Chapter Text
Obi-Wan Kenobi hadn’t always been No One. Once he had a name and a soul, born to one of the great clans of Stewjon. His father was an outlander, but still an important man who others bowed before in respect (and cringed away from in terror that scraped against Obi-Wan’s mind with icy claws). But Obi-Wan had been born early—a small, scrawny thing who brought shame to his father, and whose traumatic birth killed his egg bearer.
Weak, his father called him. He had chosen a Stewjoni spouse because Stewjon was once a jewel of the Mandalorian Empire, its people close descendants of the Taung and known for their legendary prowess in battle. His father wanted a warrior, but a runt like Obi-Wan was useless to him. Unworthy.
Obi-Wan didn’t remember much of the day his step-mother tried to drown him. She hated Obi-Wan with a simmering rage that spilled over his skin like flames whenever she grabbed or struck him. He had a vague notion that he had done something that she deemed unforgivable that day—the final straw that broke the eopie’s back—but no knowledge of what the crime was. He did remember being lured out of their home with a promise of sweets, and then being distracted by the sugary heat of the cinnamon candy as she marched him down to the river. Then there was a blur of muddy water, choked screams, and darkness.
He woke on a starship, bound for the Jedi Temple on Coruscant, another child clinging to him for comfort like a touch-starved mynock. The child was Quinlan Vos—rescued from Kiffu by Jedi Watchman Tholme after Quin had his own close call with murderous family members—who understood Obi-Wan’s trauma in a way that no one else could. Master Tholme introduced him to the Jedi as Obi-Wan Kenobi, and he hung his head in shame. Obi-Wan understood what the name meant, though the Jedi didn’t. He had been cast out, cursed to drift alone and never march ahead with his ancestors.
His new name was a warning—soulless, stay away.
Over time he forgot about his home and his clan, his Stewjoni Mando’a replaced by crisp, Coruscanti accented Basic. Obi-Wan threw himself into his studies, but no matter how hard he studied or how deeply he meditated, he couldn’t escape the forgotten truth that stalked his steps—he was born for battle, a child of conquerors.
Obi-Wan wanted so badly to be better—to be good. And he failed. Again and again. No one wanted him as a Padawan, and his last hope, Master Qui-Gon Jinn informed him that he was too angry to become a Knight, destined to Fall. Obi-Wan was sent away to the AgriCorps, where was snatched and enslaved upon arrival and sent to serve in the deep sea mines.
Obi-Wan celebrated his thirteenth birthday in slavery during his three months in the mines. The injustice burned and carried with it a faint percussive rhythm like distant drums that thumped in his chest alongside his heartbeat. Then Qui-Gon came, and only after offering to sacrifice his life to save the other miners did the Jedi master deem Obi-Wan worthy of apprenticeship.
For three months he disappointed his new master. Qui-Gon continued to deem him too angry, too aggressive, and his doubt created prickly friction between them. The drums beat louder in Obi-Wan’s dreams, heralding a change on the horizon.
On Melida/Daan, the drums thundered along with his racing pulse when Obi-Wan learned of the plight of the Young. Stewjoni were legendary for their fierce protective instincts—their Taung ancestry raged to the surface when younglings were endangered. When Master Jinn demanded that Obi-Wan abandon the Young and return to Coruscant, Obi-Wan chose to stay and fight. In a fit of anger his master tore away his Padawan braid, took his lightsaber and left.
Six months at war taught Obi-Wan many hard lessons, but the most difficult to accept was that while he had failed at being a Jedi, he excelled at being a general. The Young didn’t need a Jedi anyway—they needed a soldier, and under his leadership, the Young’s war against the Elders saw victory after victory.
At several points it looked as though the Elders would finally cave and commit to the peace their children demanded. They never did, though. Instead, each time defeat loomed, the Elders doubled down on their cruel ways, and the Young in turn had to invent new methods to fight them. Obi-Wan had run through Quinlan’s entire repertoire of pranks, each modified for battle. He applied every scrap of healing knowledge that he’d learned from Bant, and innovated every strategy he’d learned from playing dejarik and holo-chess with Garen and Reeft.
His will was strong, but his body cracked under the strain. His three months traveling with Master Jinn had not been enough for his health to recover from his time as a slave, so he had joined the war underweight and tired. In the few moments he had to meditate he sank into the Force and reached out for help.
We can’t fight this war alone. Someone please help us…
Cal Kestis was born to a dying clan. No corner of Mandalorian space was left untouched by the civil war, and Stewjon was no exception. Cal’s clan had supported a losing faction—the True Mandalorians—and earned the ire of Death Watch. His clan was picked apart until only a handful remained, and when infant Cal showed signs of Force sensitivity, his parents decided to do what no self-respecting Mandalorian would ever do—they gave him to the Jedi. A Jedi foundling, Cal was named by the Seeker who took him in and lost all connection to his clan and culture.
Until the war. The Vodë of the 13th Iron Battalion instantly fell in love with their Stewjoni Padawan Commander. With Master Tapal’s approval, Mandalorian language and history modules were added to Cal's lessons, and the clones taught Cal everything they knew about being Mando'adë. He loved his new brothers, right up to the moment the Vodë turned on the Jedi and Cal lost his family again.
The small band of survivors aboard the Stinger Mantis knew that rebuilding the Jedi Order would require much more than a list of names hidden in a holocron. For five years they balanced rebelling against the Empire and scouring the galaxy for other survivors, possible students, and the remnants of Jedi teachings in ancient, ruined temples.
At first, nothing seemed out of the ordinary as Cal and BD-1 explored their latest destination. The pair battled their way through hostile native flora and fauna inhabiting the ruined temple, but the deeper they explored, the more Cal felt drawn toward the mystery at its center. Something tugged him forward, as though the Force guided his steps.
“Just a little farther,” he murmured. BD whistled anxiously.
“Cal,” Cere said over the comm. “I don’t like these energy readings.”
“What energy readings?” He paused, hands on his hips as he studied the enormous stone doors blocking his path. The pull was strongest here, like a hook in his chest reeling him toward whatever waited on the other side.
“Something changed when you left the previous chambers and the sensors lit up like a Coruscant rave. I’m picking up an energy source near you and the readings are all over the place. I want you to return to the Mantis.”
Cal tugged his right glove off and tucked it into his belt. He pressed his bare palm against the stone and closed his eyes—there. Life pulsed just beyond the doors, the beat steady and constant like the rhythm of war drums. “Can you hear that?”
“Cal?”
Through his psychometry Cal spied the echo of a Mandalorian in full armor standing before the same doors. “The drums call the people to the hunt,” the warrior said as the vision faded.
“Cal! Abort mission! I mean it!”
The doors swung open and warm, endless light enveloped Cal.
We can’t fight this war alone. Someone please help us…
Children—there were children who needed him. Cal’s Stewjoni instincts surged, combined with the steadfast resolve of a Jedi Knight, and he strode forward into the light.
“I’m coming,” he whispered. “Hold on.”