Chapter Text
Knight Hos waved two of her four arms in the air as she ran through the corridors towards the Halls of Healing, inadvertently sending one Senior Padawan Obi-Wan Kenobi into a most ungraceful tumble that left him half-sitting on the floors, struck dumb by the sudden movement.
The datapads he’d been carrying – at least six of them, stacked on top of each other and containing virtually all the information on Tatooine that he could access with his rank – had unceremoniously fallen around his still-supine form, clattering as they went. The boy spared a thought for the screens, begging to the Force that they had not splintered on impact. He had been Madame Nu’s favourite for years, and it would have been a shame to forfeit those privileges over broken datapads, of all things.
“What on–” He mumbled to himself as he slowly rose to his feet again, crouching to gather the tablets in his arms once more. His eyes glanced at the direction in which the long gone figure of the Knight had disappeared. She had seemed in a hurry – though to be perfectly fair, Obi-Wan had not been familiar enough with Master Hos to know if throwing Padawans to the ground was a favourite pastime of hers.
Releasing the faintest shadow of grouchiness into the Force, Obi-Wan started walking towards his quarters, keeping close to the wall in case another crazed Knight or Master decided that he was in dire need of becoming reacquainted with the floor. As beautiful as the Dramithian marble was, he did not feel the need to study it from such close proximity, and he believed the tablets in his hands felt much the same.
He balanced the datapads precariously on one arm, unlocking the screen of the first one in his eagerness to begin his research. The Council had granted them a handful of days – not quite amounting to a full standard week, but his Master had to pick his battles – in order to recuperate before giving their official report on the Naboo mission and their unexpected stay on the desert planet in the Outer Rim.
Obi-Wan intended to make good use of those few days.
During their flight, Qui-Gon had taken it upon himself to avoid his newest ward as much as he could possibly get away with, entrusting his Padawan to care for the boy while he meditated on the ‘urgent matters’ that he refused to elaborate on. Obi-Wan knew they somehow had to do with Anakin, though that deduction spoke more of his observation skills than any sort of confidence on his Master’s part. He had proven to be more than unwilling to discuss the events that had occurred on Tatooine, especially any sort of suggestion that the creature they had encountered had been anything more than a stray Darksider. The mere mention of the word ‘Sith’ made the man clam up like a Corellian mussel.
The young apprentice had taken well to his charge – Anakin had turned out to be a delightfully energetic boy, well-versed in mechanics and robotics, enthusiastic and curious and nowhere near refined. Obi-Wan had enjoyed spending time with him, working on his written report to the Council while the boy tinkered with a faulty mouse droid he had found on board.
As much as he had hoped the child would rest all the way to Coruscant, his nap had only lasted a couple of hours, the trip requiring at least nine to reach the planet at maximum speed. The moment they had left the Council chambers, Anakin had been ushered to the Halls of Healing for an evaluation and Obi-Wan had made a beeline for the Archives.
He had not been able to shake the multitude of questions that his interactions with the youngling had brought to mind: though he had never stepped foot into civilised Tatooine – if any part of it could be described as such – Obi-Wan had found himself confused by some of the boy’s statements, which painted a strange, incomplete picture. He had seemingly never owned or slept in a bed of his own, had only used communal sonic showers, and had mentioned a few Huttese words that were, unless Obi-Wan’s linguistics had taken a sore blow, not used in polite company. If any Huttese at all could be used in polite company, that is.
I found him working in a shop, had been Qui-Gon’s tight-lipped explanation for the sudden addition to their group. He won a podrace to get us the materials we needed for repairs, I had you test his blood, and found he was incredibly strong in the Force. That will be all you need to know, Padawan mine.
Obi-Wan had nodded at that, knowing that probing for more answers would only irritate his Master, but he had not been convinced.
He was no stranger to orphaned children fending off for themselves, which would have explained why Anakin had been working in the shop in the first place. A human winning a podrace was unheard of, but given his abilities… it could be possible, if the human in question was young Skywalker. And yet, something in the Force told him that there was a missing piece he could not ignore.
“Twin suns, soil inspection, moisture levels statistics…” He skimmed through the first reports in the datapad, willing to leave the technicalities of the planet for a later examination. He had already had the chance to witness first-hand Anakin’s wonder at the Temple’s seemingly endless access to fresh, clean water. Indeed, he was for once looking forward to the day of scheduled rain on Coruscant, having made a note of showing Anakin to the gardens so he could enjoy the show of engineered weather. Still, water and soil would be more useful once the boy had settled more fully, when it would be time to carefully walk him through the inevitable culture shock. Mumbling vaguely to himself, Obi-Wan kept paging, looking for something that would help him bring clarity to his confused mind.
Ignorance, yet knowledge.
“Economic reviews, silicate residues, rise and fall of mining deposits…” He sighed to himself, quickly pressing in the codes to access his rooms. “None of this is of any use, unless I decide Anakin needs a Galactic Economics lesson.” He added the file to his open document, under the draft of Anakin’s first Jedi-assigned academic curriculum. As a personal reminder, Obi-Wan wrote in bold letters: check he knows how to read, followed by no less than five exclamation marks.
He let the door slide shut behind him, entering his and Qui-Gon’s apartment and turning on the light with a distracted shift of his hip. The low caf table that sat in front of several worn cushions and a small, less-used sofa, was cluttered as ever with Qui-Gon’s research and Obi-Wan’s own academic readings. He abandoned the rest of the datapads there, keeping the one he’d been reading through as he moved to the kitchen area to make himself some tea. The quarters were fairly quiet – his Master had promised to show Anakin around before he settled in the Padawan bedroom that he would be sharing with Obi-Wan.
“Jawa scavenging habits, Tusken Raiders…” He fumbled with the pile of tea tins, placed far too high for him to reach, as usual. Selecting a citrus scented blend, he levitated the datapad in front of his eyes as he turned on the kettle, a slight shift of his fingers opening the cupboard with honey. Obi-Wan kept reading as he fixed himself the drink. “Indigenous social structures – well, that’ll be a note for later, but Qui-Gon did not mention any specific cultural backgrounds so I will need to check with Ani later – Hutt influence, slave trade-”
Obi-Wan yelped as he splashed boiling water over his hand, breaking his focus mid-sentence. He ran to the basin, quickly soothing the burn under a cold stream. The Unifying Force hummed around him in a whirl of here-care-now-important that he had affectionately renamed as his ‘bad feeling’.
“Thank you,” he mumbled to himself. “Next time, send the alarm before the first-degree burn. Respectfully.”
Yet the impression of urgency did not leave Obi-Wan. He closed his eyes, uninjured hand lifting the cup of tea to his lips. There was something he needed to notice, something calling for his attention.
Social structures. Hutt influence. Slave trade.
Once again, the uncanny feeling of vague nausea – as if he had just been called in for an exam he was not prepared for – washed over him. It was so unusual for the Force to be sending such clear signals that Obi-Wan was tempted to run for Yoda’s quarters.
Now, now, now!
His hand froze a breath away from his agape mouth as the words played before his eyes again and again. Social structures. Hutt influence. Slave trade.
Slave trade.
Certainly not, he chastised himself in a harsh tone. Certainly Qui-Gon would have deemed it information of the utmost importance, if Anakin had been a slave.
Certainly, his Master would have told Obi-Wan if that had been the case. There were dozens upon dozens of protocols for Jedi Finders who encountered Force users in captivity and slavery.
Certainly – and this time Obi-Wan had to physically fight down the wave of nausea that hit him – his Master would have told his formerly enslaved Padawan if the child he was entrusting him with had gone through the same thing. Potentially for years.
Hesitant fingers tapped on the report as he lowered himself to the ground, unwilling to test the resistance of his wobbling knees. His cup had been abandoned on the counter, forgotten. Force, how he hoped his intuition was wrong…
Anakin worked in a shop because his parents were not in the picture any longer, he reassured himself. Qui-Gon said so. Surely he was paid a regular fare, and had complete ownership over his mind, body and fate. He was a regular worker, he was not a slave, please Force let him not have been a slave.
Like a man possessed, Obi-Wan began to read, jotting down details that struck him as potentially relevant. He would clearly need to approach the subject with tact and foresight – two qualities that his Master seemed to have cast away so easily since their landing on Tatooine – as Anakin had demonstrated intelligence and maturity beyond his years, and would not appreciate being spoken over like a child. And indeed, if he had been a slave…
Obi-Wan remembered far too well his own stint in the mines of Bandomeer, how much reassurance he had found in the small act of being allowed to speak for himself once he had returned to the Temple. How he was encouraged to establish his identity as an individual once more. Force knew Anakin would need even more guidance, being younger and untrained and orphaned on a strange planet.
Sitting on the wooden floor, he compiled his list, adding and expanding upon the text he had already begun to write for Anakin’s new guardians and tutors.
“They will need to extract any potential slave chips,” he spoke to himself, trying to soothe his anxiety. “So the Halls will be the first stop. Vaccinations, they will surely have taken care of today… It was in the addendum to the mission report I sent them. Full examination. Right. All right. Next step.”
Obi-Wan had tended in childhood to rock himself to and fro to calm his nerves, and the habit had never quite grown out of him. It helped, as he curled into himself, to have a steadying rhythm to his ramblings.
The shadow of a long-gone electrowhip briefly flashed to the side of his head before he cleared his mind enough to breathe again. His body moved back, like the calm tide, and forth, like the relentless wave.
“Legal procedure. Must- must register Ani as a citizen of the Republic. He-” Obi-Wan wetted his lips, mouth dry. “He will need documents. Open account for orphaned minor. Yes, alright.”
He slowly moved through his list, adding more and more items to the flimsi he had brought from the ship. It seemed as if his tongue had grown swollen enough to impede his breathing, and all he could see when he closed his eyes was Qui-Gon’s kind and reassuring reminders of you’re no longer there, Padawan. You are free. You belong to no one but yourself.
It had been some years – little over seven, really – but the mantras had been his companions throughout all his difficult assignments, both with his Master and on individual missions. To think that the gentle giant who had taken him under his wing had simply changed overnight into the mask he had presented to the Council…
Perhaps, he considered, this is what being stabbed with a ‘saber feels like.
The soft slide of the front door alerted him to two new presences in the room, and Obi-Wan looked up in alarm as Qui-Gon entered the apartment, followed in tow by an excited Anakin Skywalker.
“Hello Ani,” he greeted with a tired sigh, refusing to move from his position on the floor. “Have you had a fun tour of the Temple?”
Anakin fixed him with a stare, his eyebrow rising in a gesture that Obi-Wan was startled to recognise as his own. “Why are you sitting on the floor?”
Obi-Wan could have pointed to the low table in the main area of the quarters. He could have shown Anakin the cushions they used to sit on the ground more comfortably, the rollmats he had used to sleep on from his very first days as an Initiate.
Instead, he shrugged. “I guess I got tired of standing.”
Qui-Gon looked at him with an unreadable expression in his eyes, taking in the mess of flimsi and datapads around him.
“Tour was fun,” Anakin announced, plopping himself down right in front of Obi-Wan without a single care in the world. “The Halls? Not as much fun. They prodded me with needles and had me take a disgusting drink and measured everything to make sure I’m not hiding a second head under my shirt.”
Obi-Wan smiled softly. “I’m glad to see you with just the one head.”
Qui-Gon decided then that he had seen enough of people sitting in the middle of his kitchen – and on a different day, Obi-Wan would not have refrained himself from quipping about old age and creaking joints and knees that were not the same as thirty years ago, but all he could see were the words he had been reading, and there was no space for cheeky jokes amidst the horror he felt.
“Obi-Wan?” The Master called, hesitantly offering his hand to help him stand. “Padawan, are you quite alright?”
Lightning-quick, Obi-Wan flinched away, his slender fingers wrapping around the older man’s wrist for a split second before realising where he was, before seeing Anakin’s puzzled gaze on him.
“Apologies, Master,” he immediately said, loosening his grip and rising to his feet in an instant. “I was distracted. Is it time for midmeal already?”
Qui-Gon did not appear to be soothed, staring at him confusedly as Obi-Wan dusted his clothes off and began making his way to the door. They normally took their mid- and late- meals in the Temple canteen, while firstmeal was often prepared by either of them in their quarters. It had been their routine for years.
“Obi-Wan, it’s closer to latemeal. Have you been here all day? I thought you’d be with your friends.”
And Obi-Wan was a trained Jedi. He knew to control his emotions, found it infinitely calming to release the most unruly ones into the Force. He knew, and yet could not chase away the desperate need to yell at his Master.
How could I be with my friends, when it seems that I am the only one worried about the child you brought with you? How could I go out to the salles or the gardens, when I have every reason to believe that he was a slave, and you did not as much as mention it?
He collected himself in an instant, blocking the stray thoughts from slipping through the training bond. Instead, he turned to Anakin once more and helped him to stand as well.
“I believe we need to talk,” he told Qui-Gon without turning to face him. “But that will be later. Right now, I think Ani needs to see where he’ll be sleeping.”
Obi-Wan needed to speak to the boy, and he needed to do it now.