Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

“Padawan Kenobi.”

“Oh, I was never a Padawan, Master Windu.”

“Well, it’s shorter to say than former Senior Initiate Kenobi.”

“You could just call me Ben. Everyone does, and it’s quite short.”

“Hmm. Of Obi-Wan Kenobi, what has become?”

“Obi-Wan Kenobi? Now that’s a name I’ve not heard in a long time. I’m afraid I might not really be that boy anymore.”

“Yet you, he is. Also, a long time, twelve years is not.”

“Sorry, Master Yoda. I suppose it just feels like that sometimes. Especially when Anakin has caused another explosion, and I have to clean it up. Anakin has caused a lot of explosions lately.”

“You can say that again.”

“This time, in our favor, the explosions were.”

“True. I suppose this shows growth, that Ani has learned to aim his destructive talents at useful targets.”

“We have a few questions for you, Kenobi.”

“Only a few? And here I thought that you were going to ask me to recount all that has happened to me in the last twelve years.”

“Yes, that is one of the questions. They’re long-form answer.”

“Master Windu, were you one of the examiners for the Republic Ethics course? Those test questions were evil.”

“Speaking of evil, this dark warrior you encountered—what can you tell us about him?”

“Unfortunately, very little, Master. He was a male Zabrak, well-trained in lightsaber combat. He wielded a red lightstaff. He had me for more than a ten-day, during which he hardly spoke to me, except to question me about the Jedi that was guarding Queen Amidala, what the queen’s plans were, who was helping her. As if I knew.”

“What did you tell him?”

“Nothing. When I didn’t answer his questions about the queen, he started asking about me, about my relation to Master Jinn, to the Jedi. I didn’t tell him anything about that either.”

“And I’m sure he asked very politely.”

“He was quite…insistent.”

“Believed, Master Qui-Gon did, that a Sith Lord, the warrior was. What think you?”

“…I have some experience with dark-side Force users. Not much but…this being felt different from anything I’ve felt before.”

“How so?”

“He was so much colder, calculated. The hate in him ran deep, as though he sought to embody malice. He wasn’t just using the dark side. He was steeped in it. I know little about the Sith, but I think that if I could imagine anyone as the Jedi’s ancient enemy, it would be this warrior. He certainly had a particular antipathy for Jedi; I could feel it when he asked about Master Jinn and me, about my connection to the Order.”

“…How in the Sith-hells do these things happen to you, Kenobi? Enslaved to a Hutt on a desert backwater in the Outer Rim and you still end up raising the Chosen One and defeating the first Sith Lord anyone has seen in a millennium.”

“Hm. Just lucky, I guess.”

“Yeah. Lucky.”

“Luck, it was not, that allowed you to defeat a Sith. Skill, it was, and a deep understanding of how to resist the power of the dark side. Both of which, gained over the last twelve years, you have, hmm.”

“Yes. We want to understand what happened to you. You have no idea how amazed the High Council was to receive a report from you, the Initiate we lost years ago. We thought you were dead.”

“I suppose it was a bit of a nasty shock.”

“On the contrary, young Obi-Wan. Hopeful, the Council felt, upon hearing you lived.”

“…”

“More and more clouded the Force grows, as pass the years do. More fatalities, the Jedi sustain, and more there are that fall or leave the Order. Fewer younglings we have than ever before. Cast a pall over the Temple, did news that a mission cost a promising young Initiate his life. No remains to consign to the Force were there, nor even any certainty as to your final fate. Much pain there was, at your disappearance. Lifted the spirits of many Jedi it did, to hear that you lived, and in an hour of great need, returned to defeat the Sith threat.”

“Master Yoda, I really must protest. Of course it is sad when a child, any child, passes into the Force. But you make me sound like some kind of martyr, or—or hero. What kind of gossip has been going around the Temple since I’ve been gone? I was certainly never a ‘promising’ Initiate.”

“Failed you, we have, if think that, you do.”

“You mean, failed him more than we did by letting him be captured and enslaved for twelve years?”

“Indeed.”

“Masters, I do not blame the Jedi for what happened to me. I admit that I was…dismayed at first when it seemed that no effort was mounted to rescue me, but I have long since come to grips with reality. Everything that happened was either a freak accident or, well, the will of the Force. There is nothing the Jedi could have done for me.”

“Do you really think it was the will of the Force that you suffer like this for over twelve years?”

“I don’t know. I don’t claim to be an expert on what the Force wills. ‘Mysterious are the ways of the Force,’ isn’t that what you’re always saying, Master Yoda?”

“Oh brother.”

“Hmph. Roll your eyes at me again, Mace, and finding your own way back to Coruscant you will be.”

“One would think that becoming Master of the Order would mean that Yoda can’t treat me like an irritating youngling that he has assigned to stand on their head anymore, but you’d be wrong.”

“Youngling, you are, Mace. Not even fifty standard have you reached. A long time it has been since your age I was, but—”

“Yes, you were an adorable toddler at fifty, I know. Master Fay showed me your baby holos.”

“My privacy, Master Fay should respect.”

“I’m sure you were a very cute baby, Master. I don’t know if I can really picture it though.”

“Hmph. When eight hundred sixty-four years old you reach, look as good you will not.”

“Eight hundred sixty-four years is about how long we can expect to be here if we don’t get on with this.”

“Where should I begin, Master?”

“Let’s start with the incident at hand. How did you get involved with Qui-Gon Jinn’s mission to Naboo?”

“Well, it wasn’t so much a case of me getting involved as it was Anakin involving himself and therefore me as well.”

“Why am I not surprised.”

“Ani met Master Jinn and one of the queen’s handmaidens in Mos Espa in the shop of our owner, a Toydarian junk dealer. They came to purchase parts for their ship, which our owner had in stock, but which they did not have the funds to pay for. I wasn’t there at the time.”

“Where were you?”

“I was, uh, getting ready.”

“Getting ready for what?”

“To face a monster.”

“Are you an angel?”

The pretty girl turns to look at him, and Anakin takes in the sight of her again. Her skin is so pretty and soft, not weathered by the suns and scouring sands. Her hair is long and smooth, not brittle and dry. And her eyes and smile are kind. She’s so not of this world. Nothing about her beauty is harsh. There’s hardly anything on Tatooine that can’t be described as harsh.

“What?”

“An angel. I heard the deep space pilots talk about them. They’re the most beautiful creatures in the universe.”

She smiles again. She’s looking right at him, meeting his eyes, which makes Anakin’s heart kinda do this trippy thing. Ani likes her, even though she calls him a little boy. Ani’s not little anymore. He’s old enough to work in the shop, and scavenge for scrap in the trash heaps on the outskirts, and is even trusted to run errands in the market square all by himself, so he’s practically a grown-up. Not to mention that he’s a pilot, and he tells her so. Ani thinks she seems pretty impressed.

“How long have you been here?”

“Since I was very little. Three, I think.” Now three is little. He’s nine now, that’s not little at all. Three was so long ago that he barely remembers anything about being three, except he remembers leaving the Hutt palace because it was such a big change. Also, Ben says that Ani probably remembers that time because it was traumatic. Which is apparently a big word for scary. “We used to belong to Gardulla the Hutt, but she lost me and Ben betting on the pod races.”

The girl’s eyes narrow in confusion. “You’re a slave?”

Anakin’s heart falls. Yeah, he’s a slave, but does she have to be rude about it? Only bullies like Sebulba would look at him and see just a slave boy.

“I’m a person, and my name is Anakin,” he insists.

She apologizes, and she means it too, Anakin can tell. He wants to know more about her life, where she could have come from that slavery is such a strange concept to her. He knows that not all worlds allow slavery. Ben told him so, but he’s never actually seen any proof of it until now. It’s like one of those “theory” things that Ben is always going on about.

He takes the opportunity to study her while she laughs at the antics of DUM-E27. (Anakin really needs to figure out why the stupid pit droid keeps powering on at random times.) This time he goes deeper, the way Ben showed him. He’s getting better at seeing people deeply, not just with his eyes, but with his Luck sense. Really, Ani can more or less always see with his Luck sense, it’s just hard to focus on one thing and then understand what his Luck and the Wind are telling him. Ben is helping him with that, but Ani likes to get some practice in on his own too.

The girl is bright and steady, like a magnesium flare. Her kindness and amusement are on the surface, easy for Ani to feel out. But there is also impatience, urgency and…sadness. The sadness is buried deep, with a strength of will that Ani has rarely seen in anyone besides Ben. He senses that she is afraid, but that she is not letting her fear get to her.

Ani’s heart gives a thump in his chest. His Luck sense is telling him that she is good and important in some way, drawing him to her. He wants to do something to help her, but he doesn’t know what she needs help with, or what would be within his power to do. He will have to pay more attention, especially to the Wind. It will be good practice anyway; Ben is always telling him to “be mindful.”

When the tall man comes back in from the yard with his really cool astromech droid, he doesn’t seem too happy, which is fair. Watto isn’t the most pleasant person to deal with. But Watto doesn’t seem happy either, which means that whatever the man came for, he’s not buying it here. The tall man calls the girl to him as he strides out, brusque, and the pretty girl follows, calling a farewell to Ani over her shoulder. Anakin watches her go, wondering if he’ll see her again. His Luck is telling him that he will, and he hopes that it’s right.

Watto is muttering to himself about offworlders who think they can pull the bantha-fleece over his eyes. Anakin gathers that the tall man had insisted on offering Republic credits for a hyperdrive. The boy shakes his head. That guy is dreaming if he thinks that any of the traders around here will accept credits over cold, hard wupiupi.

Anakin puts the strangers’ problems from his mind as he cleans the shelves. He’s hoping that the encounter will have made Watto irritable enough that he’ll decide to leave the shop even earlier than he was planning to and therefore give Ani the rest of the day off. If he can get to the arena early enough, he might have a chance at sneaking in. He really wants to be there this time, even though he knows Ben won’t like it. He overheard some traders talking, and it sounds like the Hutts have ordered some special beasts for the arena for the Boonta Eve festival. That means that they’re probably especially dangerous beasts, and he just has to be there, no matter what Ben says.

Luck is on his side, because it’s not much longer before Watto dismisses him, and Ani dashes for the door, making a beeline for the arena. As soon as he’s out of the shop, he has to adjust his Luck sense, which he does almost automatically now. In the shop, the machinery is a familiar song, a steady cadence in the Wind, and he uses it to calm himself, to focus. Out on the street, he no longer has that buffer, and sometimes the world is just so big and loud that Ani thinks he would suffocate under the pressure if Ben hadn’t taught him to shield himself, to detangle his mind from the beautiful mess and just skim along the surface of the turbulence. He imagines himself as a speeder when he does this, a thin repulsor cushion holding him up, keeping him from crashing into the rocky ground.

In his excited rush, Ani almost misses something pinging on his Luck sense. He has to force himself to stop and concentrate, like Ben showed him, to figure out what the Wind is telling him. It only takes a second for Ani to realize that it’s her that he’s sensing, that magnesium-bright flare calling to him, cutting through the other signatures of the beings on the street. He looks and sees her standing outside another mechanic shop, leaning against the wall in the shade of the awning, just looking out at the passersby. Anakin wonders if he has time to go say hello—every second he delays decreases his chances of getting inside the arena—but firmly decides that he can spare a minute when he spots a Weequay loafer watching her. Ani can keep her company until the tall man comes back, and then he can explain why it’s not a good idea for a pretty girl like her to be alone on the street.

Ani runs up to her, and when she spots him, she smiles. “Hello again, Anakin.”

“You can call me Ani if you want,” he offers, smiling back. “I didn’t catch your name though.”

She smiles again, which makes Ani’s stomach do a sort of swoop, like when his pod goes over a dip in the ground and falls for a split second. “I’m Padmé.”

“Where’s the tall guy? Your friend?”

“Inside,” Padmé gestures to the door of the shop she’s leaning against. “This is the sixth one. None of them have what we need.” Ani believes it. In spite of being pretty close to Naboo, Nubian parts are hard to come by on Tatooine.

That’s when the Weequay decides to make his move. He sidles up alongside Padmé, much closer than is polite. Padmé stiffens, the smile dropping off her face.

“Get lost, sleemo,” Ani says to him. “She’s not alone.” The Weequay just laughs. Funny that he thinks Ani means himself.

“Can I help you, sir?” The tall guy is back, which is perfect timing. Anakin really didn’t want to get into it with this wermo. It would make him later than he already is to get to the arena.

The Weequay sneers, but the man just twitches his poncho aside. Anakin thinks at first that the man is going to show a blaster on his hip, a subtle but common threat. But it’s not a blaster that’s hanging from the man’s belt. Anakin’s breath catches. That’s a lightsaber.

It doesn’t take the Weequay long to reconsider. He hurries off and is soon lost to sight around a corner.

“Hello again, young one,” the man—who might just be a real live Jedi Knight!—says to Ani. “Thank you for looking out for my companion.”

“No problem,” Ani says. “Probably better for both of you if you stay together though.”

“You’re right, of course.” That makes Ani feel good, that a free man (who was maybe possibly a Jedi!) would actually thank him and take his advice. “My name is Qui-Gon.”

“I’m Anakin Skywalker.” Ani puffs up a bit that Mister Qui-Gon would introduce himself to Ani like he’s an equal.

“Any luck?” Padmé asks Mister Qui-Gon, but she doesn’t look too hopeful.

“None,” the man says, tucking his hands under his poncho. “They don’t have it here.”

As Padmé and Mister Qui-Gon discuss what to do next, Anakin studies the man with his Luck sense. A lightsaber is the weapon of a Jedi, but Ben had made sure that Ani understood that not everyone who carries one is a Jedi. There are always a few that end up stolen or lost and then sold on the black market. There are certain beings, like Mandalorians, that like to keep them as trophies of Jedi they’ve killed. And if Ani ever sees someone with a red saber, he is to get far away from them as fast as he can.

Anakin can’t tell what color Mister Qui-Gon’s saber is because it’s not lit up, but maybe he can use his Luck sense to find out if the man is okay to be around. Ani can sometimes get an idea of what other people’s intentions are. He hopes that will be enough.

Mister Qui-Gon is light to his Luck sense, but not super bright like Padmé. He’s calm, but there’s a restlessness to him, like he’s always on the verge of action. He’s like the light just after first sunrise, when people are stirring, but nothing is busy yet, and the second sun hasn’t come up yet to start baking everything in their combined heat. It’s nice, and doesn’t seem threatening at all. Ani can’t seem to get as much from Mister Qui-Gon as he could from Padmé though. Maybe if he pushes just a little bit farther…

Mister Qui-Gon doesn’t turn or look at Ani, but Ani can suddenly tell that the man’s attention is now on him. With his Luck sense, Ani feels Mister Qui-Gon reach out to him with a warm tendril of calm curiosity, a question in his contact with Ani’s mind.

Oh. Oops. Ani had totally forgotten that Jedi are Lucky too. Ben told him that, while most people can’t feel him when he reaches out with his Luck sense, Jedi and other beings who are Lucky can.

Ani retreats from Mister Qui-Gon’s inviting reach, suddenly very nervous. Ben had also told him that he must never ever let anyone know that he is Lucky, or he might be sold away from Ben to a way worse owner than Watto. Ani is afraid that now the man knows that Ani is Lucky, he might say something to Watto. The guy seems nice, and Ani hopes that he won’t say anything, but all the same, he decides to hide for a while. Ben taught him how to hide his mind and his Luck sense from other Lucky beings by imagining a desert that stretches out further than anything inside his mind, between him and everything else. He does that now. He’s never done this out of need, only in practice with Ben, so he hopes that it holds. The sense of Mister Qui-Gon’s mind fades.

Ani tunes back into the conversation in time to hear Padmé say, “I’m willing to accept that no one else has the parts we need in this town, but are there other settlements we could try?”

“If by parts you mean that hyperdrive, Watto really is the only one who has it,” Ani pipes up. “The J-327 Nubian is a luxury class starship, so there’s not a lot of call for that sort of thing here. And Mos Espa is the biggest settlement on Tatooine.”

“Odd that your owner would have a part that is not much in demand,” Mister Qui-Gon muses.

“Watto’s a small dealer, yeah, but he specializes in the rarer stuff. Doesn’t want to have to compete with every other dealer in town for the parts everyone has. That’s how come he can charge an arm and a lekku for everything. He can get a good deal for the specialty stuff if he buys it used from the offworld traders.” If by “used” you mean “stolen” and by “traders” you mean “pirates.” Watto also gets the best prices if he sends Ben to negotiate with his suppliers, legitimate or not. Ben’s good at sweet-talking people, from trigger-happy pirates to even the crotchety, sand flea-bitten junk dealers on the outskirts. “If the parts aren’t in good condition when he gets them, he has me fix them up. I do good work.” Anakin puffs out his chest a bit.

“I’m sure you do.”

“So just go back to Watto. He’s the only one with the hyperdrive you need, and I swear it’s space-worthy. I tuned it up myself, replaced half the wiring and the focusing mechanism. It’s good for another hundred thousand parsecs at least.”

“Unfortunately, lad, we don’t have what Watto is asking for it. We need someone who will accept Republic credits.”

“Um, I hate to break it to you, sir, but no one in Mos Espa is going to accept Republic credits, whether they have your parts or not.”

Mister Qui-Gon exchanged a look with Padmé. “I rather feared as much.”

“Not to be rude or anything,” Ani says, and sees the corner of the man’s mouth turn up, “but don’t you have anything to trade with other than credits?”

Before the man can answer or tell him to butt out, Padmé speaks up. “We have a few items that we could trade, but nothing that would command a price that could cover the parts we need.”

“So you need more money, and fast,” Ani says, and Padmé nods. Ani grins. “I think I’ve got an idea.”

The first thing Obi-Wan Kenobi learned as a slave was survival.

When he woke up on the deepsea mining platform in the middle of the Great Sea of Bandomeer to the realization that his life was not his own anymore, he did not despair. He still had hope—hope that he would find a way to disable the bomb collar around his neck, hope that he would find a way to communicate with the mainland. Hope that Master Qui-Gon would come for him.

But with the blaster and electro-jabber burns on his shoulder and ribs and the head injury obtained from the fight with Offworld Mining Corporation’s guards, the boy was finding it difficult to summon the energy to use the Force. Though he found that he was able to siphon some of his pain into the Force, his wounds were still draining. He was too weak. Without the Force, he knew that it would be impossible to resist the guards and overseers.

So he had to play along, bide his time. He had to survive long enough for help to come, whether from the Force or the mainland.

He hadn’t counted on the starvation rations and the hard labor in the mines wearing him down though, setting back his healing. He also hadn’t realized how much effort he would expend to keep his head down during the day and avoid the other slaves at night. No matter how long or hard he tried, after three days he still couldn’t grasp the Force enough to disable the collar.

Obi-Wan tried not to get frustrated with his inability to do this thing that should be within the power of a Jedi. He knew from his teachers and now from experience that getting emotional would not improve his connection to the Force. He was twelve years old, and so had completed his Initiate training, but he’d never learned how to disable a bomb collar. Perhaps that was covered in Padawan training. If so, he supposed he would never learn the skill, as no one had chosen him as an apprentice. And why would they want him, when he had stupidly got himself captured on a simple stakeout, and now couldn’t even manage to get himself out of the trouble he'd blundered into?

The mines were a desolate place. Obi-Wan felt the void in the Force when he was lowered down beneath the seabed in leaky, airless shafts to labor at veins of ionite that could stop his life-preserving instruments from functioning. He often wondered how Master Qui-Gon would even be able to track him here.

He occasionally thought of Xanatos’ warning about the man, and wondered whether Master Qui-Gon would bother, even if he could.

No. He would not allow himself to despair. He was a Jedi. He would find a way. He would continue the mission. He had to investigate the boxes with the broken circles because he just knew that the solution to this mystery was big, important. Master Qui-Gon needed to know. Obi-Wan had to help him, help the people of Bandomeer, and especially help the slaves on this platform that faced a short and brutal life. He was a Jedi.

The guards caught him sneaking around, of course, looking for the mystery box he had heard was stored among the explosives. The overseers were too lazy to bother with executing the boy immediately, so they locked him away and left him to muse on his impending doom until morning.

The second thing Obi-Wan learned as a slave was dread.

He tried it all again. He tried to push the Force through the collar to overload it. He tried to find a way to break out of the room—if he could get the right tool, he might be able to remove the collar. He tried to heal his injuries. He finally tried to meditate, to center himself and examine his situation dispassionately in hopes that he would come up with a solution that had eluded him while he was fixated on other things.

He even tried to call out to Master Qui-Gon through the Force. He knew rationally that Master Qui-Gon wouldn’t be able to hear him, but…they had something. He felt it during the journey here, fighting off those beastly draigons side by side, working together to get the Arconans the minerals they needed to live. But maybe that was just wishful thinking. Master Qui-Gon had not accepted him as his Padawan after that, which told Obi-Wan that he likely did not feel the same.

He still hoped that Master Qui-Gon would come for him, but knew that he couldn’t rely on that. Not because of what Xanatos said, about the man betraying Xanatos, his Padawan. That probably wasn’t true, and besides, Obi-Wan wasn’t Master Qui-Gon’s Padawan, after all. He was just a washout Initiate. He was nothing to Master Qui-Gon, and the man had much more important matters to attend to.

The night passed achingly slowly. And yet, when the morning came, it was all too soon.

By then, Obi-Wan had exhausted every plan for getting himself out of this mess. If he did manage to escape, it would be have to be through improvisation. He had used his last hours to meditate, to compose himself and commune with the Force one last time before joining it. When the guards dragged him from his cell, he was not afraid. He would fight to the last, but he would accept death if it came.

Like a Jedi.

Looking over the edge of the platform at the gray sea hundreds of feet below was dizzying—or maybe the vertigo was from his head injury acting up again. Obi-Wan was pretty sure that he would not need to worry about drowning. The fall would kill him first.

He was on the edge of the platform, an electro-jabber pressed against his spine, when he heard the shouting. An overseer ran up to them, commlink in hand.

“Orders from the top. This one’s been sold. They want him alive.”

Obi-Wan was unceremoniously returned to his cell, and left with his relief at his reprieve.

He did not give up. He continued to try everything he could think of to escape, but he was just getting weaker, not stronger. The guards only remembered to give him food and water twice in what felt like three days. By the end, he was reduced to lying on the floor, keeping as still as possible so as not to aggravate his burning ribs or his pounding head.

A man arrived on a ship that he loaded Obi-Wan into like the chattel he now was. The boy was somehow surprised when the ship took off and flew up, not out. Too late, he realized that he had not been sold to another mine on Bandomeer. They were taking him off-planet. Through a porthole, he watched Bandomeer recede into the distance with a sinking feeling in his stomach. Even if Master Qui-Gon were looking for him, he would not find him there anymore. Obi-Wan was lost.

The third thing Obi-Wan learned as a slave was that there would be no salvation.

Chapter Text

“Are you sure about this? Trusting our fate to a boy we hardly know? The Queen will not approve.”

“The Queen doesn’t need to know,” Qui-Gon says over his shoulder to the disgruntled handmaiden as he pushes his way through the crowd.

“Well, I don’t approve,” Padmé mutters. She follows in his wake, allowing him to clear a path for her through the throng. Qui-Gon just glances at her over his shoulder. It hardly matters now whether she or her sovereign approve of Qui-Gon’s actions—the bet has already been placed. All that’s left is to find a good vantage point to watch the games and wait for young Anakin, their unlikely benefactor, to join them. The boy had said that he would find them inside, as enslaved sentients were not allowed to use the arena’s main entrance. Qui-Gon privately thinks that it is likely that those in bondage, like droids, are not allowed in the arena at all, at least not without their owner, and Ani is really finding a way to sneak in.

The boy is surprising, for more than one reason. Qui-Gon had not expected to find a latent Force-sensitive child on this barren world, but he wouldn’t be the first Jedi to encounter one on a mission. Not all younglings in the crèche came there by way of Jedi seekers.

The real surprise is that the boy clearly had training. He had reached out to Qui-Gon in the Force, and upon realizing that Qui-Gon was aware of his scrutiny, had retreated behind rudimentary shields, though not quickly enough for Qui-Gon to miss his apprehension. Qui-Gon regrets scaring the boy with his own overture in the Force. He could have handled that more delicately.

Qui-Gon wonders who trained Anakin, but knows better than to ask. It would only make the boy more suspicious of his intentions. The answer may yet be revealed to him.

Or Qui-Gon could be forced to continue the mission at hand without learning anything more about little Ani. Qui-Gon knows that time is of the essence for the queen and her people, but he still hopes that he might learn more about the boy. There is something about Anakin, something that tells Qui-Gon that he could trust the boy’s plan, which is admittedly risky—betting what credits they have on an arena fighter called Hell Hunter who is competing in the gladiatorial games that are part of the Boonta Eve celebrations.

The odds on Anakin’s chosen fighter are not as good as some of the others, but that hardly gives Qui-Gon pause. Longer odds means a bigger payout if the fighter wins. Not to mention that the arena’s betting office is one of the very few places that would reluctantly accept their credits, though at a truly terrible exchange rate. Qui-Gon reassures himself with that knowledge as Padmé sulkily takes a seat in the section he chose for them.

The three fights they are forced to sit through before Hell Hunter is up are brutal, which Qui-Gon had anticipated. He knows these Outer Rim gladiatorial arenas by reputation, though he has never actually seen the games himself. He watches to get a sense of the terrain and the procedure for the fights. He’s not sure why Padmé watches—she clearly disdains every minute of it. Qui-Gon wonders if Padmé knows that most of the sentients in the ring are enslaved beings or prisoners who have no choice in their participation. The female Twi’lek that was killed by a nexu in the second bout carried no weapons and had no armor, and Qui-Gon is certain that it was meant to be an execution, though he cannot understand the Huttese the announcer is speaking. He decides not to mention this; it would only sour Padmé’s mood further if she does not already know of the practice.

Anakin only joins them in the third fight, which is enough to convince Qui-Gon that he is indeed not supposed to be here. He will not be at all surprised if the boy makes his excuses to leave immediately after Hell Hunter’s match.

Ani plops down in the seat Padmé saved for him and immediately begins chattering away at her, telling her about the gambling odds, Boonta Eve traditions, his adventures as a budding pilot and mechanic, and a dozen other things. Qui-Gon allows himself a little smile. The boy’s regard for the pretty handmaiden is sweet, and Padmé is very kindly indulging him.

Qui-Gon is also glad that they have something to occupy their attention besides the fight, in which a Trandoshan is systematically taking apart a Gamorrean with a vibroblade. There is quite a lot of blood on the sand by the time the Trandoshan is declared victorious. The Gamorrean is still alive, but the crowd is not pleased with his performance, and the arbiter's final decision goes against him. The Trandoshan finishes him with a slash to the throat, and the crowd roars its approval. Qui-Gon notices that Padmé averts her face from the scene, but Anakin watches with wide eyes, biting his lip.

Qui-Gon looks on, disgusted with the bloodlust he can feel from the crowd and saddened at the utter waste of life these games perpetuate. He is glad now that Ani had made it clear that Hell Hunter specializes in beasts. He is not sure he could stomach betting on a man who may win by butchering a sentient opponent.

The sand is cleared and Anakin’s voice trails off as the emcee announces the next bout. His attention turns fully to the arena. The boy is on the edge of his seat, fidgety in anticipation for this fight. He has forgotten to reinforce his shields and is leaking anxiety into the Force. Qui-Gon knows better now than to attempt to send him calming energy, as that would likely only make him more nervous, but he wishes he could. He did not anticipate that the child would be so invested in Hell Hunter’s match. Perhaps he is worried that his fighter will lose and Qui-Gon and Padmé will blame him for their loss. Or perhaps…he knows this fighter personally.

Hell Hunter is announced, and the fighter strides into the arena. He is a human or near-human male adorned in light armor that appears to have been assembled piecemeal from whatever he could find—he sees scraps of metal, plastoid, leather, even what appears to be bone. Qui-Gon wonders if the man is enslaved, forced by an uncaring owner to see to his own protection in the arena.

The man raises a long spear to the crowd, which cheers his acknowledgement. And then his opponent is introduced—by a loud shrilling sound.

Qui-Gon watches with a sinking feeling as something spiky, green, and very, very large is forced from a tunnel into the arena. The creature shrills again, dancing away from the beast handlers’ static pikes on durasteel-hard claws and snapping long, razor-sharp teeth. Qui-Gon hears Padmé’s sharp intake of breath, sees Anakin’s wide eyes and white knuckles as he grips the edge of his seat.

“What is that?” Padmé asks, and Qui-Gon can hear the horror in her voice.

“It’s an acklay,” he tells her. “An amphibious predator native to Vendaxa. They are…very dangerous.” Qui-Gon has seen one only once before, in its natural habitat. He had watched as it speared a lemnai, cracked open its tough shell, and feasted on its innards. He really hopes that he’s not about to witness a repeat of that experience.

“I’ve never seen one of those before,” Anakin says, a slight tremor in his voice. Qui-Gon again wishes he could soothe the child’s fears, but he restrains himself, turns his focus instead to the match.

The acklay has caught sight of its challenger now, and rushes toward him. Though Qui-Gon estimates the man to be of average size for a human, next to the acklay, he appears insignificant.

His abilities, though, are not insignificant at all. The man does not meet the acklay’s charge, but instead dodges, light and lithe on his feet, turning the acklay aside with his spear. He sidesteps a heavy claw that would have speared right through him and jabs at the beast’s soft belly. The creature shrieks.

As the match goes on, Qui-Gon sees that the man is fully in control of this fight. He ducks, weaves, dances and dodges rather than meet the acklay’s attacks head on, which is smart. The creature is far too large, fast and strong for a human to directly defend against. The man leads the beast in circles around the arena, and with every evasion, he thrusts his spear into a vulnerable part of the creature—its belly, long neck, or the space where the neck and carapace are joined. The acklay is soon bleeding from several small wounds.

Following his intuition, Qui-Gon opens himself up to the Force, observing the way it shifts around the combatants. Though he is far from the action and the many people in the crowd are loud in the Force, almost drowning him out, Qui-Gon can just sense the way the gladiator bends the Force around him, making his reflexes quicker, his leaps farther, his spear more accurate. The man is Force-sensitive, and he is well-trained. The Force flows through him as a natural extension of his physical body. It is rather beautiful to watch. Qui-Gon idly wonders what the man would be like with a lightsaber in his hand.

The battle wears on, the acklay growing slower with every prick of the spear. Qui-Gon with his long experience of evaluating fighters can see that the man is tiring too, his motions not quite as quick and graceful as they were at the beginning, though the Force is still strong with him. That is, until the man jams his spear just under the acklay’s carapace and the creature rears back onto its hind claws, wrenching the spear from his grasp. The acklay takes the spear in its wide jaws and pulls it from its flesh, then snaps the spear in two with one powerful bite.

With that, the gladiator has lost the advantage of the spear’s reach. He goes for the vibroblade strapped to his thigh, but the acklay doesn’t give him a chance to use it. The man retreats before the beast’s dangerous claws and teeth. He tries to buy himself some time by putting a stone pillar used for stringing up criminals or in supporting scenery between him and the creature, but the acklay slams itself against the pillar, knocking it clean over. The fighter is forced to dive away from the falling rock. As he rolls, the acklay catches him with a powerful swing from its foreclaw, and the man flies halfway across the arena to lie in a heap against the wall.

The crowd is wild with bloodlust, screaming and cheering. When he glances over to check on his two charges, Qui-Gon sees that Anakin is clinging to Padmé’s hand, face white. Qui-Gon can feel his fear, thick as smoke.

Their fighter is rising, and far more quickly than Qui-Gon would have expected after a blow like that, but the acklay is charging even faster. The beast foregoes the use of its claws in favor of its snapping jaws this time. The man uses the wall as support in standing, and at the last minute, rolls along the wall away from the gnashing teeth. But he does not go too far. His arm flashes out and the creature rears back, roaring in pain. There is a hole where its right eye used to be. The vibroblade in the man’s hand is red with blood.

The man must finish the beast quickly now if he is to win the bout, and Qui-Gon wonders how he is going to do that without his spear. The fighter does not hesitate though. While the acklay is still reeling with pain, he jumps—using the Force just enough—vaults off one of its legs and lands on the spiny carapace. He avoids the head swinging around toward him by dropping flat to the creature’s back, then raises the vibroblade and plunges it down into the join where the neck extends from the carapace.

The acklay shrieks, rising all the way up onto its back claws, waving its foreclaws in the air, then comes down hard. The momentum throws their fighter over its front shoulder, and as he is still holding onto the blade, his falling weight carves a deep path down the acklay’s front. He lands hard on his back just under the beast, and is forced to roll about on the ground in an effort to dodge all six claws as the creature writhes in pain. When he finally regains his feet, the man hacks at the claws—not the hardened ends, but the places where they meet the body, severing tendons.

The acklay stumbles and finally retreats, limping, trying to get away from the fighter. The man pursues, blade raised in front of him, but the creature folds in on itself, bringing its claws in close around it and curling its neck, turning the shielding crest on its head to face its attacker. It is an effective defense, hiding all soft and vulnerable parts beneath layers of its tough natural armor, but also means that it can no longer move without exposing itself.

The fighter stops, chest heaving with exertion, and looks up toward the sponsors’ box, searching for a signal that the fight is over. Sure enough, a blue light is ignited, declaring the victory his.

The arena erupts in cacophonous adulation. Ani is jumping up and down in excitement, still clinging to Padmé’s hand. Even the handmaiden is cheering, disapproval of the games momentarily forgotten. Qui-Gon smiles, folding his shaking hands under his poncho, and watches the victorious gladiator, covered in the blood of his foe, raise his red blade to the crowd, accepting the adoration of the masses. It certainly made for quite the picture of barbaric splendor.

That really had been an amazing fight; it is no wonder the spectators are so happy with his performance. But their fighter is not unscathed. As the beast handlers run out to tranquilize the injured acklay and drag it back to its enclosure, the man makes his way to another exit. Qui-Gon can see that his gait is slightly uneven, and he seems to be holding his right arm still and close to his side as well. Qui-Gon is willing to bet that not all of the blood staining his armor and tunic belongs to the acklay. The fighter remains upright and confident, however, as he exits the arena, leaving as firm an impression of strength as he can. For the first time, Qui-Gon wonders what kind of medical care the fighters like this man can expect to receive. Likely it depends on the whim of their owner, if they are enslaved. He hopes that this man will be allowed the means to heal, whether he is enslaved or not.

Anakin interrupts Qui-Gon from his musings by tugging on his poncho. “I’ve got to go now, out the other way. The emcee just announced that a sandstorm has been detected heading this way, so they’re breaking until the storm is over. You can collect your winnings later, but you should find shelter now. Do you have somewhere safe?”

“We’ll head back to our ship,” Qui-Gon replies, but wonders how close the sandstorm is.

“Is it far?”

“It’s on the outskirts,” Padmé replies.

“You’ll never reach the outskirts in time. Sandstorms are very, very dangerous. You should come with me to my place and wait it out. This one shouldn’t last long, only a few hours, max. Meet me at the corner of the square and we’ll go.”

“That’s a very generous offer, my young friend. We will do as you suggest.”

As Anakin dashes off, Qui-Gon can’t help but feel pleased that he has a good excuse to spend a few more hours in the company of this boy. It’s an intriguing mystery, to find two Force-sensitives with some kind of connection to each other on this backwater planet, both with at least some training in the use of the Force, possibly by a member of his own Order.

Unfortunately, with the situation on Naboo growing more desperate by the day, he only wonders if he will be allowed to do anything at all to help these two.

“So your boy just picks up Qui-Gon Jinn on the side of the road, gives him some insider gambling tips, and then brings him home with him for dinner?”

“Essentially, yes.”

“…”

“Anakin brings home junk parts, stray tookas, supposedly deactivated undetonated landmines—don’t ask—krayt dragon eggs, a Jawa that got accidentally left behind by his clan, assorted prosthetic body parts, and most of a defunct protocol droid. Why not a stranded Jedi too?”

“Yeah, sure. Why not.”

“Believed this meeting to be the will of the Force, Qui-Gon did. Agree, do you?”

“It certainly was fortunate they met Ani when they did. Otherwise Queen Amidala might still be stranded on Tatooine.”

“To the queen’s plight, Qui-Gon was not referring. Spoke to you, did he, of the prophecy?”

“No, I’m not familiar with any prophecy.”

“Believed, Qui-Gon did, that young Anakin the Chosen One of prophecy is. Bring balance to the Force, the Chosen One shall.”

“But what makes him think that Anakin is this Chosen One?”

“Hoping, we were, that shed light on this you could.”

“Then perhaps I should continue my tale.”

“Kenobi, why do I feel like this story just gets crazier?”

“Master Windu, as a respected Jedi Master and Master of the Order, I’m sure that you have found it necessary to hone your senses to be able to pick up on…a certain degree of crazy.”

“Mhmhmhm!”

“Master Yoda, as a respected Jedi Master and Grand Master of the Order, I’m sure that you know when it is and is not appropriate to have a laugh at the expense of the Master of the Order, which is never, because I happen to have the power to assign you to the next mission to Hoth.”

“Nice this time of year, I hear Hoth is.”

“My finely tuned senses are detecting more crazy, Grand Master.”

“Impertinent as a youngling, you are.”

“Oho, look at the nerf calling the bantha scruffy.”

“Um, Masters? Do I need to call a crèchemaster to mediate this dispute?”

“Just tell us what happens next, Kenobi, before Master Yoda talks himself into a year of overseeing the Temple sanitation team.”

“Hmph!”

“…Yes, Master Windu.”

Chapter Text

By the time they make it to Ani’s house, the wind has already picked up and is blowing things around pretty good. It is going to take Padmé and her handmaidens absolutely forever to get the sand and snarls out of her hair after this. Ani says that this is just the beginning, that it’s going to get much worse and soon. Padmé is so glad that Ani offered them shelter; she would hate to be caught out in the open in this.

Ani’s home is small, but cozy. He ushers them into the small kitchen and offers them each tiny cups of water to clear their mouths and throats of dust. Padmé almost refuses, realizing that water must be in short supply on a desert planet, especially for a slave, but Master Jinn catches her eye and silently bids her politely accept Ani’s offering.

Ani flits about, getting their cups and cutting up something he calls pallie fruits. He takes a slice himself to encourage his guests to eat, but Padmé notices that he does not take any more. The fruit is bland, but refreshing. She wonders how much it must cost that the boy will offer it to guests but not eat any himself. She gestures for him to sit with them at the tiny table and hands him another piece, which he politely takes.

“Your parents aren’t home, Ani?” Padmé worries that she hasn’t yet seen him in the company of any adult, but as soon as the words are out of her mouth, she winces. What if he doesn’t have parents? She’s just stepped in it, like when she asked him if he was a slave.

Ani, however, just cheerfully shakes his head. “Not right now. Ben’s probably sheltering in place from the sandstorm. Maybe you’ll meet him after it dies down.” Padmé recalls Ani mentioning Ben before as having been won with him in a bet. So Ani’s father is also a slave. She notices that Ani only mentions a father. She wonders what happened to his mother, but this time knows better than to ask.

“I do hope so. We’d like to thank him for his hospitality,” Master Jinn says.

“Has anyone ever seen a podrace?” Padmé is used to Ani’s abrupt topic changes by now, so she takes this one in stride.

“They have podracing on Malastare,” Qui-Gon replies. “Very fast, very dangerous.”

“I’m the only human who can do it.” Padmé doesn’t know what a podrace is, but based on Master Jinn’s description, she doesn’t think she would want little Ani anywhere near one.

“You must have Jedi reflexes if you race pods,” Qui-Gon says mildly. Ani bites his lip. It looks like he desperately wants to say something but is holding himself back. Padmé narrows her eyes at the Jedi Master. What is he playing at?

Before Anakin can work up the nerve to say anything, they all hear the pneumatic hiss of the door opening and the sound of the storm outside grows louder. Ani’s face breaks into a huge grin.

“Ben!” he cries, and is up out of his seat and through the kitchen door almost before Padmé can blink.

All Padmé has to do is lean back slightly in her chair to have an unimpeded view of the tiny vestibule by the front door. She watches as Ani slams into the newcomer, wrapping his arms tightly around his waist. The man drops the bag he’s carrying to return the hug.

“I’m so glad you’re okay,” she barely hears Ani whisper. His father drops a kiss on the top of his head.

Padmé looks away then, giving the two their privacy, and has to swipe a hand quickly under her eyes. Qui-Gon gives her a knowing look.

“Hey guys, this is Ben! Ben, these are my friends, Padmé, Artoo, and Qui-Gon.” Padmé, composed once more, looks over to see Anakin dragging the new arrival by the hand into the kitchen. Ben is quite clearly startled to see two random strangers and a droid gathered around his tiny kitchen table, but he recovers well.

“Oh. How kind of you to introduce us, Anakin. And I’m so glad you decided to let me know well in advance that we would be having guests,” he says, ruffling the boy’s hair. Padmé stifles a giggle at the man’s put-upon sarcasm. Though she has known Ani for only a few hours, she is quite ready to believe that he’s a handful.

Padmé looks closer at the man whose roof she is sheltering under. He’s much younger than she expected him to be, probably only in his twenties. He must have had Ani quite young. He has short, reddish-gold hair and kind blue eyes. That must be where Ani comes by that feature. There’s something familiar about the man as well, like she’s seen him before somewhere…

“Ah, the connection becomes clear,” Master Jinn says. “No wonder Anakin was so eager to see the games, when his father was the one in the arena.”

Padmé’s eyes go wide in realization. Ben is Hell Hunter! They just watched him fight and win in the arena! Her eyes rake over him again, finding the evidence that Master Jinn spotted right away: the lean build, the sharp gaze, the injuries he’s trying to hide. Even the bag that he dropped behind him has fallen open to reveal part of the armor he had worn in the arena.

Ben frowns. “Anakin. Were you in the arena today?”

Anakin sports the cringe of a little boy who knows he’s in trouble. “Nnnnot really.”

Ben raises an eyebrow. “’Not really’? How can you be ‘not really’ in the arena? Did you fly overhead? Astrally project yourself inside? Spit through the door?”

“Well, I wasn’t there officially.”

“By which I take it you mean that you were there illegally because you sneaked in.”

“That’s not what I said!” His father just levels him with a look and waits him out. “Okay, yes, I was there. But I was with Mister Qui-Gon the whole time, I promise!”

Ben glances over at Master Jinn and then looks back at Ani, catching his chin with a finger and gently tilting the boy’s face up to meet his eyes. “Your friend does not have the authority to accompany you in the arena,” he says firmly, but not ungently. “If you go, you go with Watto.”

“Watto never wants to bring me!”

“Then you don’t go at all. And frankly, I think that’s for the best, Anakin. The games are not appropriate for young ones.” Ben looks again at Qui-Gon, who is calm and serene as ever. “They’re not appropriate for anyone, really.”

“I—I just wanted to make sure you were okay,” Anakin says, so softly that Padmé almost doesn’t catch it.

Ben looks back down at Ani. “I know,” he says, running a hand through Ani’s hair. “We’ll talk about it later. Now, have you offered your guests something to drink?”

Pretty soon, Ben has recruited Ani into whipping up a light midday meal for all of them. Padmé, feeling guilty that she’s eating their food when they have so little, offers to help, and Ben, obviously sensing that she needs to feel useful, lets her set the tiny table. Qui-Gon doesn’t ask at all, simply picks up a knife and cuts up pallies as Ani cleans them.

The food is simple, consisting of a type of flatbread dipped in fermented bantha milk that is lightly spiced, along with the pallies and more bantha milk to drink. Padmé notices that Ben serves her and Ani first with slightly larger portions than himself and Qui-Gon. She also notices that he is eating with his left hand, though he fought with his right. He is somewhat favoring his right side, presumably because he is injured. He is seated on an overturned bucket because there are only three mismatched chairs, so he has to stretch up farther to reach the table. She notices him wincing slightly every time he brings up his right hand. She wonders if he’s had adequate medical treatment, but he rebuffs Master Jinn when he attempts to ask.

On the way here, before the wind became too strong for conversation, Anakin had hardly drawn breath as he talked non-stop about the fight. Evidently, it was the most “wizard” thing he had ever seen, and Padmé certainly has to agree with the sentiment, if not the choice of words. She has trained with a blaster and in self-defense, but that fight was something else entirely. The practice of making sport of killing is barbaric, but that’s not how she would describe Ben’s fight with the acklay. It held an atavistic fascination for her to see a man sparsely armed and armored take on a monster with all its natural weapons—and win. The fight was raw and primal, and she felt she could almost understand the appeal such fighters held. Not that she finds Ben in any way appealing, no, of course not. Just, she could possibly see why maybe he would be. Appealing. As a master of his sport, that is.

Anyway, Ani seems to sense that Ben doesn’t want to talk about the fight, so he fills the conversation by rambling about his various mechanical projects. It’s a bit out of Padmé’s depth, though Master Jinn seems to be following it all right. Or maybe he’s just using his diplomatic skills to pretend that he knows what Ani is talking about when he says sensor array, repulsor engines, omnidirectional solenoids. Padmé honestly doesn’t know; she’s started to space out of the conversation, until she hears—

“All slaves have a transmitter inside their body somewhere, to find us if we run. Or to blow us up if they don’t want to bother with catching us. I’ve been working on a scanner to locate mine.”

Padmé’s mouth drops open. What did she just hear? That—that’s sick!

Ben heaves a long-suffering sigh, running his hands over his face. “Anakin, you can’t just announce to anyone that you’re building a scanner to find your transmitter.”

Ani’s face goes white with shocking swiftness, and his eyes dart between her and Qui-Gon. “I—I—”

“Neither of us will say anything about it to anyone, my young friend. You have my word,” Qui-Gon Jinn says firmly, as he pats Ani’s trembling hand.

Padmé feels like a pit has opened up in her stomach. “Of course not. No one will hear it from us.” Padmé wishes she could make her voice stronger, more reassuring, like Master Jinn’s, but she’s still shaken from Anakin’s revelation.

Ani looks up at his father. “I’m sorry,” he whispers.

Ben smiles weakly at him and lays a comforting hand on his shoulder. “It’s all right. I think your new friends are trustworthy. But please, Anakin, watch what you say when you’re in mixed company, all right?” Ani nods his agreement and leans into his father’s palm, which rubs soothingly up and down his back a few times.

“I can’t believe there’s still slavery in the galaxy,” Padmé manages, still a bit shell-shocked. “The Republic’s anti-slavery laws—”

“The Republic doesn’t exist out here,” Ben says. “This is Hutt Space. We have to survive however we can.”

Anakin’s nose is wrinkled up in thought as he looks at Master Jinn. “You’re a Jedi Knight, aren’t you?” he says, what might be awe in his serious tone.

“What makes you think that?” Qui-Gon asks, as though he gets asked this question by curious children every day.

“I saw your lightsaber. Jedi carry that kind of weapon.”

“Perhaps I killed a Jedi and took it from him.” Qui-Gon, really? Why is he playing coy?

Ani looks him right in the eye. “So did you?”

Padmé has to hand it to him, the kid is bold. Master Jinn obviously thinks the same, as there is a pause before he answers, “No, I didn’t.”

Anakin nods, like he was confirming what he knew all along. “I had a dream I was a Jedi. I came back here and freed all the slaves. Are you here to free the slaves?”

“No, I’m afraid not.”

Ani sags, suspicions seemingly confirmed. “Ben says the Jedi have lots of rules, and that their rules sometimes stop them from helping people. And there are a lot of people in the galaxy, but only a few Jedi, and they can’t help everyone because there aren’t enough of them, so they have to pick the places where they can do the most good.”

Qui-Gon looks at Ben, who doesn’t meet his eyes. “Your father is well-informed.”

“If you’re not here to free slaves, why are you here?”

Qui-Gon leans forward. “I can see there’s no fooling you, Anakin. We’re on our way to Coruscant, the central system of the Republic, on a very important mission. The fate of an entire system rests on our ability to get to our destination as quickly as possible.”

“How did you end up out here in the Outer Rim?” Ben asks.

“Our ship was damaged, and we’re stranded here until we can acquire the parts to repair it,” Padmé replies.

“We’re much better off now than we were when we landed,” Qui-Gon says. “And that’s thanks to the two of you.” Ben raises a questioning eyebrow at him. “Ani told us that you were a sure bet to win.”

Ben closes his eyes for a long moment, like he’s trying to collect himself. “Ani told you to bet on me to win my fight, and you, what, bet everything?” His voice sounds strained.

“Well, not everything. But we certainly bet all our Republic credits. I think the gambling office is the only place in town that would take them.”

Ben lets out a breath. “You’re not wrong.” He levels a sharp look at Anakin. “You and I obviously need to have another talk about appropriate conversation topics with strangers.”

Ani scowls. “You mean a lecture.”

Ben slumps in his seat, then winces when it puts pressure on his injuries. “Whatever it takes until you actually listen to me, Anakin. You have been incredibly reckless today.”

“Your father is right,” Master Jinn says. “If I were an unscrupulous being and was in any way upset by the outcome of the bet you advised me on, there’s no telling what I’d do, to you or to Ben.”

Ani appears to be considering this. “You’re not bad though. I can tell.”

“It can be quite difficult to discern a person’s true intentions, even with instincts as good as yours, Ani.” Then Qui-Gon smiles. “But in this case, you were right—about my character and about the outcome of the match, so I think you deserve a commission.”

“What, really?” Ani’s face lights up.

Ben groans. “I wish you wouldn’t encourage him,” he says, but he’s grinning, just a little. He stretches gingerly, wincing. “So, does that mean you won enough money to get what you need?”

“Unfortunately, no,” Qui-Gon replied. “The exchange rate I got for our credits was not even close to what they were worth. We have maybe half of what we need now.”

“These junk dealers must have a weakness of some kind,” Padmé muses.

“Gambling,” Ben says immediately. “Everything here revolves around betting on the arena, the pits, sabacc, anything. And of course the podraces.”

“Gambling. Greed can be a powerful ally,” Master Jinn says. “Playing sabacc for high enough stakes to get the money we need is likely to draw attention, though.” He quirks an eyebrow at Ben. “There is pit fighting here too?”

“Forget about it,” Ben says. “Nothing good can come out of the pits. You’ll regret you ever set foot in there, trust me. You’d be better off blowing all your money betting on pods.”

“I built a racer. It’s the fastest ever!” Ani blurts out, like he’s been holding it in and desperately wants the others to know. “There’s a big race tomorrow on Boonta Eve. You could enter my pod.”

“Anakin, Watto won’t let you.” Ben’s face is tense.

“Watto doesn’t know I’ve built it!” The boy turns to Qui-Gon, a light in his eyes. “You could make him think it was yours and get him to let me pilot it for you.” Ben shakes his head, grimacing. Anakin turns to him, putting a small hand on his arm. “I know you don’t like it when I race because I could get hurt. I don’t like it when you fight either. But I can help them! The prize money would more than pay for the parts they need.”

Ben’s face is stricken as he reaches for his son’s hand. “Anakin…”

“I’m sure Qui-Gon doesn’t want to put your son in danger,” Padmé says, her heart going out to the man, who is only trying his best to protect his child in a dangerous world. “We’ll find some other way.”

Ben takes a deep breath, wincing as his ribcage expands, then lets it out slowly. “No. There is no other way. I may not like it, but he can help you.” He looks from her to Qui-Gon, then returns his gaze to Ani as he says, “He was meant to help you.”

Obi-Wan used to think that he was meant for bigger things. He was supposed to become a Jedi Knight and do his part to sway the universe to the light. He was meant to help people in need.

How wrong he was.

He hadn’t seen his reflection in months, but he knew that he was in a pitiable state. His whole body still ached from the beating the spice smugglers gave him when they caught him trying to run. He wasn’t sure how long it had been since he’d last eaten, but he’d had to resort to rolling his waistband to keep his trousers up. His clothes were ragged and stained, his hair tangled and matted, and the less said about his smell the better.

He’d been a slave in a deepsea mine and on a spice freighter. Neither position could boast a long life expectancy, but now in addition to a very short, painful life, he could also expect a brutal death. Pit fighters were the lowest of the low, even among slaves.

Obi-Wan eyed his opponent, an adult male Twi’lek with very visible scars on his chest and back. He laughed when he saw Obi-Wan, flashing teeth filed to sharp points. Obi-Wan supposed that a battered, scrawny, half-grown human boy probably didn’t seem that threatening to him.

In the pits, there was no such thing as fair play. The promoters didn’t care if he was fighting someone outside his weight class, or that he was a child. Any dirty move or trick was fair game. Fights lasted until one of the combatants was down and unable to get up, which meant that they frequently went to the death.

This was his punishment for trying to run. The smugglers wanted to execute him, but why just toss him out the airlock when they could get money and entertainment out of his death? Even if he somehow managed to live through this fight, it wouldn’t matter. His owners would never let a runaway back on their ship. Unruly slaves were bad for business.

Still, he couldn’t just lay down his vibroblade and wait for his adversary to kill him. He’d come this far, through everything, and he just didn’t have it in him. He didn’t want to fight this person, but he would, even if it would make no difference to his fate in the end.

The bell rang to signal the start of the match. Obi-Wan immediately focused on the fight, discarding the pain of his injuries and the hollow ache of his stomach to the Force. He and his opponent circled each other, both looking for weaknesses. The Twi’lek, though, clearly thought he didn’t have to look very hard, as he almost immediately went on the attack, bringing his vibroblade to bear in a heavy downward stroke, making good use of his superior size and strength. Obi-Wan deflected and slipped away from the blade, dancing around the other and searching for an opening.

This was the strategy that he had developed over the last year and a half: defend, deflect, evade, endure. Survive, until he could find an opening to get in or get out. At fourteen, he didn’t have size, strength or experience on his side. Only a quick mind, quick feet, and the Force. He was just glad that he had been off the spice freighter long enough to come down from the near-constant spice contact high—enough to coherently use the Force to speed his movements a little and sustain his bruised body’s endurance.

The Twi’lek tagged his non-dominant arm, but Obi-Wan barely felt it, too busy using the opening created by his opponent’s lunge to slash at his leg. Both came away bleeding, but the Twi’lek was also limping.

The fight continued on like this for several minutes. Obi-Wan felt every strike his stronger adversary landed reverberate through his whole body even doing his best to deflect the momentum of the blows. But he was giving as good as he was getting. His foe was bleeding from several wounds, and he was definitely slowing down.

The Twi’lek must have noticed this too, for he suddenly batted Obi-Wan’s blade away and charged the boy with arms open in a final attempt to overpower him.

Obi-Wan, having seen the attack coming, managed to not allow the Twi’lek to get his arms around him, but he was still borne to the ground. The hard landing on his back knocked the wind out of him, but the boy didn’t pause to breathe. He grabbed the other’s wrist, twisting in an attempt to keep his opponent’s vibroblade away from him, and brought his blade in low, biting deep into his foe’s side, sinking between the ribs.

Though he was down and seriously injured, the Twi’lek did not surrender. Perhaps he thought he could still win, stay conscious long enough to outlast a boy half his size. Obi-Wan felt a huge hand wrap around his throat, stopping his air. He resisted the instinct to let go of his weapon or his adversary’s weapon to claw at the fingers that were strangling him. Black spots rose in his vision as pulled his blade from the Twi’lek’s side, so he relied on the Force more than his eyes to drive the blade home one more time.

He felt warm wetness splatter across his face, and he instinctively closed his eyes. The hand released his neck as the Twi’lek’s weight disappeared from above him, and Obi-Wan sucked in a deep breath. He marshalled his heavy limbs to move, to get up and meet the next attack, and he rolled up onto his knees, trying to see through the blackness and the blood in his eyes—

The Twi’lek lay on the ground, hands clasped over his own neck, trying to stem the blood pouring from a slit throat. He gurgled wetly, choking on his own life. He wasn’t getting up.

The noise from the crowd that Obi-Wan had been filtering out of his awareness till now crashed over him. The boy was suddenly cognizant that his whole body was shaking. He was sure that he would throw up if his stomach weren’t empty.

A promoter grabbed his arm and yanked him to his feet, Obi-Wan still too stunned to resist the rough treatment. As he was herded back to a holding area, he turned his head for one last look at the body dying on the ground. He’d never killed another person before. Well, that wasn’t quite true. He’d certainly put paid to quite a number of Togorian pirates when he shot down their warships en route to Bandomeer, those many months ago. But he’d never killed someone like this before, facing them, with his own hands.

His mouth tasted salty and metallic. He didn’t know if it was his own blood on his tongue or the person’s he just killed.

“Surprising, boy. Good news: you’ve just earned yourself another fight.” The promoter laughed as he shoved Obi-Wan onto a bench. The boy sagged where he sat. He didn’t know if he could go another round, not after how the last one went.

Though all he wanted to do was curl up on the bench and go to sleep, Obi-Wan set to cleaning himself up instead. He bound his wounds with strips torn from his ragged tunic and wiped his face as best he could. Then he meditated, giving as much of his pain and fatigue as he could to the Force.

He didn’t know afterwards how he got through the second fight. To be honest, he wasn’t even sure if he won or lost, only that both he and his opponent were still alive at the end of it this time. He no longer felt the shock of killing the Twi’lek; it was buried under exhaustion and injury.

And still, wasn’t it all for nothing? The two fights didn’t end him, but he was going to die tonight anyway. Though perhaps it was for the best that he rejoin the Force now. He was sure that it would be kinder than whatever was left for him in this life. He had only wanted to help people. He had wanted to spend his life serving others as a Jedi Knight. But he had failed. He had failed the Jedi when he washed out, he had failed to help Bandomeer when he was kidnapped, and he had failed to even help himself when he was sold. He hadn’t helped anyone, and now he had killed someone—not to protect others by fighting for what was right, but for nothing more than entertainment, for sport. He had fallen so low in so short a time, just slipping further and further down as he reached out in vain to try to catch himself, until he’d now hit the bottom of the slag heap. So what was his life worth in the end, that he should continue to cling to it?

The thought made his eyes burn, but he was too weary to weep.

Obi-Wan was so tired and miserable when the night was finally finished that he could hardly think, but when he realized his owner was talking about him, he forced himself to concentrate.

“—thought we’d just take him out back and shoot him. We can’t stay for the fights tomorrow, we gotta get going tonight.”

“Why shoot him?” the man talking to his owner was asking. “You don’t have to enter him tomorrow, but there are other ports that have pits. He’s a scrapper. With a little training, he could—”

“I ain’t got time for training some kid, and besides, no way am I letting a runner back on my ship. He made me a little money tonight, so I’m not completely out the credits that losing him’s gonna cost me. If it’s a wash, that’s good enough for me, and good riddance to this scum.”

“I see. Well, would you consider selling him instead of shooting him?”

“Who’s gonna buy him? You?”

“I’m thinking about it.”

“Really? You want a runner? Well, it’s your ass, man.”

Obi-Wan listened detachedly as they haggled over his price. He was no expert, but he thought his buyer was getting quite a good deal for him on account of Obi-Wan being a runaway. The end of it was that the smugglers left with their losses recouped, the promoter acquired some new property at a rock-bottom price, and Obi-Wan got to live another day. The boy distantly wondered if this could be considered a win-win scenario. Maybe. Anyway, it was always good to try to look on the bright side, right?

Obi-Wan jumped when his new owner clapped him on the shoulder, jolting him from his disjointed, internal ramblings.

“Welcome to the pits, kid,” the man said as he steered Obi-Wan to the exit. “You’ll get used to the stench.”

Obi-Wan couldn’t wait.

Chapter Text

“He seems like he keeps you on your toes.”

Qui-Gon is helping Ben clean up the kitchen after their spare but satisfying meal. Ani had dragged Padmé off to another room after Ben suggested he show the girl the droid he is refurbishing. Ani was excited to show off for the pretty handmaiden, but Padmé had given them both an unamused look that told them that she was aware that Ben’s suggestion was a ploy to get the children out of the room so the adults could talk.

Ben snorts, but grins. “He’s getting better though. He’s down to usually giving me only one or two heart attacks a day.”

Qui-Gon smiles. He remembers with a pang of regret what it’s like to raise a boy that age. “Really? I thought I counted at least four in our conversation over the meal alone.”

“More like seventeen,” Ben groans. “And I said usually, didn’t I? There are days that are outliers.”

Qui-Gon pauses a moment, watching Ben scrub the plate in his hand with sand. “Are you really all right with this plan? It’s risky, in more ways than one, and Ani is taking on a significant portion of that.”

“I know,” Ben says, handing the plate over to him so he can run it under the sonic. “But sooner or later, probably sooner, Watto is going to make Ani race again. He’s too greedy not to. At least this way we can control some of the circumstances. Hopefully give Ani a fighting chance.” He glances at Qui-Gon. “And it’s probably better that he race with Jedi supervision.”

Qui-Gon nods. Ben’s reasons for doing this are quite rational. They belie what the man must feel about putting his son in danger. Qui-Gon finds though, that he is having difficulty perceiving through the Force what exactly Ben is feeling. His shields seem to be strong, and Qui-Gon isn’t about to press. But it does bring up a question he’s had ever since he felt Ani reaching out to him in the Force.

“You’ve met Jedi before, haven’t you?” he asks Ben. The man tenses, but nods. “Was it a Jedi who trained you and Anakin?”

Ben’s hands clench on the spoon he’s scrubbing. He gives Qui-Gon a wary look. Qui-Gon just looks steadily back, keeping himself open in the Force so that Ben can sense he means no ill will. “The way you use the Force when you fight echoes teachings of the Jedi arts. And Ani’s and your Force presences are more disciplined than I would expect of someone untrained.”

Ben raises an eyebrow, a smile tugging up the corner of his lips. “Ani? Disciplined?”

Qui-Gon smiles as well. “He’s young. He’s doing well for a beginner. With more training I’m sure he could develop further.”

“I trained Anakin,” Ben finally admits. “There was no other who could.”

“And you? Was it a Jedi who trained you?”

Ben turns away from him. “Might’ve been,” he mutters. He stalks off to put away the handful of clean utensils. Qui-Gon lets out the breath he was holding and decides to back down. It’s clear that Ben doesn’t trust him yet, and since Ben has only known him for about an hour, that’s probably fair.

“So what’s the plan after the storm passes?” Ben asks, returning with a brush that he begins using to sweep the floor. The brush is short, and Ben has to bend at the waist to use it, which causes him to wince again. Qui-Gon jerks the brush out of his hand with the Force and takes over the task of sweeping himself. Ben doesn’t need to aggravate his injuries any further. Ben raises an eyebrow at him, but doesn’t comment, just goes to put away the rest of the clean dishes.

“First I’ll go to Watto to convince him to let Ani race ‘my’ pod and make an agreement about the winnings.”

“He’s going to want you to pay the entry fee.”

“I can, with the winnings from the arena.”

Ben shakes his head. “You’ll need to use the winnings to finish that pod. Ani did a great job on it, but it needs a few final touches. Better power converters for one. A paint job. You should try to get Watto to pay the entry fee.”

It’s a good suggestion, and it sparks another idea from Qui-Gon to maneuver Watto into a bet involving their ship. Ben agrees and helps with refining the plot so that it will appeal to Watto’s avarice and gambling addiction. Then Ben calls Anakin back in and sets him to making a shopping list with R2 of everything he needs to finish the pod. Padmé comes with him and surreptitiously adds food and water to replace what they ate to the list, and Qui-Gon makes a note to buy bacta and bandages as well. They lay their plans, and by the time the storm has blown itself out, they are ready.

Ani runs off to Watto’s while the other three stop at the betting office to pick up their winnings. Qui-Gon gives most of the money to Ben, who takes Padmé and R2 to start picking up the things they need. Qui-Gon joins Ani at Watto’s shop. The ploy works perfectly, Watto takes the bait, and they’re all set to race tomorrow, so Anakin and Qui-Gon head off to help with the shopping.

Anakin manages to direct them straight to Ben in the busy streets as though he’s following a homing beacon, and Qui-Gon realizes that the reason is because the boy has an unusually strong Force bond with his father. Qui-Gon wonders why he hadn’t thought of that before; Ben raised and trained Ani and is Force-sensitive as well—it would be more surprising if they didn’t have a bond. He remembers how Ben made his way to the house earlier, even though the sandstorm was in full swing and visibility close to zero by the time he arrived. Qui-Gon wonders if Ben wasn’t using the Force and his connection to Ani to navigate home.

Qui-Gon also wonders if Ben’s powers of Force suggestion are particularly advanced after he sees the young man in action bartering for the things they need. He seems to know every shop in Mos Espa, exactly which place will sell what they need, which trader will gouge them and which one can be convinced to let their wares go for less if Ben calls in a favor. He calls every shop owner by name, knows which of them will be charmed by a dimpled smile and small talk and which will only respond to direct dealing, and bargains with each of them so effectively that he frequently manages to beat their cost down to half the asking price. Qui-Gon is one of the most experienced negotiators of the Knights Consular in the Jedi Order, and he has to admit he’s impressed.

This is to say nothing of the number of beings that seem to know Ben personally. Throughout the afternoon, there are many that acknowledge him in some way, whether it is just a nod, or clasping his hand or arm in a friendly gesture. Qui-Gon turns around once to catch sight of an elderly woman embracing Ben and kissing him on both cheeks. She presses a few small fruits into his hand before patting a grinning Anakin on the head and departing. It eventually dawns on Qui-Gon that these people are also enslaved, and that they are expressing their relief that Ben, a member of their community, is alive and well after his battle this morning.

Padmé asks Ani what color he wants to paint his pod, and he blushes and asks for blue. Qui-Gon eyes the blue tunic Padmé is wearing. He leans towards Ben and says quietly, amused, “I think your son might have a little infatuation.”

Ben glances at him, eyebrow raised. “Yes, but only a little one.” He nods at Anakin, who is now walking next to R2, hand on the droid’s blue dome as he chatters away to it. “Honestly, at this point in his life, I think Anakin is more interested in her droid than he is in her,” he says, voice rich with suppressed laughter. Qui-Gon chuckles.

The afternoon and evening are spent in the slave quarter of Mos Espa, preparing for what is to come. Ani and Ben, with R2’s help, tune up the pod, while Padmé and the unfinished protocol droid C-3PO start designing a flag. Some of Ani’s young friends drop by as well, and one boy even stays to help Padmé with the flag. Qui-Gon buffs and primes the pod’s exterior for paint and watches the father and son team work.

Qui-Gon realizes that Anakin isn’t just Force-sensitive. He truly is a prodigy, and though he has had training, most of it is raw talent. He uses the Force instinctively to map the pod’s engines and systems, find what’s wrong, and tune it to precisely what he wants. Though he is not as strong in the Force as his son, Ben is a stabilizing influence on Ani’s near complete immersion in the Force, helping to focus and ground the boy through their bond. They work seamlessly, handing each other tools and lending each other a hand without needing to communicate outwardly.

Their partnership is beautiful, so strong in the Force. Qui-Gon laments the fact that they were not born in the Republic, where they might have been identified early and brought to the Temple. Of course, if Ben had been found as a youngling, Anakin probably never would have been born…

Qui-Gon wants to help Ani, Ben too if he can. They could be so much more if they were free. Ben is too old now to be a Padawan, but perhaps he could join one of the Service Corps. Ani is older than younglings typically brought to the Temple, but Qui-Gon is sure that he could convince the Council to admit him. And if not, he could claim the boy as his own Padawan. He’d rather not claim the boy himself, not after the kind of experiences he’s had with apprentices, but if it came down to it, he would do it to bring Anakin into the Jedi Order.

The four of them and the two droids work until after dark falls, then they retire to the house for latemeal. Padmé had insisted on buying some bantha meat and vegetables, which have been simmering in a stew over a solar-powered hot plate for most of the afternoon. It’s hardly a banquet, but Anakin is delighted; apparently he and Ben almost never eat meat or fresh vegetables as they’re far too expensive. Ben’s face flushes a little when Ani says this, as though he is embarrassed. Qui-Gon wants to reassure him that he is doing as well as he possibly can for his son and has no reason to be ashamed, but it’s not his place.

When the kitchen is clean again and Ben has gone to clean up, Qui-Gon takes Padmé aside and hands her the small tube of bacta gel he acquired while out looking for parts. “I would appreciate it if you would offer this to our host,” he tells her.

“I would be happy to, but is there a reason it has to come from me?”

Qui-Gon folds his hands under his poncho. “I think it would be better received coming from you than me.”

Padmé nods slowly. “He does seem pretty tense around you. Why is that?”

Qui-Gon hesitates, wondering how much he should reveal to her. She seems to really care for Ani and his father, so he decides he can tell her enough of the situation. “Ben and his son are Force-sensitive, powerfully so.” He watches the girl’s eyes grow wide at the revelation. “Ben knows that, as a Jedi, I can sense what they have successfully hidden so far. If I were to let slip what I know, they could be exploited for their abilities by their owner. Also, he may believe the rumor that Jedi steal children, and is afraid that I will take Anakin from him.”

Padmé’s eyes narrow. “Oh, so you don’t plan to snatch up Ani the first chance you get and take him with you?”

The girl’s accusation pulls him up short. Had he been so obvious in his interest in the boy? Qui-Gon searches his feelings and realizes that he has indeed thought much about how to free Anakin and bring him into the Order. He realizes for the first time that if he does this, father and son will have to let go of the special bond they have that he had so admired. Is this what would be best for little Ani?

Padmé crosses her arms, and Qui-Gon realizes that he hasn’t responded to her question. His silence, though, is answer enough for her. “I guess I can see why Ben’s nervous about you, Master Jedi,” she says, and walks away, leaving Qui-Gon to ponder this new development.

“Why do Jinn’s plans always involve so much gambling? It can’t be healthy.”

“Guided by the Living Force, Master Qui-Gon has been. Though impulsive it may seem, unhealthy it is not, to follow his intuition.”

“I meant that it can’t be healthy for me, always having to spin his ridiculous antics into something acceptable to the Senate. I’m already on the strongest dose of headache medication the healers will allow, you know.”

“Relax you should, Mace. Well all is that ends well.”

“I’m not sure whether to blame you or his master for this behavior. Though come to think of it, I can’t really picture Yan Dooku stooping to using sabacc to get what he wants.”

“An excellent sabacc face I have. My prerogative it is to pass on to my grand-Padawans this skill.”

“I’m beginning to think that perhaps I dodged a blaster bolt when Master Jinn refused to take me on.”

“Yeah, right out of a Sullust volcano and into a lava flow. At least you would have had to participate in a lot fewer fights to the death as Jinn’s Padawan. Probably. Maybe.”

“What a resounding endorsement of Master Jinn’s teaching methods.”

“You were an arena fighter, right? I’ve heard gladiator fights are not necessarily always to the death, only that there is always a risk of death. Not that that isn’t bad enough.”

“It depends on the arena and the fight. Usually the fight goes until one side yields, sometimes until first blood. There’s always the chance that the arbiter of the games will call for the death of the losing party, though that’s less common than people think. Executions are always to the death, of course. I didn’t do much fighting against sentients after I turned sixteen though. At Gardulla’s, they started training me to fight beasts, which I eventually specialized in. Beast fights are different—animals don’t abide by the rules; they’ll do whatever they can to defend themselves from an attacker, including kill.”

“I’m sorry, you didn’t have many fights against sentients after you were sixteen? Implying that you did fight sentients in arena games before you were sixteen?”

“Well, not very many in the arena, no. I was fighting in the pits before that, which is where most of my experience fighting other sentients comes from.”

“…I sense that I’m not going to like the answer to this question, but what is the difference between the pits and the arena?”

“Well, pit fighting is more dangerous and…brutal. The pits don’t really have rules of engagement. Including the rule about not continuing the fight after one person yields. Anything goes really, so it’s not surprising there are significantly more deaths and maimings.”

“And you were fighting in these pits at the age of fifteen?”

“Fourteen, actually.”

“Fourteen!”

“There are also no age restrictions in the pits.”

“Why would anyone, even a slaver, put a fourteen-year-old in a pit fight?”

“In my case, the first time was…punishment, and an intended execution. I had tried to escape from the spice smugglers that owned me at the time, but was caught. They wanted to make an example of me and wanted me to suffer. Shooting me outright was too clean for their purposes, and entering me in the pits had the added benefit of offering a way to recoup some of their losses sustained from disposing of a runaway slave.”

“Since you’re sitting here with us, it seems safe to say that didn’t quite work out like they intended.”

“Not quite. I survived the fighting that first night, and in doing so garnered the notice of a promoter, who made an offer to the smugglers for my purchase. So began my career as a pit fighter. I spent several months traveling around the Outer Rim circuit and my ownership changed hands a few times until Tatooine. My owner at the time managed to convince the person in charge of acquisitions for Gardulla the Hutt to buy and train me for the arena. I was lucky—not many slaves make the transition from the pits to the arena.”

“I think your definition of ‘lucky’ may be different from mine.”

“More than likely. On Tatooine, we say you’re ‘Tatooine lucky’ if you end up with a slightly less terrible outcome than the worst possible thing that could happen."

“So basically, ‘lucky’ in the sense that ‘it could be worse’?”

“Exactly. Helps keep us looking on the bright side.”

“I suppose that’s one way to look at it.”

“Hmm. Again, lucky, you say you are. Believe in luck, do you? Or the will of the Force?”

“I think perhaps I believe in both, Master Yoda. I have always believed in the will of the Force, but my faith does not make it easier to understand what that will is, nor to follow it. Most of the time it feels like I stumbled upon the right path more by accident than design.”

“Unless by design, the accident was. Considered, have you, that stumbles, always missteps they are not?”

“So…it’s the will of the Force that I stumble? …Or accidents are the will of the Force?”

“I call bantha poodoo on this one, Master Yoda.”

“Mysterious are the ways of the Force.”

“Not this again.”

“Did you say that just to annoy Master Windu?”

“Mmm. Very mysterious.”

Chapter Text

“Hello there.”

The woman jumped and whirled around, and Ben silently chided himself for scaring her. He was too used to moving lightly and silently, so he had an unfortunate tendency to sneak up on people. He ought to know better by now—Ma Jira had scolded him for giving her old heart palpitations enough times.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to startle you. But I don’t think you’re supposed to be in the infirmary.”

The woman shook her head, but didn’t meet his eyes. Her hands were trembling a little. “It’s all right. The major domo sent me here on an errand. He needs a japor bark infusion.”

“You’re new, aren’t you?” Ben asked, though he was already certain of it. “I haven’t seen you before, I don’t think.”

She nodded. “I arrived a couple of weeks ago.”

“Welcome to the palace of Her Eminence, Gardulla the Hutt,” Ben said as kindly as he knew how anymore. “I’m Ben. Just a word of advice, from one slave to another: the medic keeps a very thorough inventory that he checks daily. Theft isn’t tolerated by him or by your new owner.”

The woman stiffened. “I’m not stealing. I told you, the major domo sent me.”

Ben just waved her lies away with a hand. “Breela Chanchani still hasn’t given birth?”

The new girl blinked at the seeming non sequitur, then her shoulders slumped ever so slightly. “No, she’s still in labor. Eighteen hours now.”

Ben nodded to himself. “It’s gone on much too long. The japor bark would help.” Of course, neither the major domo nor the medic would spare it for a pregnant slave. Judging by her worried frown, this woman knew it just as well as Ben. “You’re very brave to risk such severe punishment for a person you barely know.”

The woman lifted her chin a bit, looking Ben in the eye. “The biggest problem in the universe is that no one helps each other,” she said softly.

Ben smiled. Very brave indeed.

The sudden warning ripple in the Force had Ben quickly moving to the table in the center of the infirmary, grabbing a bottle of disinfectant and some cloth pads as he went. “Come here,” he told the woman as he seated himself on the table and shrugged out of his tunic.

“What?” The new girl balked, bewildered by his abruptness and actions.

There was no time. Ben lunged for her and grabbed her arm, dragging her in front of him. She resisted, but Ben had intentionally jerked her towards him hard enough to throw her off-balance, and she had no choice but to go where he wanted or fall flat on her face. Ben hated the sudden fear in her eyes and in the Force, but it couldn’t be helped. There was no time to explain.

The very next moment the door burst open and the medic bustled in. “This is the second time this month I’ve stitched you up, Ben, you crazy koochoo—” He pulled up short when he noticed the woman. “Who’s this then?”

Ben shrugged. “She’s new. Seems your friend the major domo thought you could use some assistance.”

The medic’s face darkened immediately. “That lousy, sand flea-bitten wermo needs to keep his nose out of the infirmary. It’s my karking business! Who does he think he is, the head boss of the galaxy?”

Ben smiled mildly at the man’s ire. “I believe he is under the impression that he’s in charge of the glorious Gardulla’s holdings and household. Like some kind of major domo or something.”

“Don’t get smart with me, ma bukee. The major domo can eat bantha poodoo if he thinks he’s in charge of my infirmary.”

Muttering invective under his breath, the medic stormed through the room, slamming open cupboards and drawers to get out his tools. “Don’t just stand there, girl, make yourself useful! Get to cleaning that boy’s wound while I get the sutures ready,” he barked, seemingly forgetting that he was objecting to her being there in the first place.

Ben released a breath, relieved that his play to pit the medic against his long-time nemesis the major domo had distracted him from questioning the woman’s presence too closely. Ben gestured at his back, and the woman obediently took up the disinfectant and a cloth and moved around to the other side of the table. He heard her sharp intake of breath as she caught sight of the four parallel lacerations scored across his upper back.

“That wound looks awful,” the medic complained at him. “You look awful.”

“You should see the other guy,” Ben said, tilting his head back slightly to give the woman a quick smile and wink, trying to set her at ease.

“I have seen the ‘other guy.’ Two weeks ago, in the arena. Feasting on a Gamorrean’s intestines.” The medic grimaced as he glanced at Ben again. “Looks like that nexu got you good, kid.”

Ben winced as the woman dabbed at the edges of the scratches with the stinging cleanser, then grinned. “Not at all—this was just a love tap.”

The medic snorted. “A few more of those ‘love taps’ and you’d be in bloody ribbons, boy. You need to quit sleeping in the beast’s cage. As your medic, it’s my professional opinion that it’s bad for your health.” He deposited a tray with needles, sutures and tweezers on the table at Ben’s side. “Move over, girl, let me have a look…”

“I certainly do not sleep in the nexu’s cage,” Ben said, grimacing as the medic prodded at his back. “I sleep in the massiff kennel. They’re much better bedmates.” The medic snorted, though Ben was being serious. They were certainly better than his fellow gladiators, none of whom really liked Ben and some of whom actively hated him. He felt safer sleeping with vicious animals than anywhere near most of them. At least no one tried to sneak up on him in his sleep if he was surrounded by such a large number of fangs and claws. It had taken Ben a few days and several unsuccessful experiments to get the hang of the Force technique used to calm and control animals, but now the massifs practically ate out of his hand. He knew that his affinity for the bad-tempered beasts had raised a few eyebrows, but no one had made the leap in logic to him being Force-sensitive—not that he was afraid they would, when there were plenty of people that had a knack for animal handling, Force or no. The only revelation that had occurred was that the head trainer had started teaching him to be a beast fighter and handler.

Only the first scratch was deep enough to need stitches, which the medic carried out with his usual ill grace and no additional effort or anesthetic expended for the comfort of his patient. Ben gritted his teeth against the unpleasant but by now familiar sensation of needle and thread sliding through his skin. Through it all, the woman stood by, swabbing the injury with disinfectant and fetching dermal glue on the medic’s orders.

The medic had just finished stitching when his door burst open again. Two people hustled in, supporting a third barely conscious man between them. His back was covered in bloody stripes.

“What’s all this about?” the medic shouted.

“Her Eminence had Banai flogged.”

“What the hell for?”

“He spoke out of turn. Asked her to help his wife.”

“Help her? With what? You know what, never mind, I don’t care. Ben, get your ass off my table, I need it. Girl, put a dressing on that and then both of you get out of here.”

Ben knelt on the floor in the corner so the woman could finish dressing his back. He felt her fingers twitch against his shoulder each time Rakir Banai moaned in agony and sensed her worry in the Force when the man finally passed out. Ben, for his part, was relieved that Banai at least would not suffer through the medic’s ministrations.

When the woman finished with him, he stood and helped her disinfect and put away the tools. The medic wouldn’t thank them for leaving his infirmary a mess. Ben stretched up to put the needles back on the highest shelf in a cabinet, but flinched as his back flared with pain. In his sudden spasm, he knocked a jar off the shelf. It burst open, scattering its contents on the floor.

“You moron!” the medic roared as Ben hastily bent to clean up the mess. “What do you think you’re doing, knocking my things on the floor and messing up my infirmary?”

“Sorry, sir, I was just putting the needles away—”

“The suture needles don’t even go in that cabinet, you bantha-brained blockhead! They go over there! Clean that up and get out of my infirmary! And don’t let me catch you reaching up again. You’ll rip your stitches out, right after I went to the trouble of putting them in, too—I’m not doing it again!”

Luckily, the medic was way across the room and busy with the unconscious man, or Ben would have suffered his fists as well as his tongue-lashing. Ben made quick work of the mess he made, then grabbed the new girl and practically dragged her out the door. He had definitely overstayed his welcome with the medic. He’d have to try his best to avoid injury, accidental or otherwise, and stay out of the infirmary for the next few months. No more provoking the nexu into clawing him for a while.

Once away from the chaos, he caught the woman’s arm, gently pulling her into an alcove. “Are you all right?” he asked softly. He could still feel her despair at seeing Banai in that state, at knowing his wife was slowly dying in childbed—at failing to get what she had risked so much for.

Her brown eyes found his. “Of course. You’re the one injured—are you all right?”

“Yes, perfectly fine. Thank you for staying and patching me up. Your bedside manner is much better than our esteemed medic’s.” He smiled at her, and she gave him a small smile in return. “What’s your name?”

“Shmi. Shmi Skywalker.”

“Thank you again, Shmi. And tell Breela not to worry. In you, she has a very brave friend looking out for her.”

He pressed the sachet of herbs he’d swiped from the floor as he was cleaning it into her palm. Her eyes widened as she looked down at the japor bark in her hand. Ben smiled softly as he felt her hope kindle in the Force.

“Thank you, Ben,” she whispered, her brown eyes bright with tears unshed.

“Ben, could you do something for me?” Padmé asks, as sweetly as she can manage without overdoing it.

“Of course,” the man says, looking up from studying a technical schematic of one of the new parts of the pod.

“Would you allow me to treat your injuries?” Padmé asks, bringing the tube of bacta gel out from behind her back.

Ben smiles at her. “You really don’t need to waste that on me. I’ll be just fine.”

“It’s not a waste at all,” Padmé argues. “I would consider it a great favor. After all, I’ve already eaten your food, availed myself of your hospitality for most of the day and tonight, and enlisted your help with saving my planet. You could at least do me this one little favor in return, couldn’t you?” Given the amount of Ben’s sarcastic wit she’s seen throughout the day, she figures that a jest would be the easiest way to get him to consent. She is not disappointed.

Ben’s smile widens and becomes more genuine, his blue eyes lively with humor, and Padmé’s heart definitely does not skip a beat. She’s just feeling a little funny and warm because she’s been out working in the heat of the two suns most of the day, that’s all.

“Why, how rude of me,” Ben says. “Of course I will cooperate with whatever you wish, my lady. My debt to you is great.”

A great debt indeed, Padme thinks. Regardless of the outcome of tomorrow’s race, Padmé cannot in good conscience allow Ben or Ani to remain slaves. They have already put themselves at risk many times over to help them, with no thought to themselves. It may take Padmé months, if not years, to find the means to free them from bondage, but she swears to herself that she will find a way.

Ben takes a seat on his overturned bucket and shrugs off his tunic, completely unselfconscious. Padmé bites her lip as his abused body is revealed to her, back mottled red and purple with bruises and scrapes. She swallows her sympathy and gets to work.

Padmé has always enjoyed helping others. It’s what led her to a life in public service. Serving her people as queen is eminently satisfying, but the thing she misses most about it is the personal connection to people. She is the monarch, and thus is meant to be elevated above the throng, but she has never lost sight of who she is really working for—her people, all of them. That is why Sabé often tasks her, as a “handmaiden,” with personally attending certain postulants to the throne. Like with cleaning R2-D2—her faithful body double knew that she needed to keep her hands busy, and the chance to be of service to someone, even a droid, was what she needed to center herself after the horror that they had just escaped.

So tending to Ben’s injuries now, when she feels so powerless, is therapeutic for her as well as her patient. She may not be able to help her people, but she can help Ben. Ben’s skin is warm and surprisingly soft where it isn’t marred with old scars. She can see lines that look like they came from a whip, alongside numerous circular scars from electrojabbers and what appears to be multiple bite marks of various sizes. Ben clearly has not had an easy life. Padmé slathers a generous layer of bacta on his back and his front, which is just as scarred. She has him move his right arm around to see how badly it’s hurt, feels the lean muscle flex under his skin. She thinks his arm isn’t too seriously injured and tells him as much, though she’s no medic to judge. Ben just smiles at her and says he’s had worse.

Her face feels warm again. She’s never been this close to a man before, touching his bare chest and shoulders all over like this. She chides herself for making something that should be innocent weird. This is for Ben, and has nothing to do with her or her hormonal desires.

When Padmé is finished tending every injury she can find on Ben’s torso, he thanks her and finds a cloth for her to clean her hands of the bacta gel. She sinks down into the chair across the table from him, tired from a long day, and idly tries to finger-comb her hair as she watches Ben apply more bacta to a scratch on his calf.

“I can help you with your hair, if you want,” Ben offers. “I promise not to pull.”

“That would be much appreciated, thank you.” Padme is never going to get all the snarls out without help or a mirror.

Ben fetches a hairbrush. It seems odd that he has one, as both he and Ani have short hair, but Padmé is grateful that he does. He doesn’t undo the braids at the top of her head, but there is more than enough of her hair left loose that he has his work cut out for him. He is as good as his word though, patiently untangling any knots without yanking and smoothly running the brush through her unbound hair. His soft touch on her scalp and neck is calm and gentle, and Padmé can feel herself relaxing, the tension in her shoulders easing.

“Mmmm, you’re good at this,” Padmé hums.

Ben is quiet a moment, then says, “I used to help Anakin’s mother with her hair, sometimes.”

Padmé’s eyes open from having drifted shut, curiosity piqued. “If you don’t mind my asking, what happened to her?”

“She was sold,” Ben responds. “Gardulla took a dislike to her, so she sold her away from Mos Espa, purposely without Ani.”

For a moment, Padmé is so overcome with disbelief and anger that she cannot speak. “That’s awful,” she finally says, forcing the words out around the lump in her throat. “Does that mean that you have not seen her since?”

“Gardulla is one of the cruelest beings I've ever had the displeasure to meet,” Ben said. “She sold Ani’s mother through a third-party private trafficking operation instead of directly handling the transaction herself, specifically to make it almost impossible for any of her friends or family to find her later on. I have tried to track her down, but there is little that I can do, as a slave myself.”

“I’m so sorry,” Padmé says. She now has an additional mission: as soon as this business with the Trade Federation is over, she will find a way to free not only Ben and Ani, but Ani’s mother too. “How long ago was she sold?”

“Ani was not yet three.”

Padmé swallows past the lump in her throat. “You must miss her.”

“Oh, only every hour of every day,” Ben says, chuckling a little, but soon regaining solemnity. “I never thought I would have to raise Anakin on my own. We always knew that separation was a possibility, even a likelihood. But somehow, I always assumed that I would be the one separated from them.” Ben sighs. “If only that were the case. Ani deserves a mother to take care of him, not a boy barely out of childhood himself.”

“I would hardly call you a boy.”

“I was just eighteen when Anakin became solely my responsibility. And before Anakin, I had no experience taking care of young children.”

Padmé turns in her seat to face Ben, letting her hair slide out of his hands. “Perhaps it’s not my place, but I think you have done a wonderful job raising Ani. He is compassionate and kind, as well as resourceful and loyal,” she says, meeting Ben’s sad, blue eyes. “He could not ask for a better father.”

He gives her a wan smile. “You’re too kind, milady, but I thank you. Ani has grown to be a wonderful boy, in spite of my shortcomings. But I do think I have done the best I could, and I suppose that is all that I can ask of myself, whether my best was good enough or not.”

Padmé ponders this. It is, she thinks, a healthy attitude to have. Perhaps she should be giving herself a little more grace than she has been in this situation with the Trade Federation. She is doing her best, now and always, for her people, and that is all that she can do.

Chapter Text

The sandstorm was closing in, but Mos Espa wasn’t far off. They should have been able to make it. But when they reached Smuggler’s Canyon, Ben knew they would never get there.

“I have a bad feeling about this.”

“Shut it,” Udez growled, but he was arming himself even as he spoke. “I’ve come too far on this karked job to let them get me now.”

His words belied the way Ben knew the Weequay really felt about this enforcement run. He had been cursing the suns all morning—came this close to cursing out Gardulla herself, but didn’t want it to get back to her. He’d been short with his crew and the moisture farmers alike, pushing everything to go as fast as possible. He was nervous, and he had every reason to be. Normally he collected Gardulla’s water tax from the moisture farmers in her territory with eight or ten hardened enforcers, which ensured there was no trouble from the farmers or the Sand People. Today, due to an epidemic of dryditch fever burning through Mos Espa and Gardulla’s regular forces, he had a young Zabrak driver that had never worked enforcement before and two slaves: Ben for muscle and Shmi for her mechanical skills with vaporators.

“Give me the readout, boy!” Udez barked.

Ben already had the macrobinoculars up to his eyes, studying the line of the sandstorm. “It’s headed this way, all right. I’d say about an hour till it reaches us. Maybe less if the wind picks up like it’s been threatening to do.” He had a feeling that was more than likely. The weather had been very strange lately. It felt like this storm had been brewing all week. Ben could feel it churning in the Force. It made him uneasy.

Shmi surreptitiously took Ben’s hand, squeezing it tight. Ben could feel her apprehension. “Almost there,” he murmured to her, and she nodded, grim-faced. Being out of the palace and away from Gardulla was, in a way, a reprieve, but Ben would be glad when this was over. He’d tasted enough fear and anger in the Force for one day. At least he was in good company with Shmi, whose presence as a dear friend was all that made their distasteful errand bearable. Ben adjusted both their seats so she was sitting in his shadow in the speeder, mindful of how long and hot the day had been for her. It wasn’t typical for Shmi or him to be sent out with the enforcers like this. It wasn’t a typical task for any slave, really, especially not an arena fighter like Ben. It probably went to show just how desperate Gardulla was to find personnel that she would let a flight risk like Ben out of the palace with so little supervision at all.

Ben really hated it when events bore out his bad feelings. At the narrowest point in the canyon, they ran into a roadblock erected by Tusken Raiders. Before the rookie Zabrak could get the clunky speeder turned around, they were surrounded.

Ben managed to wrest a gaderffii stick from one of the attacking Tuskens, which at least gave him a weapon, but he was distracted when Shmi screamed. He turned just in time to see the Raiders hauling her over the side of the speeder. Ben didn’t even think before he jumped after her, heart in his throat. He was concentrating on fighting his way through to her, so he didn’t quite notice when the two enforcers managed to turn the tide with their blasters and the defense mechanisms on the speeder just enough to to break free of the ambush. He did, however, notice when the speeder zoomed away, leaving him and Shmi behind.

A score of Tusken Raiders surrounded him. Ben dropped the gaderffii, defeated. If he tried to fight with no means to escape, they would only kill him.

The Sand People were efficient in securing their prisoners. They soon had Ben bound and up on a bantha with only a little beating of their prisoner, and Shmi seated behind him. They wasted no time in moving out. The Tuskens were in a hurry too—they no more wanted to be caught in the sandstorm than Udez had.

Ben’s thoughts raced, dread souring his stomach. It was bad enough that he was captured by Sand People, but for Shmi to have to face their cruelty—no, he couldn’t let that happen. His friend was pressed up to his back, hands bound around his waist. Ben could practically feel her heart hammering through her chest where it was pressed against his spine.

Ben buried his bound hands in the bantha’s shaggy fur, breathing deep to center himself. He slipped into meditation, expanding his awareness in the Force, finding the slow, calm mind of the bantha under him. He let his thoughts extend to his surroundings, to the whole herd of banthas bearing their Tusken riders, and then beyond. He could feel the sandstorm close behind them and drawing ever nearer. It felt wild in the Force, roiling and steaming like a boiling kettle. It was like nothing Ben had ever felt before.

Ben turned his attention back to his own bantha. The beast started to slow, dropping back in the line, letting its faster fellows go ahead of it. Soon Ben and Shmi were last in line and dropping even further back. Ben waited until he felt the attention of one of the Raiders turn to them, felt the cry rising in his throat, before he leapt into action.

Using his influence over the herd’s minds, Ben shoved as much panic and alarm into the Force as he could, simultaneously shrieking his best impression of a krayt dragon call. The result was instantaneous. Half the herd started bellowing and many began to run, panic-stricken. They ran in the direction they knew home was in—all but one. Ben instead turned the head of his and Shmi's bantha straight back toward the sandstorm.

Ben was counting on the near stampede he had caused to slow down the Raiders’ pursuit of them, and he was counting on the sandstorm to stop it entirely. He only hoped that the Tuskens didn’t consider the recovery of them and this one bantha to supersede the need to get back to their settlement and out of the storm.

Miraculously, Ben’s gamble paid off. The pursuit did not materialize, not with an enormous sandstorm bearing down on their position. And it was enormous, easily the biggest sandstorm in ten years. And also much closer than Ben had anticipated, he realized with a sinking feeling. There was no way they could make it to safety before it hit.

Ben would have to change tack. There was an outcropping of rock ahead that would at least provide some shelter if they could get to the lee of it. He steered the bantha in that direction.

They might have made it. If Ben were stronger, or better able to clear his own mind in order to keep command of the bantha, they could have made it. However, as soon as they turned in the direction of the storm, everything became ten times harder. Ben had to fight against the beast’s instincts in order to get it to run headfirst into a sandstorm, which required a great deal of concentration and will. But the most difficult thing was that the Force, which had been getting more troublesome with each league the sandstorm advanced, had now become almost completely unmanageable.

Ben had never felt anything like it. The Force whipped and roiled around him, like the wind itself. One moment, he could hardly feel it at all, and the next his connection to it would be blown wide open, nearly flattening him with its overwhelming power. He sensed things in the gale that he knew could not possibly be anywhere nearby, the Force buffeting him with sounds and sensations that had somehow become caught up in the storm. When he tried to shield himself off from these extremely distracting fluctuations, he was alarmed to realize that he didn’t seem to be able to. His shields were incredibly difficult to raise, and seemed to be largely ineffective against the wild Force beating at them.

It was just before the line of the storm hit them that the panicked bantha finally slipped Ben’s control and threw them. Ben twisted as he fell, trying to gather Shmi to him so that his body would break her fall. He mostly succeeded, at the cost of knocking the wind out of himself and possibly cracking a rib or two as his back impacted the ground hard.

He cursed as he staggered to his feet, watching the bantha run wildly away. Shmi was already standing and winding a cloth around her head to protect her nose and mouth from the sand, face grim. Ben pulled his headscarf over his face and then grabbed Shmi’s hand, turning them toward their only hope—where the rock outcropping was a minute ago, and was now obscured by dust.

“Don’t let go!” he called to her, and she nodded back, gripping his hand so tight he may have bruises. That was all they had time for before the sandstorm engulfed them.

The sandstorm raged for the entire night and most of the next day. It was another day before searchers found them, curled up together in the meager shelter of the rock outcropping and nearly dead from exposure and dehydration.

On the third day after he walked into the storm with Shmi, Ben awoke on a cot in the medic’s ward in Gardulla’s palace to the realization that his connection to the Force…was gone.

“Stay still now, Ani. Let me clean this cut.” Despite the very long day the boy has had and how hard he has worked during it, Anakin is still full of beans when Qui-Gon tries to sit him down and tend the scratch he got from some sharp mechanical part—a consequence of being buried to the elbows in his pod for half the day.

“There’s so many!” Ani isn’t paying attention to what Qui-Gon is doing. His gaze is fixed on the stars. “Do they all have a system of planets?”

Qui-Gon glances up at the stars, clearly visible from where they sit. The slave quarter of Mos Espa has very little light pollution. “Most of them.”

“Has anyone ever been to them all?”

“Hm. Not likely.”

“Someday, I’m gonna discover a new planet, maybe even a whole new system!” Qui-Gon returns the boy’s smile. This is good. Anakin’s declaration shows that he is feeling confident.

“Ani, bedtime,” Ben calls from inside the house.

Qui-Gon uses Ani’s distraction to quickly take a blood sample. The pinch causes the boy to flinch, but Qui-Gon keeps hold of his arm and applies an adhesive bandage. “There we are. Good as new.”

“Ani!” Ben pokes his head through the door for a moment. “I’m not gonna tell you again.”

Despite his father’s warning, the boy lingers. “What are you doing?”

“Checking your blood for infections,” Qui-Gon says mildly. “Go on. You have a big day tomorrow. Sleep well, Ani.”

Once the boy is inside, Qui-Gon comms Ric Olié back on the ship. He should probably be calling Captain Panaka, but the captain has been rather hostile to him throughout their ordeal. Olié is more willing to trust him, and besides, he is more familiar with the ship’s systems.

Qui-Gon walks the man through how to do a blood analysis for midi-chlorians. Olié has never heard of midi-chlorians, but he’s an adept pilot and a deft hand with the ship’s computer. He’ll be able to figure it out.

As he waits for Olié to install the correct application, he is surprised to feel a concentration of energy in the Force quite close by. He closes his eyes and reaches out, searching for the source, and realizes that it is coming from the one tiny bedroom, where Ben and Ani are meditating together. Qui-Gon observes them in the Force for a moment, noting how young Anakin, though still just a novice, instinctively allows Ben to lead them both into a calming trance, compartmentalizing the day’s events and settling their energies in preparation for sleep. They fall into the steps of the simple meditation easily, and Ani’s concentration rarely wanders, which tells Qui-Gon that meditation is part of their regular routine. He allows himself to drift just outside their sphere of calm for a bit, relaxing his own mind in a half trance, before he pulls himself away to help Olié.

Getting the result of the analysis takes several more minutes, as the application is purposely not at all intuitive for others to use, but Olié is determined to figure it out. “Well, I have a result, but I think I must have gone wrong somewhere,” Olié finally says. “Or maybe these readings are typically off the charts? This chart goes to twenty thousand, but according to the reading I got, this sample is higher.”

Qui-Gon feels something heavy settle in his stomach. “That would be…highly unusual.”

“I can run it again.”

“Thank you, Mr. Olié, but that won’t be necessary. Unlikely as this result is, I feel that it is nonetheless correct.”

“What does that mean?”

Qui-Gon suddenly senses the attention of another, and looks up to find Ben leaning against the doorframe, watching him with narrowed eyes.

“…I don’t know,” he tells Olié, and ends the call.

Qui-Gon looks at Ben, wondering when he and Ani had wrapped up their meditation, and how long the young man has been there, listening to his conversation with the pilot. Ben, for his part, looks right back, letting the silence hang between them for a minute.

“I know that Anakin and I are only slaves,” Ben finally says, “and therefore we have no rights. But just because I am not allowed to make decisions about what happens to me or Anakin does not mean that I wouldn't appreciate you asking me before taking blood from my child.” Qui-Gon bows his head, a hint of shame growing in his chest. “Besides,” Ben continues, “you don’t own us. What right do you have to take Ani’s blood?”

Qui-Gon looks up again to meet Ben’s hard gaze. “You are right. I should have asked you before testing Anakin’s blood. I was carried away by my own curiosity.” He shifts on the low wall. “You may not have the legal right to give this permission, but as Anakin’s father, it should be yours, regardless. It would be yours, if we were in a more civilized system. I apologize for not respecting that.”

Ben studies him a moment longer, then his stance softens and he comes to join Qui-Gon on the wall. He sits with his legs dangling out over the buildings below, turned towards Qui-Gon, balancing gracefully on the narrow ledge in spite of his injuries.

“How much of the conversation did you hear?” Qui-Gon asks.

“More than you think I did,” Ben responds.

Qui-Gon briefly wonders if he should ask Ben if he knows what midi-chlorians are, but decides to assume that he does. Ben has a surprising amount of knowledge about the Force for someone raised outside the Temple. “Does it surprise you that his count could be so high?”

Ben shrugs. “Ani is…extremely strong in the Force. Has been ever since he was a baby. His mother and I ran ourselves ragged trying to hide his abilities. We lived in fear that Gardulla would discover that he was Force-sensitive.”

Qui-Gon shudders. He is keenly aware of what a Force-sensitive child is worth in the slave trade, and of the dreadful fate that often befalls enslaved Force-sensitives. He is grateful to whomever taught Ben the skills he needed to keep himself and Ani hidden.

Ben’s response reminds Qui-Gon of another question he has been meaning to ask. “Who was his mother? Was she also Force-sensitive?”

“Her name was Shmi Skywalker,” Ben says. “And no, she wasn't.”

Qui-Gon nods, not too surprised. While midi-chlorian genes are passed on solely through the maternal line, actual midi-chlorian count and resulting Force-sensitivity are more complex, and depend on the father as much as the mother. “Do you know your midi-chlorian count?”

“It’s not quite thirteen thousand.”

Qui-Gon nods again. That’s within normal range for a Jedi Knight. He laments again that Ben had not been born in the Republic, that he had not been found by the Order. What a Jedi he would have made.

“Did you and Shmi have any other children together?” Qui-Gon asks.

Ben is silent for a long time. Qui-Gon braces himself for a tragic story.

“Anakin isn’t my biological son,” Ben finally says. Qui-Gon releases the breath he had been holding. This was unexpected. And yet, hadn’t Qui-Gon thought when he met Ben that he seemed rather young to have a nine-year-old son? “Shmi and I were close friends. We were both sold to Gardulla at around the same time, and neither of us had any family or other connections, so we stuck together. But we never…Shmi was like a sister to me.”

“Do you know who Ani’s father was?”

Ben takes a breath, looks Qui-Gon straight in the eye when he says, “There was no father.”

Qui-Gon can feel the young man’s sincerity in the Force. Ben is telling the truth. Qui-Gon can feel his own heart pounding. Could it be…?

“Neither Shmi nor I can explain what happened. Just…one day she found out she was pregnant. She carried him, she gave birth…I don’t know how it’s possible, but that’s how it happened.”

Qui-Gon takes a deep breath, ancient prophecy ringing in his ears. Born of no father…

Ben peers at him. “That means something to you, doesn’t it?”

Qui-Gon clears his throat, unsure how much he should tell Ben. “Perhaps,” he says, but does not elaborate. “Does Anakin know—?”

“He knows that I am not his biological father, but I’m not sure if he understands that he has no father. I didn’t really explain—it’s not like I have any explanations to give him. I didn’t know what to say.”

“But he thinks of you as his father.”

Ben shakes his head. “People just assume that I’m either Anakin’s father or his brother. I’m the closest thing he has to either one, so we let them. It’s the easiest explanation for our circumstances when others need a story.”

Qui-Gon nods again, deep in thought. This is a fascinating development. If Ben is not the father of Anakin, then it was extremely good fortune that this young man, a trained Force user, came to be in a position to protect and guide this extraordinary boy during a vulnerable childhood. Good fortune, or perhaps…the will of the Force.

“I know what you’re thinking,” Ben says softly. “You want to take Anakin with you when you leave. You want to train him to be a Jedi.”

Qui-Gon meets Ben’s eyes. The young man looks at him steadily, assessing. Qui-Gon turns his torso to face him. “Yes, that is what I wish. But as yet I have seen no opportunity to do this. Under the current circumstances of my mission, it is unlikely that I will be able to free Ani.” He does not mention that he wants to free Ben as well. It means little when they both know how impossible it is.

“There will be an opportunity,” Ben says. “All that remains is for you to decide whether you will take it.” Ben speaks calmly, with conviction, as though he is certain of this outcome. Has he had a premonition? A vision? Prescience is not one of Qui-Gon’s talents, and he is often torn between being skeptical of an ability that he fundamentally does not understand, and fascinated by what those who can look ahead see in the future.

“I am the closest thing Ani has to a father, but I am also a slave,” Ben says. “If you decided to take Ani, whether you buy him or steal him or get him by some other means, there is absolutely nothing I could do to stop you.” Ben exhales shakily. Qui-Gon’s heart goes out to the young man. It is clear that this is a fear Ben has struggled with a long time.

“There is only one thing I can do, impotent as it may be,” Ben continues, holding Qui-Gon’s gaze with intense blue eyes. “I ask you to promise that when Anakin is declared too old, or too attached, or too emotional—too angry,” Ben’s voice breaks a little on the last word, and he has to pause a moment to take a breath and compose himself. “If it is decided that Anakin is not fit to be trained as a Jedi Knight—promise that you will not allow him to be lost, or cast aside. Promise that you will find a good place for him, where he can grow up safe. Please, look out for him when I can’t anymore.”

Ben finally looks away, out across the darkened slave quarter of Mos Espa. “I know that’s a lot to ask. Your code may not allow you to make such a vow. But please, if you can’t agree to this—” Ben looks again at Qui-Gon, and Qui-Gon’s heart hurts to see the pain in the young man’s expression. “Don’t take him. Don’t take Anakin and then leave him alone. He’s resourceful and clever, but he’s still just a little boy. He needs someone to be there for him.”

Qui-Gon is deeply moved by Ben’s plea. The profound care and love the young man has for Anakin, tempered by the understanding that he is powerless to protect and provide for the boy in the way he most wants, threatens to bring tears to the Jedi Master’s eyes. He can hear in Ben’s voice and feel in the Force the years of fear for his charge and frustrated longing to be able to provide a good life for the child he considers as good as his own. Qui-Gon takes a deep breath and consciously releases the emotion into the Force. Then he reaches out to Ben, settling a hand on the young man’s shoulder and wrapping him in his presence in the Force. Miraculously, Ben does not push him away, but accepts the comfort offered. When Qui-Gon reaches further into his mind, Ben opens to him and allows Qui-Gon to help him release some of the soul-deep pain that he has carried alone for so many years.

Ben is so beautifully responsive to him, following his direction easily and opening and raising his shields around both of them as they commune together in the Force. This is not only a result of Ben’s previous training, but a sign of compatibility between them. If things had been different—so many, many things—Qui-Gon thinks he might have taken Ben as his Padawan learner, in another life. He quietly releases the lingering pain of his previous failed attempts at training a Padawan into the Force before Ben can pick up on it.

As he begins to withdraw, Qui-Gon senses a hint of Ben’s loneliness. He sees that it has been many years since Ben has encountered any Force-sensitive other than Anakin. And though this kind of comfort is something that he has given to Ani, he no longer remembers the last time he received guidance from a master like this. Qui-Gon senses the young man’s gratitude as they separate their minds, Ben’s now lighter in spite of the great burden he carries.

Qui-Gon lets the silence linger for a moment, lets them both settle back into their separate spaces before he speaks. “You need not worry about Anakin should I take him with me. I am confident that the Council will see what I see in him and approve his training.”

“With you?” Ben asks.

Qui-Gon hesitates. “Ideally with another. I believe I am not the best choice to train Anakin.” Then, seeing that Ben is not satisfied with this answer, adds, “But I will train him, of course, if there is no better option.”

Ben nods. “And if he is too old?”

Qui-Gon sighs internally. Ben is clearly not to be distracted when it comes to Ani’s welfare. He wonders again how it is that Ben is so familiar with the Jedi Code and practices. He must have been trained by a Jedi. Why won’t he name his teacher?

“I do not believe the Council will refuse Anakin training. But whatever happens, we will look after him. The Jedi do not abandon our younglings.”

Ben squeezes his eyes shut as though in pain, but he finally nods. He moves to leave, slipping out from under the hand Qui-Gon still has on his shoulder. He does not bid Qui-Gon goodnight, and Qui-Gon is left with the unaccountable impression that he has somehow said the wrong thing.

“Ben. I think I’m pregnant.”

Ben’s heart froze in his chest. He stared at Shmi in dawning horror, at her wide, wet eyes and mouth closed tight, trying to hold everything else in after that momentous pronouncement.

Ben sucked in a breath. “Shmi, what happened?” How could he have missed this? He would never forgive himself if he had failed to protect her from this, especially if he had failed so badly that she wouldn’t even tell him about it when it had happened.

“I don’t know.” Gathered tears quivered on her lashes. “I—I don’t remember—anyone—anything happening, I—” A teardrop broke free and rolled down her cheek.

Ben pulled Shmi to him and wrapped her in his arms, where she buried her face in his chest. He just held her for a moment, reaching out instinctively to the Force for comfort and a little surprised when it allowed him to wrap its protective light around them both. He was still having trouble accessing the Force. Even weeks after the insane sandstorm that took them away, only some of his abilities were coming back very slowly, and none were back up to his previous levels. He was beginning to think that this wasn’t just an advanced case of Force exhaustion, but that he would never again be able to reach the Force as he once had. It was yet another loss that he had experienced in these last three years, and yet this one might hurt the most. He had come to rely on the Force for so much—he had so little else reliable in his life. He may not have consistent safety, rights, support, family, friends, or sustenance, but the Force had always been there. He had never felt so alone and bereft than he did now with the Force’s seeming abandonment of him.

“Please tell me, Shmi,” Ben murmured, stroking her hair. “I will help you. Whatever you need, I will help, just tell me what it is.”

Shmi took a shuddering breath against his chest. “I was hoping you could tell me,” she said quietly. “I don’t remember anything happening. I haven’t—not in a long time. I’m afraid that I was…drugged or something.”

Ben cast his mind back over his memories of the last few months. “I don’t remember you ever disappearing, or seeming out of sorts, like you were drugged or like someone had been messing with you. But then I’m usually away from you for most of the day, so I might not have seen. Are you missing any time? Anything that felt off in your memories?”

“No, nothing like that.”

“That’s good. You would have noticed something if you were drugged. What makes you think you’re pregnant?”

“I have the symptoms. I’m nauseous, I get tired quickly, I feel bloated and crampy, my breasts hurt. I can’t stand the smell of fuel fumes anymore. And I’ve missed my last two periods.”

“That is some pretty overwhelming evidence. Have you talked to anyone else?”

“I asked Ma Jira to examine me. She says I am too.”

Ben nodded, rubbing a comforting hand over her shoulders. “And we know Ma Jira knows what she’s talking about. The stars only know how many babies she’s helped deliver.”

Silence fell between them, Ben deep in his own thoughts as he held his friend, trying to get his brain to think past the sheer shock of this new development.

“Ben?”

“Hm?”

“Is it possible for a woman to have a child without a father?”

“I don’t know. I’ve never heard of such a thing happening.”

“Me neither. I just thought…maybe the gods…” Her voice lowers to a whisper. “Or your—your Force…”

Ben took a deep breath. After the sandstorm, Shmi was the only one who knew that he was Force-sensitive, but they never spoke openly of it. “One of my teachers was fond of saying that ‘with the Force, possible all things are.’” He smiled. “I’m not sure if this is what he meant, but—maybe. Maybe we can chalk this one up to Force shenanigans.”

Shmi pulled away from him a bit to look up at his face, and he could see that she was smiling, face dry once more. “You know, Ma Jira thought you were the father.”

Ben’s brain screeched to a halt and his mouth dropped open—completely without his input too, which rude. Shmi started giggling at whatever stupid expression his face was making. Ben shook himself out of his second shock of the last fifteen minutes and started chuckling too. It was pretty funny, after all, and he was glad that Shmi was smiling again after their mutual panic.

“Really. Me? Ma Jira knows you can do better.”

“It makes sense, though, I guess. We’re together a lot, and now that you’re allowed to bunk in the household slaves’ wing, we usually sleep together—I mean, we share a sleep pallet—”

Ben tried to ignore the sinking feeling in his stomach as he watched Shmi stumble over her words. “You told Ma Jira that I’m not the father, right?” Shmi’s face was slowly turning red, and she was looking anywhere but at him. Ben took her by the shoulders and gently leaned her away from him so he could look her in the eye. “Shmi, you did tell her that I’m not the father, right?”

Shmi’s blush only deepened. “I didn’t know what to tell her! She assumed, and what was I supposed to say, that I didn’t know who the father was?”

Ben groaned as he hung his head. “Well, that’s certainly hit the gossip mill by now.”

“I’m sorry, Ben.” Shmi took both his hands in hers, holding them between their bodies. “Do you want to tell them it isn’t yours? We can try to stop people talking.”

Ben snorted. “Stop a juicy rumor like this? Not likely.” He glanced up at Shmi. “You don’t want to tell them it isn’t mine?”

Shmi fell quiet a moment, considering her words. “I don’t want anyone to know that this baby is…different.” Ben winced. The child would be born a slave and sometimes differences were exploitable. It would be disastrous if people knew. “So it has to have a father. I could make something up, some anonymous man who left without giving me his name, but the more likely explanation is still you. No one will believe anything else. Besides—” Shmi squeezed his hands, and he looked up, meeting her eyes. “If you’re the father, you have a good excuse to be near us. And I want you in our lives, Ben.”

Ben swallowed hard against the lump in his throat. What had he done to deserve this woman’s trust, that she would welcome a boy so lost as him into her family like this? He bowed his head, pressing his forehead to hers and letting his eyes fall shut as he felt her breath.

He twitched the fingers of his hand in hers. “May I—?”

Shmi nodded, understanding immediately, and drew his hand down to place it on her belly. Ben reached out to the Force, since it was behaving for him for once, and almost immediately he felt it: that small spark of potential that signified a new life. Tears pricked at his eyes, but his cheeks ached with how wide he was smiling.

“Hello there, little one.”

He heard Shmi’s gasp, and opened his eyes to find tears on her face again. “It’s beautiful, Shmi. It’s just perfect.”

Then Shmi’s arms were around him, hugging him tight. “Thank you, Ben.”

Ben wasn’t sure how long he stood there, returning her embrace and basking in her presence and the light of the little life she carried. He had not felt the warmth of family since he was sent away from the Temple three years ago. He had thought that maybe this was something that he just was not meant to have anymore, like so many things he missed from his previous life. But thank the Force, he had been wrong.

Finally, they separated, wiping at their eyes but still smiling. Ben cleared his throat. “Ma Jira is going to be after my hide for knocking you up.”

Shmi gave a watery laugh. “No, she won’t. She likes you. I think she approves, mostly, just thinks you’re a bit young.”

Ben laughed as well, a little breathlessly. “A bit? I’m way too young to have a kid. I’m fifteen, Shmi, I haven’t even finished growing yet. What do I know about being a father?”

Shmi just waved away his concerns. “No one really knows anything about being a father until they actually are one. Besides,” she said, smiling, “If fatherhood doesn’t work out for you, I guess you’ll just have to be the protective big brother.”

Ben smiled at her, heart giving a heavy thump. “I can work with that.”

By the time Shmi was due to give birth, Ben thought he had prepared himself for the coming child as well as he could. He had talked with all the grandmothers, mothers, fathers and grandfathers, who were both pleased and amused at being asked for their advice. It seemed that many of their tips, though, were directly contradictory to others’. Were there really so many different parenting methods?

He had also spent some of his sparse free time helping look after the other slaves’ younglings to get some practical experience. This he enjoyed, but he found to his dismay that he was always glad to give them back to their parents at the end of the day. Ma Jira just laughed when he expressed this concern to her. “It’s different when it’s your child,” she told him. Unfortunately, that didn’t really reassure Ben, as he knew Shmi’s child wasn’t really his.

Most of his time not spent in training or working with the beasts was spent with Shmi though. She found Ben’s endeavors to “study up” being a parent highly entertaining, but what else was he to do? His earliest training had been to seek out knowledge when confronted with a task he was unprepared for, and that’s what he fell back on now, knowing how wholly inadequate he was to the challenge of childrearing.

Though he treasured any little bit of time he got to spend with Shmi, he liked the quiet moments best. Curled up together on their sleep pallet, or sitting around the kitchen with fellow slaves sharing cups of broombush tea, he would wrap his arm around her and rest his hand on the side of her burgeoning baby bump, the better to sense the little spark inside her. Shmi was amazed the first time Ben was able to calm the restless little one’s kicking with a touch.

“The baby is growing, becoming more aware of…me,” Ben explained to her, skirting around the topic they tried not to bring up. “I think that it’s like me, in that way.”

Shmi nodded, frowning slightly. They had both guessed that the child might be different, given what they suspected about its conception, but Ben was pretty sure by now that it was indeed Force-sensitive. The baby knew his Force presence, and frequently responded to him reaching out to it with little curls of recognition and innocent happiness that always made Ben’s breath catch when he felt it.

What’s more, Ben’s connection to the Force had been slowly coming back bit by bit, and he soon realized that it had something to do with the child. The little one was the first being he was able sense in the Force clearly and consistently, and his awareness and connection to the Force seemed to grow stronger as the baby grew. Ben hoped this meant that his Force abilities would make a full recovery. If this child was strong in the Force as Ben suspected it to be, he would need all his powers to protect it.

“The grandmothers say that children in the womb can hear the voices of those around them,” Shmi said thoughtfully. “This little one hears my voice all day. Perhaps it should become familiar with your voice too, not just your touch.”

Ben blinked. “You want me to…”

“Talk to it, yes,” Shmi smiled.

It was a strange thought, to talk out loud to Shmi’s unborn child. Something about it made him almost nervous, like he was inserting himself where he didn’t belong, filling a role that wasn’t his place. But Shmi wanted him to try, so he would.

At night, when Shmi lay sleeping, curled into him on their shared pallet, Ben bent his head to talk to the child inside her. Reaching out to it in the Force first, he smiled to find the babe sleepy but awake enough to reflect his happiness.

“Sometimes it doesn’t even seem real, that you’re almost here,” Ben murmured. “That I’m going to be a part of your life, and you’ll be part of mine. Your mother would have it so. She is so caring and kind to me, though I’m just a lost boy. After everything that’s happened, after everything I’ve done…well. You both deserve better than me, but I’m pretty much all you’ve got. Sorry about that.”

Ben breathed for a moment, taming the emotions this exercise released in his chest. “I won’t lie to you, little one. The world you wait to join is a difficult and dangerous place. I have seen a lot of such things. Too much. Enough to believe my heart when it tells me that I am meant for infinite sadness. I don’t know what your destiny holds, but this isn’t what I want for you. I want you to be happy. I want you to find peace. It’s not going to be easy, you’ll have to work hard for it, but I promise that I will help you as much as I can. I’ll protect you until you become the kind of person you want to be—someone better than me.”

Ben swiped a hand under his eyes, wiping away the moisture there. “I love you, baby. You’re not even here yet, but I already do. And I’m pretty sure that I always will, no matter what happens to us. So yeah, infinite sadness is probably an accurate premonition. But I’m also happy now, because of you, and your mother. So it’s worth it, I think. It will all be worth it.

“Good night, sweet dreams, dear one. You are loved. And we will see each other soon.”

Soon after, Ben felt the tiny presence slip off into slumber, and he followed, allowing the child’s bright light to lead him and feeling, for once, at peace.

After so much preparation, Ben was as ready as he could be for the baby. Which was to say, he wasn’t ready at all.

He felt the shift in the Force when Shmi went into labor. He could hardly concentrate on his training after that, but knew better than to ask the head trainer if he could leave early. He considered allowing himself to get injured on purpose so that he could go, but discarded the idea after considering that the medic would probably hold him in the medical ward all night out of spite. And Shmi probably wouldn’t be too happy with him being hurt either.

When he was finally released from training, he skipped latemeal to go directly to the household slaves’ quarters. He found Shmi, calmly waiting for her labor to progress, surrounded by Ma Jira and her helpers. They soon had him seated in a chair, with Shmi seated in front of him between his legs, his arms wrapped around her chest so he could support her as she leaned back against him.

Time seemed to both slow and speed up as Ben moved and shaped himself as Shmi needed. Her pain and determination swirled around him, her needs conveyed to Ben through the Force—when she felt the urge to push and when she needed to rest. He breathed deeply to encourage her to do the same as she braced herself against him, hands clenching on his thighs as she strove. The Force was poised in anticipation, like a breath held before a leap.

Finally, Shmi groaned loud and long as the Force blazed with light. Ben was so disoriented by the sudden rush that he almost missed the small, pale form Ma Jira passed to one of her attendants. But he clearly heard the cries of the child and the Force singing with it.

When all was finished and Ben had carried Shmi to their sleep pallet to rest, Ma Jira brought the baby to Shmi, tucking the child in against the bare skin of her chest. “A boy,” she told them, smiling softly.

“Anakin,” Shmi named him. Ben smiled. Anakin. Anak u akin. Light in darkness.

Ma Jira nodded. “Anakin Skywalker Luckbringer.” Ben was surprised to hear his own name appended to the child’s after Shmi’s in the traditional place of the father’s name. He had left Kenobi behind long ago, and like many slaves who did not know or wanted to forget the name they were born to, he had been given another name by his elders. ‘Luckbringer’ is what Ma Jira herself had called him, after the first time he brought her medicinal gushagrass in time to aid a sick child.

Though it was clear little Anakin had his mother’s whole focus, Shmi quickly grew tired and gave the baby over to Ben so she could sleep. Ben cradled the tiny child against his chest, marveling at how small and perfect Anakin was. He finally reached out to him in the Force, finding the motion with an ease that nearly startled him after his months of struggle. The child’s presence in the Force answered his with a very familiar sense of recognition and innocent contentment.

Ben’s breath caught, and he found himself swallowing back tears. This really was him, the little one that he had watched grow these last months, who he and Shmi had awaited with such anticipation, who he now held in his arms. He reached out and with astonishing ease drew the Force around them both, for comfort and calm, sending baby Anakin the joy he was feeling, the warmth he felt in his heart. It was then that he realized that his sense of the Force had fully returned, perhaps stronger than ever. With Anakin’s advent, he was whole again.

Chapter Text

“So you’re not actually Anakin’s father? I’m a bit confused, because Queen Amidala and her people seem to think you are, and Anakin acts like you are, but if Qui-Gon Jinn thought that Anakin is the Chosen One of prophecy, he couldn’t have believed that.”

“Why not?”

“The Chosen One is said to have no father. ‘A Chosen One shall come, born of no father, and through him will ultimate balance in the Force be restored.’”

“The prophecy actually uses the words ‘the Chosen One’?”

“…It’s a translation of the original.”

“…”

“Okay, fine, laugh if you want. We won’t be laughing if your kid actually does turn out to be the subject of this prophecy.”

“I’m sorry, Master Windu, I didn’t mean to laugh at a serious issue. The name is just a touch…ironic.”

“Fair enough.”

“But if you don’t mind my asking, why is it a bad thing if Anakin is the Chosen One?”

“Besides the fact that that boy could find trouble in an Ithorian monastery? Don’t even think about poking me with that stick, Master Yoda.”

“More to the prophecy there is, than the verse about the Chosen One. Dark times there are ahead, that lead us through the Chosen One must. If young Anakin the Chosen One is, closer than we feared is this darkness.”

“I see.”

“Are you sure Anakin’s not your get?”

“Pretty sure.”

“I mean, he does kind of look like you, with the blue eyes and fair complexion. Any chance…?”

“I’m afraid not, Master Windu. Anakin is the child of my heart, not of my body.”

“Too bad.”

“Didn’t Master Jinn explain any of this to the Council? I told him that I wasn’t Anakin’s biological father, that as far as his mother and I knew, he had no father.”

“Qui-Gon Jinn had a tendency not to elaborate in his reports to the Council. All he said was that he had encountered a vergence in the Force located around a boy, and that he believed this boy was conceived by the midi-chlorians. He made no mention of you or Anakin’s mother. He didn’t even tell us that Anakin was freed from slavery. Speaking of which, if Anakin was enslaved, how did Jinn come to have him? He didn’t steal him, did he?”

“Fear this, do you, Mace?”

“I just want to know if Jinn has started some sort of intergalactic incident that would make the Hutts come after the Jedi Order. Knowing Jinn, this is not an unrealistic concern.”

“Don’t worry, Master Windu, the Hutts were not involved in Master Jinn acquiring Anakin. He won Anakin in the wager on the Boonta Eve Classic with our owner.”

“…I’m not sure if that’s better or worse.”

“Surely it’s better than the Hutts having a grudge against the Jedi?”

“The Hutts already hate the Jedi, there’s nothing to be done about that. But if it ever got out that a Jedi Master is hopping around the Outer Rim engaging in sentient trafficking by staking property that doesn’t belong to him in illegal high stakes gambling on podraces, which have been outlawed in the Republic because they’re so dangerous, we’ll never shake the bad press.”

“Hm. I see your point. It would probably be especially bad if they found out that he maneuvered putting a nine-year-old slave boy into the race so he could bet on him.”

“He WHAT?! You mean—Anakin—was in the podrace—Jinn bet on—what?”

“Well, Anakin built the pod; of course he was going to be the one to race it.”

“…”

“Pale, you look, Mace. Perhaps lie down, you should. Very serious, aneurysms can be.”

“Kriff. Okay. Leaving all that aside…Please tell me that you and Anakin are properly documented. People already think the Jedi are child stealers. The last thing we need is for flimsiwork to surface showing that we own an enslaved minor.”

“We are now, on Naboo at least. The queen has been very helpful in getting Ani and me registered as refugees and eligible for naturalization and Republic citizenship in time.”

“Kenobi, you’re already a citizen of the Republic and a resident of Coruscant.”

“Obi-Wan Kenobi was, once. The Order must have had me declared dead by now though. I’m sure it’s much easier to establish a new identity through refugee status on a Mid-Rim planet than attempt to go through Coruscant’s bureaucracy to prove I’m not actually dead.”

“Well, true, but you’re really not interested in reclaiming your identity?”

“Whatever for? I was twelve years old when I ‘died,’ and an Initiate of the Jedi Order. I don’t have any assets to reclaim, nor any family. I suppose I could get Coruscant residency back, but I would rather be a resident of whatever system Anakin is a resident of.”

“If change your mind you do, let us know, you will. Help you, we shall.”

“Thank you, Master Yoda.”

The minute Ani pulls his pod to a stop, he yanks his helmet off his head and tosses it away. Now that he is no longer concentrating on the race, he can feel the adulation and excitement of the crowd, so many, many people, all watching him. The pressure of their attention is overwhelming—he can feel it in his head and chest, trying to drown out his thoughts and making his head pound and his heart race.

In spite of the massive wave of energy pummeling Anakin, converging on him, he can feel one presence in particular moving closer, running. He stands and, mostly by instinct, as his vision is blurred with tears and brightness, he flings himself into Ben’s arms.

Ben is right there to catch him, like he always is, heedless of yesterday’s injuries. He gathers Anakin to his chest and Ani wraps both arms and legs around him. He feels Ben’s large hand cover the back of his head, Ben’s lips pressed to his temple, then Ben’s mind brushing his. He shields Ani just enough that he is no longer overwhelmed by the crowd’s emotions bombarding him, and guides Ani into the familiar practice of shielding himself.

When he senses that Ani has things under better control, Ben pulls away a bit and looks into his eyes, smiling bigger than Ani has ever seen him.

“I did it, Ben. I won!”

Suddenly Ani is being hoisted out of Ben’s arms and onto Mister Qui-Gon’s shoulder, well above the crowd because Mister Qui-Gon is so tall. Ani is no longer drowning in the sea of the crowd’s emotions. He is buoyed up by them, so high that his head spins with delight. He has never felt anything like this before—he feels like he has the power to do anything in this moment.

At length, Mister Qui-Gon sets him down again and they fight their way through the throng to the hangar, where Mister Qui-Gon excuses himself to go find Watto. Padmé pulls Anakin into a hug. “We owe you everything, Ani,” she says, voice tight with emotion. Anakin’s heart gives a heavy thump as he hugs her back.

Then Ben is kneeling in front of him. He cups Anakin’s face in warm, calloused hands. “You’ve given hope to those who have none,” he says, tilting Ani’s forehead against his. “I am so proud of you, Ani. So very proud.” Ben kisses his forehead and pulls him into another embrace. Anakin throws his arms around Ben’s neck, basking in the joy and affection he feels so clearly from the man that raised him. Anakin thinks this must be the best moment of his life.

The day is not over, however. Anakin is soon called away with Ben, Padmé and R2 to Watto’s shop to gather up the parts Mister Qui-Gon needs. The tall man meets them with a brace of eopies and gravsleds to take the parts to the outskirts. Ani wishes that he could go with him and Padmé to help install the hyperdrive, but he can’t leave the city limits or his transmitter will go off.

He hugs Padmé goodbye. It’s odd, but even though he knows this is probably the last time he will ever see her, his Luck sense seems not to think so. He watches Padmé hug Ben goodbye, and for some reason, he wants to do the same.

Mister Qui-Gon is coming back into town after he delivers the parts so that he can wrap up some business, according to him. Ani thinks that he must mean selling the pod. Ben has offered to find a buyer for it so Mister Qui-Gon doesn’t have to spend time searching.

Ani really wants to go with Ben, but he’s so tired all of a sudden. His knees shake when he tries to stand, and he feels a little sick. Ben says something about an adrenaline crash, and that he’s going to take Ani home so that he can take a nap like a baby. Ani isn’t happy about it, but Ben will not be deterred, and since Ben ends up having to carry Ani more than halfway home, it was probably a good call.

Ani cuddles close to Ben, nuzzling into his neck like an akk pup. He feels warm and safe nestled in Ben’s arms, surrounded by the light of Ben’s presence like a campfire in the desert night. He is more than half asleep when Ben lays him down on their shared sleep pallet, but he still tries to cling to his father. Distantly, he hears Ben chuckle and feels him smooth back his hair to kiss his forehead.

Then Ani is alone in the desert night. The campfire is gone, but its warmth lingers in Ani’s blood. Without the fire’s light, the stars are brighter than he’s ever seen them. They pulse and wink, calling to Ani, and Ani reaches for them, finding himself lifting off the sands and flying into the void, unmoored, unfettered. He drifts on the Wind between the stars, barely able to control his trajectory, even though he is trying.

Hardly even knowing how he got there, he finds himself suddenly caught between two stars, one black, one white. The black one pulls at him, yawns open like a mouth instead of a sphere, and Ani realizes it’s not a star, but a black hole. It wants him, wants to devour him, crush him. He turns to the other star, the brightest he’s ever seen, its cold, blazing white light searing his eyes, and strains with all his might to reach it, the black hole sucking at him all the while. Inch by inch he fights his way to the white star. The closer he gets, the more intense the heat from the star becomes—it burns, but somehow the fire in his blood is keeping the pain at bay.

He touches the white star. The pull from the black hole is unabated. He knows what he has to do to escape the darkness, but he knows that it will also mean pain, and change. He pushes his hand into the star. His arm follows, his shoulder, his torso—his whole body enters the star’s searing heat. The flesh and bone melt away until he is only blood and spirit. The light of the star has somehow become his light, its heat his heat—he has become one with the star.

The light builds and builds in him, reaching every dark corner in the galaxy. The black hole folds in on itself with a shriek and disappears. Ani is relieved, but his star does not stop growing. It just keeps getting bigger and bigger, a supernova threatening to engulf the galaxy. Ani isn’t sure how to stop it. The effort of his mind and spirit are not enough.

Ani finds his heart again, the only physical part of him left, and sets it beating, sending his blood flowing through the fire. The star is a body again, a body composed of light, but with defined edges that Anakin can pull back, reel them in close. Everything is peaceful once again. The galaxy is safe. Ani is safe. He can feel the warmth of the bonfire and the steady pulse of his heart and blood, lulling him back to sleep…

Ani wakes to the feeling of a hand on his shoulder. He can tell even before he opens his eyes that it’s Ben, by the size and weight of his hand and by his warm, firelight presence. “Ani, wake up. Master Jinn has returned. He has something he wants to say to you.”

Ani comes fully alert then. He is glad that Mister Qui-Gon came back and asked Ben to wake him up so he could say goodbye. Ani would have been very disappointed to miss him before he left.

“Hi, Mister Qui-Gon!” Ani smiles when he sees the tall man standing in their little kitchen. “Did you sell the pod?”

“I did indeed, young one,” he says, handing Ani a stack of wupiupi chips with a smile.

“Whoa!” Anakin has never held so much money in his life. “Ben, look at all the money we have!” he says, pushing it into Ben’s hands. Ben laughs.

“And you have been freed.”

Ani whirls back around to face Mister Qui-Gon. Did he just say— “What?”

Mister Qui-Gon smiles at him. “You are no longer enslaved, Anakin.”

Anakin gapes at the man for a moment before slowly turning back to Ben. “Did you hear that?” he asks, almost timid with surprise.

Ben is smiling too. “Yes, Ani. You’re free. And Master Jinn has told me that he would like to take you with him to train to become a Jedi.”

Ani looks back at Mister Qui-Gon. “Really?”

“Yes. Our meeting was not a coincidence. Nothing happens by accident.”

“You mean that I get to go with you in your starship?”

Mister Qui-Gon crouches down in front of Ani and places a hand on his shoulder. “Anakin, training to become a Jedi is not an easy challenge. And even if you succeed, it’s a hard life.”

Anakin nods seriously. He has watched Mister Qui-Gon the last two days. He knows now that the Jedi are not all-powerful. Mister Qui-Gon is capable and strong, but without the help of Anakin, a powerless slave boy, he would have failed in his mission. He also sees how alone the man is, how he has set out on a mission to save a whole system by himself. He remembers what Ben told him about there being only a few Jedi in a galaxy of trillions of people, and wonders if all Jedi must bear such heavy burdens alone, for the sake of doing as much good as they can.

“I understand. And I want to do it. I want to train so I can help people. I’ve dreamed of this.” He turns from the Jedi to Ben. “Can I go, Ben?”

Ben looks at him seriously, putting both hands on his shoulders. “Anakin, this path has been placed before you. The choice is yours alone.”

Anakin nods. “I want to do it.”

Ben smooths his hair back and places a kiss on the top of his head. “Then let’s go pack your things.”

Anakin grins, but the smile slides from his face when he processes what Ben said. ‘Your things,’ he said, not ‘our things.’ “What about you?” Ani asks. “You’re coming with us, aren’t you, Ben?”

Ben bows his head, not meeting Ani’s eyes as he clearly struggles for words. Ani’s heart sinks before Mister Qui-Gon even speaks. “I tried to free Ben too, Ani,” the man says, “but Watto wouldn’t have it.”

Anakin feels a pit open up in his stomach. Ben isn’t free, like Ani. Ben is still a slave. Ben has to stay here while Ani flies away, maybe forever. “No,” Ani whispers. “Ben, I don’t want to leave you.” His voice is hoarse from the sudden lump in his throat.

Ben kneels down in front of him, settles his hands on Ani’s shoulders. “Our paths have run together for a time, and now it seems they must diverge. Life is full of partings, Ani,” Ben reminds him. “You can’t stop it, any more than you can stop the suns from setting. You must trust the Wind to take us to where it is best for us both to be. It is time for you to let me go.”

This is what Ben has told him every time one of his friends or neighbors was sold away. The first time he heard it was when his mother was sold. But he somehow never thought he would hear Ben say it about himself. The lump in Ani’s throat is so heavy he cannot speak. He just nods and throws his arms around Ben’s neck, feels Ben’s arms come around to hug him. “I love you,” Ben whispers in his ear. “My every hope for your happiness goes with you, Ani.”

At length, Ani wipes his face on Ben’s shirt and finally lets go. “Now hurry,” Ben says, his voice tight with repressed emotion. “Master Jinn does not have time to linger.”

Ani nods again and runs to the room he shares with Ben. He gathers up his two changes of clothes, his toothbrush, his multitool, a little of the japor wood Ben had been teaching him to whittle. Then he gets stuck. He wants to bring a memento, but he doesn’t have anything. The room isn’t exactly bare, but he and Ben have so little that might work as a reminder of his life here.

Then Ben comes in, bringing with him a backpack to put Ani’s things in. When his few belongings are tucked away, Ben places a package with a few mechanical parts in the bag as well. “What’s that for?” Ani asks.

Ben only smiles. “You’ll figure it out.” Then he reaches behind his neck and removes his necklace.

The necklace is the only ornamentation Ben has, and he never takes it off, except for once to show Ani its secret. The necklace looks like nothing more than a complicated knot tied in a piece of twine, but the knot contains—and hides—a crystal. Ani’s seen it. Ben told Ani that the crystal is sacred to him and the people he belonged to before he was a slave. It is the only piece of his childhood home he still carries.

Ben moves to put the necklace around Ani’s neck, but Ani stops him. “No, Ben! This is yours. It’s special to you. I can’t take it!”

Ben holds the knot containing the crystal in his hand. “I want you to have it now, Ani. Crystals like this one are awake, and can sing to people who are Lucky. They can choose who they sing to, who is most compatible with them. The people who raised me believed crystals like this one are sacred because when the crystal chooses a being and bonds with them, it becomes like a part of that person’s soul outside their body.” Ben settles the necklace around Anakin’s neck, places his palm over the crystal resting against his heart. “This crystal sang to me. It chose me a long time ago, and I have bonded with it over many years. It is a part of me, and I want you to carry it with you. When you hear it sing to you, you will know my thoughts are with you, and you are never really alone.”

Anakin throws his arms around Ben again, burying his face in Ben’s shoulder in an effort to keep from crying. He still doesn’t know how he is supposed to let Ben go, but he feels a little better with the warmth from the crystal necklace lying against his skin.

Before he knows it, he is following the Jedi out the door, leaving Ben in front of their tiny home. He feels Ben’s eyes watching him as he walks away, and Ani can’t help it. He breaks and runs back into his arms. Ben kneels and accepts him with a hug and a kiss to the cheek, but Ani can feel in the way he holds him that he is going to let him go again.

“I can’t do it, Ben, I just can’t do it. I can’t leave you here like this.” Ani pulls out of the hug to see Ben’s face.

Ben strokes his cheek, blue eyes soft. “You can, Ani. You have won your freedom. Now give yourself leave to go.”

“Will I ever see you again?”

Ben smiles softly. “What does the Wind tell you?”

Ani sniffles. “I hope so.” He pauses to search his feelings, and isn’t quite sure what he finds, but it feels positive. “Yes. I guess.”

“Then we will see each other again.” Ben tilts his forehead against Ani’s in the gesture that has become customary for them over the years. Ani doesn’t know where Ben learned this, as he has never seen anyone else do the same, but he’s glad of it. It is comforting to feel his warmth, breathe him in.

“I will come back and free you, Ben. I promise.”

Ben kisses his forehead and then looks him in the eyes. “Now, my son, be brave, and don’t look back.” He strokes Ani’s cheek with calloused fingers one last time. “Don’t look back.”

Ani turns and goes. He listens to Ben and doesn’t look back, though he can feel Ben’s eyes on him all the way down the street. He does not turn around again, though each step feels like he is leaving an essential part of himself further and further behind.

He clutches the necklace over his chest, feeling like his emotions are all tangled around his heart, like the knot around the crystal.

Ben’s…situation started with Jabba. Not surprising, Jabba was usually the one to start things—trends, feuds, arms races. It made it easy for Gardulla to copy him with just one or two tweaks so that she could pretend she came up with the idea herself. This was no different.

Jabba had gotten himself a new dancer, a Twi’lek girl that he liked so much he had the bright idea to keep her collared and chained to his chaise. Whenever he got bored he would rattle her leash and she would give him and the pool of slime he called his associates a show.

Ben had not seen this disgusting display, but Gardulla had, and of course she wanted one of her own. But not a Twi’lek dancer, oh no. She couldn’t stoop to having the same thing as Jabba. She had to have something better than Jabba.

Which somehow ended up with Ben chained to Gardulla’s chaise wearing a loincloth, a collar, a few pieces of tacky jewelry, and nothing else.

Where the logic was in this decision, Ben couldn’t be sure, and he’d had plenty of time to ponder it while lounging on the cushions of Gardulla’s chaise. He wasn’t a dancer or musician that was there to be called upon to entertain—unless Gardulla decided she wanted him to fight a member of her court, which, while bound to be cathartic for Ben, would be counterproductive by most other measures. Gardulla had bragged many times about his success in the arena, so Ben supposed that she got some cachet for having a powerful fighter at her beck and call. Though Ben wouldn’t necessarily consider himself that powerful. There were other gladiators in Gardulla’s stable that had longer and more storied careers than Ben. However, Ben supposed that his youth and rare red hair may have made him a more attractive prospect than most of the other scarred, grizzled arena veterans.

He wasn’t called upon for this purpose every day, which would have been truly unbearable. Not even most days, really. He had combat training and beast handling and still managed to eke out a little time to spend with Shmi and Anakin. He only had to do it when Gardulla had guests that she particularly wanted to impress.

So it wasn’t so bad. Or at least, it could be worse. Sure, he had to spend long, tedious stretches of time in close proximity to Gardulla the Hutt and surrender the last shred of his dignity and all the other fighters were doing their very best to make his life hell whenever he showed his face near any of them because they still somehow envied him for receiving ‘preferential’ treatment from Gardulla, but this way at least Ben got to know some of what was going on in the outside world. What he heard at Gardulla’s side was mostly Hutt business, which was without exception slimy, but it was something.

Today was a bit more interesting than most, as Gardulla was negotiating with a Mandalorian mercenary on a contract she wanted to hire him for, but not tell him the full details of before he accepted—a tried and true method for beating down the price of a difficult job. Ben felt it was obvious that the armored man was angling for something more than just the wupiupi Gardulla was offering, but Gardulla either wasn’t perceptive enough to pick up on that or thought that this ‘lesser life form’ should do as she wished simply because she wished it. If it were Ben negotiating with the man, he might have deescalated the situation and moved them to a more casual environment for a conversation where he might discern more about his ulterior motives, but Ben wasn’t the negotiator here and he certainly wasn’t going to speak up to give any kind of unsolicited help to the Hutt that owned him.

Instead, he lounged against the pillows and wampa furs with practiced indolence, all the while prepared to move the moment Gardulla pulled on his leash. When this whole farce began, Ben had tried to anticipate her desires and move as soon as she wanted him to, but he quickly discovered that it pleased her to drag him around on the chain, controlling him with the collar. He instead learned to fake inattention while being ready to move just quick enough that she couldn’t do too much damage to his throat.

She had already shown him off plenty at the beginning of this little interview in order to impress the Mandalorian—though whether the Mando was actually impressed by this behavior was a dubious prospect at best, as Mandalorians in general had no love for the slave trade—so Ben was as relaxed as he ever could be around his owner for now. He knew that soon enough she would get frustrated with the negotiations and would yank Ben around to take out some of her irritation on him.

Perhaps he was too relaxed, or too focused on the conversation or on the inevitable abuse Gardulla would soon visit upon him. Maybe it was his exhaustion from the grueling training regime that was often followed by trying to tire Ani out enough that the toddler would go to bed. Whatever the reason, he didn’t realize someone was there who shouldn’t be until it was much too late.

Anakin streaked into Gardulla’s throne room, clad in nothing but a shirt that was just barely long enough to preserve what modesty a two-year-old had, giggling like mad and heading straight for Ben as fast as his little legs could carry him.

There were no words to describe the terror that stopped Ben’s heart dead in that moment. And yet, even though his mind was frozen in fear, his body instinctively leaped into action without his brain’s input. Ben was off the chaise in less than a second, moving to intercept Anakin even as Gardulla roared in anger. Ben went to his knees and gathered the boy into his arms not a moment too soon; he felt the collar dig into his throat, cutting off his air as Gardulla dragged at his leash. This time though, he did not move to go to her. He was holding Ani, and he would not bring him to her.

Ben raised his mental shields around Anakin then, just in time before he felt Gardulla’s whip come down on his bare back. He knew Ani had felt his terror, but he refused to let the child feel any of his pain. Ani’s laughter had turned to whimpering as his joy at being so clever at finding Ben turned to fear.

The whip was laid on again and again, painting white-hot lines of pain on Ben’s body. Wild with rage, Gardulla wasn’t aiming, so she caught Ben’s head and gave him glancing blows a few times, but enough of them landed that Ben started to feel blood trickle down his back. She was at the same time dragging back on his chain, making it very difficult for Ben to draw breath. Still, he resisted, crouching over Anakin and shielding the little boy with his body and mind. He prayed to the Force that he wouldn’t pass out, letting it flow through him in an effort to stay conscious. He needed to be able to protect Anakin.

After what could not have been much more than a minute but felt more like hours to Ben, Gardulla paused in beating him. Her ire had not abated, but she had tired herself in her furious frenzy. Ben could feel Anakin’s frightened panting against his chest, little hands clenched on his shoulders, and he wrapped the boy tighter in his arms. In the lull, the Mandalorian spoke.

“If you keep beating those kids in front of me, you can consider our association at an end.”

Ben heard Gardulla suck in a breath, and for a moment, he thought that she would continue beating him just to spite the Mando for his temerity in issuing such an ultimatum, to show him that she owned these slaves and would not be told what to do with them. Instead, she laughed.

“I forget that you Mandalorians have a soft spot for children," she said, bass Huttese echoing in the tense silence. "Very well. I’m in a generous mood. I will defer their punishment. A sign of good faith in our dealings, yes?” The Mando stood silent. “Ojuj!” She signaled to her seneschal. “They will have no food for three days. Get the little brat out of my sight.”

Ben staggered to his feet as quickly as he dared, mindful of Ani still in his arms and his dizziness after his near asphyxiation. He looked past the spots swimming in his vision and his unfocused gaze landed on Shmi in the crowd of onlookers. Her white face was rigid as she swept forward and took her son from him, barely even daring to glance at Ben before leaving the room with all speed. Ben almost sagged with relief as soon as they were away.

Before he could, Gardulla yanked him back on his leash. This time he went to her as she dragged him in until he was nearly pressed up against her. She seized him by the hair and practically shook him at the Mandalorian.

“This one isn’t so much a child as the other, eh, Mando? Old enough to beget that brat, anyway. He can do his duty until our business is concluded.”

So Ben waited for the meeting to end, the now tight leash forcing him to lean against Gardulla’s bloated side to get any air as his back throbbed and his head spun. By the time Gardulla dismissed him, he could barely stand. He could tell that the bleeding had slowed considerably from the dried blood that cracked on his skin each time he shifted, but the cushion he had been sitting on was spotted red from where it had been dripping down his back.

Shmi found him in the infirmary just as the medic finished dressing his back. She had Anakin in her arms, and Ben had the distinct impression that she had not let her child out of them since taking him from Ben hours ago. As soon as Ani saw Ben, he held his arms out to him in a silent demand for Ben to hold him. Ben obliged, ignoring his own pain and exhaustion to hold the child, stroking the dear little one’s hair and back, letting him cling to him and bury his face against his shoulder.

“How is he?” he asked Shmi.

“He’s fine,” Shmi replied, but Ben could see in her eyes it wasn’t quite true. Ani’s uncharacteristic silence and the tears that had begun wetting Ben’s shoulder were enough to tell him that though Anakin was unharmed physically, emotionally he was not okay. And that was without even considering the fear and confusion and aching sadness that Ben could sense from Ani through their bond.

Anakin refused to leave Ben’s arms the rest of the evening, which was again unusual for him—he typically had a burst of energy in the evenings, running about to key himself up in an attempt to avoid sleep. He remained in Ben’s lap through latemeal, where Shmi fed Anakin from her plate and tried unsuccessfully to give the rest of her food to Ben. When they finally made it back to their room in the slaves’ quarters, Ben went to bed early with Ani. Lying down together on the sleep pallet made it easy for Ben to commune with Ani through their bond in the Force. He reassured the boy that he was fine, carefully walling off the lingering pain from the beating so Ani wouldn’t pick up on it, and then helped Ani work through his more negative emotions.

Anakin soon drifted off, exhausted from the ordeal of that day, curled against Ben’s chest in front and bracketed behind by his mother. Ben met Shmi’s eyes over Anakin’s head. “Are you all right?” she murmured, keeping her voice low.

“Yes, I’m fine,” he responded. “It’s nothing I haven’t had before and much worse.”

Shmi reached for him, hand hesitating over a weal on his upper arm that the medic hadn’t deemed serious enough to bother treating. “You didn’t eat. Gardulla said you’re to have nothing for three days. You need to—”

Ben shook his head. “I can sustain myself with the Wind when needed. It’s you I’m worried about, having to share your food with Ani for three days.”

“Ani is two. He eats hardly anything. I will be fine. I would have enough for you too.”

“It’s not necessary,” Ben said, covering her hand on his shoulder with his. “I’ll be fine.”

“I’m sorry,” she said, voice strained. “I wasn’t paying close enough attention, and he got away from me. By the time I realized where he was headed—”

Ben squeezed her hand in his. “Now now, there’s no need for that. I’m fine. And it’s just as much my fault. Ani’s bond with me is so strong and Ani is so…powerful. I wasn’t shielding enough, and he followed our bond right to me. I didn’t anticipate that he would use it to find me like that, not this soon, so young. I’m sorry too.”

Shmi turned her hand in his and laced their fingers together, telling him wordlessly that there was nothing to forgive. Ben pressed the back of her hand against his heart, hoping she could feel his gratitude for her. She was so good to him and gifted him with such grace that he didn’t deserve, given how inadequate a protector and teacher he was for her son. A simple apology could not convey the guilt Ben felt at not being enough for them. Ani was so special and strong in the Force—he needed someone to guide him, but all he had was a failed Jedi Initiate too unremarkable to catch the notice of a master, too angry and close to falling to be safely trained. For the millionth time, Ben wondered what the Force was even thinking putting Ani in his care when it was terribly clear that this child deserved so much better.

“This isn’t the end of it, is it?” Shmi whispered.

Ben sighed. “No. Gardulla had to make a concession in front of a Mandalorian, of all people. She will find some other way to punish us. I will try to redirect her anger to me, so that she might spare Anakin. We must be careful to keep him away from her.” Gardulla disliked children and wouldn’t hesitate to visit cruel abuses on them, but as long as they were out of her sight and hearing, she typically didn’t spare them a thought.

Shmi frowned. “You don’t need to think about that right now. Focus on healing, rest.”

Ben grinned. “I’m always thinking about how to protect Anakin. It’s a full-time job.”

That night was not a restful one for Ben, nor were many of the nights after, as he waited for their owner’s cruelty to come down on them again. She made them wait for more than a month before her retribution was finally revealed, and it turned out to be a far more bitter punishment than Ben had feared.

One otherwise unremarkable day, a messenger came from the major domo to the head trainer. Ben could not hear what was whispered in his ear, but he knew by the way the head trainer looked at him who it was about, and that it was not good.

The head trainer called him over and Ben went, palms sweating and heart hammering and not quite understanding why his fight or flight response had suddenly kicked in. Not until the trainer told him, not unkindly, the messenger’s news.

Ben realized then that he had made a mistake. He had thought that Gardulla would try to punish him or Ani for the fiasco in the reception room. He had not thought that she would find a way to punish all of them in one fell swoop in the worst way.

The head trainer let him go for the day, a thing nearly unheard of, but these were exceptional circumstances, and he likely knew that Ben would go even if he forbade it. Ben ran for Shmi before it was too late.

He found her in their room, trying to comfort a confused and upset Anakin. Ben’s heart seized at the sight of a small bag packed with Shmi’s few belongings.

“It’s true?” he asked, feeling like something in his chest was dying. Shmi nodded. “Who? Where?”

Shmi swallowed, then said in a strained voice, “I don’t know. No one does.”

Ben glanced at the boy on the bed. “Anakin?”

Shmi shook her head, squeezing her red-rimmed eyes shut. “He has to stay,” she said, voice breaking. “I can’t bring him.”

The next moment Ben had her in his arms. She hid her face against his chest, and Ben could sense her desperately trying to regain some composure. Ben rubbed her back, giving her whatever comfort he could while he was still able to be there for her. They stood there, leaning on each other as the minutes counted down until Shmi would have to go. They said nothing, for nothing needed to be said. They had made all their promises to each other long before this.

Anakin whined to be held, and they broke apart, wiping their eyes. Ben grabbed Shmi’s bag and Shmi picked up her son, cuddling him close to her for the last time. They walked together to the palace gate, where they were met by the major domo, a regretful look on his face. Ben would have to thank the man and the head trainer later for giving him the heads up. A speeder was already waiting, a Rodian driver inside. Ben handed Shmi’s bag off so it could be checked.

Shmi then gave Ani to Ben, but lingered a moment longer. “You’ll be a good boy for Ben, won’t you, Ani?” she said, cupping her son’s face. Ani only looked at her, tears dripping down his cheeks, confusion and sadness swirling in the Force around him. He didn’t fully understand what was happening, not yet, but he could sense his mother’s and Ben’s emotions, and as they were upset, so was he. He was so very young that it might take him a few more years to understand the reason why his mother would not return, that she had been sold because all she was to her owner was property that no longer pleased.

“I love you,” Shmi whispered, and kissed Anakin on the forehead. Then she drew Ben’s head down and did the same to him. Ben pressed his forehead against hers and they took a long, deep breath together before finally breaking apart.

“Take care of each other,” she bid them, then climbed into the waiting speeder, sitting stiffly by the driver. The Rodian put the speeder in gear, and as quickly as that, Shmi was borne away from their little family. Ben felt like his heart was being pulled out of his chest as he watched the speeder disappear into the distance, as though Shmi had taken a part of it with her.

Ben felt down to the very smallest pieces of his breaking heart that it would be a lifetime before he saw his dear friend again.

Chapter Text

“Jinn just left you there?”

“Well, yes. He didn’t really have any other choice. He had his mission to complete.”

“…He didn’t know who you were.”

“Who I was?”

“He didn’t know that you were Obi-Wan Kenobi.”

“I don’t think so, no. He kept calling me Ben, but he realized quite quickly that I had Jedi training. If he did realize who I was, he didn’t let on.”

“Kenobi, if you thought Jinn didn’t recognize you, why didn’t you just tell him who you were?”

“Well, I…I wanted to save myself the embarrassment, for one.”

“Embarrassment? What did you think he was going to do, point and laugh?”

“Of course not. That’s hardly befitting of a Jedi Master. But an ‘I told you so’ would have been neither helpful nor wanted, no matter how deserved.”

“Stars, Kenobi, why would he say that?”

“He would have been right. I was captured doing something he expressly told me not to do. And there I was, a slave on a dust ball in the Outer Rim as a direct consequence of not listening to him. His pity or his lecture would have been justified, though probably not very well-received by me, frankly.”

“You don’t think much of him, do you? I suppose you have reason.”

“What? No, I deeply respect Master Jinn. My personal issues come out of my own failings.”

“So, you didn’t tell Qui-Gon who you were out of…embarrassment at your situation?”

“I suppose so, though it pains me to admit to it.”

“Embarrassment is what kept you from seeking help to get yourself out of slavery. Embarrassment.”

“I’m sorry, but I don’t quite follow.”

“If you had told Jinn who you were, he would have moved systems and stars to free you and take you with him. He never would have left you there.”

“There really was no way to do that without seriously endangering his mission.”

“Then he would have seriously endangered his mission.”

“Master Windu! You can’t mean that. Naboo still needed immediate assistance, and Master Jinn was keenly aware of that. Who I was long ago would not have mattered.”

“It would have mattered to Jinn.”

“He wouldn’t—”

“Think it a small thing, do you, finding you alive after so long?”

“Master Yoda, I do believe you when you say that certain Jedi in the Temple were happy to learn that I was not dead. Most of my former crèchemates, I think, would have welcomed the news, perhaps some of my teachers as well—those whose classes I did well in, anyway, who never had to discipline me. But Master Jinn hardly knew me, and—well, I’m sorry to say that when I first met him all those years ago, I made quite a nuisance of myself to him while he was trying to carry out his mission.”

“What Master Qui-Gon said, that is not, when finally return from Bandomeer he did. A great help in his mission, he said of you. The last, he was, to give up the search for you, long after all hope was gone. Held himself responsible for your loss, he did.”

“…”

“A comfort, is it, to know that we searched for you?”

“I always knew that the Order would have looked for me, Master. I’m just sorry that you wasted so much time with nothing to show for it, especially Master Jinn.”

“Wasted this time was not.”

“I didn’t know Master Jinn felt responsible for me. He had already made it quite clear to me that he would not take me on as his Padawan. It certainly wasn’t his fault that I was sticking my nose in where it didn’t belong and got myself into trouble. That I ended up a slave was due to my own failure, not Master Jinn’s, and certainly not the Order’s.”

“Hmm. Know only one side of the story, you do. Perhaps understand, you will, in time.”

Anakin spreads the bundle of parts out on his bunk. He doesn’t know what they’re for, not yet, but he knows that Ben gave them to him for a reason. This is a familiar exercise for Ani. Ben frequently gives him tasks to complete or puzzles to solve with only half of the instructions or necessary materials, so that Ani has to work backwards, or think creatively, or be resourceful to get the job done. Ani is pretty sure that Ben is so fond of these types of games mostly because they keep Ani busy and out of his hair for a while, but they are actually pretty fun.

Now is as good a time as any to start on Ben’s last mystery puzzle. Ani is getting the impression that maybe he needs to give the other people on the ship a little space. They’re starting to get that look on their faces when they see him coming towards them.

It had taken a surprisingly short time for Ani to get bored of interstellar travel. The first two days, he had bounced excitedly between the cockpit and the engine room, asking as many questions as he could of whoever was willing to answer before they inevitably got tired of him and excused themselves. Today is the third day of their trip, people are starting to excuse themselves as soon as they see him, he has already explored every nook and cranny of the ship, and they’re not even halfway to Coruscant yet.

Anakin sighs. At least R2 is still willing to talk to him. The little droid is currently outside Ani’s tiny room, guarding the door, but only because the doorway to this closet of a room is too narrow for it to fit inside. Ani is sure R2 would have an opinion about what these parts are for.

The parts are mostly used and of various ages and denominations, which means that Ben probably got them at different times from different places over several years. Which means that he had something specific in mind when he assembled them, something that he was so determined to do, he worked on it for years.

Ani runs his hands over the parts: a power cell, emitter matrix and shroud, activator button, focusing lens, energy gate, a handful of wires and resistors, a few other parts that seem to be housing of some kind. Some of these parts are things Ani might expect to find in a laser, but he can’t explain what the emitter is supposed to be for.

The weirdest part, and coincidentally the only part Ani has seen in Ben’s possession before, has to be the bone. The bone comes from the foot of a greater krayt dragon skeleton. Ani had seen Ben carving at it, hollowing it out bit by bit in the evenings. He would carve the krayt bone, and Ani would practice whittling on bits of plastoid he found in the junk heaps.

Ani touches the smooth bone, hands shaking a little. Ben made this, shaped it with his hands. Ani thinks of Ben’s hands—calloused and scarred, but big and strong. Ani closes his eyes and remembers how Ben’s hands felt when he ruffled his hair, or patted his shoulder, or picked him up. He searches for the part of his mind where he can always feel Ben, and finds it small and distant, but still there.

When Ani opens his eyes again, he has to blink a few times to hold back tears, and oh, this is why he had been so full of beans the first two days on the ship, isn’t it? It’s too easy to miss Ben when he’s alone and quiet with his thoughts.

Ani puts away the parts. He doesn’t think he can concentrate on solving the mystery right now. It will keep for a bit. Instead he gets out a japor snippet and works away at it.

He is interrupted by a shrill beeping from outside his door—R2 warning him of an intruder. Ani goes to the door and opens it to find R2 brandishing an electrotorch at Mister Qui-Gon.

The man raises an eyebrow. “Would you mind calling off your attack droid? This is my bunk too, you know.”

“Sorry, Mister Qui-Gon, sir. I didn’t tell him to do that. C’mon Artoo, let Mister Qui-Gon in.”

Ani steps back to let the Jedi into their shared room. The tall man seats himself on the bunk opposite Ani’s, but he hardly seems any smaller in the tiny space.

“How are you today, Anakin? We’ve barely seen you all morning; we were getting a bit worried.”

“I’m fine.”

“Are you sure? Space travel can be difficult the first few times. Some people experience space sickness.”

“It’s not that. I’m just…cold.”

“Ah, I see. Yes, I suppose you wouldn’t be used to the cold of space, coming from such a hot planet.”

Anakin nods, even though he doesn’t think that’s really it. Tatooine could get cold too. Nights were often pretty chilly, enough that Ani usually curled up close to Ben on their sleep pallet to share heat. He was used to cold. But out here, it didn’t seem to matter how many blankets or shirts Ani piled on. He was still cold and shivery.

Ani has a feeling that his cold isn’t really a physical cold, but something else. He misses Ben and his light, warm, comforting presence now that he is too far away to feel him clearly. He wonders if maybe now he would just always feel cold because Ben isn’t nearby. He can't really imagine getting used to not feeling Ben right there with him.

Mister Qui-Gon gives him a look like maybe he knows Ani is putting him off, but he doesn’t say anything about it. “Why don’t you come with me and we’ll get you something to eat? That may help, especially since you missed second meal. Did you not eat because you’re feeling unwell?”

Ani dutifully follows him out to the galley. “No, I just forgot about it. Sorry I missed it. I didn’t mean to.”

“That’s all right, Ani. It’s easy to lose track of time when you’re in hyperspace.”

“Yeah. I’m not used to eating second meal, either.”

Mister Qui-Gon pauses, then asks, “You don’t usually eat second meal, Ani?”

“I never eat second meal. Nobody I know has a second meal—well, no slaves anyway. When would we eat it? We’re working during the day.”

“What about the mid-day meal we shared during the sandstorm? Wasn’t that second meal?”

“That was a post-fight meal. Ben needs to eat after a fight so his body can recover, and he never makes food just for himself.”

Mister Qui-Gon hands him a ration bar. “What do you do when you get hungry in the middle of the day?”

“Wait till late meal,” Ani says, matter-of-fact, peeling back the foil around the bar.

“That sounds difficult.”

Ani shrugs. “It’s what I’m used to, I guess. And it’s not so bad. Some people don’t have late meal either, so it’s really hard for them. Ben always made sure I had first meal and late meal, so I was okay.”

Mister Qui-Gon seems intent on getting Ani to talk to him, even though Ani has been talking nonstop for two days and now doesn’t really feel like talking. But the man is kind and patient with him and keeps himself open to Ani’s Luck sense, and pretty soon Anakin is asking as many questions as ever, about the Jedi this time.

“That fight with that guy with the cloak was totally wizard. How did you learn to do that?”

“Jedi train with a lightsaber their whole lives. I have been training with mine since I was five years old.”

“You’re still training? But you’re old. Don’t you know how to do everything yet?”

Mister Qui-Gon smiles, and Ani can feel his amusement. “There is always more to learn and room for improvement. The lightsaber forms are continuously evolving, as they have been for centuries.”

“When you jumped so high up into the ship from the ground, were you flying? Can Jedi fly?”

“No, we can’t fly. Some of us can use the Force to stay airborne for quite a long time though.”

“What’s the Force?”

For some reason, that question seems to surprise Mister Qui-Gon. He gives Ani an odd look before he says, “Ben didn’t tell you about the Force?”

“Huh-uh. Does he know what it is?”

“Yes, I’m fairly certain he does.” Mister Qui-Gon’s voice sounds tight, like maybe he doesn’t approve of Ben not telling Ani what the Force is. “I wonder why he didn’t teach you this. It’s rather fundamental.”

“What is it?”

“The Force is what gives a Jedi their power. It’s an energy field created by all living things. It surrounds us and penetrates us. It is the balance that binds the galaxy together. With training, you will learn to quiet your mind and hear it speaking to you.”

Anakin nods, suddenly recognizing what Mister Qui-Gon is talking about. “Yeah, I know about that. Ben taught me to feel the Wind that moves between everything. He said that meditation will help me understand which way the Wind is blowing.”

“The Wind, hmm? That’s…an interesting analogy.”

“Ben said that only beings who are Lucky can hear the Wind whispering to them.”

“Lucky?”

“Yeah. People like me and Ben, who can feel the Wind. He said all the Jedi have Luck.”

“I see. It seems that Ben has taught you about the Force using metaphors rather than the proper vocabulary. Interesting choice. Metaphors can be useful for visualization, but can engender misunderstandings.”

Ani shrugs, dismayed by how disappointed Mister Qui-Gon sounds. “Maybe the Force is one of those things we’re not supposed to talk about.”

“What do you mean, Anakin?”

“There are some things we can’t talk about, because if anyone hears, we’ll be in big trouble. Like—like how we can’t say anything bad about Gardulla or any of the Hutts ever. Ben says we can’t even talk like that when we’re alone, because he doesn’t want to teach me bad habits that might slip out where someone can hear.”

Mister Qui-Gon is quiet for a long moment. Ani can feel his thoughts moving, muted enough that he can’t quite make out what the Jedi is feeling. Finally, he clears his throat and says, “Ben taught you well, Anakin. In your situation, it was best not to speak of the Force, lest someone hear.”

Ani thinks about this. “But I can talk about the Force now, right?”

“Yes, Ani, you’re free now. We can talk about the Force.”

“So…does that mean I can talk bad about Gardulla too?” Ani asks, suddenly excited.

Ani catches a flash of Mister Qui-Gon’s smile before he straightens his face again. “Well, there is no longer any danger of you getting in trouble for it. But perhaps it is a good habit to maintain not to speak ill of anyone.”

“Gardulla the Hutt isn’t just anyone though,” Ani says. “She’s the worst. She’s the meanest, nastiest, ugliest, slimiest slug in the galaxy, and I hope she gets eaten by a sarlacc.” Boy, does it feel good to say that out loud.

“That’s not very kind, Anakin,” Mister Qui-Gon chides him.

“Well, neither is Gardulla the Hutt.”

“That may be so, Ani, but as a Jedi, you must learn to forgive those who wrong you.”

Ani frowns. “Even Gardulla?”

“Yes, even Gardulla the Hutt.”

“But she’s horrible! When I was really hungry, she made me eat rotten mush until I threw up. She had me and the other little ones beaten when she thought we were being too loud. She had people tortured and killed. She chained Ben by his neck to her chaise and forced him to kneel on gravel for hours without moving. She tried to get Ben killed! I’ll never forgive her for that!”

He feels Mister Qui-Gon’s big hand on his shoulder and realizes that he’s breathing hard. He thinks that he raised his voice too. He is suddenly afraid that someone heard him, that they will come to take him away and punish him—

“Breathe, Ani,” Mister Qui-Gon says, and Ani suddenly remembers what to do. He breathes in for three, then out for three, then repeats, and repeats again. His breathing steadies, his pounding heart begins to slow. Soon he is able to lengthen his breaths to four counts, then five. His panic is already fading fast, his fear reduced to curling up in the back of his mind.

Padmé pokes her head into the galley. “Ani, are you all right? I heard shouting.”

Ani’s face warms, embarrassment squirming in his tummy. Ben taught him better than this; he doesn’t understand why it’s suddenly so hard to follow his teachings when Ben’s not here with him. Things just haven’t felt right to Ani for days now.

“’M sorry, Padmé,” he tells the girl. “I didn’t mean to raise my voice.”

Padmé comes into the room and sits beside him. “It’s all right, Anakin. Are you okay though?”

Ani nods once, then shakes his head. “I got kind of upset. I still am a little, but I won’t raise my voice again, I promise.” He knows how important it is for him to control his emotions. His emotions can affect his Luck, which can make the Wind do weird things, and that’s not good if someone sees.

Padmé puts a hand on his back, rubbing a little. “It’s okay, Ani. Do you want to talk about what made you upset?”

At first Ani wants to tell her no. He fears that talking about it will make him upset again, and he can’t be upset in front of anyone but Ben because of the Wind. But…Mister Qui-Gon and Padmé already know that he’s Lucky. And he’s free now. So he doesn’t have to hide it, right? And Ben has always encouraged him to talk to him about things that make him upset, and he usually does feel better afterwards. Ben talks about “releasing” emotions instead of “repressing” them, and says that talking helps with that. Ben isn’t here to talk to, but Ani likes Padmé, and Mister Qui-Gon helped free him, so he thinks that he can trust them, maybe. Anyway, it’s not some huge secret that Gardulla is an awful sleemo.

“I was remembering…stuff Gardulla the Hutt used to do to me and Ben to punish us,” he finally says. “And I was thinking about the time that Gardulla took Ben to Jabba’s palace and—and had him thrown in Jabba’s pit with a rancor. No armor or weapons or anything. I think she just wanted to watch the rancor kill him.” Anakin hears a sharp intake of breath from Padmé beside him, but he doesn’t look at her just yet. “I wasn’t there ‘cause I was only three, but I saw him—after. The medic hardly did anything to patch him up. A friend sat up with him all night and he made it, barely. Two days later, they loaded him up on a gravsled, the kind you use to move cargo. They set me on it next to him, and towed us out of Gardulla’s palace and handed us to Watto. Watto had won a bet with Gardulla on the podraces, and she was a sore loser, so she gave him us as payment.”

Ani finally glances up at Padmé and sees her pale face, lips pressed together. He thinks maybe he shouldn’t have told her this because it made her sad. He doesn’t want Padmé to be sad. “Ben almost died, but he didn’t, and he’s fine now, and after all, it ended up being okay because Watto isn’t nearly as bad as Gardulla—he doesn’t even hit us most of the time,” he says in a rush, hoping that it will comfort the kind girl. “It was scary to me though because I was little and didn’t understand what was going on and no one explained anything to me, and I was afraid of losing Ben. And I remembered that, and it made me scared again, that’s all. I’m okay now.”

Padmé seems to shake herself a little and she takes a deep breath. “Okay, Ani. I’m glad that you’re feeling better now.” She pats Ani’s back again. “Thank you for telling me what was wrong. And…I’m sorry that that happened to you and Ben.”

Mister Qui-Gon nods. “You’re a very brave boy, Ani.”

Ani feels a bit better. He’s glad he told Padmé and Mister Qui-Gon what happened. But…he didn’t tell them everything.

The rest of the day he wrestles with himself over whether to say anything more. He felt better when he told them about that scary memory. Maybe he’ll feel better if he tells them this. He doesn’t want them to look at him different though. Mister Qui-Gon didn’t like that Ben didn’t teach Ani about the Force, and he didn’t really want Ani to say bad things about Gardulla either, even though he’s free now and Gardulla can’t do anything to him. Maybe Padmé will understand. She’s really nice.

That night, Ani finds himself curled up on a bench in the commons of the ship, listening to Mister Qui-Gon’s Gungan friend snore. He can admit to himself that he might be avoiding the Jedi while he tries to figure out what to tell him.

He’s surprised when Padmé steps out of the lift and into the room. She doesn’t see him; instead she crosses to the computer terminal and triggers a holorecording of an old man in fancy clothes.

“The death toll is catastrophic. We must bow to their wishes. You must contact me.”

Padmé bows her head. Her magnesium-bright presence is not as steady as it was before. It dims and pulses.

Padmé looks up again and finally catches sight of Ani, huddled in the corner. “Are you all right?”

“It’s very cold,” Ani says. There is a tremor in his voice. The longer he is away from Ben, the colder he seems to get.

Padmé fetches a blanket and comes to drape it over Ani. “You come from a warm planet, Ani. A little too warm for my taste. Space is cold.”

Ani is touched by her concern for him, despite that she clearly has her own worries. “You seem sad,” he tells her. He can feel it like a cold weight in his chest, keeping company with his own sad weight. Maybe she will tell him about it, like he told her about Gardulla. Maybe if he listens, he can help her like she helped him.

“The queen is worried,” Padmé says. “Her people are suffering, dying. She must convince the Senate to intervene. I’m not sure what will happen.”

Ani nods. He is very familiar with having to watch people suffer and die and be powerless to help. “I’m sorry. I know what that’s like, but it must be worse for her because she’s the queen. She feels like she should be doing something to help, even if she can’t.” Padmé looks at him with wide eyes, so he goes on. “I think Ben feels that way a lot. He worries about me and our friends and neighbors, but there’s nothing he can do most of the time. Sometimes he feels responsible for bad things that happen, even when they’re really not his fault.”

Ani tilts his head and thinks. “When Ben feels like that…I try to tell him that I care about him. That I love him, and he’s doing his best for me and for everyone. Maybe you could tell the queen that, and it would make her feel better. I’m sure her people love her and know that she’s doing her best for them.”

Then Padmé is hugging him, a little awkwardly because he’s still curled up in the corner and the blanket is in the way. It still chases away the cold, enough that Ani almost doesn’t feel the chill. “Thank you, Ani,” she whispers. When she pulls away, he sees her blink back the tears in her eyes.

“But what about you?” Ani asks. “What do you do when you’re sad or feel bad?” He wants to know how he can help Padmé, not just her queen.

“I guess I usually find something to do that’s helpful, even if it’s not the thing that is worrying me. And I often go to my family or my friends and talk to them.”

Ani nods. “Me too. Only—” he bites his lip.

Padmé rests a hand on his shoulder. “Ben isn’t here,” she finishes for him. Ani nods and swallows past the lump that is suddenly in his throat.

“I know that we’ve only known each other for a few days,” Padmé says, thumb rubbing soothingly over Ani’s shoulder. “But I do care for you, Ani. I would be honored if you would talk to me when you’re feeling bad. Like, for instance, if you don’t feel comfortable with Master Jinn, so you try to sleep on a bench instead of your bunk.”

“It’s not that, really,” Ani tells her. “I like Mister Qui-Gon, and he’s been really nice to me. But I—” he hesitates for an instant, but decides to tell her. “I didn’t really tell him—and you—everything today, when I told you about Gardulla.”

Padmé’s mouth goes tight. “There’s more?” she says. She sounds a little horrified. Ani realizes that she thinks there’s more to the story he told, something worse. He thinks about the very bare-bones version of the story he gave her, and compares it to the reality of seeing Ben laid out on the hard, dirty floor, bloodstained bandages covering his chest and back. Of curling up as close as he can to Ben’s broken body, hand over his mouth to stifle the noise of his crying and hoping with everything in him that Ben will wake up and be okay. Of watching as Ben, barely able to lift his head, begs Watto not to sell him or Ani, promising that he will work off their debt to him once he’s well. Of helping make a crutch for Ben so he can go to work long before he should even be getting up, and seeing the pain lining his face as he forces himself to rise.

He thinks of this and sees the look on Padmé’s face, and knows that he will never tell her all of it.

But that’s not what he meant to confess to her anyway. “I said that I was upset because remembering it made me scared, and it did, a little, but…mostly it made me angry.” He brings his legs in closer to his body, curls up a little tighter as he admits it. “I know that a good Jedi isn’t supposed to get angry, but I can’t help it. I hate what Gardulla, and the other slavers, did to us. Mister Qui-Gon says that if I want to be a Jedi, I have to forgive Gardulla. But I don’t want to. I don’t even want to try. She doesn’t deserve it.” He looks up at Padmé. “If I’m angry at what Gardulla did to us, and won’t forgive her, does that mean I can’t be a Jedi? Will they—will they not let me in? What will happen to me then? Will they send me back to Tatooine to be a slave again?”

Ani’s voice has grown smaller and smaller as he talks, the lump in his throat expanding until he can barely get the last words out. He really doesn’t want to be a slave again, but it wouldn’t be so bad if it means he can be with Ben, he supposes. But there’s no guarantee that Watto will take him back.

He feels Padmé’s hand on his cheek. “I don’t know much about the Jedi Order, though I don’t think they would turn you away. But you don’t need to worry, Ani. You’re free, and you will never be a slave again. If the Jedi won’t take you in, then I will help you find a place where you can live and be happy. Maybe on Naboo, if that is what you wish.”

This time, Ani throws the blanket off so he can hug her. Padmé is so kind, promising to help him when she has so many other things to do to help her queen and her people. He wants to help her too, but he only has one small way to do that right now.

He pulls the charm out of his pocket and hands it to her. “I made this for you. Carved it out of a japor snippet. It’ll bring you good fortune. I hope it helps.”

“It’s beautiful,” Padmé says. Ani’s heart gives a thump when he sees her smile. “But I don’t need this for good fortune. Having a friend like you is so much better.”

For the first time since leaving Tatooine, Ani doesn’t feel cold at all.

Chapter Text

“Wait a minute, Qui-Gon left you on Tatooine?”

“…I believe that we have already established that he did leave me on Tatooine, Master Windu.”

“Perhaps your hearing you need examined, hmm?”

“So how exactly did you come to be on Naboo?”

“The Zabrak warrior stole me.”

“He stole you.”

“Yes.”

“Don’t you mean he kidnapped you, took you hostage?”

“Kidnapping is for free sentients. I was property, so I was stolen.”

“Well, I’m glad we’ve made that distinction.”

“When this was?”

“Several hours after Master Jinn left with Anakin. I had reported to work after they left, but Watto sent me home. I don’t know if he felt sorry for me for losing Ani, or if he just didn’t want to have to look at me right then knowing that I did everything I could to help Ani win. He lost a lot of money that day, not to mention Ani, so he wasn’t in a very good mood.”

“He lost money even though his slave won the race?”

“He was betting on another racer. He didn’t believe Ani would win. That’s how Master Jinn won Ani—he staked ‘his’ pod against Ani in a bet with Watto that Ani would win the race.”

“That can’t have been legal.”

“It wasn’t. But on Tatooine, even under-the-table deals like that are expected to be honored.”

“I’m surprised that your owner would offer either of you up in a bet. It seems like you would be valuable to him.”

“Watto was an inveterate gambler. This probably wasn’t even the first time he’d staked one or both of us. This was just the first time he lost.”

“Jinn. Why was none of this in his report. I’m sorry, I just can’t get over that Qui-Gon Jinn won the prophesied Chosen One in some kind of back-alley bet. This could only happen to him.”

“I’m beginning to see why he didn’t go into details in his reports if his…adventures always inspired so much questioning from the Council.”

“Don’t you start taking after him, Kenobi. The galaxy won’t survive.”

“I think that starship has sailed, Master Windu. How did you put it—enslaved on a desert backwater and still raised the Chosen One and defeated the first Sith in centuries?”

“We’re doomed.”

“Have more faith, you should, Mace. After all, hurt us it cannot, what the Council does not know.”

“Yes, Master Windu, don’t worry. I won’t let Anakin destroy the galaxy without telling you first.”

“That’s comforting. Get on with your report, Kenobi.”

“Well, a few hours later, I felt a wave of evil intent in the Force coming toward me. I barely had time to brace myself before the Zabrak was there. He attacked me very aggressively, hoping to overwhelm me right away. I think he was expecting that I would fight him, but he was also expecting that I would not be too difficult an opponent.”

“I assume he was wrong on the second point.”

“He was at that.”

~*~

Something in the Force surges, dark and potent. Ben surfaces quickly from his meditation on his loss, readying himself for what is coming for him, quickly reinforcing his mental shields against the sudden attack and grabbing a hydrospanner, the nearest object to hand.

He does not have long to prepare. Within seconds of the initial warning the door bursts inward, and Ben raises a hand to redirect the splintered metal flying at him with the Force.

Then the warrior is there, framed in the broken door, a robed and hooded Zabrak with eyes like flame and a Force presence that both freezes and burns.

~*~

“He didn’t start out wielding a saber. He didn’t want to damage me too badly, and my quarters were tight. But I’m not exactly helpless when it comes to unarmed combat.”

~*~

Ben dodges the first attack, throwing the hydrospanner at his attacker to try to slow him down, which works about as well as throwing a bee at him in hopes it would sting him. As it is, Ben has to back into the kitchen as the Zabrak rushes him. At the last second, Ben twists out of the way, grabbing his attacker’s arm and using his momentum to send him tumbling over the table. A judicious Force push sends the table and chairs towards the rising warrior, boxing him in and getting between him and Ben.

~*~

“I held him off for a few minutes and nearly got the best of him once or twice.”

~*~

There is an electrical hum and a flash of red light, and the table lies in two pieces on the floor. Ben does not allow the appearance of the red lightsaber to shake him. Instead, he concentrates on the cabinets and sends every dish, utensil and appliance flying suddenly at his foe using the Force, knowing that a lightsaber is not the best weapon against physical projectiles. He sees the dark warrior swing his saber, but doesn’t stay to watch how he fares. This move is only good for a distraction, and he cannot hold it, nor will it stymie a fighter of such power for long.

Ben races out of the kitchen, headed for the back door. If he can reach that junked speeder bike Anakin was fooling around with…

He feels the air seize around him, and he is yanked back, away from the door, pinned against the wall. The Zabrak is quicker than he’d expected. Ben struggles to push with the Force against the pressure holding him, trying to make enough space that he can slip out from under his opponent’s grip. The door is so close.

The Zabrak senses his intent and increases the power with which he is holding Ben. Ben struggles to breathe against the incredible pressure squeezing his chest like a vise. He can feel the plaster cracking and starting to give way under his back. He’s being pushed right through the wall.

Through the blackness gathering at the edges of his vision, Ben watches the warrior approach bathed in the red light of his saber. The foe reaches out to grab him, and Ben feels a powerful revulsion. His instincts are screaming at him to not let the darkness touch him.

~*~

“He was powerful, well-trained. I could feel the anger coursing through him. I’ve never sensed such hate as I felt in him. I have felt the touch of the shadows before—hard not to when you have been through what I have—but this warrior completely cloaked himself in darkness.”

~*~

All of a sudden, Ben slams his palms against the wall behind him, switching from using the Force to push back against his attacker to pushing in the same direction. The wall crumbles beneath his hands and spine as he is pushed further into the plaster and brick, cracks spiderwebbing all across the wall and up to the ceiling. The sudden lack of resistance throws the Zabrak off balance, and before he can wonder what his quarry is up to, Ben seizes the weakened ceiling in the Force and pulls.

The cracked and crumbling ceiling gives way immediately, nearly burying the Zabrak in rubble. Ben fights to extricate himself from the wall, and lands a kick on the Zabrak’s temple, who grunts and falls back. Another kick sends the warrior’s lightsaber skittering away back into the hall, where it is lost among the debris.

Ben’s fingertips have just brushed the back door when he feels an explosion of anger in the Force. Ben’s entire body is shoved forward, impacting the door, which crumples and gives way. The door, along with most of the back wall of the structure, is blown out, sending Ben flying over the balcony and into the yard below.

The landing drives all the air from Ben’s lungs. Gasping, he raises himself to his elbows and begins pulling himself forward. He hears a thump behind him and he doesn’t need to look to know the Zabrak just jumped from the balcony. Ben has just feet to go to get to Anakin’s bike.

A kick to his side from a black boot knocks him off course, sending him rolling onto his back. He lashes out, letting the Force guide his kick, and manages to sweep the leg out from under his attacker. Ben scrambles forward, desperate now to get away, but the Zabrak once again recovers more quickly than should be possible. A hand grips his leg, and Ben is yanked back. Before he can turn and fight, an arm comes around his throat, cutting off his air and pulling him up to his knees, immobilizing him against the torso of his attacker. Been feels the hilt of a lightsaber pressed against his back, a silent threat to ignite it and sever his spine if he continues to resist.

~*~

“His hesitance to unsheathe his lightsaber was more than just wanting to take me alive, I think. He was trying to be stealthy. A lightsaber is a distinctive weapon, and a red lightsaber even more so, to those aware of its meaning. He never removed his cloak or hood while still on Tatooine. I doubt anyone who saw him could give a clear description of him.”

~*~

Ben curses his own weakness. He had hoped that he would never fall into the hands of a darksider again. Yet here he is, subdued and at the mercy of this dark warrior, the creature’s ugly anger and hate pressing against his shields as though seeking a way in to corrupt his mind, his soul. He knows he can resist—he did it before. But he wishes he had been strong enough to get away this time. He carefully does not think of Anakin, lest his thoughts betray his child to this monster.

A round, black probe droid approaches with a hypodermic needle in its appendage, and Ben has no choice but to allow the drug to be administered. He begins to feel woozy almost immediately, so doesn’t fight when the Zabrak lays him facedown on the ground to cuff his hands behind his back with what he can feel are definitely Force-suppressing binders.

When the Zabrak jerks him to his feet, Ben sees for the first time that their altercation has attracted an audience. His neighbors watch from windows and doorways with frightened eyes. None step forward to stop the Zabrak, for which Ben is grateful. He doesn’t want anyone’s blood on his conscience.

But when the Zabrak makes to throw Ben over Anakin’s speeder bike and take off, someone in the crowd stirs.

“Hey! Stop! You can’t do that!”

~*~

“I have never been so relieved that Anakin was not with me. He would have tried to fight. He would have tried to save me, like his little friend did.”

~*~

Ben’s heart sinks in his chest when he hears Kitster’s voice. He tries to speak to warn the boy off, but the drug is making his mind too foggy to find words. He shakes his head at the boy standing bravely before them, trying to convey with his eyes that Kitster should run.

Kitster doesn’t run. Instead he shouts, “If you wanna take him alive, you gotta disable the chip first. It’ll kill him if you just take him like that!”

The Zabrak warrior glares at the child and Ben fervently prays to the Force to intervene on the boy’s behalf, since there is nothing Ben can do to save him.

To Ben’s very great relief, his kidnapper then turns his glare on Ben. He waves the probe droid over and it scans Ben from head to toe, beeping its findings and marking a point on Ben’s left calf with a laser dot. Before Ben can even begin to put his muzzy thoughts together to figure out what’s going to happen next, the Zabrak has a vibro-shiv out and is cutting into his leg.

Ben locks a scream behind his teeth. The drug he was given apparently doesn’t affect his pain receptors, because he can feel every agonizing moment perfectly. He tries to remain still; he fears that if he twitches too much the Zabrak will sever a tendon. The drug and the pain are making his head spin. He tries…but he can’t quite…

Another burst of pain comes from his leg, like something being ripped out of it, and Ben moans weakly. He just manages to catch a glimpse of the Zabrak holding a tiny metallic piece in his bloody hand before his vision finally goes dark.

~*~

“I hope Kitster was all right, that he ran away while the warrior was taking out my chip. Unfortunately, I don’t remember anything else until waking on his ship.”

“And then?”

“Then he started in with the questions.”

“Asking about the queen and Jinn?”

“Yes.”

“About young Anakin, did he ask?”

“…Yes, master. But I didn’t get the sense that he knew Anakin was special in any way, or anything more than a latent Force-sensitive that Master Jinn picked up. From what little he said, I gathered that he had tracked the queen’s ship to Tatooine, and one of his probe droids located Master Jinn at our house. He was trying to find the queen, not the Chosen One.”

“And you told him nothing.”

“Not a word.”

“So it is possible that the Sith still do not know that the Chosen One has been found.”

“I hope so, master.”

“So do I. For all our sakes, but for the two of you especially.”

“To rebuff the advances of a darksider, difficult this is. Manage this, how did you?”

“My mental shields are quite strong, master. Especially when I am concentrating on reinforcing them, and I had no other greater matter on my mind than shielding while I was his captive. However, he did not seem particularly adept at this kind of subtle drawing out of information. He tried, and did a credible job, I suppose, but he was hampered by the fact that he knew almost nothing about me, so didn’t really know where to strike for my weakest points. He was eventually reduced to simply using pain to try to goad me to anger, which I never gave him the satisfaction of rising to.”

“Mental fortitude under torture is not a simple thing to learn.”

“You don’t say.”

“Really though…how did you learn these skills? Yoda and I both remember you as an Initiate. You were an excellent student, but your knowledge of the Force seems to have advanced quite a lot since then. Those that leave the Order as Initiates or Padawans—their learning in the Force usually stops there. Most of them regress in their practice and their connection to the Force fades. But not you.”

“It is kind of you to say that I was a good student, though that is not quite what I recall. You are right though, that my learning of Force skills has progressed since I, ah, got lost. I could not have imagined as an Initiate the sheer breadth of how much there was to learn about the Force. When I first glimpsed it, I felt truly humbled for the first time. It taught me that only by approaching the Force with humility, knowing that we can never fully comprehend or control it, are we able to unlock its power in ourselves.”

“Yeah, sure. You’re worse than Yoda, spouting all that philosophy bantha poodoo. ‘Mysterious are the ways of the Force’ indeed. Like I wouldn’t notice that you didn’t answer the question!”

“Philosophical dissembling, an underappreciated skill is. Many times I have used this on missions, to great effect.”

“Stop encouraging him. I’m not going to sit here and let you ruin this one with your intentionally confounding doublespeak like you did all your Padawans and grand-Padawans. Look here, Kenobi, don’t be like him. He’s awful.”

“Object, I do!”

“Do you really want to end up a crabbed old man cornering the unsuspecting into drinking your disgusting swamp tea and listening to you muse on the mysteries of the universe until they go cross-eyed from trying not to fall unconscious because they’re too polite to give in to their self-preservation instincts and run away?”

“Answer carefully, you should, young Obi-Wan.”

“It may be too late for me, Master Windu. Anakin already falls asleep to my lectures on a regular basis. You’ll have to pin your hopes on Anakin turning out better than I did, I fear.”

“Tragic.”

“Tragedy it is that appreciate the charms of a good philosophical discussion you cannot, Mace.”

“Seriously though. How did you learn to use the Force with such skill?”

“A lot of things I learned out of necessity through trial and error. It helped that I knew certain things were definitely possible in the Force, even if I had never learned to do them myself. For instance, I knew from my time in the Temple that many Jedi Knights can use the Force to sustain themselves for long periods without water, food or sleep. So I knew that, theoretically, I should be able to do it too. It took me quite a while to learn that skill, but I finally managed to be able to do it consistently when I was about fourteen. I never would have had the patience to keep trying if I didn’t already know the technique existed and I had but to discover the method.”

“That…is not a technique we teach to adolescents. It’s not healthy for a child whose body is still growing.”

“Yes. Unfortunately, I didn’t have many other options. I never taught it to Anakin, and I don’t intend to anytime soon. I was lucky that I was nearly always able to provide for his basic needs. Actually, Anakin was my other motivation in learning. He’s so strong in the Force, and we shared a Force bond from the beginning. I had to always be in control, especially of my pain and fear, lest Anakin pick up on my emotions. I had to learn more so that I could protect him, teach him. I had no teacher myself, so I found myself depending more and more on the Force to provide the knowledge I lacked.”

“Difficult it is, to follow guidance from the Force itself, hmmm. Few Jedi there are that have the deep connection necessary.”

“I didn’t have much of a choice, really. I couldn’t fail Anakin.”

“How does the Force teach lightsaber forms?”

“I’m sorry?”

“The queen sent the Council the security holocam footage of your fight with the Sith. It was frankly impressive. Lots of nonstandard moves, which I assume come from your years fighting in the pits and the arena. But there was more there rooted in the Jedi arts than I would have expected from someone who ceased formal lightsaber instruction at age twelve. I doubt you learned your katas just from communing with the Force.”

“Ah, well… Here’s where things may get a bit complicated.”

“Excellent. Wonderful. Glad that up till now they’ve been very commonplace and straightforward or I’d be worried.”

“I’m going to have to back up a bit to explain… You remember how I disappeared on Bandomeer?”

“I already don’t like where this is going.”

“Well…”

Chapter Text

The encounter with the Sith had been a nasty surprise. Qui-Gon isn’t shocked that his report to the Council is met with disbelief—on both fronts. A Sith and a vergence in the Force? What are the odds? But the Council has committed to investigate both, so he cannot complain about that.

What he could complain about is how long the Council is taking to call him and Anakin in for Anakin’s test. The boy had been nervous on their way here—his obvious awe at being in the Temple notwithstanding—but now after waiting for more than twenty minutes he is also bored, which is a bad combination. Qui-Gon is very much out of practice with providing distractions for young boys. He had suggested they meditate, but Anakin had not been able to hold his concentration for more than a minute. He had tried talking to Anakin, tried to reassure him that the test would go well, but the boy seemed to withdraw further the more Qui-Gon tried to reach out to him.

“Good evening, Master Jinn. I hope you are well?”

Qui-Gon looks up to see a familiar face has just stepped off the lift. “Good evening, Knight Eerin. It is good to see you. Are you here to debrief with the Council after your first mission?”

If Bant Eerin is surprised that Qui-Gon was aware of her first mission as a Knight, she doesn’t show it. “I am, in five minutes. But if you are still waiting, then the Council must be running behind. Again.”

Qui-Gon chuckles. “When are they not? But congratulations on completing your first mission, Knight Eerin. I am sure you did very well.” Bant gives him a nod in thanks. Qui-Gon puts a hand on Ani’s shoulder. “This is Anakin Skywalker, of Tatooine.” He knows Bant to be better with younglings than he is. Perhaps she might be able to draw Anakin into conversation. It would be nice for Anakin to begin making friends in the Order. And it would have the added bonus of not making Bant feel as though she is trapped here with Qui-Gon, having to make stilted conversation with a person she dislikes.

“Tatooine?” Bant says, taking the out that Qui-Gon offers and turning her attention to Anakin. “I have never been there, which is fortunate for me, as the dry air would probably really make my skin itch.”

Anakin perks up immediately at the prospect of finding out more about the Mon Calamari Knight. “Do you come from a planet with lots of water? I’ve never seen anyone who looks like you.”

They quickly become embroiled in conversation, which leaves Qui-Gon in peace to study the young Knight in front of him. He is relieved to see that she is apparently healthy and uninjured. He really does believe that she would have done the Order proud on her first mission. He has taken an interest in her training and watched her progress from afar—he actually cares a great deal for her, though he knows that she does not care for him. He does not blame her for that. He wishes things could be different, but…Master Tahl’s death changed them both. He had considered taking Bant on to continue her training, thought Tahl would have liked him to do that for her Padawan, but he was too mired in grief, and Bant did not trust him at all. Not after he failed to save her master’s life on that fateful mission on New Apsolon. And especially not after—not after he had rejected and then lost her dearest childhood friend. Yes, Qui-Gon knows very well why Bant Eerin wants nothing to do with him.

Finally, a Padawan opens the door to the Council chamber and calls for Anakin. When Qui-Gon rises as well, the Padawan bows and politely tells him that only Anakin was requested.

The boy shoots a look at Qui-Gon, but Qui-Gon only smiles at him. “Everything will be fine,” he tells Ani. “I will be waiting right here for you.” The boy nods, then squares his shoulders and marches into the room alone. Qui-Gon is thankful for his courage as the doors slide shut.

“He is too old.”

Qui-Gon looks over at Bant as he takes his seat again. “Pardon?”

“He is too old to start training as a Jedi now. The Council will not allow it. Why are you encouraging him?” There is a note of disapproval in her tone.

“There are special circumstances which warrant his admission,” Qui-Gon says mildly. Bant, of course, does not know that Anakin is likely the Chosen One, so he cannot fault her for her assessment. If he were any other child, she would be right.

“To my memory, the Council has never made exceptions to their age limits before,” Bant says coldly. Qui-Gon feels a pang in his chest. Her words are a painful reminder of another young boy facing an age limit that would determine his future, which she likely intended.

He folds his hands in front of him. “If the Council does not wish to admit him, I should have the right to take him as my Padawan, regardless.”

It was the wrong thing to say. The temperature of the room seems to drop sharply with Bant’s silent shock and disapproval radiating in the Force. It is a long moment before she finds her voice again.

“So,” she says, voice cracking like ice before a burst of steam. “The elusive Master Qui-Gon Jinn has finally found one suitable to be his next apprentice.”

“Bant—”

“Don’t get me wrong—the boy is sweet, intelligent and eager. I am sure that he would do well in most any profession outside of the Temple, and I do wish him the best. But really, Qui-Gon? Bringing an older, gifted child to the Temple and insisting he be trained over the reservations of other Masters? That doesn’t strike you as familiar?”

Guilt twists uncomfortably in his chest. Qui-Gon will forever bear the shame of his mistakes with Xanatos, his first—and technically his only—Padawan. They cost so many so much. They nearly cost Bant her life when Xanatos attacked the Temple. They did cost Xanatos his. It is why he has avoided taking another Padawan up to now, why he still thinks Ani would be better off taught by another. Qui-Gon doubts his fitness to teach.

But Anakin is not Xanatos. It is clear to Qui-Gon that their natures are very different. Xanatos, following his father’s example, placed so much importance on power and prestige, even from childhood, and he lied and manipulated and eventually turned to the dark side in order to accrue more. Anakin already has power in the Force, and what Qui-Gon has seen that he has chosen to do with it so far is humbling. He put his life in danger to help strangers and a planet he had never seen in dire need, believing that his actions would have small benefit, if any, to him. This because he was trained in a foundation of self-control, humility, and compassion—values instilled in him by a caring father-figure. Anakin could not be more different from Xanatos; this Qui-Gon truly believes.

“After all these years, why him?” Bant says, shaking her head. “Why this boy and not— What does he have that Obi-Wan didn’t?”

Her voice is so low that it is nearly a whisper, but it rings in Qui-Gon’s ears as though she had shouted. He closes his eyes against the wave of shame that rises in his breast.

“It took me far too long to see that the fault was not with Obi-Wan—it was with me,” Qui-Gon reluctantly admits. He owes Bant this much, at least. “I was still in pain from—what occurred with Xanatos. Subconsciously, I feared another betrayal. So when Master Yoda introduced Obi-Wan to me, I was quick to find fault with him, to give myself an excuse not to take him on as my apprentice. By the time I realized how wrong I was, it was far too late.

“Anakin is not any more worthy to be a Padawan than Obi-Wan was. The difference is that I have learned not to allow my own fears to cloud my judgement and prevent me from reaching out.” He takes a deep, shaky breath. “I wish every day that that lesson had not come at the expense of Obi-Wan.”

Bant’s large eyes are sad as she replies. “As do I.”

Silence falls between them. It feels to Qui-Gon as though they are holding a vigil for the lost boy. He, at least, cannot escape the memories that bubble to the surface, now that he has been forcibly reminded of them. And he can admit that he has, perhaps unwisely, been avoiding thinking about either Xanatos or Obi-Wan.

Obi-Wan Kenobi was twelve years old and about to age out of Initiate training when Yoda had strong-armed Qui-Gon into observing the boy in hopes that he would take him on as his Padawan learner. The boy was skilled and determined, but Qui-Gon had refused to apprentice him. Obi-Wan was aggressive and allowed his anger to rule him—that is what Qui-Gon had thought, or more accurately, used as an excuse, at the time. Really, Obi-Wan was no more arrogant, angry or emotional than any other boy would be who faced a very short deadline for achieving his dreams. If Qui-Gon’s own memory is accurate, he himself was not much different from Obi-Wan at that age. He had learned to control his emotions in time, through training with his own master, but he had not afforded Obi-Wan that same opportunity.

Instead, circumstances—and possibly Master Yoda—had conspired to throw him and the boy together for one of the most difficult and dangerous missions Qui-Gon had ever completed.

Starting right away, there had been tensions between the two mining companies on the transport to the planet Bandomeer, where Qui-Gon was assigned a mission and Obi-Wan was assigned to an AgriCorps outpost. The boy was nearly killed by a Hutt with a grudge before Qui-Gon even knew he was aboard. Obi-Wan had tried to prove himself to Qui-Gon again and again during the journey. When pirates attacked the ship and things really went to hell, the boy’s help had proved invaluable. While Qui-Gon had been occupied defending the ship from the boarding parties, Obi-Wan had recovered the bridge controls, blown up two of the pirate ships and evaded the others, then piloted the heavily damaged craft to land on a nearby moon. Then, as if that weren’t enough trouble for his first foray outside the Temple, he had helped Qui-Gon recover stolen minerals that the Arconans of one of the mining factions needed to live. He had held off a horde of winged predators single-handedly to protect the miners before Qui-Gon was able to return the precious minerals and join him in the fight. They had fought side-by-side for hours, all through that day.

Obi-Wan had acquitted himself very well indeed. He had shown his determination to aid and protect others and his ability and willingness to learn from his mistakes, not to mention considerable skill with the Force. Stars, they had even unintentionally forged a nascent Force bond, a strong sign of compatibility. Any other Knight or Master would have offered to train him on the spot. But Qui-Gon had not. He told himself that he did not want to rush into this decision, that he would watch the boy’s conduct on Bandomeer and perhaps decide to take him on later. Really he was hoping that Yoda would call Obi-Wan back to the Temple for reassignment to another master.

Neither of those things came to pass. Instead, it was revealed that Xanatos was the mastermind behind the conflict on Bandomeer, and Qui-Gon’s attention had been consumed by his fallen former Padawan. It was Obi-Wan who had kept his eyes open, Obi-Wan who, though rejected by Qui-Gon and bound for the AgriCorps for a life in plant husbandry, continued to try to help. It was Obi-Wan who discovered the first ion bomb, as well as the hidden rooms that could only be accessed through use of the Force, and alerted Qui-Gon to their existence. Without Obi-Wan’s discovery, Qui-Gon would not have known to look for the other bombs and disarm the master bomb in the last crisis manufactured by Xanatos, and the entire planet would have been destroyed.

Obi-Wan had warned Qui-Gon in time of the danger, but Qui-Gon had not done the same for Obi-Wan. He deliberately kept the boy in the dark about Xanatos and his history, and Obi-Wan had paid for it.

Xanatos, assuming Obi-Wan was Qui-Gon’s new Padawan, had captured the boy. He as good as admitted it when Qui-Gon confronted him and saw that he had Obi-Wan’s lightsaber. But there was no time to search for the boy, not when the stakes for the planet were so high. When Qui-Gon had finally gone looking after the crisis was over, he could not find the Initiate. He had followed the trail to one of Bandomeer’s deep sea mines, where it appeared that Obi-Wan was enslaved for several days before he disappeared. The only trace left of him was a mocking note intentionally left by Xanatos to hurt Qui-Gon: Where is your new apprentice, Master?

Though Qui-Gon looked long and hard for any trace of Obi-Wan, that was truly the last he ever heard of the boy. More than a year later, he confronted Xanatos on the man’s home planet of Telos IV and demanded to know what he had done with Obi-Wan. His former Padawan had only laughed in his face. He then committed suicide rather than allow Qui-Gon to arrest him, and the only person to know what had become of Obi-Wan Kenobi was gone.

Qui-Gon remembers finding Obi-Wan in his cabin on that unnamed moon, not long after fighting for their lives and the lives of every other soul aboard the ship to Bandomeer. The boy was exhausted but had not yet slept, his face drawn, but his gaze far away. He remembers the emptiness in Obi-Wan’s eyes when he told Qui-Gon that he would be glad to leave this place, that he had seen too much death there. He recalls the low tremble in the boy’s voice when he admitted that he had finally recognized his own unworthiness of the Force’s power. Most of all, Obi-Wan’s tired acceptance of Qui-Gon’s decision not to train him will haunt Qui-Gon forever.

By the time Anakin exits the Council chamber, the mood in the waiting hall is very somber indeed. The surprised worry in the boy’s face and Force signature at what he senses from Qui-Gon and Bant is enough for Qui-Gon to shake himself out of his brooding and put his guilt out of his mind for now.

He smiles at Ani and beckons him over to sit. “All right, Ani?”

Ani nods slowly. “They’re talking. They sent me to wait out here.”

Bant, seeing that this is going to take much longer than she thought, pulls out her lightsaber to clean while she waits. Within moments, Anakin has moved to the seat next to her, avidly watching her work and asking question after question.

Qui-Gon watches them for a bit. The simple, repetitive motion of cleaning her weapon and the enjoyment of talking to little Ani is already helping draw Bant’s thoughts away from her grief for her friend.

Satisfied that both young ones are fine, Qui-Gon slides into a light meditation. He needs to center himself before the Council calls them back in, or they will notice his emotional turbulence.

Over the last decade, he has found himself many times needing to confront his guilt over Xanatos and Obi-Wan, to learn what he can from it and try to release it into the Force. It is never easy. The Jedi Order does not believe in making those who have done wrong atone for their actions, but Qui-Gon has thought before that atonement might be the way for him personally. He made mistakes with these two children. There is nothing he can do to set that right. But he can make sure he does not make them again, and that he does what he can to help other young ones in need. He could neither save Obi-Wan nor train him. But he was able to help save Anakin from slavery, and he will see to it that the boy is trained.

All will be as the Force wills it.

The fourth thing Obi-Wan learned as a slave was who had bought him.

The ship that had taken him from Bandomeer was in hyperspace for near two days. After locking Obi-Wan in a cage that probably would have been more suitable in size for a tooka than a human boy, the Duros pilot did not so much as return to check on him, let alone to give him food or water.

Obi-Wan decided to count himself lucky that he was so weak with dehydration and hunger that he didn’t want to move, or being forced into such a small space would have been maddening.

He was only half conscious when the transport finally docked, so he wasn’t sure if he was imagining that the voice of the person who boarded sounded familiar.

“I thought I ordered him alive, not half-dead.”

“You can never be too careful with Jedi, even the little ones,” the Duros responded.

“You may deliver him to my manse. Your payment will have cleared the transfer by the time you get there. If you have any questions, take it up with my seneschal.”

“Sir.”

Obi-Wan was dragged out of the cage, cuffed, and then shoved to the floor of a speeder. The motion and vibrations of the vehicle as it moved along a boulevard threatened to turn the boy’s migraine into an aneurysm as he gagged on nothing, stomach rebelling even without anything in it.

When the speeder shuddered to a halt, a hand around Obi-Wan’s upper arm pulled him off the floorboard and hauled him up a set of stairs that he nearly tripped over on every step, seemingly unable to lift his feet high enough to clear them. He was then dragged down a hall and shoved unceremoniously to the cold floor. He heard a door close, voices receding, and then he was alone, feeling as though he could cry but too dehydrated to shed a tear.

He must have dozed off or passed out or something, because he didn’t recall hearing anyone come in, but someone was definitely shaking his shoulder, urging him to sit up. He groaned and reluctantly complied, but his eyes popped open when he smelled something wonderful.

A cup was pushed into his hands, and Obi-Wan didn’t think, just brought it to his lips to drink. The broth was the best thing he had ever tasted, he was sure. He gulped it down.

“Shh, slowly, slowly now,” the familiar voice said. “Don’t make yourself sick.” A hand was around his, gripping the cup, trying to pull it away. Obi-Wan whimpered, but he forced himself to ease back. He was already dizzy even from so short a time sitting up, and his shriveled stomach was protesting, unused to the weight of food.

A hand rested on the back of his shoulder, and Obi-Wan looked up to meet dark blue eyes in a pale face framed by dark, shoulder-length hair.

“Xanatos?” Obi-Wan frowned. “Did you…buy me?”

Xanatos gave him what may have been meant to be a kind smile, but there was something cold in his eyes.

“Of course I did, as soon as I discovered that the security forces had taken you to the deep sea mines,” he said. “You don’t think I would allow my Padawan brother to stay in a place like that, do you?”

Obi-Wan shook his head. There was something wrong in what Xanatos had said, like he wasn’t quite telling the truth, but Obi-Wan couldn’t pin down what it was. His head was still throbbing distractingly.

“I’m not your Padawan brother,” he told Xanatos. “I’m not a Padawan.”

“I thought you were Qui-Gon’s apprentice?” Obi-Wan shook his head. “Then why were you on Bandomeer?”

“I was assigned to the AgriCorps on the planet.”

“Ah. You aged out of Initiate training.”

Obi-Wan shrugged. “I haven’t really aged out yet. I’m still twelve. I think.” How many days had it been since he had boarded the transport on Coruscant? He’d lost track, but he didn’t think his name day had passed yet.

“If you’re still twelve, then why the AgriCorps? And why Bandomeer? It is a brutal world, with a harsh climate and dangerous predators. I wouldn’t think it suitable for a child just out of Initiate training.”

“I…I messed up.”

Xanatos nudged the cup still in Obi-Wan’s hands. Obi-Wan took another sip of broth, more measured this time. It would be best to stay alert, and making himself sick wouldn’t help.

“Tell me,” Xanatos said, and Obi-Wan did. He told Xanatos about losing his temper and allowing his bully to goad him into an unsanctioned fight. How Bruck had lied in reporting him and the High Council had decided to send him away. How he had one last chance to impress Qui-Gon Jinn, but had failed to be chosen as his Padawan. How he had tried to prove himself after that, on the way to Bandomeer and on the planet, but was still not worthy of training. Xanatos was a surprisingly sympathetic listener, keeping a hand on his shoulder and urging him to sip his broth whenever his voice grew strained. But even reliving these memories made Obi-Wan feel sad and small and, yes, angry as well. He wasn’t even sure where the anger was coming from anymore. Was he angry at the situation? At Qui-Gon Jinn? At himself? He took a breath and tried to let the anger go, but he just couldn’t seem to push it away.

When Obi-Wan finally finished speaking, he was exhausted. “What now?” Obi-Wan asked Xanatos dully. “Will you…take me back to the Temple?”

Xanatos sighed. “Do you really want to go back to the Temple, Obi-Wan?” he asked. “Back to where no one appreciates you, where they order you around and expect you to follow blindly? To the place they unfairly sent you away from? They’ll only send you away again, you know.”

Obi-Wan just nodded, eyes stinging. He did want to go back, desperately. He knew they would send him away again, failure that he was, but he longed to be back there, even just for a day. The Temple was his home. He missed his friends, Garen, Reeft, and especially Bant. He wanted a hug from Bant so badly that it would be worth facing the Council’s censure for his failure on Bandomeer.

“Qui-Gon won’t stand up for you,” Xanatos continued. “I told you before of his betrayal. He never stood up for me, and I was his Padawan for years. Yoda clearly intended you for him, but the fool rejected you even still.”

Obi-Wan shook his head. “Qui-Gon Jinn is a great man, a great Jedi. He wouldn’t betray a Padawan.” He had learned much from Master Jinn on the trip to Bandomeer alone. If he had listened to him, he wouldn’t have been caught and enslaved. If only he were good enough to be a Padawan, it would have been an honor to learn from him.

The hand on his shoulder tightened to the point of pain, and Obi-Wan tensed as he felt a spike of anger in the Force from the man beside him. “Oh, you think so, do you? Perhaps I should tell you a little story of my own then.” Obi-Wan was tired and his whole body ached, but something told him that he must marshal his will to pay attention to the here and now.

“Jedi are supposed to be neutral,” Xanatos began. “And yet, that twisted troll Yoda sent Qui-Gon and me to my home planet of Telos to oversee the renegotiation of a treaty with a neighboring planet. My father was the governor of Telos at the time, and so was the main negotiator for his planet. Tell me, how is anyone, even a Jedi, to maintain the appearance of neutrality when they have blood ties to one side? I should never have been sent to those negotiations, but Yoda wanted to test me. He didn’t trust me, or like me, so he set me up to fail.”

“I had not seen my father in many years. I found that it was good to see him again, to speak to him as a son does with a father. Jedi are not supposed to have parents or family. They do not understand the comfort one finds in the company of their own kin. I was merely glad to see my father again, but Qui-Gon grew jealous of our closeness. Perhaps he thought that I would choose my father over him. A Jedi knows not pride, Master Qui-Gon.” A sneer curled on Xanatos’ lip as he said his former master’s name. Already, Obi-Wan didn’t like this story. It didn’t sound like Master Yoda or Master Jinn at all, but he knew better than to try to argue with Xanatos.

“The initial meeting of the negotiations did not go well, of course. My ties to Telos called the neutrality of the Jedi into question. Though perhaps if I had actually favored my father in the negotiations, it would have made up for Qui-Gon’s clear bias against him.”

“Then came the betrayal. Qui-Gon told the Telosian news media that the negotiations failed because of me and my father. Perhaps it was true, from a certain point of view, that my presence and perceived non-neutrality was the point of failure, but to blame us for that! But worse, he claimed—to the public media—that the negotiations were only a ruse because my father planned to invade the other planet with an army he was raising in secret!” Xanatos’ fist clenched. Obi-Wan felt his anger clearly in the Force, hot and smoky, like a fire that he was sitting uncomfortably close to.

“This sparked unrest, which led to a violent rebellion against my father’s rule. Then my father really did have to hire an army to end the violence and keep the people of Telos safe. I wanted to help clean up my master’s mess, so I volunteered to lead the troops. Then Qui-Gon, in his wisdom, started aiding the rebellion, and the fighting became an all-out civil war.”

Xanatos paused, sneering, teeth bared. “The last battle of the war was fought at the governor’s quarters. My father was killed in his own home, right in front of me. Struck down by Qui-Gon Jinn.”

“No…” Obi-Wan breathed, eyes wide. He felt lightheaded, his thoughts thick and murky. It felt like there was something pressing on his brain. He could hardly believe what he was hearing.

“Qui-Gon’s lightsaber passed through my father’s ring on the killing blow. I picked up the broken ring out of the fire and pressed it to my cheek.” Xanatos indicated the half-circle shaped mark on his face. “The scar will always remind me of Qui-Gon’s betrayal.”

Obi-Wan felt a chill go down his spine. He had seen that shape before. The broken circle…like on the mysterious boxes in the enrichment zone and on the mining platform. That meant something, but Obi-Wan was struggling to understand what. His exhausted mind kept losing the train of his thought. That meant—it meant—meant that the boxes were Xanatos’. That Xanatos was interfering with the AgriCorps and connected to the deep sea mine. Why?

“So you see, little brother, Qui-Gon does not deserve your loyalty. The Jedi don’t deserve you either. If Yoda had his way, you would be given to an uncaring and treacherous master, but worry not. I have rescued you from their manipulations and perfidy.”

Xanatos’ hand came to rest on Obi-Wan’s shoulder again, and Obi-Wan shuddered at his cold touch. “I know you hoped to be a Jedi Knight, but I can make you a much better offer. Become my apprentice. Swear loyalty to me, and we will have our justice for what they did to us.”

Obi-Wan shook his head, the motion making him dizzy immediately. “No…I won’t…You’re lying.” His tongue felt swollen, making his words slurred and indistinct. He felt a sudden need to get up, to get away from Xanatos, but when he tried to stand, he couldn’t get his limbs to coordinate. He stumbled and fell back against the wall, head spinning. The pressure on his brain was worse than ever, and he suddenly realized it was due to his mental shields being completely down. He tried to raise them and began to panic when he found he couldn’t.

He felt Xanatos’ fingers on his chin, tilting his face up to his. Meeting Xanatos’ cold blue eyes meant feeling the man’s anger burning into his brain. Obi-Wan screwed his eyes shut, his eyelids the only barrier he had left.

“Hmm, it’s kicking in already, I see,” Xanatos mused idly. “I went light on the dosage I slipped in your soup, but I suppose if you hadn’t eaten recently that would speed things along.” He stroked Obi-Wan’s cheek. “Spice has some…interesting effects on Force-sensitives, wouldn’t you agree?” Obi-Wan could only pant in panic. His mind felt like it was crumbling, completely open to the Force as each and every object simultaneously caught at his attention, pulling him in all directions and stretching him thin.

“Now, I’m going to ask you again, little brother, and I expect you to agree to my generous offer. I will not ask a third time, and you will not like it if you do not accept. Become my apprentice and swear me your loyalty, and I will teach you the ways of the Force that the Jedi are too weak and too scared to learn. You will be more powerful than any of them. Why refuse such an opportunity?”

Obi-Wan tried to shake his head, but Xanatos’ fingers were tight on his jaw. “No…” he moaned, shuddering as he felt Xanatos’ rage spike, like salt in the open wound of his mind.

“Why not?” Xanatos snarled.

“I’m a Jedi,” Obi-Wan gasped. “I won’t turn. Won’t fall. Promised. Promised I wouldn’t.” He wasn’t sure anymore who he had made the promise to, but he just knew that he couldn’t, wouldn’t, turn to the dark side. Though his reason was clouded with the drug, he somehow understood that that was what Xanatos was really offering.

Xanatos’ fury was worse than ever, grating against his too-open mind. “So be it! If you will not be my apprentice, you will be my slave. And you will turn, little brother. That I can promise you.”

Obi-Wan finally lost his battle with his own body, and he wrenched his head away from Xanatos’ grasp, lurching forward to be violently ill on the floor. He heard Xanatos curse, then turn and stride away. A door slammed, sounding as loud as a cannon to the boy’s wide open senses. The smoky hot rage that had been filling Obi-Wan’s mind gradually faded, for which the boy was thankful.

Shaking, stomach clenching, nose and throat burning, tears and snot streaming down his face, Obi-Wan crawled away from the puddle of sick and curled up on a clean patch of hard, bare floor. He wished he had some water to drink, but even more he wished he could somehow wake up from this nightmare that had become his life.

As he drifted off there on the floor, he thought of what could be his fifth lesson as a slave: that he may as well rest, because his nightmares could be no worse than waking.

Chapter Text

“No.”

“I’m afraid so.”

“Xanatos. Xanatos had you.”

“Hmm.”

“Dank farrik.”

“Hmph!”

“Ow, hey! Don’t hit me with that thing. I’m not some youngling you can chastise for cursing.”

“An adult you are. But excuse it is not for having bad language in front of young ones.”

“He’s hardly a youngling either. I’m sure he’s heard worse.”

“I certainly have, though never from the lips of a revered Jedi Master. I’m afraid you’ve quite ruined my image of the Jedi as beyond reproach, Master Windu.”

“Right, it’s my foul language that has caused you to become disillusioned with the Jedi.”

“I’ll forgive you so long as you don’t do it in front of Anakin. I’ll never be able to tell him to mind his manners again if he hears the Master of the Jedi Order cursing.”

“Just—let me see if I’ve got this straight. Xanatos kidnapped you on Bandomeer because he thought you were Jinn’s Padawan. He had you enslaved in a deep sea mine. Then a few days later he bribed someone to have you shipped to Telos…where he held you captive but still trained you in lightsaber combat and other Force techniques?”

“That’s pretty close. Although I hesitate to say he trained me. Our ‘training sessions’ mostly consisted of him beating me over and over again with a lightsaber while I tried everything I could think of to defend myself. Occasionally he would switch it up by making me face off with him in some other challenge of Force skills that he could beat me at, like an obstacle course. He did very little actual training, though he expected me to keep improving. He did give me access to the texts and modules he had smuggled out of the Temple library, which were far more helpful to my continued education.”

“What was the purpose of that? He had to know that’s not an effective training method. Was his ego so fragile that he had to beat up a boy half his age to feel powerful?”

“His purpose in ‘training’ I think was more to wear me down than build anyone up. I was being stubborn. He wanted me to be his apprentice, but I refused. I didn’t want to betray the Jedi. And I couldn’t bear the thought of having that close connection with him, of having a training bond especially. It…didn’t feel right.”

“Hmmm. To the dark side, he had turned. Sense this, you could, even as a child?”

“I suppose so. I knew something was off about him right away. His anger was always there, very close to the surface, easy to sense. Later it became pretty obvious that he had fallen. Some of the texts he had…some of them definitely didn’t come from the Temple. They described the dark arts, and not from the perspective of defending against them. How to actually practice them.”

“We found some of those datapads in the investigation after his death, when his holdings were searched. If only we had found you too.”

“You couldn’t have, as I wasn’t there anymore. I was sold soon after Xanatos’ death, specifically to keep the Jedi from finding me.”

“Never discovered was the origin of these dark materials. Wealthy was Xanatos, with far-reaching business interests, but concerning it is that find these things he did, and concealed his source. Powerful he was, but many there are that are more powerful and may do just as easily as he.”

“Master Yoda, this may be difficult to hear, though perhaps not surprising in light of recent events—I believe that Xanatos did not find these things on his own. He had help from someone else, a…a mentor.”

“…A master, you mean.”

“Perhaps. I’m not sure. Xanatos told me very little, and I never met or communicated with this person. But I’m sure that Xanatos was in contact with someone.”

“What makes you say that?”

“He sometimes spoke of another. Someone who ‘showed him the truth about the Force,’ who was teaching him things the Jedi never would. Always in the vaguest of terms, of course. I have no idea who he was, how Xanatos met him, how often they spoke, or their method of communication.”

“This is…concerning.”

“Indeed. It certainly concerned me greatly, especially when Xanatos let slip that this person was interested in me, and that he had asked Xanatos to give me to him.”

“…Sith-hells…”

“Yes, quite possibly. For once I was actually grateful that Xanatos refused to relinquish me. Though once Xanatos saw how afraid I was of this person, he held it over me—started telling me he would sell me to him if I didn’t do as he wished.”

“Hmmm. The Force was with you, young Obi-Wan. If interested in you this mysterious mentor was, curious it is that find you he did not after Xanatos’ death.”

“I managed to convince Xanatos’ wife not to sell me to him. She sold me to a spice smuggler instead, and that was the point I decided to abandon the name Obi-Wan Kenobi. If he was still looking for me, I wanted to make it harder for him to find me.”

“But harder it would be also for the Jedi to find you.”

“I know. I knew that, but it didn’t seem likely that the Jedi were still looking for me. This dark mentor seemed the more immediate threat. I thought it would be foolish not to take this precaution on the off chance that the Jedi might miraculously find me when I knew that this person definitely was looking and did know where I had been.”

“Smart. A terrible trade-off and decision to make, but you probably saved yourself.”

“Thought it unlikely you did, that the Jedi would come for you? Hmm, believe in us so little, you do.”

“I’m sorry—”

“No, no. Blame you for that, I cannot.”

“Xanatos was always working on me. He knew all my fears and insecurities, both because he knew my history and because my emotional control wasn’t as good then. Occasionally he even dosed me with spice to question me while I was high and couldn’t shield. Eventually…eventually he pretty much had me convinced that even if the Jedi were still looking for me, they wouldn’t want me back if they found out that I had trained under him, a fallen former Jedi. Since I was tainted by the dark side.”

“Damn, kid…”

“To isolate you, was his intent in sowing this seed of doubt in the Order. To rely only on him, he wished, so do as he wanted, you would.”

“Yes. He wanted me to turn, betray the Jedi and be his apprentice for true. I know that he had plans to parade me about in front of Master Jinn, to hurt him with the knowledge that another of his students had fallen. Even though I told him that I was nothing to Master Jinn many times, he never listened.”

“Wait a minute, is this why you never told Jinn who you really were? I know you said it was because you were ashamed of your circumstances, but—”

“…Ah, well, yes, somewhat. I long ago came to the conclusion that Xanatos was…a highly unreliable source of information about the Jedi and Master Jinn. But there was still a concern, I felt, that Master Jinn might see in me the stain of the dark side, of the Padawan that betrayed him. When I first met Master Jinn as a child, he saw right away that I was given to anger and aggression. He knew there was the risk I would turn to the dark side, so felt it was better not to train me to be a Knight.”

“He said that to you?”

“I wasn’t sure until now whether the Jedi knew that Xanatos had such influence over me, but I thought it likely. Xanatos had a few encounters with Master Jinn after Bandomeer, and I was certain that he would taunt him with news of me, as he’d planned.

“In any case, I was well aware that no matter if I was considered fallen or not, going back to the Order was not in the cards for me. I was an adult, no longer eligible for Jedi training, and a slave in the Outer Rim, well beyond Republic jurisdiction. I knew that even if Master Jinn wanted to help me, there was nothing he could do. So my checkered past wouldn’t have mattered if not for Anakin. I had trained Anakin, and I knew that it would reflect badly on him if there was any hint of darkness near him. I didn’t want to do anything to jeopardize Anakin’s future, so when it seemed that Master Jinn did not recognize me, I didn’t tell him, lest Ani be tarred with the same brush.”

“I wish I could say that your fears about that were unfounded, but considering how Anakin’s introduction to the Order went…”

“Speaking of which, I do wish to lodge a complaint with the Council.”

“Well, you do have plenty to complain about.”

“…I apologize—”

“No, I’m sorry, Kenobi—that came out wrong. I’m not exactly at my best; I don’t think I’ve had even eight hours of sleep altogether since Qui-Gon waltzed into the Council chambers with the Chosen One and tales of the return of the Sith. I only meant that there is quite a lot that you could fairly criticize the Council for. We should have done much, much better regarding you.”

“It’s all right, Master Windu.”

“We usually like to record formal complaints for the record, but I don’t see any holorecording apparatus in this room. I can track down one of the queen’s handmaidens to ask for one. Her highness did tell us to ask for anything we needed while we are staying in her palace.”

“I don’t think that will be necessary. I have the Master of the Order and the Grand Master here to hear me, which will be enough.”

“All right, you may proceed then.”

“Respectfully, masters, what in the Sith-hells were you thinking sending a nine-year-old child into an active war zone?”

When Padmé sees Anakin waiting next to Master Jinn on the landing platform, she’s a little confused. Not that she isn’t happy to see him, but she had thought that Ani was going to the Jedi Temple to start his training. He had seemed to think that he would not see her again when he bid her goodbye as Queen Amidala. Perhaps he is just there to see them all off?

When Ani boards the ship at Master Jinn’s side, her confusion is joined by shock. Does Master Jinn really mean to take a nine-year-old boy into what is probably going to be an armed conflict?

She puts the question of Anakin out of her mind for the time being. She has to focus on imparting her nebulous plan to her Captain, Master Jinn and the Gungan Jar Jar Binks. She is grateful when they agree to try brokering an alliance with the Gungans, and even more grateful that they decide to save making any concrete plans until everyone has rested. It is already late in the cycle, and though she doubts she will be able to sleep, she wants to catch up with Anakin before he goes to bed.

“Ani?”

Well, if she can find him, that is.

Padmé really does not know how this boy is able to so thoroughly hide on a ship this small, but this is her third circuit of the tiny transport and she’s seen neither hide nor hair of the kid. She has resorted to calling out his name and hoping he will answer.

It’s when she checks the engine room again that she hears a soft rustling noise, one that doesn’t sound like it belongs.

“Ani?”

She finds him crammed into the space under a readout panel. The wrapper of a ration bar is clenched in his hand, the source of the noise that alerted her. Well, at least he ate some dinner.

“Ani, are you all right?”

Anakin doesn’t say anything and doesn’t look at her, which is more than a little worrisome. “Ani, please talk to me.”

“About what?” he finally says. He sounds like he’s trying to be sullen, but it mostly just comes out sad.

“I’d like to know what’s wrong. I want to help.”

“Nothing you can do. So don’t worry about it.” Ani rests his forehead on his bent knees.

Padmé scoots as far under the panel as she can to get closer to Anakin. “Maybe not. But I can still listen to you. Remember when we were on the way to Coruscant, and I told you that I would listen? I meant it.”

Ani peeks at her from the corner of his eye. “The Jedi Council said that I can’t be a Jedi,” he finally says.

Padmé frowns. “Why not?”

Anakin clenches his hands on his shins again. “They said I’m too old, and I’m too afraid,” he finally mutters. “And they don’t like that I have a bond with Ben because it could be attachment.”

“I don’t think I understand,” Padmé says slowly. “Of course you have a bond with Ben—he’s your father, he raised you. And from my perspective, you have been very brave through a very difficult time.”

“I don’t really understand either. But they meant that the Wind—I mean, the Force—that I have a bond with Ben in the Force, a really strong one. And bonds are okay, but a bond so strong so young could be attachment. But…I don’t know what the difference is between a bond and attachment. They sound kind of the same to me.”

They sound the same to Padmé too, and she doesn’t know enough about Jedi philosophy to help Anakin sort it out. “Did you ask Master Jinn what it means?”

Anakin shakes his head. “There wasn’t time. And I…”

“What is it, Ani?”

Anakin squeezes his eyes shut. “I don’t want to talk to him yet.”

“Why not?” she asks, heart sinking. How could Master Jinn have lost Anakin’s trust so quickly?

“He promised I would be a Jedi, that I would be trained,” Ani says, voice low and quavering. “He told me he would help me, whatever happened, but—” Anakin swallows hard. “He didn’t even say anything when they told him he couldn’t train me.”

“What happened?” Padmé’s indignation grows with every word out of Anakin’s mouth.

“The Council said that I won’t be trained, because of being afraid and attachment. Mister Qui-Gon tried to tell them that they were wrong, that I should be trained because I’m chosen or something like that, but they still wouldn’t let me. Then Mister Qui-Gon said that he would train me, but they didn’t accept that. They said something about his former apprentice, about a mistake he made—I don’t know what exactly. But the end of it is that they wouldn’t let Mister Qui-Gon train me. And now I don’t know what will happen to me.”

Padmé has to hold back her own tears at the heartbreak in Anakin’s voice. “Ani, I’m so sorry. That’s very hard news to hear, but it will be okay,” she tells him, rubbing as much of his back as she can reach in the cramped space. “Remember I told you that I would help you if the Jedi didn’t come through? I meant that too. I will help.”

“I—I believe you,” Ani says, and Padmé relaxes just a bit. “But you’re pretty busy right now. You’re going to Naboo to fight the invaders. You shouldn’t be worrying about me.”

Padmé sighs. “I won’t lie to you, Ani. You’re right that the situation is dire right now. It might be a long time before I can help you the way I want to. But I will look out for you as much as I can.”

Anakin finally leans into her, resting his small weight against her side. “Thanks, Padmé.”

They sit together in silence for a minute before Padmé’s concern overcomes her again. “Anakin, you said that the Jedi Council thought you were afraid? And that’s part of why they rej—wouldn’t let you train?” Anakin nods. “I don’t understand. You’re so brave. Surely they could see that.”

Anakin shifts beside her. “They were right though,” he says, soft and reluctant like a confession. “I was afraid—I am afraid, I guess. I was really nervous when they tested me. I was afraid that I would fail and I didn’t know what would happen to me then. And—and they figured out that I was afraid for Ben.”

Ani takes a deep breath. “I don’t know what’s going to happen to Ben now. Watto could sell him, or make him fight and—and he could get injured, he could die. And I know—I know that Ben has plans to run,” Anakin’s voice drops to a whisper, and Padmé has to lean in to hear him, heart in her throat. “He’s always ready for both of us to run away at any time, just in case something happens, like if one of us gets sold without the other. The only reason he hasn’t run yet is because it’s too risky to try unless we have no other choice. I know what the slavers do to runaways, and it’s bad. And Ben already tried to run once, before I was born, and they caught him, and they never forgot it. And if he runs and they catch him again, it’ll be even worse.”

Padmé feels a shiver go down her spine. She has no idea what slavers do to runaway slaves that tried to escape twice, and she’s certain she doesn’t want to know.

“So yeah, I was afraid, and they saw it.” Anakin finishes.

“Ani…I think it’s…rational for you to be worried about Ben. He’s in a bad situation, and he’s kind of a risk-taker.” Ani snorts, mouth curving in agreement. “And of course you were nervous when they tested you. Who wouldn’t be? You had to go up in front of these really important people, knowing they were judging your performance and that your future depended on how well you did. So I think it’s reasonable to be nervous. No one can be completely unafraid all of the time.” She brushes a hand through his hair. “I think it’s more important to be brave. To push through your fear and do what you need to do anyway. My mother told me that you can’t really be brave without also being afraid. That’s real bravery, and you have that in spades. You’re one of the bravest people I know, Ani.”

Anakin gives her a shy little grin. “Ben says that too. Well, he says that you can’t have courage without fear, and to be mindful of my fears, to acknowledge them but not let them control me, but it’s almost the same.”

“Your father is a wise man, Ani.”

Anakin turns to her, wrapping his arms around her waist in a hug, which Padmé immediately returns. She can feel the prominent knobs of the little boy’s spine under her hands, the individual bars of his ribs against her side as he leans his too-slight weight against her. He seems so small to have gone through so much.

When Ani is ready, Padmé takes him to the ship’s main chamber, where she and her handmaidens slept on their journey to Coruscant and where they will sleep now on their way back to Naboo. Sabé, Rabé, and Eirtaé have already pulled the cushions from the benches around the walls and arranged them in the center of the room to create a makeshift bed, and they graciously welcome the little boy when Padmé asks their permission for him to stay with them. She does not want Ani to have to bunk with Master Jinn after what happened.

The rest of the five-day trip back to Naboo seems interminable. Padmé meets with Qui-Gon Jinn, with Captain Panaka, with Ric Olié and the other pilots, and especially with Jar Jar Binks, but all they can do is just keep reiterating what they know, rehashing their nebulous plans to end the invasion when they don’t even really know what is happening on Naboo. The only report they have had was the holo from Governor Bibble on Tatooine, and that was days ago and likely manufactured by the Trade Federation. No one has been able to re-establish communications with the planet. Padmé rewatches the holo until Eirtaé makes her stop. Even then, she still hears Governor Bibble’s voice echoing in her mind. The death toll is catastrophic…

She desperately needs a distraction or she’ll go crazy, and the only one she has is Anakin. After their talk, his spirits seem to have lifted. He has stopped avoiding Qui-Gon, but still spends a great deal of time with her and the handmaidens and still sleeps with them at night. He seems to somehow know just when she needs a break and occupies the time by talking about one of the many things he finds interesting or telling her stories that he heard from the traders back on Tatooine. He’s a sweet boy, and she can tell that he is trying to help her in his own way, which is rather endearing.

Anakin’s earnest attempts to help her prompt Padmé to seek out Qui-Gon. It’s not really her place to question a Jedi Master on his decisions regarding a child in his care, but she doesn’t understand his reasoning here, and she’s worried.

Master Jinn, predictably, is less than helpful.

“The Jedi High Council does not answer to your queen or to you, young handmaiden. Their decisions regarding Jedi younglings are none of your concern.”

“So it was your Council’s decision to send a little boy into a war zone? Without even admitting him as a trainee first?”

Qui-Gon gives her an impassive look. “You have spoken with Anakin.”

“Of course. He’s confused, and so am I.”

“Clearly. However, I need not explain myself or the Council on this matter. It does not concern you.”

“Well, the queen is quite concerned about bringing Anakin on a very dangerous mission. She would very much appreciate an explanation for why he, a child, is on her ship, Master Jinn.”

“The queen requested Jedi assistance in returning to Naboo. Anakin’s presence aboard her ship is part of that assistance.”

Padmé held in a sigh at Qui-Gon stonewalling her yet again, but she has faced more than a few older men who believed they knew better than her or shouldn’t have to answer to her because of her youth. She would have to change her approach.

“Master Jinn,” she begins again, softening her voice. “I am asking only out of concern for Anakin. He and his father are my friends, as well as heroes to the Naboo whether they know it yet or not. I told Ben that I would look out for Ani. I am sure that you promised him much the same. We have a common cause in this. Please tell me what you can.”

Qui-Gon paused for moment, which told Padmé that she would be getting as much of an explanation as Qui-Gon felt like giving, but it wouldn’t be the whole thing.

“Anakin will be admitted to the Jedi Order,” he says. “The Council simply has yet to decide whether Anakin will be admitted as a Padawan apprenticed to a Knight, or to another branch of the Order. They had not yet arrived at a decision before I was ordered to accompany Queen Amidala back to Naboo. I thought it best to bring Anakin with me. He knows no one in the Temple yet, and it would be unfair to leave him there alone while his future in the Order is still uncertain.”

“But at least he would have been safe in the Temple!” Padmé nearly shouts.

“In body, yes. But I would rather not give Anakin cause to feel abandoned by me or anyone else at this stage. He is familiar with us, and separation, not knowing what is happening to his friends, would be traumatic in its own way.”

That gives Padmé some pause as she remembers Anakin’s anxiety about what might be happening to Ben now. She doesn’t necessarily agree with Qui-Gon’s reasoning here—surely Anakin’s physical safety is more important—but he has a point. And the point is now moot as well: Anakin is on this ship bound for Naboo whether she likes it or not.

“You said that Anakin might be admitted to a different branch of the Jedi Order?” she asks Qui-Gon instead.

Qui-Gon nods. “Anakin has come to the Order at a much older age than is typical for those on the path to Knighthood. If the Council decides that he will not be trained as a Knight, there are other paths he may pursue within the Order, specifically the Service Corps.”

“I didn’t realize there was more than one branch of Jedi.”

“It is a common misconception.”

“Well, I don’t think Anakin knows that either. You might want to explain it to him, since he seems to think that he will be cast out of the Order if he’s not a Padawan. Since you’re so concerned about his emotional well-being.”

Qui-Gon only nods again, then gives her some excuse to extricate himself from the conversation. Padmé wants to scream with frustration at that man.

Whether or not he’s supposed to, Master Jinn must be training Anakin anyway—Padmé has begun to see Ani meditating at various times of day in various places around the ship, and doing dance-like exercises. She notices that he frequently touches the necklace he now wears, the one that used to be Ben’s, especially when meditating. He must still miss his father, which Padmé finds completely understandable and also really heartbreaking. Just before they arrive on Naboo, Ani secretes himself away again for several hours. Padmé is about to send out a search party when he finally reappears, but without the necklace. Padmé doesn’t ask him about it.

She doesn’t have time to talk with him about anything anyway, because the moment they exit hyperspace, they all become extremely busy. The blockade is easier to pass through from the outside, but only marginally, and Ric Olié and R2-D2 are once again heroes, not to mention Anakin, who stationed himself in the engine room to help R2.

The trek to the Gungan city and then to the Gungans’ hiding place takes most of a day to complete, but was well worth it for their new allies. As the Gungans deploy their army, Captain Panaka takes a few of the pilots to infiltrate the prison camps and comes back with reinforcements from the volunteer army that have been operating an underground resistance over the last two ten-days.

With the resistance fighters finally comes news of her people, and it is not good. They all report atrocities committed by the Trade Federation. Civilians have been rounded up under threat of violence and forced to relocate to internment camps, where conditions are terrible. Those who try to resist are killed. Many more are dying of dehydration or illness, and there is hardly any food. No one knows the status of Governor Bibble or even of Queen Amidala, as the Trade Federation has taken over all communications on the planet.

The situation is bleak. Padmé’s heart burns for her people. She is grateful for the Gungan army and the resistance network, but even still, it will be a hard fight to win. By the time she has got everyone to agree on a strategy, she feels wrung out, exhausted from the weight of all the battle plans and lives that depend on her.

Perhaps that is the reason why she doesn’t immediately notice that Anakin is with them when they set off to infiltrate the palace. It doesn’t help that Ani is quiet in a way that he seldom is, frowning in silence at the gravity of the mission they undertake. By the time she realizes that he is there, they are already more than halfway to the capital city of Theed. They can’t turn back now, and Padmé doesn’t have the mental energy to berate Qui-Gon again for bringing a child into a war zone.

It would maybe even be a little hypocritical of her, since she and her handmaidens are also technically children, and her plan puts them all directly in the line of fire.

She very pointedly does not think about that as she dodges blaster fire in the streets of Theed. She can’t allow herself to think of anything but the moment she is now in, where any wrong move could be her last. She can only let herself have one goal: capture the viceroy. All other concerns can come later. If there is a later. Which she is not thinking about right now!

When they have at last infiltrated the hangar, cleared it of battle droids and gotten the pilots launched, there is a quiet moment where they are not being shot at and their small band of fighters is regrouping for their assault on the palace. She hears Master Jinn order Ani to stay in a ship’s cockpit, and she would be relieved that Ani will not be part of the assault if she could spare the energy for that emotion. Instead she takes a deep breath and lets herself sink into what feels like the eye of the storm, knowing that the worst is yet to come.

Oh how little she realized just how much worse the situation could become. For when she leads her fighters to the doors, before anyone can touch the panel, it opens to reveal a sight that shakes her to her core.

A figure hooded in black robes stands beyond the doors, waiting for them. He holds in his hand an unsheathed lightsaber, red as the tattoos on his face.

Kneeling at his feet, bruised and bloody, is Ben.

Chapter Text

“Again!”

Obi-Wan raised the lightsaber in his shaking, aching arms into the ready position once more. He had hardly gotten into his stance when Xanatos was upon him, swinging his own saber in an arc at his head.

Obi-Wan barely managed to parry the strike. Xanatos followed up with a quick feint to the right, which might have tripped Obi-Wan up if he weren’t so tired that he couldn’t even begin to counter fast enough. The true strike came on his other side, which would have taken off half his arm if their lightsabers weren’t set at training strength and if Obi-Wan hadn’t lurched gracelessly back out of the way at the last second.

Xanatos rained blows down on Obi-Wan. It was all the boy could do to defend or dodge, forget about attacking. He managed to hold out for only a dozen moves this time before he felt the searing heat of Xanatos’ lightsaber connecting with his wrist. He bit back a cry of pain. Another burn to add to his growing collection.

Xanatos sighed. “I think you’re getting worse, little brother. Come now, put some actual effort into it, or I’ll show you what the consequences are for slacking.”

Obi-Wan gritted his teeth against to the urge to tell Xanatos that he was exhausted from going at this for hours now and in pain from the numerous small burns and bruises his owner had inflicted. Xanatos never cared. “Pain is weakness leaving the body,” he’d sneered when Obi-Wan had dared to complain, then extended their sparring session out of spite.

“Again!” Xanatos barked, and Obi-Wan barely managed to choke back a sob of frustration.

Xanatos defeated Obi-Wan in even fewer moves this time, disarming him and knocking him to the ground. Only his years of Temple training and practice in how to fall let Obi-Wan keep his head from impacting the ground hard.

“Are you even trying?” Xanatos yelled at him.

Obi-Wan did not tell Xanatos that he might do better if Xanatos would actually teach him something instead of just beating up on him in their sessions. He had made that mistake only once. He knew better now.

“Again!”

Obi-Wan staggered slowly to his feet, every limb protesting. This wasn’t working. He needed to get Xanatos to stop somehow, or he would just keep going until Obi-Wan was really injured. He had done it before, and Obi-Wan recognized the signs that he was probably going to do it again.

He got back into position, but not the Shii-Cho opening stance he had learned at the Temple. This time he picked a slightly different one, one he had never tried in combat before, only practiced in katas. It might not work, but it couldn’t make things worse for him at this point.

Xanatos charged him immediately. It seemed that he had not even noticed Obi-Wan’s altered opening stance, because he swung at him from overhead as he usually did. Obi-Wan knew his style well by now, aggressive but sneaky. He could see in the man’s shoulders and feet what he would do next. He just had to endure and watch.

On Xanatos’ sixth move, Obi-Wan found his opening.

Xanatos came in with a left-right cross-body strike, one he had used many times before. This time, instead of trying to parry or retreat, Obi-Wan rushed toward his open left side, saber slashing up at Xanatos’ face. The man leaned far back, away from the strike, taking a step back. In the split second his right foot was in the air, Obi-Wan pivoted and kicked the back of his left knee as hard as he could.

Xanatos went down, breath expelled from his lungs with a grunt as his back hit the mat.

Obi-Wan, having overbalanced with his last kick, also fell. He lay on his back on the mat for a moment, surprised that the move had actually worked—well, almost worked. He was pretty sure that he wasn’t supposed to fall too. Even still, for a moment, he felt something like tentative pride warm in his chest. Maybe if he tried it again when he was fresh instead of exhausted…

Suddenly Xanatos’ blue lightsaber was an inch from his face, and the moment was gone.

“What in the Sith-hells was that?” the man snarled.

Obi-Wan lay very still. He could tell by the lightsaber’s louder hum that it was no longer at training strength.

“A new move I learned from one of your datapad modules,” he answered.

“Oh, you learned it from a datapad,” Xanatos scoffed. “Do you know how to read properly? Your form was terrible. And it didn’t even work. Are you sure you got it from one of my modules? They usually have much more useful information than whatever that was.”

Xanatos got up, thankfully lifting his lightsaber away from Obi-Wan’s face. “I suppose I shouldn’t blame the modules,” he sighed. “You’re a rather slow learner, aren’t you? Weeks now you’ve been sparring with me, and this is the first new move you’ve tried. Pathetic.”

Obi-Wan swallowed around the sudden lump in his throat, the pride from finally putting Xanatos on his back gone. He sat up slowly.

“If you know so much, maybe you could teach me how to do it properly,” he said, then winced. He shouldn’t backtalk Xanatos. He had just managed to, if not win a match, at least not lose. He should quit while he was ahead.

“Oh, so you want to be my apprentice now, is that it?” Xanatos said, voice dripping with faux sweetness. “Changed your little mind about that, have you?” Obi-Wan shook his head. “I didn’t think so. You haven’t learned your lesson yet.”

For a moment, Obi-Wan was afraid that Xanatos would shout, Again! and it would start all over, but to his relief, Xanatos held out his hand for his lightsaber. The boy surrendered his weapon with a pang of sorrow. He was never allowed to touch it outside of sparring with Xanatos.

“I tire of your increasingly pitiful performance in the salle. I expect better next time we meet. I’m really trying to give you a chance here, but if you still refuse to improve, perhaps more motivation is needed.” Obi-Wan didn’t like the way Xanatos looked at him when he said that last.

Finally Xanatos stalked from the room, leaving Obi-Wan to sprawl back on the floor, relieved but completely drained. The boy only allowed himself to wallow for a minute though before he forced himself to start going through a series of stretches to ease his sore and smarting muscles. He knew now from experience that going straight to bed would only cause his body to hurt worse later on.

By the time he had dragged himself back to his bare, closet-sized room, he was physically exhausted. His mind, however, was still running over Xanatos’ ominous last warning and refused to settle down. He sighed and pulled out the datapads he had borrowed from his owner, plopping them on his sleep couch. Might as well try to study if he couldn’t sleep. He knew that Xanatos’ standards were impossibly high, especially for someone like Obi-Wan, but he had no choice but to try to meet them.

He first consulted the learning modules on lightsaber forms to see what he had done wrong with the move he’d just used on Xanatos. He had taken it from Soresu, which he had chosen to study first. He was attracted to the form’s emphasis on defense, which he sorely needed against Xanatos. Makashi also looked interesting, as it was developed specially for lightsaber-on-lightsaber combat, which could be useful for his specific circumstances. Most of the other forms seemed either too general in technique to be of particular use to him, or required far more power and strength than he had available to him at present.

He fell asleep slumped over the datapad screen, holographic illustrations of lightsaber forms blurring to indistinct figures fighting back and forth in his dreams.

“Enough!”

Obi-Wan raised his head off the mat, surprised. They’d only been sparring for an hour today, and Xanatos was already calling it quits?

“Get up. Your incompetence is nothing short of appalling,” the man sneered.

Obi-Wan wiped the sweat from his brow and ignored the heavy feeling in his chest at the slight. He was getting better. He knew that he was getting better, even though Xanatos still thrashed him soundly nearly every time they sparred. He was lasting longer in bouts and receiving fewer burns from Xanatos’ lightsaber, and he was pretty sure that it wasn’t because Xanatos was going easier on him. He just needed more time. He was a slow learner, but he knew that he could improve if Xanatos would just be patient with him. Small chance of that happening though.

Xanatos held out his hand for Obi-Wan’s lightsaber and the boy handed it over, as always. But this time, Xanatos changed the routine by gesturing for him to follow as he walked away. “Come, little brother. I have a new lesson in mind for today.”

Obi-Wan suppressed the shudder that ran down his spine.

Xanatos took them to another room, one that looked like some kind of workshop, with a lab table covered in tools and tall storage cupboards full of materials. He fetched a cup of water, mixing in the contents of a vial before holding it out to Obi-Wan.

Obi-Wan shook his head, stomach twisting into knots. “No, thank you,” he said, tongue sticking in his dry mouth. He would do almost anything for a cup of water after the heavy exertion of sparring, but not this. Not again.

Xanatos fixed him in his cold, blue gaze. “Drink it,” he said, voice soft but carrying an unmistakable threat, “or you’ll take it intravenously.”

Obi-Wan hesitantly took the cup. He sent a quick prayer to the Force for the strength to face what came next before making himself choke down the contents. The spice tasted thick and overly sweet and settled heavily in his belly. He hoped he wouldn’t be sick this time, as he had the last two times.

Xanatos nodded, satisfied that Obi-Wan had taken the drug, then sat down at a workbench and pulled out a multitool, which he used to start disassembling Obi-Wan’s lightsaber as though getting ready to clean it. Obi-Wan stood by, watching, waiting.

“How old were you when you came to the Jedi Temple?” Xanatos finally asked him.

“I was about two, I think,” Obi-Wan replied.

“What do you remember about your life before the Jedi took you?”

The boy shrugged. “Not much. Just a few snatches here and there. My mother’s yellow shawl, my father’s hands.” He thought he could remember a baby. Did he have a younger sibling?

“But not their names?”

“No. They weren’t in my Temple intake records. I don’t know what happened to them.”

“I didn’t imagine you would. Most Jedi don’t.” Xanatos sniffed. “I am one of the few who remembered my family when I came to the Temple. Qui-Gon Jinn brought me in when I was five, somewhat later than is usual. It baffled me at first to realize that almost none of the other younglings remembered anything about their parents or backgrounds. I was shocked to discover that the Jedi took in any and all Force-sensitive children regardless of status and treated them all the same, whether they were nobility or peasantry.

“When Qui-Gon took me as his apprentice, I asked him about his origins, but he knew little about his family or home planet, nor did he wish to learn more. I was curious though. I wanted to know what kind of a man had taken me on to teach me the ways of the Force.

“I was disappointed to discover that his parents were nothing more than their system’s equivalent of regular, working-class city folk. They’d achieved nothing more notable than producing a rare Force-sensitive child and handing it over to the Jedi. To be fair, at least they saw fit to do that much for their child. The planet’s traditions are…decidedly detrimental to Force-sensitives.

“I was disappointed that my master did not come from a more exalted family line, as I did,” Xanatos sighed. “I hoped to get closer to my grandmaster, Master Dooku, who was nobility on his homeworld, but he was hardly ever in the Temple, and Qui-Gon was not getting along with him at that time.

“Given my former master’s disdain for his origins, imagine my surprise when I arrived on Bandomeer to find that he had taken on a new apprentice that shared his same homeworld.”

Obi-Wan looked up, startled.

Xanatos definitely noticed his sudden interest. He smirked. “You didn’t know that you are from the same system as Qui-Gon, did you?”

Obi-Wan shook his head, then winced. The spice was already starting to make him feel dizzy. “How did—”

“How did I know that?” Xanatos chuckled. “Your people have very distinctive naming conventions. A two-syllable hyphenated first name isn’t found in many other places. And you have the general look of an inhabitant of the place.”

He paused to pull the blue kyber crystal from the hilt of Obi-Wan’s lightsaber. Obi-Wan tensed at the sight of his bonded kyber in Xanatos’ hand. It just looked wrong—it felt wrong, but he dared not speak out. He was relieved when the man set it down briefly to pull on a strange white glove which kept the kyber from touching his skin when he picked it up again.

“I thought he was such a hypocrite, my old master,” Xanatos continued. “He had told me over and over again that we are all equals in the Force, regardless of where in the galaxy we come from. And there he was, favoring a boy from his own homeworld to teach, to train, to bond with.”

Xanatos rose from his seat and came to stand in front of Obi-Wan. He took the boy’s hand and brought it up to join his, clasping the kyber between their two palms. His other hand wrapped around the back of Obi-Wan’s. It was kind of weird, but he wasn’t hurting him, so Obi-Wan didn’t protest.

“But he didn’t favor you at all, did he, little brother?” Xanatos said, so soft it was almost a whisper.

Obi-Wan couldn’t help the pang that went through him. No, he had not been worthy of Qui-Gon’s notice.

Xanatos smirked, and Obi-Wan realized that he had felt his hurt. He tried to shore up his mental shields, but with the spice taking effect, his efforts were in vain.

“I later realized my mistake, though I really should have known much earlier,” Xanatos said airily, as though every one of his words wasn’t a barb in Obi-Wan’s heart. The spice not only brought down his defenses, but it made him more emotional, more susceptible to his owner’s cruelty, and he was really starting to feel it now. “The very thing that made me think he’d claimed you, your name, should have given it away.”

Obi-Wan wasn’t sure if it was the spice that was making his head spin, or if he was just confused. What did his name have to do with anything?

“It’s a very distinctive name, even in the system it’s from. Do you know what it means?” Obi-Wan shook his head, setting it spinning again. He breathed deeply through his nose. He was going to throw up again if he didn’t get it together.

“Obi-Wan means ‘no-name,’” Xanatos said lightly. Obi-Wan went still, breath stuttering. “It’s most often given to foundlings that are too young when they are orphaned to tell anyone the name they were given at birth. When they’re adopted, their new parents usually give them another name. And Kenobi means ‘clanless.’ That is the name one must go by if they have done something so terrible that they were cast out of their clan and had their family name stripped from them.

“The two names together are rather singular. Being named Obi-Wan Kenobi is…unlucky. An ill omen. A child born under a star so dark that their own kin must cast them out to free themselves of the curse the child brings with them and mark them with a name that all know to avoid.”

Obi-Wan’s whole body felt suddenly cold. Could it be true? His kyber pulsed anxiously in his palm, reacting to his dismay. Xanatos smirked. “So you see, I should have known all along Qui-Gon would never want you.”

Obi-Wan shook his head slowly, but his heart felt like a stone in his chest. “That’s not—he wouldn’t—”

“I assure you my information is accurate. Look it up yourself if you like,” Xanatos offered. He tapped his chin in a show of pensiveness. “I suppose there is a chance that Qui-Gon didn’t know about certain naming conventions on his homeworld. As I said, he was never really curious about his past. He preferred to live in the here and now. I think I might very well know more about my old master’s homeworld than he does at this point.”

Obi-Wan swallowed hard around the lump in his throat. He knew it couldn’t be true—he wasn’t like that, he wasn’t…wasn’t bad…

“However,” Xanatos continued thoughtfully, glancing slyly down at Obi-Wan’s stricken face, “the people that a man is born to have an influence on more than we know. There are some things that are in our blood, instincts that are passed down through generations that chill our bones and make our hair stand on end, that warn us away. It is subtle, but Qui-Gon always liked subtleties, and he was all about following instinct. Perhaps he knew, deep down, that you were a curse to his people.”

“’M not—I’m n-not a curse,” Obi-Wan stuttered, but he wasn’t sure, and he knew that Xanatos could sense his uncertainty.

“Does it matter? Your people certainly thought you were, enough to call you Obi-Wan Kenobi.”

Obi-Wan dropped his head to hide the tears gathering in his eyes. “Why—w-why—”

“Why tell you these terrible things? I only tell you to give you context, so that you can understand.” Xanatos said, voice dripping with false sympathy. He cupped Obi-Wan’s cheek in his hand and pulled his face back up to look him in the eye. “Now you know why Qui-Gon rejected you. He couldn’t help it, and neither could you. It’s in your blood.”

His crystal sang out to him in sadness, and Obi-Wan felt the brimming tears finally overflow, rolling down his face. Xanatos smoothed one away with his thumb in a mockery of kindness. Ashamed, Obi-Wan pulled away from his hand and he allowed it, allowed the boy to drop his head and avoid his cold gaze.

“P-please let me go,” Obi-Wan begged his owner, voice rough with emotion that he could not restrain, try as he might. “I understand. I understand the lesson. Please.”

“Lesson?”

“You said—you said—”

“Ah yes, I did say there would be a lesson. This isn’t the lesson though, dear boy.”

Obi-Wan’s kyber shivered, his heart clenching in fear at the endearment. “Then what—”

“The lesson isn’t for you, little brother. It’s for me.”

Sudden pain erupted in Obi-Wan’s whole body, locking his limbs and seizing his chest in unbearable tension. It held him for a moment that seemed like an eternity, agony stretching seconds into hours. He couldn’t even scream through a jaw snapped firmly shut.

When the pain finally let up, Obi-Wan almost collapsed. Only Xanatos’ hand still in his and his own stubbornness kept him swaying on his feet. He saw the electroprod in Xanatos’ other hand. The glove made sense now, he thought distantly—it must be insulated.

He looked up into Xanatos’ cold blue eyes, begging wordlessly to understand why he was to be tortured now.

“My…associate is teaching me many things, things the Jedi would never dare touch,” the man told him. “I have learned much already that has increased my power. But if I am to go further, I must have a weapon worthy of the power I seek to wield.

“I have learned the theory of a technique that will create this weapon. As it happens, it requires a kyber crystal. And my associate assures me that the only proper kyber to use is one that I have taken from a Jedi.”

Obi-Wan’s heart stuttered in his chest, not entirely from the aftershocks. The kyber crystal in his palm quivered with his fear. “No, please!” he begged, trying in vain to tug his hand free from Xanatos’ tightening grasp. “I’m not trained, I’m a reject, a failure! I’m not a real Jedi!”

“But haven’t you called yourself a Jedi, many times now, in fact?” Xanatos asked, faux sweetness coating his voice again. “What is it that I hear from your lips every time I so graciously offer you a chance to join me?”

Obi-Wan hung his head. Xanatos was right. Obi-Wan was stubbornly clinging to an identity that wasn’t his to claim anymore.

“Pain is the key to this ritual, little brother,” Xanatos said, brushing the back of his hand over Obi-Wan’s tear-stained face in a false show of consolation. “I suggest you open yourself to it and accept it. Allow me to channel it into the kyber. Do not resist, and it will all be over soon.”

Despite what Xanatos promised, Obi-Wan wanted to resist. He wanted to fight, but it was futile. The spice kept his shields down and his mind open. He couldn’t concentrate enough to try to sever his bond with his kyber, and he wouldn’t know how to do it even if he wanted to. It was a part of him—how could he cut it out?

When Xanatos shocked him with the electroprod again, Obi-Wan fell to his knees. Xanatos still did not let go of his hand.

The man was relentless. He wasn’t after just physical pain, though that was bad enough. He continued to talk to Obi-Wan as he tortured him, prying into the boy’s negative emotions, saying terrible things about him, about Qui-Gon Jinn, about the Jedi, about the galaxy. He somehow knew every shameful thing that Obi-Wan had secretly feared about himself and spoke it out loud, like it was obvious and readily apparent to anyone that he was a useless, weak, unworthy, foolish boy who could only make mistakes and mess things up.

That he would never find a place or people that would care about him or want him, not after his birth family and the Jedi both had cast him aside.

That nothing he could do would ever help or matter to anyone.

Obi-Wan couldn't fight back. All he could do was grit his teeth and try to bear it all, the pain and the heartache, but it hurt so much, and had for what seemed so very, very long…

There was a sudden surge of dark energy in the Force between Obi-Wan and Xanatos, and it was as if an explosion had gone off at their feet. Obi-Wan was thrown across the room into a storage cabinet. He hit the ground in a shower of shattered glass.

He lifted his aching head to see Xanatos across the room, cursing as he extricated himself from a separator curtain that he’d taken down with his fall. There were little cuts all over Obi-Wan’s body from the broken glass.

There was something digging into his clenched palm, something sharp and painful. He turned his hand over to see—perhaps it was a shard of glass—

He opened his fist to see red, red as blood, but that wasn’t what was in his hand. He sobbed when he realized, and the pain pulsed up his arm and into his chest.

He held his kyber, once a clear, glimmering blue, now a dark, hideous red.

“Ben!”

Anakin’s plaintive cry cuts through the sudden hush. Qui-Gon has never heard anything sound quite so young or so vulnerable. Ben’s eyes widen in hope and fear when he hears his child so near, but in so much danger. Qui-Gon realizes then that Padmé was right; he should never have brought the boy here. He shouldn’t have to see this, his father bloodied and bruised and kneeling, at the mercy of a creature who will show him none.

Padmé takes a step forward, like she just can’t help wanting to go to Ben’s aid. The Sith warrior’s lightsaber flashes to Ben’s neck. Ben has to tilt his head far back to avoid the plasma blade, fully exposing the length of his throat. The red glow makes it look as though his throat is already drenched in blood.

“I’ll handle this,” Qui-Gon tells the others.

The queen exchanges a look with her captain. “We’ll take the long way.”

As the rest of the infiltration unit disperses, Qui-Gon divests himself of his outer robe and readies his lightsaber. His brief encounter with this warrior on Tatooine had been enough to tell him that this battle would not be easy.

The Sith responds by yanking Ben up by his bound arms, starting to lift him to his feet. In doing so, he lowers his saber ever so slightly so he does not nick Ben’s throat by accident.

Ben, however, takes this slight relaxation as an opening. He jerks his head back into the Zabrak’s solar plexus, then goes limp, sliding out from under the saber. He falls to the floor but doesn’t stop there, executing a complicated move while lying on his side that would have swept his opponent’s feet out from under him.

The warrior employs a Force-assisted leap back to avoid Ben’s kick, but Ben does not pause to even see if his move was successful, instead rolling away from his captor and flowing up onto his feet, halfway between the Sith and Qui-Gon.

Qui-Gon immediately lights his saber and with one sweep of the blade, slices through the binders holding Ben’s arms behind his back.

“Are you all right?” Qui-Gon asks the young man who is shaking out his wrists, neither of them taking their eyes off the Sith crouching before them.

“Let’s take him down,” Ben responds evenly, calling a downed droid’s blaster to him with the Force.

The dark warrior spins toward them, red lightsaber flashing, and Qui-Gon leaps to meet him. Their lightsabers connect with a clash like thunder as the battle is joined.

The fight is heated from the very beginning, and already one of the most difficult of Qui-Gon’s career. The Zabrak starts with a series of arm-shaking attacks that take all of Qui-Gon’s focus to parry. He manages to break apart from his opponent for a moment, which is when Ben starts shooting. He’s a passable shot, smartly aiming mostly at the Zabrak’s feet in an attempt to destabilize him and making it so that he would have to reach down and leave himself open to deflect the bolts back at them with his saber.

The warrior, however, hardly even seems inconvenienced. He trades blows with Qui-Gon, getting in close enough that Ben can’t shoot for fear of hitting his ally instead of the enemy. Then when he and Qui-Gon break apart, he smoothly dodges or deflects Ben’s shots until engaging Qui-Gon again.

The fight moves through a door and down a hallway, which is not ideal for Qui-Gon and Ben. The hall is by no means narrow, but it’s not quite wide enough for Ben to take full advantage of his ranged weapon to force the Zabrak where they want him to go. Instead, the dark warrior is the one leading them where he wishes, and Qui-Gon has no doubt that he has had plenty of time to familiarize himself with the routes in and out of the hangar while he and Ben have no such advantage.

The next time Qui-Gon pushes him back, the Zabrak is ready to counter. He dodges two blaster bolts and deflects the third right back at Ben, knocking the blaster out of his hand.

At the same time, he leads them into what must be the plasma refinery, a larger room lit with an eerie glow by vast shafts of electric blue plasma. Ben spreads out to Qui-Gon’s left to form a triangle with their opponent, covering him from different angles—or that’s what they would be doing if Ben still had a weapon. Qui-Gon hesitates—Ben is weaponless and vulnerable in this position, too close to the Sith and too far from Qui-Gon for the older man to cover him should the foe try to go after an unarmed opponent.

That’s when something very strange happens, something Qui-Gon cannot explain.

Ben suddenly straightens, almost dropping out of his stance, then closes his eyes and puts his right hand, his dominant hand, behind his back.

Completely at a loss for why Ben would suddenly drop his guard like that, Qui-Gon immediately presses his attack in a desperate bid to keep the Sith’s attention on him. He is perhaps too desperate, for the warrior quickly finds a hole in his defense to exploit. A powerful kick to the face lands Qui-Gon on his back on the ground, dazed. He fumbles to get his lightsaber back up in time to block the strike heading straight for him, but knows that he will not be fast enough.

There is a flash of bright, white light, and the crackling crash of two lightsabers meeting.

Qui-Gon can scarcely believe his own eyes when he sees Ben standing over him, a pure white lightsaber in his hand.

He didn’t have that two seconds ago.

…Right?

The Sith warrior is clearly just as shocked, yellow eyes wide at this unexpected development. Ben takes advantage of his momentary surprise to Force-push him back several meters before the Sith barely catches himself on the edge of the platform, giving Ben the space to give Qui-Gon a hand up.

Qui-Gon has so many questions, but they will all have to wait. He decides to take a chance and uses the physical contact of Ben’s hand in his to quickly open a connection between them in the Force. It’s not a bond, they don’t have time for that, but it is communication. If Ben can hold it, it will give them an awareness of each other in the Force, which will hopefully allow them to coordinate their movements and fighting styles. It is a risk though, if Ben finds the input from an unfamiliar person distracting rather than helpful. But Qui-Gon is a Jedi Master with more than a little experience in keeping his emotions in check during tense situations. He thinks—hopes—that he can hold the connection for the both of them.

Ben, to Qui-Gon’s relief, immediately grabs onto the connection and helpfully opens himself to it, sharing of himself with the Jedi Master. Qui-Gon feels something quite like pride in his heart as they turn and face the dark warrior as one, lightsabers in hand.

The Sith scowls, momentarily confounded by this switch-up. Then he ignites a second blade to make his weapon a lightstaff, and Qui-Gon realizes the fight is just beginning.

What follows puts any duel Qui-Gon has ever seen to shame. He thinks even his old master would have been astonished—which would be saying something, because Master Dooku is a consummate master of Makashi and expert in lightsaber dueling, and as a personality, very difficult to impress.

The Zabrak warrior is relentless, each movement executed with a ruthless efficiency and fierce strength that Qui-Gon finds himself hard-pressed to match blow for blow. What’s more concerning is the fierce hatred that he can sense emanating from the Sith in the Force. Qui-Gon has never felt such darkness. It clouds his senses, almost crawling over him, as though searching for a way to worm into his soul. He gives more of his attention to bolstering his shields and feels Ben do the same across their connection.

If Qui-Gon had worried about how Ben would be able to handle himself, he needn’t have. Ben seems to be holding fast against the Sith’s dark hatred, both mentally and physically. If it is getting to him, he doesn’t show it. Qui-Gon can sense very little of Ben’s feelings from his side of their connection, which could only result from years spent developing his emotional control. He had also clearly trained with a lightsaber at some point—how and when this could have occurred is another question—and he quickly translates his regular fighting style to the lightsaber. He sticks mostly to an impenetrable defense, but lashes out to harry their opponent whenever he becomes too focused on Qui-Gon. Qui-Gon senses through their connection that he is trying to goad the warrior into creating an opening for Qui-Gon to take advantage of, recognizing that Qui-Gon’s favored style Ataru is more suited to an aggressive attack. And it works at least once—Qui-Gon is certain he managed to swipe the Zabrak’s side with what should have been a nasty burn, though annoyingly the assassin doesn’t show any outward sign of pain.

The fight rages back and forth across the walkways that connect the plasma tubes, even jumping between them at times. Sometimes the Zabrak gets a hit in that puts Qui-Gon or Ben on the back foot, but the other man is always there to cover him when that happens. Despite Ben’s great endurance and defensive strategy, the warrior eventually manages to get past his guard with a feint followed by a quick swipe from his other blade. The red saber slices through the front of Ben’s shirt just as he makes a desperate jump backward. Qui-Gon, heart in his throat, can barely spare a glance to check on him, so complete is the concentration he needs to continue fighting the Sith, but he does not feel any pain from Ben’s side of the connection. Either he is unhurt, or he is blocking out the pain with his durasteel-clad control.

Qui-Gon is abruptly forced to stop worrying about Ben’s possible injury when the Sith gives him something new to worry about by taking advantage of Ben’s momentary imbalance to kick him over the edge of the walkway.

Qui-Gon’s stomach plummets with Ben. There is nothing he can do to help the boy in this moment. If he could spare the energy and focus, he might be able to use the Force to guide Ben to a safe landing, but the dark warrior is not giving him an inch.

Qui-Gon ruthlessly uses the surge of protective fervor he feels to momentarily gain the upper hand, knocking the warrior off the walkway to land on another catwalk several meters below. He pursues, jumping after him to continue the battle.

Seconds that feel like hours pass before he feels a pulse in the connection, Ben letting him know that he is all right.

The abrupt relief Qui-Gon feels at Ben’s survival is immediately overtaken by an unassailable determination to finish this fight—alone. The boy’s life has been at risk far too many times already, and Qui-Gon will not allow him to be hurt again for his sake. It is not a burden that should fall to him to put his life on the line to protect others from darkness. This is the mandate of the Jedi, and Qui-Gon is prepared to accept whatever the Force may demand of him. He leaps over the head of the Sith and renews his attack, doing some pushing of his own to distance the battle from the point where Ben fell.

The Zabrak backs away before him, giving up ground perhaps a little too easily. Though as a tactical decision, it makes sense for him to want to put space between them and his second opponent so he no longer has to fight two-on-one.

Qui-Gon senses Ben reaching out to him through their connection, urging him to wait for him, to not allow the dark warrior to separate them. There is something so familiar in the boy’s call, something that reaches far back into Qui-Gon’s memory. He had assumed his familiarity with Ben’s mind came from their shared meditation on Tatooine, but now he is not so sure. He ignores it. It cannot matter right now. All that matters is that he defeat the Sith, to protect Naboo—to protect Ben—from the menacing darkness.

Just ahead, Qui-Gon can see a laser gate. He intends to corner the assassin with his back against it, but as they approach, the gate suddenly opens. Qui-Gon is forced to keep pushing the Sith through into the corridor and past a series of laser gates lining the hall.

He doesn’t consider that this is exactly what the assassin wanted him to do until the gates slam closed again, one of them coming down directly between him and his foe.

Qui-Gon watches as the Zabrak tests the integrity of the laser shield with his lightsaber. Clearly their battle is at a forced standstill. They will have to wait for the gates to open again to continue.

Reassured that the Zabrak is firmly separated from him, Qui-Gon sheathes his lightsaber and kneels to rest and meditate if he can. He first slows his breathing, which is quick with exertion, then takes stock of the rest of his body. He has no serious injuries—a few bruises from where the warrior landed a kick or laid him out, but no burns or bleeds. His arms and legs are shaking with exhaustion. He breathes into his limbs, letting the Force imbue them and carry his weariness away.

Though his eyes are closed, he can sense the Sith pacing in front of him, watching him with a dreadful loathing roiling in the Force. He had never realized how much it would take out of him just to reinforce his mental shields against this kind of assault on his psyche.

He can sense Ben somewhere behind him, locked out of the corridor at the first set of laser gates. He feels a reassuring pulse through their connection. There is still something familiar about the sensation that Qui-Gon cannot place, but he doesn’t have time to think about it now. He focuses on girding himself in the Force.

It may have been seconds or minutes—Qui-Gon is too focused on his breath and the Force to notice the passage of time—when he feels movement in front of him. He surges to his feet as the laser gates open, and his lightsaber meets the Sith’s with a loud clash as the battle is rejoined.

The room they fight in now is tricky terrain, with most of the center of the floor taken up by an enormous pit so deep that Qui-Gon cannot see the bottom. He must be mindful of each step he takes, lest he be forced off the narrow floor space to fall to his death.

It happens fast, so fast that for a moment, Qui-Gon isn’t even sure what has come to pass. He comes in with an overhead strike, which the warrior blocks with a lateral staff, and then…Then Qui-Gon is reeling back from a blow to the head, followed by a blow to the chest, and then there is pain—terrible pain that sears right through his body.

“Nooo!”

He watches, as though from outside himself, as the Sith withdraws his red lightsaber from his chest. He can’t make his legs move—he falls to his knees, and when they won’t hold him, onto his side. The boy’s disbelieving, desperate cry cuts off, but still echoes in the air and in the Force, familiar, so familiar.

Qui-Gon can’t move. Obi-Wan is right there, he can feel him, but he can’t move…

The boy is fighting the dark warrior. Qui-Gon can just see them through the blackness encroaching on the edges of his vision. He must get up, he must help him, but he can’t. He never could.

The Sith is powerful, but the young man is unyielding. The Force sings with their battle, red-hot wrath whirling against white, cold conviction. The rage is suffocating, but the boy’s faith is steadfast.

The white lightsaber slices through the red lightstaff, and now the dark warrior is down to one blade. With a kick, he is sent sprawling to the ground where he barely manages to deflect a downward strike aimed at him from the apex of a strong leap. But a moment later he is on his feet again, and lashing out at the young man with a kick to the face. The boy backflips away, not allowing the blow to lay him low.

Qui-Gon struggles to keep his eyes open. He must wait, he has to know… He cannot rejoin the Force yet.

The assassin shoves the boy back with the Force. Qui-Gon’s cry of dismay is caught in his throat as he watches him go tumbling to the edge of the pit. By some miracle, the young man manages to catch himself on the edge. He kicks off the wall of the pit in a strong Force-assisted leap that carries him over the head of the startled Zabrak, who turns, not quite quick enough, only to lose his hand to the white saber.

The Sith’s right hand and red lightsaber plummet down, down into the pit, lost forever. The dark warrior falls to his knees at the point of the young knight’s white weapon.

“Yield,” the Jedi commands him.

“I cannot,” the Sith snarls.

“You will die,” the young knight decrees.

“I will have my revenge,” the dark one swears.

There is movement beside Qui-Gon, a tug in the Force, and his lightsaber, abandoned on the ground beside him, is flying into the Sith’s remaining hand. A flash of green light illuminates the space.

The knight knocks the attack aside and strikes down across the Sith’s body, cleaving him from shoulder to hip. His body falls, and then keeps falling, down and down for an age.

Qui-Gon closes his eyes. He knew his lightsaber would never serve the darkness. A Sith should know better than to try.

He feels a hand on his head, lifting him up, but the sensation is muffled, as though he is not fully in his body. “Obi-Wan?” he murmurs. “Is it you? You’re alive?” He doesn’t know why he didn’t recognize the boy he lost before, but it is as if a veil has been lifted from him that he didn’t even know was there.

“Yes, Master, it’s me.” Qui-Gon reaches up with a hand that does not quite feel like it’s attached to his body to touch the boy’s face. Obi-Wan’s blue eyes are filled with concern, but not for himself. Some things do not change.

“Thank the Force, you live,” Qui-Gon sighed. “And you are the father of the Chosen One. That is good, good. I am sorry, so sorry, that I could not find you. That I did not see—I’m sorry—” His hand falls back to his chest. The pain is ebbing. He is losing his hold on consciousness. He can only hope that the words he manages to gasp out are understandable to Obi-Wan, that he knows how contrite Qui-Gon is for what happened so many years ago.

“There is nothing to forgive, Master.” Obi-Wan is too kind to him, too good to dismiss his faults, even in what feels like may be his last moments. They truly are lucky that Anakin has such a wise and caring father.

“The boy needs you,” Qui-Gon tells him. “He is the Chosen One. He will bring balance.” His eyes fall shut. “Defend him.”

Qui-Gon feels the weight of Obi-Wan’s hand on his brow. The Force is calling him, but it is too soon—he has not finished what he was meant to do. He cannot go now.

And yet, the Force is calling. He will do his best to listen.

Chapter Text

“Unfortunately, the only person who can tell us what in the Sith-hells he was thinking when he brought a nine-year-old into an active war zone is in a coma, so your guess is as good as mine.”

“It was Master Jinn’s decision to bring Anakin to Naboo?”

“It certainly wasn’t the Council’s, though I’m not saying we don’t bear any of the blame for what occurred. The Council ordered Jinn to accompany Queen Amidala back to Naboo. It was only left implied by the clear danger of the situation that he should make arrangements for Skywalker to stay in the crèche. Of course, we had already told them both that it was our view that Skywalker shouldn’t be trained as a Jedi, so maybe Jinn thought that since we hadn’t arrived at a decision regarding the boy’s future, he wouldn’t be admitted to the crèche. We should have handled that whole situation differently.”

“I can’t but agree. You badly frightened Anakin, pulling him in before the full Council like that and telling him you wouldn’t allow his training. He has a great deal of experience with difficult things for his age, but he’s still only a child. He thought that he would be abandoned, left alone to fend for himself. I don’t like that he was treated that way.”

“Angry with us you are.”

“…Yes, Master. I apolo—”

“Your apology we do not need. Expected, this anger is.”

“I know, Master. My anger has been a problem for me since childhood. I have worked hard to master my temper but clearly not hard enough.”

“Understandable, your anger is. Justified are your emotions. Many mistakes have the Jedi made with you and Anakin. Reviewed many of them we have in this session. And yet, only now are you angry, not on your own behalf, but on behalf of your child.”

“Master Yoda is right. We expected more anger and possibly resentment from you towards the Order, not because we think it your weakness, but because the difficult experiences you have gone through would naturally engender such emotions. If you were my student, I would probably assign you to meditate on why you’re not angrier in such a situation.”

“You…want me to be angry with you?”

“That’s…not quite what I meant. Though anger can be harmful when not properly managed, it is natural and occurs for a reason. For you to feel no anger…Perhaps you have already processed your anger and have let it go so well we no longer sense it. Perhaps you do not yet feel safe enough to allow yourself to do that. Or perhaps your sense of self-worth is so underdeveloped that you see no reason to feel anger on your own behalf. Understanding this will be important for you. Anger can teach us if we let it.”

“I never felt that I learned anything from anger. It only made things harder for me when I acted on it, and holding onto it only hurt me more in the end. Repressing it was unsustainable. I eventually learned to let it go, mostly. But when it comes to Anakin being mistreated, I find that harder to do.”

“A surprise that is not. Care deeply for him you do. A credit to you are your feelings, though careful you must be to not allow yourself to be ruled by them.”

“Yes, Master. It was actually Anakin’s existence that eventually pushed me to really master my anger and try to heal from my experiences as a slave. I knew I had to get myself right as much as possible before he was born, so I could better take care of him. And I finished cleansing my kyber crystal just before his birth. I didn’t want anything with such negative energy anywhere near the baby.”

“Your kyber crystal—the one you have in your lightsaber now? Where did you get it?”

“It’s the same crystal I gathered from Ilum as an Initiate.”

“See your lightsaber, may we?”

“Of course, Master.”

“That’s an unusual weapon. What is the hilt made of?”

“It’s the bone of a greater krayt dragon, from a skeleton I came across while trapped by a sandstorm in the Tatooine wastes.”

“Blue was the color of your blade as an Initiate, if correct my memory is. White it is now. This happened how?”

“It turned white after I healed the crystal from—from being bled. By Xanatos.”

“…He—Xanatos bled your kyber. He used the dark side to corrupt your bonded crystal…and you healed it? At sixteen?”

“A task that a Jedi Master would find difficult, this is. Manage it, how did you?”

“It wasn’t easy. It was impossible to even begin to try while I was still with Xanatos. After he died and I was sold, I had to keep the crystal hidden on my person always, and I had little time or energy to apply to the task. When I finally devoted the time to meditate with it, I realized that healing had to come from within me. It was my bonded crystal, and Xanatos used my pain to corrupt it. I had to find some measure of healing for myself in order to heal the kyber.”

“Hmm, impressive. Most impressive.”

“I couldn’t have done it alone. Shmi, Anakin’s mother, encouraged my efforts. She gave me the idea to talk to the kyber after—after she asked me to talk to Anakin in the womb. Even before she became pregnant, she inspired me to try to become a better version of myself.”

“Glad I am that support you had. Yet you it was who accomplished this task.”

“It was probably an…unusual way of going about it. My understanding is that in most cases of bleeding kyber, the Jedi the crystals belonged to are no longer alive. Xanatos had me still at hand, so he came up with a…creative method of bleeding my kyber, by forcing my pain through the bond. So I started off with that circumstantial advantage. I doubt the method I used to heal it would work for anyone not already bonded to the kyber.”

“…If Xanatos weren’t dead, I would drop kick him into a black hole.”

“Heh, well now, that’s hardly a sentiment becoming of a Jedi Master. If I didn’t know better, I’d say you were angry at a dead man, Master Windu.”

“Well if I were angry, better that it be at a man who’s already dead and beyond the reach of my saber. Removes the temptation to do anything rash.”

“Hmm, yes, terrible it would be to act rashly. Have that, we cannot. Were you my student, Mace—”

“Oh for crying out loud.”

“—assign you twelve meditations on the nature of recklessness I would, and three shifts assisting the crèchemasters to put the younglings down for naps. Patience, this teaches.”

“I’ll show you recklessness, you—”

“And busy it will keep you while first crack I get at drop kicking my former great-grand-Padawan into a black hole.”

“Devious, Master Yoda. Also not a quality I would necessarily ascribe to a respectable Jedi Master.”

“Occasionally, deviousness the situation requires. Help it I cannot if think it disreputable others do.”

“How did you manage to build a lightsaber while enslaved? And then hide it from the Sith that captured you, for that matter?”

“Changing the subject, are you, Mace? Rude that is, when more I have to say on the topic of disreputable and devious things done by certain Masters of the Order when only young Knights they were.”

“Please just answer the question, Kenobi. Don’t let Yoda derail the conversation again.”

“Of course, Master Windu. Perhaps, Master Yoda, you and I could circle back to the nature of deviousness later, when we are not taking up Master Windu’s time.”

“Mhmhmhmhm!”

“I am never leaving you two alone together.”

“I didn’t actually build the lightsaber. I acquired the parts, just in case, but I preferred to keep my crystal with me at all times. And if the slavers had caught me with a weapon, especially one as distinctive as a lightsaber…Well, it doesn’t bear thinking about. I gave all the parts and the crystal to Anakin before he left with Master Jinn.”

“You taught Anakin to build a lightsaber? Before he even arrived at the Temple? Was the chaos that would inevitably follow meant to be your revenge on us?”

“Actually, I didn’t teach Anakin anything about lightsabers. I expected that once he arrived at the Temple, he would eventually learn what the parts I gave him were for, and he could decide to use them or not. I admit, though, that I did not anticipate that it would take him but a single evening in the Temple to learn the skill.”

“A bright child, he is. But perhaps teach him this Qui-Gon did, on the journey through hyperspace.”

“Ugh, that would be just like Jinn, to teach a nine-year-old with no weapons training to build a lightsaber. I swear that man lives to give me migraines.”

“I’ll have to ask Anakin. I also had a question to ask you, if I could.”

“Of course.”

“When Anakin gave me the lightsaber, he was nowhere near me. He was in the cockpit of the starfighter the entire time, and I wasn’t even in the same room with him. But suddenly, I felt his presence in the Force just behind me, as clear as though he were actually there. I dared not turn my back on the Sith to look, but when I reached behind me, I felt the hilt of the lightsaber in my hand. The next moment, Anakin’s presence was gone, but I had the saber. I didn’t know this was possible, and Anakin himself doesn’t really know what he did, only that he was trying to reach out to me in the Force through our bond. Do you know what happened?”

“I’m not sure I’ve heard of anything like this. Master Yoda?”

“Hmm, fascinating this is. Rare is this ability, but heard of it I have. Very strong in the Force is young Anakin, and strong is the bond between you. Possible this bond makes it for you to reach each other in the Force in this way. With no one else could young Anakin replicate this feat.”

“Thank you, Master. I’ll keep that in mind.”

Anakin is…maybe in a little bit of trouble.

Or a lot. Possibly a lot of trouble. But he did exactly what Mister Qui-Gon said! He stayed in the cockpit the whole time! It was the cockpit that moved, honest, and he didn’t even mean for that to happen.

Of course, he knows that Ben isn’t going to fall for that excuse.

He really hopes Ben is okay. He thinks he is, but he’s been distracted with flying a starfighter into orbit for the first time ever and avoiding the people shooting at him and blowing up stuff, so he kind of has had some other things on his mind and couldn’t always pay attention to the part of his Luck sense—or the Force?—where he can feel Ben.

He’d managed to navigate the ship back into Naboo’s atmosphere with R2-D2’s help, but now he—oh wait, what’s that flashing light?

“Artoo, what’s going on?” he asks, eyeing the blinking light with suspicion. R2’s response immediately comes over the communication panel. “We’re being hailed? Hey, I didn’t even think about this ship having a comm. This is great, maybe they can help. Now, how do I answer…”

It takes R2’s rather unhelpful directions and several experimental button-pushes before he finally hears a voice crackling over the speaker.

“—to Bravo Eleven, come in Bravo Eleven. I repeat, this is Bravo Leader to Bravo Eleven, come in Bravo Eleven, over—”

Anakin knows that voice! “Hi Mister Olié! Sorry I wasn’t answering before, I didn’t know how to work the comm.”

“…Anakin?”

“Yep, it’s me, hi!”

“Anakin, was that, uh…was that you up in orbit at the control ship with us?”

“Yeah, that thing was huge! It’s the biggest ship I’ve ever seen!”

“Oh man, okay, Ani… Are you all right? You’re not hurt?”

“I’m okay, Mister Olié. Actually, I’m better than okay. I’ve never been in a space battle before. It was totally wizard!”

“Right, okay. Okay Ani, uh, how about you come on down now? The battle is over since the control ship is destroyed. The droids can’t operate without it.”

Anakin feels a surge of relief. He remembers listening in on the adults making their battle plans, and he had been pretty sure that he understood the mission, but it was good to hear it from an adult.

“Okay, sure! Can I ask you something though?”

“Anything, kid.”

“Um, this is my first time ever piloting a starfighter, so uh… How do I land the ship?”

In the end, Mister Olié has Anakin land on the main thoroughfare that runs through the city up to the steps of the palace. He doesn’t think that Ani can land safely in the hangar without training, so he originally wanted Ani to land in the river right by the hangar. But that’s silly, because if he lands the starfighter in the river, how are they going to get it out? And what if it goes over the waterfall? And also, Anakin doesn’t know how to swim, so he doesn’t really like the thought of being in the river, and when Mister Olié hears that, he decides against a water landing.

Mister Olié isn’t so keen on the main street either because there are broken-down droids and tanks and other blockages all along the way, but Ani assures him that if he can win the Boonta Eve Classic, he can avoid a few dead droids. For some reason, Mister Olié doesn’t really seem reassured, but he walks Ani through landing anyway, and it works perfectly.

Well, almost perfectly. Ani didn’t understand that Mister Olié wanted him to use the street as a runway going away from the palace, so he goes towards it instead and ends up right at the base of the steps going up to the palace’s main entrance. But it’s fine! He barely takes a chip out of the grand staircase when he crashes—more like bumps, really, he isn’t going that fast anymore—into it.

But it must have worried Mister Olié, because he and three other pilots are running full tilt to get to him before he can even get the cockpit open.

“You all right, Ani?” Mister Olié pants as he skids to a stop by the fighter.

“I’m fine!” Ani calls as he shimmies out over the edge of the cockpit. “Here, catch me!”

“Oof!” Mister Olié grunts as Ani falls into his arms, but doesn’t put Ani down, like he forgot that that’s the next step. Ani has to wriggle out of his hold. Mister Olié still looks kind of panicked, even though Anakin is now safely on the ground. “Kid, I don’t envy your parents their job,” he mutters.

Speaking of which, that reminds Ani. “Do you know where Ben is? Is he okay?” It still feels like he’s okay, but Ani really wants to know for sure.

Mister Olié looks over at another pilot, who is just wrapping up a comm call. “They say that his dad is on his way to the palace,” she tells them. “We’re to bring him up to the throne room.”

Anakin brightens. It’s not confirmation that Ben isn’t hurt, but it sounds like he’s going to get to see him soon. He waits very patiently while two of the pilots extract R2-D2 from the fighter because he wants R2 to come with him. Ben will be glad to know that R2 has been watching Ani’s back because R2 is the coolest astromech droid ever.

He tells R2 this as the little droid is carefully navigating the stairs one step at a time, Ani’s hand on its dome. He thinks R2’s answering whistle sounds pleased.

The palace is huge. The hallways are big enough for a ronto to walk down them without even ducking its head. Does Padmé actually live here? He asks the pilots because all four of them are walking with Ani to make sure he doesn’t get lost (again, according to them, but Ani wasn’t lost, he was in the cockpit right where he was supposed to be). They smile and tell him she does, and even point out some of the security features in the architecture that are there to keep her safe.

When they get to the door of the throne room, they’re stopped by a group of guards, but only because they want to be sure that the queen is ready to see them—they recognize their faces and know why they’re here, so it’s not long before they are being shown in to the grand throne room, where Padmé is talking with Captain Panaka, surrounded by her handmaidens and guards.

Padmé looks tired, but happy. Her magnesium-bright presence is steady and warm. When she sees Anakin and the pilots, her face breaks into a smile. Mister Olié bows to her, as do the other pilots, and Anakin suddenly remembers that Padmé is actually the queen. He bows too, but Padmé is already coming towards him, sweeping him into her arms in a big hug. Ani hugs her back, trying to show how relieved he is that she’s okay.

“Are you okay, Ani?” she asks, kind brown eyes looking at him with both concern and joy.

“I’m fine. Are you okay?”

“Not a scratch. I hear that you had quite the adventure though.”

“He certainly did, your highness,” Mister Olié says, grinning. “He took out the control ship’s main reactor—from the inside. I’m…not happy that he was right in the thick of a space battle, but he really saved the day. We lost four fighters today, but we would’ve lost more if it weren’t for the kid.”

“We would have lost much more indeed without Anakin’s assistance,” Padmé agrees. She looks at Ani again, this time with that wry look that Ben sometimes has that means Ani has done something he wasn’t supposed to, but things turned out all right, so he can’t lecture Ani as much as he wants because Ani was right in the end. “I am grateful to him. Even if I still wish that he had listened and stayed away from the fighting.”

“I listened!” Ani protests. “I stayed in the cockpit, just like Mister Qui-Gon told me.”

Padmé’s smile falls. “Anakin, about Master Jinn…”

She pauses, like she’s trying to figure out just what to say, but she never gets to continue because at that moment, Anakin feels a familiar presence enter the room.

He spins around to see Ben, standing there in the doorway, his eyes full of relief and joy as he looks at Anakin.

Anakin’s heart lurches, and he’s running, running straight to Ben, who falls to his knees and opens his arms just in time for Ani to slam into them, throwing his own arms around Ben’s neck and clinging as tightly as he can. Ben’s arms wrap around Ani’s ribs, one of his hands coming to cup the back of Ani’s head, holding Ani maybe just a bit too tight, but Ani doesn’t mind at all. It makes him feel safe, safer than he’s ever felt, and Ani suddenly finds his eyes overflowing with tears. He doesn’t try to stop them, letting out the relief, the worry, the happiness, the hurt, the pride and the fear he feels. For the first time in weeks, he feels warm, lit up inside with Ben’s familiar campfire presence.

Ben kisses his temple and rubs Ani’s back. When Ani pulls away a bit, he sees that Ben’s eyes are also damp.

“Are you all right, Anakin?” Ben asks, voice choked and soft as he rubs his hands over Ani’s shoulders and down his arms to his hands. Ani nods, and Ben feels relief, such relief and happiness at the confirmation of Ani’s wellbeing.

Anakin lightly touches the bandage poking out from beneath the rip in Ben’s shirt. “You’re hurt.”

“Just a scratch,” Ben says, and Anakin does his best to glare at him. Ben grins shakily. “Really, Anakin, it’s going to be all right. I’ve already seen the medic. I’ll be fine.”

Ani nods and hugs Ben again, more gently this time. He shouldn’t have slammed into Ben like that before; he was probably hurting Ben's wound. Ben hugs him back more firmly, holding him close against him, heedless of his injury. Ani wants to stay in Ben’s embrace and never leave.

However, when he becomes aware of others talking somewhere in the room, he sighs and pulls away again. But he doesn’t go far. He keeps his hand linked with Ben’s. He doesn’t want to lose him again.

Ben rises smoothly and they turn towards the throne together. Padmé is discreetly wiping at her eyes, but smiles as they approach.

Ani tugs on Ben’s hand. “She’s the queen,” he whispers to Ben, and Ben’s eyes widen in surprise. He bows to her, so Anakin does too.

Padmé just waves off the formality. She walks forward and hugs Ben gently, mindful of his bandaged chest. After a moment of hesitation, Ben returns her embrace.

“I’m glad that you’re all right,” she tells him. She glances over at Anakin. “And so happy to see you and Anakin reunited.”

“I am grateful for that as well,” Ben says, voice warm. “The Force was with us.” Anakin grins.

Padmé releases Ben and takes a step back to look up at his face. “You came from the medical complex?” Ben nods. “How is Master Jinn?”

“He is in surgery now,” Ben says, face serious. “His condition is very grave.”

Anakin bites his lip, stomach twisting. Mister Qui-Gon must have been injured by that scary guy in black. “Is he going to be okay?”

Ben squeezes his hand. “I do not know, Ani. We must put our trust in the Force.” Ani nods, recognizing one of Ben’s common refrains, though he used to call it Luck. Mister Qui-Gon was right; Ben does know what the Force is.

“Are interplanetary communications back up?” Ben asks. “Has anyone contacted the Jedi High Council yet?”

“They are, and contacting the Jedi Council is on my list of things to do,” Padmé says.

“If you would allow me to be of assistance, I would be pleased to contact the Council and report to them on what has happened here, as well as the status of Master Jinn.”

Padmé studies Ben. She has her queen face on again. “The Council would accept a report from you?” she asks neutrally, as though she is asking more than just that one question.

Ben nods. “I am known to the Jedi,” he says. Padmé’s brows raise a bit.

“Then I would be glad for your assistance, Ben. Rabé will get you a comm.” She pauses. “Is there a way to submit a request to the Council for emergency aid from the Jedi Service Corps? I understand that such requests usually go through the Senate, but the Senate is not known for its quick response at the best of times, and they are currently in the middle of an election. It is vital for my people that they receive aid quickly.”

“I will certainly place the request on your behalf. I strongly suspect that in this case, the Council will have good reason to forego protocol and send a team immediately.”

Padmé nods. “Thank you, Ben. And—” she takes a deep breath. “I am sorry that you and Anakin were put in danger yet again. You both have my gratitude and the gratitude of the Naboo for your courageous actions. Ask any boon of me, and if it is within my power, I will grant it.”

Ben bows deeply to her. “Thank you, Your Highness. I am glad that we were able to be of service to you.”

Padmé nods, then smiles at Ben and Anakin and finally turns away to give another of the many people around her her attention.

“You’re Anakin’s father?” Mister Olié holds out his hand to Ben. “Your son is quite the pilot. I’d say as good as any pilot in Bravo Squadron.” Ani puffs up with pride as Ben shakes Mister Olié’s hand.

“Yes, he is,” Ben says with a rueful smile. “Though I think he should wait until he is at least an adult before joining your team officially. Perhaps by then he will have learned to listen to his commanding officers when they tell him to stay put.”

“I stayed in the cockpit!” Anakin mutters, a little tired of having to repeat this point so much. “I listened!”

Ben glances at him with a twinkle in his eye. “And perhaps then he won’t pout quite as much when he’s chastised for being reckless.”

“I am not pouting!” Anakin squawks.

“Oh? Then what’s that look on your face?”

“I’m scowling. I don’t pout, only little kids do that.”

“Ah, I see. Well then, since you are so very mature, I’m sure it will be no trouble for you to wait very patiently and not complain while I send a message to the Council. If you can manage that, I’ll show you something new after.”

Ani perks up. He likes it when Ben teaches him new things; it’s always something cool. “Okay!” He turns back to the pilot. “Thanks for helping me land the starfighter and find Ben, Mister Olié. Maybe tomorrow I could come help you fix up my fighter?”

“Your fighter?” Ben raises an eyebrow. “The ship belongs to the Naboo Security Forces, Anakin.”

Mister Olié just smiles and ruffles Ani’s hair. “Kid, if you’re as good a mechanic as you are a pilot, you’re welcome in the hangar anytime.”

Anakin beams. “Wizard!”

Ben grins. “You’re going to wish you hadn’t said that,” he tells Mister Olié, who laughs.

That’s when Rabé comes over and whisks them off to go comm the Jedi, or whatever they’re doing next. She has them stop at a kitchen first so they can pick up some food for latemeal, then in some sort of storage closet where she gets Ben a spare uniform to replace his clothes and even a too-big shirt for Ani. By the time they finally head toward the room she’s going to have them stay in, Ani is pretty tired, and his legs have started to shake like they do after a podrace, which makes sense, because flying a starfighter in a battle was way more intense than any podrace he’s ever been in.

Ben notices immediately of course, and he picks Ani up to carry him the rest of the way. Ani doesn’t argue because it means he can lay his head down on Ben’s shoulder and feel his heart thumping inside the chest pressed against his own.

“Hey, Rabé, what’s a boon?” Ani asks the handmaiden. If he doesn’t talk, he’s going to fall asleep on Ben, and he doesn’t want to sleep yet.

“It’s like a favor.”

“Oh. So Padmé said she would do us a favor? That’s really nice of her.”

“You’ve done so much for us, Anakin, she wants to do something for you too.”

“Do you think she would let us stay here? I mean, not here in the palace, but here on Naboo? I like it here.”

Ani feels Ben stroke a comforting hand through his hair. Rabé smiles at him. “If that’s what you wanted to ask of her, I am sure that she would do that for you.”

“Thanks, Rabé.”

Rabé opens the next door for them and bows them through. “Anytime, Ani.”

As Rabé closes the door behind Ani and Ben, Ani raises his head from Ben’s shoulder and looks around, mouth a little agape. The suite of rooms they have been given is larger than their entire house back on Tatooine. Ben shrugs the bag of clothing and food off his shoulder and goes to sit on a richly upholstered armchair, settling Ani on his lap. Anakin winces a little when their weight creases the flawless brocade. Are they even allowed to sit on this?

Looking down at their sumptuous seat, Ani notices something he hadn’t before. He reaches out to touch the bone hilt of the lightsaber he built, now hanging from Ben’s belt.

“You got it,” Anakin says, a little awed. He knew what he had done, what he had tried to do, sitting in the cockpit of the fighter and reaching out with all his strength, bringing forth that place in his mind where he can always sense Ben. He’d felt the hilt of the lightsaber plucked from his outstretched hand, but he’d had his eyes closed, so he didn’t see it happen.

Ben doesn’t take his eyes off of Anakin, though he reaches down to touch the lightsaber too. “Yes, Anakin. You did a wonderful job building it. And you got it to me just in time.” He brushes warm fingers over Anakin’s cheek and cups the nape of his neck. “You saved me. You saved this planet. You’ve done so well.”

Ani’s face feels warm at Ben’s praise, and he feels strangely shy all of a sudden. The weight of Ben’s gaze is heavy, like he is eating Anakin up with his eyes and can’t get enough of looking at him. Ani recognizes it; he feels the same about Ben after weeks without him. He doesn’t think he will ever get tired of hearing Ben’s calm voice talking to him or feeling his strong hand on his shoulder. Not for a long time, anyway. He glances down and sees the rip in Ben’s shirt again, and the bandage underneath.

“I didn’t save you from this,” he says, tracing the edge of the bandage with a finger.

“That’s not on you, Ani, not even a little,” Ben tells him, taking Ani’s hand and lifting it away, holding it gently in their laps.

“Did the bad guy do that to you?” Ben nods. Ani is struck by the sudden certainty that this wound is not the only injury that the mysterious fighter dealt Ben. And he must have been the one to hurt Mister Qui-Gon too. “Did you kill him?” Ani asks.

There is a flash of grief and guilt from Ben, but also a sense of peace. “Yes,” he says simply. “I didn’t want to, but he gave me no other choice.”

Ani nods. “I—I think that the control ship was mostly staffed by droids. But—but there must have been some living people aboard too when I—when I—” He stops when he feels like he can’t go on. He’s not sure he can say it out loud, when this is the first he’s even let himself think it, really.

“Oh, Anakin,” Ben whispers, a tremor in his voice, but his hands are steady as they cradle Ani’s. “I’m so sorry. You should have never been put in that position. But you were, and you handled it well, much better than most anyone else would.” He cups Ani’s cheek, gently encouraging him to lift his gaze to meet Ben’s eyes. “What you did, you did not out of anger or malice. You acted in the only way you could to save your life and the lives of your friends. You let the Force guide you. You showed great courage and integrity today, Anakin. You brought hope to the peoples of Naboo. I am proud of you.”

Ani just nods, his relief so strong that it steals his voice. Tears spill from his eyes again, and he leans forward to bury his face in Ben’s chest. Ben’s arms come around him, comforting and safe, and Ani can feel Ben’s warm presence surrounding him, sheltering him, even better than a hug. He lets himself linger in Ben’s embrace for several long minutes. Ben holds him close all the while and gives him a reassuring smile when Anakin finally lifts his head, eyes dry again.

“Are you gonna send a message to the Jedi Council now?” Ani asks.

“Yes, I am.”

“Are you gonna tell them anything about me?” Anakin squirms a little at the thought. He doesn’t think the Council likes him very much.

“Yes. They at least need to know that you’re safe. But Ani, I wanted to talk to you about that first. You asked Rabé if we could stay here on Naboo. Does that mean that you’ve changed your mind about wanting to be a Jedi?”

Anakin shrugs. It doesn’t really have anything to do with what he wants. It’s the Jedi that don’t want him.

“Ani, did Master Jinn take you to meet the Jedi High Council while you were on Coruscant?” Ben’s voice is gentle as he questions him. Ani nods. “And what happened when you spoke with the Council?”

Anakin takes a deep breath. “They said that they won’t let me be trained. Because I’m too old, and I have too much fear and…and because I’m attached to you.”

“Anakin, I’m so sorry.” Ben’s blue eyes are sad, but not because he’s disappointed in Ani. “I didn’t mean to make this harder for you. We’ve had a bond since you were very small, but I didn’t think that would prevent you from joining the Jedi. You let me go when you left Tatooine, and you were very brave to do that. I thought that would be enough to show them your commitment. I’m sorry that my bond with you prevented them from seeing that.”

“It’s not your fault, Ben! It was my fault. I was afraid, and I was worried about you. I missed you so much. I was trying to be brave, like you taught me, but I couldn’t—”

“You are brave, Anakin,” Ben reassures him, placing a comforting hand on his shoulder. “You have done so well in very difficult circumstances, and I’m so proud of you. I’m not sure the Council would listen to anything I have to say, but I will talk to them for you, try to get them to reconsider—”

Anakin shakes his head. “I—I don’t think I want you to do that. I think I have changed my mind about being a Jedi, kind of. I still want to be a Jedi, but I want to stay with you more. If you can’t be a Jedi, then I don’t want to be one either. I won’t go and leave you behind again. We belong together.”

Ben’s heart is full of both pride and pain for Ani. His eyes and voice are soft when he says, “Anakin, wherever you are in the galaxy, no matter how far away from me the Force may take you, I will always be with you. I think you proved that when you gave me this.” He pats the lightsaber on his hip. “But I would be remiss if I did not tell you that I worried about you as well, and I missed you terribly these last few weeks. I would like it if we were together.”

Anakin’s hope rises. “So I can stay with you then?”

“Anakin, you will have a home with me for as long as you want it.” He kisses Ani’s forehead. “I love you.”

“I love you too…Dad.” Ben looks at him, startled. This is the first time Ani has ever called him that. “Is it—I know that you’re not my birth father,” Ani babbles, nerves making his stomach twist, “but you raised me and—and you’re my family, and family sticks together. Is it okay if I call you Dad?”

For as long as Anakin can remember, people have taken Ben for his father, or sometimes his brother, and Ben is the closest thing he has ever had to either one. But Ben is more to him than a brother, and being separated from Ben for the first time has shown him how much Ben really means to him. Ani wants to recognize that. He wants to call Ben his father.

There are tears in Ben’s eyes again. “Yes, Ani. If—if that is what you want, I would be honored—and touched—if you called me that. You are my family too, my child.” He smiles, and Ani smiles back. “We stick together.”

Ani has to hug him again after that, and when they break apart, he sees a few tears have slipped free from Ben’s eyes. Instead of wiping his face on his sleeve or getting up to wash his face, Ben reaches out a hand, and a box of tissues that are sitting on an ornate side table come flying into his hand.

“Whoa!” Ani has never seen Ben do anything like that before. “How did you do that?”

Ben grins a little even as he wipes at his eyes. “I used the Force.”

“Mister Qui-Gon told me about the Force,” Anakin says thoughtfully. “That’s what you mean when you say the Wind and Luck, right?”

“Yes, it is.”

Ani frowns. “You didn’t tell me that.”

Ben sighs, but looks Anakin in the eye. “No.”

“There are a lot of things you didn’t tell me.”

“I know, Anakin. I’m sorry.” Ben doesn’t feel guilty exactly, but Ani gets the sense that he wishes he could have done things differently.

“You’ve been holding me back,” Anakin says, not quite accusing, because he’s still not sure why Ben did it, but he has an idea.

“I didn’t mean to,” Ben tells him, sincerity all through him. “I was afraid that if anyone, especially one of our owners, saw your true power, they would try to use you. They would take you away from me and hurt you.”

Anakin nods solemnly. He was right then, about the Force being something they couldn’t talk about. “Now that we’re free, will you teach me?”

“I’ll teach you everything I know, and if I don’t know, I will help you find the answers.”

“Thank you, Dad.”

“Of course, Ani.”

“Dad?”

“Yeah?”

“You were a Jedi, weren’t you?”

Ben is silent for some time. Ani senses there is a great deal of history and emotion wrapped up in that question for him, so Ani waits patiently for an answer. He doesn’t want to push, but he’s sure that he’s right about this. How else could Ben know so much about the Force? And he had given Ani all the parts to make the lightsaber, and Knight Bant had told Ani that kyber crystals like the one Ben gave him were sacred to Jedi.

Ben takes a deep breath. “I was raised by the Jedi, at the Temple on Coruscant. I was an Initiate in the Order until I was twelve. But I was not meant for that life.”

Anakin can sense old pain behind Ben’s words. He wishes he understood it. “Will you tell me what happened to you?”

“Yes,” Ben says immediately. “One day, I will. But it is a story for another time.”

Ani nods seriously. “Okay. I can wait.”

Ben grins. “I appreciate your patience. And while you’re waiting, please wash yourself up and eat something. I’m going into the other room to comm the Council, and when I get back, we’ll meditate and get some shut-eye. We’ve both had a very long day.”

Anakin wakes hours later in the middle of the night. Ben is still beside him, callused hand covering his where they lay between their bodies, mind calm with deep sleep. He is not the source of Ani’s disquiet.

Anakin lifts his head and looks around, and immediately spots a figure near the door. He rubs at his eyes.

“Padmé?” he calls softly. He knows it’s her; he could never mistake her magnesium presence. “Are you okay?”

Padmé takes a few steps into the room, until Anakin can see her features illuminated in the moonlight streaming through the window. Her face is tense, and there are shadows under her eyes that Anakin doesn’t think come entirely from the lack of light in the room.

“I’m okay, Anakin,” she whispers. “I’m sorry I woke you up. I didn’t mean to.”

“It’s okay. What are you doing here? Do you need something?”

“No, no, I’m fine. Go back to sleep. I’m sorry I barged in.”

Anakin sits up. “Wait. At least tell me what’s wrong. Did you have a nightmare? Is that why you’re up?”

Padmé creeps closer to the bed. “Shouldn’t we take this conversation somewhere else? I wouldn’t want to wake Ben.”

“Nah, he’s out. See?” Ani pokes Ben hard in the shoulder to demonstrate, and he just rolls over, away from Ani, still fast asleep. “He took this medicine the healers gave him that makes him sleepy. He won’t wake up unless we really need him.”

Padmé glances over at Ben, then settles herself on the rug next to the bed, leaning against the frame. “I didn’t have a nightmare,” she says. “I haven’t actually been to bed yet.”

Anakin takes in her nightdress and unbound hair. She is clearly ready for sleep, but she hasn’t gone to bed yet? “Can’t sleep?”

“Yeah,” she sighs. “I was up late taking care of things that need doing, and when I got back to my bedroom, everything was so dark and empty and quiet. I decided to come check on you and Ben, just to make sure you’re okay. And to remind myself that there are other people in this wing of the palace with me, it’s not empty.”

Ani frowns. “What about your handmaidens? Aren’t they here?”

Padmé shakes her head. “No. I gave them leave to go find their families.”

“That was good of you,” Anakin tells her. He’s sure everyone in the queen’s retinue is worried about their families after everything that happened. He pauses, thinks. “What about your family? Have you already found them?”

Padmé takes a deep breath. “No. I can’t leave the palace right now, but I have people looking for them. I’m sure it won’t be long…”

Ani’s heart squeezes painfully. No wonder she can’t sleep. He reaches out to touch her shoulder. “I’m sure they’re okay. You saved them. You saved everyone.”

Padmé glances up at him, moisture glimmering in her eyes. “Thanks, Ani,” she whispers.

“You should stay here tonight,” he tells her. “That way you won’t be alone.”

Padmé looks at Ben again. “Are you sure?”

“Yeah. Dad won’t mind.” He scoots back to make room and pats the space next to him.

Padmé needs no further invitation to climb into the bed and settle under the covers beside him. She must really not want to be alone, which Anakin can’t blame her for. Besides, this is hardly the first time they’ve shared a sleeping space. They slept with the handmaidens the whole way back to Naboo, and they also shared the only sleep pallet the night before the Boonta Eve Classic. That time was even Ben’s idea, though he and Mister Qui-Gon had to sleep on the floor in the kitchen.

“I’ve never heard you call him Dad before,” Padmé says, the question implied.

Ani can’t help the smile that spreads across his face, remembering how good it felt when Ben called him his child. “Yeah. I finally asked him. I decided I’m not going to go be a Jedi after all. We’re free now, and we’re going to stay together. So I thought it was time.”

Padmé still feels confused, and Anakin realizes she thinks the same thing everyone always does. “Oh. Ben isn’t my birth father. He was friends with my mother, and she asked him to take care of me when she was sold away. But I already knew him as Ben then, so I guess I just kept calling him that. We’re family though, even though we’re not blood. So I asked, and he said I could call him Dad.”

Padmé smiles as she reaches out and takes his hand. “I’m happy for you both.”

“Do you think me and Ben could live here, on Naboo?” Ani blurts out. “It’s so nice here, the most beautiful planet I’ve ever seen. And I’ve already made friends with you and Rabé and Eirtaé and Sabé and Captain Panaka and Mister Olié. And Artoo! And Rabé said that a boon means a favor and that you would probably let us stay if we asked. I understand if you have other things to do right now, but do you think, maybe—?”

Padmé squeezes his hand gently, her smile growing wider. “I would like it very much if you stayed here on Naboo, Ani.”

Ani grins back. “Wizard!” he whispers, and Padmé giggles. “Thanks, Padmé. Tomorrow, Dad and I can help look for your family. He says that we’re gonna make ourselves useful anyway, and what’s more useful than that? And I really want to meet your sister and your mom and dad—”

Anakin is (rudely!) interrupted just then by Ben, who, without waking, rolls over and puts a hand over Ani’s mouth. “Shhh…” He shushes Ani without even opening his eyes.

Padmé giggles into her hands as Ani pulls Ben’s hand down. This only encourages Ben to wrap his arm around Ani’s waist and pull the boy in against him.

“I think your dad wants us to go to sleep,” Padmé whispers, still grinning. “We’ll talk more in the morning.”

“Okay. And Padmé?”

“Yes, Ani?”

“I really mean it. We’ll find your family, and they’re going to be okay.”

Padmé squeezes his hand again. “Thank you, Ani.”

“Goodnight, Padmé.”

“Goodnight.”

Though Anakin thinks that he’s wide awake and it will take a while for him to get back to sleep, it isn’t long at all before the warmth of Ben’s body and Padmé’s quiet breathing lull him into sleep. All three of the bed’s occupants sleep very soundly and undisturbed until the morning, when they’re all jolted awake by a distraught Captain Panaka bursting into the room in a frantic search for his queen.

Anakin thinks that the loud and long lecture the poor man gives all three of them is particularly unfair to Ben, who until that moment had no idea the queen was even in his bed.

Chapter Text

The sandstorm scoured every inch of Ben’s exposed skin, leaving him stinging and raw. The wind tore at his limbs, pushing him and Shmi further from the safety of the outcropping just yards away, catching in his clothing and blowing him off course. Within a minute, Ben could hardly keep his eyes open against the wind and sand, and even if he could make himself look up, he couldn’t see anything with the air so full of dust and his eyes so full of tears.

When he reached for the Force to guide his steps, it refused to heed his will. It whipped around him, wild, feral, showing him glimpses of things that could not possibly be there. Japor blossoms blowing past his face. Bloody footprints splattered on the ground. Chains hidden under the sand, revealed briefly by the wind and just as quickly covered again. A flash of munitions fire in the distance. He caught snatches of sound whispering just under the roaring of the wind. Voices speaking in tongues, singing, a high-pitched blaster discharge. The distinctive hum of a lightsaber.

The protection of the outcropping had to be only a couple hundred meters away, but Ben knew that he and Shmi were never going to make it. All it would take was a slight deviation in their direction and they would miss it entirely, and the wind and white-out conditions made it impossible to tell which direction they were moving in.

Ben stopped walking. He felt Shmi press up behind him, hiding her face against his back. She put a hand on his shoulder and squeezed the hand she still held to let him know that she trusted him. He allowed the welcome pressure of her touch to ground him, give him a point of focus for what he would need to do to save them both.

Ben planted his feet firmly on the ground and reached once more into the Force. The wind was wild and of no help, so Ben instead turned to the earth. He extended his awareness deep into the ground, under the shifting sand to the bedrock beneath. He felt out the edge of the stone, looking for what direction it extended to rise up into the outcropping.

It was hard, so hard to do. The stone was stable, but just as feral as the wind, which continued to buffet Ben in the Force and in the flesh. He could feel something hard and heavy building in his chest the longer he looked and the deeper he delved.

Finally, with sustained effort on his part, the Force showed Ben the way the bedrock punched through above the surface, creating the shelter he was looking for. The rock outcropping was close, but still too far, and Ben knew that he couldn’t keep up this connection with the Force long enough to get there. He had to create a path, a way forward that he could see to follow.

Ben reached out with a hand, drawing on the deep stone for strength, even as he felt that power sink its teeth into his chest. A low, rumbling crack resounded in the air and within his breast. He heard Shmi cry out.

When Ben opened his eyes, he saw a narrow fissure in the crust of the earth, starting between his feet and extending straight ahead, toward shelter. He stumbled forward, pulling Shmi along behind him, eyes down and fixed on the thin trail to safety. The wind and the Force battered against him with every step he took.

After what felt like an eternity, the wind lessened, and Ben looked up to find that they had entered the shelter of the outcropping. Thanking the Force for this small mercy, Ben settled Shmi against the rock, underneath a slight overhang that was a little like a shallow cave and provided the most protection from the howling wind. With the rock wall on one side and Ben’s body on the other, Shmi would be protected from the storm.

Ben ran his hands over Shmi’s limbs and torso, checking her for injuries, making sure she was okay after the Tusken attack and the bantha throwing them. He was forced to use feeling more than sight, as the sandstorm was blocking out most of the daylight. Shmi understood Ben’s anxiety too well, and as soon as he was satisfied that she was unhurt, she performed her own examination of him, her hands firm but gentle, as they always were.

There was nothing else to do then but wait. The roaring wind made it difficult to hear each other speak, and there was no way they were going anywhere anytime soon. They curled up together and tried to rest.

Hours later, Ben woke from a fitful sleep. His half-remembered dreams had been dark and confused, stirred as they were by the strange wildness of the Force. The sandstorm still raged. He had no idea how long he’d been out. He reached for Shmi and settled to find her asleep beside him. He was desperately thirsty, and he was sure Shmi was too, but there was nothing he could do about it.

As he scanned their surroundings, he noticed a deep hole in the rock near them. How had he not noticed that before? It was quite large enough for him to crawl into should he wish. He inched closer and found that he could not discern how far back the hole went. Reaching inside yielded a similar result, as he could not find the back wall with his fingers.

Well, this wasn’t good. Ben couldn’t believe that he’d allowed himself to sleep without properly checking their shelter. This hole could be the den of some animal that would attack them if it found them here. He needed to investigate this. He turned back to Shmi and tried to wake her, having in his mind that he would tell her what he was going to do so that she could be aware and watchful in case something happened.

Only, she didn’t wake. She shifted weakly and groaned when he gently shook her, but she remained asleep. This wasn’t normal for her to sleep so deeply. Worried, Ben checked her pulse and found it weak and thready. His hand on her forehead did not seem to indicate a fever at least.

Hand still on Shmi’s brow, Ben reached out to the Force to see what it could tell him about her condition, but found it still unruly and uncooperative. He could only sense her vitality slowly fading. Ben wrung his hands over his utter uselessness. He had no water or medicine, and his grip on the Force was not firm enough right now to try to heal her. He could only wait, and hope the storm blew itself out soon so someone could come find them. Both he and Shmi had transmitters embedded in their bodies. They could be tracked easily once the storm was over. He hoped that Udez had made it back to Mos Espa and told Gardulla about the Tusken attack that had separated them. If he hadn’t, Gardulla might think they had tried to run, which would not be good for them when she found them.

It was too bad that he and Shmi couldn’t make a real bid for freedom now, when they were already out of the palace compound and unsupervised. But they had no supplies and no way to rid themselves of the transmitters. And Shmi was clearly unwell. They wouldn’t get far.

Waiting and worrying was going to drive him crazy, Ben could tell. But he still had the hole to explore. He didn’t want to leave Shmi alone in her state, but the hole posed a danger Ben couldn’t ignore. The storm was showing no signs of letting up. It was unlikely that anything, animal or person, would be out in this to stumble upon them here. Shmi would be safe enough.

The hole was dark, and much deeper than Ben had expected. It sloped sharply down after a few feet, going deeper underground. It was pitch black in the tunnel, and though Ben was creeping forward slowly and carefully, he soon ran into trouble. He was thrown off balance when his right hand suddenly and unexpectedly encountered empty air instead of stone or dirt, and he pitched forward and nearly fell into what seemed to be a pit just in front of him. He tried to scramble back to solid ground, but the sandy floor beneath his knees crumbled and gave way under his weight.

There was a moment of vertigo where Ben was falling in total darkness, unable to tell up from down. Then his back slammed into stone, driving all the air from his lungs.

Ben gasped for air, blind and breathless, and hoped to the heavens that there was nothing in here that wanted to eat him. He tasted copper on his tongue. He must have bitten his cheek on accident in the jarring fall, hard enough to bleed.

When Ben finally managed to get his breath back, he realized that he was being stupid. He wasn’t going to be much good without something to see by. He carefully untied the necklace he always wore, unraveling the knotted twine around the crystal until most of it was exposed. He channeled a little of his energy into the crystal through his bond with it until it began to glow. The light from the corrupted crystal was a sickly red, but it was better than nothing. Ben hung the crystal around his neck again. It felt cold against the skin of his chest. It stung like salt in a wound to open the bond with it at all, but Ben was used to it now. Lately he had been meditating with it more in an attempt to heal it, though he wasn’t sure how much progress he was making. He had recently realized that perhaps the crystal’s pain was a reflection of his own. It would make sense, since Xanatos had used his pain, physical and emotional, to bleed it. That meant, however, that to understand and heal the crystal’s pain, he would have to delve into his own. He wasn’t looking forward to that.

Ben looked around at the solid stone walls of the underground cavern before turning around to see—

—An enormous maw filled with dozens of razor-sharp fangs looming over him. Ben leapt to his feet, scrambling back away from the beast until his back hit rock and he could go no further.

Heart hammering, Ben stared at the huge head, teeth bared in a snarl, dark pits of eyes cast in shadow, awash in the eerie red light of the crystal. It was a greater krayt dragon, and it was dead.

His momentary panic subsiding, Ben noticed the signs he hadn’t seen before. The great head was completely still, and the carcass was withered and desiccated, mummified in the dry desert air. Fascinated, Ben crept forward. This cavern must have once been home to this great beast, and the hole he fell through must have been to allow air into the underground lair. There may be other holes for a similar purpose scattered around the chamber, other potential ways out.

Ben gazed up at the greater krayt. He had heard many stories of them from Tatooine natives, and sometimes heard their loud calls late at night, echoing over the Dune Sea for miles. This, though, was the first he had ever seen of these fierce beasts, and it was even larger than he had imagined. Force preserve him, but the other slaves weren’t exaggerating their proportions at all in their tales.

Ben walked around the dead dragon’s head, in awe and wondering how much more magnificent it would have been when it was alive. It was probably a good thing that he’d found it dead though. It was so huge that it wouldn’t even need to chew to swallow Ben whole. Its foreclaw had seen a bit more decomposition than the rest of it, with the flesh sloughed off and the pale bones exposed. It looked surprisingly delicate next to the rest of the huge animal. He recalled that in the stories, the krayt dragon could find prey and water sources by feeling them out with its claws somehow. Krayt dragon bones were highly prized by the Tuskens and desert peoples for their use as dowsing rods, and none more so than the claw bones.

Ben considered this a moment. If the greater krayt had made a lair here, it stood to reason there might be an underground source of water nearby. If he could find it, it might help Shmi.

Ben bent and carefully extracted one of the shorter claw bones, one that was only about as long as his forearm. He then bowed and silently thanked the dragon’s spirit and the Force for providing this aid.

His sense of the Force was still off, so he did as he had once seen an elder who had lived her whole life enslaved on Tatooine do—he held the bone between his teeth, the better to feel the minute vibrations that shivered along its length, guiding him in the direction, hopefully, of water.

Choosing a tunnel branching off the main cavern based on the strength of the vibrations he sensed from the bone, Ben set off. He tried to move quickly—the sooner he found water, the sooner he could get back to Shmi—but he found haste harder than he wished. The tunnel wasn’t exactly smooth, and Ben had only the dim red light of his crystal to navigate around the many obstacles, twists and turns. He paused to put the bone back in his mouth every couple of minutes to be sure he was on the right path.

As he pressed on, he had the oddest sense that he was being watched. It would have made him shiver had he not trained himself not to show fear so the slavers would see none of his weaknesses. But this was probably paranoia, overcompensating for a Force sense that was compromised by the storm, or just a natural reaction to the dark, cramped tunnels. So far underground, with only the sound of his own breath to fill the silence, it was near impossible to tell how much time had elapsed or how far he had really traveled.

It wasn’t so quiet for long though.

Ben began to hear voices—no, a voice, and a familiar one at that—murmuring around him, no louder than a gasp, and no words discernible. The voice soon began to overlap itself, layering whisper over whisper so it sounded like dozens of people murmuring to him, all with the same strangely familiar voice.

Ben knew, somehow, that the whispers were not real. The Force was trying to tell him something—or perhaps confuse him.

Ben stepped into a wider, rockier part of the tunnel, and the voice suddenly ceased. He looked around, wary of the sudden hush. His toe connected with one of the smooth, white rocks, and Ben looked down to find that it wasn’t a rock at all, but a helmet. There were hundreds of them in this part of the tunnel, all white with a dark eye shield under the visor.

The helmet Ben had accidentally kicked rolled over, and the light of the crystal shone through the shield and fell upon a face.

Ben paused, the eeriest sense of déjà vu settling over him as he looked at the face in the helmet. His gaze caught on a scar curling around the socket of one closed eye.

As Ben continued on, the kyber’s red light shone through the helmets lining his way, revealing other faces that were always, somehow, the same. Some had different hair or scars or tattoos, but every face was the same under each identical white helmet.

The whispers had started up again. Ben did not know what to say to them.

He rounded a bend and the helmets, faces, and whispers were gone. Just the red light from the crystal and Ben’s own breath once again.

Another bend, check the dowser, another turn, a climb over a pile of rocks that had caved in, and Ben found himself in another small chamber. The tunnel across from him was small, but a faint blue light emanated from it. Ben heard the echo of a plink, the sound any desert-dweller would know as a drop of precious water.

Just as he stepped forward to cross the chamber, the light was suddenly obscured, as though a door had closed. Only it wasn’t a door—it was a cloak.

Ben’s heart froze in his chest even as he raised his eyes from the hem of the dark cape, up the lines of a fine suit, over lips twisted in a familiar smirk to meet the cold blue glare that he thought he was free of forever.

“Xanatos,” Obi-Wan croaked, dry throat clicking as he tried to swallow.

Xanatos’ sneer somehow turned even nastier. “Not happy to see me, little brother? But it’s been so long, and they say absence makes the heart grow fonder. Don’t you miss me?”

“You’re…not here. Not really,” Obi-Wan whispered. The faces and the voices weren’t really there, so Xanatos must not be either. He couldn’t possibly be here. “You’re dead,” he said, trying to bring forth conviction by saying it aloud. He knew Xanatos was dead. His wife would never have sold Obi-Wan if Xanatos still lived. Fallen in combat, she’d told him—killed fighting Qui-Gon Jinn. But could that be true? Could Obi-Wan really believe that Master Jinn would kill his own former Padawan?

“So sure, little brother? And what do you know of the afterlife?” Xanatos mocked him. “Maybe you’ve already joined me in death, killed by exposure and dehydration. Perhaps that is why we are able to speak to each other again.”

Obi-Wan shook his head. “I can’t die yet. Gotta save Shmi. She needs water.”

“Idiot boy. You’re in the middle of a desert. There is no water,” Xanatos scoffed.

“I heard it though,” Obi-Wan told him.

Xanatos laughed at him. “You heard it? Tell me, little fool, what else have you heard down here?”

Obi-Wan’s heart sank. Doubt crept into his mind. Xanatos was right, after all. Obi-Wan had dismissed every other sound he’d heard as not really there, just an illusion, a hallucination.

Xanatos grinned nastily, the same way he always did when he knew he had gotten one over on Obi-Wan. “What makes you think that you can save your friend, you pathetic boy? You couldn’t even save yourself. You never escaped me, not even once I was dead. You’ll never make it. Especially not now that you’ve wandered right into my trap.”

Obi-Wan’s heart was pounding. He tried to step back, away from his tormentor, but found he couldn’t move. He looked down to see his legs and arms bound in chains, driven into the rock to hold him fast. He choked back a terrified cry and thrashed, trying to free himself to no avail as Xanatos looked on and laughed.

“Even if you do manage to save yourself and her from this predicament, what is it all for, this struggle?” Xanatos taunted him. “You are still slaves. Your life is not yours. Your pathetic existence is only to crawl on your knees, serving your owner’s whims. You are lower than a filthy worm. You are nothing. Why struggle so when nothing you do will ever matter?”

Obi-Wan calmed himself with great difficulty, taking deep breaths and forcing himself to be still, to not flail uselessly against the chains. His heart was still pounding too hard, but he spoke up anyway. He never did fully learn not to talk back to Xanatos. “It matters. It does.” His voice wasn’t as steady as he would like. He wasn’t sure if he was trying to convince Xanatos or himself. One of the chains snaked around his throat, tightening just enough to make breathing and speech uncomfortable.

The eerie red light of the kyber made Xanatos’s smirk even more twisted. It cast shadows behind the man that loomed larger than they should, seeming to move and shift even when Xanatos was still. It made Obi-Wan even more uneasy.

Xanatos sighed. “I remember you when you were just a starry-eyed boy of twelve, little Obi-Wan. The Jedi Order’s loyal pup. You wanted so badly to be a Knight, to prove yourself worthy. You wanted to do important things in the galaxy. You wanted to matter—especially to Qui-Gon, didn’t you? I remember how devastating it was for you when you realized that he didn’t care, that he only used you to further his own mission.

“That is how all the Jedi are. It is only the mission with them. They see only ants far below their lofty perch, and care nothing for you or the other individuals they trample underfoot, so long as they still strive for the ‘greater good.’”

Obi-Wan shuddered to remember how he was cast aside. But he knew that sometimes the Jedi had to make sacrifices to save as many people as they could. Obi-Wan himself had been sacrificed to that cause at Master Jinn’s hands. Perhaps Master Jinn did not want to do it, but perhaps there had been no other way to save the planet. He had to choose the lives of everyone on Bandomeer over Obi-Wan. He had chosen this fate for Obi-Wan, but Obi-Wan had been a Jedi. He would have also given his life if the choice had fallen to him.

He was not so foolish as to believe that his sacrifice had made a difference to Bandomeer in the end, though. If he had never been on the planet in the first place, Master Jinn surely would have been able to save it just the same. Obi-Wan’s sacrifice had been a waste, but that was his own fault. He should have listened.

“I tried to teach you, little brother,” Xanatos tutted. “If you want to change the universe, you have to make your own decisions, take your own power, not serve an ideology that is so hopelessly blind, always chasing after an ideal ‘light’ that you can never actually reach. There is no light side. There is no dark side either. There is only power.

“Listen to me now, Obi-Wan. It is not too late for you. You need power to break these chains. Save yourself and your friend. Set yourself free from slavery. Do something that will change the universe, that will leave your mark, that will matter. All you have to do is grab hold of the power you know can be yours, that the Jedi would have you ignore. The power of the Force is there for the taking, little brother. You have only to reach out to make it yours.” Xanatos smirked. “Or die here in this cave, alone and forgotten. I care not, and neither will the universe at the passing of a worthless slave.”

Obi-Wan gritted his teeth and tasted blood again from the wound on his cheek. The worst part of listening to Xanatos had always been his honesty, even as lies passed his lips. Xanatos thought that he was right, and he had very persuasive rhetoric at his command. Obi-Wan only had an Initiate’s education. He didn’t understand the Jedi’s philosophy about the light side or dark side of the Force in full, and no matter how hard he tried to refine his arguments, to put his own beliefs into words, it always seemed that Xanatos had a rebuttal. Obi-Wan had had to work hard to not let his morals be eroded by Xanatos’ brand of persuasion.

But Obi-Wan remembered the first time he had really succeeded in opening himself up to the Force, on the disastrous voyage to Bandomeer in his hour of need. He had glimpsed the immense vastness of the Force and realized how little he understood it and how small and feeble he was next to such profound greatness. He had wondered how he could have thought that he had the answers, that he was owed a place in the universe, with the Jedi. And yet, the Force had not then, nor any time since made him feel insignificant. It made him see that he was a part of something bigger than himself, something that would take more than his one lifetime for him to even begin to understand. But understanding or no, he was still a part of it, and it was part of him.

“No, Xanatos,” Obi-Wan said. “Everything we do reverberates in the Force; I have felt it. I know I am just one boy and can only do small things, but they still matter. Trying to make yourself stronger, to increase your own power, that’s only taking from the universe and giving nothing back. It’s not sustainable. It will only end with you crushing the ones beneath you when you inevitably fall.”

Obi-Wan met Xanatos’ eyes, narrowed in fury. “You’re wrong about the Force, and about me, brother. You always were.” Obi-Wan finally fully felt that truth inside him for the first time, hard and bright like kyber.

There was a sudden flash of white light. Xanatos shrieked and covered his face, falling back into the shifting shadows. The chains that had held Obi-Wan fell from his limbs. Free from his bonds, Obi-Wan glanced down to see that the white light came from his crystal, but it was dimming even as he looked. The shadows were gathering, threatening, ready to swallow him as soon as the light faded. They were so close and drawing ever closer around him, muffling his senses, drowning him in cold fog.

Obi-Wan did the only thing he could think of in that moment. He brandished the one tool he had, the krayt dragon bone still clenched in his fist. The remaining light in his kyber shot down his arm and out through the end of the bone, banishing each shadow it touched. Obi-Wan cut a path for himself through the darkness, making rapidly for the other side of the chamber, towards the place where he had seen the blue light, heard the sound of water. The shadows nipped at his heels, wrapped cold tendrils around his legs and tried to draw him back, but Obi-Wan fought them with all his strength. He squeezed through the narrow crack in the wall, and as he did, he lashed out again with the bone, still aglow with the last remnant of fading light from his kyber. A great rumbling tremor rolled through the rock, and he felt the cave ceiling collapse just a step behind him.

Ben fell to his knees, trembling in the near-darkness, coughing on the dust raised by the cave-in. He strained his senses to feel if the shadows were still after him, if he was still in danger, but he felt nothing. He was alone.

Plink.

The sound of water dripping brought him out of his hyperaware state. He turned and saw that the light came from a crack in the ceiling, from which water was steadily dripping into a shallow pool. As Ben approached, he saw that the pool was nearly dried up, with only a damp patch in the center. As he watched, another drop of water fell, soaking almost immediately into the parched ground.

Ben used a strip of cloth from his clothing to wipe his hands and then tie the bone to his belt. He did not want to leave it behind if he could help it. He may have need of it again.

He held his cupped hands under the falling water, waiting patiently for his palms to fill, drip by drip, with the precious, life-giving liquid. He felt relief at having finally found this source, though the journey here had been far more difficult and unsettling than he expected.

After all that, he should have known that things would not suddenly become so easy.

Ben’s cupped hands were almost full when the drip of water slowed and then ceased altogether. Ben waited, hands outstretched and lungs frozen, but the water did not come again.

Ben’s heart sank. It wasn’t enough. Just this little bit of water he had captured was not enough to sustain both him and Shmi. It might not even be enough to revive his friend, but he did not know if he could get more. He looked up at the crack in the ceiling. He might be able to squeeze up there, follow the water back to the source, but it wasn’t guaranteed. And he had no idea how long he had been down here, searching. Shmi was fading fast. He should get back to her quickly with what water he had.

But how to return? The cave-in had blocked the way he’d come, and even if he could go back that way, he did not think it was a good idea. It looked like he would have to squeeze through the crack in the ceiling, where the strange blue light was coming from.

That decided, Ben had yet another quandary. He didn’t have a vessel, nor could he climb with both his hands cupped around the water. He cast about the chamber, but saw nothing that would lend itself to carrying water.

There was only one way then. He brought his hands up to his lips and slowly tipped the water into his own mouth, careful not to spill a drop. The cut inside his cheek stung briefly as the water touched it.

Holding the precious liquid life gingerly in his mouth, Ben found handholds in the wall that brought him close enough to the crack in the ceiling to allow him to catch the edge and pull himself up to wriggle through into the passage beyond. The tunnel was low and tight, but smooth. It must have once been an underground river. Ben looked up and down the tunnel in hopes of seeing which way the water had come from. But he sensed nothing from the bone hanging against his thigh, and he was wary of falling into whatever that thing with Xanatos had been.

He began crawling along the tunnel in the opposite direction, which went up very gradually. The blue light appeared to be some natural phenomenon in the rock, a product of the fossilized remnants of bioluminescent organisms that lived thousands of years ago. Ben was grateful for it, as it allowed him to see where a hole opened at the top of the tunnel, allowing him to escape the old riverbed just before it slanted back down again.

Ben did his best to keep following the warren of tunnels upward as much as he could, feeling out the incline of passages with his hands as he groped nearly blind in the dark. He prayed that the Force was with him and that his sense of it would guide him back to Shmi. Putting his trust in the Force was all he could think to do as fatigue set into his limbs, making it harder and harder to pull himself forward. The water in his mouth was a temptation, inflaming his throat with thirst when the means to quench it was so near, but he remained steadfast in his determination to save it for Shmi.

Just as he began to think that he had gone the wrong way, that he would not have the strength to find his way out after all, he heard the familiar sound of the wind nearby. He found the end of the tunnel sealed up with sand, and he so he set to digging himself out. It was with immense relief that, after long labor, he found himself again where he had started, under the sheltered outcropping of rock.

It was much darker than it had been when he went underground; Ben thought it must be because the suns had gone down. The sandstorm was still raging as well, blocking out what little light there was from celestial bodies. Ben could just barely make out Shmi’s form huddled on the ground.

He went to her, pressing shaking fingers to her wrist, finding her thready pulse that confirmed she still lived. He stroked her hair and face, gently trying to rouse her, but she barely stirred. He opened her mouth and bent over her, letting a little water trickle from his mouth into hers. That seemed to revive her a bit, as he felt her throat under his hand work to swallow his offering.

Little by little, Ben fed Shmi small sips of water, going slowly to be sure she got it all down. When he had given her the last drop, he lay down beside her, too tired to remain upright, and felt for her pulse again. He thought it seemed stronger than before. He hoped he wasn’t just imagining it.

It was all he could do, Ben realized. His whole body was trembling with exhaustion, his head pounding with dehydration. He wasn’t sure he even had the strength to rise again. He could do nothing more for Shmi besides curl around her to protect her from the gusting wind with the bulwark of his body. He closed his eyes and tried to focus on the Force. With long trial and error, he had learned to use the Force to sustain himself through periods without sleep or sustenance, but he had never tried to use it to go without water before. The storm wasn’t making it easy, but he eventually found a meditative peace that soothed him, just a bit.

He forced his eyes open again, just for a moment. He was fading fast now and wasn’t sure if he would wake again. His gaze found the barest pinprick of light, glimmering out in the darkness. Ben sighed, relieved. If he was able to see a star, the sandstorm must be dying down. He drifted off, his last thought a thin hope that Shmi, at least, would live.

Chapter Text

“So it seems that you and Anakin have had a bond in the Force since—well, since before his birth, likely. When did you become aware of it?”

“Right away, actually. The sandstorm—or Force storm, I suppose—”

“Vergence. I believe that what you experienced was a vergence in the Force. Some also call it a Force nexus.”

“Thank you, Master Windu. The vergence somehow muted my connection to the Force. It was like I had become nearly Force-blind overnight. At first I thought it was Force exhaustion, but as it persisted over the next several weeks, I realized it was a much more enduring problem. But Anakin was the exception. I was always able to sense Anakin clearly, from the moment Shmi told me about her pregnancy. I think…”

“Go on. I’d like to hear your theory about this.”

“I think—I mean, is it possible that the Force…recreated my connection with it? In order to bond me to Anakin? I have no idea if that even makes sense.”

“I think we’re following. Continue.”

“All I know is that my perception of the Force was suddenly snuffed out almost completely, and seemed to grow back as Anakin grew. Anakin is very strong in the Force—much stronger than me, and yet, I was able to influence his abilities in a way that I think would have been impossible for me without this unique bond between us.”

“Influence?”

“Essentially, I was able to help him control his abilities. It was especially useful when he was very small, not yet old enough to communicate in other ways or to understand everything happening. Through the bond, I was able to help him manage his emotions and shield himself so as not to feel so overwhelmed by his very strong connection to the Force. Not to mention it was very useful for helping to hide his abilities from anyone who shouldn’t know about them.”

“I can see how that would be useful. Crèche Masters bond with Force-sensitive children young, but even they would have trouble with someone like Anakin.”

“It wasn’t all a bed of candlewick flowers, of course. Sometimes Anakin’s sensitivity and the strength of our bond made it difficult to block him out of my own mind and feelings. And he proved from an early age to be quite the escapee; he often evaded his caretakers and followed the bond to find me, even if I was somewhere little ones shouldn’t be.”

“Not far from the vine does the jogan roll. Seem to recall, I do, another youngling that liked to escape from his minders.”

“Now I know he’s talking not talking about me.”

“No, Mace. Finding any available patch of mud to jump in, your special ability was as a youngling. How you managed to get so dirty while only in the archives, Master Nu still knows not.”

“There are planters in there and they’d just been watered. And that time was definitely not my fault—”

“Heard your excuses before I have. An airtight alibi Kit Fisto had.”

“Hrm. Anyway, I’m not sure about your theory, Kenobi. It doesn’t really comport with what we know about Force bonds. Your connection with Anakin may very well be a natural result of establishing a bond so early and his implicit trust in you as his guardian, mentor, and father figure. But I admit, there aren’t many studies of Force bonds that are established as early as yours. They do happen, but not frequently, and it hasn’t been considered—desirable, necessarily.”

“You mean, because of attachment.”

“Well, yes. In cases where a Force bond is established before birth, it is almost exclusively a bond between a trained Force user and their own child, typically between a pregnant mother and her unborn baby. Since that…situation…goes against the Code, it isn’t often seen in the Jedi Order.”

“But there could be other non-Jedi Force adepts among whom it is common?”

“Possibly. Unfortunately, the Jedi Order has little communication with other organizations built around the Force.

“So I suppose that means that if there is more information about early Force bonds, I will need to seek it out for myself.”

“I’m sure Master Nu would be keen to help you. She’s been hounding me to secure her an introduction to the Guardians of the Whills so she can expand the archives’ collection on them.”

“Forgetting you are that involved a vergence is. Unprecedented this is. Compare it to other normal situations we cannot. Said it in as many words you have not, young Obi-Wan, but believe you do that this storm Anakin’s conception was, hmm?”

“I wasn’t sure if I was going to sound insane to say such a thing, Master.”

“What, because any part of this story so far has been sane?”

“Agree with Master Windu I do, that the storm a vergence was. Believed young Anakin to be a vergence, Master Qui-Gon did. Perhaps these two vergences, one and the same, they are.”

“Or perhaps one gave rise to the other.”

“Mmm.”

“So…have we come back to my theory that the storm—the vergence—changed my connection to the Force while I was caught up in it? Bonded me to Anakin somehow? Or is this just…run-of-the-mill attachment on my part.”

“What think you, young Obi-Wan? An attachment to young Anakin have you?”

“Huh. I suppose, if I shine a light on it…it probably is. I gave Anakin my kyber crystal, the krayt dragon bone, and the other lightsaber parts not only to help him on his journey, but also in the hope that he would think of me, remember me, when he used them. That wasn’t a particularly prudent sentiment for a future Jedi, when I should have been encouraging him to give up any attachment to me and the place where he was born. It…hurt, when he was gone, when I thought I might not see him for a long time or perhaps never again. Who knows what I would have done to see him once more? Anakin thought that I would try to escape again, despite the risks. I don’t think he was wrong—he knows me pretty well, after all. Had I succeeded in running away, I might have tried to contact Anakin, even knowing that I shouldn’t, and that I wouldn’t be allowed to contact a Jedi Padawan anyway.”

“Speculation, this is. Let him go, you did. Only natural it is to miss the one you care for. Yet attachment this is not, not without greed, possession, fear of loss.”

“Thank you, Master Yoda, though perhaps you will think otherwise when you hear my decision regarding Anakin’s training now.”

“Oh?”

“…Anakin and I have decided to remain here, on Naboo. We have not only registered as refugees, but applied for permanent residency here, for both of us. And I have already taken up legal guardianship of Anakin—as his father. Even if the Council changed their decision about accepting Anakin for training, neither of us wish to be separated again.”

“Peace, Kenobi. Neither I nor Master Yoda, nor the Council, will censure you for making this decision or even try to argue you out of it. You are Anakin’s parent, and thus we will abide by your decision, as we would for any parent of a Force-sensitive child.”

“Thank you, Master Windu. I am relieved to hear it.”

“I’ve said before that we…made mistakes with you and Anakin. Well, I owe you another apology for this. Qui-Gon…the way in which he took Anakin from Tatooine is not how we train Jedi seekers to do things. Essentially, he had you under duress. What enslaved parent wouldn’t want freedom and protection from enslavement for their child? In those circumstances, it’s not much of a choice. We do our best to give parents as much freedom and information as we can to choose, but you didn’t have that. Now that circumstances have changed, you can, and have, made the choice you both felt is right.”

“I understand. It did seem impossible at the time to make any other choice than to send Anakin with Master Jinn. But I’m still glad and grateful that he found Anakin and took him away from that place. You…really don’t think I’m making a mistake by not fighting harder for Anakin to join the Order?”

“Much there is to consider, when it comes to young Anakin’s future. Yet your opinion, the highest consideration is. Know Anakin as your child, you do, as only a parent can. Clear, it seems to me, that the will of the Force this is. If Anakin the Chosen One is, then chosen are you also to be his father.”

“The Jedi don’t have a monopoly on knowledge of the Force. You can still seek to follow the will of the Force from outside the Order. However, we hope that you will come to us with anything you need. Our door is open to you, and we will do what we can to help you. Walking the path of the light will be easier when you are not alone.”

“Thank you, Masters. I appreciate your confidence in me, and your offer. Well, then it appears there is only one thing left to do before we take our leave.”

“…Kenobi, why are you trying to hand me your lightsaber?”

“I am surrendering my weapon.”

“For stars’ sake, why?”

“This is a Jedi’s weapon, and I’m not a Jedi. Since Anakin isn’t going into the Order, I know it’s against the rules for either of us to carry a lightsaber.”

“No, Kenobi, that’s not—that is to say, under normal circumstances, we would ask someone leaving the Order to surrender their lightsaber, but this is different. This weapon is…very personal to you.”

“Isn’t every lightsaber personal to its wielder?”

“For a given value of personal, yes. But your lightsaber was created through great struggle outside of the auspices of the Order. The kyber you gathered from Ilum as a child and healed from corruption as a man. The bone you received from a vergence in the Force. And the fact that Anakin built it and passed it to you through your bond—No, far be it from me to take this from you. It would be like—”

“Like separating sand fleas from a bantha, it would be.”

“Exactly.”

“I…see. Thank you, Masters. I promise to wield it with honor.”

“We know you will.”

“Mmm, a visitor we have.”

“Yes, come in, whoever’s knocking.”

“Anakin. Is everything all right? Do you need something?”

“Pad—uh, Queen Amidala sent me with, um, with her regards and to request your company for dinner. Which starts promptly at seventh hour.”

“I see that Her Majesty is finally staging a diplomatic rescue of the hero of her planet from this interrogation.”

“You’ve been in here for hours! It’s been way too long. What are you even talking about?”

“Oh, just catching up, Ani. Twelve years is a long time to go without seeing someone.”

“Hmm. Hear something we did, young Skywalker, about you bringing home a Jawa?”

“Dad! You weren’t supposed to tell anyone about that!”

“Ah, sorry, Ani. You’ll have to set the record straight with Master Yoda at dinner. You run along and get ready; I’ll be right behind you.”

“Okay, but if you’re still in here in ten minutes, I’m sending Artoo in with his electroprod. For an astromech droid, he really seems to like using it on people.”

“Consider us warned. I’ll see you in a bit.”

“Cute kid. So eager to watch a droid commit aggravated battery against an insufferable troll.”

“I suppose I must be raising him right.”

“Can’t blame him. I’d like to see that myself, actually.”

“Hmph! Keep dreaming you must, Mace. Laughing I will be when you it is who the droid assaults.”

“Yeah, right.”

“Faster than I look, am I. Evade the droid easily, I can. Sit too much in meetings you do nowadays, Mace. So young as you used to be you are not.”

“Hey!”

“Even odds the droid has of catching you, I wager.”

“Motherkr—”

“Anyway, before we go to dinner, if I could make one request?”

“If you want me to show you Master Yoda’s baby holos, I’d be more than happy to oblige.”

“Copies Master Fay gave you?? Words with her I will be having.”

“I’d like to ask that you not mention the whole Chosen One thing to Anakin.”

“Afraid he’ll go mad with power?”

“Not so much, no. I would just prefer to do some more reading, learn more about it myself first, so I can bring it up with Anakin in a way that doesn’t make him feel like he has the galaxy on his shoulders. He tends to perform well under pressure, but the fate of the universe is a bit much for a nine-year-old, really.”

“A prudent measure. Respect your wishes in this, we shall.”

“Thank you, Master Yoda.”

“Shall we be off? We need to provide the queen with proof of life before Skywalker comes back with his attack droid.”

“Thank you, Master Windu. I appreciate your understanding—”

“Don’t mention it, Kenobi. Really. Please don’t.”

Qui-Gon is running.

He has some vague notion that he shouldn’t be running, that he suffered a major, life-threatening injury pretty recently and really should be resting, but that isn’t stopping him. He is chasing someone, and the urgency to catch them hastens him on, past all reason.

A dark cloak flutters ahead of him, leading him onward. He has been searching for so long, and he must catch this man, he must—

Core 8. Core 7. Core 6. Core 5. The numbers flash past as Qui-Gon races down the tunnel, getting narrower and narrower. The Home Planet Mine on Bandomeer wasn’t supposed to go as deep as Core 5, but someone had interfered.

The cloaked figure disappears into the dark. Qui-Gon draws his lightsaber to try to see. The green glow illuminates a hallway. The shadows at the end of the hall flicker. A dark cloak sweeps away from him.

Qui-Gon begins running again. The Temple feels different—it’s too quiet. Not the usual calm serenity, but the hush of a sanctuary under siege.

The one he is chasing darts inside the Council chambers, and Qui-Gon follows. Once inside, he sees that the man has broken a window and is jumping out, onto the ledge Qui-Gon knows runs just below. Again, Qui-Gon follows, jumping through the window without thinking.

He lands amid a ravaged landscape. The setting sun paints the scene with bloodred rays. Steaming pools of bubbling black acid release a toxic, yellow vapor into the air that stings Qui-Gon’s lungs as he pants, still running. Lumps of hardened lava dot swaths of land made sticky with tar. Qui-Gon had thought that Telos was undertaking environmental restoration efforts after Offworld had ruined its sacred places, but it looks the same as it did eleven years ago when he had finally cornered—

Xanatos.

The cloaked figure has come to a stop, his back against a pool of acid, escape blocked by Qui-Gon. The white, broken circle on his cheek is stretched around the sneer on the man’s pale face.

“So here we are again,” Xanatos says, voice a taunting sing-song. “The noble Jedi tries to pretend that he only comes for justice when actually he comes for blood.”

Qui-Gon pauses. He thinks he has come for neither of those things. He has come for something else entirely.

“What have you done with Obi-Wan?” The words seem to come from his mouth before they have even formed in his mind, but as soon as he says them, he knows that this is what he has wanted from Xanatos all along.

“What have I done?” Xanatos says with mock indignation. “You were the one who was supposed to watch the boy, Qui-Gon. Is it my fault if you lost him? Once again, you project your failings onto me.”

Qui-Gon, stung by the accusation, wants to protest, wants to claim that Obi-Wan was never his Padawan, was not his responsibility, but he knows that it would be false. Xanatos would see Qui-Gon’s protestations for the lie they were, a lie to himself most of all. Obi-Wan was not his Padawan, no, but Qui-Gon had known from the start of their journey to Bandomeer that Master Yoda intended for him to look after the boy, to take him under his wing. Instead, Qui-Gon had distanced himself.

“So you deny ever seeing Obi-Wan? Ever speaking to him or interfering with him?” Qui-Gon asks, though he knows the answer. Xanatos only smirks. Qui-Gon lifts his lightsaber, still lit, higher. “Help me to find him, and I will let you go; I will forget your many crimes. Someone else will bring you to justice.”

“Oh, I think it’s too late for that, old man,” Xanatos says, almost idly. “We’re here now, aren’t we? There’s no way that you could ever just let me go. You hate me too much to let me live.”

“Now who is projecting?” Qui-Gon asks, trying to remain calm, though his heart feels like it’s beating out of his chest. “You have done all this, taken Obi-Wan, attacked the Temple, tried to destroy Bandomeer, out of your hatred for me. Your hate has blinded you. Can you not see how far you have fallen? This is the dark side of the Force at work in you.”

“Tell the truth for once, Qui-Gon,” Xanatos shouts. “You spend so much time mouthing those Jedi pieces of wisdom that you’ve lost touch with your honesty, if you ever had it at all. You do hate me, and you won’t be satisfied until I’m dead.”

“I don’t hate you, and I certainly don’t want you dead, Xani,” Qui-Gon says, but softly; there is no strength left in his voice. Xanatos does not seem to hear him.

“You will never have the satisfaction of killing me, Qui-Gon Jinn, and I will never submit to anyone’s laws.” Xanatos is a strange mix of determination and despair. It sets Qui-Gon’s nerves on edge. “Your hate drove you, though you won’t admit it. You destroyed me because you could not save me. I am your biggest failure. Live with that. And live with this.”

Qui-Gon leaps forward to stop him, but he is not fast enough. Xanatos flings himself into the pool of acid, an act which Qui-Gon knows he could never survive. Qui-Gon watches in horror and despair as the black cloak dissolves, sinking beneath the dark, roiling surface of the pool.

Qui-Gon feels numb with shock. His former Padawan is dead, by his own hand. Xanatos had hated Qui-Gon so much at the end that he had ended his life to spite him. Qui-Gon powers off his lightsaber with shaking hands. Though he grieves, there is a distance to his feelings, as though he is only remembering the blow of what is now a half-healed wound. He had felt such pain at Xanatos’ betrayal. He had been angry as well, and perhaps there was a time before Obi-Wan went missing when he had even, shamefully, hated Xanatos, but he had never wished his erstwhile Padawan dead.

Now it’s too late. Too late for hope, too late for change. Too late for Obi-Wan.

Qui-Gon rubs a hand over his face and tries to release his despair into the Force. His last lead on finding Obi-Wan died with Xanatos. The trail has gone cold. He had held out hope for so long…

Please, he begs of the Force, give me a sign.

The last ray of the setting sun reflects off of something in a flash of light, catching Qui-Gon’s eye. There is a cave beyond the desolate field, and there is a red-haired someone standing just there, beneath the yawning rock. The moment Qui-Gon recognizes him, he turns and disappears into the darkness.

“Wait…” Qui-Gon says, but his voice lacks strength; there is no way the person can hear him. He stumbles after him into the cave.

The rocky passage is packed with Arconan miners, their skin ashen from lack of mineral dactyl. Their wide eyes follow Qui-Gon as he goes by, beseeching his aid, but his eyes pass over them, looking for a glimpse of red hair.

The cave is not completely dark; in fact, there is clearly a light up ahead, and a silhouette moving in front of it. A single fighter defending the cave, fending off the winged beasts attacking them. Qui-Gon no longer has the strength to run, but he moves toward them as quickly as his shaking legs will bear him.

He exits the cave into an arena full of a distant, roaring crowd. The Force warns him just in time for him to duck as a fighter in patchwork armor and helmet nearly runs him through with his spear. Qui-Gon jumps back. He could draw his lightsaber, but he doesn’t want to fight this man for the pleasure of the bloodthirsty crowd. He wants to speak to him, wants him to take off the helmet and look him in the eyes, but that is not how things work in the arena.

The fighter attacks him again. Qui-Gon tries to dodge, but he has misjudged the warrior’s skill and his own waning strength. With lightning reflexes, the man changes direction, revealing his attack to be a clever feint, and the shaft of his spear connects with Qui-Gon’s temple. Qui-Gon’s vision blacks out in a burst of starlight.

When he comes to, it is on the rocky shore of a watery planet, five multicolored moons suspended above him in the starry sky. Qui-Gon eyes the flocks of silvery draigons soaring through the air, but they seem to be asleep on the wing and unlikely to attack while the night still holds sway.

The Monument, the ship in which he took that fateful trip to Bandomeer, looms several meters away up the shoreline, nearly rebuilt after the pirate attack that stranded them on this planet. Qui-Gon can feel a familiar presence inside.

That Qui-Gon could feel this presence in his mind at all was always a surprise, then as it is now. Back then, Qui-Gon had marveled at the boy’s ability to reach him even as Qui-Gon was actively pushing him away. Now, he wonders at the boy’s willingness to be open to him after all the ways that Qui-Gon has failed him.

Qui-Gon stares out to sea, letting the even beat of the crashing waves calm his heart and mind. The panic of chasing Xanatos through this dream had clouded his thoughts, but he knows now where he is, standing on the edge of the Force as he is on the edge of this sea in his memory.

He had been injured in the fight with the Sith, badly. Ben—Obi-Wan—had done something, or tried to do something to help him, which had resulted in this state of stasis that he finds himself in. He can feel the Force all around him, closer and more overwhelming than it has ever been, and Qui-Gon knows that the reason for this is that he is close to dying. The stasis is the only thing that prevents him from fully joining the Force.

Qui-Gon reaches out, a question in his mind, to explore what comes next, and finds that the way that would lead him back to the waking world is closed to him. His injuries are too great for him to recover. His heart sorrows to learn that he will never wake from this state. He will never be able to do what he had promised himself he would if he ever found Obi-Wan.

The Force seems to beckon, ready for Qui-Gon to join it. But Qui-Gon hesitates. He is not ready, but he knows that he will achieve nothing by remaining in this stasis. So what other option is there but to walk into the open arms of the Force?

The Force shifts, and Qui-Gon briefly sees another of his memories, an echo of chanting, peace, and blue light. With that, Qui-Gon recalls his training, and comes to the realization that even though he cannot wake, there may be another way for him to keep his promises and help Obi-Wan.

Now he must find a way to end the stasis, and since Obi-Wan is the one who constructed it, it will be much easier to remove it with his help, however unconscious. Qui-Gon turns to the derelict ship, where he can still feel that familiar presence.

Despite the fact that the ship was only his berth for less than a week more than a decade ago, Qui-Gon finds Obi-Wan’s cabin easily with the boy’s Force presence, so light and yet so full of sorrow, as his guide.

His first full look at the boy nearly overwhelms him. Obi-Wan is as Qui-Gon always remembered the Initiate he lost—a boy of twelve, small, but so very strong in ways that Qui-Gon had not recognized at the time. He is sitting slumped on the bunk, his young body exhausted from a night and a day spent fighting, protecting the people he found himself among. Despite his clear fatigue, he straightens when Qui-Gon enters the room.

“I will be glad to leave this place,” Obi-Wan remarks, an echo of Qui-Gon’s memory. “I saw too much death here.”

“You did well,” Qui-Gon tells him. He hopes Obi-Wan understands that he means not only the boy’s actions on this stars-crossed journey, but in every moment since. “I felt the Force move in you.”

“It was…astonishing,” Obi-Wan says quietly. “I thought I understood its power. But I see that I had only glimpsed one corner of what it could do. For years, I thought myself worthy of it. But it was not until I recognized my own unworthiness that the power began to fill me.” His wide, blue eyes search Qui-Gon’s for understanding. “Do you know what I mean?”

Qui-Gon feels like a lead weight has landed in his stomach as he hears a pre-teen Obi-Wan Kenobi describe once again one of the most difficult lessons for any Jedi to learn. “Yes, I know what you mean,” he tells the boy. And does he ever. Xanatos’ betrayal had been a long, hard lesson in humility, but it was nothing compared to what he went through after he lost Obi-Wan. The sabbatical he took from the Order after Xanatos’ death in order to come to terms with his failure had taught him much. Now he would use those lessons to help the one who should have always had the benefit of his teachings.

“Won’t you take me with you, Master?” Obi-Wan asks him. “I could help you. There is so much I have yet to learn. You could teach me what I need to know.” The boy’s gaze is serious. “I won’t turn. I swear it.”

Qui-Gon reaches up and smooths a lock of short hair behind the boy’s right ear, where his Padawan braid would have been, had he given him one. “I know you won’t,” he murmurs. Obi-Wan reaches up and takes Qui-Gon’s large, scarred hand in his small, warm one.

“Reach out with your feelings,” Qui-Gon tells him. “You will sense what I have. We must be parted yet again.” Qui-Gon does not mention what he plans to do next, in case it does not work and he ends up breaking yet another promise to this boy. “I am truly sorry, young one,” he says, throat tight and lips trembling as he looks into the boy’s sad, blue eyes. “If only I could have been the one to train you.”

The child only nods solemnly, heart brave and steadfast as he always was, had Qui-Gon the mind to see it.

“May the Force be with you, Master,” the boy says, tears trembling on his eyelashes.

“May the Force be with you, Obi-Wan Kenobi,” Qui-Gon responds, the everlasting peace of the Force already beginning to fill his soul. “May it be with you, always.”

Chapter Text

Obi-Wan had mixed feelings about Xanatos’ death.

On the one hand, he was truly relieved that he never had to see his former owner again. He definitely wouldn’t miss the mind games or the torture or the “training.” Granted, he was still a slave, so all of those things were still on the table, but at least now no one would try to call him brother all the while they were thrashing him with a lightsaber. Maybe now he would actually get a chance to fade into the background and—who knows—perhaps even find a way to escape one day.

On the other hand, Xanatos’ obsession was a kind of protection that had now been stripped from him. Yes, Xanatos would have never, ever let him go, but that also meant that he would never let him be sold to someone worse, like his dark mentor. It had taken Obi-Wan a not-inconsiderable amount of argument to persuade Xanatos’ widow to sell him to anyone but that shadowy figure that haunted his nightmares.

In the end, the widow had wanted Obi-Wan off of her hands as soon as possible. The Jedi were apparently poking around the circumstances of the death of one of their erstwhile Padawans, possibly at the hand of one of their Masters, and it wouldn’t do for her to be caught enslaving a former Jedi youngling. She had her own son to consider, after all. She had sold Obi-Wan to the drug dealers that had come to pick up the last shipment of spice from Offworld’s black market interests and washed her hands of him. Her haste to get him out of the way had helped Obi-Wan in mind-tricking her not to mention his Force-sensitivity to the smugglers.

The spice freighter that Obi-Wan now found himself enslaved to was essentially a mobile spice refinery, making multiple stops throughout the galaxy to either take on mineral spice from mining operations or offload drugs processed onboard by slave labor. It was a rather ingenious, if dangerous, system. Being able to run to any corner of the galaxy at any moment certainly helped with avoiding the authorities, though trying to refine a dangerous drug aboard a moving ship in space was a potentially life-ending endeavor. One slip of the hand could flood the cargo bay with poisonous gas. Incidentally, this made the spice freighter a terribly convenient place to “disappear” a troublesome slave, a distinction which Obi-Wan supposed he had earned by now.

Obi-Wan, as the newest member of the crew, had spent his first few days aboard the freighter grinding mineral spice into a fine powder using a mortar and pestle, which was the job requiring the least amount of skill. If he proved adept at this and at following orders, he would be trained on more difficult tasks. He couldn’t wait. Grinding away with a pestle all day was crushing his soul as much as it was crushing the rocks. It was mind-numbing labor, which unfortunately gave him no easy distraction from how much his hands and shoulders hurt from pounding rocks into dust by main strength. Not to mention that the slaves hadn’t been provided with sufficient protective equipment, which meant that Obi-Wan was likely breathing in more raw mineral spice than was probably healthy. When he finally dared to ask why they didn’t have a machine to grind the rock, he was told that that machinery could throw sparks, and with the amount of dust and chemicals in the space, it could cause a fire. Anyway, why bother with a machine when slaves could do the job?

Time passed slowly, monotonously. The slaves were discouraged from talking to one another while working to minimize distractions, and most were too tired and in too low of spirits to do anything resembling socializing at night. Besides, most wanted to conserve their energy. They were fed only twice each day—a reconstituted polystarch bread portion before work, and some kind of unappetizing nutrient paste or gelatinous protein cubes after work. Obi-Wan didn’t really find the amount of calories provided by this diet sufficient—at least, not for a teenage boy. But there was nothing for it but resigning himself to feeling hungry more or less constantly from now on.

About a week into his new situation, upon finishing fourteen hours of grinding rock into dust with hardly a break, Obi-Wan looked up to see that the smuggler who had brought “late meal” was handing out the polystarch bread portions that were usually their first meal. Obi-Wan bit back a groan. The polystarch bread was dry as dust and not very filling, just a few empty calories. He assumed they were getting it again for late meal because they’d run out of nutrient paste, which didn’t bode well for future meals unless they were close to a stop where they could take on rations.

Obi-Wan was desperately hungry, in that terrible in-between position of having gone too long without enough food, but not long enough for his body to be used to the short rations. And now, after many long hours of back-breaking labor, to be greeted with hardly anything to eat—it was demoralizing, to say the least.

Obi-Wan took a deep breath and made himself lift his gaze from the floor. He couldn’t let his less-than-ideal circumstances draw him down into darkness. He had to be stronger than that. He had to keep his chin up. He would be damned if he survived Xanatos for more than a year only to let a little hunger push him over the edge.

As he looked up, he noticed the slave across from him. The human or near-human man was clearly the worse for wear—much too thin, with too-long hair and a scruffy beard, wearing clothes that were little more than threadbare rags. He must have been on this ship a long time, perhaps even years, but Obi-Wan had never seen him working any of the higher-skill jobs. He was always grinding minerals or moving heavy loads around, always doing hard labor. He was also the only slave that wore binders on his wrists at all times. Even though he must have noticed the rations were shorter than usual, his face was blank—with stoicism or apathy, Obi-Wan couldn’t tell.

Seeing this, Obi-Wan felt ashamed of his moment of weakness. This man—indeed, all the other slaves aboard this ship were much worse off than Obi-Wan, and here he was feeling sorry for himself. At least he had the comfort of his connection with the Force, with the energy of all life, which was more than anyone else in his position had.

The smuggler tossed Obi-Wan his portion of grayish, lumpy bread, which he tried to accept with a grateful heart. He was about to scamper off to find some corner of the ship where he could eat his meal in peace, when something unexpected happened. It started with someone tripping over something and stumbling into the wall. The fall was not serious, but the clanging noise it made was very loud. In fact, it startled the smuggler who was doling out the food, and he turned just a little too quickly to see what had happened—and one of the bread portions rolled out of the bowl and fell to the floor.

The bread landed just a pace away from the human man that Ben had just recently been contemplating. The man’s face was no longer blank, but scowling with determination. He met Obi-Wan’s eye, and Obi-Wan could feel the man’s intent in the Force—he was going to grab the bread and damn the consequences. But the smuggler was already turning back around, and he would surely see the slave taking food that wasn’t his. The slave would certainly be punished for such temerity.

Obi-Wan didn’t even stop to think—he simply acted. “Sir,” he said loudly, even tugging on the back of the smuggler’s shirt to be sure he had his attention. The man turned on him, scowling already at the boldness Obi-Wan had showed in touching him. “Sir, can I please have some more?”

The backhand the smuggler gave him almost knocked Obi-Wan down. Only his long experience of Xanatos’ “training” allowed him to keep his feet. He stumbled away, ears ringing from the smuggler’s blow and his braying laughter. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw that the other slave was gone, as was the bread from the floor.

Obi-Wan curled up in an out-of-the-way corner to eat his bread and lick his wounds. He leaned his aching head against the side of the ship’s hull, hoping that the cold metal would numb the pain and keep the swelling in his face down. His bread portion was gone in a minute flat, and Obi-Wan sighed and closed his eyes to meditate. He wanted to keep up the practice if he could, as he found comfort and calm in communing with the Force, even though his waking life was somewhat less than ideal. Also, he remembered hearing something from his Temple training, something about some Knights being able to subsist on the Force if they had no food. This was definitely not something that he had learned at any point in his training, he assumed because it was too advanced for Initiate level. But in the last year and a half with Xanatos, Obi-Wan had taught himself a number of Force techniques. Perhaps he could figure out how this one worked too. He had a little time to practice before he would need to lay down on the cold, dirty, durasteel floor of the cargo bay to try his best to get some fitful sleep.

As he entered into the first stages of meditation, his fingers slipped into the hidden pocket he’d sewn into his trousers and brushed against the kyber crystal inside. He had managed to find his lightsaber in Xanatos’ lab before his widow had disposed of him. There was no way he could have smuggled an entire lightsaber onboard the freighter, but the kyber was easier to hide. The kyber was the piece that mattered anyway; the kyber was his, it was still bonded to him, and even though it hurt now to touch or use it, Obi-Wan didn’t want to let it go. Even after he bled Obi-Wan’s crystal, Xanatos still preferred to use his own lightsaber to duel, as if he could feel that the red crystal still preferred another. Perhaps that was why he had left it behind when he went to his final battle.

Obi-Wan jumped when he felt something land softly in his lap. He opened his eyes and was surprised to see half a portion of polystarch bread. A soft scuffing noise drew his eyes up to see the same slave from before, looking down at him with dark eyes. He hadn’t heard the man approach. Either the guy had excellent stealth skills or Obi-Wan needed to drastically improve his situational awareness. He hadn’t even felt the Force twinge in warning.

“I saw what you did back there,” he said, voice hoarse from disuse.

Obi-Wan blinked. “I wasn’t expecting anything,” he told the man, a little bemused by his unlooked-for generosity.

“You helped me get it,” the man said. “You get a fair portion.” He spoke with finality, as though fairness was the only factor that mattered.

Obi-Wan wasn’t about to argue him out of it. “Thank you,” he told the man, and picked up the bread.

Instead of walking away, the man settled next to Obi-Wan on the floor, waiting patiently for the boy to finish—not that it took long. Once Obi-Wan had eaten the last crumb of bread and settled himself back against the wall, the man spoke again. “So how’d you end up in this hellhole?”

Obi-Wan smiled sardonically. “Just lucky, I guess.”

The man did not seem to be in a joking mood though, as he continued seriously. “Your previous owner must have been rich. The clothes you’re wearing are finer than most. You’re young and good-looking. Rare hair color. How come they didn’t sell you to a brothel?”

Obi-Wan’s stomach twisted at the thought that he could have been forced into prostitution. Really, he would do well to remember that that option wasn’t exactly off the table. The spice smugglers could still decide to sell him. “My previous owner was in a rush to get rid of me, so she sold to the first buyer she could find,” he told the man, a little hesitant now to continue the conversation. Why would a grown man tell him that he would make a good whore? Was this some kind of twisted compliment? Or was it a threat?

The man’s ever-present frown deepened a bit. “At least they would’ve taken better care of you in a brothel. They’d feed you enough and conditions wouldn’t be so dangerous.”

Obi-Wan shrugged, wrapping his arms around himself and realizing too late that he was probably showing his discomfort too obviously. His body language had never mattered around Xanatos, who always knew what Obi-Wan was feeling through the Force. He’d need to learn to hide his emotions better around other people. “I guess that’s true,” he conceded to the man. “But—no offence—I’d still rather be here than forced into sex work.”

The man suddenly muttered an expletive in a language that wasn’t Basic. He scrubbed a hand over his face and wheezed out a dry, mirthless chuckle, shaking his head. “I’m sorry, kid,” he finally said. “That really didn’t come out right—I shouldn’t have said all that to you. Looks like my social skills have gotten pretty rusty.”

Obi-Wan relaxed. The man was…evidently attempting to express genuine concern for his well-being? Weird way of doing it, but okay. “It’s fine. I haven’t exactly practiced my company manners lately either.”

“Yeah.” The man cleared his throat and looked around before speaking again. “Look, I know you got something you’re hiding.” Obi-Wan immediately tensed again, which the man definitely noticed because he muttered another non-Basic curse and continued quickly. “Sorry, no, that came out wrong again. I only meant—I was watching you just now and—kriff, that sounds awful too—”

Obi-Wan couldn’t help it. He giggled, completely inappropriately, at this man’s flustered attempts to form a sentence that didn’t sound implicitly threatening. He knew he shouldn’t laugh. There were more than a few reasons not to—it was mean, the man was trying his best, he probably wouldn’t take kindly to a kid laughing at him—but Obi-Wan was thoroughly spent, physically and emotionally, and the laugh just bubbled up past his lips before he could control himself.

Luckily, amazingly, the man didn’t knock his block off. Incredibly, Obi-Wan soon heard a rumbling laugh responding to his own. This only made Obi-Wan laugh more, and then he looked over at the man and caught his eye, and it set them both off giggling harder than before.

Finally they managed to calm themselves, and surprisingly, Obi-Wan felt better. His stomach still ached, his face still throbbed, and he was still freezing cold, but he felt more settled, calmer. He supposed this awkward moment must have been cathartic for him in some way. Force knew that he needed a little catharsis after the year he’d had.

“I couldn’t help but notice that you were reaching into your pocket earlier,” the man said once they’d both calmed down. “If you have something you shouldn’t, you need to be careful. Those smugglers will find it eventually, and they’ll make you pay for it.”

“It’s nothing valuable,” Obi-Wan told him, words measured, hoping this wouldn’t spell trouble for him later. “At least, not valuable in terms of money. It’s just a small thing that I—that I have from my home.”

The man nodded. “Can I see it?” When Obi-Wan hesitated, he continued, “You don’t have to show me. I only want to see if we can figure out a better way to hide it from those shabuire.”

Obi-Wan looked around, ostensibly to check for others nearby while he reached out with his senses in the Force, looking for life forms near them. Then he slowly put his hand into his pocket and drew out his kyber crystal, holding it in his palm so the man could see. The kyber felt cold against his skin even after being in his pocket, and touching it made a stinging sensation race across his mind. The crystal was still red and raw, and Obi-Wan had no way to heal it, but he still couldn’t bear to let it go, even with the anguish it caused him.

Obi-Wan watched the man with his eyes and in the Force, looking for any sign that he recognized what the crystal was, but if he knew its origin, he didn’t show it. He only nodded. “Pretty,” he said offhandedly. Then, “I think I have an idea.”

He and Obi-Wan gathered up as much twine as they could find scattered around from leftover packaging, and then the man proceeded to show Obi-Wan how to use it to tie an elaborate series of knots wrapped all the way around his crystal to create a pendant.

“We used to make these when we were kids, where I come from,” he told Obi-Wan as he showed him how he knotted the piece of twine around a rock of spice he’d scrounged from the floor. “We used to give them to our friends or to the person we had a crush on.” He felt sad in the Force as he spoke, more than just simple nostalgia for childhood—more like grief.

Both of their fingers were stiff from cold and work, but with a little patience and a lot of cursing, they managed a passable necklace that Obi-Wan could wear, the knotted pendant falling under the collar of his shirt.

“There,” the man said. “Now even if they see it, those idiots will only think it’s just a scrap of twine you twisted up. They won’t guess there’s anything else to it.”

Obi-Wan brought one hand up to cover his kyber where it now hung against his chest. His heart felt warm for the first time in a long time. “Thank you. Really.”

The man just shrugged a little in acknowledgement of his gratitude. “You got a name, kid?”

Obi-Wan opened his mouth to answer, but stopped abruptly. He remembered suddenly that he had to be careful. It would be best to be circumspect, even if he was starting to trust this man.

He had paused a bit too long. “You don’t have to tell me, kid,” the man said, a bit gruff. “Just didn’t want to keep calling you ‘kid’ all the time.”

Obi-Wan decided to tell the man the truth—from a certain point of view, anyway. “I want you to call me by name too, but…I shouldn’t use my real name anymore. My previous owner had…creditors. Who might be looking for me. It would be dangerous.”

The man nodded seriously, accepting his explanation, and Obi-Wan relaxed. “You thought of a new name yet?”

Obi-Wan startled a bit. Of course, he could come up with a new name. Why hadn’t he thought of that? He supposed that ever since Xanatos had told him the meaning of his name that he had identified a little too strongly with it. Having no real name and no family was a part of him, a reason why he had to endure this suffering. But he didn’t have to let that be his future.

“No, not yet,” he told the man. Then, plucking up his courage, he asked, “Do you have any suggestions?”

The man was quiet for a while, just looking at Obi-Wan. The boy tried not to squirm. At least the man didn’t seem like he was offended by Obi-Wan’s boldness in asking him to name him, despite the intimate nature of the request. But perhaps he would refuse. Obi-Wan told himself that would be all right. He could handle rejection. He had before.

“What about—” The man stopped to clear his throat, but his voice was still just as hoarse when he continued, “What about Ben? It’s a good name, among my people. A strong name.” The grief had returned in his Force presence, heavier than before.

Obi-Wan cocked his head, thinking. Ben. It was nice and short, and even had some of the same letters as his real name. “Ben,” he said out loud, hearing it ring out and echo in the belly of the freighter. “I like it.”

The man smiled at him, and it transformed his entire face, lightening the harsh lines of his careworn countenance into something almost nice. “Good.”

“I’m Ben,” the boy said, trying out his new name. “What may I call you?”

“Well met, Ben. My name is Jango Fett.”

Mace finally finds Yoda sitting on a tiny balcony overlooking a not particularly prepossessing view of the section of river that runs right under Theed’s palace. He’s almost certain that it took him so long to track the old Master down because Yoda didn’t want to be found.

He holds in a sigh. He would be avoiding having this conversation too if he could. He tires of telling people bad news.

Mace joins Yoda on the balcony. The old Master does not look at him, but he flicks the ear nearest Mace to acknowledge his presence.

“I’ve just been informed by the medical staff. Qui-Gon is gone.” Yoda’s ears droop, but he still does not raise his eyes. “I’m sorry.”

There is a pause before Yoda speaks, voice low, almost soft. “His passing I felt. One with the Force, my grand-Padawan now is.”

Mace lets silence fall between them for a moment, their mutual grief filling the space between them with more than words can say. As Master of the Order, he is informed of every passing and often delivers the news to those the deceased was close to. But when he has to tell an older lineage member of a younger’s death, that is always the worst. The universe seems, somehow, a bit darker for it. Master Yoda has heard many such pronouncements in his very long lifetime, but it seems to hit different now. Yoda, though of a long-lived species, is nearing the end of his life. If things had gone differently, Qui-Gon could have been the first of his lineage to outlive him.

Unfortunately, Mace cannot simply stand silent vigil next to the old Master. There is more he must convey, but it is not easy.

“Qui-Gon’s body has disappeared,” he says finally. Yoda’s ears twitch. “Just after his death, the medic on duty left the room for just a moment to call for assistance. When she came in again, he was just…gone. Everything else was still there—the blankets, the monitors, even his robe—but the body was gone.”

“Hmm. Curious,” Yoda murmurs.

“I take it you don’t know what happened either.”

Yoda shakes his head slowly. “No. Heard of this happening before, I have not.”

“Could it be the Sith? Some kind of dark art?” Mace shudders internally. He can’t imagine what the Sith would want with the body of a Jedi Master, and he doesn’t want to either.

Yoda continues to shake his head. “One with the Force, Qui-Gon is. Feel this, I do. The flesh matters not. Perhaps wrong my intuition is, but sense darkness in this development, I do not.”

“Neither do I,” Mace admits. “It’s causing me some cognitive dissonance to know that a body has quite literally disappeared and yet to not be particularly concerned about that.”

“A gift that is, Mace. Too many worries you have. Hmm. Take a moment to find peace, you must.” The wizened old Master looks down pointedly.

For the first time, Mace realizes that they are not, precisely, alone. There are two people on the ground below the balcony, and it takes Mace no time at all to clock that incredibly bright presence in the Force.

Skywalker and Kenobi are stripped down to their smalls and splashing around in the calm, relatively shallow inlet that houses the palace’s private wharf. Kenobi appears to be teaching the boy how to swim. Mace can sense the slight frisson of fear in Skywalker’s Force signature that is likely from this being the first time he has ever submerged his body in water. Nerves spike with every foot he moves deeper into the water, with every inch the water rises up his chest. But Kenobi is right there beside him for each step he takes further out, his words gently encouraging and presence wholly reassuring.

Mace has to hold back a wince at the boys’ conditions. Skywalker is perhaps still a shade too thin, but he is recovering well from his previous hardships. Kenobi, on the other hand, is still skinny as a rail. Mace grinds his teeth as he recalls that Kenobi looked even worse when they arrived, and that was nearly a week after the battle was over. His bruises have faded to yellow remnants now, and the dark circles under his eyes look smaller. The medics and the palace staff have banded together to try to put some healthy weight on him, but it appears that their efforts have not yet borne fruit. With rest and care though, these signs will fade from his body. The scars, however, will not.

It is one thing for Mace to know that Obi-Wan has had to fight for his life from the age of twelve, and it is quite another to be confronted with the evidence of that war etched indelibly on his body. The boy’s skin bears claw marks, bite marks, the distinctive fractal pattern caused by an electroprod that has the voltage turned up too high. Numerous straight, white lines that were burned into him with a lightsaber before his fifteenth life day. And the worst of all—the livid, red slash across his chest inflicted by the Sith, for which he is still undergoing treatment to make sure that the scar tissue does not impede his range of motion. Every scar on Kenobi’s skin represents a failure that Mace feels the Jedi Order must answer for one day.

Mace pushes back his righteous anger to work out later in Vaapad practice. He calms himself by focusing on observing the boys as Kenobi guides Skywalker into floating on his back, hands holding the little boy up as he stretches out and finds his balance. Kenobi talks him through the exercise, his voice low and calm and almost meditative. Anakin is clearly relaxing more and more with every word of his father’s guidance.

“Are you ready?” Mace hears Kenobi ask the boy, to which he nods, eyes squeezed shut in concentration. And Kenobi lets his hands drop away, letting go of Anakin.

There is another spike of fear from Skywalker when he feels his father’s hands release him, but as soon as he realizes that he is successfully floating on his own, his presence grows so bright with joy that Mace has to fight back the infectious urge to smile.

“I’m doing it!” Anakin laughs. “Dad, are you seeing this?”

“You’re doing great, Ani!” Obi-Wan tells him, his own smile real and bright, without any of the self-deprecation or mischief that graced his rare grins during their interview days ago. “Tip your head back a bit, it will help.”

Skywalker lowers his head so his ears are below the water, and Mace can see the moment when the water muffles the ambient noise in the way the rest of his tension falls away. Anakin goes still and calm, much calmer than Mace thought it was possible for the kid to be.

Kenobi must see this too, or sense his child’s peace through their bond, because Mace catches him running a hand under his eyes, wiping away the tears glinting there. There is such powerful relief on his face and in the Force. Mace cannot imagine what this moment must mean to Obi-Wan, to see his son free, happy, and at peace, learning to swim on the first planet he has seen that has enough water for it, together at last where no one will try to part them.

Perhaps Skywalker also senses his father’s moment of emotion, or perhaps he just got tired of floating, because he opens his eyes to look for Kenobi, and his gaze lands on the Jedi Masters on the balcony instead.

“Hi Masters!” he calls out. He raises a hand from the water to wave at them, but the motion upsets his balance and he goes under. Kenobi is there immediately to haul him up, coughing and flailing. “The water went up my nose!” he exclaims, but it’s not a complaint. The kid actually seems kind of awed by the novel sensation of nearly half-drowning. Mace shakes his head. Kenobi clearly has his work cut out for him.

Kenobi, having ascertained that Anakin is fine, looks up and nods at them. “Hello there, Master Yoda, Master Windu.” His cheeks are slightly pink out of embarrassment that the Jedi saw that. He keeps a tight grip on Skywalker’s arm. Wise man.

“Good afternoon,” Mace calls down. “I see you’ve found the best way to spend this hot day. Far be it from us to interrupt.” Mace truly does not wish to intrude on their leisure time. Both boys have been working hard this past ten-day, helping out displaced citizens and assisting with rebuilding however they can. The emergency water filtration units Anakin built using parts from deactivated droids were quite ingenious—the AgriCorps members had raved over them.

“Ben is teaching me to swim!” Skywalker calls out. “Will you come swim with us? If you don’t know how, Ben can teach you too! He’s really good at it!” Kenobi’s face has gone from pink to red at Skywalker’s confidence in his abilities, maybe from the mental image of himself trying to teach a 900-year-old troll how to swim, like Mace is happily imagining. Though knowing Kenobi, it’s more likely he is embarrassed at the insinuation that he could teach two erudite Jedi Masters anything. The boy is too humble. Mace is certain that there are many things they could learn from Kenobi.

“Another time, perhaps,” Yoda says, and Mace is relieved to see the other Master’s ears have perked up a bit, a thread of fondness alive in his Force presence. “Leave you to your lesson, we will.” They both lift a hand in farewell as they turn back inside the palace, leaving the boys to their fun.

“Skywalker’s right though,” Mace says offhandedly to Yoda as they walk slowly down the hall. He keeps his pace slow for his shorter companion’s comfort. “Kenobi would have made an excellent Master.”

“Perhaps not too late it is for that,” Yoda hedges.

Mace raises an eyebrow at him. “What do you want to do? Knight him? He won’t accept it. Not without formal training and trials.”

“His training, the Jedi began. But completing the training, he did himself. Tested his whole life he has been. By the Code he has lived. What more needed is there?”

“I’m not arguing; in fact, I agree with you on that. His fight against the Sith alone—defeating a Sith Lord would have earned a Padawan their Knighthood in the Sith Wars. And after everything he’s faced, while still remaining devoted to the light— But that’s not the issue. Kenobi doesn’t seem to see himself as worthy of being a Jedi at all, let alone a Knighthood. I can’t see him accepting something he doesn’t feel he’s earned.”

“What harm in offering is there? Show him our esteem and acceptance, it would.”

“I don’t want to put him in a position where he feels conflicted over what he wants versus what he thinks he should do. Not to mention…the Order has a lot of work to do in repairing his trust in us,” Mace continues. “We can’t just offer him Knighthood and make him one of us again and expect that everything has been fixed. We should show him that we understand our mistakes and that we will support him and his child before we ask this of him. Let us not forget that Knighthood isn’t just a title. It comes with responsibilities.”

“Hmm.” Mace knows that sound from long exposure to the old Grand Master. It’s a hum of concession to Mace’s point, even if Yoda won’t say it outright. “Perhaps, another research project Master Nu would like. Many centuries it has been since accepted adults have the Jedi. In the historical record, perhaps, a traditional way we may find to acknowledge young Obi-Wan.”

“It couldn’t hurt to check,” Mace agrees. “I’d like to know more about the process that led to the decision to accept only small children and restrict their contact with their families, myself.”

“Attachment, this is thought to prevent.”

“I understand why, I just don’t know how we settled on this way in particular to prevent attachment. Is there any data-driven analysis on whether it even works, and whether it’s worth the trade-offs? In the meantime, there could be more cases like Kenobi and Skywalker that would benefit from a different model, but there is no room in our system for cases like theirs.” Which results in Kenobi and Skywalker getting left behind. Again.

“Hmm. Kenobi and Skywalker, a unique case they are. But your point, I take.”

“Unique may be an understatement. I spoke with the MediCorps healer in charge of the boys’ cases. She had an…interesting report.” ‘Interesting’ is also definitely an understatement, as far as Mace is concerned.

Yoda’s ears perk up a bit, intrigued. “Oh?”

“They had no medical records to speak of from the last twelve years, so she did a full workup on both of them. It seems that she found almost nothing out of the ordinary for two recently enslaved humans, not even the transmitter they had to surgically remove from Skywalker’s arm. Evidently, it’s a common practice among slavers to prevent enslaved people from escaping. Truly disgusting.”

“A transmitter, only Skywalker had?”

“Apparently Kenobi’s was ripped out by the Sith when he kidnapped him.” Along with several inches of his flesh.

“Hmmmm.”

Mace moves on. “It was when she did the genetic profile that she found something…a bit odd. Skywalker had told the healers that Kenobi was his father, so they did a comparison of their genes to scan for genetic markers for hereditary diseases they may share. They found that Skywalker and Kenobi actually aren’t biologically related to one another, except in one way. Their midi-chlorians are genetically identical.”

Yoda’s ears are quivering. “Hmm, interesting. Very interesting, this is. A theory, do the healers have?”

“The healer pulled Kenobi’s medical records from his Initiate days. His midi-chlorian genes as a youngling are the same as they are now, but his count is up. Way up, actually—he’s at more than fifteen thousand now, from just under thirteen thousand as a twelve-year-old.”

“Unheard of it is not, for a Jedi’s midi-chlorian count to increase somewhat with age and deepening connection to the Force. But to this degree, not usually. And in those outside the Order, seen but rarely, this is.”

Mace nods in agreement. “As for Skywalker and Kenobi’s matching midi-chlorians, the healer had never seen anything like it. The only medical explanation she could come up with is if Shmi Skywalker received in vitro fertility treatments with ova cytoplasm donated by Kenobi’s birth mother, which would account for why the boys’ midi-chlorians match while they don’t share any other genes. But we know for a fact that didn’t happen.”

“One explanation, there is.”

“The nexus?”

“Through the Force, possible all things are.”

Mace forces himself to hold in a sigh. “If that’s so, then it looks like Kenobi’s theory isn’t quite right. The Force didn’t recreate his connection to it to match Anakin—it created Anakin from Kenobi’s midi-chlorians. Somehow.” Mace glares at Yoda. “Though you’ll forgive me if I still want there to be an explanation that’s a bit more concrete.”

“Content you must be, Mace. Beyond our sentient knowledge are many things—”

“Don’t say it.”

“—Mysterious are the ways of the Force.”

“You had to say it.”

Mace looks up at the ceiling at an angle that Yoda hopefully can’t see him rolling his eyes. But Yoda has infinite experience of telling when he’s being mocked, so Mace still has to sidestep the gimer stick that Yoda aims at his shins.

They walk together for a while down the empty, echoing hallway, though Mace still has a question on his mind. He finally speaks up. “I didn’t ask before, but…their bond. I’ve never heard of anything like it. You said you had, though.”

Yoda glances up at him, wrinkled lips pursed. “Yes. A dyad in the Force, I believe they are. Two beings, yet one in the Force.”

“I don’t suppose you’re going to explain that.”

Yoda seems oddly hesitant. “Meditate on this I must, before more I can say,” he finally says slowly. “Many generations it has been since a Force dyad there was. A prophecy there is—”

“Another prophecy?” Mace has about had it with these kriffing prophecies.

“—a prophecy of the Sith.”

Mace feels a freezing cold rock fall into his stomach. “Explain.” Force help him, if Yoda doesn’t give him a straight answer now of all times…

But Yoda, surprisingly, does. “Among the Sith, revered is the idea of the Force dyad. Based on this is the Rule of Two of Darth Bane: always two Sith there are. No more, no less. A master, and an apprentice.”

Mace thinks of the mysterious warrior that had killed one of the Order’s most talented Masters. “Makes you wonder which one Kenobi destroyed—the master or the apprentice?”

Yoda gives him a look, one that means he has his own ideas about which one the dark warrior was and that Mace probably wouldn’t like his hunch. However, he doesn’t address it, continuing instead with his explanation. “The birth of a dyad unseen for generations, the prophecy foretells. Two beings, sharing a profound connection, with a power as strong as life itself. The future of the Sith, they believe the dyad is—the key to unlocking the full potential of the dark side of the Force.”

If Mace didn’t have durasteel-clad control over his reactions, he probably would have shivered. “So you’re saying that Skywalker is either the Chosen One who will defeat the Sith and bring balance to the Force, or he and Kenobi are a Force dyad that will be the future of the Sith.”

“Hmm, both, they could be. One does not preclude the other.”

Mace glares at his shorter companion, who he swears is trying to hide a smile. “I know that you love to make me miserable, but now you’re just being cruel.”

“Know the true meaning of the prophecies, we will, only with time.”

“I could swear Kenobi was never this much trouble as a youngling,” Mace almost sighs. “I would’ve never guessed that that sweet boy would grow up to give me such a massive headache.” Mace catches himself wishing that Jinn were still here to take the blame for his headaches. The man’s antics had always been a convenient scapedray for Mace’s woes. He could almost hear his old friend now, calmly assuring him that he was only following the will of the Force, all the while knowing that he was just winding Mace up more. Mace clears his throat, trying to banish the sudden tightness.

“Actually, maybe I should be blaming you,” Mace says, side-eyeing the old troll. “If you had just taken Kenobi as your Padawan like everyone thought you were going to, maybe the fate of the entire galaxy wouldn’t be converging on us now.”

Mace regrets his words when Yoda’s small smile disappears. “Too old I am, for another apprentice,” he says slowly. “A good match, I thought Qui-Gon and Obi-Wan would be. Wrong, I was. Not ready, Qui-Gon was. Push him, I should not have.”

Mace is surprised that Yoda clearly still feels some measure of guilt over this. He had thought the old Grand Master would have worked through it by now, but perhaps his grand-Padawan’s death and seeing Kenobi again had brought it all back up. Acceptance is not a linear process, Mace knows.

“Will you tell Kenobi why you sent him to Bandomeer?” he asks, gentling his tone.

“One day, yes, told he must be. Wait, I will, to allow trust to build between him and the Jedi. Hope, I must, that estrange him from the Order, the truth will not, though trust in me again, he may not.”

Mace nods. “I will leave the decision to you. But—” and he levels a sharp eye at the old Master “—you must do it eventually, or I will find a way to make you.”

They continue down the hall, and Mace can feel Yoda contemplating his threat beside him. He forces down a smile.

“…Copies of my baby holos, do you truly have?”

“It’s the only blackmail material I’ve got, just let me have this one thing.”

Standing in the shadows of a narrow side corridor and a conveniently positioned bust of some long-dead king, a man waited for the two Jedi Masters to turn the corner out of sight and hearing before he moved.

“A power as strong as life itself,” Sheev Palpatine murmured. He bared his teeth in what someone with no regard for the sanctity of sentient life might have called a smile.

“How fortuitous.”

Chapter Text

Ben fiddled with the comm, unaccountably nervous. It had taken him four tries to record the hologram to the Jedi High Council, but he had finally managed to arrange everything into a mostly coherent verbal report that included all the important things: the status of the conflict on Naboo, the queen’s request for Corps assistance, Master Jinn’s critical condition, and assurances of Anakin’s safety.

He had not mentioned anything about the dark warrior. He was pretty sure that information was sensitive, and the comm wasn’t encrypted. The Council was sure to send another Knight to Naboo to take over Master Jinn’s mission. He could report more details about the fight to them when they arrived, and they could relay that information to the Council more discreetly. So, though Ben wished he could apologize for his failure to adequately back up Master Jinn in the fight, leading to his injury, he would have to wait to lay his guilt before whoever the Council sent.

Still, he was hesitating over sending his report off. He wondered if he should have introduced himself a little more thoroughly than just, “This is Obi-Wan Kenobi, former Jedi Initiate assigned to the AgriCorps.” Maybe that wasn’t enough information for them to place who he was. He had told Padmé that the Jedi knew him, but it had been more than a decade since he had been just an unremarkable youngling in the Temple, and he had grown since then. Master Jinn was the last Jedi to see him before his ‘disappearance,’ and he clearly hadn’t recognized Ben as Obi-Wan until today. Probably the Council Masters wouldn’t know who he was until they looked up his records. He hoped that didn’t hold up verification of his report for too long. Master Jinn and Naboo needed help now.

Ben sighed. He almost regretted telling Padmé that he would take on this task for her. Maybe the Council wouldn’t recognize him at all, or maybe they would try to arrest him as a dark-sider and accessory to Xanatos’ crimes—Ben honestly didn’t know which would make him feel worse. But whatever happened, he would have to encounter the Jedi again, and he knew it would hurt—just like it had hurt when he walked into his tiny home on Tatooine to find none other than Qui-Gon Jinn seated at his kitchen table, a living reminder of everything he had lost.

Ben finally pressed the send button when he heard Anakin exit the fresher. He couldn’t keep stewing over this, and he was ready to finally feel clean again.

The fresher contained not only a sonic but a full-sized bathtub and shower. Ben groaned when he realized that his various bandages would prevent him from having a good long soak in a bath, a luxury he hadn’t had in twelve years, but at least he could wash up with real water. He stood in the bathtub as he sponged the sweat and blood from his skin, being careful around his injuries. He realized that Anakin had used the sonic, probably because he had never once had a water bath since he was a tiny baby. Ben perked up at the realization that he could introduce Ani to the concept soon.

Ben was pretty tired and eager to lie down by the time he finished, so he was just going to put the rest of the food in the conservator to save for tomorrow, but Anakin whined at him until he gave in and ate something. Of course, as soon as he took the first bite, he remembered how hungry he was, having been sustaining himself with only the Force for more than a ten-day now. Anakin ‘helped’ by insinuating himself under Ben’s arm tucked up against his side and wheedling more food into him until Ben had eaten probably enough for two meals. He could admit that he did feel a little stronger afterward though. Definitely strong enough to meditate before sleep, which made Ani whine again.

“Daaaad, can’t we skip meditation this one time? I’m tired.”

“No, Anakin, it’s important to do this now, especially after the difficult day we’ve both had. We’ll sleep all the better for it, you know.” Anakin gave a much put-upon sigh, at which Ben had to stifle a smile. His kid was cute when he was pouting.

Ben arranged himself cross-legged on the bed and patted his lap. Anakin brightened when he realized that Ben was going to let him sit with him, and hopped up to arrange himself in Ben’s lap, back against his father’s chest.

This position was how Ben had first begun teaching Anakin to meditate when he was two years old. It allowed Ben to wrap his arms around the kid in a gentle hug to calm his fidgeting and help find stillness and allowed Ani to feel Ben’s chest rising and falling beneath his head so he could match his breathing. Lately, they hadn’t sat like this as often. Ani was proficient at meditation on his own, and the kid was getting big—he’d outgrow sitting in Ben’s lap soon enough.

But this time, Ben wanted Ani close. He grounded himself to the pulse of Anakin’s heart that he could feel against his own chest where Anakin leaned back against him. He felt Anakin’s breathing slow to match his. He let the warmth of the boy’s body, alive and whole and right here, sink into his bones and reassure him that they were together again. Having Ani back in his arms brought forth such a swell of emotion that Ben couldn’t help the spontaneous kiss he dropped on the crown of his son’s head.

Finally, they both sank into the Force, and Ben stared into the twin suns that was Anakin’s Force presence, his brightness and his courage. He sensed Anakin reaching out to him, and Ben enfolded him in a metaphysical embrace. Together, they offered up to the Force the fear, anxiety, sadness and loneliness from that day and all the days they had been separated, and received in return serenity, balance, peace. Harmony, both with the Force and with each other. As had always been so with Anakin, it was unlike anything Ben had ever experienced in a joint meditation. Their connection was so powerful and deep, it felt as though they were one in the Force.

Perhaps it was attachment, as the Jedi warned of, but Ben had never sensed darkness from their bond. He did not feel possessive, only a profound relief and joy that Ani was back in his arms. He could sense the same emotions from Anakin, entwined as they were physically and in the Force. If he needed more proof that the decision they had just made to stay together was right, he had it in the way they breathed in time, receiving love from each other on every inhale and sharing peace with every exhale.

Ben realized suddenly that he wanted to do something that he had only dared achieve twice before, when he was absolutely sure that he was completely alone where no one could see, not even Anakin. But he didn’t have to hide anymore, and he didn’t want to either.

Ben cast himself deeper into the Force, maintaining perfect balance of mind, body and spirit, allowing it to flow around him, through him, uplifting him…

He couldn’t help but smile when he heard Anakin’s gasp and a breathless, “Wizard!” signaling the boy’s wonder at the realization that they were floating several inches above the coverlet.