Chapter Text
They get a lot of children. But week-old-infants are rare.
Week old infants transported by a senatorial vessel with its emblem carefully masked, delivered by a hooded and cloaked honour guard supplied by the Queen of Naboo are rarer still, but Master Lunali has had many children come to her in many circumstances, and knows that it’s best not to react too strongly.
It’s easy enough to instead gasp and coo at the baby, with a fuzz of copper coloured hair and the perpetually concerned expression worn by most infants too small to quite control their faces. As she takes him in her arms, he’s fast asleep, with a tiny fist balled up and shoved in his mouth, and nothing to be concerned about. At least, not as far as he’s yet able to understand.
“Hello, smallest one,” she murmurs softly, and with the lightest touch of a fingertip, brushes the fringe of his hair from his forehead. “I am so very pleased to meet you.”
Lunali closes her eyes and breathes deeply as she cradles him close. He has the sweet, fresh scent about him that new babies do, and she can tell that he’s been recently bathed and redressed in soft white and dark blue, bundled up in a brown blanket. Clearly he’s been well cared for by the people who were tasked to bring him, and who now watch her as she meets her newest ward.
She was told very little: only that he would be human, the son of a Jedi father and a newly dead mother, as good as an orphan. Jedi have been known to have children. It’s not unheard of, if neither recommended nor encouraged, for obvious reasons, though the problem does tend to solve itself. Those for whom it would present the greatest risk generally know themselves well enough to resign from the Order, and to rededicate their lives to their families. Those who have graduated beyond such attachments will generally make choices like the one that’s been made here—remanding their children to the care of a Jedi creche. On the off chance they’ve inherited a sensitivity to the Force, it can be discovered, safely cultivated, and trained, and otherwise leaving them to be adopted and raised by carefully chosen families.
It’s too soon to tell which way this little one’s path will turn. Within the Force, children are bright, luminous sparks of pure potential, innocent of the circumstances of their birth, as yet unshaped by the flow of the galaxy around them. All children are special. Master Lunali says this, and also believes it, but it’s so very uncommon for her to raise a child so young, so fresh and new to existence, that it’s hard not to feel as though this little boy is just the tiniest bit more rare and precious.
“Was he named?” she asks, addressing the leader of the honour guard for the first time since the initial formalities were exchanged, and bringing their business to the beginning of its end. “If not, we will send word to the Temple, and consult the Archivist for a suitable moniker.”
“His mother had named him before he was born, but when she died, his father granted his surname. He is called Caliban Kenobi.” The head of the guard clears her throat, and delicately adds, “My mistress wishes to be kept informed of his progress, and to be told if she can supply anything to help meet his needs.”
“She will not be,” Master Lunali responds placidly, smiling to herself as Caliban begins to suckle and gum at the fist pressed against his tiny mouth, and when this does not produce the desired result, softly starts to whimper and fuss about it. “He is in our charge now, and the children here are meant to grow up away from the influence of their beginnings, with neither fault nor favour. There is nothing she could offer that we would accept.”
“As you say.” This is clearly neither the expected nor the desired answer, but the guard still bows respectfully, and motions one of her small company forward, bearing a basket brimming with the supplies which have kept their charge in good stead through their journey to the Creche. “Then, we will offer only what we have already been given for the child. Tave will accompany you to his quarters.”
“He will be staying with me.”
Caliban’s fussing has increased in volume and intensity, and a sticky-fingered and clenches and unclenches, grasping at his blankets as he makes his displeasure broadly known. He gets gently shushed and rocked in response, as Master Lunali boosts him up to rest his head against her shoulder, and he has his first encounter with the lekku that hang down past her waist. A tiny hand with tiny fingernails reaches out to clasp this, and Lunali winces, and turns to lead the way. “Thank you, Captain.”
“May the Force be with you both, Creche Master.”