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Year 968 After Ruusan Reformation (ARR), present

Feemor groaned as he stood up from his sofa and twisted his torso to release his sore back muscles. There were quite a few more pops and cracks than he thought there should be. He’d clearly lost track of time again sifting through his research notes. Either that or he’d not been spending nearly enough time in the training halls during his research sabbatical. It was probably both, he thought ruefully as he gathered up the now-cold remnants of the latemeal he’d idly picked through as he worked. The freshly healed scar on his leg twinged as he made his way to the kitchen, lending credence to the theory that he should have been paying more attention to his prescribed exercise regimen. He was only forty-two years old, a Jedi Knight in peak physical condition. Just slouching on his beat-up sofa for a few hours really shouldn’t mess up his back so much. He knew that he tended to get subsumed by his research when he let himself really dig into it, and especially when there was no one around to fetch him from the Archives or snatch the datapad from his hands.

Not that there were many people in his life that knew him well enough to look out for him like that, he reflected as he started to wash his dirty dishes. A couple of decades ago Feemor had had the privilege of keeping close relationships with an extended lineage of brother and sister padawans, as well as knights and masters like surrogate parents, aunts, and uncles, all connected together by Feemor’s eccentric and now former great-grandmaster, Yoda. Those relationships had been gone for years now, of course, connections to the lineage that had been his family severed by the man who’d raised him. Even the lineage members who’d been closest to his own age, and thus the least likely to care what Feemor’s former master had to say, had been lost or had drifted away after the repudiation. Xanatos and Komari had fallen to Darkness and madness and death, lost for good. The only times he saw Depa were when he was called before the High Council for a briefing or debriefing—and his usual type of low-profile mission rarely warranted the High Council’s attention anyway. And Force only knew where Nim or Master Averross were these days.

A few stalwart friends, of course, had stuck by him through his repudiation and the tumultuous years afterwards that had driven away the more casual of his acquaintances. He was convinced that nothing short of death would drive Ikurrece or Jolar away at this point, and he wasn’t sure Iku wouldn’t find a way to needle him even when one with the Force. He owed so much to his friends for never giving up on him. For all that Temple dogma stated that there was no shame on the padawan for being rejected by his master, for all that the Jedi codes of conduct preached acceptance, empathy, and compassion, few had wanted to be even peripherally tainted by the stigma he’s acquired through no action of his own. It was fine, Feemor had long since come to terms with it. Jo and Iku had stuck with him as much as their positions in the service branches allowed them to. They’d helped him build himself back up from the shattered wreck he’d been after his former master’s blindside. For those first few years, when duty had prevented them from keeping him company in the Temple they would conveniently request his assistance with some of their MedCorp or ExplorCorp assignments to get him out of the gossip den for a while. It had certainly helped him find his purpose again, and those sorts of missions aiding newly established settlements and helping explore any ruins they stumbled upon had become a sort of specialty of his. Despite his original Consular’s training, he’d ended up becoming something midway between an Investigator, an Ambassador, and a Researcher, though he was technically listed among the Jedi Sentinels. He’d become friendly with a few other senior knights and younger masters over the years, but Iku and Jo had always been his rocks.

Obi-Wan, too, had been a constant in his life for a while now, though it was sometimes hard for Feemor to categorize their relationship. They were from the same lineage, if Feemor could still claim to have once been part of it, though Obi-Wan had joined years after Feemor had been repudiated. Feemor had helped with his training, though never officially, and he’d had been a mentor, though they’d never called it that. They were also friends of sorts, in as much as Obi-Wan wanted to spend time with and share his burdens with a man seventeen years his senior. When Obi-Wan had started training with Master Jinn, Feemor had told him that it made them brothers, and that term seemed to be the best way to describe their connection. Feemor’s tiny suite of Knight’s rooms had certainly served as an impromptu gathering place for Obi-Wan and his group of friends often enough, and often without Feemor’s prior knowledge, and that seemed like the sort of thing an obnoxious yet endearing younger brother would do.

Dear Force, he really was feeling maudlin today. Feemor sighed as he moved on to scraping out the leaves stuck to the bottom of his teapot. He was almost never this nostalgic nowadays. If his friends could see him like this they’d… well, none of them were currently in the Temple right now, which probably partly explained his melancholy. And how he’d wound up with a sore back and twinging leg and a stomach that was complaining about the lack of a proper latemeal. 

It was also how he immediately knew that something was wrong when his door chimed. 

There must be some sort of emergency, he thought, if someone’s coming to fetch me at this time of night. He hadn’t heard his comm chime, but then again it was probably buried somewhere beneath his research notes right now. He hastily put down the teapot he’d been washing and dried his hands while reaching out with the Force to see who was at the door. He paused halfway to the door, shocked to feel Obi-Wan standing outside, then moved even faster to open the door. He’d thought that his brother had been off-world, too, off negotiating a trade embargo of some tiny mid-rim world. That Obi-Wan was back at the Temple off-schedule was only mildly concerning—missions changed all the time, Feemor knew that—but the static blankness of Obi-Wan’s mind, no hint of any emotions bleeding out, not even through their Force bond…

That scared him. His brother was an emotional person, though he tried his hardest to put forward a placid demeanor. No matter how much Master Jinn and Master Yoda had tried to restrain Obi-Wan’s endless wells of empathy and compassion out of fear of an attachment, one of Obi-Wan’s best qualities was how deeply he felt things, how much he cared about others. And no matter how impressive his brother’s shields were, some bit of emotion always leaked through and gave a hint to his state of mind. Feemor loved that about his brother. To feel none of that right now sent Feemor rushing to open the door and see what was wrong.

When the door opened Obi-Wan was just standing there staring emptily at some point just to the right of the door, his face ashen and expression as terrifyingly blank as his impression in the Force. His hair and padawan braid were as tidy as ever for all that it looked like his hair hadn’t been washed in a while. His clothes were neat and tidy, although those, too, were a bit dirty and wrinkled. It looked like Obi-Wan had run into some trouble on his diplomatic mission if there hadn’t been time, or even a spare set of clothes, to clean up. He looked as put together as he could be given the overall state of his hygiene and wardrobe, but he must have gone straight to a debrief with the Council after returning to the Temple without being given enough time even to grab a spare robe. What could possibly have been so important about a simple negotiation to warrant that? 

Feemor waited for a long moment for Obi-Wan to meet his eyes, to reach out, to speak, to do anything at all. But his little brother just stood there silently, eyes unfocused and staring at nothing. He didn’t move a muscle for an entire minute after the door opened. He seemed almost catatonic. Every second with no reaction from his brother ratcheted up Feemor’s worry, and so he frantically started scanning over Obi-Wan to try to find the problem. He tried reaching through their bond continued to only meet static. There weren’t any visible injuries but something was very seriously wrong nonetheless. Finally Feemor reached out and grasped Obi-Wan’s shoulder and ducked his head to try to catch his eyes. 

“Obi-Wan? Are you alright, Obi?” he asked urgently. “Brother, what’s wrong?”

The touch, or maybe the obvious alarm in Feemor’s voice and through the Force, seemed to finally draw Obi-Wan out of his head. With painful slowness, he finally met Feemor’s gaze. While his face was pale as a spectre, his eyes were red and bloodshot and opened wide in a helpless plea. “Fee?” he rasped in a quiet, broken voice.

Oh no, Feemor thought with dread. Oh, dear Force this can’t be good. He wasted no more time and quickly ushered his little brother into his suite and toward the sofa. The door closed automatically behind him and granted them the privacy Feemor knew they’d need. Obi hadn’t called him Fee since he’d been nineteen and about to leave on his mission to Mandalore. What his brother had gone through there had changed him so much that the childhood nickname had been retired. Feemor had tried not to mourn its loss too much, for he’d always cherish the bright memories of Obi-Wan’s childhood. Yet the return of that name now brought Feemor no solace, because clearly his little Obi was using it because he needed the comfort. Or maybe he needed the reminder of someone who’d always loved and supported him. He sat Obi-Wan down in his spot on the sofa and sat down close next to him. Feemor reached out and clasped his shoulder again, sensing that his brother could use the anchoring touch. “Obi-Wan, please, tell me. What’s happened?”

Obi-Wan took some time to answer, but Feemor forced himself to be patient. The response, when it came, was utterly unexpected, but somehow not surprising at all. “How did you survive going through this, Fee?” Obi-Wan raised his head to look at Feemor again and oh, oh no, the hurt there was devastatingly, heartbreakingly familiar. “Is this how you felt when it happened to you?”

Year 946 ARR, twenty-two years ago

Sithspit! Feemor was late, so late. How had he gotten so buried in the Archives that he hadn’t realized he was late for their lineage dinner? He’d been looking forward to this dinner for weeks! He had been so excited that Master Qui-Gon hadn’t stopped teasing him about his enthusiasm for a tenday. It was going to be the largest lineage dinner they’d been able to wrangle for almost five years now, since before Feemor had become a senior padawan. There were new padawans he hadn’t gotten a chance to know yet. Well, he’d met Padawan Depa in passing, of course, but it wasn’t quite the same as working together to prod Master Rael and Padawan Nim into telling some of their more scandalous tales, or snickering as they watched Master Qui-Gon and Master Mace play off each other debating the nature of attachment to get Master Yan’s face to go that particularly funny shade of red, or sneaking extra dessert from Master Yoda. Their lineage dinners were always a unique brand of chaos when the various branches came together and Feemor couldn’t believe that he’d lost track of the time!

He was just calculating whether he’d have enough time to catch a sonic when the wind was knocked out of him by a tiny ball of sunshine. Or at least, that’s how the child who’d collided with him felt in the Force. After he caught his breath and grasped the child’s shoulders to keep them from falling to the ground—Ow! Stang, that would probably leave bruises on the both of them—he looked down and found a crècheling, human or near, with a pale cherubic face dotted with freckles. The child (possibly a boy, but Feemor wouldn't assume) was on the short-side even for one so young and unfamiliar to him. Feemor, who tried to spend time in the crèche whenever he and Master Qui-Gon were in the Temple, didn’t recognize the young one. And he certainly would have noticed that bright shock of spiky red hair. They must have been brought to the Temple within the past few months while he and Master Qui-Gon had been away. 

Light blue eyes opened wide with alarm as the child realized they were caught. “You should watch where you’re going, little one,” Feemor said with a smile, projecting soothing feelings into the Force. “You don’t want to get hurt running through the halls like that.”

The child ducked their head in apology. “I’m sorry, Master,” the child apologized softly with a lisp. “I know I shouldn’t have been running in the Temple.” With how small the child was it was more likely they shouldn’t have been out of the crèche at all. Only a few years old and already sneaking past their guardians? This little one will definitely grow up to be trouble, he thought with amusement. Feemor towered over tiny youngling, but then again, he tended to tower over even fully-grown human adults given that he was intimidatingly broad-shouldered and stood nearly two meters tall. He knelt down on one knee, trying to put the youngling at ease.

“No masters around here, little one,” Feemor said, using a knuckle to bring the child’s chin up. Once he could see the kid’s face again, Feemor tried smiling again. “I’m only a senior padawan,” he said while tugging on the long braid behind his ear. The child seemed to calm down a little upon realizing that they likely weren't in as much trouble as they’d thought, sighing and dropping their shoulders in relief in the overexaggerated manner of children everywhere. Feemor held out his hand. “My name is Feemor, and I use he and him pronouns.”

The little one shook Feemor’s hand and scrunched up their face in a way they probably thought looked serious and austere, but on that tiny face just looked terribly adorable. “I’m Obi-Wan, from Mynock Clan. I’m also a him. It’s very nice to meet you, Padawan Feemor.”

Feemor smiled again at the very polite, well-mannered introduction from one so young. “It’s very good to meet you, too, Obi-Wan,” Feemor replied. Little Obi-Wan grinned brightly at the completion of the formal greeting ritual, and in the Force, his joy was blinding. Kark, this kid is cute, Feemor thought, thoroughly charmed. “Now then, young one,” he said, clasping his hands on his bent knee to keep from overstepping and ruffling the child’s hair, “what were you doing running through the halls so fast?”

Obi-Wan smiled even more broadly and Feemor could feel the excitement radiating off of him. “We’re playing tag, Padawan Feemor! I was the chaser for a while but now Reeft is the chaser and he’s really fast and so I had to run fast to get away from him.” Obi-Wan seemed to lose focus for a moment, eyes going distant for a moment before suddenly widening again. “Oh, no! He’s getting closer. I have to go!” he said, starting to back away and look over his shoulder toward where Feemor assumed the child could sense his friend. 

Feemor laughed and stood up. “Alright Obi-Wan, I won’t keep you. But since you’re clearly doing a good job keeping track of your friend through the Force, you might want to keep your senses pointed forward, too, if only so you don’t run into any actual masters.” Obi-Wan nodded his head vigorously at the advice. “And,” he added in a loud whisper, “if I remember right, if you go down this hall and take the second left, there’s a shortcut to the training salles. You might gain a little more of a lead.”

Obi-Wan almost knocked Feemor over again when he rushed forward to give him a hug. When Obi-Wan looked up at him again, he seemed to shine in the Force. “Thanks, Fee!”

The name tugged at something behind Feemor’s breastbone. “You’re welcome, little Obi.” He turned the child around and gave him a gentle push. “Now, off you go. Have fun, and don’t let them catch you.”

Feemor watched Obi-Wan dart off, and he didn’t turn away until the quick pitter-patter of running feet faded into silence. 

Year 948 ARR, twenty- years ago

Stars, it’s good to be home, Feemor thought as he made his way through the Temple toward the High Council spire. As a fresh knight, he’d been out in the field on a string of back to back missions that had lasted almost a year. It was both a traditional sort of hazing ritual sending new knights all over with little to no break, and also a necessity given how thinly spread the Jedi were. Between all of the briefing material he had to read, travelling nonstop from planet to planet, and squeezing in meditation whenever he could, he’d barely even had time to comm Jolar and congratulate her on finishing her first year of residency under Master Healer Ut’nehara in one of the MedCorp mobile clinics. His ship had landed less than an hour ago and he already received a summons before the High Council for his debriefing. He had barely enough time to drop off his bag in his sparsely furnished knight’s quarters and take a quick sonic shower, but he managed to make it to his meeting on time. The debriefing was perfunctory; he ran through the general outline of his year away and the topline takeaways from each of the diplomatic incidents he’d helped mediate, all of which were detailed more completely in his reports. Before he knew it he was dismissed, thankfully granted a full three tendays of downtime in the Temple before his next assignment as a reward for running the gauntlet. As the turbolift took him back toward the main levels of the Temple he absentmindedly pondered what he’d do with all of the free time he’d been graced with. Maybe he’d pick up some more lightsaber training, or audit a Researcher’s seminar. He’d have to see who was lecturing this month. 

When he reached the bottom the lift doors opened to reveal Master Qui-Gon, who’d apparently been waiting there impatiently. Feemor stepped out of the lift and opened his mouth to cheerfully greet his old master but the man brushed past him without a word and with a stormy look on his face, clearly in a rush to take that same lift up to the council chambers. Feemor frowned at closed doors of the lift. It must have been important business for Master Qui-Gon to not even notice him standing there. Feemor considered waiting for him to finish his business with the council but he knew very well that Qui-Gon could argue with the council for hours when he felt like it. It would probably be best for Feemor to catch up with the man later in the evening to offer what support he could. He did have all this new and unexpected free time, after all, and maybe Master Qui-Gon could use a hand with whatever the issue was. He decided to head over to the refectory for latemeal in the meantime. He’d had his fill of ship-board rations but the conservator in his kitchen was regrettably bare from his year away. Well, at least he didn’t have to clean out rotten food, he’d thought with tired amusement as he made his way across the Temple.

A half hour later he was in the middle of his meal and absentmindedly reading through the missed comms in his inbox when the first of the gossip reached his ears. Nothing travelled through the Temple faster than gossip; there was an unspoken understanding that the padawans who staffed the council meetings were the source of most of it, but one had to sift through all of the “and then xe said, and then he said,” to find the few kernels of truth hiding in the rumors. Feemor tried not to listen to it most of the time. He preferred the straightforward information that came from official memos from the various councils. But he couldn’t help but pay attention to these particular whispers when he heard Master Qui-Gon’s name passed around, and that of Xanatos, Feemor’s brother-padawan. When people began furtively glancing in Feemor’s direction he started suspecting that whatever had happened was something more serious than just another eventful mission—hadn’t Master Qui-Gon messaged him that they were going to Telos IV last month? He started gathering up his things, intending to seek out his former master with all haste, and his movements didn’t go unnoticed. As he exited the refectory the murmuring grew in volume and Feemor picked up one more detail, an utterly unexpected word being bandied around: repudiation.

He stood frozen in the middle of the hall for a long moment. No. It couldn’t possibly be… It was unthinkable. No Master had repudiated his padawan in… Feemor didn’t even know how many years it had been but certainly none within the past few centuries. And Feemor may not like his brother-padawan all that much but Master Qui-Gon doted on Xani, everyone knew that. There was no way he would repudiate the child he’d so looked forward to training. The rumors must have it wrong, he thought wildly, or I must have heard it wrong. The thought galvanized him into action and he rushed toward Master Qui-Gon’s quarters—the rooms where Feemor had grown up—hoping that the man would make everything clear again. But when he reached the right hallway he nearly ran headlong into Qui-Gon for the second time that day as his former master stormed off from the residential wing back toward the main areas of the Temple. His arms were full of what Feemor could only assume were Xanatos’s clothes and other possessions. Feemor tried to slow the man down as he strode toward the quartermaster’s office, tried calm him long enough to talk, implored “Master, whatever Xanatos has done, you can’t really think he deserves this.” But when Feemor reached out and pleaded, “Please, Master, you can’t just give up hope in your padawan,” the man who’d raised him wrenched his shoulder out from beneath Feemor’s grasp and shouted, “I have no padawans!”

Feemor reeled back at the vehemence of the reply and then the words started to sink in through the shock. Padawans. Qui-Gon had said padawans. Plural. What? He didn’t even… Did his master really repudiate not just Xanatos, but Feemor, too? 

By the time that the muttering of the crowd grew loud enough to snap Feemor out of the haze in his mind, Master Qui-Gon was gone. It took him some time but eventually Feemor realized that he was standing stock still and ramrod straight in the middle of a busy thoroughfare. Jedi of all ranks, even a group of young initiates, were staring at him unsubtly and muttering among themselves about the spectacle that had just taken place. Feemor tried to school his face into a mask of Jedi serenity as if he hadn’t just been disowned and humiliated loudly and publicly in front of half the Temple, but he was sure he wasn’t successful at hiding his shock and pain. He turned and made his way back to his private quarters at a deliberately moderate pace, unwilling to fuel any more Temple gossip. He somehow managed to wait until his door shut behind him before letting the mask, and his knees, crumble.

The following few days were a blur of failed meditation and drinking away his sorrow with a few of his crèchemates. Ikurrece, bless the Force, had been stationed just a day’s travel away and was able to use some personal leave to watch over him as he tried to numb the pain. A day or two later, it was hard to tell through the fog in his mind, a barely more than token message from the High Council confirmed the update to Feemor’s training records and that his knighthood was not being revoked or reevaluated in light of the repudiation. Great, he’d thought bitterly, so they let me keep my rank, just not my family. He must have shared that thought with Iku at some point, because the Pantoran’s unusually somber face flushed dark blue with anger on his behalf. He vaguely recalled trying to burn the padawan braid that Qui-Gon had told him to keep—something about immolating the symbol of his connection to the man felt humorous in a dark sort of way—only for Iku to stop him and drag him away before he could manage it. After he’d raged at his friend and possibly flung a chair away in an uncontrolled use of the Force, he’d finally collapsed to his knees and started sobbing, releasing a flood of pain through tears and through the Force, as Iku simply held him.  

But Iku couldn’t stay and hold him together forever, and a week after his… what had happened, Feemor was alone. He supposed he’d better get used to that. When he couldn't stand the sight of his rooms anymore he tried to spend time in the Temple as if everything was normal. As he walked the halls of the Temple he called home he tried, and failed, to ignore the whispers that followed him wherever he went. He supposed he should start getting used to that, too.

He wasn’t sure what was worse: that the man who’d raised him to adulthood had rejected all association with him or that Feemor himself was barely more than a footnote in the story. Master Qui-Gon—Master Jinn, he firmly corrected himself; he had no right to such familiarity anymore. Master Jinn was angry at Xanatos, and perhaps rightly so if the rumors were even half-true, but he’d burned Feemor in the process, too, with a seemingly negligent wave of his hand. Most of the Jedi’s gossip centered around the enigmatic, haughty, and now-Fallen Xanatos, while Feemor was referred to as “Master Jinn’s other padawan.” For all that Feemor had always tried to accept that he was an average knight at best, steady and dependable and never one for the spotlight, it stung more than he wanted it to that all of his pain, and his career and reputation, too, were seen as merely an afterthought. Collateral damage.

Stars, Feemor was so exhausted. It hadn’t even been a tenday since the incident—he still couldn’t bear to use the proper words for what had happened, not yet. The blow had come out of nowhere. There was no way he could have seen it coming, no way to prepare for it or brace himself. He desperately needed to meditate, to sink into the comforting embrace of the Force and hope it could provide him some sort of balance. After days of failed meditation in his quarters and in the communal meditation rooms he finally decided to try the Room of a Thousand Fountains and one of its numerous pockets of secluded gardens. So far, the flora had offered him no more serenity than the Temple’s sunlit spires had. He knelt in the grass and kept trying to breathe in the tranquility of the gardens surrounding him but every time he exhaled he just felt even more depleted. Every inhale brought with it wisps and tendrils of the Living Force which just reminded him anew of what had been stolen from him. Master Jinn had been the one to teach him to commune with the Living Force through the numerous plants in their quarters and—Feemor strangled the thought and exhaled, trying to start his meditation over again. His whole body ached as if he’d just run laps around the planet. His heart hurt just as much, though that pain was the deep, sharp, lancing kind that resulted from a metaphorical stab wound. If Feemor was honest with himself he’d almost have preferred a literal stab wound instead. At least that one would have some chance to heal.

The ache in his knees told him that he’d been kneeling there for a few hours now and he was no closer to reaching a calm meditative state than he’d been anywhere else in the Temple. He dug his fingers into the dirt and grass, just about ready to give up this attempt, too, when an external wave of calm washed over him. 

Feemor opened his eyes—when had he clenched them shut?—and saw that he was no longer alone in his garden bower. A familiar little red-headed child, in initiate’s clothes now, was kneeling in front of him a few meters away. The child—Obi-Wan, his memory whispered—looked to have grown by a few inches in the two years since Feemor had last seen him. Obi-Wan looked at him, face scrunched up in concentration, and just as Feemor was about to ask what he thought he was doing another wave of comfort and calm reached his mind. The emotional push was a bit too strong, a bit shaky, a bit clumsy, for Obi-Wan was still learning, but the purity of the feelings brought tears to Feemor’s eyes. This kind-hearted little child, so full of light and goodness and potential, was offering comfort to a repudiated knight he barely knew simply because Feemor needed it. He was humbled by the initiate’s empathy, and felt shamefully unworthy of it.

Feemor reached out with the Force to return the gesture and wrap Obi-Wan in the emotional equivalent of a hug in gratitude. He was gratified to see Obi-Wan smile as he felt Feemor’s response and the child scrambled forward until he was sitting cross-legged in front of him. Feemor tried to smile back through his tears.

“Thank you, Obi-Wan,” he said. “It’s very good to see you again, my little friend, though I wish it was at a better time.”

Obi-Wan looked up at him with eyes that shone with the simple sincerity of youth. “I was playing with my friends over by the fountains but I felt you over here. You were so very sad.” Obi-Wan peered at him innocently. “Are you sad that the loud man yelled at you? When he was yelling at you, I felt his anger. He was very angry.” The initiate frowned at that, seemingly confused that a Jedi Master would be so angry as to have a public shouting match.

Emotion, yet peace, they all learned in the crèche, and while there had been plenty of emotion on display that day, there certainly hadn’t been any peace to be found for anyone. To a child not more than five years old, it must have been difficult to reconcile the maxim with what he’d witnessed. For all that Feemor was still very hurt by what had happened he felt compelled to explain. “I am sad about that, yes. That was the master who trained me to knighthood.” Feemor paused and swallowed thickly as he once again remembered all that he’d lost. He tried, unsuccessfully, to give those emotions up to the Force, and just settled on breathing through it. When he knew his voice would be steady again, he continued. “The boy he trained after me did some bad things and left the Order, and my former master is very sad and hurt by what that boy did.” How to put this in a way a child—a smart child, to be sure, but a child nonetheless—could understand? “Sometimes when we’re hurting, we hurt other people accidentally. We might not mean to do it, but we just hurt so much we can’t see what we’re doing to others. It’s not right, and it’s not a good thing to do, but even people who know better, people like Jedi Masters, make mistakes sometimes. In his sadness and anger, my former master hurt me in a way that he can’t take back, and that’s what makes me sad.”

Obi-Wan nodded at Feemor’s explanation, though he still looked thoughtful. “He hurt you and made you sad even though you did nothing wrong. Like being punished for stealing all the custard when you know that someone else ate it.”

“Yes, that’s right,” Feemor agreed, choking back an unexpected chuckle at the analogy. The explanation was simple, but accurate, and the mental image of Xanatos covered in stolen custard was the closest he’d come to laughing since it… since the repudiation happened.

Obi-Wan was quiet for a few moments but then asked very quietly, “Can I help make it better, Fee?”  

Feemor sobered and his eyes watered anew at the uncomplicated and heartfelt kindness while the affectionate nickname tugged at something deep inside. “I don’t know, little Obi,” he answered honestly. “But the fact that you want to help means a very great deal. Your compassion does you credit.”

Obi-Wan looked deep in thought before a bright look overtook his face. “Meditation would help!” he said enthusiastically. “Crèchemaster Triina says that meditation can help us if we feel sad, or scared, or have a bad dream.”

Feemor huffed a small laugh at the earnestness of the small person in front of him, a little bit bitter at the obvious answer despite his best effort. Meditation was indeed exactly what he needed and yet it had proved elusive for far too long. Feemor started to dismiss the suggestion but cut himself off and regarded the child in front of him. Feemor was sad and hurt and, yes, also angry at what Master Jinn had done to him, but that was no reason for Feemor to disrespect Obi-Wan’s honest desire to help. What had he just told the child? Being hurt does not give one the right to hurt others. Feemor should follow his own lessons, not compound Master Jinn’s mistake.

“You’re right, Obi-Wan, and very smart to suggest meditation. I have been trying to do that but I haven’t yet been able to focus my mind.” Feemor extended both of his hands toward Obi-Wan, palms up. “Would you help guide me in my meditation?”

Obi-Wan’s widened in obvious recognition of the gesture, which was most often offered between equals or toward one with greater wisdom. The child scrambled hastily up to his knees to mirror Feemor’s stance. He placed his tiny palms atop Feemor’s with far too much solemnity for one so small. “I would be honored to be your guide,” he offered the traditional response.

In tandem, Feemor and Obi-Wan breathed in and out slowly once, twice, and reached out to the Force together. Feemor carefully extended his senses toward Obi-Wan to help the child ease into a deeper meditation and… his breath hitched. Near the surface of Obi-Wan’s consciousness was a fairly average blend of simple childish wants and desires and annoyances—how Obi-Wan wanted extra dessert tonight and maybe he could trade for it, how one of the other boys in his crèche liked to mess up his push-pull games, how his knees hurt from kneeling and how did the masters do this all day?—but when he looked deeper Feemor could feel the uncomplicated pure light shimmering at the center of Obi-Wan’s being. It was breathtaking. It was the lodestone he needed as he worked to find his own center again.

For the first time in days, Feemor found peace.

Chapter Text

Year 951 ARR, seventeen years ago

Feemor was immersed in the Force as he lunged, parried, and struck with his blade, stepping through the direct and precise motions that made up the foundation of Shii-Cho. He was midway through his seventh repetition of the kata when he became aware of someone’s eyes on him. Eyes closed as they were, the awareness of being watched came more from a prickling sensation on the back of his neck. The watcher didn’t reach out with the Force to interrupt his practice and Feemor didn’t pick up any sense of urgency around him so he mentally shrugged and kept moving through the kata. Being watched was nothing new to him. The stares and whispers of his fellow Jedi had been his near constant companion whenever he’d been in the Temple these past three years. The rumors surrounding his repudiation apparently had a longer shelf life than the average Temple gossip. He just tried to ignore it.

The kata ended on a particularly extended forward lunge with the tip of his blade piercing through the heart of his imaginary foe. Feemor held the pose for a beat longer than standard before returning to the starting defensive position. His muscles were loose and warm and sweat dampened his hairline, but his breathing was still steady and even. He figured he could probably manage a few more repetitions at full speed before he started getting sloppy and overbalancing, but his watcher’s attention had sharpened from the casual observation of before to something more pointed. Feemor decided to power down his blue blade and see what they wanted.

He opened his eyes and was surprised to find Master Cin Drallig standing in front of him. He was at a loss as to why the grizzled weapons master had sought him out. He didn’t think he’d exchanged two words with Master Drallig since he was a padawan. The master looked at him with that expression he wore when evaluating a student's progress with a blade, and Feemor suppressed the urge to squirm like an initiate under that uncomfortably familiar gaze. 

“Master Drallig,” Feemor greeted, and added a deferential bow of his head to hopefully cover up how self-conscious he felt.

The master returned the nod and replied evenly, “Knight Feemor.” 

Feemor waited but Master Drallig didn’t say anything else, just kept looking at him with that evaluating stare. The silence grew awkward—or at least it felt that way to Feemor; he doubted anything made Master Drallig feel awkward—and eventually Feemor caved.

“Was there something I could help you with, Master Drallig?” he tentatively asked.

Master Drallig waited another beat before nodding once firmly. “Yes. You can give a demonstration of that to my class tomorrow,” he replied with a nod toward where Feemor had been practicing.

“What?” he answered, confused. “You mean, demonstrate Shii-Cho katas to… what, initiates?” 

“Yes,” Drallig said matter-of-factly. “My class is about to start learning the first katas of each of the forms—I’m sure you remember, it’s to get them thinking about the strengths and weaknesses of each of the styles. I need an expert in Shii-Cho to demonstrate and answer their inevitable questions. You’re it.”

It had been a while since his initiate days but of course Feemor remembered that month of lightsaber classes. Most knights did. It was arguably the teaching unit that initiates looked forward to the most, the one where they got to see up close all of the flashy and intricate ‘saber combat styles they’d been dreaming about. Then they even got to learn a bit of the first six forms. Master Drallig would bring in knights or masters who specialized in a particular form to demonstrate it to the group of wide-eyed younglings and it was a chance for the students to ask about how the form was used in real-life situations. At eight years old and already tall and gangly for his age, that teaching unit had quickly taught Feemor that he’d have to choose his combat style carefully if he wanted his stature to be an advantage and not a hindrance.

“I… I’d be honored to assist you, Master Drallig, of course,” Feemor finally answered with an uncharacteristic stutter. “But surely… I mean, I’ve only been a knight for a few years now. There must be others more experienced in utilizing Shii-Cho who you’d rather ask.” 

Master Drallig snorted. “Do you know how many people pick Shii-Cho as their primary form? Oh sure,” he gave a flippant wave, “everyone learns it in the beginning, and it’s the foundation of the other forms, and it makes for a reliable style to fall back on. Everyone and their grandmaster knows at least a little of it. But to specialize in it? I suspect you know just how rare it is.” Feemor grimaced. Yes, he did know. It had taken him ages to find someone to teach him more than the basics after his knighting. “Usually I do the demonstration myself,” Drallig continued, “but even I tend to use other forms when I’m out in the field. It will be good for the students to see someone who chooses to use it first, not as a fallback option, and who can make use of the form to its full potential.”

Feemor was floored at the praise. It… well, it was validating in a way he hadn’t felt since before his knighting, back when everything had been so much simpler. Although Master Jinn had insisted, Feemor had always felt awkward using Ataru as his primary form. Too tall and too broad and too heavy to make its many flips and spins as effective as they could be. He knew that Master Jinn compensated for his height by infusing his muscles with the Force, but to Feemor the style had never felt natural. Shii-Cho felt like it was made for him, a grounded and direct and no-nonsense style that matched his personality and his way of conducting missions. Once he’d permanently made this switch he had finally felt confident in his abilities again. He had missed that feeling. 

He had no experience teaching children, however, and hadn’t spent all that much time in the crèche lately. He knew how unruly lightsaber classes could get. Not to mention that children, even Jedi children, weren’t blessed with an overabundance of tact, and his self-esteem had taken enough blows in recent years. This would put Feemor in the spotlight amid a group of curious and irreverent children who’d no doubt heard all sorts of things about him already, he thought with a wince.

“And you’re not concerned about it being, well, me who’s demonstrating it?” he asked Drallig tentatively. “I’m not exactly someone most people want to emulate these days.”

Master Drallig scoffed. “What, you mean because of Qui-Gon being an ass and tossing his legacy out of the airlock when he was in a snit?” Feemor startled at the master’s bluntness. “Qui-Gon Jinn is my crèchemate and I can assure you that he’s always been a melodramatic son of a gundark. And what overinflated dramatics he wasn’t born with he learned from that pretentious brother-padawan of mine who trained him.” Drallig shook his head. “This repudiation’s a messy business and it’s unfortunate you got caught in the crossfire of one of Jinn’s tantrums, but it’s got nothing to do with you, young knight. You did nothing. The gossip’s clear on that much at least. It’ll be good for the kids to see that the road to knighthood sometimes leaves its bumps and bruises, but that you came out the other side of it with your head held high.” Drallig eyed him consideringly. “I suspect it’ll be good for you to see that, too.”

Feemor swallowed thickly. Master Drallig’s words were overwhelming. It was the first time a master other than his mind healer had acknowledged that it wasn’t Feemor’s fault he’d been repudiated. And coming from a master who was a member of his former lineage, for all that Drallig hadn’t been overly present in Feemor’s childhood was… an unexpected kindness. He hadn’t known how much he’d needed to hear that. “Thank you, Master Drallig,” he said wetly, “I… that is, I appreciate the support.” He cleared his throat and tried to recenter himself. “And thank you for the opportunity to address your students. I would be honored to accept.”

Master Drallig laughed as he stepped forward and clapped him on the shoulder. “You may not be thanking me after you’re ambushed by twenty-five excitable younglings with training sabers. But I’ll be glad to have someone else be their target for a day.” Drallig squeezed his shoulder and then turned to leave. “Tomorrow, 0930, large combat hall. You know the one,” the master called back over his shoulder and then he was gone.

Feemor’s mind was buzzing with all sorts of thoughts and emotions from the unexpected interaction. He tried to calm his mind and release his emotions but as he did it started to dawn on him what he’d just agreed to. Oh dear Force, he’d just agreed to stand up in front of a bunch of initiates who were encouraged to watch him closely and ask all sorts of invasive questions about his education and his mission history. All of the things he’d been avoiding for the past three years. He tried to breathe evenly and calm his racing heart. He could do this. He could handle being the center of attention for a few hours. He could… probably do this. His next exhalation was more of a sigh. Right, well if he was actually going to go through with this he should probably keep practicing. He walked back over to his training area, ignited his saber, and moved into the opening stance.

He resisted the desire to train himself to exhaustion while seeking to perfect the kata for the following day’s demonstration. Knowing him, it would just make him short-tempered and irritable the next day and have him stumbling over his own feet. After a few more repetitions he called it a day, grabbed his water and towel, and made his way home. He went through the motions for the rest of the day trying to pretend that everything was normal, that he wasn’t nervous or apprehensive about presenting himself to younglings as a role model. His one concession to his nerves was avoiding the refectory for latemeal, instead choosing to cook himself a nerfsteak sandwich and fried tubers for comfort food. Well, he reheated it anyway. Cooking from scratch had never really been his best skill.

A failed attempt at sleeping for a few hours followed by an unsatisfying early morning meditation wasn’t quite enough to rejuvenate him the next day. He’d have been better off training himself into exhaustion. The two cups of caf he downed only managed to make him jittery. This is why tea is far superior, Feemor groused as he made his way to the large combat hall where Master Drallig’s class would be meeting. He ignored the fact that the caf probably wouldn’t have made him so jittery if he’d managed to actually eat something to go with it—his nerves weren’t faring any better this morning and he hadn’t even managed a bland protein bar. He also ignored just who it was who had taught him to appreciate teas over caf in the first place, because he couldn’t handle the stress and emotional turmoil of thinking of his former master right now on top of everything else.

Master Drallig was waiting for him in the room when he entered, though the class hadn’t arrived yet. “Good morning, Master Drallig,” he called as he moved toward the benches to take off his boots and robe and deposit his water, making a concerted effort to keep his hands from shaking.

“Good morning, Knight Feemor,” the weapons master replied, then added, “I see you managed to keep from getting assigned a ‘last-minute high-priority mission’ since we talked yesterday. You have more fortitude than some of the others I’ve roped into this.”

Feemor gave a startled laugh at the master’s teasing and felt some of his anxiety drain away. “I also clearly have more smarts than them, too, if they chose to make you angry with them just to avoid some teaching.”

Master Drallig’s grin was full of teeth. “I just take it out of their hides in the sparring ring later. Revenge is not the Jedi way, but the Code says nothing about teaching responsibility through a healthy smackdown with a lightsaber.”

“‘There is no passion; there is serenity,’” Feemor quoted while doing his best impression of a Jedi Master’s austerity.

“Ha! ‘Passion, yet serenity’ is more my style,” Drallig corrected with amusement, which surprised Feemor more than his newfound ability to banter with his old lightsaber instructor and lineage-uncle. “And by dueling those who renege on their teaching commitments and passionately handing their asses to them, I achieve my serenity.” He knew that some Jedi preferred the older, more flexible Code they were taught as crèchelings over the more rigid one most swore to as knights, he just hadn’t known that he knew anyone who did. Feemor would have loved to learn more about Master Drallig’s take on the Jedi Code given how far away it was from the more inflexible views Master Jinn had instilled in him, but the arrival of twenty-five chattering initiates forestalled the discussion. Maybe Master Drallig wouldn’t mind talking more about it another time.

As Drallig corralled the students and started in with his introductory spiel, Feemor took the time to look over the semi-attentive younglings. He was surprised to realize that he recognized one of them. Obi-Wan stood off near the side of the class with a few other of his agemates in a tight-knit group, including another light-haired human boy, a Dressellian boy, and a Mon Calamarian girl. Feemor felt that tug from the Force again and as if sensing something too, Obi-Wan looked away from Master Drallig to smile brightly at Feemor. Feemor smiled back and dipped his head at the small boy who’d shared his meditation a few years ago and helped him work through some of the grief of his repudiation. He was a charming child, Feemor remembered, so full of pure light and with a deep well of compassion to share. He would be interested to see how the initiate fared with a lightsaber.

Despite all of his worries, Feemor performed his kata demonstration perfectly and even the discussion portion afterwards went almost without a hitch. The children were, as expected, doubtful of the utility of such a simple and direct lightsaber form when one could use the other forms’ flips and flourishes instead. But with a few years of missions under his belt now he was surprised to find that he had plenty of anecdotes to share about how Shii-Cho’s firm defense and swift de-escalation maneuvers had helped him protect settlers and defeat raiders in the Outer Rim and Expansion Region. Many vagabonds in those parts preferred vibroblades or even sharp-edged swords given the expense of blaster-grade Tibanna gas in those regions of the galaxy. Shii-Cho was well-suited for countering those types of weapons and fighting styles. There was only one tense moment when a human boy with white hair and sneer on his face asked what they could possibly hope to learn from a knight who’d been disowned by his entire lineage, which caused Master Drallig to snap at the boy for his disrespect. To Feemor’s surprise, Obi-Wan and his whole group of friends to rose to his defense, too, which led to the white-haired boy and his group of friends to start taunting them, and it was a few minutes before Feemor and Master Drallig managed to calm everyone down. He and the instructor both felt that a good point to transition into having the students try out the first Shii-Cho kata themselves, and so Feemor shifted from demonstrator to teaching assistant. Thankfully, the rest of the class proceeded without further such incidents.

The class ended and the students, who had been much more well-behaved than he’d expected during the practice portion of the class, gathered together with Master Drallig’s prompting. “Thank you for your teachings, Knight Feemor,” the initiates chimed in unison and those who were able bowed at the waist or gave an equivalent show of respect. 

Feemor bowed back. “It was an honor to share my knowledge with you all. May the Force be with you, initiates.” The children started to disperse, some repeating the phrase back to him before exiting. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Obi-Wan say something to his friends before jogging over to him. 

“Hi Fee!” Obi-Wan excitedly. “I really enjoyed your lesson. I didn’t know that you were going to be in my class today.”

“It’s good to see you again, Obi-Wan,” Feemor said with genuine affection. “I didn’t know I was going to be here today, either, little one. Master Drallig only asked me to help yesterday.”

“It was pretty great. You have so many cool stories!” Obi-Wan grinned, but then seemed to deflate. “I just wish I could have done better at learning the kata you showed us. I kept tripping over my feet.”

Feemor hummed. He had noticed that Obi-Wan had had difficulty with the footwork, but not much more so than the other students. He wasn’t a prodigy who could pick up a form in one lesson, but Feemor could see potential there. “I thought you did very well for a first lesson, Obi-Wan. Your feet may need more practice but your arms and shoulders were just about right. This is a skill like any other and it will take practice to get right. You must remember to be patient with yourself, and to measure your accomplishment against your own progress, not someone else’s.” He gave the youngling a reassuring smile. “But I have every confidence that you will master this kata in no time.”

Obi-Wan gave him one of those blinding smiles and bursts of happiness that Feemor remembered so fondly from their past encounters. The boy ducked forward to hug him around the waist. “Thank you, Fee, I hope so.”

Feemor returned Obi-Wan’s hug with one arm and ruffled Obi-Wan’s hair with the opposite hand. “Not to worry, little Obi, you’ve got plenty of time to work it out.” He released Obi-Wan from the hug. “Now, you’ve probably got another class to get to, and you and your friends don’t want to be late,” he said with a nod toward where light-haired boy, the Dressellian boy, and the Mon Cala girl—Initiates Garen Muln, Reeft, and Bant Eerin, he’d learned during the lesson—were waiting and pretending not to eavesdrop on the two of them talking.

“Alright, yeah, I guess I need to go,” Obi-Wan said. He hesitated a moment before asking with a nervous sort of hopefulness, “Maybe we could meditate together again sometime this week?”

Feemor felt another burst of affection and didn’t bother shielding it in the Force. “I would like that very much, little Obi. I will make sure I have time in my schedule for that. Any of your friends is welcome to join us, too,” he said at a slightly louder volume and turned to smile at the group of nosy younglings. Initiates Eerin and Reeft swiftly turned away, embarrassed that they’d been caught listening in, but Muln grinned and waved at him.

“Thanks Knight Feemor!” Initiate Muln called out, “we’d love to meditate with you, too!”

Feemor laughed at the cheekiness. Obi-Wan just blushed at his friend’s antics. “Alright, you’d best be on your way, Obi-Wan. I’ll see you later.” Obi-Wan said goodbye and ran back over to his friends. Feemor watched the group walk away, amused as he saw Obi-Wan shove Initiate Muln’s shoulder and Muln grab Obi-Wan in a headlock and rub his knuckles over his head in retaliation. When the group was out of sight Feemor chuckled again and turned to help clean up. 

He barely managed to avoid an undignified yelp when he found Master Drallig standing right behind him. The weapons master was staring at him with a worrying glint in his eye. If he hadn’t known better, he’d liken it to Master Yoda’s “I found something to meddle with” look. Feemor shifted his weight nervously. “What?”

Drallig grunted in consideration and asked, “Have you ever been to watch an Exhibition?”

“What? Uhm, no, I mean, I guess not,” Feemor answered nonplussed at the seemingly random question.

“The next Initiate Exhibition is at the end of the month. You should be there,” the weapons master said matter-of-factly.

Alarmed at this turn of events, Feemor held his hands up and took a few steps back. He’d been closer with the meddling idea than he’d thought. “Woah, okay, hold on now. Just because I helped teach this one class doesn’t mean that I’m looking to take on a padawan learner right now.” Ha! he thought with a slight edge of panic. I barely got through this one lesson without a nervous breakdown. Who in their right mind would trust me with a padawan right now?

Dralllig ignored him. “This class is a bit too young to participate in the Exhibition itself. They’re not old enough to be picked, but they’ll be doing the opening group performance this year. It’ll be the kata you showed them today,” he added while Feemor sputtered. “You should come and  watch what they learned from you.”

Feemor kept backing slowly away from the master and moved towards his things. “I’ll, uhm, I’ll think about it, Master Drallig.” He gathered his things and gave a jerky bow to Drallig. “Thank you again for the opportunity, Master. May the Force be with you,” he added hastily and definitely didn’t run away from the master who was trying to make him go to the Exhibition of prospective padawans. He pretended he didn’t hear Drallig’s laughter following him out of the training room.

He honestly had no desire to take on a padawan learner right now. Twenty-five years old was far too young for him to consider raising an initiate to knighthood, especially when he really had no idea what a normal knighthood was supposed to look like anyway. It had only been three years since his repudiation and with the help of his friends and mind healers he’d only just recently found some semblance of normalcy. He was just barely managing to balance his missions to provide backup to the ExplorCorp, his burgeoning research career based on those missions to uncharted worlds, and the odd diplomatic mission the Council still insisted on assigning to him—he tamped down on the bitter knowledge that Yoda was still happy to make use of the skills Feemor had learned from his former master despite not acknowledging Feemor’s connection to his old lineage. 

He wanted to continue to grow into the knight he was becoming and taking on a padawan right now just didn’t fit with that. So he had absolutely no intention of going to the Exhibition Drallig had insisted on. Unfortunately, Feemor made the mistake of mentioning the whole situation with the teaching and Drallig’s attempted interference to Ikurrece over drinks the night before the Exhibition was going to happen. His Pantoran friend was stationed at the ExplorCorp headquarters most of the time but was in the Temple for a bit to speak with the Council of Reassignment and to escort some initiates who were off to join the Corp. It had been a few months since Feemor’s last assignment out supporting one of Ikurrece’s expeditions, and he had missed his friend, but he’d also forgotten how Iku liked to meddle with his life.

Which was how Feemor found himself sitting at the top of the stands in the largest exhibition hall surrounded by knights and masters and with Iku fairly bouncing with excitement next to him. Scratch that, actually bouncing now, he saw in his periphery. Feemor threw an arm over his friend’s bare shoulders—with Iku’s physiology, he tended to be overly warm even in the coolest rooms of the Temple—and used his superior weight to keep Iku’s behind on the seat. “For stars’ sake, Iku, will you be still,” Feemor hissed, glancing around nervously. “I don’t want to draw attention to us. I don’t actually want to be here, if you remember me telling you.”

“But why not, Fee? This is so much fun!” Iku’s baritone voice exclaimed at much louder volume than before, which caused several stern-faced masters to turn and glare at them. Feemor smiled apologetically at the disgruntled Jedi but Iku didn’t even notice the looks they were getting. Iku had known he was Corps-bound since he was six years old and had left the crèche to join them before he’d been old enough to participate in an Exhibition. Clearly discipline was a bit different in the Corps. “My friend, I have never regretted abandoning you to join the ExplorCorp before now, but I might reconsider my position if this is what serves as entertainment for you knighthood types. This is way better than games night at HQ, Fee. I am seriously missing out.”

Feemor covered his eyes with a hand and groaned at his friend’s antics. “Ikurrece, I swear if you don’t calm down I will shave off that shiny black mop you call hair and feed it to you for latemeal.”

Bright yellow eyes looked at him with sly delight. “You love my hair too much to do that to me, Fee.”

Feemor snorted. “I might reconsider my position.”

Iku just laughed. “So what now? Do you all just sit here and watch initiates duel each other and pick the one you like most to become your padawan? Seems like there should be more to it than that,” he mused.

“Of course there is,” Feemor said, though he was unsure himself. “There’s probably paperwork-” Iku barked a laugh at that “-and you should, you know, probably talk to the student you want to train so you’re not a stranger.” He sighed with exasperation. “I really don’t know, Iku, I didn’t look into it. It’s not like I came here to find a padawan.”

“Oh really?” Iku asked lightly. “Then how come that initiate has been trying to get your attention for five minutes?”

“There are dozens of Jedi sitting nearby,” Feemor scoffed, but turned to look, “I’m sure whoever it is is looking at one of th— Oh,” he stopped, surprised when he saw Obi-Wan standing down on the sidelines of the Exhibition floor and waving up at him. “Wait, you’re right, I know that initiate. That’s Obi-Wan. He was in the class I helped teach, and we’ve meditated together a couple of times.” He’d managed to plan a time not long after his kata demonstration for Obi-Wan and his friends to meet him in the open gardens for meditation, and different combinations of the kids had stumbled upon his solitary meditations a few other times and jumped right in. They were certainly a friendly bunch, high-energy and a bit intrusive, but well-meaning. Feemor waved back at Obi-Wan, who grinned at him and waved energetically enough that it caught his friends’ attention, and then Feemor had four excited initiates waving up at him in the stands. He hunched his shoulders with embarrassment as more of the Jedi sitting nearby turned to see who the initiates were waving at. Iku, on the other hand, was thrilled at the attention and waved back with enthusiasm to rival the initiates, a dark blue blush staining his cheeks with delight. Oh dear Force, Iku and Garen would certainly get along well, he thought with a touch of horror, which is why they should never, ever meet.

Feemor projected a wave of encouragement toward Obi-Wan through the Force and could see him light up from across the room. He felt Obi-Wan’s excitement flow back toward him in the Force and was surprised that no one else around him responded to the strong emotion.

But then Iku asked, “So when did you form a Force bond with that initiate?”

Feemor turned his head so fast he nearly strained his neck. He was sure his eyes were wide with alarm. “When did I what now?” His voice may have cracked a bit.

Iku turned and yellow eyes flitted over his face. He took in Feemor’s panicked expression and broke out into deep peels of undignified laughter. “Oh Force, you didn’t know! Oh, oh, Force, oh that is just the funniest thing I’ve heard in years!” The laughter continued and Feemor’s panic turned into mortification at the spectacle that he was now at the center of. As Iku continued to hoot and crow over the situation Feemor slumped down in his seat and threw the hood of his robe over his head, trying to disappear as much as a two-meter tall humanoid next to a laughing blue maniac could. He took a moment to close his eyes and reach into himself with the Force, searching through his mind for that pulsing spot near the back where his Force bonds took root and… Yes, there it was, just behind his long-established pair-bonds with Jolar and Iku, a brand new tiny thread that stretched down toward the Exhibition flood and shimmered with the lightness of Obi-Wan’s Force sense. Oh dear stars, when did that happen?

When he opened his eyes Iku was still cackling, so Feemor slapped his hand over Iku’s mouth to shut him up. His friend was still shaking with now-silenced laughter. “Ikurrece,” he hissed, “Iku, will you please calm down and help me. This is serious! I didn’t mean to form a Force bond with Obi-Wan, it just happened. I mean, I’ve heard that natural bonds can happen but I didn’t know it could happen to me. What am I supposed to do with this?!”

Iku glanced pointedly down at the hand still covering his mouth, which Feemor reluctantly removed. “Well, Feemor,” his friend drawled, still clearly amused by the situation, “we are at an Initiate Exhibition, where you knightly folks seem to choose your padawans. So by that logic...”

“I can’t, Ikurrece!” Feemor whispered vehemently. “I’m not… I’m not ready for this.”

“So you wait a few years, Fee, what’s the problem?” Iku asked nonchalantly. “The kid—Obi-Wan was it?—he looks young. He’s what, eight?” Feemor nodded woodenly. “So you’ve got at least two years before you can do something about it anyway, and another three after that to make a decision. Do what you said. Talk to him, tell him about the bond, figure out if it’s the right move. And if not, you can always sever it. Just, you know, talk with him first.” It all sounded so very logical when Iku put it that way, but logic didn’t seem to be calming his panic.

“I told you,” he whispered desperately, “I’m not here to find a padawan.”

Iku shrugged. “Well that’s too bad, then, because it seems like a padawan has found you.”

Year 953 ARR, fifteen years ago

The Archives were, as always, quiet and calm and serene. Feemor appreciated this piece of reliability as he strolled through stacks. The volume he was searching for had once been housed in the Great Jedi Library on Ossus, or so the Council of First Knowledge had told him, and had only recently been included in the Archivists’ ongoing efforts to digitize and preserve old tomes. The sheer number of similarly ancient texts awaiting preservation meant that even a volume as important as the one Feemor needed—it detailed the original terms of an important mining treaty between the Republic and the locals of the planet he was about to deal with on his mission—had taken the small group of Lore Keepers and Jedi Librarians many years to get to.

Feemor rounded one of the stacks and was about to start down the next when he spotted a familiar head of spiky red hair bent low over a datapad at a nearby table. He couldn’t help but smile as he watched his favorite initiate diligently studying. Obi-Wan had been a regular visitor in Feemor’s life ever since Master Drallig had corralled him into helping teach that lightsaber lesson a year and a half ago. It was not long after that that Feemor had discovered—well, Iku had gleefully pointed out to him, actually—that he and Obi-Wan had developed the beginnings of a Force bond sometime over the course of their few shared mediations. It had been completely unexpected and somewhat alarming to Feemor, who only maintained a couple close bonds with his friends and didn’t tend to form bonds easily, but when he’d talked with Obi-Wan about it the child didn’t seem all that surprised by it. Apparently it was the kind of thing that just sort of happened to Obi-Wan, the child had explained when Feemor had stammeringly brought up the newfound connection. He said that the crèchemasters had explained to him a while ago that he had a natural ability to form and support bonds with people, especially those he was close to or meditated with frequently. Feemor was stunned to realize that Obi-Wan actually had more Force bonds than he himself did right now. Obi-Wan’s bonds with Garen, Reeft, and Bant had been growing steadily since he’d arrived at the Temple, the boy had said, but the one to Master Tholme’s new padawan, Quinlan, had sprung up out of nowhere the prior year. With such a strong natural ability to bond with people Obi-Wan had been receiving more lectures than usual about knowing the difference between love without possession, which was allowed within the rules of the Order, and attachments which would supersede a Jedi’s duty to the Force and the Republic. It was a difficult distinction for some Jedi to make, and Feemor could see why the crèchemasters were being extra cautious with Obi-Wan. 

And now there was his bond with Feemor, which certainly explained how Obi-Wan had kept finding him in random locations for impromptu mediation sessions. Feemor had asked Obi-Wan if he wanted to keep the bond in place and offered to go to the healers to sever it safely if he didn’t. But Obi-Wan had shrugged and said that he didn’t mind it, that he liked being friends with Feemor and liked spending time with him. Happy, but confused at what he’d done to earn Obi-Wan’s friendship, Feemor agreed to keep the bond in place and registered it with the healers as was proper for all types of Force bonds.

The bond occupied a small place at the back of Feemor’s mind and sat alongside his pair-bonds to Jolar and Ikurrece. It was thinner and fainter than either of his other bonds, though it had gotten a bit stronger during the past year as they’d occasionally meditated together or with one or more of Obi-Wan’s friends. He didn’t really notice it unless he concentrated on it, or unless Obi-Wan was trying hard to send him something. When he’d gone off planet for a few missions this year, thankfully at a slower pace now than when he’d first been knighted, the bond had been muted almost entirely, stretched too far to tell anything more than it was still connected at the other end. 

His latest mission had taken him to archaeological ruins outside a newly developed area on Ord Carida, and he’d been on-planet for a few days already but hadn’t had the chance to drop by the initiate dorms to say hello. He would be off to Eriadu soon to deal with that mining dispute, so he was glad to run into Obi-Wan now during a relative lull in his mission prep. Feemor must have been projecting his happiness or his fondness through the Force, or maybe a change in the bond gave him away, because Obi-Wan’s head shot up from his study materials and he whirled around to spot Feemor standing off to the side.

“Fee! You’re back!” Obi-Wan exclaimed, smiling. Feemor couldn’t help but smile back, even as both he and Obi quickly looked around to make sure that the fearsome Master Nu wasn’t about to descend upon them for breaking the tranquility of her Archives. Once he knew the coast was clear Feemor walked over to Obi-Wan’s table and sat in the chair next to him.

“It’s good to see you, little Obi.” Feemor ruffled his hand over Obi-Wan’s hair, a gesture which Obi-Wan pretended to be annoyed at but not so secretly enjoyed. “Hard at work, I see.”

Obi-Wan’s smile dropped off his face and he let out a small huff. “Yes, but I wish I wasn't. It’s not my favorite subject.”

“Oh?” Feemor asked, surprised. Obi-Wan usually loved learning almost any kind of subject.

Obi-Wan glared down at his datapad, which Feemor could now see was full of unsolved equations. “It’s Introductory Astronavigation,” he said with clear dislike. “It’s just so frustrating. The ideas make sense, and I understand it when the teacher explains, but it all looks so different in the homework.”

Ah, yes, the initiates’ first course that involved complex mathematics. Feemor knew from experience that many students began to struggle with their coursework around this stage of their education as they began to discover which topics came most easily to them. Intro AstroNav had tripped up many initiates over the years, Feemor included. Apparently, mathematics-heavy topics didn’t speak to Obi-Wan as clearly as historical and cultural ones did. Feemor could relate.

“I’m sorry to hear you’re struggling, little Obi,” Feemor said sympathetically. “Can any of your friends help?”

“No,” Obi-Wan said with a sigh. “Garen finished the homework first, but he and Reeft have gone to take extra lessons in the training salle. Quin is just as useless at it and Bant isn’t taking this class until next year.” Obi-Wan looked so dejected, and Feemor hated seeing that look on the child’s usually happy face.

“Hmm. You know,” Feemor proffered, “I struggled, too, when I was in that course. Mathematics and physics don’t come as naturally to me as other subjects do. Which is fine, we all have our natural strengths, but that doesn’t mean we can’t develop other skills through hard work. My teacher eventually showed me a different way of looking at the equations that made a lot more sense to me.” Feemor paused, just for a moment, inexplicably nervous all of a sudden. “Would you like me to teach it to you?”

Obi-Wan’s excited expression wiped away his fears. “Yes, please, Fee! That would be so helpful,” he said enthusiastically. “I’d love to learn from you.” Obi-Wan leaned sideways in his chair for a quick hug that Feemor returned, before Obi-Wan grabbed his datapad and slid it between them on the table.

“Ok, so, here’s the Alderaan system,” Obi-Wan started explaining, “and we’re supposed to calculate how close to the star we can put this hyperlane....”

As Obi-Wan walked him through the assignment, Feemor silently studied his young companion. Not so young anymore, Feemor realized with a start, and he felt a tug at that spot behind his breastbone as he usually did when Obi-Wan was near. Obi-Wan was nine years old now, nearly ten, and soon he would be eligible to become a padawan learner. Feemor had almost completely avoided thinking about what Ikurrece had said to him at the Exhibition almost two years ago, had resolutely ignored Master Drallig’s increasingly unsubtle hints about Feemor teaching students. He had thought that he would have plenty of time to consider it, but now Obi-Wan’s tenth birthday was coming up and Feemor still hadn’t made a decision. Feemor himself was only twenty-six and although it wasn’t unheard of, he still felt far too young to take on the responsibility of raising and guiding a child. But he looked down at Obi-Wan again and… Feemor felt another nudge from the Force. Maybe it was trying to tell him something here. Perhaps he should start looking into how one was granted permission to train a padawan. Just in case.

Chapter Text

Year 956 ARR, twelve years ago

It has been a very, very long three years, Feemor thought wearily as he trudged slowly up his ship’s ramp and shut the hatch behind him. He sagged against the door and closed his eyes, letting himself feel the full weight of his exhaustion now that he was away from prying eyes. Three years of back-to-back field missions. Three years spent mostly alone, only briefly joined by another solo knight for one mission over a year ago now. He hadn’t even managed to snag a shared mission with Jolar or Ikurrece, which the council usually had no qualms with. He’d only been able to see his friends over long-distance comlink calls.  Three years away from the Temple and his friends and his sparsely furnished quarters. He even missed his standard issue Temple bed, for all that it was just slightly too small for his tall and bulky frame. His mission roster hadn’t even been this intense in his hectic post-knighting year. He desperately needed a break.

And he missed Obi-Wan. Before Feemor had left for the first in this interminable string of missions, he’d given the initiate his comm code so that Feemor could continue to help him out with assignments or just to talk. He’d started looking into the requirements to take on a padawan, even gone so far as to fill out a standard declaration of intent to get the process started, but he hadn’t wanted to get much farther into it without first talking with Obi-Wan about it. To do otherwise had not seemed fair to him, especially when Feemor knew that a bright and studious person like Obi-Wan was likely to have much more qualified masters lining up to teach him. So although Feemor and Obi-Wan had talked every other month or so, it was only about the initiate’s assignments, or what mischief he and his agemates had gotten up to, or the latest progress in his lightsaber training. The Force bond between them had been stretched so thin for most of the past three years that he hadn’t gotten more over it than the confirmation that Obi-Wan was still alive. Their intermittent comms were a balm to his nerves. Over the years Feemor had learned about Obi-Wan’s growing fear that he was too brash, too angry, too emotional to be chosen as a padawan, and in the past few months Feemor had picked up on Obi-Wan’s increasing anxiety levels. Feemor longed to tell him that he was wanted, that someone did want to train him. He’d made it clear he thought Obi-Wan was well-suited for apprenticeship, had strongly hinted that he thought Obi-Wan would be an excellent padawan to any Jedi, had almost come right out and asked Obi-Wan to be his apprentice so many times. It nearly killed him to hold his tongue, but it wasn’t the kind of conversation to be had over comms from halfway across the galaxy. Obi-Wan deserved better than that… if only he had enough time to actually go home and ask.

Feemor had tried again and again to get back to the Temple long enough to talk with Obi-Wan in person about an apprenticeship. He had applied for a break in his mission schedule and been denied. He had applied for personal leave and been denied. He had even been desperate enough to request a mission on Coruscant, which were usually the political kind that he loathed, just in the hopes of stealing away to the Temple for an hour or two. He’d been denied that, too. When he pushed back against the nonstop pace he’d been told that the Order was stretched thin across the galaxy and he needed every capable knight in the field. He’d almost begun to suspect a conspiracy to keep him away from the Temple but he couldn’t deny that knights were in high demand just about everywhere. So despite his growing frustration Feemor had simply nodded and dutifully accepted his next assignment, and the next one, and the next. Such was the life, and the duty, of a Jedi Knight.

But now Feemor was out of time. Obi-Wan’s thirteenth birthday was less than two standard months away and Feemor still hadn’t been given the time to approach him about becoming his padawan. The Force had been tugging ever more insistently at him, urging him to get back to the Temple sooner rather than later. And with his time running short before Obi-Wan aged out of his initiate group Feemor finally decided ‘to the Sith hells with it’. He ignored the assignment from the Council waiting in his inbox, didn’t even open the message, and set course for Coruscant.

During the four day hyperspace journey he eventually opened up the Council’s message and found, unsurprisingly, another mission that needed urgent attention on the Mid Rim on the other side of the Core from Coruscant. Right, sure, just like the last three “urgent” missions had required his immediate intervention. The cynicism was thick even in his own mind. He was sure that the representatives who demanded Jedi assistance believed that each and every one of their requests was of the highest priority. To be fair, some of them were legitimately urgent, missions like natural disaster relief, kidnappings, pirate raids and such. But the supposedly urgent ones that had been coming Feemor’s way lately were… decidedly not. This new one from the Council looked to be of the same variety: leader of one political faction of an affluent Mid Rim-world gravely insulted by the leader of the opposing faction, grudge going back for centuries, expert mediation requested. Same story, different planet. Feemor snorted as he read it over, then sent a message back declining the assignment on the grounds of medical concerns. It was a complete falsehood, of course, but one that wouldn’t be overturned until the Temple healers had evaluated him. He’d reached the end of his patience with the Council. It would be worth the disciplinary mark on his record if he could get back to the Temple before they sent Obi-Wan away.

When he finally emerged from hyperspace and docked at the Temple hangers, the Force had gone from tugging at him occasionally to doing so almost constantly. He was so on edge from the near constant pressure that he was fairly shaking with anxiety, and so he felt he could be excused for his rather curt greeting to the hanger technicians and the Temple guards. He strode as quickly as he could through the hallways without running, trying to make it to the initiate dorms with all haste. He slowed as the doors appeared and he took a moment to catch his breath, though he feared that he was still rather red in the face from rushing. When he had composed himself enough to at least appear like a knight who was mature enough to take a padawan, he opened the door. 

The common area of the initiates’ dormitory was bright and colorful. Desks, chairs, and rugs were scattered about, the walls were lined with shelves full of reading materials, and Holonet terminals were tucked away in nooks for studying. A few initiates of various species clad in their plain white uniforms were clustered together working on ‘pads, probably on some homework, but none of the children were familiar. Feemor looked around the room but didn’t see a head of spiky red hair, nor any of the three or four other children that could usually be found with Obi-Wan. Crèchemaster Triina was sitting at a desk in the corner of the room typing away at her terminal, but after a few moments of him standing around and probably looking quite awkward, the middle-aged Twi’lek woman finally noticed Feemor loitering in the doorway.

“Hello there,” Trinna said pleasantly. “Can I help you, Knight…?”

“Feemor,” he provided, and cleared his throat. “Knight Feemor.” He paused, looking around again. “I was hoping to speak with Initiate Kenobi. Is he here?”

Triina’s eyes widened slightly in surprise. The sudden quiet made Feemor look over at the group of initiates, who were no longer whispering together about their assignment but were gaping up at him instead. When they saw him looking, the children clustered together even tighter and started whispering frantically, sneaking peeks in his direction. The crèchemaster, having schooled her expression while he was distracted, rose from her desk and walked calmly over to him. Feemor had a sinking feeling that something was wrong. She ushered him over to the corner opposite from where the children were still whispering for some semblance of privacy.

“Knight Feemor,” she began, then stopped, unsure of how to continue. She looked sad.

“What?” he asked, worried. “What is it? Where’s Obi-Wan? It’s just, I’ve been away for years and haven’t spoken with Obi-Wan in more than a month. It’s really very urgent that I speak with him. Has something happened?”

Triina looked at him with, not melancholy exactly, but something close to regret. Or pity, he realized uncomfortably. “I’m very sorry to tell you this, Knight Feemor, but Initiate Kenobi is no longer at the Temple. He was reassigned to the Service Corps and departed a few days ago.”

Feemor stood there, mouth agape, mind in shock. “What? He’s gone? How could Obi-Wan be gone? No, that can’t be right, he’s only twelve!”

“I’m very sorry, Knight Feemor,” Triina repeated. “However—and please understand I’m only sharing this because, well, it’s already common knowledge in the Temple—Initiate Kenobi had an aggressive encounter with another initiate. The offense was so grievous that it was decided that he was not well suited for the Knight’s path. He received his reassignment and departed not long after the incident.”

Feemor’s thoughts were spinning. He could hardly believe it. Obi-Wan, his Obi-Wan, too aggressive? With another initiate? What in the stars had happened?! Feemor absentmindedly thanked the crèchemaster and left the dormitory in a daze. Only in the most egregious of disciplinary cases were initiates reassigned before the cutoff age for their species. Or at the request of the initiate themselves; some, like Ikurrece, knew that they were better suited for one of the Corps and requested the transfer early. But for the masters to have reassigned Obi-Wan early meant that they’d been sure that Obi-Wan was so unsuited for knighthood that it wasn’t worth waiting a few months for him to age out. And that was far from the Obi-Wan that Feemor knew. There must have been some sort of mistake. Obi-Wan was… Feemor was going to ask Obi-Wan to be his padawan! That’s what was supposed to have happened! Someone, somewhere, had to have answers.

But answers were nowhere to be found. The Council of Reassignment was not convened at the moment and the High Council refused to see him. Obi-Wan’s friends knew only a little more than Feemor did: that there was an exhibition duel, Obi-Wan’s last chance to impress some master he was desperate to learn from, and that his agemate Bruck was somehow involved. Obi-Wan had shared with him a little bit of his growing conflict with the other initiate over the years, but surely it hadn’t escalated enough to get him dismissed from the Temple early! Feemor tried calling Obi-Wan, hoping that the Temple had let him keep his comm, but the call didn’t go through. In the end Feemor only managed to spend four days at the Temple before his “medical concerns” were found to be a falsehood and he was sent back out into the field with a sharp reprimand and a disciplinary mark on his service record.

He entered the hyperspace coordinates into the navicomp with half a mind, the other half still working on the problem of finding Obi-Wan. It wasn’t unheard of for an initiate to be taken on as a padawan after they’d already been reassigned; his desperate Archive searches had told him that much at least. He refused to give up. The only consolation he had was that his bond with Obi-Wan was still active, still faintly glowing in his mind the way it always had, but no matter how deeply he meditated on it he couldn't get so much as get Obi-Wan’s attention through it. For the first time since he’d found out about the bond he cursed himself for deliberately keeping it from growing stronger the times he and Obi-Wan had shared meditation. He hadn’t wanted to presume or impose on Obi-Wan until Feemor had been sure he wanted to take him on as a padawan, but that same restraint was now preventing him from making sure Obi-Wan was alright.

He tried calling Obi-Wan’s comlink at least once a day but it never connected. He suspected that the comm code had been disconnected. A junior padawan apprenticed to someone on the Council of Reassignment finally got back to him after a few tendays with the information that Obi-Wan had been assigned to the Agricultural Corps on Bandomeer and to not call back because the masters were busy. Any information was progress, but it left him more confused. Because of all things, Obi-Wan was most definitely not a farmer. A teacher or an explorer, perhaps, but not a farmer. The reassignment made no sense. He tried to appeal to the Council of Reassignment and get them to understand that he did want to apprentice Obi-Wan, screw the age requirements, but he didn’t get anywhere. He finally tried calling the AgriCorp facility on Bandomeer itself but was only able to leave a message on their computer with his comm code and the urgent request to speak to Obi-Wan right away.

A tenday after Feemor left the Temple the Bandomeer facility finally got back to him with the message that they were terribly sorry but they had no record of an initiate named Kenobi arriving at their facility. A day later, his bond with Obi-Wan blinked out of existence. 

He was in the middle of a delicate set of negotiations and unable to break away—the shock of losing the bond had almost led him to gravely insult one of the parties and made the remainder of his mission twice as difficult—but as soon as his duty was complete he all but ran back to his ship and tried contacting someone, anyone at the Temple or on Bandomeer for information. There was none to be had no matter how hard he pushed. With a heavy heart, he dropped his inquiry and accepted his next assignment.

The next few months droned on as the months before had, mission after mission flying by in a haze. He performed his duties diligently but woodenly and spent his spare time between missions trying to investigate Obi-Wan’s fate. He berated himself every time he hit a dead end in his investigation. He couldn’t shake the belief that he might have prevented this if only he had followed his instincts and acted sooner. If only he’d ignored his assignments earlier and gotten there before Obi-Wan was sent away. If only he’d not been so determined to ask in person instead of over comms. If only… After he calmed down enough to meditate, he found that the spot where Obi-Wan’s bond had been was just empty. That gave him hope, actually; had Obi-Wan died, Feemor’s end of the bond would be broken and frayed. That it just trailed off into nothing might mean that Obi-Wan’s connection to the Force was being suppressed. It wasn’t a very comforting thought but it also wasn’t as bad as it could have been. His inquiries to the High Council still went ignored. They didn’t respond to him except to acknowledge receipt of his reports and pass along the next mission. The Reassignment Council had no new information for him. Time after time he restrained himself from abandoning whatever assignment he was on and flying straight to Bandomeer to see for himself what had happened, because surely doing so would be crossing the line from understandable concern to attachment and obsession, which he couldn’t give in to no matter how much he wanted to train Obi-Wan. He would just have to keep trying to get through via the proper channels.

His bond with Obi-Wan blinked back into existence eventually, which was a great relief, but it seemed weaker than it had been and did not tell Feemor anything more than Obi-Wan was still alive. Which he already knew. It was nearly three months after he’d learned that the child he’d wanted as his padawan was gone, almost four months since they’d last spoken, when he finally found Obi-Wan. Or rather, when Obi-Wan found him. The transceiver on the ship pinged in the middle of his morning meal with an incoming holocall from an unknown comcode, and when he opened up the call, there Obi-Wan was with a bright smile on his face. Feemor sat up straighter.

“Obi-Wan! Oh thank the Force, you’re alright!” Feemor didn’t even try to mask the emotion in his face or his voice, far too relieved to make the effort. “I was so worried. I’ve been trying to find you for months!”

Obi-Wan smiled at him, clearly just as happy to talk to him. “Hi, Fee! It’s good to see you, too. I have so much to tell you! There’s… a lot that’s happened recently,” Obi-Wan smiled sheepishly and rubbed the back of his head. The motion drew Feemor’s attention to the tiny stub of a braid hanging just behind Obi-Wan’s right ear. Feemor froze in place. Oh.

“I can see that,” Feemor croaked out. He cleared his throat, trying to be happy for Obi-Wan. He was extremely happy that Obi-Wan was alright, even as his heart sank with disappointment at missed opportunities. He tried out a small smile. “I think congratulations are in order, Padawan Kenobi.”

Obi-Wan smiled brighter and blushed, tugging on the braid in self-consciousness. “Thank you, Fee. It’s… it’s rather new and I’m afraid I’m still getting used to it.”

“Would you tell me how all this happened? The last I knew, you were reassigned to Bandomeer…?” He trailed off.

“Ah, yes, well,” Obi-Wan stammered. “It’s a rather long story.”

Feemor tried to smile comfortingly. “I have nothing but time right now. I’ve missed you, little Obi.”

“I missed you too, Fee.” Obi-Wan took a deep breath and scrunched up his face in thought. “Okay, so it’ll probably make the most sense if I start with the exhibition duel…” 

And so the tale began. Obi-Wan took him through the complicated sequence of events, and Feemor struggled to hide his emotions as he learned all that had unfolded in the past few months. He held back a flinch when he learned that the master that Obi-Wan had desperately been trying to impress was none other than Qui-Gon Jinn. It was at that point that he’d started to get a really bad feeling, which was soon justified. Obi-Wan being sent away from the Temple early had been suspicious from the start, and the infraction Obi-Wan described didn’t seem severe enough to have warranted the dismissal. Obi-Wan coincidentally being sent to Bandomeer on the same ship as Master Jinn redoubled his suspicion that there was some kind of manipulation happening behind the scenes. He reigned in his reaction when Obi-Wan said that their ship, the Monument, had been attacked by pirates, that he’d been fighting giant flying reptiles and confronting Hutt criminals, that he had been bloody well rejected by Master Jinn again after saving so many lives. He was shocked to hear Xanatos’s name once more, this time with his former padawan-brother having Fallen so low as to enslave others and threaten to blow up a planet of millions to get back at Master Jinn. When Obi-Wan said he’d been captured and sent to the deep sea mines, too, Feemor frantically scanned what he could see of Obi-Wan for injury. Nothing major was visible but Feemor could faintly see the shadow of a bruise, or maybe it was a burn, ringing Obi-Wan’s neck. A slave collar, then, and knowing how cruel Xanatos could be even when he’d been a Jedi, Feemor would bet that it had suppressed the Force in addition to housing an explosive. It would explain the Force bond winking out. That a twelve-year old Obi-Wan had had to deal with all of that when he should have still been safe in the Temple made Feemor grind his teeth. He was furious at the situation, and even more so at the vague description of how Obi-Wan had planned to help Jinn, and only Jinn, escape the mines all while wearing a Force-suppressing explosive device. He narrowed his eyes at the obvious omission, but resolved to come back to it later. 

Obi-Wan’s tale concluded with a planet saved, Feemor’s Fallen brother on the loose, and Master Jinn begrudgingly accepting Obi-Wan as his apprentice. Obi-Wan looked so happy to be the man’s padawan, to have all his fears of not being chosen cast aside at last. Feemor tried to be happy for the boy even as a shiver travelled down his spine. Beyond his own disappointment that he wouldn’t be the one to train Obi-Wan, he had to admit, to himself at least, that he was anxious that it was Master Jinn who would fill that role. Feemor dreaded the fact that the bright child he had hoped to raise would instead be trained by the same man who’d hurt him so terribly. 

Obi-Wan looked nervous through the comm call. “Fee? Are you okay? Are you… are you mad at me?”

“No!” Feemor exclaimed. Apparently he’d been silent for too long after Obi-Wan’s recitation had ended. “Of course I’m not mad, little Obi. I’m sorry, I was just… I was thinking. You’ve been through a terrible ordeal, Obi-Wan, but you came out the other side and handled it like a true Jedi. I’m proud of you.” Feemor paused. He could do this. He could be happy for Obi-Wan. “You know, little Obi,” he said, trying for a light and casual tone, like his heart wasn’t breaking, “since Master Jinn also trained me, this makes us brothers.”

Obi-Wan’s eyes widened. “It was Master Qui-Gon who taught you!” He looked guiltily over his shoulder towards the closed door that presumably led to the rest of the ship where Master Jinn was. He lowered his voice. “Does that mean that it was also Master Qui-Gon who…?”

Feemor winced. He hadn’t wanted to ruin Obi-Wan’s excitement. “Yes, it was, but that doesn’t mean that he was a poor teacher before that. I learned a great deal in our years together, and he did train me into knighthood.” He’d been about to say, “trained me into the knight I am today,” but that wasn’t true. Time, distance, and many sessions with the mind healers had helped him realize that while Master Jinn had guided him, Feemor owed himself most of the credit for making something of those teachings. “Master Jinn made a mistake in doing what he did to me, but he is, at his heart, a good man. And a good Jedi.” Just perhaps not a great mentor, Feemor didn’t say out loud. But it had been years since Feemor’s repudiation. Maybe Master Jinn had learned. Maybe Obi-Wan’s apprenticeship would end better than Feemor’s had.

“That’s true,” Obi-Wan said hesitantly, still uncertain. That wouldn’t do. Regardless of the circumstances, Obi-Wan was a new apprentice. This was supposed to be a happy time for him.

“Come now, it’ll be alright. Try not to dwell on it,” Feemor encouraged. “Just think, in a few years you’ll be a Jedi Knight, little brother.”

Obi-Wan grinned at the nickname. “‘Little brother.’ I like that. I’m glad we’re brothers now, Fee. That way we’ll always be connected.”

Feemor swallowed thickly. “I’ll always be there for you, brother, I promise. No matter what.” And he would be, he vowed to himself. Maybe Feemor wasn’t meant to have a padawan right now. Maybe that tug he’d always felt around Obi-Wan had meant they were supposed to be brothers, instead. That was fine. He could live with that. As long as Obi-Wan was safe and happy, that was fine. Really, it was. It was better than never seeing Obi-Wan again. Feemor would look out for his brother, Qui-Gon Jinn be damned. He wouldn’t let his brother down.

Year 957 ARR, eleven years ago

The main entrance hall was peaceful and quiet as Feemor made his way unhurriedly from the refectory toward the Halls of Healing. His string of missions had lasted for four entire years—except for Feemor’s frantic fight back to Coruscant a year ago to try to make it home by Obi-Wan’s thirteenth birthday, but that was hardly what he’d consider a break. But it was finally over and he’d been granted a full month of respite. He’d gotten back about a tenday ago and had been reacclimating to the slow and steady rhythm of life at the Temple. It was a welcome reprieve from the hectic pace he’d been keeping for so long. His Temple bed was as hard and as narrow as he remembered but at least it wasn’t a ship’s bunk. As required he’d spent a few hours with the healers right after he arrived and been put through the full battery of post-mission tests. Everything had checked out initially and now Feemor just had to go back for a few routine follow-ups to be cleared.

He had just rounded the corner toward the Halls of Healing when a person behind him yelled, “Out of the way!” He threw himself flat against the wall without thinking, years of field work and combat training snapping him into action. It was a good thing he did because a moment later a group of healers came running down the hallway at full speed. The healers were pushing a gurney with a familiar figure strapped to it—Master Tahl, he realized with some shock—and running behind the group was none other than Master Jinn. It was Master Jinn who’d shouted, he realized belatedly, and he wondered in the back of his mind if some part of him was still conditioned to respond to the man’s commands.

Once the group ran past him Feemor followed them into the Halls, keeping well out of the healers’ way. It looked like his follow-up examinations would need to wait. The healers clearly had a far more critical situation to deal with. They swarmed around Master Tahl’s bed, attaching electrodes to monitor her vitals, cutting away her tunic to assess what looked like a few broken ribs and possible internal injuries, and ever-so carefully removing the gauze that was covering the upper part of her face. Feemor held back a wince when he saw the red and raw flesh around the master’s eyes and sent a prayer out into the Force on Master Tahl’s behalf. As one of Master Jinn’s oldest friends she’d been a regular presence in Feemor’s life during adolescence and she’d always been kind to him. He knew what Master Tahl meant to Master Jinn—it would be obvious even to a Force-null how the two cared for each other—and he hoped that the healers could fix most of the damage.

Master Jinn bled grief into the Force, watching from as close as he could manage as the healers took stock of Master Tahl’s injuries. With a jolt, Feemor realized that in all this chaos he hadn’t seen even a glimpse of Obi-Wan. Surely Obi-Wan should have been here, too. He looked around the Halls but didn’t see him in the room. He walked back out into the hallway to see if maybe Obi-Wan was just keeping himself out of the way and he ran into a group of familiar teenagers instead. Garen, Reeft, and Bant were congregated just outside the doorway, all with worried looks on their faces. 

“Knight Feemor!” Bant exclaimed. “Oh, thank the Force! What’s going on? Is Master Tahl alright?”

“Younglings,” Feemor acknowledged absently, looking around the group distractedly, still searching for Obi-Wan to no avail. He finally registered Bant’s question. “I’m sorry, Bant, I’m not exactly sure what’s going on. I only just got here myself. It looked like Master Tahl was badly injured, I’m afraid, and the healers were just beginning to assess her injuries when I stepped out. Master Jinn is in there with her right now but it’s probably for the best if you three wait out here until the healers are through with their tests.”

“Is Obi-Wan in there with them?” Reeft asked anxiously. “We should be there for him.”

“Obi-Wan is gone,” came a voice from farther down the hall, and Feemor looked up to see Obi-Wan’s friend Quinlan walking up to the group with clenched fists and a grim look on his face. 

“What?” Garen exclaimed. “What do you mean he’s gone?” The words triggered something in Feemor’s memory, an echo of his own reaction from a year ago when he’d found out that Obi-Wan had been sent to Bandomeer. He had a sinking feeling in his gut.

“I mean, he’s gone. As in, not here” the older teenager repeated with clear anger in his voice. “I was in the hangar with Master Tholme when Master Jinn’s ship landed. I watched as he carried Master Tahl out and called for a healer, but Obi-Wan never came off the ship. He wasn’t on the ship at all.”

“But then, where is he? He should have been with Master Jinn,” Bant asked with something that sounded like panic. “He couldn’t have… have died right? We’d know if that happened, wouldn't we?” Feemor suddenly found himself on the receiving end of four pairs of eyes giving him looks ranging from pleading to defiance, as if daring Feemor to suggest that any of them wouldn’t know if something terrible had happened to their friend.

Feemor closed his eyes and searched in the Force for that shimmering thread in his mind that tied him to Obi-Wan. Thank the stars the bond was still there, although it was faint and stretched thin as it usually was when Obi-Wan was more than a planet away. He couldn’t get any more information out of it than alive. “Of course we’d know if that happened,” Feemor tried to reassure the group when he opened his eyes. “Our Force bond hasn’t changed, and I’m sure if you all take a moment to center yourselves you will realize the same for your connections with him, too.” At his words each of the teenagers closed their eyes to check, and Feemor was struck once again by how naturally empathic Obi-Wan must be to so easily form and maintain Force bonds with so many individuals at once. Six bonds was quite a lot for a Jedi any age. One by one the students opened their eyes, some of the tension noticeably leaving them, although Quinlan, he realized, remained as on edge as before. “There must be some other reason for Obi-Wan to have not returned with Master Jinn. I’ll go back in there and ask him,” Feemor offered.

“No offense, Knight Feemor,” Quin interjected, “but it might be better for one of us to ask him about Obi-Wan. It’s not like Master Jinn will want to talk to you now if he hasn’t for the last ten years.” Feemor winced. Quin was being blunt and tactless as he often was, but he was probably also right. Master Jinn hadn’t so much as nodded in his direction since the repudiation and he wasn’t likely to take well to Feemor asking questions about his current padawan. Feemor gave a reluctant nod and moved to let Quinlan pass, hating that the teenager was more likely to get an answer out of Master Jinn than Feemor would. He hated feeling helpless.

A few minutes passed in tense silence as the remaining padawans and Feemor waited anxiously for Quin to return. When he finally did it was with an even more grim look on his face and a familiar lightsaber in his hand. Feemor’s breath hitched. He would recognize that saber anywhere. Obi-Wan had been so proud when he’d built it. 

“Well?” Garen demanded.

“Apparently, Obi-Wan has left the Jedi Order,” Quin reported, voice seething with anger and incredulity. “According to Master Jinn,” he sneered, “he chose to stay behind after his last mission instead of helping bring Master Tahl back home. Master Jinn seems to think he became attached to one of the local girls and decided to stay with her.”

“What bantha poodoo!” Bant exclaimed, and then covered her mouth in embarrassment at her outburst. “Sorry, Knight Feemor, but you know that can’t be what really happened. It’s ridiculous. We all know how much Obi-Wan has wanted to be a knight. There’s no way he would have left not even a year after becoming a padawan, and not for a girl, anyway.” All of Obi-Wan’s friends nodded in agreement with Bant’s assessment and Feemor had to trust that they were right about that. It was not unheard of for a new apprentice to realize that the path they’d started on wasn’t one they wanted to follow forever, especially the part of the code that demanded a Jedi not place the needs of a loved one above their duty. Obi-Wan had seemed content in his partnership with Master Jinn the last time Feemor had spoken with him, but it wasn’t like he’d ever spoken with Obi-Wan about attachment to know what his opinion on that particular issue might be.

The teenagers were concerned with whether or not Obi-Wan would have chosen to leave for an attachment, but from Feemor’s perspective Master Jinn’s actions were far more worrisome. Years ago, despite having successfully trained Feemor to knighthood, the man had been so hurt by losing his second apprentice to darkness that he’d chosen to burn them both rather than admit his own fault in the matter. When things had gone wrong, Master Jinn had thrown Feemor away without a thought. And now once again, when the man’s attachment to Tahl was pitted against his responsibility to his padawan, he’d left Obi-Wan behind. It was starting to seem like Master Jinn had a tendency to abandon his apprentices when something bad happened to someone he cared about more, as if the apprentices themselves were the cause of his problems and not the man’s attachments. And that wasn’t what Obi-Wan deserved.

“You’re right, Bant,” Reeft said, startling Feemor out of his troubling thoughts. “There must be something else going on, and we should find out what it is.”

The four of Obi-Wan’s friends looked at each other helplessly and then as one turned to Feemor. He was, after all, the adult in this situation and so it was up to him. He froze under their beseeching gazes, raking his mind for what he could actually do in this situation. Well, the first step in bringing Obi-Wan back to them was to figure out where Obi-Wan actually was, but that might be harder than it sounded. Compared with many other knights with a similar number of years under their belts, Feemor was relatively unconnected and generally of average skill across the board. He didn’t have access to mission assignments, and it seemed like Master Jinn wasn’t going to help them. As a young knight, and a repudiated one who was estranged from his entire former lineage, he wasn’t close enough with any other masters who might be willing to break the rules and look up the mission logs for him. Bant and Reeft had yet to be apprenticed, but maybe Quinlan or Garen…

He turned to the two boys. “Would Master Tholme or Master Rhara access Master Tahl’s mission logs if you asked them to? If you explained the situation to them?”

Garen and Quin looked at each other skeptically but each boy pulled out his comlink to ask his master. Feemor, Bant, and Reeft waited anxiously as the boys walked off a little ways to make their calls, but after a few minutes Garen and Quinlan returned to the group dejected.

“‘Worry not. If there is an issue with his padawan Master Jinn will bring it to the council’s attention,’” Garen recited glumly.

Quinlan snorted. “‘Be mindful of your attachment, padawan mine,’” the sullen teenager mocked. “‘It’s not your place to interfere, padawan mine.’”

Feemor sighed. It was unfortunate, but not all that unexpected that neither master wanted to insert themself into how another Jedi trained his apprentice. It wasn’t what Jedi Masters did, apparently. They all prefered to leave such situations up to the wisdom of the teacher, and when that failed, to trust in the High Council. Feemor—and Xanatos too, really—were proof that that strategy didn’t always work out for the best.

With that avenue closed, he supposed that they could probably slice into the mission database to find out where Tahl had been rescued from and where Obi-Wan and Master Jinn had been sent. But they were just two initiates, two junior padawans, and one knight who had never gotten high marks in his InfoSec courses. And aside from the fact that slicing a Temple database was a far more serious infraction than asking a master to grant unauthorized access, going that route could take quite a lot of time. 

Well, all else aside, Feemor was a simple and straightforward man at heart, so he would start with the simple and straightforward strategy and go from there.

“Come on, follow me,” he told the group as he started walking purposefully back toward the entrance hall. People quickly moved out of his way as he strode toward the communications center with a flock of anxious students at his back. He didn’t usually like relying on his imposing stature to get things done but in this instance it was useful. He made his way to the closest open terminal, sat down, and punched in Obi-Wan’s comm code. No use attempting the complicated slicing and espionage method until they’d tried the most obvious solution first. Feemor’s personal comlink didn’t have the range he needed to reach someone off planet, but the short-range transmitter could reach just about anywhere within a few thousand parsecs. He hoped that Obi-Wan wasn’t somewhere on the Outer Rim…

No luck. The call didn’t connect, He tried a second time and a third and nothing went through. Assuming that Obi-Wan still had his comm and that it wasn’t damaged (two very big assumptions, he knew that) it probably meant that Obi-Wan was out of range of the transmitter. They’d need a relay to reach any farther away and for that they’d need to know which communications relay to connect with. If not, they would have to try each of the thousands of relays strewn throughout the galaxy and hope that they picked the right one. Otherwise the relay would be searching for Obi-Wan’s comlink in the Arkanis sector when he could be out at Dantooine. He swivelled the chair to face the group.

“Who spoke with Obi-Wan most recently?” he asked them. Someone had to know where Obi-Wan and Master Jinn had been headed last and Feemor himself hadn’t spoken to his brother in the tenday since he’d landed at the Temple. After some quick deliberation they learned that Garen had spoken to him six days ago while he was en route to a rescue mission, which was presumably wherever they’d found Tahl and where Obi-Wan still was. Garen hadn’t been told what planet it had been but just knowing when they’d been en route was good enough. Feemor knew that Obi-Wan had been on Phindar not too long before that and there were only so many regions beyond Phindar that Master Jinn’s ship could reach and be back on Coruscant within six days, while currently being out of range of the transmitter. Dear Force, it was like he was back in Intro AstroNav again, but it at least helped them pin down which part of the galaxy to search. They narrowed down the list to twelve possible relays, which was a much more feasible list to search through. Feemor started keying in the call through the different transmitters. He had no luck with the transmitters at Ossus or Saleucami (and he was actually relieved when the one around Yavin failed, because that would have meant Obi-Wan might be on Korriban) but finally, finally, the call went through after it was transmitted through Serenno.

A tiny, poor quality holo of Obi-Wan appeared on the display. It was hard to tell from the grainy and wavering image but it looked like Obi-Wan’s face was smudged with dirt and his clothing was torn and dishevelled. That didn’t bode well for whatever situation he found himself in. It looked like Obi-Wan was speaking, but no sound was coming through. “Hello? Hello, Obi-Wan, can you hear us?” Feemor tried. “Obi, it’s Feemor, can you hear us?” He tried adjusting a few settings and the image winked out for just a second, long enough for the anxious teenagers to gasp, “No!” But Obi-Wan’s image came back almost immediately, and this time with slightly clearer visual transmission and audio, too.

“—ello? Hello, Feemor, are you there?” came Obi-Wan’s voice through the speaker, quiet and a bit tinny.

“Yes!” Feemor replied with a grin. “Yes, we can hear you. Thank the Force you’re alright, we were so worried, Obi.”

“Fee, oh thank goodness you called,” Obi-Wan sagged in relief. “I think… I could really use your help. I followed the will of the Force, I’m sure of it, but…” he trailed off and looked around his surroundings and then hung his head. “I’m in over my head, Fee.” He sounded like he hadn’t slept in days. Dear Force, he was far too small to sound so desolate.

“Of course, I’ll help you, Obi,” Feemor tried to reassure, though his worry ratcheted up about ten levels at the bleakness in Obi-Wan’s voice. “Whatever you need, brother, I’m there, you know that. It’s just… where in the Sith hells are you?”

Obi-Wan looked surprised. “I thought… Isn’t Master Qui-Gon back by now? Master Tahl was in such bad shape when they left, but they should have made it by now.”

Garen shoved into the frame next to Feemor. “Yeah, he’s here Obi-Wan, and Master Tahl’s with the healers, but he wouldn’t tell us anything!” the boy interjected angrily. “He gave Quin your lightsaber and said you’d left the Order for a girl. He wouldn’t tell us anything else about what happened to you or where you were.”

Obi-Wan looked stricken and then without warning he broke down and started crying. He looked so much younger than his fourteen years and Feemor’s heart ached for him. “Oh,” Obi-Wan gasped out through his tears. “Oh, that’s… I supposed it must have looked that way, but no. It’s not that.” He sniffled, trying to reign in his emotions. “I’m on Melida/Daan.”

Melida/Daan… Melida/Daan… why was that name familiar? Feemor racked his mind for some recollection of the planet, but Reeft, who was far more interested in the history of planetary conflicts than any of the rest of them, made the connection first. He shoved his way into the frame beside him and Garen. “Oh my stars, Obi-Wan, please tell me you’re kidding!” the Dressellian pleaded. “Melida/Daan? You’re with the Young?”

That name sparked Feemor’s memory in an awful way. The situation was worse than he’d feared. He remembered hearing a brief snippet about this planet during a lecture on planetary civil wars and the little information the lecturer had shared had been bleak: A small out of the way planet on the Outer Rim most of the way toward the Corporate Sector, no resources left to make any larger power care, a centuries long planet-wide civil war between two factions of adults, and a third faction that appeared about ten years ago opposing both sides that was made up of children who were tired of the fighting. It absolutely was a cause that Obi-Wan wouldn’t have been able to abandon and was definitely one that he shouldn’t have been left behind to deal with alone.

Obi-Wan looked grim and resolved. “Yes, Reeft, I’m here with the Young. The Force guided me to help them end the war for good, and I couldn’t just leave them. Master Jinn gave me the choice to either abandon these kids or stay with them and leave the Jedi. I chose to stay here and help, and the two other leaders of the Young are letting me aid them. Some of the kids here…” Obi-Wan swallowed thickly, “they’re just so little, so small and frightened and sick and, and… if any of what I’ve learned while safe and sound in the Temple could help them, it was my duty to do so. If the price for saving their lives is my place in the Order, it’s well worth it.”  He stood up straighter as he spoke, shoulders back and chin lifted, with commitment to the cause shining through with every word. He looked like a general, Feemor thought with horror, a teenage general leading a group of child soldiers.

Feemor took a deep breath trying to reign in the urge to run back to the Halls of Healing and punch Master Jinn in the nose. Abandoning his underage padawan in a war zone… He tried, and mostly failed, to release his anger into the Force. When his mind was clear enough he felt the Force pushing back at him. His anger at Master Jinn could wait. He refocused on the more important matter at hand. “I’m very proud of you, little brother. You did what was right, though it is by far the more difficult path and I wish with everything I am that you didn’t feel you have to walk it. You made the decision of a true Jedi.” Obi-Wan somehow stood even taller at the praise. “But you shouldn’t be there alone, Obi-Wan. No, I understand,” Feemor continued when it looked like Obi-Wan was about to object. “Really, I do. You knew you could help them, so there was no other choice for you to make. I know you well enough to know that you won’t be swayed from your path.” Obi-Wan nodded, resolute. “Which is why I’m going to join you there.” The insistent nudging from the Force was clear on that much, at least.

He’d apparently shocked Obi-Wan into silence, but spurred Garen, Reeft, Bant, and Quinlan into pledging their support, too. He quickly turned around to address the clamoring teenagers. “No, absolutely not. I’m sorry, but you can’t come with me for this. This is unsanctioned, and you have your studies and your masters to think of. What’s more, I can’t in good conscience bring four more underage people into an active war zone to fight.” He held up a hand to forestall their objections. “No, I won’t change my mind about this. To do so would make me as bad as… as…” As bad as the Melida/Daan Elders, his mind finished the thought. As bad as Master Jinn. He was only thirty-one years old but he felt far, far older in the face of their disappointment. He tried to soften his voice. “There is still much that can be done from here. If you want to help, talk to your masters. Talk to your teachers. Get them to send us backup. I’m only one Jedi.” He caught himself and turned back to Obi-Wan. “Two. We’re only two Jedi.”

Obi-Wan looked torn between objecting to his inclusion in the ranks of the Jedi and relief that soon he wouldn’t be alone. Relief won out in the end. “Thank you, Fee. You have no idea what—” he cleared his throat, overcome with emotion. “It means more than I can say that you’re coming.”

“Anything for you, little brother,” Feemor repeated his initial promise. “I’ll leave as soon as I can, hopefully within a day or two once arrangements are made. Once I leave I should be there in…” he looked back at the group, hoping someone had done the calculation.

“Three days, give or take half a day depending on your hyperdrive,” Garen filled in.

Feemor nodded. “So no more than a week, with luck. I’ll see you soon, little Obi. Stay safe. I’ll reach out to you when I’m there.”

The rest of the group chimed in with their own wishes for Obi-Wan’s safety, assurances that he’d try to rally more support, that Obi-Wan was loved and missed. He could tell that the emotional support meant nearly as much as the pledge of physical support did to Obi-Wan, who had been alone and adrift from every support structure he’d ever known. Feemor repeated his promises that he’d see Obi-Wan soon and reluctantly closed the transmission. 

They all fell silent for a minute trying to process what they’d just learned before Feemor sprung into action. He stood up and made his way toward his quarters. It took him until he was about halfway there to realize that everyone was following him. Well, that was fine. They were all in it together, and quite honestly he was in no position to turn down whatever help he could get. He keyed open his door and waved everyone in, then walked past them to his bedroom to start packing.

“I’m going to need a ship,” he called out to the group that was still in the main room.

“On it!” Garen called back, and some furious typing started up at the computer terminal. Good, that was good. Garen was a favorite down in the hangers, a real budding Jedi Ace, at least according to Ikurrece who liked to keep track of which pilots might be sent to help the ExplorCorp. If any of the kids could get him a ship at the last minute, it would be Garen.

“You’ll want a medkit,” Bant added while Feemor was busy sorting through his standard mission bag. He’d been lazy since he’d gotten back, had been so tired of being in the field that he’d let standard procedure slide and not repacked his go bag. Bant had a good point. Who knew what medical supplies the Young had to work with. Feemor directed her to the one in the fresher and the backup one in the kitchen.

“Obi-Wan will probably need more clothes. Maybe some nonperishable foods and water purification tablets.” That was Reeft, ever practical. Feemor called out where to find his spare ration bars and tablets as he dug through his drawers for some of his older tunics and leggings. They’d be comically big on Obi-Wan but it was better than nothing, and it wasn’t like he could explain to the quartermaster why he was requisitioning dozens of sets of padawan’s uniforms. He thought he had an old knitted sweater in the back of his closet somewhere…

“And if any of you knows how to submit requests to the councils, would you mind getting those started?” Feemor called out, cursing himself for not having thoughts of that sooner. It was a long shot, because such requests usually took days or weeks to be given consideration, and that was time that Feemor was not willing to waste while Obi-Wan and those kids were fighting a war alone. But it was still worth checking that box if only to minimize the repercussions later. Once he’d grabbed enough clothing for himself and Obi-Wan he stuffed them in the bag and reentered the sitting room where the others had gathered the rest of his supplies. 

“I’ve done some requests for Master Clee,” Garen replied, still distracted with his task of requisitioning a ship. “I’ll get started on those next.”

Feemor thanked him and wrote down his access codes for Garen to work with. It was terrible data security but Feemor had bigger worries at the moment. “Start with the High Council, of course, but also start one with Reconciliation,” he instructed Garen.

“And Reassignment, too,” Bant added softly. “If Obi really isn’t a padawan any more…” she trailed off, uncertain. 

“A good idea, Bant,” Feemor reassured her. Personally he had his doubts about how official the end of Obi-Wan’s apprenticeship was given Master Jinn’s loathing of paperwork and how focused he’d seemed on Tahl’s condition above all else. But the more channels they could try to run this through the more likely it would be that they’d get some support quickly. “Add a request to the Reassignment Council, too, if you would Garen.” Garen mumbled an acknowledgement while focused on whatever form he was currently on, and so Feemor squeezed the boy’s shoulder in thanks and left him to it.

While Garen worked, Feemor bustled around the room packing up the other supplies Bant and Reeft had gathered for him. The small pile of medical supplies, field rations, and purification tablets didn’t look like much but he packed them into his bag anyway. Every little bit would help. Garen finished up at the terminal not long after that and handed Feemor a pad with a short list of forms to sign. It looked like he’d managed to secure him a small ship with a modest hyperdrive and a launch window for early the following morning. That was far better than Feemor had expected and he raised a questioning eyebrow at Garen.

Garen shrugged. “One of the hanger techs owed me a favor for helping him fix an engine patch that he’d botched pretty badly. That’s the best he could get me on such short notice without raising any flags.”

“It’s excellent, Garen, thank you.” He signed off on the ship requisition and the requests to each of the councils without further ado, and found one with his name on it for a last minute “spiritual retreat.” Right, that was smart. He’d been so focused on supporting Obi-Wan he’d forgotten that someone would notice Feemor missing at some point and look for him, too. Going missing for an unsanctioned mission while he was supposed to be resting at the Temple would put him in a very bad spot, but this excuse would provide him a little cover, at least. Feemor nodded appreciatively at Garen’s forethought and added his signature to that form, too. 

He cast about his quarters for anything else he or Obi-Wan might need and his eyes fell on Quinlan, who’d been sitting quietly on the sofa the entire time. He’d been so silent that Feemor had forgotten he was even there. Quin was hunched forward with his elbows on his knees and was staring intently at Obi-Wan’s lightsaber, which he held tightly between both hands. Both bare hands, Feemor realized with a jolt, remembering quite suddenly that Quinlan was quite gifted with retrocognition. He wondered, apprehensively, what the young man was seeing through Obi-Wan’s lightsaber.

Feemor knelt in front of him. “Quin?” he asked gently. Quinlan tightened his grip on the lightsaber but otherwise didn’t respond. “Quinlan? Talk to me,” he tried again after a minute.

“You’ll bring him back,” Quinlan said in a low, gravelly tone. It was a demand, not a question. Quin raised his head and his eyes blazed with righteous determination as they met Feemor’s between ropes of hair. The yellow tattoo across his dark face all but glowed in the shadows cast on his face. “You bring Obi-Wan back to us, Feemor.”

Feemor nodded solemnly. “I will, Quin.”

Quin took a steadying breath and then solemnly held out Obi-Wan’s lightsaber. Feemor took it with equal gravity and clipped it to his belt on the opposite side of his own. He reached out and gripped padawan’s shoulders, undeterred when Quinlan tried to jerk out of his grasp. “Hey there. Quinlan, hey, look at me,” Feemor urged. “Look at me.” After a long moment Quinlan raised his head fully, and where Quinlan’s anger had shown through before Feemor only saw a deep, profound sadness. “You need to breathe, Quin, breathe and release all that anger and grief into the Force. Can you do that? Just try to breathe with me for a minute,” Feemor urged, and started to breathe slowly and deeply as he would during the opening of a meditation. Eventually Quinlan started matching his breathing and Feemor felt him struggle to release any sort of emotion into the Force. But the young man couldn’t manage it for long before his breaths turned shaky and hitching as he started to cry. Feemor’s heart hurt. He wasn’t sure he ever wanted to know what Quinlan’s psychometry had shown him about Obi-Wan’s lightsaber. The faint hum of Obi-Wan’s Force presence from the kyber crystal was heart-wrenching enough. He tugged Quinlan forward into a hug made slightly awkward by Feemor’s kneeling position. “Hey, hey, shhh” he tried to soothe, smoothing a hand over the back of Quin’s head. “It’ll be alright, Quinlan. We’ll get him back, you’ll see.” He continued to make small comforting noises as Quinlan broke down. The rest of Obi-Wan’s friends gathered close and placed supporting hands on Quinlan’s back or, in Bant’s case, tucked her head in close and joined in the embrace. Feemor closed his eyes as he was buffeted on all sides by the teens’ turbulent emotions and took deep steadying breaths, determined to hold himself together until he could meditate about it later in private.

The group calmed down eventually and with a few more comforting words and assurance that they’d see Quin back to his quarters, Feemor was left alone in his rooms to wait for his departure window.

Chapter Text

Year 957 ARR, eleven years ago, continued

Hurry up and wait, Feemor thought wryly as he puttered around his empty quarters. That’s how missions always went, wasn't it, even the unsanctioned ones. Obi-Wan was trapped on a distant planet leading children into battle and Feemor was… stuck here on Coruscant for another five hours. He looked at the kitchen and briefly contemplated making himself something to eat but quickly dismissed the idea. The hour had grown late when he wasn’t looking and although he hadn’t eaten since firstmeal, he knew he wouldn’t be able to keep anything down. He knelt on the mat laid out by the window and tried to meditate, tried to work through and release the myriad emotions he felt—anger, grief, indignation, fear—with little success. He gave it up after an hour. He wished he had someone, anyone in the Temple he could talk to about this, someone who understood why he was so determined to provide support to Obi-Wan and who could tell him that he wasn’t out of his mind… 

He groaned and smacked himself in the face. I really am an idiot, he thought as he left his quarters and made his way back to the communications room. He wasn’t surprised to find it empty given that it was nearly midnight. He quickly punched in a comm code he’d had memorized since he was ten and sat back to wait for it to connect.

Despite the time of night it didn’t take Jolar long to pick up. He supposed that healer residents kept long hours, but Jolar looked as put together as ever when her holo popped up in front of him. Her hair was neatly tied back in Chalactan braids and the nametag introducing her as “Resident Jedi Healer Sedre” sat perfectly straight on her healer's robes. The only acknowledgement of the exhausting pace of residency were the shadows on the skin beneath her eyes.

“Feemor!” she said, eyes brightening as she greeted him before her brows furrowed in confusion. “Is it Benduday already? Did I miss one of our scheduled calls? I could have sworn it was only Taungsday…” she muttered.

Feemor huffed a laugh. “Hi Jolar, yes it’s Taungsday, or at least it is for another few minutes.” He paused. “I’m sorry to call you at work. I’m not interrupting, am I?”

Jolar shook her head. “No, you actually caught me on a break. We have a lull between patients right now—the epidemic raging through the city right now is nasty, but thankfully treatable. My attending shooed me out of the clinic to rest while I can.” She looked him over critically. “You could stand to take that advice yourself, Fee. You’re supposed to be on leave right now. Why do you look awful?”

“Thanks for that boost to my ego, Jo.” His smile was small and sarcastic but even that was more than he could sustain at the moment. He dropped it and looked at her without mirth. “I’m about to do something stupid and I need you to tell me if it’s the right thing to do anyway,” he said with complete seriousness. Jolar had been his friend since they were children in the crèche together and they’d remained close even after he’d been apprenticed and she’d gone to the MedCorp. She was one of the few who’d never wavered in her friendship after his repudiation. For all that knights aimed to be calm and collected in a crisis, Jolar was far more level-headed than Feemor was, which was part of why she made such an excellent healer. As the practical one of their friend group he’d gone to her often for advice. (Ikurrece was, without a doubt the irreverent and humor-filled one and Feemor was assured that he was simultaneously stodgy, repressed, and a bit of a disaster. So, about average for a knight of the most orthodox of Jedi temples.)

Jolar nodded and her eyes unfocused for a few seconds and Feemor could feel her prodding at their Force bond, which was still pulsing strong despite the distance. “You feel conflicted, Feemor, and angrier than I’ve felt from you in a while.” Her eyes sharpened again as she pulled back. “Tell me what’s going on.”

Feemor took a deep breath and laid out the situation as objectively as possible, starting with Master Jinn and Obi-Wan’s mission to rescue Master Tahl. Having been his friend for so long Jolar understood the long history between the two Jedi Masters and how that relationship could have clouded Jinn’s judgement. She also knew a bit about Feemor’s relationship with Obi-Wan—Iku had teased him for months after he’d discovered the unexpected Force bond, and Jolar had demanded the details. She’d helped him investigate when Obi-Wan had gone missing on Bandomeer and had consoled him when he’d realized he’d lost the chance to train the boy.

Jolar listened as he went over the events of the past day, nodding approvingly when he described the more official avenues he’d tried first or had set in motion before deciding to hop on the first available ship leaving atmo. As his tale wrapped up he added, “I know Obi-Wan isn’t my padawan. He isn’t my responsibility, not really, but he’s still my brother and I care about him. To imagine him in that situation is…” Feemor shook his head. “It’s just awful, Jo. No one should be in that situation, especially not a fourteen-year old child. And no master should just abandon their padawan like that, to force such an ultimatum on them. It’s—” he couldn’t finish the thought through his simmering anger.

Jolar looked at him sympathetically, knowing the parts that he couldn’t give voice to. “That’s the part that worries me most about this, Feemor. Not you harring off to try to end a three-way civil war without council approval, but how much this situation reminds me of what happened ten years ago. I worry how this might embroil you again in your problems with Master Jinn and that you’ll start to backslide in your healing. I know how much you miss your family, Fee,” she said with great kindness in her eyes, “but are you sure that you’re not so invested in Obi-Wan’s fate because you desperately want to reclaim that part of your life? Or that you want to rescue Master Jinn’s abandoned padawan because no one came to your rescue when the man abandoned you?”

Feemor sat back heavily. Well, kriff. Jolar made excellent points, all of them, and they were certainly things he would have to talk with his mind healer about soon. He had been neglecting his regular sessions lately and he knew that he would need Master Yi’s help to work through the emotional baggage this whole mess had brought up. Until then, Feemor would have to do the best he could on his own to understand whether his present actions were triggered by the lingering trauma of his repudiation or based on something else. Jolar was quiet and patient with him as he sat there and worked through his thoughts.

“You are partially right,” he said slowly, still analyzing, “and partly wrong. I don’t deny that Obi-Wan’s current predicament is very reminiscent of my repudiation, and that some of my anger at Master Jinn right now stems from the events of the past and not those of the present. The similarities… I’m troubled by them. I need to acknowledge that and recognize that there is the chance that I am somewhat triggered by it right now.” Jolar nodded encouragingly at his careful response. “On the other hand, there is something objectively wrong happening right now. I am responding to in the best way that I can right now. I have attempted to go through the proper channels to take action, and though some are still in progress, grievous harm will continue to happen to innocents if I wait to see if any will bear fruit before I take action.” He shook his head. “The only ones on my side here have even less power to prevent that harm than I do, so while they continue to pursue the official avenues I must seek the swifter path in the hopes that I can save even a few lives that might otherwise be lost.”

Jolar hummed. “Yes, I agree with you on that. If there is a patient crashing in front of me, I make sure to comm my superior and call the code team, but I don’t wait for them to arrive before attempting to save the patient to the best of my ability with my available resources. Oftentimes when lives are on the line, our inaction carries greater risk than waiting to allow someone with more qualifications, or more approval, to step in.”

Feemor sighed in relief. “Yes, that’s exactly what I mean. I am not neglecting more official channels, but seek to prevent what damage I can until they come through.”

“And Obi-Wan?” Jolar prompted.

“It’s… complicated.” Feemor shook his head again. “I’m not so desperate for a connection to my former lineage that I’d attach myself to any padawan Qui-Gon Jinn might happen to take. This is not about me rescuing Master Jinn’s padawan. It’s not that, I know that much. It’s about me rescuing Obi-Wan. Ever since I met Obi-Wan the Force has pushed me toward him, telling me that he was important and to pay attention. Not because of his connection to Jinn but just because…” Feemor struggled. “I don’t know, exactly. Because he’s Obi-Wan. I wanted him to be my padawan, and of course I was—am still—upset that he won’t be, but I feel like… That part of it doesn’t matter all that much, not really, just that someone, anyone, is there for him. I guess right now that person is me, because I can be.” He shook his head and snorted. “Probably something else to talk with Master Yi about. I’m not making much sense, am I?”

“You’re making a lot of sense, actually,” Jolar said, “and it is a relief to me that you’re talking about speaking with Master Yi again. I was afraid I was going to have to bully you into it,” she teased.

“Give me at least a little bit of credit, Jo,” he complained. “I’m not a complete laser brain.”

Jolar laughed at him, probably still not entirely convinced of that fact even after all these years. He joined her in laughing, a lot of his confusion and worry about whether he was doing the right thing assuaged by talking it through with his friend. When they calmed down, she smiled warmly at him. “Take heart, Fee. You are doing a good thing stepping up to help when others cannot. And remember that you are not alone in this. You have Obi-Wan’s friends, who seem like an altogether willful and resourceful group of people. And Ikurrece might be off in Wild Space right now but you have me, too, don’t forget.”

Feemor startled. “What?”

Jolar raised an eyebrow. “I’m on Mirial right now, or don’t you remember? Melida/Daan is not all that far away in the scheme of things. My rotation here is ending in two tendays and while I was going to do my next rotation in a facility a bit closer to the Core, if there’s a soon-to-be post-war planet with little in the way of medical infrastructure just a short jump away, I might just make sure my superiors prioritize that particular mission when it gets added to the available MedCorp assignments.”

Feemor gaped at her. He’d been so focused on getting there and ending the conflict, but Jolar was already thinking of the post-war support they’d need. He’d gotten so used to the knight’s perspective—fly in, fix things, fly out again—that he’d gotten a bit tunnel visioned.

“You’re a goddess, Jo, really,” he praised, and the look she gave him made him grateful that she couldn’t actually reach through the holo to smack him on the head like she clearly wanted to. 

“You and Iku, total laser brains. Why do I still put up with you?” she groaned with a shake of her head. 

Feemor grinned his “I must charm planetary officials” smile at the familiar complaint, and then added, “I put a request in through Reassignment already, so hopefully things will be in motion soon. Really, Jo, thank you.”

“You’re welcome, Fee,” she smiled at him. “Alright, off with you now. I still have ten minutes of my break left that I’d like to actually use, and you, my dear idiot friend, need to get some sleep.”

“Of course. May the Force be with you, Jo.”

“And with you, Fee,” she returned, and then ended the call.

He was a bit surprised that he managed to get a couple hours of sleep that night, but he figured it was due in large part to Jolar helping him work through his own reactions and come to terms with them. Not long after the sky started to brighten Feemor grabbed his bag and made his way as calmly as he could manage toward the hangers. He did his best to look as nonchalant as possible walking through the more public areas, hoping not to draw attention to himself. Whether by luck or the Force he arrived at the right hanger without running into anyone who knew him. He had a brief moment of panic when he saw a small group of people gathered in front of his assigned ship but when he got closer he saw that it was just Quinlan, Garen, Bant, and Reeft who’d all come to see him off. Sitting at Bant’s feet was a small pile of things—more medical supplies and water purifiers by the looks of it—which he gratefully loaded into the small cargo compartment. He said quick goodbyes and thank yous to each of them and walked up the ramp.

He departed the Temple without further delay. Sleep was hard to come by during the three day journey so he shored up his strength and his shields with meditation. After he found a datapad filled with information tucked away in one of the medical bags he spent most of the remainder of his time reading. Reeft had apparently spent the evening before Feemor’s departure compiling a surprisingly thorough briefing document that contained everything the boy could find on the Melida/Daan civil war in the Jedi Archives and the libraries of Republic University Coruscant (he very deliberately didn’t think about how Reeft was able to access and copy library texts and paywalled research papers from the largest university in the galaxy). From the summary Reeft had written, Feemor wasn’t all that surprised that the Republic had let one of its member planets languish in civil war for so long. Melida/Daan hadn’t ever had enough money, resources, or influence to gain the interest of anyone with the sort of power needed to change its fate. It was in the Outer Rim, of course, and yet it was still too far from the Corporate Sector, Hutt Space, or any other major conglomerate to interest them. And for all that the planet ostensibly had a seat in the Senate, it had been sitting empty for nearly three centuries and therefore no one was advocating for the planet’s interests directly. In fact, if Feemor was reading this correctly, no Melida/Daan representative had reached out to the Republic since its civil war began, at least until the request for Jedi intervention a few months ago that had prompted Master Tahl’s mission.

The Melida/Daan conflict wasn’t even close to the longest planet-scale civil war the galaxy had seen, but from what he was reading it certainly was one of the more devastating ones to the surviving population and the planet they lived on. While Melida/Daan hadn’t reached out to the Senate, it seemed like independent scientific teams from Republic-based universities had made studies of the planet intermittently over the duration of the conflict, including the one ten years ago that had made its way as an aside into that lecture Feemor had attended. None of the findings were very encouraging. Ecosystem biodiversity was practically nonexistent, most of the croplands had been burned and salted at one point or another, and warfare of the chemical variety had made the water quality of the freshwater seas and rivers very questionable. The lone large saltwater ocean had still been a viable habitat the last time a scientific team had investigated but that had been more than a hundred years ago, Feemor noted with dismay. Regional agriculture could probably be restored with what resources the population had left, but the people seemed to care far more about sowing death than grain seed. From what little he knew, AgriCorp specialists had revitalized planets more ravaged than this a time or two, but wholescale habitat restoration like what was needed would be an intensive and long-term endeavor. 

The population, too, he realized, would require a great deal of medical assistance to recover safely and without many of the genetic defects common to inbred groups. The planet could, hypothetically, support billions of multi-species individuals but the last census estimated that the inhabitants numbered no more than a million. The war had quite literally decimated the population. If there had been an indigenous sentient species on the planet it had long-since died out naturally, been driven out, or been eradicated. The remaining people were entirely human. Roughly thirteen percent of the million or so survivors, or just under one hundred and thirty thousand individuals, were younger than fifteen years of age. It was a much lower fraction than the average percentage of children on human-dominated planets, he noted. Diseases that were easily treatable on most modernized worlds seemed to regularly claim many infant lives. Reeft had found a study from about eighty years ago that had found a very low fertility rate among the child-bearing population. Most pregnancies were high risk if they were viable at all. It left many people infirtile after one or two pregnancies, so there was little hope of repopulation without medical intervention or a large influx of new settlers. The remaining seventy-seven percent of the inhabitants made up the so-called Middles and Elders, although the Elders were not exactly elderly relative to the galactic human average of a hundred and twenty-two standard; most Melida/Daan Elders lived to no older than sixty-five standard years. The rest succumbed to war or disease before that.

In short, Feemor concluded, civil war was only the most immediate of the problems to solve on Melida/Daan. Even if the fighting stopped tomorrow, the planet and the people would not, could not, fully recover with the resources they had available to them. He took a few hours to compile the medical and environmental information he thought would be relevant and sent it off to Jolar to look over. He added in a request for her to contact someone with the AgriCorp who specialized in post-war habitat restoration to see what could be done.

In between familiarizing himself with the problems of the Melida and the Daan, he did his best to brush up on various methods of warfare and conflict resolution. He had learned a little in his padawan coursework, of course, but that had been years ago and far more theoretical than he needed at the moment. He wasn’t a specialist in modern warfare, or even in the history of modern warfare, and he’d rather not go in any more unprepared than he already was. He looked for strategies that emphasized minimal casualties and tactics that were suited for small and underpowered insurgent groups fighting against larger, more well-equipped, and more well-entrenched powers. On a hunch, he also studied up on conflicts between groups of zealots with opposing ideologies, something far too common in the galaxy. Historically there were few examples of such conflicts actually resolving themselves without intervention, but generally speaking, peace imposed upon fanatics by external third-party forces tended not to last for very long without the ongoing presence of peacekeeping forces. He hoped that Melida/Daan would prove the exception, given that the third-party here was made of members originating in the two other factions.

By the time Feemor’s ship emerged from hyperspace above the brown and blue world, his head was swirling with maneuvers and tactics and battlefield trauma medicine and population statistics and possible solutions to the long-term environmental devastation... none of which would help him until he learned more about the actual logistics of the forces Obi-Wan was involved with. As he guided the ship over the solitary ocean on course for what had been the capital city, he pushed aside thoughts of numbers and tactics and reached out with the Force along his bond with Obi-Wan. Obi-Wan must have been waiting for his signal because their bond flared with recognition and relief as Obi-Wan registered that Feemor was near. With Obi-Wan’s guidance he descended toward the outskirts of the once-populous, and now ruined, city of Zehava. He managed to land in an area relatively free of rubble without too much trouble and set about locking the controls and encrypting the computer. It was a warzone after all, and a Jedi ship would be a valuable resource for either side. It wouldn’t prevent them from destroying it and stranding him here, of course, but at least they couldn’t steal the ship or use it to access Jedi or Republic files. He grabbed the bag of his and Obi-Wan’s things and hoisted the crate of extra supplies onto a shoulder before exiting the ship and locking it up with the strongest encryption he could manage. 

By the time he finished securing the ship he felt Obi-Wan prod him in the Force and send him a feeling of follow me, be careful. He turned and squinted at the nearby ruins of old buildings but couldn’t spot Obi-Wan until a sharper ping in the Force made him look deeper into the shadows of the building to his right where Obi-Wan was hiding. Obi-Wan projected acknowledgement and welcome and a hint of Oh thank the Force you’re here before turning and walking up a narrow alley that led deeper into the ruins of the capital. Feemor followed Obi-Wan with as much stealth as he could manage given the amount of supplies that he was carrying, but he kept his senses open the whole time. The entire city emitted a faint buzz of malice and death but he didn’t feel any spike of interest or danger around him that would have suggested someone watching them. Obi-Wan eventually let him into a partially collapsed building a few city blocks away. Once Feemor let the door closed behind him he abandoned all pretense of stealth and composure and dropped the supplies on the ground, sprinted across the short distance, and swept Obi-Wan up in a crushing hug. Obi-Wan embraced him back with equal strength, but Feemor could feel him shaking with fine tremors that suggested his brother was holding back sobs. Feemor stroked a hand over Obi-Wan’s hair—greasy and unwashed, nerf tail askew and padawan braid frayed with neglect—and made soft comforting noises. Obi-Wan had only been gone a tenday, but a tenday in a war zone was a lifetime.

“Shh,” Feemor consoled him, projecting comfort and love into the Force. “It’ll be alright, little Obi. It’ll be alright.” Obi-Wan clung to him and let out a sob before catching himself. His brother held on for another long moment—and Feemor could practically feel the sense of safety he was projecting sinking into Obi-Wan’s psyche—before he gathered himself and pulled away.

“I’m very glad you’re here, Fee,” Obi-wan said, and Feemor could feel the overwhelming relief coming across their bond. Obi-Wan swiped at the tear tracks on his face but only really succeeded in spreading the grime around. “It’s been so long since Master Jinn left and I had thought… I had hoped that the council might send someone to get me but… but then you called and I was just so glad that it was you and not someone who would yell at me or tell me what a failure I am or, or…” he trailed off and sniffled a bit more. Force, he’s barely fourteen. He’s far too young for this, Feemor thought, heartbroken for his brother. Obi-Wan collected himself with some effort, trying to adopt the mein of a leader. “But we have to move now. We’re still too exposed. I’ll fill you in on the way.” As much as Feemor wanted to scoop Obi-Wan up and sprint back to the ship and leave this Force-forsaken place behind, he had made a promise to help, and so Feemor steeled himself and picked up the supplies. They continued their trek through the city as Obi-Wan started to give his report in a whisper too low for any eavesdroppers but audible with a little Force-enhanced hearing. He told him about the Young’s command structure—the oldest children of the Melida and the Daan, Cerasi and Nield, respectively, plus Obi-Wan for the past tenday—their barely-fortified underground base, and the thousand-odd other children who sheltered there. 

Looking around the abandoned sewer-turned-bunker, Feemor realized that the situation was far more dire than he had initially thought. The Young were aptly named; at fourteen years old, Obi-Wan was the second eldest of the group. His co-leader Cerasi had just turned fifteen and the third of their triumvirate, Nield, was a few months younger than Obi-Wan. There were far more younger children than older ones. Most were somewhere between four and ten years of age. With great sorrow he realized that there were so few over ten because those were the ones who did the most fighting and therefore had the highest casualty rate. There were a few infants and toddlers who were quickly hidden away by older children when they saw Feemor notice them, and he gathered that the youngest were those who had been smuggled away from their parents by their older siblings. The older children looked fiercely protective of their younger siblings and so Feemor tried not to linger on them so as to not make them too uncomfortable. And it was clear that most of the Young, including Cerasi and Nield, were already plenty uncomfortable with him simply due to his age, which would place him among the so-called Middles if he wasn’t mistaken. His status as a Jedi didn’t gain him much acceptance—he gathered he had Master Jinn’s behavior to thank for that—but after a lot of arguing on Obi-wan’s part, Cerasi and Nield reluctantly accepted Feemor into their ragtag militia on the strength of Obi-Wan’s word and the fact that they were brothers.

During those first few days Feemor spent a lot of time playing catch up as the three Young leaders filled him in on the current status. All told there were around twelve hundred Young in including the youngest, which was around one percent of the total population of children on the planet. Cerasi looked grieved, and Nield angered, when they explained that most children were too indoctrinated by the extremist views of their parents to even think about finding a new path. Only a small fraction of young people found their way to the third faction. The rest would grow up to be the Middles and Elders that the Young had been fighting with. The medical supplies, field rations, and purification tablets Bant had gathered for him last minute would have been stretched thin across a larger group, but would last this smaller group for at least a month when combined with their existing supplies. The limited supply of vitamin and nutrient supplements that came with standard medpacks would be gone much more quickly. Had Feemor known that the children had been living underground for months or years, he would have grabbed more of the medicine needed to stave off diseases linked to a lack of sunlight. The medical supplies needed for combat triage would last even longer given that Feemor refused to sanction any child younger than ten to participate in the fighting. Cerasi and Nield had argued against that, and even more so when Feemor said that anyone who didn’t want to fight wouldn't be forced to, but it was the one point Feemor refused to be budged from. By all rights none of these children should be anywhere near an active battle, and if he thought himself capable of ending the fighting entirely on his own he would, but such a thing wasn’t possible in this situation. He conceded that some of the Young would need to fight, but he refused to make anyone too young to be a Jedi padawan pick up a blaster.

It left them with roughly two hundred capable fighters (in the loosest sense of the term), which was enough for about ten strike teams who could move quickly and quietly to hit strategic targets that would disrupt the opposing sides. Feemor quickly nixed any idea of engaging the Melida or Daan forces directly. Such a confrontation would only lead to a slaughter. If he wanted to save as many of these children as possible and end the war quickly, swift precision strikes would be the way to do it. Cerasi, Nield, and a few of the other older children helped them compile a list of high-priority targets that would disrupt the opposing forces as efficiently as possible: munitions depots, communications centers, fuel carriers for ground transports, food supply routes. About a week after Feemor’s arrival Cerasi and Nield approached him late in the evening while he was studying maps of the surrounding territory in the dim lighting. With grim looks on their faces they handed him slips of flimsi with the names of the leaders of the Melida and Daan forces, coordinates of their personal residences, and their last known security measures. When Feemor looked at them questioningly, Cerasi teared up but Nield managed to grit out, “We can raid the house if we need to but we can’t bomb it. My baby sister is still there.”

Their parents are the leading Elders, Feemor realized with another stab of grief. He accepted the scraps of flimsi with gravity and tried to comfort the two Young who were willing to sacrifice their own families to see this war end. Cerasi accepted his offer of a hug but Nield, in the manner of angry human male teenagers galaxy-wide, jerked away from him and stalked off to deal with his emotions by himself. Feemor saw Obi-Wan slip quietly off after him and was grateful that the angry young man wouldn’t be left alone.

Obi-Wan was… not handling things well, Feemor realized after the first few days. But then again, who could expect him to be alright under the circumstances? He hadn’t been sleeping, had barely been eating, hadn’t managed to meditate once since he’d been abandoned here. A Temple initiate’s combat training and lessons in strategic thinking were fairly basic but it was still far more than most of the Young had. So Obi-Wan had decided that his relative level of experience justified him running from planning session to skirmish and back without pausing to take a breath. It was wearing him out rapidly and Feemor was ashamed that it took him so long to realize what Obi-Wan was doing. When he did he pulled his brother aside and forced him to sit and meditate with him. Obi-Wan struggled for a while to reach a meditative state and connect smoothly with the currents of the Force—the general miasma of despair and misery that pervaded the planet was a difficult hurdle even for Feemor, with years more experience, to overcome. But after some hours, and with Feemor’s guidance, Obi-Wan was finally able to release some of his jagged and frayed emotions and reach a somewhat calmer frame of mind, if not actual peace. Their Force bond shimmered a bit brighter in Feemor’s mind and grew stronger from the shared experience. 

At the end of that first meditation session—and Feemor promised that he wouldn’t let Obi-Wan neglect himself like that again—Feemor pulled out Obi-Wan’s lightsaber and offered it back to him.

“This is yours if you want it, Obi-Wan,” he said, placing the saber on the ground between them. “But you need to decide if you’re Jedi, or if you’re Young. Jedi are consulars, are advisors, are agents of the Force’s will, and yes, Jedi are warriors when necessary. But Jedi are not leaders. We are not generals or rulers of planetary government. Jedi Knights go into a conflict, we help resolve the conflict… and then we leave,” Feemor stressed. “The lightsaber is yours if you want it, but if you pick it up again you agree to aid the Young as a Jedi, not as one of them. You’ve thrown your whole self into this fight, and I agree that it is a just and righteous cause to support, but if you take up your saber you can no longer make this fight your own. Not if you intend to leave here after it’s over. ”

Obi-Wan looked startled, and then sorrowful, and finally accepting, but he eventually reached out and picked up his lightsaber. He closed his eyes and Feemor felt him reach out to the crystal within, and at the edge of his senses he felt the kyber hum as it reunited with its wielder. As the hum subsided Obi-Wan started crying and Feemor abandoned his meditation pose to hold his little brother as he sobbed.

Their strategy to end the war as quickly as possible played out better than Feemor had hoped it would. He suspected it was largely due to the fact that it was an abrupt and significant change from the tactics the Young had been employing before and thus caught both the Melida and the Daan by surprise. They tried to send out no more than two strike teams at a time. Feemor and Obi-Wan, as the most capable fighters, often led teams in parallel. He hated letting Obi-Wan go off and fight without him but in the end it was the most effective way to keep the less-trained Young from getting hurt or dying in a skirmish. It wasn’t foolproof, however. The first time a child in Feemor’s squad had fallen to stray blaster fire from a Daan soldier, Feemor had made sure he deflected the next blaster bolt back at the shooter before he carried the child’s body back to base himself. That evening he hid himself away in a back tunnel to run drill after drill of Soresu katas so that he wouldn’t miss as many blaster bolts the next time. When he finally stumbled out of exhaustion and turned off his lightsaber he realized that Obi-Wan had been watching him quietly from the entrance of the tunnel. Obi-Wan said nothing, just handed him some water and then took up the opening stance of Soresu right beside him.

On the evenings when they weren’t conducting a night raid or ambush, Feemor and Obi-Wan sat with Cerasi and Nield to discuss the future. What type of government did they foresee when they won? How would the people be represented? What were their priorities for writing a constitution, for civil laws, for rebuilding, for restoring the economy? How would the surviving Elders and Middles be dealt with? The two leaders of the Young didn’t always agree, in fact, often their arguments continued almost until dawn before Feemor called a halt. But the conversations were, overall, the constructive sort that needed to happen for a society to transition from wartime to peace. Too, they gave Feemor the opportunity to demonstrate to Obi-Wan the role of a Jedi as a mediator and advisor without making the Young’s success contingent on the Jedi’s continued presence. Obi-Wan seemed to absorb those lessons a bit slowly and reluctantly, still very emotionally invested in the Young’s cause. He would learn in time, Feemor knew.

The morning they raided the houses of the Melida and the Daan leaders there was another shift in the fighting. Feemor sent Obi-Wan and Cerasi to raid the Melida leader’s house, as Cerasi knew the terrain best. He took Nield to raid the Daan leader’s house and personally carried two-year-old Nella out of the building while Nield raided his father’s office. Nield reunited with his little sister on the top of a ridge overlooking the burning house of their father. He clutched the girl to his chest, refusing to put her down, and Feemor could only sense happiness and satisfaction from the young man. After those raids, Feemor could tell that the Melida and the Daan forces became more desperate than ever to eradicate the Young. The Young gained something more valuable than the intelligence they’d stolen: hope.

All told, the remainder of the campaign lasted about three tendays after Feemor arrived, during which time grew close enough with Cerasi and Nield, and little Nella, too, to consider them as three more of his siblings. He was privileged that they felt the same about him. There were casualties on both sides before the Melida and the Daan surrendered. The leaders of both factions, Cerasi’s and Nield’s fathers, were killed in the final battle but there were far fewer dead than there might have been without Feemor’s assistance and the return of Obi-Wan’s saber. For all that Feemor was no military strategist, the tactics he brought to the table were far different than the Melida or the Daan had grown used to. He was sure that was the only reason why the end of the war came so swiftly after he’d joined the fight. By the grace of the Force neither Cerasi nor Nield fell, and so the ruling council the pair had agreed upon could be established without delay after the ceasefire. By the time the Jedi relief ships arrived thirty two days after Feemor had landed and forty one days after Obi-Wan had been abandoned, the Young, with Feemor’s assistance, had gotten the disarmament process underway. 

Quinlan was the first one off the ship, with Master Tholme close behind. Feemor stepped out of the way as Quin sprinted at Obi-Wan and tackled him to the ground in a hug. Feemor smiled as the friends reunited, though he saw Nield a few paces away looking at Obi-Wan sadly. He wondered if he’d missed something going on there, but he shook the thought from his head as Master Tholme approached him at a far more sedate pace than his apprentice had attempted. The grizzled old master raised an eyebrow at him. “And how was your spiritual retreat, Knight Feemor?”

It took Feemor a moment, but eventually he remembered Garen’s hastily invented excuse for Feemor leaving the Temple. Feemor cleared his throat and tried to school his expression. “Perhaps less calm than I had hoped, Master Tholme.” 

Tholme snorted at him. “I’m sure. You realize that you’re in for an Inquest, young knight, don’t you? Haring off on an unsanctioned mission to retrieve a padawan who was reported to have left the Order, embroiling yourself and the Jedi in a planetary conflict, mobilizing teams from two service branches?” He leveled a glare at him. “Not to mention charging four younglings with haranguing their masters and the councils until the matter took top priority. My padawan hasn’t stopped arguing with me for weeks, you know.”

Feemor looked out over the controlled chaos that was happening around them. In the background, members of the MedCorp and AgriCorp began to unload supplies and equipment from their ships. They were directed to the appropriate staging areas by various members of the Young that he’d gotten to know quite well over the past month. Cerasi and Nield now stood off to the side and were consulting with the leaders of the two Corps teams—one of whom was Jolar, he registered with a jolt, and he started to understand just how much she’d come through for him. And not far away from him were Obi-Wan and Quinlan, standing now but still embracing. 

Feemor didn’t look away from the two padawans as he answered Master Tholme’s question. “Can you honestly say you’d have done anything different if it had been Quinlan?” he asked softly.

Tholme hummed in consideration, but didn’t correct him.

Chapter Text

Year 957 ARR, eleven years ago

The fallout from his excursion on Melida/Daan was about what Feemor had expected. Unsurprisingly, Master Tholme and Quinlan had been tasked not just with escorting the MedCorp and AgriCorp personnel but also with escorting Feemor and Obi-Wan back to Coruscant post haste. Feemor had managed to give Jolar a very brief but heartfelt hug in gratitude before he was summarily whisked onto the ship that would take them back. He gave a brief thought to the ship that had brought him here, but Master Tholme had grumbled that someone would be back to fetch it and that he didn’t trust him to fly back on his own. That was fair.

Once back at the Temple, Feemor and Obi-Wan were summoned before the High Council as soon as they were released from the Healers’ tender mercies. The meeting was… uncomfortable, to say the least. Feemor had never been the subject of an Inquest before and he hadn’t really thought it would be pleasant for him, but there was something about having all of your recent choices laid bare and dissected in front of a group of your superiors that was a particularly humbling and also humiliating experience. He recounted to them his thought process leading up to his decision to rescue Obi-Wan without approval and he was forced to acknowledge that he had perhaps not been acting in the most rational manner and had perhaps been more triggered by the thought of an abandoned padawan than he’d related to Jolar at the time. His one saving grace there was that he had, in fact, began the formal procedure with the Reconciliation Council to retrieve a lost Jedi from a planet with a dicey political situation, but he hadn’t given the system enough time to actually work, or even waited for for a response, before deciding that it would be better for him to fix it himself. It was arrogance, the Council informed him, and with enough hindsight he had to agree. It was true that there had been active fighting happening at the time, but Feemor was forced to consider, had he waited an additional day or two for an actual Jedi strike team who were trained in conflict de-escalation to assemble, that the conflict might have been resolved more quickly than Feemor had managed on his own. He’d arrived sooner than a strike team would have, but the fighting had lasted longer than a specially-trained team would have managed. Whether he had made the right choice at the time… well, the Council seemed to be split on that. A few, including Yoda, Windu, Rancisis, and Koth, were of the opinion that Feemor had acted far too rashly. Yaddle, Gallia, Koon, and, surprisingly, Sifo-Dyas seemed to not only not condemn Feemor’s haste but actually support it. Feemor couldn’t get a read on the remaining council members, but at least with the council split he wasn’t likely to be expelled from the Order entirely.

Obi-Wan stood silently at his side while the councilors questioned him, his side of their Force bond mostly shielded, but he couldn’t quite manage to hide all of the guilt and self-recrimination he felt from Feemor’s senses. As the Council took Feemor to task, Obi-Wan’s emotions conveyed how unworthy he felt at having someone put themself at risk for him, how unsuitable that made him for the Jedi. Feemor tried to carefully push back through the bond feelings of support and encouragement and affection, which eased Obi-Wan’s doubt a little bit.

His actions, however, didn’t go unnoticed. “That is another matter which we must discuss, Knight Feemor,” Master Mundi said, interrupting one of Master Gallia’s questions. “You cannot expect us to ignore the obvious in the shape of your shared master. Nor can we ignore the fact that you, Knight Feemor, have formed a Force bond with your former master’s current padawan, which suggests an unhealthy attachment.”

“With all due respect, Master Mundi,” Obi-Wan spoke up for the first time, “that’s not quite true.” He paused, startled at his own outburst, and looked up at Feemor before continuing. “Knight Feemor is repudiated and so according to tradition he has no master or lineage to which he can be attached.” Obi-Wan looked at him again with apology in his eyes, and Feemor smiled back weakly even as he felt a spike of unearned shame at having his repudiation spoken of so plainly on front of others, including Master Windu, once his uncle, and Master Yoda, once his great-grandfather. Neither of his former lineage members outwardly reacted, which stung. “And furthermore, Masters,” Obi-Wan continued after a beat, “my instructors have always told me that I am naturally empathic and form bonds easily. My Force bond with Knight Feemor was not formed on Melida/Daan and actually predates my apprenticeship with Master Jinn by a few years.” 

Most of the councilors looked surprised at that information but a few, including Yoda and Windu, Feemor noticed, did not. It was… telling, but what it told he wasn’t quite sure of yet. Feemor took over the explanation when Obi-Wan faltered. “Padawan Kenobi is correct, Masters,” he said, and he was proud that his voice didn’t waver. “I first noticed a natural bond had formed six years ago after shared meditation sessions. The padawan, then an initiate, and I discussed it at the time and chose to keep it. We registered it with the Healers in our medical files and it is examined, along with the other Force bonds each of us carries, at every medical check up. All according to procedure,” he said perhaps a bit too sharply and so gentled his voice a bit. “Master Che can confirm that for both of us, and Master Yi can provide further information on my situation in particular should the Council deem it necessary.” He ignored that Yoda and Windu looked uncomfortable at the mention of him still attending sessions with his mind healer. Why that would bother them when none of the rest of it did Feemor didn’t know or particularly care. There is no shame to be found in seeking help when you need it, Jolar and Ikurrece’s voices whispered in his memory.

“Consult with them, we will,” Yaddle took over the conversation in the blunt, yet gentle way she had. “The matter of attachment is not on trial today. Return to the issue of Melida/Daan, we must.” Feemor had always liked Yaddle and her interceding made him respect her even more. It was often difficult not to compare Yoda and Yaddle given that they were the only two of their kind most beings had ever met. But he had always appreciated that where Yoda tended to demand and and prod and, often, smack with a gimmer stick, Yaddle preferred to coax and soothe and create a comforting space to talk. She did all of that as Feemor and Obi-Wan continued their recitation of events, from when Obi-Wan had first met the Young, when he’d chosen to stay and give up his lightsaber, those first uncertain days before Feemor had gotten ahold of him, and all that had happened after Feemor had arrived. Obi-Wan glossed over the particulars of the Young’s situation until Feemor prodded him. It was gruesome, but he thought that a few councilors were swayed after Obi-Wan’s frank recollection of the scarcity of food and medical supplies, of trying to comfort the younger children who had made their first kills, of their staggering casualty counts. Most looked distinctly uncomfortable by the time Obi-Wan finished talking, and all Feemor could think was, Good. Let them be uncomfortable listening to it. One of their own children had to live through it. The masters became inscrutable again as Feemor explained his strategy to end the fighting quickly while keeping as many children out of harm’s way as possible, as he described the steps he took to ensure that there would be somewhat of a functioning government in place, and that he requested medical and agricultural aid. He mentally shrugged, not knowing what to make of their mostly expressionless faces.

Eventually, though, his part of the meeting was over and he was dismissed while they continued to talk with Obi-Wan. Feemor bowed toward the councilors and shot his brother an encouraging smile before turning to leave. The doors to the chamber opened before he got to them and he was very proud that his steady gait didn’t falter when he passed Master Jinn, who was waiting outside. He remained steady all the way back to his quarters, through setting up an appointment with Master Yi for the following day, through sending quick messages to Jolar and Ikurrece that he was safely back home. But once all that was done and he had nothing else to distract himself with he made his way to his bedroom, shucked off his belt and dropped it carelessly on the floor, and fell face-first on his bed. He groaned with a complicated mix of emotions he was far too tired to untangle right then. He’d start working on it with Master Yi in the morning. He grabbed his pillow and shoved it over his head, blocking out the world.

The Inquest into the events of Melida/Daan—Melidaan, now—took a week. He wasn’t called before the full High Council again but Yaddle joined him in one of his sessions with Master Yi as they discussed some of his motivation. When he asked, Master Yaddle assured him that Obi-Wan was working with his own mind healer and talking with other High Council members during the Inquest process. He hoped, but wasn’t confident, that Master Jinn was seeking the help of a mind healer, too. After a week Feemor received notification that a mark of condemnation had been added to his service record. He was put on probation in the Temple for three months and assigned mandatory sessions with his mind healer. He felt that it was a suspiciously light punishment overall, especially since Feemor had been planning to spend more time with Master Yi anyway. The reality of his punishment became clear when he spent the next three months playing escort and bodyguard to a string of increasingly petty and self-important politicians and planetary royals. No field knight enjoyed those assignments, which usually consisted of standing at attention slightly behind whoever-it-was for hours at a time and sometimes scanning the Force for threats that usually never materialized. The pretentious duke-magister-governor-senator-princess of the week usually just wanted the prestige of having a Jedi bodyguard for something-or-another event of the season and for some reason those missions kept getting authorized. The only thing those assignments were really good for was practicing patience and maintaining the serene Jedi mask, and, of course, punishing young knights who’d gone rogue on ill-thought out rescue missions. Still, Feemor served his time without complaint and six months after he returned from Melidaan he received a rather generous month-long assignment supporting Ikurrece’s exploration of an old settlement on the edge of the Expansion Region. The mission brief had been forwarded by Master Yaddle personally and was accompanied by an unsigned service commendation for helping end a longstanding war while rescuing a lost padawan. He blinked in surprise at the unexpected stamp of approval and support from a high councilor. 

He heard from Obi-Wan only sporadically during those sixth months. He and Master Jinn had also been put on probation and were grounded in-Temple for the entirety of that time, but Feemor had been told to keep his distance. From what he could gather it was as much a punishment as it was a chance for Obi-Wan and Master Jinn to establish a lot of the foundations a master-padawan pair needed to work together effectively. He kept his opinions on Obi-Wan’s renewed apprenticeship to himself—Master Yi’s guidance was helping him mind his own boundaries—but he hoped for Obi-Wan’s sake that the enforced time in the Temple would help the pair smooth over a lot of the bumps that had marked their first year together. 

Two pieces of good news also trickled his way: Master Tahl was released from the Healers’ Halls physically recovered except for her eyesight, and Reeft and Bant had both been taken on as apprentices. Reeft’s quick and thorough briefing about Melida/Daan had been noticed by one of the senior researchers in the Archives and Bant, surprisingly, had caught Master Tahl’s attention. Feemor was glad to hear it. From what he knew of Bant, she and Master Tahl would be well-suited. He mused over these changes as his ship landed at the ExplorCorp outpost on Thyferra. Overall, despite his lingering trepidation over the council giving Master Jinn and Obi-Wan’s partnership another chance, he felt that things were heading in a positive direction. Or perhaps Ikurrece’s good mood at his arrival was simply infectious. It was hard for Feemor to worry about much of anything when his best friend grabbed him in a full body hug and lifted him off his feet while laughing in his ear. When Iku failed to put him down, Feemor hooked a heel behind Iku’s knee and toppled them both to the ground. The fall didn’t lessen Iku’s good humor, but then again, not much did.

“Oh, my friend,” Iku laughed at him while they lay sprawled on the duracrete landing pad. “Jolar has been telling me stories, you have no idea. You really have been busy, haven’t you?”

Feemor huffed and shoved him in the chest. He stood and offered a hand down to Iku. “Let me buy you a drink and I’ll fill you in.

Year 959 ARR, nine years ago

Feemor was making tea in the kitchen when he heard his door open. He glanced at his chrono and sighed. Two hours after latemeal. Right on time, he thought bitterly. He grabbed a second teacup and added it to the tray. His bitterness wasn’t aimed at Obi-Wan for showing up—his door was always open to his brother—but at Master Jinn for forcing his padawan into this position. 

Obi-Wan had been showing up at Feemor’s door at around the same time every night for a month, ever since he and Master Jinn had returned from New Apsolon with Master Tahl’s body wrapped in a shroud. From what Feemor could piece together from Obi-Wan’s disjointed explanations, Master Jinn had taken Tahl’s death very poorly and had decided to blame Obi-Wan for not preventing it. Feemor didn’t know all of what had happened on that mission, but he was sure that if it had been at all possible to save Master Tahl then a sixteen-year-old padawan didn’t bear more of that responsibility than a seasoned Jedi Master. Stars knew that Obi-Wan hadn’t needed any more tension between himself and his master after their rough start. The young man had been on tenterhooks ever since his return from Melidaan and Feemor had thought that Obi-Wan was finally feeling more secure in his apprenticeship. Whatever progress had been made was gone now in the wake of Master Jinn’s complete breakdown at the loss of his… well, the love of his life. There was no use tiptoeing around it anymore, was there? It was an open secret within Feemor’s former lineage and probably most of Jinn’s agemates, too. Regardless of what Master Jinn had felt for Tahl or what had happened on New Apsolon, it would never justify the man drinking to numb the pain every night and heaping verbal abuse and blame on his padawan. Nor did it justify the master neglecting himself to such a degree that it forced Obi-Wan to take care of him, nor ignoring Obi-Wan’s own pain, nor making Obi-Wan’s home life so hostile that he fled to Feemor’s every night just to get some sleep. The situation they all faced now was a demonstration of what could happen when a Jedi’s love turned to attachment and self-possession.  Not for the first time in Obi-Wan’s apprenticeship, Feemor cursed the Order’s unwritten guideline to not interfere in how a master trained their student. Jedi Masters didn’t do anything so prosaic as peer evaluations. The Order as a whole tended to trust that a master knew how best to teach their own student, and it made it a lot more difficult to identify if something had gone wrong. Feemor would love to report this situation to someone, if only Obi-Wan would agree to it.

As horrible as it was to say, it could be a lot worse. Jinn was being cruel and dark, but he wasn’t Dark. At least, Feemor didn’t think so, not in the way that Xanatos had become, or what he’d started to feel from Komari after Galidraan. Too, Feemor took some small comfort in the fact that Obi-Wan had someplace to flee where he felt safe, and Feemor was glad he could provide that safe space when Obi-Wan was in need. They’d grown close during their time on Melidaan, but between their respective probations and the subsequent missions their interactions had been relegated to comm calls for almost two years now. If Feemor had less faith in the Force he’d think it coincidental that his in-Temple research sabbatical happened to bring him back home for the first time in two years not long before Obi-Wan and Master Jinn had returned. But the Force provides, and in this instance he was just grateful that he would be at the Temple for the next few months so that he could be there to support his brother.

When Feemor left the kitchen with the tea he saw that Obi-Wan had taken up his usual spot curled up in the corner of the sofa. He looked like he was trying to make himself as small as possible with his feet drawn up to rest on the cushion, arms wrapped around his knees, and head rested on his forearms. Whether his posture was from a sense of defeat or from sheer exhaustion Feemor couldn’t say, and Obi-Wan was shielding so tightly in the Force that all Feemor could get from him was a general sense of discontent. He set the tray down on the coffee table, sat down next to him, and rested a comforting hand between Obi-Wan’s shoulder blades. He was unprepared for Obi-Wan to tip sideways and rest his weight on him, but he just let out a quiet “oomph” and shifted his hand to rest more snugly around Obi-Wan’s shoulders. They sat like that together for long minutes, Feemor a silent pillar of support for his little brother and projecting comfort and love and protection.

“How long will this keep going on, Fee?” Obi-Wan finally murmured. Feemor’s heart broke a little bit more at Obi-Wan’s defeated tone.

He sighed and rested his head atop Obi-Wan’s. “I don’t know, little Obi. I wish I could say. It’s not right what he’s doing to you. You don’t deserve this.”

He felt Obi-Wan shrug a little. “If anyone’s to blame…”

“No,” Feemor denied firmly, tightening his arm around his shoulders. “No, you are not at fault for Master Tahl’s death. Master Jinn is wrong to blame you for it.” He’d already said those exact words again and again, and he’d keep saying them until it started to sink into Obi-Wan’s head. He sighed again and loosened his grip. “I still wish you’d speak to the mind healers about what happened, or at least let me report this to someone.”

Obi-Wan just shook his head like he always did when Feemor mentioned reporting the situation. “I’ll be fine, brother. Master Qui-Gon is grieving right now and he’s just…” Obi-Wan trailed off  and sighed, seemingly too tired to explain away the other man’s actions. “It’ll be fine, eventually. I can handle it.”

“You shouldn't have to handle it,” he asserted. “And he doesn’t need you protecting his reputation, either. He’s a grown man and a Jedi Master. You shouldn’t feel the need to protect him from the consequences of his own abhorrent behavior.”

“Can you just leave it for now?” Obi-Wan sighed. “I’m too tired to argue with you, too.”

Feemor sighed again but stopped pushing for the moment. He would try again another time. “Have you heard from Bant yet?”

Obi-Wan dropped his head back to Feemor’s shoulder and mumbled, “No, she’s still not talking to me.”

Bant’s angry silence had hit Obi-Wan almost as hard as Qui-Gon’s viciousness. She, like Qui-Gon, put an unreasonable amount of blame on Obi-Wan for not doing more to save Tahl’s life. After screaming at him about killing her master three weeks ago she’d been giving Obi-Wan the silent treatment. Beyond that unfair accusation, she’d also been shutting Obi-Wan out of their Force bond. Obi-Wan’s other friends had unshielded their bonds a bit more to compensate, but the the absence of one of the strongest and oldest bonds in his mind hadn’t helped Obi-Wan’s mental health as he sought to recover from this trauma. It was a downside to being a natural empath and one that Feemor suspected that Bant was taking advantage of with vindictiveness. He wished she understood just how much she was hurting her friend by blocking that connection.

“Would you like some tea before turning in for the night?” Feemor offered, defeated and at a loss of how else to help. “I think this pot has gone cold but we can make another one.”

Obi-Wan shook his head and straightened up, finally uncurling his legs. “No, I don’t think tea will help right now. I’m not sure I’ll sleep much tonight, to be honest. I can’t seem to turn my mind off. I keep going over the mission, what I did, what I could have done…” Obi-Wan hung his head again. “I think I’ll just meditate on it and try to be more focused tomorrow.”

Feemor disagreed. The bruises under Obi-Wan’s eyes said that sleep was exactly what he needed right now and meditation was no substitute for a good long rest. Obi-Wan had been relying on that far too frequently and it was developing into a worrisome habit. Obi was probably right that he’d never get to sleep in his current mindset but… Feemor smiled as an idea occurred to him. He stood up from the sofa and hauled Obi-Wan up with him.

“Come on, I have a better idea,” he told his little brother.

“What?” Obi-Wan protested. “Fee, really, I’ll be fine. I just need to meditate.”

“Nope,” Feemor rejected that suggestion with forced cheer and hauled Obi-Wan by the hand out the front door. “Staying in your own head for the next six hours is most definitely not what you need right now. But I think I know of something better that will help.”

Obi-Wan allowed himself to be dragged out into the corridor but yanked his hand out of Feemor’s once they started walking through the hallway, too self-conscious to be seen being led by the hand through the Temple like a youngling. Not that there were many people around to see them right now given the lateness of the hour. There were, of course, plenty of Jedi who were members of nocturnal races and there were always a few others who’d just come back from missions and were still adjusting to the time difference, but for the most part the Temple was quiet this time of evening. The pair didn’t encounter anyone they knew as Feemor led him toward their destination.

When they reached the correct wing of the Temple Obi-Wan stopped in his tracks. “The training salles, Fee? Really?” Obi-Wan’s reluctance was obvious. “I’m not exactly in the mood for katas right now.”

Feemor shook his head, walking from door to door trying to find a good spot. “Katas are not exactly what I had in mind.” Hmm, no, not that room, too small. The next training room was large enough but there was a master already in there going through what looked like a moving meditation and Feemor didn’t think that they’d take kindly to the interruption. A few more doors down Feemor found what he was looking for. “Aha, perfect!” Feemor looked back to where Obi-Wan was still standing in the entrance to the training halls. “Well, come on now, Obi, we don’t have all night,” he needled and ducked into the room. After a moment, Obi-Wan followed him in. 

Feemor made a direct line toward the weapons racks as Obi-Wan took in the terrain of one of the advanced training rooms. Tall blocks of various sizes and shapes were scattered throughout the room creating a multilevel landscape sturdy enough to jump on, leap across, or flip from. Ropes both knotted and smooth hung from the high ceiling in a few spots, some anchored to the floor and some left free for people to swing from. In the center of the room was a pit a few meters deep filled with foam cubes and interspersed with tall columns just wide enough for a single foot—for most races, at least. A catwalk ringed the room about six meters up. No ramps or steps led to it but that was no obstacle to a determined Jedi. The room was empty save for the two of them, which was exactly what Feemor had been hoping for.

“Fee, what are we doing here?” Obi-Wan called from where he’d stopped at the entrance to the room. “I told you, I’m too tired to train right now.”

Feemor grabbed two training sabers and dialed down the power to minimum. “And I told you, little brother, we’re not going to train.” He finished with the sabers and turned back to Obi-Wan. “As a matter of fact, belt off, boots off, robe off. Put your lightsaber away, too.” Feemor followed his own words and set his things aside in one of the nooks provided for such things. Obi-Wan followed suit with hesitation. Once all their things were stowed away Feemor handed over one of the low-powered training sabers.

“And now what?” Obi-Wan asked, resigned.

“Now…” Feemor replied and turned on the green training saber. He tapped Obi-Wan on his left bicep. “Tag.”

Obi-Wan yelped at zap from the saber but Feemor had set the power low enough that the tingling sensation should already have been fading away. It was the same setting used in beginners’ training where accidents were common, but it was also perfect for a friendly game like this. “We’re playing tag?” Obi-Wan asked incredulously. “Now?”

“Yes, exactly,” Feemor confirmed. “If you’re the chaser you’re on offense. If you’re being chased, you’re on the defensive. No points, no winners, no lessons. Just… having fun.” Obi-Wan still looked skeptical and had yet to ignite his own saber, so Feemor tapped him again, this time on his left flank. “Tag,” he called again and ran off, leaping onto one of the tall blocks. He smiled broadly when he heard Obi-Wan finally power on his own saber and start running after him. The game was on.

Over the next hour and a half Obi-Wan and Feemor chased each other all over the training room, running, jumping, climbing, and flipping over obstacles in their attempts to tag each other with their low-powered weapons. Blue and green training sabers crossed occasionally in rapid exchanges of blows, the person on offense usually getting a few strikes in before the defender could bound away. But mostly they each stuck to trying to outrun or outmaneuver the other with acrobatics, using their hard-earned agility to the fullest degree. In short order the Force inside the room was swirling around them with eddies and ripples of light fed by their playful competitiveness, and was stirred anew each time they drew on it to fuel a maneuver or released bursts of happiness and triumph.

Every so often Feemor would catch glimpses of the warrior that Obi-Wan would become, lithe and graceful and unstoppable as he danced with a blade and showcased his brilliant mind with clever tactics. In a particularly inspired move about forty five minutes into their game, Obi-Wan ducked behind a tall flat-topped obstacle and lept unseen onto one of the free-swinging ropes. When Feemor, who was the chaser at the time, rounded the obstacle Obi-Wan was nowhere to be seen, but as he turned around to search for him he felt a stinging zap on the back of his thighs. He most certainly did not make a high pitched screech at the unexpected sensation. He whirled around with a desperate swipe at Obi-Wan but the little imp had already swung out of reach on the rope and executed a graceful flip onto the catwalk at the top of the rope’s arc. Obi-Wan grinned broadly and gave a jaunty salute with his training saber as Feemor struggled to leap up after him on still-tingling legs.

Despite the cheeky maneuver and the quite literal stinging of his pride, Feemor considered it a victory as he listened to Obi-Wan’s delighted laughter echo through the room.

The two of them called a halt to the game when they were both panting and sweating with exertion but in much higher spirits than they were a couple of hours ago. They returned the training sabers and gathered their things, both guzzling water as they walked back toward Feemor’s quarters. Obi-Wan’s energy lasted only long enough for a quick sonic before he passed out into an exhausted sleep on the sofa. Feemor covered him with a blanket and went to get ready for bed, satisfied that his plan had worked.

Feemor and Obi-Wan developed a new routine after that. Obi-Wan would still wake up early and attend to Master Jinn in the mornings as he usually did and then spend the rest of the day in his classes. Feemor spent his days researching desertification trends on agricultural worlds and developing lesson plans. After his classes were done for the day Obi-Wan would find Feemor wherever he was and the two would train together. They didn’t focus solely on lightsaber training, although there certainly was plenty of that with the help of Master Drallig. Sometimes they would discuss negotiation tactics or the intricacies of historical conflicts, or they would practice different forms of meditation or debate Force philosophy. It was all the training that a newly senior padawan like Obi-Wan should have been getting from Master Jinn but obviously hadn’t been for the past few weeks. Feemor enjoyed the role of teacher immensely. It settled something within him to be there to guide Obi-Wan through his training.

In the evenings, Obi-Wan returned to his quarters with Master Jinn to prepare latemeal and clean and whatever else needed to be done to maintain the façade that Master Jinn wasn’t completely falling apart. Feemor still didn’t agree with Obi-Wan’s insistence on protecting the man’s reputation, especially since whatever neutrality and professionalism Feemor had used to feel towards Master Jinn had rapidly eroded at his continued mistreatment of his padawan. Obi-Wan still insisted that Feemor not discuss it or report the situation to anyone but Feemor had a feeling that Master Drallig, who’d been supervising much of the pair’s lightsaber training recently, had a fairly good idea of what was going on. Or at least that’s what Feemor read from the looks his once-uncle was giving him. But Obi-Wan seemed to be doing so much better now and Feemor was loath to do anything that would cause more conflict in Obi-Wan’s life. Thankfully, the outright verbal abuse had stopped now that Obi-Wan was spending less time around Jinn. Feemor really had no official authority in Obi-Wan’s training and since the situation was no longer actively harmful, well, he had to be content with that for the time being. Obi-Wan still spent the evenings at Feemor’s drinking tea and talking, watching holodramas, or completing assignments before falling asleep on the sofa. And when Obi-Wan got caught up in his mind and started brooding again the pair would chase each other around the obstacle course until they dropped.

Their new routine came to an abrupt end about six months later when Master Jinn finally got his head on straight and remembered that he had a padawan he was responsible for raising. Obi-Wan called him one evening and nervously said that Qui-Gon had been waiting for him after classes that afternoon and wanted to talk, that he’d apologized for his behavior and his negligence over the past few months and wanted to move forward. Feemor tried to be happy for Obi-Wan and let him go back to his old life with his full support, though inwardly he was very skeptical. He worried that Obi-Wan would give in and forgive the man’s behavior too easily, that he was still too desperate for his master’s approval that he’d ignore his own pain for the sake of reconciliation. As if it was Obi-Wan who needed to make amends and not Master Jinn. Obi-Wan slept back in his own quarters that night and Feemor found he couldn’t sleep at all in his newly empty apartment. For a tenday Obi-Wan spent nearly all his free time with Master Jinn, studying with Master Jinn, training with Master Jinn, and spending the night somewhere other than on Feemor’s sofa. Feemor mourned the life that they’d built together for a brief time. It had been nearly perfect, so devastatingly close to the dream he’d missed out on three years ago and he grieved the loss of that dream all over again. But so long as Obi-Wan was happy… Feemor had to be alright with that.

A tenday after Obi-Wan was reunited with his actual master, two weeks after Feemor had last spoken with him, he was preparing himself an evening tea when he heard his door open. It was entirely unexpected and so Feemor rushed out to the living room.

Obi-Wan was just taking off his boots and straightened up with a sheepish smile. “Hey, Fee.”

“Obi-Wan!” Feemor exclaimed, startled. He started to smile, but then changed his mind and frowned with worry. “Are you alright? What’s wrong?”

“Nothing’s wrong,” Obi-Wan answered, clearly surprised at the concern in Feemor’s voice. “Actually, everything is… kind of good right now,” he said, a cautiously happy note in his voice.

“Good, that’s good. I’m glad.” Feemor said, still disoriented. “So then, why are you here?” He winced as he realized how that sounded and tried to correct himself. “Not that you’re not welcome here! Of course you’re always welcome here, whenever you want, I love spending time with you. I just thought…” Feemor trailed off, embarrassed at his rambling. He cleared his throat. “I thought you’d be catching up on your studies with Master Jinn.”

Obi-Wan looked bemused at Feemor’s awkwardness. “I am. We’ve been reviewing my training for two weeks and he seems most impressed by the progress I made during my, ahem, independent study period, as he calls it.” Obi-Wan rolled his eyes, and Feemor was pleasantly surprised at the new bit of irreverence. He thought that it was a healthy step away from the near-hero worship that Obi-Wan had had toward the master at the start of his apprenticeship. His current behavior wasn’t overly disrespectful in Feemor’s opinion, but he hoped that it was indicative of Obi-Wan’s growing ability to see the man as just a man, one with strengths and flaws the same as anyone.

“At any rate,” Obi-Wan continued, “we’ve been at it for a tenday and he thought I deserved the night off from training. He’s never seemed to care about that before, but I think he’s trying to make up for…” he waved a hand vaguely, “all of that. I told him I was going over to a friend’s to watch a holo.” Here, Obi-Wan looked uncertain. “Is that alright, Fee? I didn’t interrupt your evening, did I?”

“You’re not interrupting anything,” Feemor reassured him, touched that Obi-Wan had sought him out in his free time. This was new, spending time with Obi-Wan when there weren’t wars to be fought or training to be done. Just… spending time together as brothers without any particular reason. “I was just making some tea and winding down for the evening. Your company is most welcome, little Obi, I promise,” he added with a smile. Obi-Wan smiled back, relieved. “Why don’t you get the holo set up and I’ll finish making the tea.”

“Sounds good,” Obi-Wan said, and went over to start fiddling with the holo display. “Any preferences?”

“Not horror,” he and Obi-Wan said at the same time, and Obi-Wan flashed him a cheeky smile. Feemor just shook his head that he was so woefully predictable. “Brat,” he said fondly, and left the room to go make tea. “Pick something ridiculous!” he called back.

“You got it, Fee!” came the shouted reply. Once Feemor was hidden from view in the kitchen he couldn’t help but sag a little in relief that Obi-Wan was here, that he hadn’t gotten so subsumed once again by Qui-Gon Jinn’s expectations that he forgot how to be his own person. And perhaps he was a bit pathetically grateful that his brother, who he’d once hoped would be the start of his new lineage, actually liked him enough for something like this. Hmm, perhaps tea wasn’t right. Hot chocolate seemed a more appropriate indulgence for a late night holodrama. He started swapping out ingredients.

Hot chocolate was definitely the right call because it made Obi-Wan’s eyes light up in delight. They settled in to watch the holo, some silly drama set in the Alderaanian renaissance, and they started pointing out and laughing over the awful historical inaccuracies made in the name of artistic license. Feemor realized he was, unexpectedly, content. He would always treasure the too-short experience of being Obi-Wan’s pseudo-master, but getting to simply be Obi-Wan’s older brother was just as much of a gift.

Chapter Text

Year 963 ARR, five years ago

After their reconciliation following New Apsolon, Obi-Wan and Master Jinn took only a short period to reacclimate to working with each other before they returned to fieldwork. He still had months left on his in-Temple research sabbatical but this time Feemor kept much closer tabs on his brother than he had after Melidaan. Once Feemor was back in the field he didn’t often get time to see Obi-Wan in person but they made time to speak with each other nearly every tenday unless a mission got in the way. Sometimes they spoke for over an hour about any topic under the stars as they had during their unofficial partnership. Other times they sent each other quick messages to check in and let the other know they were alright. The updates helped soothe a lot of Feemor’s anxiety that Obi-Wan had so quickly gone back to working with Master Jinn after how he’d been treated. Master Yi was helping Feemor work through those anxieties and let them go, but as with all areas of self-improvement it was an ongoing process. Obi-Wan was old enough to know his own mind about such things and Feemor had to learn to trust that. 

He was alarmed, however, at how often Obi-Wan’s missions seemed to go sideways and how often he appeared to be injured in some way when he saw him on holo. Even Obi-Wan and Master Jinn’s routine diplomatic meetings, trade negotiations, attendance at cultural festivals, or stints playing escort to politicians tended to end in blaster fire and lightsabers. Or explosions. Or pirate raids. Master Jinn was a consular and an ambassador whose missions should only rarely have put him and his padawan in danger. No other consular field team seemed to run into those kinds of issues with nearly the same regularity as Master Jinn and his padawan. Feemor certainly didn’t recall it ever being that bad during his own apprenticeship.

But despite all of the increasingly regular complications in Obi-Wan’s missions he’d never gone more than a tenday or two without contacting Feemor in at least a minimal capacity. So when Obi-Wan went out of contact for a few weeks Feemor was understandably worried. When last they’d spoken Obi-Wan had said that he was en route to a routine escort mission that could potentially turn into a diplomatic summit. “Not to worry, Fee, just another stuck-up politician with more idealism than common sense,” he’d joked at the time. It sounded like nothing that should have prevented at least a quick comm message. But weeks turned into a month, which turned into half a year without any contact at all. Obi-Wan never reached out and never returned any of Feemor’s messages, and he grew very worried indeed.

He checked the public mission logs in the hopes that it had been something so routine that it would be open record, but whatever the assignment was it wasn’t listed there. Feemor still didn’t have access to the more restricted assignments list that required a master’s access codes and he didn’t know any masters well enough to feel comfortable requesting a favor. Even Obi-Wan’s friends didn’t seem all that worried this time; unlike with Melidaan, there was no evidence of this situation being anything other than another mission gone haywire. And his Force bond with Obi-Wan continued to tell him nothing useful other than that his brother was still alive. At Jolar’s insistence he scheduled some additional long-distance appointments with Master Yi to help work through what was starting to seem like unhealthy paranoia. It wasn’t enough to interfere with his missions, not yet at any rate, but he wasn’t sure how much longer that could hold out if there still wasn’t any news at all. He kept trying to put his worry out of mind, with varied success.

The months stretched into a year. A year where, despite Master Yi’s admonishments, Feemor tried calling Obi-Wan several times a tenday and checked the missing- or killed-in-action list at least once a week. There was nothing, no word at all for a standard year. Toward the end, even Master Yi started to suspect that Feemor might be right that there was something amiss. When she, too, was stonewalled by the High Council she put out some feelers to her contacts at the Corellian Temple, the Alderaanian Praxium, and among the Altisians at Bespin to see if they had heard of a missing master-padawan pair. 

And then without any warning at all, Obi-Wan and Master Jinn returned to the Temple. It was pure coincidence, or perhaps a blessing from the Force, that Feemor was between assignments and back at the Temple when they arrived. He was at his usual table in the Archives when his bond with Obi-Wan flared with proximity and greeting. It was muted again before he could respond. He had to put his head down on the table for a long moment to work through his relief. 

That evening Obi-Wan showed up at his door after what must have been an hours long debriefing. As much as Feemor wanted to see Obi-Wan and assure himself in person that this brother was alright, he’d hoped that Obi-Wan would have prioritized taking a shower and a nap first. Based on the bruises under Obi-Wan’s eyes, the nap had been wishful thinking on his part. Every cell of his body exuded weariness, like someone had wrung out every last bit of energy and drive from the young man until he was drained and spent. His hair was longer than Feemor had ever seen it and it hung in limp waves just below his chin, a chin which Feemor was startled to see was covered in the beginnings of a beard. A year ago Obi-Wan had been fastidious in his grooming, never once deviating from the traditional padawan haircut and clean-shaven face. Obi-Wan had showered since his return to the Temple so there had definitely been enough time to return to that style. Whatever had happened this past year must have made a significant impact on his brother. Whether that impact was temporary or not was yet to be seen.

After a long crushing hug and two cups of hot chocolate sipped in silence, Obi-Wan finally opened up about his mission. He’d been on Mandalore for the past year and on the run for most of it, protecting that “stuck-up idealistic politician” from domestic terrorists. Kriff it all. Of course it was Mandalore, Feemor despaired. Of course he’d heard about the recent turmoil on the frequently war-riddled planet. What Jedi hadn’t? Ever since the Jedi’s absolute kark up on Galidraan years ago, every Jedi and Corps member who went out into the field knew to keep a careful eye on the deteriorating situation with Mandalorians. If a field operative met a being in Mandalorian armor while they were easily identifiable as Jedi… well, the Jedi Killer might be missing right now but they all knew to carefully retreat from any armored Mandalorian they encountered. And over the past year, all field Jedi had been ordered to take extra precautions not to rekindle hostilities with the remnants of the Mandalorians as the most recent escalation of conflict between the two extremist factions on the planet. It was less of a surprise than it should have been that it was Obi-Wan who’d been in the middle of that whole mess and without his master for most of it. Being on the run from Mandalorian terrorists perhaps explained Obi-Wan’s ragged appearance and level of tiredness, but not the defeat in his posture.

The defeat, he came to learn over the third mug of chocolate, arose from the fact that Obi-Wan had fallen in love with the planet, the land, the culture, and the language, but the politician he’d been sworn to protect wanted to wipe that all away and rebuild the planet into its antithesis. The extremist pacifist faction, the New Mandalorians, were supported by the Republic and had made enemies of the extremist militant faction known as Death Watch, which was why Obi-Wan and Master Jinn had been sent in there in the first place. But after Obi-Wan had spoken with the common Mandalorian people while roaming and protecting the New Mandalorian duchess he’d realized that the movement she led was far from the majority opinion of the actual residents of Mandalore. Which meant that… well from what Obi-Wan described it sounded to Feemor like the Senate was endorsing a cultural genocide to benefit their own political causes. Over the course of the past year Obi-Wan had started to question his purpose as a Jedi in enforcing the Senate’s goals, had started to believe he should stay on Mandalore to help guide it down a more equitable path, had seriously considered leaving the Jedi to stay where he believed he could more directly affect change for the better.

Only the duchess hadn’t asked him to stay, had practically ordered him to leave the planet she now ruled. She hadn't wanted him or his ideas about how to incorporate the existing belief systems of the people into her vision of what Mandalore should be. Him and his “naive vision of a united, militaristic Mandalore” had been summarily dismissed. He could have stayed and tried to work toward his vision but at that point he would have been working toward a coup. The Senate’s chosen leader of Mandalore sat on the throne of a planet whose culture she planned to gut and Obi-Wan was… tired. Tired and demoralized and wondering why they were even doing this. “What is the point of holding fast to this duty when the duty itself brings about such wrong?” Obi-Wan whispered hoarsely.

Obi-Wan leaned against Feemor and gave into his heartbreak, shaking and sobbing and soaking his tunic with tears. It was awful to hear and feel Obi-Wan’s grief, and Feemor knew that there was really nothing could say to help Obi-Wan come to terms with the extent to which the Order was beholden to self-interested politicians. How Obi-Wan was feeling right then was a large part of why to this day Feemor vastly preferred Corps-support missions over to diplomatic missions. He didn’t have the words to defend the Order’s relationship with the Senate, but he could share with Obi-Wan some of his own experiences in the field. So he did. Feemor spoke about his missions exploring the ruins of ancient civilizations at the borders of Wild Space and helping preserve the memories of cultures lost to time. He spoke about working with relief teams after natural disasters, sensing the sparks of life hidden deep beneath piles of debris who otherwise wouldn’t have been extracted until it was too late. Of being placed on escort duty for a peace treaty renewal and helping foil an assassination plot that would have rekindled interplanetary war. Of protecting MedCorp teams from pirate attacks so they could bring life-saving medicines to Outer Rim settlements. Being a Jedi and serving the Force, he tried to convey, meant more than responding to the whims of senators who were usually too blinded by political or economic self-interest to care about the damage they caused to those less fortunate. It was easy to become jaded and cynical at the galaxy even as a Jedi, but when you looked for goodness in the universe it wasn’t hard to find. You just had to be willing to see it. And if you couldn’t find goodness or kindness or altruism, then it was part of their responsibility as sentient beings to create some of it for others. As Jedi, Feemor explained to his disillusioned brother, they were uniquely suited to making that happen. 

Year 966 ARR, two years ago 

A loud crash followed by even louder cursing startled Feemor awake. He blinked repeatedly in the near-complete darkness of his bedroom but it didn’t dispel the cursing and then the shushing noises coming from the main room of his quarters. Probably not a dream then, he thought blearily as he rubbed the grit out of his eyes. He had no idea who could possibly be stumbling around his rooms at—he squinted at his chrono—half past three in the morning. Only a few people had his door code and it wasn’t like breaking and entering was a problem at the Temple (occasional initiate pranks aside). The cursing and shushing had lowered to a muttering interspersed with giggling and what sounded like a person bumbling into furniture, and eventually curiosity overcame his sleepiness. Feemor hauled himself out of bed with a grunt and summoned a robe with an exhausted wave of his hand. He silenced the niggling voice in his mind that whispered frivolous use of the Force, young Jedi with the reminder that it was half past three in the morning and anything that got him back to sleep faster wasn’t frivolous at all. He’d been told many times that he was particularly short-tempered when he was sleep deprived, so getting back to sleep as quickly as possible really could save someone’s life later.

Now wrapped up in his robe he opened his bedroom door and flicked on the lights in the main room. He froze in surprise and confusion at the sight in front of him. The table with the lamp that sat on the side of the sofa was upended and the lamp was laying on the floor halfway to the kitchen. That must have been the crash that initially woke him up. The floor was littered with multi-colored pieces of candy scattered all about and in the center of the candy mess was Obi-Wan, standing stock still with wide eyes and a shocked look on his face. He held two halves of a clear flimsiplast bag in his hands which looked like it had split down the middle when Obi-Wan had tried to open it. It was, clearly, the source of the confectionary detritus. A shuffling noise drew Feemor’s attention away from his brother to the low table in front of his sofa where Garen was laying on his back with his head toward Feemor. For some reason he had one booted foot sticking up in the air while he ineffectually tugged on the laces trying to get it off. Both young men were wearing clothes that would fit in better at a spaceport cantina than in the Jedi Temple, leather boots and jackets, pants that were far too tight to allow proper circulation and loose shirts that were… well, he hoped those rips were for fashion purposes but they looked a bit like they’d been slashed with a knife.

Garen’s continued squirming on the table as he struggled with his boot broke the tableau Feemor had stumbled into. “Obi-Wan?” Feemor asked in a sleep-roughened voice. He rubbed his eyes again, hoping against hope that this was all a dream after all. “What’s going on?”

Obi-Wan continued to stand there shell shocked and… Feemor squinted. Was he swaying in place? It was Garen who exuberantly answered him. “Feemor!” the prone man shouted in a far too loud voice. He hadn’t gotten up from the table, just tilted his head backwards off the end of the surface to look at him upside down.  Feemor winced at the angle of his neck. Obi-Wan’s friend grinned at him which, when combined with the upside down stare, made him look slightly deranged. “Feemor, good sir! My favorite person’s favorite brother!” As Garen kept speaking Feemor started to notice a telltale slur in his words. “We were just—aha! ” Garen exclaimed as he finally managed to get his boot off. He held it above his head in triumph until it inevitably slipped from his hand and smacked him in the face. Feemor just stood there dumbfounded as Garen yelped in surprise and rolled sideways off the table. The younger man sprung to his feet in a surprisingly spry move for one so intoxicated. “We were just celebrating my nameday—It’s my nameday, did you know! I’m twenty-four now and my best friend—” at this Garen lurched over to where Obi-Wan was still frozen amid the spray of candy pieces and threw an arm around Obi-Wan’s shoulders “—my darling best friend said he knew this place for us to celebrate and it was fantastic! And then there was this other place in the… in the…” Garen’s face screwed up as he struggled to recall where they’d been, “well, it was somewhere, and Obi-Wan said he wanted to get some of this really awful stuff he remembered from Mandalore…” Garen swung his head toward Obi-Wan’s and barely missed poking Obi-Wan’s eye out with his nose. 

“Tihaar,” Obi-Wan whispered with obvious reluctance.

“Right!” Garen said, swinging back to look at Feemor again and nearly overbalancing and taking Obi-Wan down with him. “So there was tihaar and then some spotchka I think, and I’m pretty sure there was some guy in armor flirting with our Obi here, and then a fight happened, because Mandos, right?” Ah, so the torn clothing was probably from a knife fight. “And I’m a bit fuzzy on what happened after that but I’m pretty sure that some very fine and overpriced Corellian whiskey was involved. And then it was very late and Obi-Wan insisted that we come back here instead of getting a room somewhere and now we’re here!” Garen finished his recitation by flinging his hands in the air and, once again, almost hitting Obi-Wan in the face. “Shame about the candy, though,” Garen pouted at the remains of what Feemor now understood to be drink-induced snack craving. Feemor was only marginally more awake than he’d been a few minutes ago when he stumbled out of bed and so looked to Obi-Wan with sleep-heavy eyes for clarification.

Obi-Wan looked to be in a bit better shape than his friend was but was also very obviously not sober. “It turns out we were out later than I thought we were,” he said with the exaggerated care of an intoxicated person trying to appear less intoxicated, “and both Master Clee and Master Qui-Gon would be… less than happy with our current state right now. Hypothetically,” Obi-Wan took great care in pronouncing that word, “it’s possible that we weren’t supposed to leave the Temple. Can we stay here tonight, Feemor?” He looked up at Feemor with those tooka eyes that never failed to get him to relent, even red-rimmed and glazed by drink as they were right now.

He was far too tired to even attempt to put up a fight against the tooka eyes. “It’s fine, whatever. You know where everything is, Obi.” He waved a hand vaguely in the direction of where he kept the spare blankets and such and didn’t fight back a yawn. “I’m going back to sleep.” He turned back toward his room and ignored the pieces of candy he sent scattering about as he shuffled back to bed. That was a problem for future Feemor to deal with. “Drink some water,” he advised, already halfway back asleep. “Make sure you comm your masters and let them know where you are before you pass out.” He absently registered Garen’s acknowledgement as the door closed behind him and separated him from the chaos caused by his drunk brother and his even-more-drunk best friend. Feemor barely managed to shrug off his robe and crawl into bed before he fell asleep again.

It felt like he had just closed his eyes for a moment when he jerked back awake to the incessant beeping of his comm. His chrono told him it was not quite seven and therefore entirely too early for him to be conscious on his day off. It was only by reflex that Feemor managed to grab his comm from where it was charging next to his bed and flick it on voice-only mode. “This is Feemor,” he grunted.

“Ah, Knight Feemor, I’m sorry if I woke you,” said a cheerful female-sounding voice. “This is Master Clee Rhara. I was wondering if you had seen my padawan this morning.”

Feemor rubbed at his eyes with his free hand and managed a confused, “What?”

“It seems that my padawan is missing from our quarters and late for the sunrise meditation we had scheduled. I have here a message from him that says,” she cleared her throat and read, “‘With Obi at his brother’s. Not the shitty dead one, the good one.’” She cleared her throat again. “You wouldn’t happen to know anything about that, would you?”

Feemor groaned as he realized that the events of the early morning had not, in fact, been a sleep-deprived hallucination. Master Rhara chuckled at him over the comm, which made him realize his current lack of professionalism toward a master he’d never actually met. He cleared his own throat to dispel some of the awkwardness he felt and tried to summon his wits. “Sorry about that. Yes, Master Rhara, Garen and Obi-Wan turned up late last night and slept here. They were… not in full control of their faculties at the time.” It was about as diplomatic a way to describe their level of intoxication as he could manage at this time of day.

Clee Rhara laughed at his description, no doubt interpreting it correctly. “Oh, I’m sure they were completely sloshed. My padawan is rather predictable when his nameday comes around. Not to worry, I’ll be by shortly to collect him,” she said and the comm clicked off. Feemor groaned again and shoved a pillow over his face. He had initially planned to sleep in this morning but clearly that wasn’t going to happen. He indulged for just for one more minute before once again hauling himself out of bed far earlier than he preferred. He scooped up the robe from where he’d dropped it earlier and shuffled back out into his main room. It was just almost as trashed as he remembered it from the middle of the night, although one of them had restored the side table and lamp to their rightful places. The floor was still covered in brightly colored candy pieces and Feemor stepped through the room with care, trying not to smash the hard candies into even smaller pieces that would be almost impossible to clean up. Obi-Wan and Garen were passed out on the sofa and it looked like they’d only managed to scrounge up one blanket to share. It had mostly fallen on the floor by that point, barely covering their legs, but neither seemed to care. Obi-Wan lay on his back with one arm flung over his head, mouth open and unflatteringly snoring like a bantha. Garen was draped over Obi-Wan on his stomach and providing far more cover than the blanket currently was. Feemor very deliberately didn’t notice how Garen’s cheek was nuzzled against the bare sliver of Obi-Wan’s chest that was exposed between the unbuttoned halves of his shirt. He also chose not to notice how Obi-Wan’s other hand was placed indecently low on Garen’s back under his shirt or how their legs and hips were slotted together. Feemor studiously ignored all of those things, because he was both a good brother and still mostly asleep, as he made his way into his kitchen and started a kettle for tea. 

Feemor only realized he’d zoned out staring at the kettle when his door chime started him awake again. Shavit, it was too early for this. He blinked a few times and tried to look more conscious than he actually was as he moved to answer the door. Clee Rhara, Garen’s master, looked far more put together than Feemor was at the moment with her neatly pressed uniform and dark red hair braided into a crown around her head. He knew that many Knight Pilots picked similar styles to fit their hair inside their helmets. Despite being a human of an age with Feemor’s former master, there was not a strand of grey to be seen on her head. In keeping with her status as a Master Ace, her uniform more closely resembled a pilot’s jumpsuit than the consular’s robes that the rest of the galaxy associated with Jedi. And it seemed she was, disgustingly, a morning person.

“Good morning, Knight Feemor,” she greeted with as much sunny enthusiasm as she had on the comm. “Once again I’m sorry for disturbing your morning. Is Garen awake yet?”

The tea kettle chose that moment to whistle loudly; the sound was followed by the double thump of two bodies hitting the ground and pained groans. Feemor grimaced at the noise and nodded to Rhara, resigned. “Yes, I do believe he’s awake now. Would you like to come in?”

Her laughter chimed out as she stepped into the absolute wreck of his quarters just as two disheveled heads popped up from the floor in front of the sofa. It seemed that neither padawan had yet been taught the highly-praised Force technique of filtering toxins from their system, or perhaps they’d been too far gone last night to remember they could have sobered up before sleeping. Obi-Wan looked bone tired and in desperate need of a shower but otherwise none the worse for wear. Garen, on the other hand, looked like the quintessential hungover mess, dark hair standing up wildly in all directions, face sweaty and pale, and reddened eyes narrowed against the light. His eyes widened in shock when he saw his master waiting for him by the door and then quickly shut them again in a pained wince.

“Good morning, padawan mine!” Master Rhara greeted in an overly loud voice that made Garen whimper. Her grin widened.

“Good morning, Master,” Garen rasped back with his eyes still squeezed shut.

“Time to go, Garen.” Garen opened his eyes a sliver and slowly pushed to his feet. She gestured toward the door and to the young man’s credit he only knocked his toes against the side table once as he rounded the sofa. Feemor felt that he could be frivolous with the Force again and floated Garen’s boots over to him from where they’d been thrown. “You too, Obi-Wan,” Clee motioned at Obi-Wan who was trying, discreetly, to button up his shirt again. “Master Jinn has already commed me this morning wondering when you would be back. Apparently he thought that you were sleeping in mine and Garen’s quarters last night?” she asked with a raised eyebrow.

“Yes, Master Clee,” Obi-Wan murmured quietly but without the same hungover rasp that Garen had. If Feemor was any judge, his volume was a concession to what must be a splitting headache. “I’m sorry for the deception, Master, and for not asking your permission to do so. But Master Qui-Gon and Knight Feemor…” he trailed off, unsure.

“Ah,” Rhara said understandingly and darted a glance toward Feemor. “Say no more. It’s fine with me.”

Obi-Wan looked at Feemor with apology but Feemor just shrugged. It was nothing he didn't already know and hadn’t already come to terms with. The long-upheld silence between Feemor and Qui-Gon was no secret in the Temple and was unlikely to change any time soon. Feemor understood why Obi-Wan didn’t want to cause further strain on his own apprenticeship by claiming a close relationship with his master’s repudiated padawan. Compartmentalizing his lineage relationships had been working for Obi-Wan for years now.

“In any case,” Rhara brushed past the awkward silence, “best we get you back home before your master comes looking for you.”

“Yes Master Clee,” Obi-Wan said obediently and stooped to gather his own boots. When he rounded the sofa—without stubbing his foot on the table—he gave Feemor a quick one-armed hug with the arm not holding his boots. “Thanks for letting us stay here last night, Feemor. Sorry for the mess.”

“Any time, Obi,” Feemor replied genuinely, his earlier disgruntlement having most dissipated now that he was more awake. He looked back toward the others. “Happy nameday, Garen,” he offered.

“Thanks, Feemor,” Garen said through a yawn as the three of them left. Feemor leaned against the door after it closed behind the group and the silence threatened to lure him back to sleep for a few more hours. The kettle whistling again pulled him out of his doze and with a tired sigh he went to make tea. He chose one of his strong, bitter, and highly caffeinated blends. It felt like that kind of morning. He snagged a datapad on his way to the kitchen to schedule a cleaning droid to come by.

Later, after three cups of strong tea and a few passes of the cleaning droid across the floor, his comm pinged with a message from Obi-Wan apologizing once again for barging in without any warning and imposing on his hospitality. Feemor messaged back that there was no apology needed and that he and his friends were welcome any time. Just so long as they kept their clothes on next time, he couldn’t resist teasing his brother just a little bit. The “kriff off” that came back lost a bit of its heat when Feemor felt sharp embarrassment Obi-Wan coming across their Force bond. Feemor sent back a sense of his amusement and went about the rest of his day.

After the incident of Garen’s nameday Feemor’s quarters became a regular stomping ground for Obi-Wan and his group of friends. It was nice to get to know his brother’s cohort a bit better after only interacting with them rarely over the years. Garen wasted no time in making himself at home any time he was there and Quinlan never tended to stand on ceremony anywhere he went anyway. It became a normal occurrence for Feemor to arrive back home from the salles, Archives, or meditation rooms to find Obi-Wan sprawled out on the sofa with either or both of the other young men cuddled up close. Sometimes an abandoned holofilm would be playing in the background or there would be stacks of datapads filled with the padawans’ coursework or mission reports, but there would always be half-finished cups of tea or fizzy drinks laying about. Feemor started to stock up on some of their favorites so his own stashes would be left alone.

Bant was always more tentative and reserved when she and Obi-Wan spent time in Feemor’s quarters. Obi-Wan never brought her over just to relax. The two almost always just studied together when they were there alone. Feemor never really questioned why it was, but he assumed that she must feel some lingering awkwardness or tension because Feemor had been there for Obi-Wan after Tahl’s death when Bant hadn’t been. Feemor never held it against her. As he got to know her a bit better and realized that she intended to train to be a Healer, he made sure to connect her with Jolar in case she wanted another mentor in the medical field. She warmed up to him a bit after that.

Reeft, scholar that he was, was always a delight and would indulge Feemor in discussing whatever topic Feemor happened to be researching or writing about at the time. Reeft’s interests continued to lay in interplanetary conflicts around the galaxy and how those led to the destruction of various civilizations—an interest that Feemor remembered clearly from the padawan’s early work about Melida/Daan. Given that Feemor often encountered the remnants of destroyed civilizations in his explorations with Ikurrece, he and Reeft usually had plenty to talk about. Obi-Wan often huffed about how Feemor was monopolizing his friend but then the conversation would drift toward galactic history, something that was closer to Obi-Wan’s interests, and Obi-Wan would dive into the debate with as much enthusiasm as either of them.

It was a bit of a shock at first to have people regularly invading his private space. He’d been living alone since his knighting, he had no close lineage or familial ties to speak of, and his two closest friends visited the Temple only once every few years. It was startling to realize how socially isolated he’d become whenever he was at the Temple. Keeping to himself had been a defensive strategy for so much of his early knighthood and it had developed into an unconscious habit that had followed him into adulthood. He’d grown so used to being alone that to regularly have people in his home took him some time to get used to. Feemor knew that Obi-Wan would back off and retreat to his own rooms if he knew that Feemor occasionally felt uncomfortable, but Feemor didn’t know how to explain that it was the good kind of discomfort that spoke of growth. When he meditated on the feelings, he was left only with a sense of warmth that he was slowly learning to overcome years of defensive aloofness and connect with other Jedi again.

Honestly, the most confusing part of getting to know Obi-Wan’s friends better was that Feemor was interacting more with their masters, too. Somehow (Garen, most likely) each of the padawans’ masters got his comm code. It started to be a common occurrence for Feemor to get a call from one of them asking if he’d seen their student, or would he mind making sure that their apprentice wasn’t late for lightsaber training again, or that they’d be coming by to grab their wayward charge after latemeal. He got to know Clee Rhara and Tholme the best of the group given that Garen and Quinlan spent the most time around Obi-Wan. But Bant’s second master, a jovial Nautolan named Kit Fisto, kept inviting him out for drinks with other senior knights and young masters. And Reeft’s master, a studious Bothan woman named Fervse'dra who worked as a Researcher, would often put holodisks on reserve for him in the Archives that helped flesh out his research. It was nice if a bit… strange to have been folded into the network of masters that ran herd on Obi-Wan’s band of friends. Each master obviously looked out for their own padawan above the rest but it seemed that collectively they also kept an eye out for each others’ wards as one big group. It felt like they slotted Feemor into the role that had been reserved for whoever was meant primarily to be watching out for Obi-Wan.

It took a while for him to learn why that role hadn’t been filled by, say, Obi-Wan’s actual master. But one night when they were out for drinks Kit explained that Master Jinn tended to disapprove of Obi-Wan’s choice of companions and so kept to himself. Consequently, none of the masters felt that they could trust Jinn to look out for their padawans the way that they all watched out for his. Kit happily explained that none of the them were the biggest fans of Qui-Gon Jinn—after Melidaan it was no surprise that Master Tholme disliked the man but Feemor hadn’t realized that so many other masters recognized how troubling Qui-Gon’s treatment of Obi-Wan actually was. From what Kit said, while the group of masters was happy to look out for Obi-Wan when they could, they were grateful that there was someone who cared about Obi-Wan’s wellbeing first before others, even above his own. When Feemor stuttered and demurred, claiming it wasn’t his place to stand in for Obi-Wan’s master in these things, Kit laughed at him and asserted, “That’s not what Tholme says. Or Drallig. And if not you, then who?”

Feemor had no answer to that and when Kit laughed at his stupefied expression, Feemor retaliated by shoving Kit off his bar stool. It was good to have more friends.

Year 967 ARR, one year ago

The world slowly came back into focus. With how much pain he was in, Feemor really wished that it wouldn’t. Light was streaming in from somewhere and it hurt his eyes, which in turn made his head hurt. He realized only after they, too, started aching that his eyes and his head had been the only parts of him that hadn’t already been throbbing. The light was painful enough that he closed his eyes again, though he had a vague understanding that he probably shouldn’t. The next time he opened them he was unsure how much time had passed but there was still light streaming in from…from a hole in the ceiling, maybe? Honestly everything was still all blurry so it registered to him as a very bright blob in the middle of a larger and relatively darker blob some unspecified distance above his head. His brain decided to interpret it as a ceiling, which was fine for now.  If it was still light out he couldn’t have had his eyes closed for too long. The light still stung his eyes so he blinked to try to dispel some of it and realized that it wasn’t so much the light that stung but the smoke in the air irritating them. As if his lungs had been waiting for him to recognize the smoke they started to convulse and strain trying to expel the contamination. The uncontrollable coughing not only worsened the ache in his head but started to make his stomach rebel, too. He struggled to roll himself onto his side quickly enough to not choke on the bile that forced its way past his throat. Ow, shavit, that hurts. I won’t be doing that anymore, he thought sluggishly. After long and undignified minutes of coughing and retching and groaning in pain the spasms finally subsided and Feemor was able to wearily push himself to a sitting position. 

Or at least he tried to sit up, but he had barely made it halfway to vertical when gentle but implacable hands were pushing him back down to the floor of the shuttle—oh, that’s right, Feemor thought blearily. He’d been on a shuttle that had been making an approach to a spaceport when they’d crashed—or had they been shot down? He had a vague memory of bright red lights heading toward their viewport and then… nothing. He tried to piece together what had happened but the throbbing in his skull really wasn’t helping restore his memory. All of a sudden the piercing light from the gash in what he now knew was the top hull of the shuttle cockpit was blocked out by a familiar and oh-so welcome face. Honestly if Feemor was going to be laying on the deck of a crashed shuttle with every bone and muscle hurting and probably sporting a concussion, there was no face he’d rather see than Jolar’s. Her Chalactan braids were a complete mess and there was a smear of blood just above the Lesser Mark of Illumination that adorned the bridge of her nose, but he’d known Jolar since they were both younglings and he’d recognize her even through a concussion. And he definitely had one of those. 

Her mouth was moving, though Feemor couldn’t yet hear what she was saying, and her hands and eyes were roving over him as she assessed his condition. He had no idea how bad he looked but he knew the fact that everything hurt was actually a good thing. Less chance of him having broken his spine or lost a limb or been burned enough for serious nerve damage. Jolar looked serious but not worried or panicked, so he figured that he would probably recover. He winced when she shined a light into his eyes and flicked it side to side to check his pupillary response, but whatever reflexive movement she saw must have been alright because relief temporarily overcame her professional healer mask. She turned her head to the side and snapped something at someone out of his sight—how many people were here? And where was here, anyway? He still couldn't remember—and whoever-it-was handed her a hypospray. Jolar pressed the nozzle to the side of his neck and depressed the injector, dosing him with something he hoped would numb the pain and knock him out until the worst was past. The last he knew for a while was Jolar pressing her hands gently on his temples with a kind and reassuring look on her face while she eased him into a healing trance.

When he woke again the world was much clearer than he last knew it. As Feemor blinked his eyes open he noticed, first, that the world was darker than it had been the last time he was conscious; second, that he could see well enough to notice that; and third, that he was in far less pain than he remembered being in. As his brain slowly came back online he started gently wiggling and shifting his various digits and limbs to assess the damage. All his extremities still seemed to be in working order. He still felt a dull ache all over but there were no sharp spikes of pain or unexpected absences where limbs should be. That was good. The healing trance coupled with whatever Jolar had dosed him with had clearly done their job.

As he shifted a bit more on the cot on which he now found himself, the details of the situation slowly started to come back to him. He’d been assigned a mission to assist the MedCorp establish a clinic on some backwater—Florrum, maybe? The name seemed familiar. There was a struggling colony of settlers that had petitioned for medical help, but a pirate base had started to establish themselves on the planet and so the MedCorp had requested a knight to escort them. Though members of the Jedi Service Corps had all been trained through adolescence at the Coruscant Temple or one of the satellites, few of them still carried sabers or maintained their combat skills. Mobile teams usually requested a field knight to accompany them into potentially dangerous areas. It was all standard MedCorp procedure when entering a potentially hostile territory for a relief mission. This hadn’t been the first time Feemor had accompanied a MedCorp team on such a mission—or an AgriCorp team or an ExplorCorp team, for that matter—but it had been the first time that he’d been requested to accompany Jolar’s team. He knew that his friend, having painstakingly worked her way up the MedCorp ranks to earn the title of Attending Jedi Healer Jolar Sedre, had requested him by name. She’d learned he’d been drowning in consular missions recently and was desperate to get back to his actual specialty. She’d had to listen to one too many of his rants about the High Council’s hypocrisy in utilizing the consular’s skills he’d trained for with Master Jinn while simultaneously letting repudiation block those skills from being officially acknowledged on his records. This support mission to Florrum had been Jolar’s way of yanking him out of the political muck of the High Council and out of his mental spiral at how they continued to treat him.

The colony on Florrum was on the opposite side of the planet from the reported pirate base and so, really, it should have been an easy task to ensure that the pirates didn’t raid the MedCorp shuttle and steal the valuable medical equipment aboard. But Feemor remembered how they’d barely emerged into realspace above the planet when they’d been shot at without warning. How the pirates had known they’d be arriving he couldn’t say right now, but they had definitely been prepared for the shuttle to exit hyperspace when and where it had. The pirates clearly hadn’t been aiming to destroy the shuttle—hard to raid medical supplies if they were all vaporized and floating in vacuum—but whether it was due the skill of the pilot or by grace of the Force they had managed to land the shuttle on the surface. Well, probably more crash than land, he figured, though that was where his memory went blank. He must have hit his head during the crash and lost consciousness.

He vaguely recalled Jolar’s face hovering over his before things went blank again but it didn’t explain how he’d found himself laying on a cot instead of the deck of the downed shuttle, or why there was what looked like a tent above his head instead of the ruined hull of a ship. Just as he was contemplating raising his head to seek out more information the flap of the tent opened and Jolar stepped inside. She immediately noticed he was awake and trying to move and she swiftly walked over to his bedside. She placed a firm hand on his bare shoulder—most of him was bare, he realized uncomfortably. He was covered only by bandages and a thin sheet for modesty. She pressed down on his shoulder and gave him a stern look.

“Oh no, don’t even think about it. You’re not going anywhere,” Jolar said firmly. The look in her eyes was so fierce it was a bit scary. “You broke two ribs, bruised a kidney, and lost a frightening amount of blood from a laceration on your left thigh. Your lungs were full of kark from all of the smoke you inhaled. Not to mention the moderate concussion you sustained when your head hit the cockpit wall because you were standing behind your seat like an arrogant knight instead of being strapped in like an intelligent being. You’re lucky you didn’t have serious brain damage or develop a severe infection. As it was, I had you in a healing trance for two days while the bacta patches and honest-to-Force sutures knitted you back together.” She paused. “You’re stable now.”

Feemor blinked in the face of Jolar’s frankly terrifying bedside manner. This was the first time he’d been one of her patients and if this was what she was like with all of her charges he was honestly a bit thankful this wasn’t a more frequent occurrence. “Uhm… thank… you?” he proffered meekly.

“You’re welcome,” she replied flatly. She softened a little when she saw how cowed he was. “Laser brain,” she said fondly, as only a lifelong friend could, and passed a gentle hand over his grimy hair. “If you hadn’t just recovered from a concussion I’d smack you upside the head.”

Feemor winced at the thought. “Yeah, no, I’m good, thanks.” He reached out his hand and grabbed hers. “Really, thank you, Jo,” he said, squeezing tightly. “Honestly, if you hadn’t been there…”

Jolar scoffed, but squeezed his hand back. “If I hadn’t been there another member of my team would have been and you still would have been fine. They are all very skilled medical professionals, you know, and no one else was as injured as you were,” she reassured him. Because they all were properly strapped in upon exiting hyperspace, you idiot, went unsaid.

“I’m sure they are all very skilled,” Feemor agreed, “but I’m glad you were there, nonetheless.” He let her hand go and rested his head back on the pillow with a sigh of relief.

“Well, I’m glad I was there, too. But you are officially not allowed to scare me like that again, my friend,” Jolar said with a smile, but it fell quickly. “I’m sorry that you got hurt on a mission I requested you for.”

“Not quite how I was hoping this mission would go,” he acknowledged ruefully. “If I promise not to move from this cot for the next hour, will you fill me in on the current situation?”

“Three hours,” Jolar countered.

“Two,” he tried to negotiate.

“Three,” she said implacably. “Healer’s orders. Or I’ll dose you with a sedative again until I’m sure that your ribs are fully healed.”

Feemor grimaced. “Fine, three hours,” he grumbled. He reached for the cup on the table next to his bedside and Jolar only let him struggle for a moment before helping him take a sip. “Catch me up?”

According to Jolar it was all a bit of a misunderstanding. The pirate’s leader, a particularly gregarious and flirtatious Weequay woman named Ohnaka, had been on alert for an attack from a rival group. They had shot before hailing when the MedCorp ship had appeared above the planet and now deeply regretted those hasty actions. Or so the now-friendly Mama Ohnaka claimed. Feemor listened with incredulity as Jolar explained that the pirates who had shot them down had actually helped the Jedi team retrieve the surviving medical supplies and transported them to a site not far outside the settlement that was their original destination. The pirates had also helped to set up the prefab building that now served as the MedCorp clinic. The tent where Feemor was currently recovering was set up just outside the clinic building. The mostly uninjured MedCorp team had set up the clinic with their characteristic efficiency and it had just opened up for patients. Feemor, the only combat-trained Jedi on the mission, was the only one of the team who still out of commission, Jolar explained with another pointed look at him.

The more Feemor learned about Ohnaka’s pirates the more he was sure that his presence on this mission really hadn’t been necessary at all. The group was wealthy enough to consider a ship full of Core-quality medical supplies to be too poor a target compared with their usual haul. Moreover, it seemed like Mama Ohnaka had a soft spot for children in need and didn’t want to deprive them of lifesaving inoculations. Jolar added this last bit with the faintest of blushes on her face, and Feemor got the impression that the pirate queen’s flirtations had probably been returned at some point while Feemor was unconscious. Shame he missed it, it would have been great fodder for poking fun at. Once his three hours of enforced bedrest were up he’d have to find more fuel to tease her about later.

Honestly, a bit of reconnaissance ahead of the mission would have saved all of them a lot of trouble because it didn't seem like Ohnaka’s group was trying to be covert about their activities at all. It would have been easy to discover before the MedCorp’s arrival that the pirate group would pose no threat to a medical relief mission, and that the presence of a stronger pirate group would actually deter smaller and more desperate ones from trying to raid a newly established clinic. It wasn’t the first time that one of Feemor’s missions had gone wrong due to a lack of prior information, not by a long shot. Under the present circumstances, this misadventure seemed like it would turn out alright. He wasn’t in any shape at the moment to do his job and patrol around the clinic or defend them all from threats. It really was very fortunate that these particular pirates seemed to be the honorable sort.

After another glare to not move from the cot—the sense of, If you even think about it I will make you regret it, Fee! was perfectly clear across their Force bond—Jolar left him to rest while she went to run the entire operation around them. He wasn’t tempted to test Jo’s wrath and so spent a rather boring three hours laying flat on his back while entering a light meditative state to try to ease the last of the ache in his ribs. The Force around him felt busy, but it was the good kind of productive-busy of a large group of people working together to accomplish something great. There were some unfamiliar presences milling about that he assumed were some of the aforementioned pirates. Their Force signatures felt sharper and a bit rougher around the edges than the Corps members Feemor was familiar with, but none of them felt especially hostile and so he let his senses drift away from them. 

Jolar came back at the appointed time to release him from his confinement. Although he still moved a bit gingerly he was well enough to help set up cots and begin speaking with some of the settlers. The rest of the three-week mission was, thankfully, uneventful. He split his time between patrolling the clinic boundary, running between odd tasks the healers asked of him, and soothing anxious locals who were worried that there wouldn’t be enough medicine for everyone. Thankfully no fights or riots broke out, though there was one tense moment that came close. After breaking up the potential fight Feemor spent an uncomfortable amount of time fending off flirtatious pirates who claimed to appreciate his firm yet gentle touch with the locals and his broad shoulders and his “wholesome face,” which were apparently just what a pirate wanted to come home to at night. When his polite and aloof Jedi mask failed to dissuade them he took to conveniently being elsewhere when he felt them approaching or, in dire cases, outright running away. Jolar thought it was hilarious, but then again, Jolar was being particularly friendly with the pirate queen and had no problem being a hypocrite if it meant she could make fun of Feemor. Lovingly, of course, she assured him.

Despite the rough start to the mission, it was successful in the end. When he boarded the one person ship that was so generously donated by Ohnaka in apology for destroying their old one, the clinic he left behind was running smoothly alongside the settlement. Jolar assured him that another MedCorp transport was on its way to pick up the personnel who were needed elsewhere and so he left his friend behind with a long hug and a promise to keep in touch. The new scar on his thigh twinged a bit when he pulled the lever to jump to hyperspace but he knew it would subside in time. Scars almost always did. And in any case he had just gotten approval for a year-long research sabbatical in the Temple. He’d have plenty of time to finish healing and practice his forms to work through any lingering discomfort. Once he ensured that the ship wouldn't need his attention for a few hours he pulled up his inbox on the datapad he’d kept with him in the cockpit. There were quite a few low-priority messages he’d put off replying to during the mission. He continued to ignore the ones from Iku because he knew that they were just more of his friend teasing him for getting seriously injured on a medical relief mission—Jolar had delighted in telling him how long Iku had laughed when she’d told him about it—and pulled up one from Obi-Wan.

Feemor’s brow furrowed when he saw how haggard and tired his brother looked in the message. The recording was dated a week ago and it was clear that Obi-Wan hadn’t been sleeping well for at least a few days before that. With a hoarse voice his brother spoke of the nightmares that had been plaguing his sleep for a while now. The dreams—or maybe they were visions, Obi-Wan suggested hesitantly—hadn’t abated no matter how much he’d meditated on them. He spoke of walls of red light, clashing lightsabers, and an overwhelming sense of death. Jinn and other masters he’d talked with had told him to meditate them away or ignore them, but it hadn’t been working. Nothing worked to keep them away, Obi-Wan said with a defeated tone, not meditation or working himself to exhaustion or even the sleep medication Bant had prescribed. Obi-Wan looked desperate as he asked if Feemor knew any way to make them stop. Feemor hated how Obi-Wan looked down after asking, like he was ashamed to need help, like he felt weak for not being able to conquer his visions on own. The only message Obi-Wan had sent him after that desperate one was a short update that he was heading with Master Jinn to Eriadu in the morning and might be out of contact for a bit, but if Feemor had any ideas to leave him a message. A hasty, “May the Force be with you, Fee,” and Obi-Wan’s image was gone. Feemor spent the rest of the hyperspace trip in silence, contemplating Obi-Wan unexpected use of a comfort name, what the vision might mean, and how he could help his brother deal with it. When his ship emerged above Coruscant the next day, he still had no answers.

Chapter Text

Year 968 ARR, present

“How did you survive going through this, Fee?” Obi-Wan raised his head to look at Feemor again and oh, oh no, the hurt there was devastatingly, heartbreakingly familiar. “Is this how you felt when it happened to you?”

Feemor might have been an average, run-of-the-mill knight with no particular accolades on his service record, but one thing that he strived to be above all was dependable to those in need, solid and steady as a rock. It was a trait that had served him well in life and on missions and it was that trait that he drew on now. The realization of what had happened to his beloved brother, to bright, compassionate Obi-Wan, shivered down his spine and chilled him to his core. But he only let it shake him for a moment before steadying himself. He could break down over it later. Right now, his brother needed him.

With his older brother’s arms wrapped around him and his head tilted on Feemor’s shoulder, Obi-Wan told his tale. The dreaded mission to Naboo that Obi had been dreaming about for more than a month. Droids and handmaids and a damaged hyperdrive. Sand and heat and a red-bladed warrior and barely escaping with their lives. The boy, Anakin, who Obi-Wan couldn’t hate because absolutely none of it was his fault and because he reminded Obi-Wan so much of his own past. The emergency High Council meeting and Qui-Gon demanding the boy be tested. Qui-Gon claiming the child as his padawan, the councilors denying the claim that Obi-Wan was ready for the trials of knighthood. Qui-Gon’s resolve to be rid of his current padawan so he could make space for someone he thought would be better.

“He called me headstrong and capable. Twelve years of training and I’m just… capable,” Obi-Wan had murmured at the end of his tale, exhaustion pouring out of every cell in his body.

Feemor scoffed, his first real sound he’d made besides comforting noises since Obi-Wan had begun speaking. “If I could pick only two words to describe you, my dear brother, headstrong and capable would be farthest down the list.” He squeezed Obi-Wan’s shoulders tighter and held him close. “You are not headstrong; you are strong-willed and determined to do what is right and to help as many beings as you can, even at the expense of yourself and regardless of orders. You are not capable; you are deft, you are talented, you are, in some respects, masterful at achieving noble ends given the most meagre of resources. Both of those qualities make for an especially effective Jedi Knight and, more importantly, an especially good being.” Feemor took a deep breath and tried to calm himself. “‘Headstrong and capable’ is so reductive it strains credulity. You shine like the stars, little brother. And Qui-Gon Jinn is a fool to not see it.”

Obi-Wan tucked his head farther into Feemor’s neck to hide away from the praise he felt he didn’t deserve. “It hardly matters now, does it?”

Feemor just held Obi-Wan closer, not saying anything in response. An idea was beginning to unfold in his mind, something that went against his own character but that he knew in his gut was right. He had the bare bones of a plan and he thought that he might just have enough time to make it work. He felt a familiar tug in the Force from just behind his breastbone, one that had laid dormant for years. That was as clear a sign as any that he had to at least try.

He gently pulled away from Obi-Wan and ran a hand over his spiky red hair. “I’m going to make us some tea. You’re staying here with me tonight, you and whoever of your friends are in the Temple right now.”

“Garen,” Obi-Wan croaked, then cleared his throat. “Garen’s the only one here right now.”

“Alright,” Feemor said, silently relieved. He could count on Garen to be an unwavering pillar of support without getting too emotional. He liked Obi-Wan’s friends—well, maybe he liked Quinlan a bit less than the others—but Bant would get worked up over this given her shared history in this saga and Reeft was, in this case, too even-keeled to express the indignation Obi-Wan would need if he was to start to believe that he didn’t deserve this fate. Garen would strike the right balance. “Give me your comm so I can tell him to come over. You should go clean up in the meantime. Use my things. You know where everything is. Tea will be ready when you’re done.”

Obi-Wan listlessly handed over his comm and shuffled off toward Feemor’s bedroom and ‘fresher, clearly too emotionally spent to argue. Feemor got to work making Obi-Wan’s favorite tea, which he’d kept on hand for years now, and dialed Garen’s comm. It didn’t take the younger man long to pick up.

“Obi-Wan?” Garen answered, voice rough with sleep. “I thought you were off planet. What are you doing back—”

“Garen, it’s Feemor,” he interrupted.

There was a beat of silence on the other side of the comm. “Feemor, what’s happened?” Garen sounded much more alert. “Where’s Obi-Wan?”

“Obi-Wan is here, at mine.” Shavit, Feemor really didn’t want to have this conversation over comm. “You need to get here right away. He needs you. Will you come?”

“Of course I will,” Garen replied immediately, responding to the urgency in Feemor’s voice. “How bad is it this time?”

“It’s… it’s worse than… kriff it all, Garen, it’s bad, alright?” Feemor didn’t usually curse, but if ever there was a time… “Just get here as soon as you can. I’ll fill you in when you’re here.”

“I’m on my way,” he replied quickly, and Feemor could hear fabric rustling in the background as Garen got out of bed and started shuffling around for his clothes. “I’ll be there in four minutes.” The comm clicked off. Silence fell over the small apartment and Feemor took a moment, just a moment, to close his eyes and breathe. His evening was far from over and he would need every ounce of calm he could scrape together to make this plan of his work. He took another steadying breath and pulled out a teacup for Garen just as the shower turned off in the other room.

Garen arrived as quickly as he’d said. Feemor could feel the younger man coming down the hall, his worry like a beacon in the Force, and a bit of non-judicious Force use had the door opening by the time Garen got there. Feemor had just enough time to give him a basic outline of the situation and get the door code to Obi-Wan’s quarters before his brother shuffled out of Feemor’s bedroom. He was wearing a set of Feemor’s sleep clothes, pants rolled up and shirt hanging lopsided over his shoulders as Feemor was, after all, more than a head taller and a touch wider than him. Garen didn’t hesitate in pushing past Feemor and sweeping his friend up in a full-body hug, and Feemor watched as Obi-Wan practically collapsed into Garen’s embrace. He remembered with a pang in his heart when Iku had done the same for him so many years ago. After a long moment the two friends made their way back to the sofa still clinging to each other. The tray of tea was sitting on the table in front of him but neither made a move toward it. It didn’t matter. Feemor hoped that just the steam, the familiar scent, and the support of one of his closest friends would provide Obi-Wan some comfort. 

Feemor quietly backed out of his rooms and into the Temple hallway. He gently closed the door, sealing away the two figures clutching tightly to each other on his sitting room sofa. He thanked the Force once again that Garen was temporarily stationed at the Temple because Feemor’s brother would need all the support that he could get in the coming weeks. For all that Obi-Wan had been through in his twenty-five years—and Feemor forced himself to keep a tight lid on his anger as he was freshly reminded of what a long list that was—Feemor knew from personal experience just how damaging the events of this particular day would be for his younger brother.

Repudiation.

Feemor closed his eyes and inhaled a sharp breath as the long-hated term seared through him. It seemed like that word would never stop haunting him. He pressed his forehead against the closed door and tried to breathe through the pain both remembered and fresh. He tried to release his hatred and resentment into the Force. He was mostly successful, though he suspected that there would always be a bit of those emotions he’d never be able to fully banish. With effort, he recentered himself around the calm assurance in his own abilities that he’d spent so long rebuilding. Repudiation was a painful idea that invoked memories of a time he’d rather forget, a time when the person he had looked up to most in the world, whom he had worked so hard to make proud, had rejected him, had cast him aside with a negligent sweep of his hand. At one time in his life Feemor had built his self-esteem and his belief in his worthiness for knighthood upon Master Jinn’s approval. When it had been taken away so abruptly, so publicly, just a year into his promotion… It had taken Feemor a long time to get through it but he had gotten through it. Obi-Wan had gotten hints over the years at the scope of the damage repudiation had done to Feemor’s self-confidence, but Feemor had never wanted his little brother to know the full extent of it. Now that Obi-Wan was forced to learn first hand what it felt like to be cast aside Feemor would be damned to the Sith hells if he let him go through the same uncertainty that Feemor had.

He took another deep breath pressed against his front door before shoving away from the wall and walking determinedly down the corridor toward Master Jinn’s quarters. He’d promised himself nearly two decades ago that he’d never go back there. He’d wanted to make a clean, professional break out of what had been a messy situation, but this was for his brother. Door after identical door slid across his vision as he swiftly stalked through the corridors, the bland halls of the residential wing passing by without him really seeing them. Eventually the door numbers climbed up from the lower values of the single knights’ rooms up into the rooms large enough for master-padawan pairs. Master Jinn’s suite of rooms was just up ahead, and although Feemor was determined not to hesitate in his task he spared a single moment to send out the subtlest Force query he could manage to check if the man himself was present. He breathed a silent sigh of relief that the rooms felt empty. As much as some part of him wanted to rage and scream and fling hard objects at Master Jinn's head, he really just wanted to get this task over with quickly. A confrontation would probably not end well for anyone right now. Without further delay he punched in the door code he’d gotten from Garen and stepped inside.

A quick glance around the common area showed that it was surprisingly unchanged from the long-ago days that Feemor had lived here. Sure, the sofa was a different shade and he was sure that the rug hadn’t been there before, and the potted plants were likely different than the ones he’d had to tend to as part of his daily tasks as a padawan, but overall the room was as unchanged as the man who’d lived there all these years. For all that Jinn “followed the will of the Living Force,” he was unfailingly stubborn and resistant to change; one either followed along behind him or got out of his way. Feemor snorted and banished the thought. He had far too much yet to do this evening to dither around here bitterly reminiscing. He moved through the common area back toward the bedrooms and opened the door to what had once been Feemor’s, then Xanatos’s, and finally was—had been—Obi-Wan’s room.

He methodically looked around, found a large duffle bag in the corner of the closet, and got to work packing up Obi-Wan’s things. He didn’t want his brother to have to come back here and face Master Jinn just to get his belongings. Into the bag went Obi-Wan’s few sets of daily uniforms, his formal padawan whites, and his spare belt and pair of boots. The rolled up meditation mat and holocube albums followed. A sachet of spices left over from Mandalore. The short four-stranded braid made from strands donated by Cerasi, Nield, Obi-Wan, and Feemor from their time on Melidaan. He gently wrapped up the model starships in a robe and placed them near the top, and finally, he packed the starmap orbs and projector that had been his gift to his brother on his twentieth lifeday. After a moment’s hesitation, Feemor added Obi-Wan’s river stone to the top of the bag and closed it up.

On his way back out through the common area he looked around more carefully for any of Obi-Wan’s things and found… nothing. No trace of Obi-Wan existed in the supposedly shared area of the suite, only a domineering sense of Master Jinn’s tastes and personality, which spoke even more loudly of the thoughtlessness and neglect the man had shown his padawan of twelve years. Feemor felt another brief spike of anger and he would quite have liked to punch the man in the face for taking Obi-Wan for granted and making him feel like a guest in what was supposed to be his own home. The urge quickly passed; Obi-Wan deserved for this situation to not be any messier than it already was, and for all that Feemor had withstood his own repudiation and the subsequent shaming and shunning with as much grace as he could, in public at least, Feemor thought that his calm façade would break for Obi-Wan. He glanced one last time around the home of the man who’d hurt them both so terribly, slung Obi-Wan’s bag over his shoulder, and left without a backward look. He wondered how long it would take for Master Jinn to even notice that Obi-Wan was gone.

Everything was quiet when Feemor got back to his quarters with Obi-Wan’s belongings. The main room was empty but a quick glance showed that Garen and Obi-Wan had just opted to relocate to Feemor’s bedroom and fell asleep in the middle of talking. The familiar sight made him smile. Obi-Wan usually ended up cuddled up to one of his friends when the group would stay over at Feemor’s—Garen and Quinlan were used as pillows most frequently, but everyone had fallen victim at least once that Feemor saw—and so it was no surprise to him that the two were clutching tightly to each other for comfort. Feemor quietly set the bag full of Obi-Wan’s things down in the corner and managed to cover the pair up with the comforter. Garen and Obi-Wan didn’t stir and so Feemor backed out of the room and carefully closed the door behind him. It was time to get to work.

His plan was less of a carefully thought out strategy and more a nonstandard application of the basic crisis management procedures that all Jedi were taught before going out in the field: first, help the people currently in harm's way and then take action to prevent further harm from occurring. There was, undoubtedly, a better approach to handling these types of interpersonal crises but, regrettably, the Order didn’t teach those. Feemor would just have to fall back on what he knew best and make it work. First and most importantly, he needed to secure Obi-Wan’s future among the Jedi Order in whatever capacity his brother wanted to pursue. Feemor’s second goal, and in his mind the less immediate of the two, was to make it so that Obi-Wan, and any other children, would not be put in this situation again. Pursuing his second goal might not paint Feemor in the best light given the cast of characters involved, but on the balance of things a bit of tarnish on his mostly spotless reputation was well worth the possible gains.

However, to accomplish either of his goals he needed to convene a meeting of the High Council and present his arguments to them. Technically, any Jedi Knight could request a meeting of the High Council to present an issue and it would take place at the earliest available opportunity. It was a nod to the Order’s egalitarian philosophy, but logistically there were tens of thousands of Jedi and only one High Council. Even matters marked high priority and urgent could take days or weeks to be given an audience depending on a Jedi’s rank and standing and the issue’s importance. Everything he’d learned suggested that his brother’s repudiation had implications far beyond the direction of Obi-Wan’s future and that those consequences were extremely time sensitive. Feemor couldn’t guarantee that putting his own name on the meeting request would grant it the urgency he felt it needed. He quickly ran through the list of current council members, hoping that one of them might be sympathetic enough to his argument to put him on the docket for the following day, when he realized with a jolt that there might be an easier way than an entreaty to a relative stranger. It would require Feemor to swallow his pride and knock on a door that he thought had closed years ago, but he would have to do far more awkward things and dredge up far more uncomfortable details of his past if his plan was going to work.

But he’d prefer to go into that situation with as many of the details arranged as possible. So his next task of the evening was recruitment, and given that it was well into the night cycle by then he’d have to go in person. He decided, after a moment’s consideration, to start with Master Sha-viri, the Caretaker of First Knowledge. The head of the Council of First Knowledge would be instrumental in knowing if what he had planned was even possible and then if it was, in determining what he would need to do to accomplish it. 

He left his quarters and strode with purpose through the corridors of the residential wing. It was a far walk from where he lived to the more opulent—well, for a Jedi, anyway—suites of rooms granted to council members. While he was walking he managed to call up the Temple registry to figure out where exactly he needed to go, and by the time the correct lift deposited him ten floors up he was able to navigate to the right place without mistake. The Vor master was not exactly pleased to have been woken so late into the evening. Apparently xe had just wrapped up a long research binge. 

“Master Sha-viri, what happens to a repudiated padawan?”

His initial question only garnered a tilt of the head and a tired blink of xir black eyes. “Knight Feemor, this is hardly the time to rehash events long past,” xe admonished, sounding much too tired to deal with nonsense questions. Even xir curt reply sounded flowing and melodic coming from the Vor.

“I am not asking for myself, Master, but for my brother.”

That grabbed xir attention. Having only just emerged from one of the rooms in the deep Archives, xe must not have heard the rumors yet, but Sha-viri understood at once and let him in. Once in the Master’s quarters, the tale came out. Feemor prayed that Obi-Wan would forgive the breach of his privacy. No doubt that the rumors would have spread throughout the Temple by midmeal the next day, but Obi-Wan should have had the choice to share the full story when and with whom he wished. Feemor regretted that it was necessary to inform Sha-viri of the entirety of the circumstances in this particular case. Master Sha-viri was a font of knowledge of Jedi history and, in particular, a specialist in the landscape of internal politics of the Order over its long history. As such, xe was invaluable for supporting Feemor’s plan with xir knowledge of precedent and lore, all backed up, of course, by the original texts. Master Sha-viri’s assistance was easier to secure than he’d hoped it would be—the Caretaker of First Knowledge was, unsurprisingly, already aware of the complex personal, planetary, and intergalactic conflicts that made up this particular tale, and xe probably grasped more of the larger implications to the Jedi Order than Feemor had been able to speculate on. Whatever the reason for xir acquiescence with his plan, Feemor left Sha-viri’s quarters more confident that what he wanted to do was actually possible.

His next stop was to Master Haali, head of the Council of Reassignment. Although the Ithorian master was unbothered by the time, she was most definitely bothered by the fact that it was Feemor at her door. He was a bit surprised that Haali remembered him, but then again, there had been a rather explosive confrontation the only other time Feemor had sought her out. He’d last spoken to Master Haali many years ago after he and Obi-Wan had returned from Melidaan. Feemor had still been unsettled by what he and Obi-Wan had lived through, upset by Obi-Wan’s abandonment, and angry at the High Council’s refusal to see it as the problem it was. On top of that, he’d confronted Master Haali over Obi-Wan having been sent away to the AgriCorp in the first place, and rather loudly, too. As it had turned out, the Council of Reassignment hadn’t actually sent Obi-Wan to the AgriCorp—they’d listed the EduCorp as a possible alternative, though they’d been sure that Obi-Wan was destined for knighthood. 

When Feemor had confidently rebutted that one of the council padawans had confirmed Obi-Wan’s reassignment to him when he’d asked, Master Haali had quite sharply informed him that it was the only level of information the council padawans had access to, not an initiate’s full assessment and recommendations file, and he’d do well to keep from assuming he knew a position’s responsibilities better than the people who held those jobs. So while it was to some extent Master Haali’s fault for allowing Obi-Wan to be placed somewhere to which he wasn’t well suited, Feemor could have followed up with the Council of Reassignment until he’d learned the truth. A lot of hurt could have been prevented if they’d both been more diligent and attentive.  Overall, it hadn’t been the most level-headed of encounters on his part—he’d reacted like a hot-headed padawan rather than a knight with years of diplomatic training under his belt—and it had been one of the main reasons he’d finally agreed to regularly see his mind healer again. The trauma of Melidaan had affected him more than he’d realized, and so Feemor had taken himself out of the ensuing internal conflict. But he’d later heard that Master Haali had confronted Master Yoda and had very stern words for the High Councilor about overriding the established system to play favorites within his lineage. 

Now, though, Feemor was putting himself decidedly in the middle of the coming confrontation despite his loathing of such things, but he couldn’t let Obi-Wan down now just to save himself the discomfort. The strong tug behind his breastbone seemed to agree. Once Feemor explained the situation to Master Haali she was enthusiastically on board, too, having never forgotten how the circumstances surrounding the beginning and the first year of Obi-Wan’s apprenticeship had been manipulated. 

There was one more person Feemor had to recruit before the council meeting and although he made his way with the same purpose he’d had earlier, internally he was conflicted. Master Plo Koon, the head of the Council of Reconciliation in addition to being a High Councilor, would be a strong ally to have at his back, but… was he truly needed? Bringing an internal matter before the Council of Reconciliation was no small thing, the implications being what they were and the gossip mill of the Temple being as efficient as ever. And getting a member of the Council of Reconciliation to bring a matter before the High Council held even greater implications. For all that he knew that Master Jinn was often in the wrong when it came to his treatment of Obi-Wan, Feemor didn’t mean to imply that the man had gone Dark. Moreover, Master Koon… he was an old friend of Jinn’s, and yet he was also well known for his care and support of all younglings. Feemor hesitated and then pressed the door chime to Master Koon’s quarters. He pulled an oxymask out of his belt pouch in anticipation of the low-oxygen atmosphere in the Kel Dor’s quarters. He would never know if he didn’t ask. He would explain the situation and Master Koon, in his greater wisdom, could make the final judgement.

In the end, he shouldn’t have doubted that Master Koon would put the care and safety of one of the Order’s children above the personal interest of his friend. He felt rather chagrined to have questioned the master’s dedication, but Master Koon was kind about it. Securing the master’s assistance had been less problematic than he’d thought it would be. After the door closed behind him he pulled off his oxymask and breathed in the familiar smell of the Temple. He realized that he had no more reasons to put off the awkward meeting ahead of him. He again sighed when he realized that, having left Master Koon for last, he was only a few doors away from his final destination for the evening. He couldn’t even take a long walk to steel himself. Well, he chided, he’d do a lot more than have one uncomfortable meeting to secure Obi-Wan’s future and so he girded himself and walked twenty paces down the hall. He stood before Depa Billaba’s door and, after a moment’s hesitation, rang the bell.

As he waited for Depa to open her door, he shifted to stand with feet shoulder width apart and hands clasped behind his back in a standing meditation pose. He’d like to say it was to help make him more receptive to the Force’s guidance for the upcoming conversation, but mostly it was to stop himself from fidgeting. A minute or two after he rang the bell he felt Depa query the Force to see who was at the door and then felt her shock when she realized who was there. Feemor repressed a sardonic smile. Yeah, if his disowned and estranged lineage-cousin showed up at his door without warning so late at night, he’d have been surprised, too.

The door opened and Depa greeted him with a politely neutral smile and a nod of her head. “Knight Feemor, this is a surprise. What can I do for you?”

Feemor bowed respectfully. “Master Billaba.” He hesitated. “Depa. Please, may I come in? I need to ask you something.”

Depa blinked in surprise at the unexpected familiar use of her name, which he hadn’t used for more than a decade. She studied his face for a moment, and he was afraid that she would retreat back into formality and tell him that it was far outside the appropriate time to drop in on a High Councilor. Perhaps she saw his determination, or maybe a hint of the desperation he felt, but she eventually softened. “Of course, Feemor,” she said and moved aside to let him in. She gestured for him to sit at one of the chairs in the living room and she took the chair across the table from him. They sat in awkward silence as Feemor struggled to figure out how to start this conversation with someone he used to be close with and no longer was. He opened his mouth multiple times to begin, only to second guess himself and close it again. After the third or fourth time of this Depa rolled her eyes.

“Oh, for Force’s sake, Feemor, whatever it is, just say it,” she said with a touch of exasperation. “It’s quite late, after all, and I have a council meeting first thing in the morning.”

Feemor startled, and with a bit of embarrassment he finally noticed that she was not in her regular work attire but instead was barefoot and wearing a soft robe belted tightly over sleepwear. She had tied her hair back messily and not in the meticulously neat Chalactan style she wore in public. He gave her an apologetic smile for his dithering and just decided to jump right into it.

“Depa, I know that we drifted apart years ago, and I might be grossly overstepping here, but I need you to do me a favor and add me to the council’s agenda for tomorrow morning,” he said in a rush of words. “I would do it myself but you know how long the system would take and this is something that can’t wait.”

Depa looked at him a bit warily. “Feemor, the system is there for a reason. I can’t go around it just because you want me to.” She paused. “And even if I could, the council is dealing with a rather serious interplanetary situation right now that is taking precedence over everything else.”

Feemor took a deep breath. “Well, unfortunately, what I need to talk to them about is related to that conflict.”

“How could you possibly know that?” she asked, startled.

“Tell me, Depa, has the council decided what you’re going to do about Obi-Wan Kenobi?” he asked in as even a tone of voice as he could manage.

“Padawan Kenobi?” she asked with confusion at the seeming non-sequitur. “What does that have to do with—?”

“Because Obi-Wan showed up at my door tonight nearly catatonic after having been repudiated in front of the council, cast aside after twelve years of training so that his master could train another student he liked better,” Feemor said bluntly. “He was abandoned by the same man whose judgement the council is currently relying on to resolve this serious interplanetary conflict of theirs.” He stopped himself before he started dissolving into vitriol, either at Master Jinn or at the council’s lack of care for one of their own.

Depa eyed him shrewdly. “That’s not why you need to address the council so urgently.” She still knew him well after all these years. “That’s what you think the other council members will care about, and now that you’ve told me I can bring it up tomorrow myself. But that’s not your biggest reason.”

“No, it isn’t,” Feemor acknowledged, and then sighed sadly. “Look, I’ll be honest with you. Being repudiated is awful, and I got through it without any help from the council or basically anyone I had counted as family not even a day before.” Depa flinched and looked down, ashamed. Feemor shook his head. “I don’t blame you, not anymore. It’s as much my fault as yours that we stopped being close over the years. I could have reached out to try to reconnect with you, or with Nim, or even with Master Yoda, but I thought I needed the clean break to help me move past it. I doubt I would have accepted any overture you made during those first few years. Whether or not it was a mistake to do that, I don’t know. But the fact of the matter is that I was basically a pariah in this Temple and I had to build myself back up on my own despite the fact that my repudiation had nothing to do with me. Just like Obi-Wan’s repudiation has nothing at all to do with him. To paraphrase the old masters, ‘We cannot focus so narrowly on the immediate that we ignore the important.’ I’m going to do whatever I can to make sure that we don’t repeat the mistakes of the past. For Obi-Wan’s sake, for my brother’s sake, we all need to do better this time. It’s the very least we owe him for letting his apprenticeship come to this point.”

He had carefully lowered part of his shields to let her feel the sincerity in his words, the conviction and determination he felt about this. He looked her in the eyes. “If you decide that you can’t help me with this, I can’t say I won’t be disappointed, but I won’t hold it against you. After all, it’s been a long time since we were carefree padawans causing mischief at lineage dinners, and I am asking you to break the rules for me after years of being distant. If it won’t happen tomorrow, or later today given the time, then I’ll go about it the long way. But I will be bringing this before the council one way or another. With your help to bring this matter forward sooner, however, I believe we can prevent the most harm to the greatest number of people.” He leaned back in his chair and opened his hands entreatingly. “What do you say, cousin? Will you help me?”

Depa considered him carefully for a long while without saying anything, but Feemor just sat there calmly. He meant what he’d said. Her assistance would be useful, would be the best option to move forward smoothly, but his plan didn’t hinge on gaining her cooperation. He could go back and ask Master Koon to take care of this part, even if the meeting request would look better if it came from someone else. Keeping that in mind helped soothe some of his worries. Finally Depa reached out and grabbed her ‘pad from the table in front of her. She typed away on the screen for a bit and then looked up at him.

“I need to include a list of people who will be in attendance,” she told him.

Feemor sagged a bit into his chair in relief. He had hoped, of course, but this show of support, however minor it seemed, was more than he’d expected. “Thank you, Depa. You can put down myself, obviously, and Padawan Kenobi.” He swallowed. “And in attendance with us will be Master Sha-viri, Master Haali, and Master Plo Koon.”

Depa’s eyebrows rose in surprise that those three masters in particular would all be there, perhaps just now beginning to grasp how serious Feemor was about righting this wrong. She made no comment, however, and just typed in the names. With one final decisive press on the screen, she nodded and put the ‘pad down. “It’s done. I’ve added you into the agenda as the first item after the opening invocation and meditation. A confirmation alert should be in all of your inboxes. Make sure you’re at the chamber by 0700,” she advised.

“We’ll be there,” he replied, grateful, and rose from his chair. “I won’t keep you. I’ve got plenty more work to do before the meeting, and I should let you get back to sleep.” She saw him over the door. “Thank you again, Depa. It means more than you know that you were willing to help me.”

Depa just shook her head. “No, I should be thanking you for reminding me of the impact of my inaction. Obi-Wan is part of my lineage, too, and like you said, we should all strive to do better by him than we've done in the past.” She paused after opening the door. Depa raised one eyebrow at him and gave him a look that he remembered all too well from his padawan years just before some shared bit of ill-advised shenanigans. “Sha-viri, Haali, and Koon? I sure hope you know what you’re doing, cousin.”

Feemor huffed a sardonic laugh. “So do I, cousin. So do I.”

Chapter Text

Year 968 ARR, present

It was the early hours of the morning by the time Feemor had secured the agreements of three of the council heads and concluded his discussion with Depa. As much as he wanted to give in to the physical and emotional exhaustion that weighed him down, there was still more work he had to do before the meeting with the High Council and only a few hours in which to accomplish it. Master Koon had been incredibly supportive of his purpose and with his dual appointments on the High Council and Reconciliation Council, he had very useful insights to help him plan out how the meeting should go, what arguments to make in what order, and who should speak about which points. He’d even agreed to go over the more detailed plan with Masters Haali and Sha-viri ahead of the meeting, which saved Feemor a great deal of time trying to herd Loth-cats. 

He made his way back to his quarters and saw that Obi-Wan and Garen were still deeply asleep, still wrapped tightly around each other with peaceful expressions on their faces. That was fine. He doubted he’d need his bed tonight anyway and he was glad that Obi was able to rest at all. He closed the bedroom door as quietly as he could and went to make a large pot of caf. He had to be as alert as possible if he wanted to avoid getting tripped up in the infernal bureaucracy that even the Jedi couldn’t escape. He couldn't afford the risk of missing a step in this process and even his most caffeinated tea wasn’t going to cut it. 

He spent the next two and a half hours tracking down all of the paperwork he’d need, filling out and submitting forms, and drinking far too much caf to be healthy. He forwarded a copy of everything to Master Haali as he went along, preceded by a short note apologizing for the flood of separate messages she’d have to sort through. He remembered that after Iku had teased him about Obi-Wan during that long-ago Initiate Exhibition, he’d looked up the list of all the required documents to train a padawan and had been bewildered at all the hoops one had to jump through for what seemed like such a simple process from the outside. There was the official declaration, of course, which he just renewed from years ago to save him some time. That was followed by his medical records, service records, clearance from mind healers, teaching records, research papers, and letters of recommendation from three Jedi Masters, which Masters Sha-viri, Haali, and Koon had, thankfully, already sent him. As Feemor poured himself a fourth cup of caf, he wondered distantly if Master Jinn had actually filed all of this paperwork after the haphazard start to Obi-Wan’s apprenticeship. He snorted in sour amusement. He knew firsthand Master Jinn’s lackadaisical approach to bureaucratic requirements; Feemor had written and submitted more than half of their mission reports during his padawan years and he doubted Jinn had gotten better about assuming those responsibilities over the years. He wouldn’t be surprised if the documentation outlining Jinn’s suitability to apprentice Obi-Wan had been submitted after-the-fact and by someone other than the master himself. 

There would be no such loose interpretation of the rules for unconnected knights like Feemor. He was no favorite of the High Council. No one would waive those requirements for his sake, so he had to get it right.

He triple checked that everything was in order and downloaded it all to a datacard. By the time he was finished he only had an hour left until he had to wake up Obi-Wan if they were going to make it to the council chambers on time. Trying to sleep at this point would do him more harm than good, so he took the hour to meditate. Kneeling on his meditation mat, he stretched out with the Force and dove as deep as he could in the time he had, assessing his state of mind and seeking reassurance that he was indeed on the right path and not merely reacting out of bitterness and spite. He tried to recall all of his lessons Master Yi had tried to impart upon him after Melidaan, hoping that he had in fact learned from the mistakes of his past. The Force surrounded him with a sense of comfort and contentment that solidified his resolve. The chiming from his chrono drew him from meditation after the hour was up and he arose calmer and more confident in what he needed to do.

Obi-Wan and Garen had become even more entwined during the night and Feemor hated to draw them from their rest. It was with regret that he gently shook them awake. Obi-Wan seemed mildly confused that his presence was needed in a High Council meeting so early in the morning but he went to the ‘fresher to get ready without complaint, seemingly apathetic about his fate. Feemor pointed Garen at the bag of Obi-Wan’s clothes and other items and asked him to make sure Obi-Wan was dressed impeccably. Garen opened the bag and saw the river stone sitting on the top and understood why Feemor hadn’t just handed the bag over to Obi-Wan. 

Garen gave Feemor a firm nod, then hesitated before asking, “You do you have a plan to fix this, right?” Obi-Wan had clearly filled Garen in last night about his repudiation.

“Yes, I do,” Feemor affirmed, “and I have confidence that it will work. Obi-Wan and I need to be before the High Council in,” he checked his chrono, “forty five minutes, but if all goes as I expect we should be done in a few hours. If you can, I’d like you here when we’re finished.”

Garen nodded again. “I’ll be here, you’ve got it.”

Feemor clapped him on the shoulder. “Good man, Garen. Now, go help Obi-Wan get ready, and I’ll make some food.”

The firstmeal options in his pantry were limited, a testament to how distracted he’d been by his research the past few days, so he settled on some warm stewed grains topped with dried muja fruit and a large pot of strong tea. As tired as he still felt, he didn’t think his stomach could handle any more caf at this point, so tea would have to do. He’d just finished setting it out when Obi-Wan and Garen emerged from the bedroom. As directed, Obi-Wan was dressed neatly in his formal padawan whites, not a spot of dust or dirt to be seen, face freshly shaved and hair and braid neat. His face had gained some color from the hot water and he looked a bit less gaunt, but Feemor wondered whether it would last through the no-doubt contentious meeting they had ahead. Obi-Wan sat down silently and started eating, though he spent more time just pushing porridge around the bowl. He and Garen exchanged concerned looks at Obi-Wan’s listlessness, and Garen nudged Obi-Wan’s teacup closer to his elbow. Feemor relaxed a little when Obi-Wan finished the cup.

Despite their proximity Feemor could feel nothing coming over Obi-Wan’s end of the bond. It was the same type of static that he’d been getting from Obi-Wan since he’d shown up last night. It was eerie, and indicated nothing good about Obi-Wan’s state of mind. He tried to send some feelings of encouragement and support and got a weak nudge of acknowledgement back that barely stood out above the static. It was like Obi-Wan didn’t care at all what happened to him…

Feemor sat up straight as a thought occurred to him. He’d been so caught up in setting his plan in motion that he’d forgotten the most critical part. Had he even asked Obi-Wan what he wanted to do now? How many times had Feemor complained to his friends about Master Jinn’s heavy handedness when it came to making decisions for other people? Or about Master Yoda shaping events how he felt would be best without asking others what they wanted out of their lives? Jolar would have smacked him upside the head for having done the same in regards to Obi-Wan’s future. Feemor obviously had his preference as to what Obi-Wan chose to do, but whether he aimed to continue his padawanship, join one of the service corps, or leave entirely, Feemor would see that it happened and happened safely. Did Obi-Wan even know that? He drew a hand over his face in embarrassment. “Shavit, I’m such an idiot,” he groaned, voice slightly muffled.

To his surprise, his uncharacteristic cursing seemed to jolt Obi-Wan out of his stupor. His eyes widened and he projected his surprise and curiosity through the Force. Garen wasn’t nearly as shocked by Feemor’s language, but then again, he and Ikurrece had become sort-of friends over the years and it was indeed as awful for Feemor’s blood pressure as he’d originally suspected it would be. Feemor’s cursing had mellowed out significantly over the years but he knew that Iku still delighted in dispelling the illusion that Feemor had always been as serene and level-headed as he had grown to be.

Feemor stole a quick glance at his chrono and cursed again, silently this time, as he realized that they would have to leave for the council soon. He didn’t have nearly enough time to do this right, but he couldn’t let Obi-Wan go into this meeting completely unprepared.

“Obi-Wan, I’m sorry for springing this on you like this. Force knows I should have asked you yesterday but I got all caught up in making plans and thinking ten steps ahead that I just, well, forgot,” he stumbled through his explanation. “But I would be an awful brother if I didn’t ask you this before making you answer it before the full council.”

Obi-Wan looked increasingly confused as he spoke. “Ask me what?”

“What do you want for your future?” Feemor asked seriously. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Garen startle at the question and lean forward with interest. It seemed he’d forgotten to ask, too.

“I don’t—” Obi-Wan’s brow furrowed. “What do you mean?”

“What I mean is, do you still want to be a knight?” Feemor asked earnestly. “Do you want to be a service member? Do you want to leave the Order and attend university? Something else entirely?”

Obi-Wan looked bewildered. “I just… I mean, I just assumed that they wouldn’t let me be a knight anymore,” he stammered out. “I mean, the only reason I was even considered for knighthood was because Master Qui-Gon took pity on me after Bandomeer. I assumed that they’d send me back to the AgriCorp like they wanted to do in the first place.”

Feemor shook his head. “That’s not what I asked. I asked what you wanted, not what you think will happen.”

Obi-Wan breathed out harshly through his nose, his anger flaring. Ah, it seemed that the apathy had only been a thin cover over a deep well of frustration and resentment. “Of course I still want to be a knight, Feemor,” Obi-Wan hissed out and leaned forward in his seat. “It’s the only thing that I’ve wanted to do since I was old enough to know what it meant, but that’s not likely to happen now, is it? So what’s the point in asking? It’s not like any other masters wanted to train me back then. After this latest failure, who could possibly want to take me on now?”

“Me,” Feemor responded immediately.

Obi-Wan sat back abruptly, blue-grey eyes wide in shock. “What—? Fee? Are you—?” he whispered hoarsely. He didn’t finish the thought, like it was too frightening to give voice to.

“Me,” Feemor repeated. “I would. I do. Want to train you, that is.” He took a breath to calm his nerves and reached across the small table and squeezed Obi-Wan’s hand. Feemor swallowed. “I arranged to make the declaration this morning, but I should have asked you first. I would completely understand if you’d rather learn from a more experienced master, and I know a few who would jump at the chance to train you. Or if you decided to not continue your journey toward knighthood at all, given how the Order has let you down over the years, I would support you. Whether you accept my offer or not, whether you choose to become a knight or do something entirely different… You’ll never lose me as your brother. You deserve to know all of your options, but the choice is yours alone.”

Feemor let go of Obi-Wan’s hand and sat back, trying not to fidget as he awaited his brother’s answer. He was nervous, so terribly nervous having formally declared his desire to teach Obi-Wan, something he’d only ever acknowledged to his two closest friends and had guarded fiercely from Obi-Wan so he didn’t worsen an already complicated apprenticeship. He searched Obi-Wan’s face for some indication of what he was thinking, which way he might be leaning, and as he watched, hope started to slowly dawn on Obi-Wan’s face.

“I… I don’t know what to say, Fee,” Obi-Wan stammered. “You’ve never shown any interest in being a master before. Are you sure?”

“I’ve never been more sure of anything, little brother,” Feemor reassured. “If you would have me, it would bring be great joy to complete your training and see you to knighthood.”

Obi-Wan swallowed but was kind enough to not leave him waiting long for an answer. “Yes.” He cleared his throat and sat up straighter. “Yes, I would be honored to be your padawan.” Obi-Wan was clearly aiming for solemn but he could barely get the words out before his composure broke. His grin was blinding and Feemor couldn’t help but laugh a little in shock and happiness.

“I’m sorry to interrupt,” Garen interjected, and Feemor could have been annoyed at the timing but he did look apologetic, “but you need to leave if you’re going to make it to the council on time.”

Feemor looked back up at the chrono, startled that he’d lost track of the time, and quickly stood up. “Stars, you’re right. We have to go.” He looked back at Obi-Wan, who was looking up at him with a bright look in his eyes. Despite Obi-Wan’s answer, Feemor tempered his excitement. “Think about it a bit more on the way, Obi-Wan. Make sure this is what you want. As much as I do want to train you, I meant what I said before. It’s ok to say no, and I’d rather that you be happy with your decision down the line.”

Obi-Wan stood slowly and nodded. “Alright, then. Let’s go.” Feemor waited by the door while Obi-Wan and Garen hugged goodbye, and with one last nod to his brother’s best friend he led them out into the Temple. Feemor kept a wary eye on his surroundings as they made their way across the main area of the Temple and the lift to the High Council chambers. There was no sign of Master Jinn, thank the Force, but Obi-Wan attracted more glances than Feemor would have liked. Clearly the flow of gossip was as efficient as ever, and he was partially glad that Obi-Wan’s current level of distraction meant that he was ignorant of the looks he garnered. He was a bit peeved that his own presence, which had been going unremarked for years now, seemed to make the bystanders’ curiosity worse. Recent events had made the common denominator between him and Obi-Wan glaringly obvious. He was sure that it sounded like quite the scandal, two repudiated Jedi keeping company, but not for the reasons they all assumed. Once more Feemor despaired that the Order gave Jedi Masters the benefit of the doubt in matters like this and put the burden of proof on the padawan. Hopefully they could start to set that right after today. 

Finally they made it to the turbolift and the closing doors shut them away from the stares and whispers. Feemor took the duration of the lift ride to shake off the discomfort of being gossiped about once again and centered himself for the confrontation ahead. He was ready.

The doors opened and they stepped out into the anteroom outside the High Council chamber. Warm light from a rare cloudless Coruscant morning streamed in from the windows. He tried not to put stock in that as a good omen. A young Rodian sat behind the receiving desk, a string of silka beads draped around her head marking her as a padawan. Her eyes widened with surprise at seeing Obi-Wan step out of the lift behind Feemor. He had a feeling that the gossip mill would be running on overtime today and that the young padawan would be very popular among her peers for the foreseeable future. He spared the girl a glance before focusing on the two masters, Sha-viri and Haali, who were waiting for them. He gave them a short bow of acknowledgement.

“Masters,” he greeted them. “Thank you all once again for agreeing to come here today and support my plea.”

“No thanks are needed, Knight Feemor, for revealing the flow of the winds and allowing us to resolve the disharmonious melody,” Master Sha-viri trilled. The Vor turned and nodded to Obi-Wan. “Padawan Kenobi, it is good to see you, young one.”

Feemor glanced at his brother, who looked equal parts confused and wary, but Obi-Wan was nothing if not proper and so he returned the greeting with a deep bow. “Master Sha-viri. Master Haali,” he said in a neutral, even voice. He then cut his eyes toward Feemor. “Knight Feemor, could I have a moment?” Feemor winced at the hard tone but nodded and drew Obi-Wan a little off to the side for some semblance of privacy. Obi-Wan leaned in closer and with far more hostility than he’d shown at breakfast, demanded “What the kriff is going on, Feemor? I thought we were here for a declaration. Surely that doesn’t require two council heads, right? What are they both doing here?” Obi-Wan glanced quickly at the three masters and blanched as a thought occurred to him. “Is it...” He swallowed nervously and looked down at his boots, his fire snuffed out so quickly if gave Feemor whiplash. “Is it because I’m not supposed to be here any more? I shouldn’t have stayed in the Temple last night. They might not have taken my saber this time, but I don’t technically have a place here right now.”

Feemor cursed silently. Of course Obi-Wan would recognize the significance of those two particular Jedi, Feemor reprimanded himself, and of course Obi-Wan would assume the worst. When was the last time the rules of the Order fell in his favor? He was angry at himself once again for not explaining things properly. He knew he should have gone over this before they left his quarters. Obi-Wan was exceptionally smart, but he doubted himself any time someone so much as hinted that he wasn’t good enough for the Order. He’d been given plenty of reasons to doubt: being rejected by so many masters, sent away to Bandomeer, treated with suspicion following Melidaan, constantly told by his master that his instincts and premonitions were merely anxiety and that he “still had much to learn.” Feemor had done what he could over the years to bolster Obi-Wan’s self-confidence but there was a lot of baggage to work through. 

Now Obi-Wan thought he was in some kind of serious trouble to have been summoned before the High Council along with the heads of the lower councils. He glanced at his chrono. He only had a minute to explain before they had to go in. “It’ll be three masters, actually, once Master Koon joins us.” Obi-Wan’s eyes widened in alarm, and Feemor hastened to explain. “Yes, they are here because of you Obi, but not because of anything you’ve done. You’ve done nothing wrong,” he tried to reassure him. “They’re here because I asked them to be here. I hope they’re not needed for the declaration itself, but…” He paused, debating how to word this. “The ramifications of what happened yesterday go beyond what will happen with regard to your training, and that’s why I need their support. If all goes well our part will be over after the declaration except for some information we might have to corroborate. It might not be very pleasant for you when we’re in there, and for that I am truly sorry. It’s necessary, but I wish that it wasn’t.”

He knew he only had a few moments left before they’d be called in and he drew Obi-Wan closer. He leaned down and rested their foreheads together. “Just know that no matter what, I will always be there for you, Obi-Wan. Nothing can change the fact that you’re my brother, and that I love you.”

He saw Obi-Wan’s eyes fill with tears. He grabbed Feemor in a fierce hug and hid his face against his chest. Feemor clutched him back just as tightly. He was struck suddenly by the memory of the first hug Obi-Wan had ever given him, when he was just a few years old and playing a furtive game of tag through the Temple halls with his friends. Obi-Wan’s tiny arms had wrapped around his legs and he’d smiled up at him so brightly. Where had the years gone? More than two decades later and far too grown-up, yet Obi-Wan hugged him exactly the same as he’d done back then. Feemor rested his chin atop Obi-Wan’s head and thanked the Force for sending his little brother crashing into his life all those years ago.

Feemor heard the door to the council chamber behind him open and so he reluctantly let Obi-Wan go. His eyes were just slightly reddened, nothing too terrible, and so Feemor smiled at him and gave him a firm nod. “Right, here we go. Are you ready?”

Obi-Wan nodded back. “I’m right behind you.”

He turned back to the assembled masters—Master Koon having stepped out of the chamber to join their group—and the Rodian padawan who was trying so hard to not look like she’d been eavesdropping. They arranged themselves appropriately, with Feemor leading the way as the one who was leading, the three masters arrayed behind him in an arc, and lastly Obi-Wan.   

They strode forward in sync. Feemor stopped once he reached the center of the High Council chamber, bowed respectfully, and stood there with a steady stance and a neutral expression on his face, hands hidden in the sleeves of his robes. He saw a number of the council members glancing at the group of Jedi arrayed behind him. They were no doubt curious what urgent matter Feemor could have brought to them that not only needed the presence of the heads of all three lower councils but also required that Master Koon stand behind Feemor in a supporting role rather than taking his seat among the other eleven High Council members. Glancing around the chamber, he realized that only Masters Yaddle and Gallia were more focused on the fact that Obi-Wan was standing near the back. When his gaze reached Depa’s place in the circle, she gave him a small, encouraging smile.

“Knight Feemor,” Master Windu began, “Master Sha-viri, Master Haali, Master Koon.” He paused. “Padawan Kenobi. What urgent matter do you bring before us today?”

Feemor made a mental note of Master Windu’s pause over Obi-Wan’s title, wondering if the man was unsure of Obi-Wan’s correct status or just being sensitive to the prior day’s happenings. He hoped it was the latter, but time would tell. “Masters, I thank you all for allowing us to address this matter with such short notice,” he said. He’d thought very carefully about the right order in which to do this and had changed his mind half a dozen times just this morning, but as with all things, Obi-Wan’s safety came first. “The matter I bring before you today is twofold. Before I begin I wish to assure this council that both aspects of this situation are of equal importance and relevance, yet the first must assuredly take priority over the second.” He paused to let them acknowledge the statement, which Master Windu did eventually and added an impatient gesture for him to continue.

“Thank you, Masters.” Feemor took a deep, steadying breath. “Obi-Wan Kenobi, please come forward.” He saw a few of the masters startle and they all watched as Obi-Wan came to stand next to and slightly behind Feemor as befitted someone of a lower rank. However, it wasn’t the right placement for what Feemor had in mind. At his gesture Obi-Wan took a tentative step forward to stand in line with him to his left and he threw him a confused look. Feemor just smiled back and reached out to grip Obi-Wan’s shoulders, left arm stretched behind Obi-Wan’s back to grip his left shoulder and right arm across his own chest to hold his right shoulder. It was a slight modification on the traditional gesture for this sort of thing, which would have had Obi-Wan stand directly in front of him, but Obi-Wan was a grown man, not an initiate. How they stood now represented that they were near equals. He raised his head and addressed the waiting council members.

“Masters, I present to you Obi-Wan Kenobi, and hereby declare my intention to take him as my padawan learner.”

Chapter Text

Year 968 ARR, present

The High Council chamber was perfectly silent for a moment after Feemor’s declaration before everyone seemed to speak all at once. The response was far more contentious and heated that he’d expected from the group of revered councilors. Feemor, the three masters at his back, and his potential future padawan stood in the calm center of the Force storm of emotion that swirled among the council members. He was rather surprised that Obi-Wan was taking this so calmly, but when he turned to check on his brother he found his brother was wearing the expressionless Jedi mask he donned when on particularly challenging diplomatic missions and was keeping a stranglehold on his emotions in the Force. Feemor sent a tentative query across their bond and felt a hint of Obi-Wan’s shock at the vehemence of the arguing over his future, like it was deeply surprising that anyone would care so much about his fate. Feemor also got a glimpse at the depth of Obi-Wan’s mortification, guilt, and self-recrimination that he was the cause of such furor and the sense that if he’d only been better, or smarter, or enough in some indefinable way that he wouldn’t have been abandoned for a younger and more promising student at the first opportunity. Feemor needed to shut down that kind of thinking quickly before Obi-Wan let himself believe that even more. So he flooded their connection with feelings of worthiness, of how proud Feemor was at all of Obi-Wan’s accomplishments, the joy that Obi-Wan brought into his life since the moment they’d first met, how loyal all of Obi-Wan’s friends were and how easy it had been for Feemor to secure the support of all three heads of the lower councils to rise to Obi-Wan’s defense. 

It was possible that Feemor overdid it a little because Obi-Wan actually physically staggered when he felt the projected emotions. Feemor kept a tight grip on Obi-Wan’s shoulders to steady him and when Obi-Wan turned to look at him there were tears in his eyes. He smiled gently at his younger brother and tried to convey his absolute sincerity. Obi-Wan blinked rapidly as his eyes welled up again and he looked like he was gathering himself to say something in response to Feemor’s declaration. He held his breath in anticipation of Obi-Wan’s answer when the noise and chaos in the council chamber reached a crescendo.

“It is absolutely impossible!” a shrill voice cut through the din, and Feemor abruptly remembered that he and Obi-Wan weren’t alone in the room. He’d gotten so wrapped up in Obi-Wan’s response—which was important, of course it was—but there was a reason he’d spent all night planning how this meeting would go and that reason was the eleven Jedi Masters arguing all around them. He couldn’t lose sight of the fact that as much as he wanted this part of the meeting to be as simple as a yes or a no from his prospective apprentice, he needed to stick to the strategy he’d decided on.

Feemor turned back toward the front to meet the chaos head on and saw Master Yoda watching him and Obi-Wan with a curious look in those ancient eyes. It had been many years since Feemor had interacted closely with the wizened being who’d once been his great-grandmaster. Yoda had been enigmatic, to say the least, even when a younger Feemor had had a closer relationship with him. The only interactions he’d had with Yoda for more than a decade now had been when Feemor was standing in this very spot in front of the council receiving an assignment or giving a report. He couldn’t tell what Yoda might be thinking now, but he thought he recognized the set of his face that meant he was exploring the currents of the Force with a low hrmmm.

Master Oppo Rancisis, who’d shouted about the impossibility of Feemor’s declaration, had continued speaking while Feemor was distracted and the remaining masters had settled down to listen. “—and I cannot believe for one minute that some of you are considering granting this frankly ridiculous request and outright breaking thousands of years of tradition. And on behalf of a padawan who has caused this Order as much trouble as Kenobi has! Let him go back to AgriCorp where he should have been all along!”

“Respectfully, Master Rancisis, you are wrong,” came Master Sha-viri’s voice from behind Feemor, and the soft whistling was more effective at grabbing the room’s attention than Master Rancisis’s shouting had. A few of the high councilors looked chagrined when they realized that they’d been arguing so strongly they’d forgotten that three others of equal rank were standing before them. Feemor imagined that they didn’t often forget themselves in front of outsiders like that. When the council members focused their attention on Sha-viri, xe took a step forward and continued. “The Force is eternal—past, present, future. I, Caretaker of First Knowledge, freely offer to you this gift. Seekers of Knowledge, hear my words,” xe intoned the ritual words. Feemor’s eyes widened in surprise and he saw a few of the council members sit up straighter in their chairs even as they bowed their heads in acknowledgement of the ancient tradition.

“Caretaker, we hear,” they responded in unison.

Caretaker of First Knowledge was more than a title bestowed upon whosoever was the most senior member of the Council of First Knowledge. The position came with the heavy responsibility of learning the history and lore of the Jedi verbatim and keeping it unaltered. The duty went beyond simply studying history and researching relevant precedent ahead of a conflict, although all of the council members and archivists did plenty of that, too. When the Caretaker invoked this tradition, their word was to be taken as indisputable fact. Truth. It was a powerful responsibility to be the ultimate arbiter of truth and as such it was a power that was wielded only rarely and with great forethought. Feemor had never seen it done before—why would he?  Nothing he’d done up to this point, including his rare steps out of line, had been too out of the ordinary for a Knight—and he was humbled that Sha-viri chose to wield this power on his and Obi-Wan’s behalf. Feemor had been thinking about this meeting and its implications only in its immediate relevance to himself and to Obi-Wan, and to a few hypothetical younglings; Sha-viri must spent the rest of the morning since Feemor’s visit in deeper contemplation and concluded that the precedent set today would have a larger impact than he had realized. 

“Among the reforms adopted by this Order nine hundred and sixty-eight years ago after the fall of the Brotherhood of Darkness, were these,” Sha-viri intoned in a flowing voice. “That master and apprentice a pair shall be. That from seeds do saplings grow, yet only with guidance do saplings become trees. In the centuries since, the first tenet gave rise to the practice of a master training but one apprentice at a time, and, too, the practice of repudiation. From the second tenet arose the practice of accepting apprentices not as children nor as adults, but as adolescents. So it was done, and so it has been for nine hundred and sixty-eight years.”

“Yet,” xe continued, “a master with a padawan may still pass their knowledge to another padawan in need of it, as many who are skilled specialists do. The master is still Jedi, though they teach more than one. Yet, an apprentice may have more than one master who trains them, be it in a specific skill or after their first master falls. The apprentice is still Jedi, though they have been guided anew after adolescence has passed. Yet, younglings are Jedi from the moment they arrive. Whether trained to knighthood or service or if they find their path beyond our halls, they will have been and are always Jedi.” Xe gestured with a talon-tipped wing at Obi-Wan. “Jedi, too, is this youngling among us. Here, honored colleagues, stands a Jedi abandoned by his master, and by death or repudiation it matters not. Here stands a Jedi in need, and a master has stepped forward to guide him.” Xe paused and then concluded, “Seekers of Knowledge, hear my words.”

“Caretaker, we have listened,” came the solemn reply.

There was a minute of silence after Master Sha-viri’s proclamation as each of the sitting council members considered what xe had brought forth. Feemor was still a bit in shock that Sha-viri had gone so far as to invoke xir power as Caretaker of First Knowledge to support his declaration of intent. But in a matter as contentious as Obi-Wan’s unconventional apprenticeship it was undoubtedly helpful to have a solid factual ground upon which to build his case. Sha-viri proclaiming Obi-Wan as Jedi put paid to the High Council declaring his padawanship a wash and expelling him, and xir proclaiming Feemor a master worthy to guide Obi-Wan should quell any attempts to claim he wasn’t knowledgeable enough to do so. Feemor stole a quick glance at Obi-Wan to see how he was handling it. Obi-Wan still stood with perfect posture and was expressionless, but Feemor saw that his tears from earlier rolled down his cheeks while Sha-viri had spoken. And leaking through Obi-Wan’s shields were feelings of profound gratitude and relief at finally having his devotion to the Jedi returned.

Before the silence in the chamber grew too awkward, Master Haali spoke up. “Knight Feemor has declared his intent to apprentice Padawan Kenobi, and the Council of Reassignment supports this endeavor. Padawan Kenobi would make a very fine knight, and myself and my fellow councilors have certainly always thought so. Moreover, young one,” the Ithorian addressed Obi-Wan directly, “any of the three of us would be honored to guide you on that path if that was your preference over Knight Feemor.” Master Haali gestured at herself and Masters Koon and Sha-viri at that and rolled her wide head right and left in quick succession, her species’ equivalent of a smile. “However, Master Rancisis is correct in one thing. Padawan Kenobi does, indeed, have the option to continue his path among the Jedi Service Corps should he choose to do so. But I must make one additional fact clear for the record. Although each of the Jedi Service Corps would undoubtedly benefit from Padawan Kenobi’s talents, the Council of Reassignment determined twelve years ago that should Kenobi’s path not be one of knighthood, the Educational Corp, not the Agricultural Corp, would allow him to reach the full measure of his potential. As Master Yoda and Knight Feemor well know,” she added pointedly. 

Feemor tried not to blush at the mention of the awful confrontation he’d had years ago with Master Haali where he’d learned that, and he saw Master Yoda’s mouth thin with the reminder of the reprimand he’d gotten afterwards. Of all the shocking things in the past day this pronouncement was the one that broke Obi-Wan’s composure. He stood there slack-jawed and wide-eyed, staring at Master Haali in shock. Feemor didn’t think Obi-Wan had ever given his supposed suitability to the AgriCorp much thought after he’d started training with Master Jinn, and Feemor wondered how long it would take him to fully grasp the scope of Yoda’s manipulations from years ago. Based on the narrowed eyes that quickly disappeared behind Obi-Wan’s mask, Feemor suspected that he was already start to rethink many things.

A few of the council members—Gallia, Billaba, Windu, Yaddle—seemed surprised at the revelation, as well. Those masters, by Feemor’s reckoning, would be the most familiar with the tumultuous start to Obi-Wan’s apprenticeship but they clearly hadn’t known the extent to which the system had been circumvented. Masters Yaddle, Gallia, and even Depa had always been somewhat sympathetic to Obi-Wan, and to Feemor too, over the years, but he wondered if Master Windu’s mind would be swayed by this new information.

Master Mundi chose to wade into things after Haali spoke. “I think that, at this juncture, there can be no dispute that Padawan Kenobi has an abundance of options available to him, whether in knighthood, service, or elsewhere,” he said with a conciliatory dip of his head toward the group assembled in the center of the chamber. Master Rancisis looked like he was about to interrupt once more but a side-eyed glare from Master Mundi shut him down. “However, should Padawan Kenobi choose knighthood, and this council agree to sanction it, my continued reservations stem not from tradition or precedent. Nor do they stem from Padawan Kenobi himself, who, aside from a few notable incidents, has progressed well along that path.” Obi-Wan blushed. “My reservation, instead, concerns Knight Feemor’s suitability for the task. Not in a general sense, as the Caretaker has made clear that he is more than ready to train another, but in his suitability to guide Padawan Kenobi in particular.” Master Mundi gave Feemor an apologetic look. It was a bit strange. Two decades of receiving assignments and giving debriefs to the high Council and Feemor couldn’t recall the master ever addressing him directly before. “Forgive me for being blunt about this, Knight Feemor, however I cannot be alone in thinking that you haven’t thought through the ramifications of taking on a repudiated padawan. After all,” Master Mundi continued, “it has been less than a day.”

That hardly seemed fair, in Feemor’s opinion. Feemor had been a knight when he was repudiated. Xanatos had already left the Order. Repudiation of an active padawan hadn’t occurred in centuries, and so what knight would think to consider how they’d handle training someone abandoned by their master?

Before he could think about how to address that, Depa intervened quietly. “Look at the declaration form, Ki-Adi,” she directed. 

Ah, yes, Feemor thought sheepishly. That. I guess it’s a good thing that I was in a time crunch and renewed it instead of submitting a new one. Force bless his cousin for bringing it up so that he didn’t have to.

“The timestamp on the form is from early this morning,” Billaba explained for those who hadn’t looked over all of the paperwork that Feemor had meticulously compiled and submitted… Force, just a few hours ago. “But the form itself is a renewal of a previous submission. The original form is dated fifteen years ago.”

Many of the council members reacted to that, but Feemor watched Yoda. The grandmaster’s eyes met Feemor’s and his ears drooped in what seemed like regret and apology. Well, that answers that, he thought, years-old disappointment mixing with fresh grief at the lack of compassion from someone he’d once considered family. Jolar and Ikurrece might have called him paranoid, but Feemor had suspected for a while that someone had sent him away from the Temple after he’d declared his intent to train Obi-Wan and kept him from returning until Obi-Wan had already gone away to Bandomeer. When he’d learned that Yoda had sent Obi-Wan to the AgriCorp instead of the EduCorp, and that Master Jinn had just so happened to be on the same transport, it wasn’t such a stretch to consider that Yoda had gone one step further and prevented anyone else from training Obi-Wan. Yoda’s reaction just now had all but confirmed it.

“Fee?” came a whisper from his left.

Feemor turned and met Obi-Wan’s shocked gaze with a reassuring smile. He was sorry that this meeting was turning out to be an endless stream of surprises for his brother, but this, he hoped, was a good surprise at least. “It’s true, little Obi,” he confirmed and he reached out and tugged lightly on Obi-Wan’s long braid. “I first declared my intent to take you on as my apprentice just before you turned ten. Dear stars, I was so young then. Maybe too young.” He shook his head. “But the Force was telling me to pay attention, that you were special, that you would be important to me for the rest of our lives. I was an inexperienced knight, and so, so scared, but I did what I felt was right and made the declaration. I was going to talk to you about it, ask if you’d have me as a master, but I was sent away on a mission just afterwards. It wasn’t something to be asked over a comlink, and I didn’t make it back to the Temple until after you’d already left for Bandomeer. The next time I saw you, you’d already started your training.” He very carefully didn’t look at Yoda during his explanation. Obi-Wan loved his great-grandmaster and Feemor wasn’t going to explain the older Jedi’s role in events if he could help it. By the calculating look in his brother’s gaze, he suspected he didn’t have to spell it out. 

He swallowed thickly. “I have always been so glad and so grateful to be your brother, Obi-Wan. Never doubt that. But please don’t think that I’m only asking you to be my padawan now because of what happened yesterday. Nothing could be farther from the truth.” Obi-Wan looked overwhelmed and Feemor wanted to pull him into a comforting hug, but he held back, knowing that Obi-Wan would be mortified at yet another breach in decorum in front of the High Council.

“And what of attachment?” asked Master Koth, breaking the emotional moment. “They are of the same lineage, and were trained by the same master, no less. In Knight Feemor’s own words, they are akin to brothers. Surely their clear attachment to one another should preclude this new arrangement.”

“Ah, but you forget, Master Koth,” Feemor replied and turned forward again to face the council members with a wry smile, “Padawan Kenobi has been repudiated. As have I, in case this council has forgotten. It seems that the masters of this council like to remember my apprenticeship when it is convenient for them or when they need to utilize my moderate skills as a Jedi Ambassador, though I have been a Sentinel for more than a decade now. According to the edicts of this Order, I am a knight who has had no master, and Padawan Kenobi is a padawan who has never been apprenticed. How, then, can we be of the same lineage?” If he shamelessly stole Obi-Wan’s argument from after Melidaan, well, it was even more true now than it had been then. It was a technicality, to be sure; the mark of repudiation could change his service records but couldn’t erase their individual histories or the lifetime of skills they had developed. He and Obi-Wan would always be brothers even if their link was erased from the databases. But it was still important to impress upon the council the ripple effects that came with repudiation, especially given what was still to come. None of them should be taking the situation lightly. “Even when we were members of the same lineage, although we never overlapped as such, we have each demonstrated time and again that we are capable of putting our duties before our desire to protect the other,” Feemor asserted. “For fifteen years I have watched as the person who I knew was meant to be my padawan trained under the man who hurt me more deeply than any other. I intervened only when lives were on the line and have otherwise provided nothing but support as Obi-Wan journeyed on his chosen path. This speaks of love and compassion and, yes, brotherhood. But these, Masters, are not the same as attachment.”

“And for that matter, Masters,” Obi-Wan spoke up unexpectedly at his side, after having been silent through Feemor’s speech, “it wasn’t so long ago that you accused Knight Feemor of attachment for having natural a Force bond with me, but was it not also this council that approved and encouraged my placement with Master Jinn for just such a natural bond? I’m empathic. I form bonds easily, that’s what I do,” Obi-Wan shrugged, like it wasn’t an astounding gift to be able to connect so deeply with others, “I have bonds with many, most of them natural. For this council to question some bonds over others, though all of them are Force-given, speaks not of the attachment between myself any any other but of the attachment of this council, or a few of its members at least, to some members of this Order above the rest.” Feemor noticed that this last was said with a pointed look toward Yoda, and he winced internally as he realized that Obi-Wan had put the pieces together more quickly than he’d expected him to. Obi-Wan’s faith in the grandmaster’s impartiality had definitely been shaken.

Yaddle chose that moment to speak her piece. “Correct, Knight Feemor and Padawan Kenobi are. Attachment, their connection is not, according to the wisdom of this very council. Years ago did that matter come before us and years ago we decided. At that time, our opinions we made known. Time now it is not to relitigate the questions of the past.”

Feemor couldn’t help but feel affection toward Yaddle. He had never forgotten how, despite the mark of censure Melidaan had left on his record, Yaddle had gone out of her way to also commend Feemor’s actions in saving lives and ending the conflict. She had always seemed to value doing what was right for the people over doing what looked best on record. In his tally of council members, he should have suspected he might have her support in this, too. Feemor could see that together they had managed to quell most of the masters’ concerns with that argument, but he had one more point to make. “Lastly, Masters, please consider this,” Feemor said in a softer, yet firmer voice than he’d used to rebuff Master Koth’s argument. “Padawan Kenobi is an exemplary student: a brilliant orator, a gifted warrior, and deeply connected with the Unifying Force. Trials of Skill, Courage, Insight, and Flesh he has completed already and, truly, I do not know how much I could teach him in those areas he does not already know. However,” he added, “to withstand repudiation and come out the other side with confidence in your worth as a Jedi, with a deeper and more complete understanding of your innermost self… that, Masters, is a true Trial of Spirit. I can assure you of that.” He turned his head to meet each set of eyes as he spoke, not giving them room to escape from this uncomfortable truth. “I was repudiated by my former master a year into knighthood. Having ostensibly completed all their necessary Trials, most new knights are still trying to find who they are when on their own. Yet if you had asked me to, I do not believe that I could have passed my Trial of Spirit for many years after my repudiation. I rebuilt the shattered pieces of myself with the aid of a few caring individuals but with little support from the Order to which I had dedicated my life. I would have us do better than that now,” he implored. “Our younglings deserve better from us. Obi-Wan deserves better than that from us. And I challenge you to think of any master in this room or outside it who would be better suited than I to guide Obi-Wan through the Trial to come.”

Had he ever spoken to them so candidly about the impacts of his repudiation? Had they realized, or even given much thought to what it had been like for him? Based on the ashamed looks on many of their faces, he didn’t think they had. No one spoke for a long moment. No other objections came. No one seemed to know what to say after that, but Obi-Wan showcased his skills as a diplomat by finding a way to move forward. “Masters, Knight Feemor has asked me to be his padawan and has waited a very, very long time for my answer to his declaration. This council will do as it feels it must, as it always does,” he said a bit blithely, “but if my answer means anything at all to you, I would give it.”

“Matters, it does,” Yoda replied sadly, and it was the first that he’d spoken during the meeting. “Matters, your opinion always has, though lost sight of that I often have.” Feemor, Obi-Wan, and Master Haali even, hadn’t gone easy on Yoda while they pled their case. He wondered whether Yoda was finally coming to realize the damage he had caused by prioritizing Qui-Gon’s recovery over Obi-Wan’s, or Feemor’s, future.

Yoda straightened in his chair. “Padawan Kenobi,” he said formally, “made, a declaration was, both today and years ago. Offered to teach you, a Jedi has, so that a Jedi, too, you may become.” The words were slightly modified from the traditional ones that followed a declaration of intent, but Feemor appreciated it nonetheless. He hoped that Obi-Wan appreciated them too, as he hadn’t had a chance to do this with Master Jinn so long ago. “What is your response?”

Feemor turned to Obi-Wan, heart in his throat. He thought… He hoped… but he would accept whatever Obi-Wan decided. Obi-Wan’s face, which had been straining for neutrality for a while now started to slowly transform with happiness. Feemor felt himself grin back at him.

Obi-Wan bowed low to the assembled council members. “Masters,” he said. Obi-Wan bowed with equal depth to Feemor. “Master Feemor. I would be honored to be your padawan. I accept.”

Chapter Text

Year 968 ARR, present

Feemor was grinning from ear to ear and he was sure that his joy was leaking out through his shields. He didn’t care. He couldn’t help it. Obi-Wan had said yes! And the High Council had agreed! He was going to have a padawan, and not just any padawan but his beloved brother. He couldn’t wait to do the braiding ceremony and move into their new quarters and form their training bond, and all the other necessary things that followed approval of a new training pair. There were plenty of serious conversations to be had, of course, and they both could use long meditation sessions, but the nervousness that Feemor expected to feel over being responsible for training this bright young mind was noticeable in its absence. All he could feel was excitement and relief—

A cleared throat cut through his slightly euphoric planning. Right. They weren’t alone and there was still more to be done before they would be dismissed. All of those first moments as Obi-Wan’s master would have to wait until the rest of their business was seen to. He tried to wipe the smile from his face as he turned back to face the council members. Many of them cast indulgent looks in Feemor and Obi-Wan’s direction, but Master Windu was looking impatient more than anything else.

“Not that I’m not delighted for you both, Knight Feemor, because a new padawan is certainly something to be celebrated, but surely you didn’t call us here for an emergency meeting just for this. And Master Koon,” the Korun addressed his fellow councilor, “you haven’t explained why you deemed it necessary to stand there rather than sit among us. I’m guessing this has to do with our second item of business?”

“Yes, I’m afraid so,” Master Plo Koon said, stepping forward and taking over the presenting. His antiox mask did little to hide his grave tone. When the Kel Dor drew even with Feemor the knight took a step backward and motioned for Obi-Wan to do the same. This half of the meeting, though it was part of Feemor’s original plan, would have more weight coming from Master Koon. The remaining four of them would provide support as needed.

“Esteemed masters,” Master Koon began, “As the head of the Council of Reconciliation, I bring before you today an internal matter vital to the integrity of this Order and the wellbeing of our students.” A few of the counsellors looked alarmed at that. The Reconciliation Council mostly dealt with diplomatic issues external to the Order. Usually when there was an internal matter to Reconcile it meant a Jedi had done something either criminal or Dark. Thankfully this case was neither, but it was unprecedented and highly alarming.

“Master Koon,” Windu chastised, “with something so critical as an internal matter to be Reconciled, surely that should have been dealt with immediately.”

“In this case,” Koon countered, “it was of vital importance that young Obi-Wan’s fate be decided first so there might be no doubt of his place in this Order. He must feel secure enough to speak freely in this matter, for it concerns him deeply.” Feemor was sure that by that point some of the councilors had figured out what was about to happen. “By my authority, as of this morning Master Qui-Gon Jinn has been relieved of active duty and is under probation from both field and domestic missions. He may be reinstated in one years’ time after evaluation by mind healers and pending the results of an investigation into his actions as master to Knight Feemor, former Padawan Xanatos du Crion, and Padawan Obi-Wan Kenobi.”

Obi-Wan reacted with a bolt of shock and Feemor saw him start to sway out of the corner of his eye. He reached out and placed a steadying hand on his elbow. The High Council reacted just as well as Obi-Wan had. The group of masters clamored for a minute before a sharp “Silence!” from Master Windu brought them to order again.

“Grave news, this is, Master Koon,” Yoda said, and the old master’s ears lowered in sorrow. “Very grave. One of our greatest Jedi, Master Qui-Gon is, and much respected outside our halls. Surprise and sadness your news brings, but we cannot challenge your authority in this matter. Explain your reasons, you will.”

“Of course, Master Yoda,” Master Koon acquiesced and started to lay out his reasoning, most of which he had discussed with Feemor earlier in the day. His first point was the matter of repudiation itself. One instance of a master repudiating a padawan fallen to darkness might be understandable; that master simultaneously repudiating a former padawan unrelated to the incident spoke of someone who’d given in to grief and anger. For that reason, Koon argued, Feemor’s repudiation should not have been upheld. When that same master repudiated a third padawan who had been nothing short of a model apprentice and a credit to his Order, simply to make room for the master to train a fourth child… that spoke of a person who was willfully ignorant and uncaring of the harm they caused someone who was supposed to be under their care. That wasn’t a person who should be in charge of children at all. Master Koon laid it out very succinctly and matter-of-factly, which is far more than Feemor would have been able to do under those circumstances. He was sure he’d have been far more acerbic and emotional which would have probably undermined the entire argument. He was grateful yet again for the advice Master Koon had given him early that morning to let an unbiased source present the charges.

Master Rancisis again attempted to disagree—perhaps he was upset that he hadn’t been consulted in this matter as the other permanent member of the Reconciliation Council, perhaps he had simply been designated as oratory opposition for the day. He argued that it was a master’s prerogative to repudiate as they saw fit, but Master Sha-viri pointed out that since the Ruusan Reformation there had been a total of six instances of a master repudiating their current or former padawan. Three of those six instances had taken place in the past twenty years and all of those by one man. It was, xe noted, an abuse of a power that should only be used in the most dire of circumstances, which was enabled by the very lack of oversight Rancisis had argued was an asset. That silenced that particular objection.

Master Koon continued by mentioning some of Master Jinn’s other behavior and actions that were recently brought to light, or that had been known before but needed re-evaluation in light of recent events. Many of the incidents had occurred during Obi-Wan’s apprenticeship and had been left out of reports, though some dated back to Feemor’s time as a padawan. Feemor had left nothing out when explaining the circumstances to Master Koon, including Master Jinn’s frequent disregard of Obi-Wan’s visions and the neglect he’d suffered over the years. He’d gone so far as to encourage Obi-Wan to suppress his connection to the Unifying Force and focus on the Living Force, which was not his natural inclination. Yoda looked grieved to learn of it. 

Obi-Wan reluctantly confirmed each of these instances, shame and guilt leaking out through his shields, and a faint hint of betrayal. The shame and guilt were aimed inward. Feemor knew that he had a lot of work ahead of him to help Obi-Wan rebuild his self-esteem, to help him believe that he didn’t deserve what had happened to him, and that he wasn't responsible for Master Jinn’s actions. The feelings of betrayal was aimed at Feemor and it was no less than he deserved. Many of those events had been told to Feemor in confidence. At the time, he had bowed to Obi-Wan’s insistence, and had gone against his own better judgement, not to report them. Feemor had needed to betray those confidences to help right this wrong, and while it was for a good reason it was, still, a betrayal. 

Master Koon’s arguments went beyond Obi-Wan’s apprenticeship, which seemed to solidify to the High Council members that the investigation into Jinn’s behavior wasn’t about avenging Obi-Wan’s or Feemor’s repudiations. Master Jinn had indulged and even encouraged Xanatos in his feelings of superiority and arrogance, both over his peers and also over Feemor himself due to Feemor’s humble background. He had let Xanatos nurture his relationship with his father against the traditions of the Order. He’d refused to attend sessions with a mind healer after Xanatos had left and then Fallen. He’d again avoided the mind healers after his lifelong friend Tahl died, had neglected the training of his padawan for seven months, and then had returned to active duty without being cleared. He’d exclusively taught Ataru to his three apprentices despite that each had shown proficiency with a different form: Feemor with Shii-Cho, Xanatos with Makashi, and Obi-Wan with Soresu. Obi-Wan confirmed that his only Soresu lessons had happened during his… hiatus from training with Master Jinn after New Apsolon, and only with Feemor’s encouragement and Master Drallig’s insistence. Feemor confirmed that he hadn’t been allowed to train with a master whose preferred form was Shii-Cho until after his knighting, and that, from what he knew, Jinn had cut short Xanatos’s few lessons on Makashi with Master Dooku and forbidden him any more.

And on his most recent mission, Master Koon continued, Jinn had allowed his obsession with obscure prophecy to override his better judgement and the safety of his charges. He’d collected and tested a child’s blood sample without his guardian’s consent. He’d helped a nine year old enslaved human risk his life in a podrace, bet the success of their mission and the lives of their companions on the outcome of that race, and then purchased that enslaved child. Granted, he’d always intended to free young Skywalker, but exchanging a racing pod for a sentient being was, by most legal systems’ definition, enslavement.

These events were news to Feemor. What did prophecy have to do with anything? When Obi-Wan had told Feemor about the Naboo mission he’d left out most of these details. By the expressions of the council members, Jinn certainly hadn’t reported any of that to them the previous evening. He had no idea how Master Koon could have learned all of this in less than a day, but when he glanced over at Obi-Wan and saw his face it became very clear. There was a particular expression of fondness mixed with exasperation that Obi-Wan used almost exclusively for Quinlan Vos. Quin must be on Tatooine right now. If the two had been on the same planet at the same time they would have certainly felt each other in the Force. 

Master Koon’s recitation came to a close and he allowed the High Council members a few minutes to digest the information and, perhaps, begin to contemplate how it was that they had not noticed before now. But as Yoda had stated at the beginning, the High Council didn’t challenge Master Koon’s authority to put Master Jinn on probation or investigate his actions. Feemor breathed a sigh of relief that it was done. His plan, concocted late at night and fueled by years of swallowing down his opinion, had worked. Obi-Wan was safe, his future in the Order secure, and Feemor vowed to the Force that he’d do all that he could to help his new padawan heal from the events that had led to this point.

The meeting wasn’t entirely over at that point, but Feemor’s and Obi-Wan’s role in it was. He grabbed Obi-Wan’s elbow and encouraged him to take another step backward to let the others continue to discuss matters that were impacted by Obi-Wan’s and Master Jinn’s new statuses. Feemor tuned them out after it was determined that Obi-Wan, and by consequence Feemor, wouldn't be sent back to Naboo whenever the Royal delegation decided to return. He could thank Master Sha-viri for reminding everyone that new training pairs were given a few weeks leave to get settled. There was no reason another master-padawan pair or even a knight-pair couldn’t play bodyguard. And, Master Haali added, there was no reason why the Jedi Starfighter and Medical Corps couldn’t provide ancillary support to the mission now that the scale of the infringement on the population’s freedom was clear. The Service Corps were dispatched as needed, not as dictated by the Senate, she sharply reminded the High Council.

It was Obi-Wan, speaking now from the back of the room, who asked about young Skywalker’s fate. With Master Jinn now unable to train the boy and no other master willing to take him on as a padawan, it seemed the only other option was to return the child to his family. But sending a child back into enslavement was an immoral and unjust action not worthy of Jedi, Obi-Wan pointed out. Feemor projected a wave of pride at Obi-Wan for his compassion and for being courageous enough to speak up in front of authority. Obi-Wan startled at being praised for such a simple thing, and it underscored yet another area of Obi-Wan’s self-esteem that Feemor vowed to help him work on. It shouldn’t have felt extraordinary to Obi-Wan to receive recognition for praise-worthy actions.

The High Council started to debate the child’s fate before Master Haali once again interrupted them. The placement of a child was, after all, within the purview of the Council of Reassignment. She sounded annoyed when she had to point out once again to the High Councilors that the child had more options than apprenticeship or slavery. Human initiates weren’t even eligible to be selected as padawans until they were ten, prophecy or not. Why then couldn’t the Skywalker boy become a ward of the Order like any other and join the initiates in classes and beginners training? He had four more years before he was no longer eligible to be a padawan, so Master Haali recommended that he be allowed to use those years to their fullest. She requested a chance to meet the boy to discuss his options, as she might with any child who faced such a difficult choice, and especially one with extenuating circumstances like Skywalker’s. The boy would undoubtedly respond better to a discussion with a single individual and not an interrogation by the fully-assembled council. Feemor was starting to sense a pattern in Master Haali’s pointed comments to the High Council; he suspected that it wasn’t the first or even the tenth time that they had overstepped the bounds of their authority and crossed into the Reassignment Council’s territory. 

Master Haali’s firm stance on the matter silenced most objections. With no other matters to discuss, at least none that required their presence, the five of them bowed to the council once more and, excepting Master Koon, adjourned from the room. Masters Sha-viri and Haali congratulated Obi-Wan on his new apprenticeship and departed. As he and Obi-Wan walked toward the turbolift Feemor saw the little Rodian padawan frantically typing away at her comm and assumed that the news would be all over the Temple in short order. Once the lift doors closed behind them Obi-Wan grabbed Feemor in a tight hug and buried his face into his shoulder. Feemor hugged him just as tightly back.

“Thank you Fee,” Obi-Wan whispered into the fabric of Feemor’s robe.

“There’s no need to thank me for doing what’s right, little Obi,” Feemor assured. “Getting to train you to knighthood is an opportunity I thought I’d lost years ago. I’m so happy right now about finally getting the chance that, quite frankly, I feel a bit selfish about it.”

Obi-Wan sniffed once and then abruptly pulled away and straightened his clothes. “My apologies, Master Feemor, for the lapse in decorum. It won’t happen again.”

Feemor snorted. “Nonsense, Obi-Wan, a little indecorous behavior is perfectly alright, especially when it’s just us. Remember, I knew you when you were fifteen and your voice was changing and you were tripping over your own feet. What’s a bit of irreverence compared with that? And just to head this off, call me Master if you like and when we’re on a diplomatic mission or whatever, but I’d be much more comfortable if you just kept calling me Feemor. Or Fee. I’ve always liked that nickname.”

“Ah, yes,” Obi-Wan blushed, embarrassed by the reminder of his pubescent awkwardness. “Thanks ever so much, Feemor, for keeping me humble as always.”

Feemor bumped his shoulder against Obi-Wan’s. “That’s what brothers are for, and I’m always happy to oblige, padawan mine. Remind me to show you some holovids of me when I was that age. Iku and Jo have kept a few terribly embarrassing ones they won’t let me delete. Imagine me with my current height and shoulder width but the rest of me as skinny as a lightpost. I was all knees and elbows for years. Master Nu banned me from the Archives for a month after I knocked over one too many shelves of holodisks.”

Obi-Wan chuckled and lost some of the tension in his shoulders. “Oh, is that why she still gives you dirty looks when you get too close to one of her projects?” he teased.

“She’ll never forgive me no matter how many times I beg,” Feemor lamented. The turbolift started to slow as it reached the bottom. “Now, chin up, Obi-Wan. The gossip mongers out there might be rude enough to stare at us but we’ve done nothing to be ashamed of.”

Obi-Wan nodded and stood up straighter, facing the doors with determination and defiance, readying himself to face whatever lay beyond him. The doors opened and the two of them strode forth together.

As he’d hoped, the council meeting hadn’t taken more than a few hours and so it wasn't even time for midmeal when he and Obi-Wan arrived back at Feemor’s quarters. It seemed hard to believe that the course of both his and Obi-Wan’s future had been so radically changed in so short a time. Garen was waiting for them there, looking like he’d taken the time to shower, shave, and grab clean clothes while they’d been in the meeting. He’d been typing away on a datapad when they’d walked in but hastily put it down and stood to meet them.

“Well?” Garen prompted anxiously. “What happened?”

Feemor looked at Obi-Wan and let him explain to their friend. “I… well…” He cleared his throat. “Feemor petitioned the High Council to allow me to continue my training under his guidance. I’m going to be his padawan.”

Garen looked to Feemor for confirmation, which was given with a nod and a smile, and then swooped in to embrace Obi-Wan in a crushing hug. Garen spun him around in circles which finally made Obi-Wan laugh and demand for him to “put me back down, you big lughead!” Garen ignored him and spun him around twice more before finally letting go. The two of them were flushed and happy and laughing and it warmed Feemor’s heart to see it.

“Right,” Garen said with a slap on Obi-Wan’s back, “well now you have to tell me everything. Congratulations to you both of course, especially since this one over here,” he hooked a thumb toward Feemor, “won’t be wailing on about the inadequacy of your training every tenday.” Feemor sputtered indignantly. “And I, obviously, am truly devastated that you won’t be joining me in the Starfighter Corp so that we can sail the stars together,” Garen added with a dramatic swoon, clutching a hand over his heart as if wounded.

Obi-Wan laughed fondly at his friend and knocked their shoulders together. “As if I would be caught dead flying one of those death traps you call a starfighter. I’d rather be a farmer than a stick jockey,” he teased.

Garen chuckled. “Yeah well, you’d be good at that. All that diplomatic poodoo you spout would be good fertilizer.”

Feemor stepped in and ushered the pair toward the sofa. “Alright, you two, I can give you an hour or so to talk but Obi-Wan and I have a long day ahead of us. Go ahead. I’ll make us some tea.” As he walked toward the kitchen he called back over his shoulder. “And for the record, I don’t wail!”

“That’s not what Iku says!” Garen called back, and Feemor grumbled under his breath. He knew it was an awful idea to introduce the two of them.

Laughter followed him as he disappeared into the kitchen but he really couldn’t be upset about it. He marveled at the shift in Obi-Wan’s mood. He seemed to have recovered admirably well from the shocks of the past day. Feemor knew that Garen’s support was a large part of it and the fact that he didn’t treat Obi-Wan any differently than he had before the repudiation. That continued support, Feemor knew, would be vital in the coming years as Obi-Wan faced the reality of what had happened to him. He had no doubt that Obi-Wan could count on Bant, Reeft, and Quinlan, and each of their masters, too; the rest of his more casual acquaintances and the response of the Temple at large were unknown factors.

Feemor reentered the common area right as Obi-Wan was explaining how Master Sha-viri had silenced all the objections to Obi-Wan retaining their the title of padawan, and Garen looked suitably impressed and appreciative that a council head had stood up for his friend. So few authority figures had done so on Obi-Wan’s behalf before.

While Obi-Wan continued to tell his friend the tale, Feemor quietly sipped his tea and took care of some logistics. The High Council, perhaps at Depa’s insistence, had moved uncharacteristically swiftly in confirming all of the necessary paperwork to make the apprenticeship official. They’d already forwarded Obi-Wan’s file to Feemor. He quickly scanned through the log of changes to the file and was satisfied to note the confirmation that Master Jinn’s access had been revoked. Then he went back and skimmed through the list of entries, including academic transcripts, certifications and supplementary training, mission logs and reports, and the medical history that was available to masters. Given that Obi-Wan was of age, his medical history was abridged and redacted, thorough enough to assure Feemor that his padawan was healthy without violating privacy. Everything appeared to be in order at first glance. He’d make sure to do a thorough read-through later this evening. He made the impromptu decision to make a copy of his own file and send it to Obi-Wan’s inbox. Although they were now teacher and student, he wanted it to be a relationship of equals as much as possible.

He had just submitted the request to the quartermaster for a new set of rooms—far away from the ones currently occupied by Jinn—when he realized that it was about time to kick Garen out and, well, get to the business of training his new padawan. He was still mildly bewildered and very awed that they’d actually reached this point. Once Garen had departed with a promise that they’d send him their new room number, Feemor and Obi-Wan had their first chance to talk at length about what had happened and what the future would look like. 

He looked over at Obi-Wan sitting on the sofa and fiddling awkwardly with his teacup. “Hey there,” Feemor started, and Obi-Wan looked up quickly and stilled his fidgeting. “Look, I know that we have a lot to take care of and talk about today. A lot of decisions were made that concern you that you didn’t really have a say in, and I’m sure you have plenty of questions.” Obi-Wan nodded slowly. “We are going to sit down and work through all of it together, I promise, and it will probably take a while. Unfortunately, the mover droids are going to be here in just a little bit to pack up all of my things and transport them to our new quarters so our conversation will have to take place elsewhere. I’d imagine we’d both like a little privacy for this, but other than that I’m happy to go wherever you’d be most comfortable.”

Obi-Wan looked relieved at the suggestion. “There’s a small meditation room at the top of the southwestern spire that is seldom occupied at midday. Most prefer it for its views of the sunset. We could go there, if that suits.”

“That sounds perfect,” Feemor agreed. “Lead the way.” 

The walk to the meditation room went in a similar fashion to the walk from the High Council. None of the Jedi milling about actually stopped them but neither did they bother to hide their curious looks and stares. Feemor kept a serene face until they reached the privacy of the lift to the southwestern spire and he saw out of the corner of his eye that Obi-Wan’s face was similarly serene, even if his shoulders were a mite tense. It was a good front.

The lift opened up into a round room about five meters across with panoramic windows and warm flooring in a light wood. The midday Coruscant sun shone brightly overhead and bathed the room in light. It reminded Feemor of the High Council chamber albeit at a smaller, cozier scale. But where the High Council chamber had always felt to him a bit cold and sterile in the Force—a consequence of the centuries of hard decisions that councilors had had to make—this room exuded comfort and serenity. It was perfect.

While Feemor had taken in his surroundings Obi-Wan set out two meditation mats that had been rolled up next to the lift doors, positioning them so that neither of them would be facing the sun as it gradually lowered toward the horizon. Obi-Wan was kneeling on one of the mats, weight resting on his heels and hands placed palms up on his thighs. A classic, deferential meditation pose, if not the most comfortable. When Feemor sat down he chose to sit cross-legged and gestured to Obi-Wan to do the same. 

“This will take us a while, I’m sure, so we might as well get comfortable,” he explained at Obi-Wan’s curious look and waited for his padawan to settle before diving in. “Now, as I see it, we have four main things to accomplish this afternoon and we can do them in whatever order you’d like. I would like for us to start off on the same page in our partnership and in agreement of how we’d like to see it unfold. For that, we need to talk through what happened in the High Council chamber this morning. We need to establish the expectations and boundaries of our new partnership. We need to form our training bond. And we need to address your padawan braid.”

“My braid?” Obi-Wan asked, surprised.

“Yes.” Feemor nodded. “Do you know what you would like to do about it?”

“Well, I assumed I’d cut it off and start over,” Obi-Wan said uncertainly. “It’s tradition for a padawan’s braid to reflect the master’s teaching, so with a new master…” he trailed off and shrugged.

Feemor hummed. It was as good as any place to start the discussion and perhaps a bit easier than starting by unpacking what had happened in the council chambers. “You are free to do that if you would like. I won’t object. However,” he continued, “I think about braids a bit differently. I suppose that my perspective on them changed after my repudiation.” Obi-Wan flinched at Feemor’s casual use of the loaded word, but Feemor had used it deliberately for exactly that reason. If he was to teach Obi-Wan that there was nothing to be ashamed of in being wrongly repudiated, he couldn’t shy away from it himself. “When I became a knight and my braid was cut, I offered it to Master Jinn as tradition dictated. He didn’t accept it. He didn’t want it. I have no idea why,” Feemor shrugged, the hurt long since healed. “It sat in a little pouch on my belt that first year, and then after my repudiation I shoved it away at the back of a drawer so I wouldn't have to think about it. A few years later one of my mind healers asked me what had happened to it and when I told her, she said to me, ‘That braid tells the story of the journey to who you are today. Painful though that journey has been, it is yours. Why hide from it?’”

“Your braid is the story of how you became the person you are today.” Feemor reached out and traced the many beads, bands, and ribbons that decorated Obi-Wan’s braid. They acknowledged his skills at diplomacy and negotiation, his bladework, his gift with animals, and, of course, notable missions that had turned into life lessons. “Bandomeer. Melida/Daan. New Apsolon. Mandalore. Yinchorr… Naboo,” he added while holding the braid just below the clasp, a section that had yet to be marked. By the time he’d reached the end of the long plait, Obi-Wan’s eyes had started tearing. “Those experiences, that history, is yours. No one can take it from you.” He reached into his belt pouch and drew out a bead carved of a white wood. He held it between them in an outstretched palm. “Your story is yours, and whether today marks a completely fresh start or just an unexpected turn in the path is up to you.”

Obi-Wan slowly reached out and took the bead. Feemor had carved it just last year during a personal leave he’d taken on his homeworld just before that mission with Jolar. There’d been a small copse of young trees not far from the settlement where he’d stayed and he’d spent much of his leave meditating while whittling a piece of fallen branch. He wondered now if the Force had been guiding his knife while he’d communed with it.

Obi-Wan closed his hand around the bead and closed his eyes at the same time. Feemor felt him reach out to the Force, for guidance, perhaps, or simply releasing emotion. He couldn’t tell yet without a stronger training bond. When Obi-Wan opened his eyes, he looked far more centered than he had a few minutes before. 

“I will keep the braid and add this to it, to mark the next step in my journey toward Knighthood,” Obi-Wan decided. “One man’s actions can change a part of my story but he can’t erase it altogether. I won’t let him.” Feemor let his face and his Force presence show how proud he was of Obi-Wan for making that decision. Obi-Wan held the bead back out to him. “Will you braid it in for me?”

“Of course, my padawan,” Feemor said, smiling. “And if you’ll permit me…” He dug into his belt pocket for the other item he’d retrieved from his quarters before he left and held it in two hands outstretched between them. His old padawan braid looked the same as it ever had, three long locks of ash-blond hair woven together and singed at one end from where it had been cut. It was shorter than Obi-Wan’s, for his apprenticeship had only lasted ten years to Obi-Wan’s current twelve. It was interspersed with far fewer decorations and accolades than Obi-Wan’s braid currently boasted. It had remained unchanged since Master Yoda had cut it at his knighting, but perhaps it was time for that to end. He cleared his throat. “If you’ll permit me, I would like to add a strand of my braid into yours. You hardly need it but…”

Obi-Wan nodded. “I appreciate the symbolism, especially given the unconventional path we took to get here.” He offered the end of his braid to Feemor, who wasted no time undoing the clasp holding the end together and gently teasing apart the three strands up to the last marker. With a careful manipulation of the Force he untangled half of one of the locks of hair from his old braid and wove the end through the new wooden bead. With careful hands he slipped the bead and hair onto Obi-Wan’s braid and started weaving the strands back together, ash-blond mixed with burnished copper. As he spoke the traditional words— “The Master, the Padawan, and the Force. Woven together as they seek wherever their path may lead them…”—he felt a resonance in the Force. The room was filled with contentment and light and he wondered whether Obi-Wan could feel it too or if it was just Feemor’s overactive mind imagining how right this moment felt. The bead marking the new direction of Obi-Wan’s journey was added just above the closing clasp and, when Feemor released the braid, it rested on Obi-Wan’s chest at the level of his heart.

Chapter Text

Year 971 ARR, three years after the Battle of Naboo

Obi-Wan was twenty-eight when Feemor knighted him. The three years that he spent training Obi-Wan challenged Feemor in ways that he hadn’t expected, but it was also more rewarding than he could have imagined when he was younger. It was undeniably satisfying to watch Obi-Wan flourish and grow into himself and know that he’d had some part in helping him along. 

Their first few months as master and padawan were spent in the Temple. They settled into their new quarters, deepened their existing Force bond into a stronger training bond, meditated together over everything and nothing, and talked through the complicated personal and lineage histories that had led them both to this point. Some of those conversations became quite heated as Obi-Wan continued to defend Master Jinn’s behavior, reluctant despite everything to consider that his former master’s treatment of him was not normal for a training pair. Feemor was regularly reminded of his own reactions in the years following his own repudiation—anger, disbelief, bitterness, defiance—and he had to constantly remind himself that he’d already had many years to come to terms with his circumstances and Obi-Wan was just starting out. 

It helped that there were regular sessions with mind healers, each of them individually and the two of them together. Master Yi was not pleased, to say the least, that Feemor hadn’t talked with her before embarking on this new path. She was concerned that he had been triggered by Obi-Wan’s abandonment like he had been before he’d rushed off to rescue his brother on Melidaan. Unlike when he was younger, however, she was encouraged in this case that he had not acted alone, that he had sought counsel from others and had listened to their advice. He had asked Obi-Wan what he wanted for his future, albeit a bit belatedly, but he’d been willing to work to make it happen even if it wasn’t what Feemor had ultimately wanted. All of these signs pointed to Feemor’s reactions being a far cry from his slightly panicked response to Melidaan, she reassured him. He realized that he was still holding on to a fair bit of bitterness and anger and resentment toward Master Jinn that, frankly, he’d thought he’d already dealt with. But it was obvious now that he hadn’t completely come to terms with it. He still had plenty of work to do on that front. Feemor had no idea what Obi-Wan talked with his mind healer about—that was a level of privacy that not even masters could breach—but he did know that Master Yi was consulting with Obi-Wan’s individual mind healer and their joint mind healer, one who specialized in assisting training pairs who came together under difficult circumstances. While Feemor knew that recovery wasn’t linear, if any of the mind healers had any reservations about either his or Obi-Wan’s progress they had the means and support to addressed it. 

While they were confined to the Temple he tried to expand upon Obi-Wan’s training in all the ways his padawan hadn’t been able to explore in the past. Master Jinn had kept Obi-Wan on a very strict training and study regimen suited for a future Jedi Ambassador, as had been his prerogative as Obi-Wan’s master. But Obi-Wan had an honest love of learning that had been somewhat suppressed under the never ending string of diplomatic missions gone wrong. As a senior padawan Obi-Wan had long-since finished his required coursework, but Feemor made it very clear that as long as they were in the Temple there was nothing preventing Obi-Wan from auditing padawan courses offered in other specialties. He highly encouraged ones offered along the Guardian and Archivists tracks, though he hardly needed to push Obi-Wan to those. Like his friend Reeft, Obi-Wan oftentimes had to be pried away from the Archives with a crowbar. Or bribed away with the promise of more Soresu lessons. 

One of the next arrangements that Feemor made after the apprenticeship was approved was to consult with Master Drallig to find a suitable expert to train Obi-Wan in Soresu. Feemor himself only knew the basics of the form and he wanted to ensure that Obi-Wan could reach his full potential. Obi-Wan absorbed the lessons like a desert plant in a rainstorm. He grew more and more confident with each lesson and once Obi-Wan had a firm grasp of the form Feemor joined the lessons so that they could learn to fight as a pair. Master Drallig, though he’d been a mostly absent family member in the past, seemed determined to help the two wayward members of his lineage find their new stride before they were thrust into field missions. Feemor figured that helping the two of them not die in the field was Cin’s gruff way of showing that he cared. Feemor found that his own Shii-Cho meshed well with Obi-Wan’s new fighting style far more than it would have with Ataru. Too, it was far more suited to the types of missions Feemor usually took—determination and resilience together were nigh unbeatable in defense and de-escalation, perfect for exploration of the unknown and the defense of vulnerable populations.

The staring in the Temple mostly subsided, though there were always a few who never seemed to get over the scandal of seeing one repudiated Jedi training another. With the help of his friends Obi-Wan learned to ignore the whispers much as Feemor eventually had. After some time, Obi-Wan started responding to the gossipers by raising a single sardonic eyebrow at them, which quelled them far more quickly than bland serenity had. Feemor tried not to be too amused by that, but he couldn’t completely hide his delight that Obi-Wan was letting his personality—full of sass and sarcasm and awful jokes and puns—shine through. There were no dramatic confrontations with Master Jinn during those months, which Feemor was endlessly grateful for. He thought that maybe Master Koon had had a talk with Jinn that kept the man at bay. There was one near-incident in the refectory at latemeal where Feemor had seen Jinn watching him and Obi-Wan eat from the other side of the room. When Feemor met his gaze the master had given him a look full of apology. Feemor had turned away from him without responding and Obi-Wan, thankfully, didn’t notice anything amiss.

Over many pots of tea back in their quarters they talked through and dissected a lot of the missions that Obi-Wan had undergone with Master Jinn. Obi-Wan’s files only contained the barebones of what had happened and the post-mission reports that had been filed—unsurprisingly, they were most often composed in Obi-Wan’s style of writing—contained little additional detail. Feemor knew a bit more given that he and Obi-Wan had talked so often over comms but he wanted to know what Obi-Wan had learned from each experience. Feemor wanted to know why the former training pair had conducted their missions the way that they had, what Obi-Wan’s thought processes had been ahead of each decision, and how the missions might have gone had different choices been made. The goal wasn’t so much to have Obi-Wan dwell on the what-ifs or question his past decisions but instead to encourage him think beyond the obvious solutions, to more fully examine his options, to think through the far-reaching consequences of different courses of action, and to question the unconscious habits he’d developed over the years.

He realized that Obi-Wan had picked up some of Master Jinn’s propensity for heavy handed mediation tactics. In Feemor’s experience, it wasn’t a good habit to indulge. As he and Obi-Wan talked through past missions, Feemor noticed that Master Jinn would often decide what he thought the best solution to a situation would be and then impose that solution on the involved parties without considering their input. It was a longstanding issue of Master Jinn’s—Feemor recalled many such incidents from his own apprenticeship. He suspected that Master Jinn had picked up the habit from Master Dooku. Such a solution, Feemor explained to a confused Obi-Wan, might work for the short while a Jedi Knight would be on planet to oversee and enforce it, but would usually fail in the long run. He reminded Obi-Wan of the lessons of Melidaan: a Jedi’s job was to work with the negotiating parties to help them come to a mutually agreeable solution, with the Jedi acting as a go-between or to sooth flared tempers. And then the Jedi moved on. A Jedi could and should advocate for disadvantaged parties so that all could arrive at the negotiating table on equal footing. By arriving at the solution themselves, all parties involved would be more likely to adhere to it and make it work long term. What’s more, Feemor explained, going into a conflict with the mentality that he as Jedi knew better than the people who’d been living with the reality for years, well, that kind of thinking came from a place of arrogance and privilege. He also pointed out that imposing an outside party’s will on a group would most likely lead to an increased resentment of the Jedi and the Republic as a whole, and the Jedi would be seen more as meddlers than mediators. Obi-Wan had been troubled at that realization, but his recent experiences at Yinchorr and in the Stark Hyperspace Conflict exemplified what Feemor was describing. Feemor was glad to see that Obi-Wan signed up of his own volition to audit a course about equitable mediation and conflict resolution not long after that discussion; Feemor made no secret that he was proud of his padawan. 

A few months into the new arrangement Yoda paid them an unannounced visit after midmeal, just early enough that it wouldn’t be expected that they’d invite him to stay for latemeal. Feemor knew that it was no coincidence that Yoda happened to show up on a day when Obi-Wan wasn’t auditing any courses and they hadn’t booked any of the training or meditation rooms. The Grandmaster took a seat around the sitting room table while Feemor served them all some tea, a purple one with a rather grassy flavor he knew that Yoda preferred rather than the spicy Outer Rim blend from Jolar that he and Obi-Wan drank more often than not. While Yoda’s visit was unexpected and a bit unwelcome, Feemor wasn’t so petty as to serve tea that Yoda couldn’t drink. 

Once the three of them had each taken a sip in polite silence Yoda launched right into why he had paid them a visit, and that reason was, apparently, to apologize. It honestly stunned Feemor that Yoda came right out and said the words, “Sorry, I am, for how my actions and inactions over many years have harmed you both.” The apology would have sounded stilted and rehearsed and fake for how formal it was if Feemor hadn’t felt Yoda’s sincere remorse as he spoke. Yoda, too, had been attending sessions with a mind healer since that fateful day in the High Council chambers after not having done so for more than a century. Yoda explained that he, too, was trying to better understand himself, to recognize where his arrogance and attachment had led him astray such that he prioritized Qui-Gon’s recovery from Xanatos over the wellbeing of two younglings. At no point did Yoda ask for forgiveness, though Obi-Wan gave it anyway, easy to forgive as always. Feemor… Feemor had many more years of resentment and bitterness toward Yoda to work through. He was still coming to terms with how Yoda had redirected the course of Feemor’s future when he’d kept him from training Obi-Wan years ago, all the while acting like Feemor had never been family. Still, Yoda was sincere in his regret and was doing the honest work of trying to improve. Feemor couldn't fully forgive his great-grandmaster, not yet at least, but he could and did express his gratitude for Yoda coming by to start the process of reconciling with them both. Yoda departed not long after that, and when Feemor and Obi-Wan meditated together later that night they both felt lighter, as if some of the weight of Yoda’s actions had been lifted off of them. 

Once they got out into the field for missions they worked together better than he could have hoped. Their first few assignments were the sort of low-risk missions that the High Council often assigned to untried pairs to test the waters: settlement negotiations, sub-planetary level conflicts, small-scale investigations into local corruption. Feemor saw that Obi-Wan had a knack for engendering trust with strangers. It likely stemmed from his enhanced empathic abilities and so it wasn’t something that could be taught, only nurtured and guided. Obi-Wan listened, he empathized, he understood people’s problems and hurts in such an honest way that the people he was trying to aid couldn’t help but put faith in him. Missions like that were when Obi-Wan truly shined. 

It was the missions where the two of them needed to draw their lightsabers—aggressive negotiations, Obi-Wan had said with a wink, to which Feemor rolled his eyes—that Feemor found he needed to reign Obi-Wan in. His padawan’s combat skills were near flawless and his strategies were always inventive, but Obi-Wan had the alarming tendency to put himself in needless danger. It was usually a heat of the moment decision to throw himself bodily in harm's way to achieve a goal that could just as easily be done with less personal risk. Obi-Wan had little sense of self-preservation when those he swore to protect were in danger. Just because Obi-Wan could disable a shield generator by getting himself captured by rebel terrorists, taken inside the protective energy dome, and causing an explosion, didn’t mean that there weren’t equally effective ways of bringing the shield down that wouldn’t put his life in immediate risk. Feemor had grumbled this while placing bacta patches over a particularly large area of burned skin on Obi-Wan’s side. A Jedi’s life was spent in service of the Force; yes, sometimes that service was unavoidably dangerous, but one shouldn’t seek new and creative ways to spend that life sooner than the Force wanted. Thankfully Obi-Wan’s tendency for self-endangerment lessened after a few years of constant love and support from his group of friends and, of course, from Feemor, too. 

Obi-Wan’s Trial of Spirit took place nearly three years to the day after Feemor added his bead to Obi-Wan’s padawan braid. Obi-Wan had strode into the trial chamber with a confidence that had been sorely absent in all the time Feemor had known him. He walked back out a day later with his head held high. Feemor straightened up from where he’d been waiting against the wall outside the chamber doors, took one look at Obi-Wan’s face, and swept up his soon-to-be-knighted brother into a crushing hug. A few hours later they stood together before the High Council for the last time as master and apprentice. Obi-Wan knelt before Master Yoda as the diminutive being spoke the traditional knighting words and deftly severed Obi-Wan’s padawan braid. Feemor accepted the braid from his brother’s hand and drew him once more into a congratulatory hug. He took one last opportunity to ruffle the hair that he knew would soon be grown out of the hairstyle Obi-Wan loathed. To his own astonishment, Feemor received his own promotion to the rank of Jedi Master immediately following Obi-Wan’s knighting, a rank which he accepted with a stunned bewilderment that amused Obi-Wan and several of the councilors to no end.

Later that evening Feemor stood alone in the quarters he’d lived in with Obi-Wan for the past three years. Obi-Wan was out celebrating with his friends, all of whom were deliberately on planet at the same time for this very occasion, and Feemor supposed that he’d better get used to the quiet and solitude again. Obi would soon be sent out on the traditional flurry of solo missions all newly-minted knights undertook. He had considered trading these quarters for a smaller set of rooms similar to the ones he’d occupied for most of his adult life, but Obi-Wan had asked him to keep the shared space for a while longer. It would be nice to have some place familiar and comforting to come home to, he’d said shyly. Feemor would be glad for the company.

Feemor sat in the common area on the comfortable sofa that had moved with him from his old rooms and carefully withdrew Obi-Wan’s braid from his belt pouch. As he traced his fingers over it he was proud to see that the bead which marked the start of their training partnership had ended up more than a hand’s width from the end of the braid. It was followed by new bands and beads for proficiency in Soresu, for negotiation, for a few of their most successful joint missions, and for a couple of failures, too, that had taught Obi-Wan valuable lessons. It had been a hard journey for them both and not without its fair share of stumbles, Feemor acknowledged, but one that he was proud to have been a part of. After some searching through their quarters he found a frame at the back of a shelf that currently displayed an old flimsi picture of Obi-Wan and Bant swimming in the Room of a Thousand Fountains. He carefully removed the old picture, coiled the rope of hair on the glass, and replaced the backing. He hung the framed braid in a place of honor on the sitting room wall.

The next few years were filled with the usual sorts of missions Feemor had gone on before he’d taken on Obi-Wan. He avoided the somewhat awkward transition away from working in a pair by attaching himself to some of Iku’s exploratory missions. It was only a short term solution. His friend kicked him out unceremoniously before too long and told him to “go do missions that are actually befitting of your new status and stop bothering me, oh masterly friend of mine.” When he placed himself back on the open duty roster he was surprised to realize that a new master’s schedule was often as intense as a new knight’s, but he was even more surprised that it wasn’t beyond what he could handle. When he was partnered with another Jedi it was usually with a young knight with a few years of experience rather than a Jedi Master like he’d used to be partnered with. It took him a while to acclimate to the idea that he was now the experienced master of a mission pair. Eventually, that idea stopped feeling strange.

He and Obi-Wan kept in touch as they had before their partnership, crossing paths occasionally in the quarters they still shared and continuing to talk at least once a tenday over comms whenever possible. That was how Feemor learned, four years after Obi-Wan had been knighted, that his brother might be taking on a padawan of his own soon.

“I’ve had this strange feeling every time I’ve come back to the Temple lately,” Obi-Wan was telling him over comms. For a change, it was Feemor who was out on a mission and Obi-Wan who was home alone at the Temple. “It’s like the Force is trying to tell me something, or, or pull me toward something, but I haven’t the faintest idea what it could be.”

“Hmm,” Feemor replied, a suspicion forming. “Where do you feel it, this pull?”

“Right around here,” Obi-Wan answered, tapping his breastbone. “It’s not all the time, but usually when I’m…”

“When you’re near a group of younglings?” Feemor filled in with a knowing look.

“Yes, it’s always the same group of younglings. How did you know?” Obi-Wan asked suspiciously.

“Is it perhaps when you’re talking with one initiate in particular?” He couldn’t keep the amusement out of his voice.

“Yes,” Obi-Wan said slowly, “it’s usually when I’m talking with…” He trailed off and then his eyes widened dramatically. There it is, Feemor thought happily. “Really!?” Obi-Wan asked incredulously. “No, surely not. I’ve only been a knight for a few years. You really think that the Force is telling me—”

Feemor grinned as he shrugged, delighted at this new development. “That’s how I felt whenever I spoke with you when you were young. It’s how I knew, all those years ago. And don’t forget, I was still a senior padawan myself when we first met. The Force doesn’t particularly care what your rank is. It tells you when it wants you to know.”

Obi-Wan got a thoughtful look in his eye. “Well then, it seems I might have someone to introduce you to when you get back home, brother mine.”

A few tendays later, Feemor’s mission was finally concluded and he landed back at the Temple hangers in the middle of the night cycle. He gratefully handed his single-seat starfighter over to the technician on duty, who happened to be Garen’s padawan. Anakin Skywalker, now sixteen and gangly and nearly as tall as Feemor already, was a genius when it came to mechanics. According to Garen, who liked to brag about his padawan like any good master did, the teenager could fly just about anything and was excelling in his first years training to be a Jedi Ace. Skywalker, as the padawan of one of Obi-Wan’s best friends, was a frequent visitor in their quarters and got along well with Quinlan’s padawan Aayla. No matter the tumult that had follow’s Anakin’s arrival, Feemor was happy that the young man had found his path among the Jedi, even though it had turned out to be far different than what they’d all first expected.

Tired from his long mission and a bit achy from the extended time sitting in a cramped starfighter—his almost fifty-year-old knees preferred a bit more space to stretch out these days—Feemor made his way without delay to his rooms in anticipation of a warm shower and sleeping in his own bed for a change. He hoped for some peace and quiet to recover and instead walked into a scene of chaos in his living room. Sheets of flimsi with colorful drawings were strewn about the main room, drawing styluses of colored wax and graphite were scattered over every surface, half-drunk cups of tea had been left on every flat surface he could see in uncharacteristic untidiness, and piles of pillows and blankets had overtaken the sofa and most of the floor in front of it. He looked around with bemusement and finally spotted the tip of a blue and white montrail peaking out above one of the blankets on the sofa. Soft snores were coming from the blanket-shrouded figure. On the floor next to the sofa he could just barely make out a lekku in Aayla’s distinct shade of bright blue and he suspected that the older padawan had made a nest for herself in the blanket fort. Reaching out with the Force he found that Obi-Wan had chosen to lay on the floor across the room and was also deeply asleep. He was currently being smothered by a different blanket in a truly horrendous shade of green. Feemor had no idea where that blanket had come from, but given that Quinlan was sleeping curled up around Obi-Wan he could make an educated guess. It looked like Obi-Wan had set up some sort of slumber party to introduce his new padawan to the extended family he and his friends had created for themselves over the years. He was sure that if Skywalker hadn’t been on duty in the hangers he would have been right in the middle of the padawan cuddle pile. If this sort of thing was going to be a regular occurrence Feemor might put in a request to move to one of the larger sets of quarters so they could accommodate Obi-Wan, his friends, all their padawans, and Feemor, too. He carefully tiptoed around the piles of sleeping people, quietly making his way into his bedroom and letting his brother and grand padawan and their friends sleep. If Obi-Wan’s new padawan was who Feemor suspected she was, his brother would need all the energy he could get to keep up with her. Their lineage was about to get a lot more interesting.

Epilogue: Year 979 ARR, one year after the First Battle of Geonosis

Years later Obi-Wan was sitting in the officer’s lounge of the Negotiator nursing a late-night cup of tea with his clone commander and enjoying the rare bit quiet, when Cody turned to him and asked, “Do you have any brothers, General?” 

Obi-Wan smiled and answered, “Yes, Cody, I do.”