Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

Satine lowered the datapad, waiting. Surely Obi-wan had some critique for her. He always did, even though he'd heard the bloody speech a hundred times, both in Basic and Mando'a. He'd helped her write the damn thing, fine-tuning a phrase or choice of word. But he sat in the middle of her rumpled bed, dressed in his undershorts, staring with intent silence at his interlaced hands. Satine wondered if he'd heard a single word she'd said. 'Ben?'

'I think I'd like to stay,' he said abruptly.

The datapad fell from Satine's nerveless fingers. 'I can't ask you to do that,' she said, the protest falling automatically from her lips. 'I won't ask you to do that.'

Obi-wan made an impatient noise through his nose. 'You aren't asking me, my dear. I'm telling you.' He looked up, his eyes wide. 'Cin vhetin.'

'But you're a Jedi,' Satine retorted, her lips stiff.

'And once I renounce my past and swear fealty to you, I won't be.' A line appeared and deepened between his brows. 'Isn't that the entire point of cin vhetin? To become a Mandalorian?'

Satine let out a loud, unladylike snort. 'You will always be a Jedi in the eyes of some Mandalorians.' She pulled her knees into her chest, and studied Obi-wan. This wasn't as entirely out of the blue as it seemed. They'd spoken about this very moment a time or two in the last year. She'd always thought it was merely Obi-wan weighing his options, giving them voice to taste them in his meditations. Something that would exist only in their dreams, but never to actually come to pass. The Jedi Order had the shaping of his life. He couldn't give it up that easily. She picked up her abandoned datapad, and buried her nose in her speech. 'Qui-gon. You should talk to Qui-gon. Or meditate. Or whatever it is you Jedi do when you're addled.'

Obi-wan huffed, snatching the datapad from Satine's grasp, then tossed it to the other side of the bed, barely suppressing his irritation. 'I'm more certain about this than anything else in my life,' he said through gritted teeth. This was not going the way he'd intended. Damn Satine and her parsec-wide stubborn streak. He inhaled deeply, then exhaled slowly, repeating his measured breathing until he felt more like himself.

Satine stretched out on her side, and propped her head on an upturned hand. 'Done being irritated?' she drawled. At Obi-wan's nod, she countered, 'I can't take you away from the only family you've ever known.'

'But I won't be alone, will I?' Obi-wan gestured toward her. 'I'll have you.' Satine's brow slowly rose at the presumption. Obi-wan bit his lip, then muttered, 'If you'll have me, that is.'

'If that's a proposal of marriage, it leaves much to be desired,' Satine said, tossing her hair with another snort.

'Were you expecting something fit for a holodrama? Flower petals thrown at your feet? Poetry, perhaps?'

Satine held up a hand with a look of revulsion. 'No poetry. Never poetry. Especially not sappy and ineptly written love poetry. I'd like to keep my dinner where it belongs.' She let the smile fade from her face. 'Are you absolutely sure? There's no turning back if you do become Mandalorian.'

The only sound in the room was the near-soundless rasp of Obi-wan's thumb rubbing across the opposite palm. 'Most younglings are identified as infants. Well before their first birthdays. I was three years old.'

'Still barbaric,' Satine muttered, but she refrained from further comment.

'Perhaps it was a sign that I wasn't meant to be a Jedi if it took them so long to find me,' he mused as if she hadn't said a word. 'No Jedi was willing to take me on as an apprentice. Master Yoda had to order Qui-gon to train me. There had to be something other than my mischievous nature.' Obi-wan let his hands fall to his knees. 'And you've seen how much he doesn't want to do even that.' When Satine only gave him a puzzled glance, he continued. 'I can do the basic lightsaber forms in my sleep. Distracted. Drugged. On my feet. On a speeder. Standing still. Moving. I don't even have to think about how I'll counter someone anymore using the basic forms. But Qui-gon insists on treating me like a youngling who just built their lightsaber. He should have started teaching me some of the other forms ages ago. Helping me find the one that suits me best. I'm nearly eighteen, well past the age when most Padawans have been introduced to the other forms. Working to deepen their connection to the Force. All his energy is spent swimming through prophecies and things said so far in the past, they're virtually meaningless in the present.' Obi-wan let out a long breath, his voice breaking. 'I mean less to him that some dusty holocron.'

'I still think you should talk to him before making any irrevocable decisions.' Satine laid a hand over his, squeezing his fingers. 'I'd rather you didn't rush into anything. And perhaps if you did talk to Qui-gon, you might see things a bit more clearly.'

'You're acting as though I haven't thought this through from every angle, in and out of meditation,' Obi-wan snapped.

'And I don't want you to wake up in one year, or five years, and regret leaving the Jedi,' she countered, her nose hovering mere centimeters over his. 'Because it might not be only me you'd regret.' Obi-wan stared at her with a blank expression on his face. Satine refrained from heaving an aggrivated sigh. It wasn't like him to be this dense. 'There might be a child by then, Ben,' she told him, enunciating each word with with an exaggerated care. 'More than one.' Satine brushed a lock of hair from his eyes, her stern expression softening. 'Please. Speak with Qui-gon.'

Obi-wan flopped backward, arms and legs outstretched like a Nurian starfish that he'd seen in aquariums, and stared up at the ceiling. 'He will try to talk me out of it.'

'Good.' Satine stared down her nose at him. 'You should want someone to challenge your decisions, if for no other reason than it demands that you reinforce your arguments.' Obi-wan's scowl deepened, but before he could argue with her, Satine held up a hand. 'Ben…' she sighed. 'If you want to stay with me, shouldn't you have better reasons than you don't get on with your teacher?'

Obi-wan's eyes drifted shut, and he finally allowed himself to give voice to the thoughts that had run round in circles through his head. 'I can't go back to the Order. I can see it for what it is now — a sclerotic organization that's stagnated and refuses to see that for themselves.' His head turned and he opened his eyes, meeting Satine's distressed gaze. 'I'm at a divergence in my path, and I cannot see any further into the future for either one.'

'You said the Jedi can't see into the future.'

'We can't.' Obi-wan's searching fingers patted for the edge of the sheet, and he began to roll it back and forth, pinched between his forefinger and thumb. 'Images, mostly. Nothing is set in stone, so it's not even what will come to pass. It's what might happen.' The skin around the fingers toying with the sheet turned white as he pressed it harder. 'For weeks — months — I've dreamt of this moment. And standing on the platform with you on one side of me, and Qui-gon on the other. Behind both of you is only swirls of fog. I thought perhaps it might signify I had a decision to make. So I've made it.' He sat up abruptly and slid from the bed and began to pace, placing each foot down as though he walked across a tightrope. 'I choose to walk this path with you.'

'Are you doing this for you or for me?'

'Why must it be one or the other?' Obi-wan turned, balanced delicately on the ball of one foot, then resumed his measured pace across the room. 'I cannot accept that my feelings for you are something to suppress and forget. Which is exactly what the Jedi will claim. Nor can I just blithely return to Coruscant and leave you with no one whose sole interest is you. And I want to be that person.'

Satine swallowed past the lump in her throat, tears blurring her eyes. 'You're willing to give up the Jedi, with their ordered and relatively peaceful existence, for me? To live on a world and in a culture that will likely never fully accept you? To spend the rest of our lives together walking three paces behind me?'

Obi-wan climbed back onto the bed, and thumbed the tears from her cheeks. 'Yes.'

'And if I refuse?'

'Then I shall hope my mother hasn't forgotten me and is willing to welcome me.'

'Believe me, Obi-wan… your mother hasn't forgotten you.' Satine massaged the bridge of her nose. Saying yes was an enormous risk. They would have to perform the ceremony to formally make Obi-wan a Mandalorian quickly. Would some family wish to adopt him as one of their own? One that had lost a son in the war? She put a halt to that line of thinking as quickly as it arose. They were both all but adults in the eyes of the Republic, and there were too many political strings that could become tangled if he were to be adopted by one of the clans in opposition to hers. She'd read far too many novels with such situations, and wasn't willing to attempt it here and hope for a different ending. Obi-wan had to come into a marriage unencumbered with family ties or obligations. At least those on Mandalore. His own family was another story. Then, they would have to marry almost immediately. Mandalore would have to accept them as a couple or not at all. It would have to be made quite clear that Obi-wan was merely her spouse, and not her consort. He would never rule with her. He would never be regent for their children if she were to die before they reached the age of majority. He would bear no title, not that he'd accept one unless forced. His role would be purely symbolic. He could be her eyes and ears. Discreetly in the name of doing innocuous tasks, like touring hospitals and schools. In time, perhaps, they might consider letting him represent her on Coruscant for strictly ceremonial purposes.

'Satine?'

She blinked and curled into Obi-wan's side, suddenly too sleepy to keep her eyes open any longer. 'Let me think about it,' she murmured.

He swallowed down the tendril of disappointment, but let the hope blossom. It wasn't a full-throated acceptance, nor was it an outright rejection. Asking to stay had added another layer of complexity to an already delicate situation. 'All right.' He turned his head and brushed his lips over the warm skin of her temple the steady beat of her pulse.

'Soon,' she promised. 'After you talk with Qui-gon.'

Obi-wan paused just outside the garden gate and tugged his tunics and tabard into place, then hastily finger-combed his hair, and adjusted the braid over his shoulder. He could just make out Qui-gon through the early morning mists clinging to the tangles of ivy that screened him from casual passers-by. He pushed through the well-oiled gate, slipping through on soundless feet. All his care was for naught. It wasn't as though Qui-gon couldn't sense his presence. 'Join me, Obi-wan?' Qui-gon rumbled in the quiet dawn, without opening his eyes, or changing position.

Faced with no other good option, Obi-wan lowered himself to the thick blanket next to his master, and tried to let himself drift on the currents of the Force, but for once in his life among the Jedi, no matter how he tried, he couldn't lose himself in its embrace.

'You can tell me anything, you know.'

Obi-wan's head whipped to the side. Qui-gon gazed at him with an air of solicitous concern.

The words stuck in Obi-wan's throat, heavy and sharp. 'I…' His eyes drifted shut, and he found the stillness within himself. Qui-gon deserved the truth. 'I'm not returning to Coruscant with you. I'm leaving the Order.'

Qui-gon frowned. 'May I ask why?'

Obi-wan blew out a punchy breath. 'You've said it yourself a hundred times, Master. The Jedi have become too distant, too disconnected with the very citizens of the Republic we're meant to protect. We make hypocrites of ourselves by denying we feel anything for anyone when you and I both know Jedi violate the tenet of no attachments right and left. If I return with you, my loyalties would always be divided. I cannot serve the Jedi if…' Obi-wan gulped, his hand creeping up to tug at his braid. 'I leave my heart and my soul on Mandalore.'

Qui-gin shook his head. ‘You’re letting emotion cloud your thinking.’

‘Let me assure you, I am not.’

Qui-gon folded his arms over his chest. It made his already broad shoulders seem wider. ‘Are you sure this decision hasn’t been influenced by the more carnal aspects of your relationship with Satine?’

Obi-wan went rigid and the back of his neck burned. ‘If you believe that of me, the perhaps it’s best that I do leave the Order.' He closed his eyes, seeking calm. 'I never could live up to your expectations as it was. No matter how hard I tried, or how much I studied or trained, it was never good enough.'

Qui-gon sat back on his heels. While it was true he and Obi-wan hadn't quite gelled, even after five years, he didn't think it had caused a wide enough rift that pushed the boy to turn his back on the Order. 'Have I been a truly horrible teacher, Obi-wan?'

'No, Master, that isn't why…' Obi-wan took a deep breath and stopped himself from speaking further. He owed Qui-gon honesty. 'Sometimes,' he admitted. 'Not always. And I haven't always been a very good student. But no one else wanted to teach me, and Master Yoda had to convince you to take me on as a Padawan. That alone should tell you I will probably make a poor Jedi.'

'Obi-wan, that's not true.'

'Master if it weren't, Master Yoda shouldn't have had to all but force you to take me on as an apprentice. If no one else in the Order believed I could be a Jedi Knight, what reason do I have to believe it of myself?' Obi-wan rubbed his palms over his thighs and rolled his shoulders trying to release the tension in them. 'My mind is quite made up, Master. You cannot persuade me to return to Coruscant with you.'

'You're both only seventeen years old,' Qui-gon began, but Obi-wan cut him off.

'Old enough to lead and rule a system,' he said pointedly. 'Old enough to have another person's life, not to mention an entire system's future, in one's hands.'

'Come back for a while, then. Get some perspective. If your feelings remain unchanged, then we can revisit this. I won't forbid you contact with her.'

Obi-wan shook his head. 'That goes against the grain of the Code.'

'The prohibition of attachments doesn't mean we never allow ourselves to love,' Qui-gon argued.

'But not confine it to one person.' Obi-wan shifted so he faced Qui-gon. 'I have meditated on this far more than I'd like to admit. There are no clear answers there. You've always said to trust my feelings. Remaining in the Jedi Order would be a mistake.'

Qui-gon sighed. Every argument he had, Obi-wan had a counter for it. Perhaps if Obi-wan had approached him sooner, or if he'd been more willing to address the situation head on, and not obliquely as had been his wont, they might not have had to have this conversation. Qui-gon shook himself, noticing the futility of the direction his thoughts had turned. The past was done, and the present was his only concern. He exhaled, breath misting in the cool morning air. Let him go.

Obi-wan unhooked his lightsaber from his belt and held it out to Qui-gon. 'I suppose I must relinquish this. It won't do on Mandalore to retain any trappings of the Order.'

Qui-gon made no move to take it. 'Does the kyber crystal inside still sing to you?'

Obi-wan's hand tightened around the hilt, the familiar thrum of the kyber tingling through his hand. It flooded his senses, leaving trails of sparkling warmth behind. He nodded, chin trembling.

Qui-gon gently lowered Obi-wan's hand. 'Then keep it. Lightsabers are first and foremost defensive weapons. It won't be out of place if used in defense of your… home.'

'But Mandalore won't approve. Not of such an obvious remnant of my life as a Jedi.'

'Tarre Vizsla.'

'What exactly does Tarre Vizsla have to do with this? He didn't leave the Order; he became a Jedi.'

'You don't remember your lessons?' Qui-gon paused, then said with all the force of a blaster. 'Members of House Vizsla stole Tarre Vizsla's lightsaber from the Jedi Temple. Although they might say they liberated it.' He waved a hand, brushing aside the long-ago event as unimportant. 'It's been passed down from the head of the House to their successor. If they can openly carry a Jedi relic as a symbol of their stature and use it, there's nothing that says you can't discreetly do the same.'

'You believe Mandalore will accept you?' Qui-gon sat back on the deep sofa, and crossed one ankle over his knee, sipping the light wine that had accompanied their dinner. They had politely declined the invitation to dine with Bail and Breha, and the heads of the artisan guilds of Alderaan, claiming the need to prepare for the whirlwind that was certain to occur as soon as Satine set foot on Mandalore.

'Not at first.' Obi-wan wound the end of his braid around his forefinger. 'But we have a plan.'

As Obi-wan began to outline the decisions he and Satine had made, Qui-gon felt nothing but calm certainty from his Padawan. This wasn't the anxious young man who feared he would do the wrong thing at the wrong time. They had evidently discussed this before, given how easily the conversation flowed from the two of them. Not to say there were no disagreements, especially when Satine's desire to push Mandalore into the future warred with Obi-wan's desire to honor the past, steeped as he was in centuries of tradition

'I realize it's not my place to inform you how to practice your traditions, but perhaps it might be for the best if I do this in the old way,' Obi-wan stated. He couldn't afford to take shortcuts and still expect Mandalore as a whole to accept him as Satine's partner. 'In as public a manner as possible.' He blew out a punchy breath, steeling himself to wade into potentially thorny territory. 'It's what your father would have suggested,' he added quietly. Satine stiffened with indignation, and sat up, preparing to debate the point. How could Obi-wan know what her father would have said? He slid a hand over her knee, and waited until she met his even gaze. 'You know I'm right. You've said as much yourself.'

'You're right.' Deflated, Satine slumped against the cushions. Not just her father, but her mother, too. How often had they insisted on honoring some of the old customs, even as they tried to persuade Mandalore to relinquish its warrior identity? 'Must you do it precisely the way it was done a thousand years ago?'

'I have to demonstrate a sincere commitment to Mandalore and her people. So I have to shed my past as a Jedi.'

'It's barbaric,' Satine retorted in a tone that indicated resigned acceptance, even as she argued with him.

'More barbaric than whisking infants and toddlers away from their families?' Obi-wan drawled.

Satine stared at him, open-mouthed, then recovering her wits, snatched up a pillow from the sofa and smacked him with it. 'Not that barbaric.' She hugged the pillow to her chest. 'Every eye on Mandalore will be on you. You'll be stripped of everything that you bring with you.'

'How fortunate that I don't really own anything.'

'Your lightsaber,' she whispered.

'I could beg you to make a concession for that.'

'Obi-wan…'

'Please.' How could he explain his lightsaber was more than just some weapon he wore on his belt and used from time to time. He'd had to learn true surrender to the Force to build it. How often had they been lectured and admonished that a lightsaber was more than a mere weapon? It was an extension of his hand, a channel of the Force. It was an embodiment of his connection to the Force. 'Satine, please…' he repeated. 'It would be like asking me to amputate my hand.'

Qui-gon spoke up, startling them both. He'd been silent while they rattled off their plans. 'Sometimes, it's better to follow the spirit of the law, rather than strict adherence to every possible interpretation of it,' he mused, studying the sparks the fire created in the pale pink wine in his glass.

Satine grimaced, and had to concede Qui-gon was right. She didn't quite understand the connection Obi-wan had with his lightsaber, but it was more than a mere possession to him. She could argue the very nature of the ceremony demanded he do it, if for no other reason than to completely sever all ties to his past, but she could no more ask Obi-wan to give up his lightsaber than she could ask him to detach himself from the Force. 'Put it with my things before the ceremony. They won't look for it there.'

Qui-gon folded his arms across his chest and studied his soon-to-be former Padawan as they waited for Satine and the Mandalorian contingent. Satine's councillors had agreed to this scheme with alacrity, which surprised Qui-gon. Once, he probed the feelings of relief that flowed from them, he was less surprised. Satine, they believed, was a problem without a readily apparent solution. She was alone, with no family, and the sooner she married someone and birthed a handful of children, the better as far as they were concerned. The problem was that anyone she did marry would need to be politically neutral, so the ones still inclined to follow the ways of the warrior clans couldn't accuse her of favoritism. For all his obvious faults — namely being a Jedi — Obi-wan Kenobi was the answer they were looking for. He belonged to, and was beholden to, exactly no one.

Despite the certainty cocooning Obi-wan, Qui-gon couldn't resist asking one last time. 'Obi-wan?'

Obi-wan blinked himself back into the moment from his drifting meditation. 'Hmmm?'

'Are you absolutely certain you want to do this?'

'Only the Sith deal in absolutes.' Obi-wan smirked at him with the sort of cheeky grin he'd had as a youngling as he exploited a loophole in the rules that governed his childhood. 'And to answer your question, yes.'

In a gesture that was quite unlike Qui-gon's usual habit, he pulled Obi-wan into a brief, but tight embrace. He pulled back, gaze boring intently into Obi-wan's wide earnest one. 'In that case, the only thing I can say is this: the Force will be with you, Obi-wan. Always.'

That was that blessing and approval Obi-wan needed, and the last wisps of lingering doubts drifted away. 'Thank you, master.'

A speeder approached at a stately pace, and landed on the opposite site of the cliff from Qui-gon and Obi-wan. Satine disembarked, with an encouraging smile at Obi-wan. He nodded in reply, then entered the cavern.

The ceremony itself was relatively private. Just Obi-wan, Qui-gon, Satine, and a few members of the council. The underground cavern didn't permit more than a handful of observers. Holotransmitters, though, ringed the area, ready to broadcast the transformation of one Obi-wan Kenobi from a Jedi to a Mandalorian. Soot smudged the cavern's ceiling, a reminder of countless ceremonies from the past. Dry wood sat against the wall, next to a smaller pile of kindling. A rough-hewn bowl held mounds of a fluffy shredded plant fibers, and balanced on a boulder was a sharpened stick and a flat piece of wood with a notch cut into one side. He exhaled and let his shoulders inch back to their usual position. Nothing out of the ordinary. This was not unfamiliar territory. He'd been taught how to do things like build fires in all sorts of settings, from a campfire with limited tools to a Jedi funeral pyre using the contents of his utility belt. Obi-wan glanced up at the transmitters. The tell-tale blinking red light that meant it was broadcasting was dark and still. This part was truly private then. Just as well. He had to build a fire in the ancient way, by rotating a stick of wood between his palms on a flat piece of wood to create sparks. He had been allowed a dab of fire paste half the size of his smallest fingernail in order to help the tinder catch, or else they might be there for days.

He laid the structure for the fire on the flat stretch of rocky ground under the blackened ceiling, then hunkered down with the flat piece of wood braced under the sole of a boot, then began twirling the stick as fast as he could until he'd produced a small pile of a fine, black powder that sent billows of smoke into his face. He tipped the smoldering powder onto the fire paste smeared over a small piece of wood, then tucked the glowing fire paste into the bundle of kindling, and blew gently on it until flames licked the edges of it. Soon enough, a small fire crackled at his feet, and he took his position on side furthest from the shore of the underground stream. The holotransmitters flickered to life, broadcasting this moment to every household on Mandalore so inclined to observe.

The councillors entered the grotto, standing in an arc to Obi-wan's left. Next was Qui-gon, come to bear witness so he could truthfully tell the Jedi Council that Obi-wan left the Order of his own free will. A surprising stipulation from the Mandalorians, but one dating back thousands of years, so as not to give the Jedi a reason to retaliate. Not that the Jedi would, but try convincing Mandalorians of that. Finally, Satine swept in, head held high and a picture of perfect calm. They made an obeisance to her, Obi-wan folding his hands together inside his wide sleeves as he bowed low. One of the councillors produced a small chime and sounded a single crystalline note. When it faded, the ceremony began.

Obi-wan turned to one of the councillors. 'I know tradition demands that I burn my clothing, but I wondered if I might be permitted to return them to Master Jinn?' He brushed a hand over the front of his tabard. 'It's only that it's brand new, and I'd rather not waste perfectly good clothes. He can take them back to Coruscant, and some other Padawan will make use of it.' It was a risky supplication that could derail the whole process. But it was one he was willing to ask. New Mandalorians had a frugal streak, borne on years of warfare that made it all but a scandal to be seen treating items like perfectly good clothing with what seemed like careless disregard. Even for very old and ancient ceremonies. The councillors' stony faces betrayed nothing, but they leaned their heads together, whispering furiously in rapid Mando'a. After several moments, the woman murmured a quiet approval, and Obi-wan toed off his boots, then quickly disrobed. He neatly folded each item as he removed it, laying them in a tidy pile at Qui-gon's feet. The heat of the fire warmed his bare skin, even as mortification reddened the back of his neck and ears. He fought the urge to cover himself with his hands, leaving them hanging loosely at his sides while one of the councillors droned on about how Obi-wan stood on the cusp of the moment where his past as a Jedi and any transgressions against Mandalore would be wiped clean for what felt like ages, although it was only a few minutes.

At Satine's nod, Obi-wan took the small knife from its place on a large, flat rock, and grasped his Padawan braid in one hand. His gaze met Satine's, standing on the other side of the fire, before lifting the knife and severing the braid in one neat stroke. He had to sacrifice something of his old life, and the only thing he could willingly consign to the flames was his Padawan braid. The shorn end of the braid slithered down his chest until it dangled from his clenched fist. Obi-wan began to chant in an ancient dialect of Mando'a and lifted the braid over the flames. He dropped it into the heart of the fire, filling the chamber with the acrid odor of burning hair.

And with that, Obi-wan Kenobi was no longer a Jedi. But he wasn't quite yet a Mandalorian.

He crossed to stand before Satine, pebbles on the floor stabbing into the soles of his feet. He didn't flinch. It would reflect poorly on Satine if he did. Besides, he'd faced worse in his training with Qui-gon. It was the next bit he wasn't looking forward to. Mandalorians seemed to enjoy putting their people in excruciatingly vulnerable positions during rituals of great importance. He knelt in front of Satine, feeling the sharp edges of the pebbles digging into his knees. Obi-wan lowered himself to the ground, and stretched out face-down, reaching so the tips of his fingers just barely touched the toes of her shoes. 'I, Obi-wan Kenobi, solemnly pledge my life to Mandalore freely and without hesitation from this day forth. I vow to defend Mandalore and her people against those who would turn it into dust until my last dying breath.' He sat up, hands resting lightly on the bunched muscles of his thighs.

Satine turned toward the rushing water, and dipped a jug into it. She poured the water over his head. Then repeated the process twice more. She took a vial of oil from an inner pocket of her cloak, and dribbled it over her fingertips. She traced the Iron Heart in the center of his forehead, then repeated the process over his heart, the insides of his wrists, and finally the soles of his feet. 'I, Satine Kryze of Clan Kryze, Duchess of Mandalore, receive and accept your pledge to Mandalore.' She swirled the cloak from her shoulders and wrapped it around Obi-wan's. He was hers now.

The transmitters winked off and Satine ran her fingers through Obi-wan's wet hair. 'Nearly there, my dear,' she murmured. He got to his feet, clutching the edges of the cloak around him, grateful for its warmth, however negligible. The water was cold, and the cavern was chilly. He had barely managed to refrain from shivering while Satine did her part. She took a bundle from one of the councillors, and pressed into Obi-wan's hands. 'You'll need that for what comes next.'

'Clothes, I hope.' 

'You can't marry me naked.' It wasn't a completely unappealing prospect, but one she would rather do in private and not while members of her council and Obi-wan's now-former master looked on.

He gave her a lopsided grin as he swiped the cloak over his wet skin and dripping hair in a slapdash fashion, then tugged on the clothes from the bundle. They weren't too dissimilar to his Jedi garb. Satine must have had them made on Alderaan after their discussion with Qui-gon. The fabric was of the same quality as the Jedi clothing he'd returned. He finger-combed his hair more-or-less into place, then retrieved the knife he used to sever his braid. He wrapped his right hand around the blade, and pulled it off, leaving a shallow gash across his palm, then handed it to Satine, who repeated the process. She slid her fingers through his, and pressed their palms together. They waited the space of a few heartbeats until their blood mingled, then recited in unison, 'In the presence of these witnesses, I take you to be my partner for this life and the next.'

One of the councillors cleaned and bandaged their hands. No bacta for them. The cuts would be allowed to scab over, leaving a scar as an indelible reminder of their marriage.

As he followed the group out of the cavern, Qui-gon felt something shift in the Force. What it portended, he didn't know, but it left him with the feeling that the future had been written and rewritten within the space of a breath.