the unknown something pushed him back and away.

Notyoursnotyet , it seemed to say, a million voices speaking directly into his mind. The pressure behind his eyes multiplied and Jaster closed his eyes to block out the light that now felt like it was stabbing into his retinas. Soonbutnotyet, the voices whispered.

“Oh,” Jaster said aloud. That something, that current he saw in the Manda, must be the Force. He shook his head to dispel the pressure behind his eyes with limited results. Much more cautiously, Jaster slipped back into the Manda and carefully wound up some of the emotions lodged behind his kar’ta beskar into a ball of NicetaI’mworriedner ad and gently lobbed it towards Obi-Wan’s spark.

What he assumed to be the Force caught it. The Force must have been pleased with his attempted offering because he received a feeling that was vaguely like innumerable hands ruffling his hair affectionately.

The pressure behind his eyes grew. As Jaster focused on Obi-Wan, he saw an echo of another spark fading into existence next to their Jet’ika. It wasn’t an echo the way the Manda was full of echoes - boots marching, a child’s laughter, blasterfire, the trilling of a bes’bev, all the sounds that could ever make up life as a Mando’ad - but in the sense that a long-distance comm call left echoes in the deep nothingness of empty space. As if this new spark were in two places at once and had left a trail behind them to find their way home.

Obi-Wan brightened in the light of this new spark, seeming to focus and sharpen, and Jaster felt a wave of pure, unbridled joy wash over him. In the Manda, the two sparks - Vos and Kenobi, his rational mind told him - gently moved around each other like binary suns. 

Slowly, carefully , Dral let the two sparks out of their mental beskar’gam. Jaster watched like a shriek-hawk as the echoed spark gently coaxed Obi-Wan through the waves of the Force and back into his body. 

For a moment, Jaster’s vision doubled. 

On one layer, he saw the infirmary with its bustling baar’ure, some tending to other patients while others were in a very jargon-heavy discussion with Master Che. He saw Dral with a hand on Obi-Wan’s forehead and sitting a vigil for the boy. On the other layer, Jaster saw Obi-Wan’s spark descend back into his body, cradled by Vos. As Obi-Wan reconnected with his body, his spark shot down his nerves and muscles, while Vos’s spark curled up around him like a warm, heavy, metaphysical blanket.

Blinking through the pain that was now beginning to truly stab behind his eyes, Jaster stepped out of the eddies of the Manda swirling around the room. “I think he might be stable now?” he said in what was hopefully the general direction of the comms, to both the Jetiise and the healers at large. Black dots swam in his vision and the ground seemed to liquefy beneath his feet. He sat down heavily in one of the visitor’s chairs, just barely avoiding Rylis’s arm and the comm in her hand as he did so. “Before I pass out,” he said to the vocal alarm of the baar’ure, “I really need any “Caring For Jedi Kids” handbooks you can give me. I don’ wanna hurt ‘im ‘gain.” Jaster was slurring by the end and - oh look! The world was tilting! 

Why was the world tilting?

Before he could figure out the answer to that question, the world went dark. In the moments between his body falling asleep and his mind going to sleep, Jaster heard a voice warm as the central fire of a karyai chuckle. “Di’kutla ade,” the voice said fondly. “Now I have both sides of my aliit trying to keep him.”

Chapter Text

When Ob’ika woke up, Dral was prepared for the exhaustion, the anger, and the determination that had filled the young Jetii’s face before his collapse. They weren’t prepared for the shaky breath or the moist eyes that instead greeted them. Wrongfooted, they gently placed a hand on Obi-Wan’s shoulder to offer wordless comfort, “What’s wrong, ad?” they asked carefully.

Obi-Wan sniffed. “Um, while Qu- Quin and I were- were meditating together after he brought me back to- back to my body,” the boy began, stumbling a bit through his words as his voice grew thicker, “My Crechemaster’s Crechemaster, Grandmaster An Dré passed into the Force.” Obi-Wan let out a slow breath, wiping at his eyes. He choked back another sob, “Why did the Force call him home when I was gone? Why was that last ‘see-you-later’ actually 'goodbye'?” 

Oh, Dral thought, their shoulders slumping in sympathy. “Oh, Obi-Wan,” they said as they gently squeezed Obi-Wan’s shoulder, not presuming to try for a hug yet. 

Obi-Wan reached up and clung to it like a lifeline, his fingers white with how hard they gripped: as though Dral’s hand was the only thing keeping him from being blown away. He began to tremble slightly while the tears on his face multiplied, drawing shiny trails down his face that the ad didn’t even try to wipe away. “It wasn’t unexpected,” he managed to say in between sobs. “Grandmaster An has been sick for a few years now, it was time.” The Jet’ika sounded like he was convincing himself more than anyone else. 

“That doesn’t make it hurt any less,” Dral said softly. “Is there anything you need? I’m sorry, we don’t know Jetii mourning customs, but anything you ask for-”

“Could I have a hug, to start?” Asked Obi-Wan with a watery smile. 

Instead of answering, Dral drew the teenager into their arms, letting Obi-Wan bury his face into their neck and cling, twisting his hands tightly into the back of Dral’s white coat. They held him close and ran their hand soothingly up and down Ob’ika’s shaking back as the boy let himself cry out his grief. 

Jaster had been awake for less than an hour when Dral gave him an apologetic yet insistent summons through the Manda. He winced at the mental bruise he’d given himself while monitoring Obi-Wan and stood from the chair where the Baar’ure had kept him for observation. Jaster made his way across the infirmary to the cots with patients under active monitoring equipment. Obi-Wan’s cot was in the corner, with a privacy screen wrapped closed to give him a level of separation from the rest of the infirmary. He quietly moved around the privacy curtains at another mental poke from Dral, to find his old friend holding the Jet’ika. Obi-Wan looked worse than before his crash on the sparring grounds - red, puffy eyes, tear tracks running down his face, and a slight grimace, all compounded by small, hitching breaths. 

“One of his ba’buir’e has marched ahead,” Dral said quietly as they ran their hand over Obi-Wan’s head, gently covering his ears as they spoke. “He’s asking for access to the comm table in two days' time for the kote kyram.”

“He has it,” Jaster said easily. “Is there anything else I can do?” He asked the boy directly, gentling his voice as much as he could. 

Obi-Wan drew in a long, shaky breath. “I will need white cloth and thread, please.” 

“Of course,” Jaster said. His eyebrows pinched together slightly in concern as he crouched down to Obi-Wan’s eye level. “I don’t know,” he began haltingly, carefully weighing his words, “what Jetiise offer as condolences during terrible times such as these. I don’t know what words you need to hear right now, the ones that are familiar to you. The ones that might give you respite and strength in the storm of your grief… But here we have the saying: ‘Not gone, merely marching ahead’,” Jaster placed a careful hand on Obi-Wan’s head. “I am sorry for your loss.”

Ob’ika pressed into the touch. “We say that when someone has died, that they are one with the Force,” he managed to croak through parched lips, his voice whispy as he forced the words past a closed throat. “Explaining the overarching theology would take time and energy I quite frankly do not have right now, but it basically means that the ones we love never truly leave us.” He curled back into the shelter of Dral’s arms as he quietly muttered, “So I suppose that is something else our cultures have in common.”

A few minutes later, when Jaster left the infirmary to gather Ob’ika’s requested items, a handful of members of the boy’s training squad were gathered outside - or rather, they could be his training squad. Today had been a trial run to see if the verde were a good fit - both on the field of combat and off it - including his last sparring partner. The Devaronian, Rev Kast, stood quickly and gave Jaster a quick salute. Jaster returned it.

Jaster made a quick mental note that his ward shouldn't be paired up with the non-present members. While the Jetii's presence was contentious, he was still an ad and new to the squad. When going through verde training, it's stressed over and over that while you don't need to like every shabuire you're paired with, you still need to cover their six, help newbies find their footing, and treat them respectfully. In any other situation, they would all be here clamouring for updates, friend or not. It was concerning that they weren’t, and Jaster was through making excuses for his people who were letting grudges get in the way of their responsibilities.

“Mand’alor, is he - I know it might be a dikut’la thing to ask, all things considered, but is Kenobi okay?” he asked, wringing his hands together but showing his courage by not flinching away and looking Jaster in the eyes.

Jaster glanced around and found that Kast and other present members of the squad were paying attention to him. Tellingly, Gar Saxon was nowhere to be seen. “No,” he said honestly. “But that’s not entirely your fault. You asked a poorly-timed question. It could have been any verde given how many misunderstandings lie between their people and ours. At least your comment was not out of maliciousness: you made an honest mistake because you didn’t have all the information you needed, tayli’bac?” The young Mando’ad nodded, relief bleeding through his frame. Jaster wished he could feel the same but all he felt was bone-deep tiredness and shame . The harm that Obi-Wan had come to was his fault. He hadn’t truly done his duty as a host or guardian today or any other day since the Jet’ika had arrived. And now a sixteen-year-old was suffering because of it.

“Is he- I mean, can I talk to him?” Kast asked, rushing the words out in one breath.

Jaster winced. “You should ask him, but I don’t think the answer will be yes, right now.” Glancing around once again, Jaster continued, quieter, “Obi-Wan got some bad news from the Jetii’yaim. Anything else is his to share, but… he’s not having an easy time. This is just one more straw on the Bantha’s back.” The Devaronian nodded, his face drawn in concentration.

“Vor entye, Mand’alor,” he said, bowing his head.

Jaster clapped him on the back and walked past him, towards the archway leading to the main body of the palace. The Jetiise had sent him a few names of people in something called the Educorps, which meant Jaster had some calls to make and work to do.

Obi-Wan stared at the ceiling, utterly numb. He was physically and mentally exhausted and yet, he still couldn’t help but nudge the place in the Force that Grandmaster An used to take up. The sensation was a bit like wiggling a loose tooth or rubbing at the space where one had once been. It hurt, like a deep-tissue bruise, but he couldn't make himself stop. 

Because the moment he stopped... 

The very moment he moved away, the second he no longer looked, he’d have to realize that Grandmaster An was just… gone. No more “see you soon”s, no more warm hugs or corny jokes, nothing new to add to the millions of memories he had of the old Human. As Obi-Wan kept poking and prodding at the now-lightless corner of his mind, he couldn’t help but pity the crèchelings who would never get to know Grandmaster An’s love. Never learn their colours with him, never turn the world into a canvas with him. Never do anything with Grandmaster An. 

 How could the galaxy keep spinning? The thought made his heart squeeze in his chest, the idea so foreign, so wrong that his whole being wanted to shy away from it. How could someone whose presence took up an entire room be gone?

He’d never get to do anything with Grandmaster An ever again. 

Slowly, painfully , Obi-Wan stopped his prodding in the Force. He didn’t touch the thin, broken bond left floating in the currents of the Force, didn’t do more than roughly patch the holes in his shields, didn’t do anything . Couldn’t do anything. Because doing anything meant…meant that…

Grandmaster An was gone.

The thought echoed in his head on repeat. Gone . That word usually didn’t mean anything to Jedi, seeing as they could usually sense their family and close friends through the Force. To lose that sense of someone entirely? To lose that constant and that comfort that had always been there and supportive every step of the way? Obi-Wan was no stranger to death - Melidaan and every day that had followed had seen to that - but the aching emptiness where someone used to be never got easier to bear.

At least Cabur Dral was here. The hand on his back had never ceased its path up and down his spine, giving him a tether to the here-and-now. Something tinged at his awareness, someone new. They felt awkwardremorsefulthisisallmyfault and yet IhopethisisokayIwanttodobetter . Obi-Wan pulled himself back to the physical world, shifting against Cabur Dral. “S’m’ne’s here,” he mumbled. His head was still cradled against the Nautolan’s chest.

“Elek,” the answering rumble came. “Rev Kast is asking to see you. He was your last sparring partner.” 

Obi-Wan blinked sluggishly, trying to bring the memories of his last spar to the forefront of his mind. It seemed so long ago despite it still being the afternoon of the same day. “The Devaronian?” he asked, pulling his head away slightly.

Cabur Dral nodded. “Would you like to see him?” they asked gently.

“Give me a moment.” Obi-Wan sat up in the infirmary bed and wiped away any tears left on his face. There wasn’t much he could do about the puffy redness he always seemed to gain from crying, but at least he wasn’t full-on sobbing anymore. Obi-Wan went through a few breath cycles, giving what he could of his grief into the Force and storing the rest away in his mind. He’d work through it - privately - during his next few meditations. He cleared his throat once, then a second time before determining things were about as good as they were ever going to be. “I’m ready.”

Dral tapped on his bracer briefly and then Kast ducked through the privacy screen, shoulders hunched. His demeanour, so different from before Obi-Wan’s collapse, made him look almost a foot shorter than he was in truth. “I’m sorry,” he blurted out. Mildly surprised, Obi-Wan drew himself up and off of Cabur Dral’s chest to look directly at the other. “I shouldn’t have pushed - about your scars, I mean. I shouldn’t have brought it up in front of everyone like that, and- and then you collapsed and I thought maybe I injured you, or something, but I didn’t want to hurt you, it was just a spar and-” Obi-Wan watched as Kast suddenly ran out of steam, hunching even further down. “And I’m sorry,” he finished with his eyes lowered.

Obi-Wan let the apology sink in for a moment. Kast was being sincere - he could tell that much without even needing to reach into the Force, the Devarinian was bleeding regret - but there was one aspect that made him pause. “Would you have brought up my scars anyways?” Obi-Wan asked.

“Yes, but I should have done it in private. I- I’m sorry, I wasn’t thinking beyond sheer horror.” Kast closed his eyes and took a deep breath, visibly recentering himself. “I would probably have pulled you aside during midmeal and apologized for putting that kind of pressure on an old wound - a neck wound, at that - and I would have recommended that you bring it up to the Vaird’alor.”

“Why?” Obi-Wan asked, carefully keeping his mess of emotions at bay.

“Because we’re - at least, today was meant to see if we could be - your squad. Your traat’aliit. If our fighting styles and personalities were compatible enough to work together: we were meant to have your back. And I failed at that today.” He ducked his head again. “And you deserve to know that I’m sorry about it.”

Obi-Wan swung his legs around to dangle off the edge of the cot. “Your apology does not negate the fact that everyone in earshot now knows a very personal part of my past,” he said, not unkindly but still with some admonishment.

Kast winced. “I know that. I know it doesn’t make up for the rumour mill, or the way you’ve been treated by us, but I want to do better.” He took a deep breath, steeled himself, then pressed on. “Almost everyone lost someone on Galidraan - but it’s not fair to blame you for their deaths. I mean, you haven’t blamed every Mando’ad for the deaths of your people caused by the Mand’alor’s demands.”

“No, it isn’t fair,” Obi-Wan agreed.

“So, I know you have the Mand’alor, the Gotal’alor, the Mand’al’ad and his friends in your corner, but I’d stand with you too, if you’ll let me.”

Kast held out his right arm, his hand too tilted to be a core-world handshake. Tentatively, Obi-Wan reached his arm out, then copied Kast as he gently clasped Obi-Wan high on his forearm. A slight tingle passed through Obi-Wan’s fingers at the skin-to-skin contact, that sense that was almost like the Force but distinctly other . “Thank you, Kast,” Obi-Wan said with a small smile.

“Rev,” the Devaronian corrected. Their mouth stretched into a smile. “Please call me Rev.”

“Rev.” For a moment, Obi-Wan could have sworn he heard the echo of war drums.