Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The Force was like gravity, invisible but always present. Just like gravity, too, when too much of the Force was packed into too small of an area, certain things like the fabric of spacetime got a bit weird. Stretched. Caught between two inescapable forces—the past and the future, the Light and the Dark, the Jedi and the Sith. 

Then it stretched too far and something tore. A wormhole opened. 

In the metaphysical realm where the planet Mortis resided, two personifications of the Force scrambled with as much dignity as possible while they salvaged their plans. The Son, the Fanged God, the Dark Side of the Force smiled at the opportunity. He grabbed one of his more disposable favorites and dropped it into the past, assured of his own superiority because his sister, the Daughter, the Winged Goddess, the Light Side of the Force surely would never stoop so low as to cheat in their Game of Life like he did. 

He was wrong. 

The Daughter, the Winged Goddess, the Light Side of the Force was still rather pissed at him for taking away so many of her favored ones in one fell swoop that she decided that just this once she would play the game his way. So she picked one of her favored ones that survived his purge and gently placed him in the past.

Then she turned to her brother with a serene smile as he raged and said, “Fair is fair, brother.” 

*****

Kanan Jarrus woke up in the Temple of Lothal somehow knowing when and where he was, despite the change in both. This was surprising for a number of reasons, most notably because he had just died and now he was thirty years in the past with no idea how or why. 

The change of location was so jarring that he just laid there on the stone floor for a while, mind reeling. At least his last ditch effort protected his family. But—was that undone by this sudden being thrown into the past thing? Or did it split the timeline to prevent paradoxes? Kanan had no idea, but he hoped it was the latter. It was kinder to think about his family grieving him than thinking they were unwound in time until they no longer existed. 

Temporal Mechanics was a force theory class taught in the Jedi Temple on Coruscant but it was for senior padawans or young knights who wanted to specialize in the theoretical workings of the Force as analysts and scholars and whatnot. 

The problem, however, was that Kanan had been thirteen the last time he was in the Coruscant Temple and he spent the entire three years he’d been a padawan at war, so theoretical and academic classes fell to the wayside while his teachers and master tried to teach him and his fellow padawans as many survival skills as possible. Given that he survived for nearly two decades under a Sith-run Empire, they succeeded. But, in return, his knowledge of the delicate inner workings of the Force was almost nonexistent. 

He could maybe wipe out the entire universe in a paradox if he wasn’t careful, if this was just earlier in the same timeline as the one he’d been in. That much he knew from horror stories that were passed through the initiates’ quarters whenever a padawan taking Temporal Mechanics was assigned creche duty. But if this was a different timeline he’d be dooming it to the deaths of tens of thousands of Jedi, which was unacceptable if he was able to change it.

A lance of pain bolted through the scar that took Kanan’s eyesight as his head throbbed. This was not something he was qualified to deal with. Smugglers, absolutely. Imperial transports, of course. The Rebellion, somewhat. His padawan, barely. The mechanics of time travel? Not at all. 

If only he had lived in the Coruscant Temple long enough to take that class. It sure would be helpful right now. 

Kanan sat up so fast he almost overbalanced and fell on his face. He was thirty years in the past. The Jedi were still around. The Coruscant Temple was still teaching classes. He could take that Temporal Mechanics class! And then, once he was sure that he wasn’t about to destroy trillions of lives, he could figure out how the kriff to stop the Clone Wars and the Jedi Purge. 

One problem, though, how in the nine sith-hells was he going to get to Coruscant? Lothal wasn’t in the ass-end of the Outer Rim like, say, Tatooine, but it wasn’t near any well-traveled hyperspace lanes either. There were no major spaceports, especially in a time where the Imperials weren’t interested in the natural resources the planet had in spades. 

He’ll figure something out.

Worst comes to worst, Kanan could just steal a ship and fly to Coruscant himself. He’s done more dangerous things, up to and including holding back an incredibly powerful explosion with the Force while also pushing his family away from said explosion. 

Kanan got to his feet with his plan in mind. He knew it wouldn’t survive first contact with the enemy, the enemy in this case being many things but mostly the Coruscant Temple, but it was nice to have a vague outline to follow. He was very good at improvising to get to his goal. That much was obvious on any mission he and the rest of the Specters took. 

He missed them. Already. It’s been a quarter of an hour, if that, since he woke up and he already missed his family fiercely. He missed Hera’s comfortable presence, Ezra’s excitable one, Zeb’s gruffness, Sabine’s determination, and even Chopper’s overprotectiveness. If this was a different timeline he’d make sure they lived in a galaxy much better than the one he came from. If this wasn’t a split timeline, he’d make sure not to destroy it by accident so they could live. 

Kanan breathed through his grief and fear and released the feelings into the Force in a way he had far too much practice with, especially after losing his vision. Then he raised the outer wall of the Temple slowly. It was almost too heavy for him since it was supposed to be done with a master and a padawan pair. But, despite the strain, he managed it. It wasn’t as hard as holding back an explosion of an entire depot of hyperspace-grade fuel. A warm gust of wind flowed through the entrance. Kanan staggered out and dropped the outer wall back down, concealing the entrance once more. Coughing, he waved away the resulting cloud of dust. 

The dust cleared quickly and left Kanan in the clean, unpolluted air of Lothal before the Imperial industrialization. There was no bitter chemical tang to the air from the TIE Fighter factories, just the sweet, earthy scent of the prairie grasses. It was nice and calming. Kanan had almost forgotten how Lothal had been before the Empire took serious interest in it. It was a very good reminder that not all the horrible things the Empire did was to people, but also to the planets themselves as well. They stripped many planets bare of resources, leaving them polluted, almost inhospitable hunks of rock and then moved onto the next planet and started the process all over again. And when they did that, they would stomp all over the native populations like they did with Lothalites, forcing them to work for wages far too little to survive on and destroying their cultures with forced uniformity in the name of ‘progress’. 

Shaking his head, and getting surprised when his ponytail didn’t follow the movement since he forgot he had cut his hair earlier that day (or thirty years from now, but that hurt his head), Kanan refocused. Ship. He needed a ship. And to find a ship, he needed to find a town. That part was easy with the Force, at least. Kanan opened himself to the Force, more so than the surface level awareness of the ambient Force imbued into the ground and air he had to use to navigate without sight, and sucked in a breath through his teeth in surprise. 

It was so Light! So populated! He had grown used to the barrenness, the cold, and the Dark that saturated the Force since the Purge and the rise of the Empire. Tens of thousands of Force sensitives made the fabric of the universe light up metaphysically like thousands of candles or pinpricks of stars. And that wasn’t even getting into the steadiness of contentment and tranquility, like the ever-present waves in an ocean of a moon-bearing planet, instead of the chaos of terror and hate and despair that normally made the Force buffet against his shields like a Tatooine sandstorm. He stood there and just soaked in the feeling for a number of minutes. 

It wasn’t until the first tear slid off his jaw that he realized he was crying. He carefully scrubbed his face, avoiding rubbing too hard against his sensitive scar, and tried not to break down into sobs. Or laughter. 

A rustle of grass pulled him out of his half-meditation. Kanan turned and extended his senses to the disturbance. A…loth-cat? No, it was too big. An animal, certainly, though its Force presence was akin to a crechling’s, curious and joyful, definitely young. The animal came closer and Kanan heard the way the prairie grasses moved against fur, soft and sliding, and a dog-like panting. A loth-wolf puppy? The level of the connection to the Force pointed that way. 

That assumption was proved correct when a fully grown loth-wolf rose from the grass, just suddenly appearing like a Dagobah alligator from the swamp. One second there was just the puppy and the next, the adult loth-wolf was there. 

“DUME…” the loth-wolf growled, words reverberating more in the Force than the actual air. The mysterious effect was lessened by the puppy winding its way through its parent’s ankles. 

“I was named Caleb Dume at one point,” Kanan acknowledged. Then, as respectively as possible because these beings were powerful servants of the Force, he asked, “Do you know why I woke up here? I shouldn’t be here. I should be thirty years in the future. I should be dead .” 

“GODDESS… BALANCE… MUST… BE… RESTORED…” the loth-wolf growled. “NOT… ALONE… ANOTHER… HAS… COME… BUT… SERVES… THE… DARK.” 

A spike of panic runs through Kanan. What if it was Darth Vader? Or the Emperor himself? He could barely hold out against Inquisitors, let alone an actual Sith Lord. The closest he came to fighting one was on Malachor, when Darth Vader tried to take Ezra and the Sith holocron. Blinded only minutes before, overwhelmed by pain and a new dependence on the Force, and absolutely terrified for his padawan, it was all that Kanan could do to keep Ezra from being taken by the Sith’s Force Pull with its blackhole-like strength. It was only because of Ahsoka’s sacrifice that they managed to leave the Sith Temple alive, though not unharmed. 

“FEAR…” even without being able to see the loth-wolf, somehow Kanan could tell that the being’s eyes were staring straight into his soul. 

“Yes,” Kanan agreed, “I am afraid. This is a time not my own, I don’t have my family with me, and I’m alone except for an enemy I don’t know.” 

“YOU…KNOW…” the loth-wolf rumbled, before turning around and disappearing down into the grass once more. The puppy yipped at him before racing off to follow its parent. 

“Well, that was helpful,” Kanan muttered, running one hand through his now-short hair. He sighed. 

A dark-sider from the Empire being here would majorly kriff things up. No ifs, ands, or buts about it. If this was the original timeline, they’d destroy trillions in a paradox, if that wasn’t what they were after in the first place, even if it would kill themselves with the destruction of the timeline. If this wasn’t the original timeline, they might start the Empire decades early or do other heinous things. 

But this knowledge didn’t really change Kanan’s plan. He needed to learn the temporal mechanics of the Force and the only way to do that was to go to the Coruscant Temple. He’d just have to be aware of the rest of the galaxy and keep a metaphorical eye out for the Sith. It wasn’t like they were discrete — except for when they were, he corrected himself, because the Sith did somehow manage to destroy the Jedi after an incredibly complicated and long plan to create clones for a war that they started and have those clones be implanted with a biological chip to kill the Jedi after gaining their trust. A plan years, maybe even decades in the making.

Kanan breathed and recentered himself. None of that would matter if he didn’t find a way off Lothal first. He can worry about the dark-sider later. Then he reopened himself to the Force, this time to actually look for a collection of living beings that would indicate a town. It took a while because the Lothal Temple was consciously built nowhere close to any settlements for secrecy, but Kanan did find one within walking distance. Well, sort of walking distance. It would take him hours to get there. 

“Might as well start now,” he sighed to himself, “It won’t get any shorter if I wait.” 

It was nightfall by the time he came close enough to the town to make things out, like the shouting from the cantina and the livestock in their paddocks. Loth-bats swooped overhead, reminding him of how he and the rest of the Spectors rescued Hera from the Imperials earlier that day (thirty years from now). He swallowed down his sudden feeling of grief and loneliness. He missed her. He missed her so much. He missed the other Specters as well, of course, but Hera was special. He loved her. And she loved him. They had finally just figured themselves out—and then he died and was sent thirty years into the past. 

He shook his head and forced those thoughts to the back of his brain. He circled around the town slowly, ducking through the bouldered grass, trying to pinpoint any hostile intentions. He hadn’t lived as long as he had without being justifiably paranoid. Alone, he couldn’t afford to make a mistake like he could when he had the Specters to back him up. But there was nothing other than people getting angry in the cantina and a few exuding a low-level of sadness in their houses. It was just a normal town. 

There were ships in one of the unused paddocks on the outer edges of the town. Two were what he was pretty sure were atmo-hoppers, but the other two were bigger and had a residue of the feeling of travel in the Force. Good. He followed the nudges of the Force to the smaller of the two bigger ones. One tap to the holding bay door lock had it opening. 

Kanan felt a little bit bad for stealing a ship from innocent people, but it wasn’t like that had ever stopped him before. He was glad that he didn’t have to interact with the townspeople though, since he didn’t have his mask with him. He really didn’t like people staring at his damaged eyes and his scar. It took him over a year to willingly let the other Specters see it. Strangers, especially strangers who wouldn’t believe that he was perfectly capable through the Force? No thanks. His skin crawled at the very thought. 

The Force nudged him once again and he walked into the interior of the ship. It was about the size of the Phantom, but had living quarters in a room above the hold. Kanan’s psychometry wasn’t great, he was more attuned with the Living Force than the Unifying Force, but he could tell that the ship was shared among the townsfolk, not used by a single one person. There were too many overlapping shades of people. Remnants of memories. He wasn’t sure if that made this theft better or worse. 

It was surprisingly easy to get the ship to power up and go through the pre-flight check. The buttons and switches were in the human or near-human configuration, instead for a species with more than two arms or a larger frame. The hardest part was inputting the navigational coordinates, but Kanan was experienced enough to do it with help from the Force despite the lack of text-to-speech programming like what Chopper and Sabine modified for the Ghost. 

The ship lifted off smoothly. Several presences in the town spiked in alarm. Kanan pushed down the lever for full throttle and grinned as the ship sped forward through the atmosphere, completely relying on the Force to not run into one of the many rocky spires that dotted Lothal’s landscape. It wasn’t the Ghost, or even the Phantom, but it wasn’t a bad ship. He piloted it up through the atmosphere and into space. Then he jumped to hyperspace. 

He locked the controls in autopilot and went to the living quarters. It was small and cramped, walled into thirds. One third was the bed, the other the sonic, the last a tiny kitchen. He rummaged through the cupboards in the latter, trying to identify something to eat. It was harder than expected. He had gotten used to either having another Specter to ask or for the strictly enforced organization of the Ghost’s cupboards to give him a hint. Eventually he grabbed a rectangular package he was reasonably sure was a ration bar of some sort and opened it. He sniffed it. It certainly smelled like a ration bar. He took a cautious bite. It was a ration bar, a nerf jerky flavored one. Not his favorite, but edible. 

The caf machine was easier. The settings were the same as many of the ones the Rebellion salvaged for their hideouts, since the Rebellion almost literally ran on caf. Caf machines really hadn’t changed much for hundreds of years, so it wasn’t surprising. He settled onto the cot in the bedroom, which was small enough that if he extended his arms he could touch the walls, with his mug of instant caf and his ration bar. It was cramped, lonely, and achingly silent. There was none of the loud chaos of his family—none of Hera’s mild scoldings, or Chopper’s angry beeping, or Zeb’s not-so-serious complaints, or Sabine’s passionate art rants, or Ezra’s insistent questions. 

Kanan sighed and leant his head against the cool metal wall. He was exhausted, not just physically but mentally and emotionally as well. It had been one hell of a day. He rescued the love of his life, sacrificed himself to save his family, woke up in the past, and learned there was a dark-sider from his time here as well. Hope, relief, grief, loss, fear, they all swirled inside him, despite his efforts to release the negative feelings into the Force. It was fine when he had something to focus on, to get to a town, to get a ship, but now that he had the hyperspace journey to Coruscant without any distractions, everything was becoming a bit too much. That was the way it always was. There was a reason that he threw himself into smuggling, then the Rebellion, after the Purge. 

Meditation, he decided. He needed to meditate badly, and not just release his feelings into the Force. So he knelt on the hard floor and turned his focus inward. He sorted through his emotions and acknowledged each one of them, whether it be a ‘good’ emotion or a ‘bad’ one. It was something that he had a hard time teaching Ezra, that his padawan shouldn’t just acknowledge only his positive feelings and repress his negative ones because he was ashamed or embarrassed that he had negative emotions. 

Then, once he finished with that step, he turned his focus outward while still staying in meditation to feel the greater motion of the Force in an attempt to understand what it wanted him to do. Feeling the Force like this was like standing on a mountain and watching an ocean, you could see the overall movement of it but you lost the details. In contrast, opening oneself to the Force in the middle of the battle or to feel his surroundings was like being on the beach, you could see the minute movements of the ocean, but not the big picture. 

Overall, the Force was much, much Lighter than he was used to, which he already knew but it was still surprising. It also made it much easier to feel it. It wasn’t obscured under the Dark anymore. The greatest concentration of the Force was around Coruscant, which wasn’t surprising since it held the greatest number of Force sensitives. But it seemed like a lot of the…currents of the Force that fanned out through the galaxy were either originating or ending at the city-planet. Weird. Kanan had never felt something like that before, not even when the Emperor was there. Other places were obviously significant as well, many of which Kanan didn’t recognize, but none were tangled up in the Force like Coruscant which felt reminiscent of a loth-cat that got into a basket of string. Well, it was a good thing that his plan already included going to Coruscant. 

Several hours after he entered it, Kanan left his meditation. He stretched and groaned. His knees and hips and lower back hurt after kneeling on the unforgiving metal for so long. He was getting old, no matter that he was only thirty-three and humans could live until a hundred and twenty-something on average. Or that was the average at least before the Clone Wars and the Empire, both of which likely drastically reduced lifespans, but that was when Kanan took his biology credit as an initiate. It wasn’t like he had much time over the next two decades to finish his schooling, too busy being on the run and then too busy trying to tear down the Empire while still being on the run. 

After another ration bar, this one tuber-veg flavored, Kanan collapsed on the uncomfortable cot to sleep and dreamed. But it wasn’t a dream, instead a vision. A vision of the future he left. It was centered on Ezra. Kanan watched, intangible and invisible like a ghost, as his padawan (yes, still his padawan despite being a wise and confident knight now, because that was not something Ezra would ever outgrow) and the other Lothalite rebels took the Imperial Dome. 

He watched as Thrawn appeared with star destroyers that felt malevolent in the Force. He watched as the rebels despaired, as Ezra grew determined, as Sabine distracted the others to let him leave. He watched as Ezra boarded the star destroyer, as Thrawn tried to show him his stolen art (including Sabine’s!), as the fucking Emperor appeared in a hologram to try and coax him into unlocking the World Between Worlds. He watched as Ezra denied him.

He watched as stormtroopers tried to kill him, as Ezra defeated them, as the purrgils descended and wreaked havoc on the Imperial ships, as the rebels celebrated and turned their attention to the shield to help. He watched with mingled horror and pride as Ezra used the Force to keep the door shut in front of the stormtroopers and used to tighten the purrgil tentacles wrapped around Thrawn, in a move that was far too reminiscent of Kanan’s own sacrifice. 

“No, kid, don’t do this,” he pleaded, but as soon as the words came out his mouth, they were silenced. “Please don’t leave our family, without me, they need you. They can’t lose two people one after another like this. There must be other ways.” 

His silent begging fell on deaf ears. Ezra’s presence was full of determination and guilt as the purrgil’s tentacle pulsed in the Force. 

“Oh no,” Kanan said, but once again the words were silenced, “Please, don’t be doing what I think you are doing. Ezra, please.”

“Whatever happens next happens to both of us,” Thrawn said.

“That’s the idea,” Ezra said. 

And then the purrgils jumped to hyperspace, hauling the ship with them. Kanan floated in the sky and felt Ezra’s presence disappear into the unknown. He understood. Of course he understood. He sacrificed himself for his family. Ezra sacrificed himself for his planet, for the Rebellion. But that didn’t mean he was happy about it, of course not. His padawan, his son , might be dead, might be lost in Wild Space, or worse, the Unknown Regions. Alone, without his family, without any allies, with only Thrawn. 

He stuck around long enough for the Rebels to rocket the Imperial Dome up into the sky and explode it. He felt the celebrations of the Lothalites, their joy and disbelief, and though he knew he should be happy about it, he wasn’t. Ezra should be there to see it. He caught flickers of Zeb, Sabine, and Hera’s presences. They were as grimly satisfied as Kanan was, caught between despair and hope. Despair for Ezra, hope for the future—the future that Ezra sacrificed himself for. 

Kanan woke up with a gasp in sweat-dampened sheets and tears in his damaged eyes. He wiped them away and tried to forget how quiet the ship was, compared to the familiar noise of the Ghost and its crew. 

He’d save them, he vowed. He’d give them a better life this time around, if it was possible. If not, he’d make sure the dark-sider that came back with him wouldn’t destroy the timeline and them as well. They deserved to live. All of them. Hera, Chopper, Sabine, Zeb, Ezra . 

*****

The zabrak dark-sider formerly known as Darth Maul woke up in the trash pit of his nightmares with the knowledge that he was in the past. Maul screamed in anger to the trash heaped around him, to the stars and the Force itself. He was only months from his encounter with Kenobi. Why couldn’t what have happened dumped him just a bit earlier so he could've killed the master and the padawan this time around. That bastard Kenobi killed him. He deserved it!

His hate, his fury, echoed through the Dark Side and gave him power. 

And there was another who deserved it. Another who deserved to die. 

Darth Sidious. His old master. 

Chapter Text

Kanan established a routine for the ten-day cycle he spent in hyperspace: get up, meditate, eat a ration bar, drink a mug of caf, meditate, eat a ration bar, sleep, hope to not dream. This continued until the eleventh day, just as the cabin-fever was becoming unbearable. 

A beeping noise awakened him from a disturbed, fractured slumber. He was approaching Coruscant. He made his way down to the cockpit and undid the autopilot as he settled into the pilot’s chair. With one push of a button, the ship dropped back down into realspace.

“This is Coruscant Traffic Control, Hril Sloop 17B-510, please state which spaceport you intend to land on. Be advised that the Senatorial Spaceport is under construction and is therefore at half capacity.” A droid’s feminine, monotone voice came over the hailing frequency. 

“The Jedi Temple’s hangar,” Kanan answered, feeling a bit odd at actually answering truthfully instead of lying. 

“Please follow flightpath 2J-H99,” the droid said before signing off with a cheery, “Land safe!” 

No doubt the flightpath was on the dashboard screen, but Kanan couldn’t see it. He kept an aggravated sigh locked in his throat and opened himself to the Force. “Please don’t make me crash into someone,” he begged before following its nudges and pulls down through the thick atmosphere. He still vividly remembered learning how to use a speeder in the middle of Coruscant rush hour traffic during a rotation back at Coruscant to resupply and let his and Master Billaba’s men heal before their next assignment. It was only Knight Skywalker’s reflexes that kept them from careening into oncoming traffic at one point, and he wasn’t even supposed to be the one teaching the lesson. It was then and there that Kanan decided he wasn’t going to be a pilot. 

He didn’t hit anyone or anything on the way to the Jedi Temple. He probably shouldn’t be proud of that, but he was. He landed without any complications in the Temple Main Hangar Bay. He frowned as he powered the ship down. Nobody even asked if he had business with the Temple. He could’ve been any sort of dark-sider or anti-Jedi sympathizer. Maybe living through a war and then a Sith Empire made him paranoid, but the lack of security made him a bit twitchy.

Then Kanan gathered his courage. This was by far not the most dangerous or the most frightening thing he has ever done, he reminded himself. 

And he exited the cramped ship. 

Into the Jedi Temple. 

For the first time since before the Purge. 

The hangar wasn’t empty but it wasn’t anywhere near crowded either. The day had barely started. A few returning or leaving knights and masters were checking over their vessels. A group of sleepy senior padawans were beginning a ship mechanics lesson in the corner of the wide hanger. And a youngling, either an older initiate or a new junior padawan, was near the doors to the Temple itself. 

It was strange. Kanan hadn’t met any other Force users besides Ahsoka and Ezra and dark-siders for twenty years but simply walking out of his ship he could count more Force presences than that in a single moment. Strange, but not entirely in a bad way. 

He shook off his musings, remembered the plan he created during the flight over, and made his way to the youngling by the door on welcoming duty. He remembered the hours spent at that desk when he was assigned it by his crechemaster or an instructor because of his habit of pulling pranks as a kid. And it was those memories that let him craft a lie that would explain why he was a Jedi without being in their records. Truly, if one looked at it sideways, it wasn’t even a lie. Just a creative application of the truth, as Master Kenobi had a fondness of saying. 

“Good morning, youngling,” he greeted. 

The dozing youngling jumped and their Force presence colored with embarrassment, before being hidden by shields. “Good morning, Master. I am Padawan Ciin, she/her pronouns, please. Are you returning from a mission? Can I get your name, rank, and IdentNumber, please?” 

“Kanan Jarrus, he/him, Master,” which felt incredibly weird to call himself but Ezra was obviously a Knight now, even if Kanan hadn’t gone through with the Knighting Ceremony due to, you know, dying at an inconvenient time. The thought of Ezra sent a pang through his heart as he remembered the vision of the future he had. He shook it off and said, “And I don’t have an IdentNumber. I’m a Nomad.” 

“A Nomad?” Padawan Ciin squeaked, shocked. Not an unsurprising response. Nomads, as in Jedi who wandered around the galaxy with no regards to the Jedi Order and the Jedi Councils, simply following the Force, didn’t come to Temples very often. 

“Yeah, I spent the last, oh, twenty or so years in the Outer Rim. I’m pretty sure I’m not in the system,” Kanan said apologetically. 

“Umm,” the padawan tapped at her datapad and then said hesitantly, “I can give you a temporary IdentNumber but if you need a permanent one you have to go to the Council of Reassignment to get it. Uh, if you are staying for more than a month, you need a permanent one.” 

Kanan sighed. Bureaucracy. Whether it be the paperwork for war, the Imperial regulations, or the Rebellion reports, one could never escape it. “I’ll need a permanent one.” 

“Okay, uh, give me a sec,” Padawan Ciin said, then she rustled through the drawers of the large welcoming desk for a few minutes, mumbling insults to whoever had organized it under her breath. She popped up with a piece of flimsi in her hand, which she held out to Kanan, “Here, Master Jarrus, a map to the Council of Reassignment.”

“Do you have a datapad with text-to-speech?” he asked gently. 

Apparently for the first time in the conversation, she looked up and saw his scar. She squeaked again, but instead of sounding like an unoiled droid joint she now sounded like a gyr-bat being stepped on by a rancor. “Sorry! I’m sure I have one somewhere!” She dove down to look through the drawers. 

More amused than offended, Kanan waited patiently for her to resurface with the datapad. She handed it to him with another apology, which he waved off. 

Kanan followed the directions that came in a tinny voice through the datapad’s speakers. Slowly, he walked through the halls of the Jedi Temple, soaking up the tranquility that filled its entirety. It was… nostalgic would probably be the best word, but even that wasn’t quite accurate. He spent the first decade of his life here without leaving its walls for more than a day or two. During his padawanship he spent more time away than here, but it was always a place of peace in the midst of chaos. It wasn’t his home now, that was the Ghost and his family, but it might be once more. 

Eventually he came to a stop in front of a large room at the base of the Council Tower, which was topped by the High Council chamber, a place that Kanan remembered quite clearly, given that his grandmaster was Master Windu, Master of the Order. Also, just like the welcoming desk in the hangar, he had spent a lot of time at the screening desk in front of the High Council’s chambers because of his pranks. 

He could sense several presences in the Council of Reassignment’s room, all refined enough to be masters, though none had the edge like most of the Jedi he knew in the war. Taking a deep breath and then releasing it slowly, Kanan raised his hand and pressed the chime. A wave of acceptance-curiosity came from within. A very Jedi way of saying ‘come in’. Kanan imagined Ezra’s response to that and snorted, even if it made himself nostalgic, as everything in the Temple was doing right now. He shook his head, refocused, and entered the room. 

“Good morning, masters,” he greeted the councilors with a bow, old manners resurfacing as if he had never been an Outer Rim scoundrel for years. “I was wondering if I could have a moment of your time. The padawan at the welcoming desk in the hangar told me I would need to meet with you to get a permanent IdentNumber.”

“Come with me, young one, and we will discuss what needs to be done,” a creaky, grandmotherly voice came from one of the dozen masters scattered around the room, “Let’s go to my office.” 

Kanan followed the master to a side door and into a small office that was suffused with the feeling of hard work into the Force.

“There is a chair about three paces in front of you, eleven o’clock,” the master told him. 

Kanan nodded in thanks and sat. He could tell, but it was harder to sense inanimate objects than living beings because they absorbed the Force in small amounts rather than generate their own presence like living things. He learned to do it by necessity, but it took him a while. Doing it for long periods of time still gave him a headache from concentrating so hard. 

“I am Master Irilia Yanmooth, she/her,” the grandmotherly Jedi stated, “Head of the Council of Reassignment. What can I do for you today?”

“Master Kanan Jarrus, he/him,” he introduced himself, “I’m a Nomad who would like to stay in the Temple for a while.” 

“For what reason?” she asked, seeming genuinely curious. 

“To take one of the classes offered, the Force Theory of Temporal Mechanics. It’s come up in my… wanderings around the Outer Rim and its temples,” Kanan responded. That was a bit of a lie, but not enough of one to ping in the Force as an untruth.

“I wasn’t aware that there were any temples in the Outer Rim,” Master Yanmooth said. 

Kanan nodded. He had been surprised too when he first learned of them. Jedi currently were more common in the Core and less-so Mid-Rim, but almost nonexistent in the Outer Rim. However the holocron he had had in the Ghost showed that they used to be more numerous in the Outer Rim. “As far as I understand, the Outer Rim Temples were all constructed and used before the Ruusan Reformation and were abandoned afterwards.” 

“Truly? How can you tell?” Master Yanmooth asked, “I have very little knowledge of temple building. Though I know there are differences between the Old Republic and High Republic Temples, I do not know what they are.” 

“The one I frequent the most has a kyber crystal cave underneath it. That’s outlawed by the Ruusan Reformation. One of the reasons Jedi who need a crystal go to Ilum now is because that way the Senate can restrict our access to weapon-making objects, so that the Jedi cannot secretly build up an army like we had in the times of the Sith Wars,” Kanan said. 

He knew that because he pestered his master during his trip to Ilum about why they had to make a trip in the first place. And he knew quite a lot about the Ruusan Reformation due to the fact that putting the Jedi Order in charge of the GAR actually violated its terms and, as such, there was a lot of debating about it that he, as a curious child, overheard. 

He continued, “And there are Grade One crystals in that cave. My padawan received his first lightsaber crystal from there. Outer Rim temples are also, let’s say, less temple and more of a fortification. They’re relics from the Sith Wars, from when the Outer Rim was a battleground. They aren’t meant to be lived in for a long time, but to recuperate from battle or suffer through a siege.” 

Certainly, the Lothal Temple wasn’t a temple where Jedi lived round the clock like the Coruscant Temple. It was meant for crystal gathering—and that mysterious World Between Worlds that the Emperor wanted to so dearly access, which still confused Kanan despite the number of Lothalite legends Ezra regaled the Specters with, quite a number of which focused on the unknowable realm. 

Honestly, Kanan was surprised that the Outer Rim temples weren’t used during the Clone Wars. Which was also, sort of, a Sith War, given that the enemy commander-in-chief was a Sith. And their own commander-in-chief, though the Republic didn’t know that at the time. 

“Oh, that’s fascinating. You should compile a report or even an oral lecture to give to the Council of First Knowledge,” Master Yanmooth suggested. “The history of our Order is always something they like to hear about.” 

“I’ll consider it,” Kanan said, not sure if he wanted to or not. His entire experience in making and giving academic reports was from his youngling days. Everything else, from the age of ten and up until he died, was war reports, casualty reports, mission reports. 

“Ah, before we went on this tangent, you said you wanted a permanent IdentNumber to register for a Temple class,” Master Yanmooth said, “That will be rather easy for us to do, but before then there is something for you to do. A physical with the Halls of Healing.” She chuckled at Kanan’s instinctual grimace. “Yes, that is a rather common response in many young Knights and Masters. Thankfully, before then, we have to fill out some flimsi-work.” 

This time Kanan groaned aloud. 

Master Yanmooth chuckled once more. She rifled through her desk and pulled something out. Clearing her throat, she asked in her creaky, thin voice, “First, let’s talk about your Lineage. Do you know if you have any connection to the Temple?” 

“Unfortunately I do not,” Kanan said, “My master and I spent much of my padawan days in the Outer Rim, away from any other Jedi. I’m afraid I can’t even name my great-grandmaster.” A fact that was, unfortunately, true. 

“That’s alright,” she said, “You have a padawan?”

“Knighted now,” Kanan nodded. 

And either dead or in the Unknown Regions, but he can’t think about that or else he’ll break down. He’s barely holding it together in the first place. He pushed the memory of that vision back. He’d meditate on it later, like he’d been doing for the entirety of the flight to Coruscant. Maybe he’d go and destroy something in the training rooms. That would make him feel better. Hopefully. 

Master Yanmooth tapped his answers out onto a datapad. “Do you have any padawan-siblings?”

“No, our Lineage is small. I have no padawan-siblings and neither did my master.” 

“Is your master still with us?” the woman asked gently. 

“No, she’s with the Force now,” Kanan said. Her last command rang in his ears. Run. He shook it off and breathed through the old grief. It didn’t hurt as much as the new gaping hole in his heart from the loss of the Specters, the loss of his family, now stuck in another time where they thought him dead. 

“My apologies,” Master Yanmooth murmured, and a feeling of shared mourning surrounded her. 

“It’s been years since she joined the Force.” 

“It never stops aching,” Master Yanmooth said in empathy. 

“No, it doesn't,” Kanan agreed.

“Onto other matters, do you have a legal social security number or any other identifying information from the Republic or other sectors’ governments?” Master Yanmooth smoothly redirected the conversation. 

“Uh, no,” Kanan admitted, sheepishly, “I don’t think I have a legal identity at all.”

Considering he had been a fugitive for more than half his life, was technically using a fake name, and now he was in the past where either his counterpart, Caleb Dume, was unborn or a newborn (depending on what month it was, which he didn’t actually know) it made sense that he had none. Well, made sense to him. He could feel Master Yanmooth’s surprise. 

“None at all?” she clarified, “Not even a birth certificate?” 

“My home planet was going through a civil war during my childhood. I’m pretty sure my documents got lost in the bombings,” he shrugged. It was true, though he had no memories of it, having been Found and taken to the Temple as a toddler. “It…never came up?” 

Master Yanmooth sighed, “Well, when we issue you your IdentNumber, it will work as legal identification throughout the Republic and most of the other sectors.” She tapped some more on her datapad. “We’ve gone through your Lineage, your legal paperwork, or lack thereof in your case, which leaves us with the family section. As you are probably aware, Nomads and Corpsmembers are not bound by the laws of the Great Schisms which restrict members of the Jedi Order from having families, so long as you abide by the rule of attachment.” 

Kanan…did not know that, actually. He carefully hid his surprise behind his durasteel-strong shields, which were a consequence of living in the Darkness of the Empire and were essential to not go insane in the fear, the hate, and the anger that ruled the galaxy. He struggled for a long time with his relationship with Hera because of the no-family rule, despite casting aside a lot of things that made the Jedi, the Jedi. 

“This exception still applies despite your staying in the Temple because retroactively holding you to it is, quite frankly, not a mess anyone wants to deal with,” Master Yanmoot continued. “Do you have any?”

Should Kanan say anything? His family were in a different time. But the thought of denying that they were family didn’t sit well with him. It wasn’t like they ever filled out paperwork for their relationships before. Having an official document saying that they were Kanan’s family made him—not happy because he wasn’t with them and likely never would be again, but better. 

“A wife,” he admitted, a thrill running through him at the words that he never truly said aloud before, “And three adopted children, one of which is my former padawan.” Yes, Zeb counted as his kid, despite the fact that the lasat was actually a decade or so older than him and that lasats aged roughly the same as humans and near-humans. It was mostly because of the sibling-like rivalry he had with Ezra that made him count as Kanan’s kid but it didn’t make it any less true.

“Congratulations,” Master Yanmooth said, sending a tendril of joy between the two of them. “They sound lovely.”

Kanan smiled, “They are.” 

“Let’s start with your wife. We need her name, species, home planet, and occupation,” she said. 

“Her name is Hera. She’s a twi’lek from Ryloth and she’s the greatest pilot in the galaxy.” So what if he sounded like a lovesick akk-dog saying that. It was true. Hopefully it wasn’t suspicious that he didn’t say her last name. Hera was a pretty popular Rylothi twi’lek name, but Syndulla was not. 

“Eldest child, same information,” Master Yanmooth said after tapping away once more on her datapad. 

“His name is Zeb, a lasat from Lasan. He works as a bodyguard.” Sort of. He used to be in the Lasan High Honor Guard, which used to protect the royal family and the rest of the lasat people. It wasn’t like Kanan could say terrorist, which is, technically, what the rebels were. 

“Middle child?” 

“Sabine, a human from Mandalore. She’s an artist.” And an arsonist. 

“A Mandalorian?” Master Yanmooth interjected, shocked. 

“Yeah, I mean, I know we’re technically ancient enemies, but when we met she was just a scared girl. I couldn’t leave her there alone,” Kanan said, maybe a bit too defensively. 

“I didn’t suggest that, Master Jarrus,” Master Yanmooth said, reproving. 

Kana ducked his head in a half-bow, “My apologies, Master Yanmooth, I didn’t mean to imply that you did.” 

“Moving on, you youngest child. Same as the others, name, species, homeworld, and occupation.” 

“Ezra, a human from Lothal. A Nomadic Jedi Knight,” Kanan said, relieved to get the conversation back on track. Beneath the relief, however, was that pit of grief, of despair and loss, that came from mentioning Ezra. His padawan, his son . Who was gone now. Lost in the outer reaches of space, thirty years from now. He carefully hid those feelings behind his shields to be worked through later. 

“Alright, that’s the flimsi-work done. That just leaves the physical in the Halls of Healing. Once that is done, we can give you a permanent IdentNumber which you can use to get a room from the quartermasters and then sign up for, which class was it again?” Master Yanmooth asked. 

“Temporal Mechanics, a Force theory class,” Kanan said. 

“Hm, I am not sure how far that is in its cycle, so you may have to wait a few months before the class starts again,” Master Yanmooth said apologetically.

Kanan sighed. When was life ever convenient? “That’s fine.” 

“Will you need directions to the Halls of Healing?” she asked, “I can ask a mouse droid to direct you there.” 

“That would be much appreciated,” he said. And it really would be. The Temple was huge, far, far larger than any structure he lived in in years. He would likely get lost even with the Force guiding him. Hell, back when he lived here as a youngling, he did get lost more times than he could count. There was a reason younglings were restricted to the fifteen most used levels. 

It took a few minutes for Master Yanmooth to find a mouse droid, but it didn’t take much convincing to get the excitable thing to help Kanan. She made him promise to come back to her if he had any questions on the next few steps of getting settled in the Temple and then let him on his way. 

The mouse droid, which introduced itself as LM-2610, or Liam as some of the initiates called it, was a much more pleasant droid to be around than Chopper. Unsurprising, given Chopper’s somewhat homicidal tendencies. Still, Kanan missed the little shit, despite his tendency to deal with ‘meatbags’ with his electro-prod. 

Kanan followed the beeping droid to the Halls of Healing, which, thankfully, wasn’t far from the Council Tower. Actually it was situated pretty close to the Temple hangar bay. Practical for when a Jedi returns from a mission injured. The Rebellion usually set up their bases the same way, when they had the choice. It made evacuating compromised bases easier too. 

The Halls of Healing took up an entire corridor. It was a massive, complex series of rooms and hallways. The feelings of pain and relief, grief and hope were completely entangled in the Force and the Halls. It wasn’t particularly pleasant. There was a reason many Jedi, including himself and Ezra, hated being in infirmaries. The fact that it reminded Kanan of those horrible, painful first few weeks after losing his sight just made it worse. It was the smell, that sharpness of antiseptic mixed with the sickly sweet smell of bacta, that he hated the most. 

“Are you okay, Master?” a concerned young knight asked as they stepped out of the corridor.

“Fine, I’m fine,” Kanan forced out, despite being a half-step away from a panic attack. But he was too used to being the rock for others, for his padawan, for his family, for members of their Rebel cell, to actually say that out loud. His shields were drawn tight around his mind, an instinct that came from making sure Ezra wouldn’t feel the backlash of his emotions through their training bond. But Ezra wasn’t there. 

“Are you sure? You look like you need to sit down. There’s a bench right along this wall,” the knight said. “Or do you need a Healer?” 

“No Healer,” Kanan barked out in his Specter One voice. 

“Okay, no Healer, but, seriously, sit down. You look like you’re about to fall over,” the knight said in a single breath, frazzled but not overwhelmed. Kanan wondered if they were a Healer themselves. It would make sense. They didn’t seem to be injured, but they just left the Halls and they were confident in handling someone who was definitely not alright, as much as Kanan wished he wasn’t. 

“Yeah, sitting would be good,” Kanan agreed, feeling his knees wobble beneath him with the force of his overblown response to the Halls. It wasn’t like he hadn’t been to any sort of medical center since he’d been blinded, but the strength of the panic surprised him. 

He staggered over to the bench and dropped down onto it, carefully regulating his breathing like this was a combat situation. Descending into hyperventilation would make it even worse. The knight stayed far enough away that they weren’t hovering but they were close enough to check on him. As soon as he was finally balanced and centered in himself once more, which took a few minutes, Kanan told them in a quiet voice, “Thank you.”

“Are you sure you are alright now, Master?” the young knight asked.

“Yeah,” Kanan assured, “It’s just overwhelming being in the Temple and I don't have any good memories of infirmaries in the first place. Caught me off guard a bit, that’s all.” 

“That’s understandable,” the knight said, then, “Oh, I forgot to introduce myself, didn’t I? I’m Healer-Knight Bant Eerin, she/her.” 

“Jedi Master Kanan Jarrus, he/him,” he replied. “You’re a Healer and a Knight? That’s impressive.” 

Knight Eerin chuckled humbly, “Thank you, Master Jarrus. I’ll admit, it’s a lot of hard work, balancing my duties to the Medicorps and the missions I have as a knight.”

“Anything worth doing always is,” Kanan said before standing up, “I shouldn’t hold you up any longer, but thank you.” 

He knew from experience that staying alone during a panic attack was exponentially worse than being with someone else. Usually Hera, of course, but the rest of the Specters helped at one time or another, including Kallus and Rex. Kanan returned the favor for all of them. Living in the age of a Sith Empire was not good for anyone’s mental health. 

“It was no problem. I was just getting off the night shift so I have nothing to do for the rest of the day,” she said, “And helping someone in need is my job.” 

“Go get some rest,” he said in his Master voice, a gentle but firm command. Outside of missions, both Ezra and Sabine responded to it better than when he just angrily yelled at them for doing something irresponsible and dangerous again. It worked well with Knight Eerin too. 

She bowed and left with a reflexive, “Yes, Master.” 

Kanan entered the reception area of the Halls of Healing through a large door. The psychic impression of waiting and pain and fear were so deep and old in the Force that he had to pause to breathe through it. It’s been a long, long time since he was anywhere where a large number of Force sensitives lived together and left such vivid impressions. The closest thing was Ezra’s bunk on the Ghost, but that lived-in feeling was nothing on the Temple where thousands of Force sensitives had lived for thousands of years. 

He approached the droid at the front desk and asked to see an available Healer for a physical. Then he knelt on one of the meditation pads lining the wall that he was pretty sure was next to the windows given the warmth he felt on his skin. Sinking into meditation, Kanan recalled a memory of the hazy red sunrises of Coruscant from his youth. 

About half an hour later, a stern voice pulled him from his meditation. “Master Jarrus, I am Healer Vokara Che. Please follow me into the examination room.”

Ah, Master Che. Kanan remembered her from when his Master was recovering from her coma. A very strict, no-nonsense woman. She terrified him when he was younger. Still did. Medics were always the scariest people in the squad. Or the Temple in this case. 

“Tell me your name, species, age, date of birth, any allergies, if you are taking medication, what the medication may be, and anything else that can interfere with this exam,” Master Che ordered as soon as they stepped into a private room off the main corridor. 

“Kanan Jarrus, human, thirty-three, the eighth day of the third month of, uhhh,” Kanan paused, trying to do the math in his head. If he was thirty-three years in the past, that put it as what year again? There had been so many calendar changes over the course of his life that Kanan didn’t quite remember which one he should use. It’s not AFE, after the formation of the Empire, since the Empire didn’t exist yet. It’s not GRS, the Great ReSynchronization. Or was it? That one pre-dated the Empire. Maybe. Probably? Would the Outer Rim Day Dating System work? But that was meant for worlds with days longer than Coruscant standard. Finally, he gave up and asked, “Which calendar system are we using?” 

“Galactic Standard Calendar,” Master Che said briskly. 

Galactic Standard? No one used that. Kanan wasn’t even sure of the Galactic Standard date he left, so he had absolutely no idea what it was now. “What’s the Galactic Standard year?” 

Master Che radiated some exasperation and disbelief. Kanan would bet that she had an eyebrow raised like Ahsoka did when she was annoyed-amused at Ezra’s antics. Or Hera when she was just done with the Specters. “It’s 25,020 GS, meaning you were born in 24,987.”

“Sounds right?” It came out more like a question than Kanan wanted it to. 

Master Che sighed. It was the tired medic sigh that Kanan had heard many, many times. “Continuing on, do you have any allergies?”

“Almost every single Aaavahrian plant, but nothing else,” Kanan admitted. His first, and only, stop on Aaavahria was memorable and unpleasant. 

“How severe?” Master Che asked. 

“Uncomfortable but not life threatening,” he said. 

“Are you on any medication?” she asked.

He shook his head. What a mess that would have been in the Rebellion. They could barely get food and blasters, let alone prescriptions. 

“All right, that’s the basics. Now onto the details. Medical history. Do you have all of your vaccines?” she asked. He could feel her skeptisism. He wasn’t surprised or offended. He felt quite the same when he realized that Ezra likely needed his after years on the streets. Wrestling him into a medcenter had been hard work. 

“I have all the standard ones until the age of ten, then after that…” Kanan thought back. Most of the vaccines he’d been given as a padawan were because his Master and their battalion were going to some disease-ridden world, which given the squalor and poverty the Separatists forced people to live in was most of them. “Jumpoo virus, Irishlian virus, Sinoop flu, Rastillian plague, Dantooine cold, and Ysa plague.” 

“Hmm, all of those are good things to have, but we will have to get you caught up on the standard vaccines as well,” Master Che said, “Have you had any major illnesses?”

“I caught Jux-hii when I was about seventeen. That was a miserable month,” Kanan said, “But other than that, no, not really.” Which was surprising considering he spent the better part of a decade in filthy, packed slums with little-to-no access to any sort of medicine or clean water back when he was a drifter before joining up with Hera on Gorse. 

“Have you had any major injuries?”

“You mean, besides the obvious one?” Kanan chuckled at the I’m-Not-Amused that filled the Force, “Not counting grazes, I have over a dozen blaster wounds, the most serious of which caused a collapsed lung. I’ve been stabbed by a vibroblade… four? five? times. Nearly bled out each time. Got impaled by a piece of rebar once, nicked my kidney. Uh, let’s see, I broke my collarbone a few times, my shoulder twice, my leg three times, my ribs—actually I lost count how many times I’ve broken my ribs. They’ve never pierced anything important before. I have minor nerve damage from being electrocuted. Been blown up twice. No, three times. And, well, took a lightsaber to the face.” 

“How much light perception do you have?” she asked. 

Kanan said, “None at all.” 

“What is the extent of the nerve damage?” she asked.

“Not bad, just some numbness and tingling along my arms,” Kanan said. It was from the time he got captured by the Grand Inquisitor. The Imperials loved using electrical torture. That and mind probes, which didn’t work on Jedi, were their go-to, so Kanan got the dubious honor of being a lightning rod during his interrogation. 

“I’m going to have a droid prick your finger for a blood sample. After that, you may leave,” Master Che said. 

The droid came in and did just that. It was a medical droid. Kanan could tell because of the noisy whirr from the ventilator that was clipped over its face. He had met enough of them to recognize them. Them, astromechs, mouse droids, and probe droids were the only categories of droids he could separate with reasonable accuracy. 

“A midichlorian count of 10,000. That’s impressive for a human of your age,” Master Che commented. 

“Really?” Kanan said. He wasn’t sure how high the average m-count was. It was something that was taboo to speak of in the Empire and he had forgotten most of his childhood schooling. 

After that, Kanan left the Halls of Healing and followed Liam the Mouse Droid to the Quartermasters to get assigned a room. It wasn’t hard. All he needed to do was specify which configuration he wanted, a master’s single, and if he had any requirements, something accessible for a blind person, and then they looked through the list of available rooms until they found one that fit. Considering how big the Temple was and how many people it could hold versus the actual number of Jedi that lived there, it was quick. Only fifteen minutes. 

His new room was a bit farther away from the main areas of the Temple than most, but it was still on the main residential level. It had a living room with a small kitchen and a meditation area, a small bedroom, and a fully stocked fresher. 

Kanan hated it. Alright, he didn’t actually hate it. It was just that it wasn’t his cabin on the Ghost. It was quiet and lonely and it wasn’t home. 

Hera had never burnt a dish beyond recognition in this kitchen. Chopper had never stolen his underwear from this fresher and forced him to run around to get them back. Zeb had never carried his injured body to this bed. Sabine had never painted these walls. Ezra had never climbed through these vents. 

And they would never come here, not his version of his family, lost to him thirty years in the future. 

It was sad and lonely right now, but Kanan recalled the helpfulness of Master Yanmooth, the gentle concern of Knight Eerin, the competence of Master Che, and the warmth of the rest of the Jedi he had briefly interacted with throughout the morning. Maybe he’d make new memories in this unfamiliar set of rooms to make it his home. Maybe he’d make new friends, not replacing his family, but filling his heart beside them. 

“I’ll go socialize,” Kanan told himself as he reclined on the low bed, “After I take a nap.”