Chapter Text
It is easy to see that the Alderaani Royal family are beloved by their people, and for good reason. They are well known for their transparency and genuine care for the wellbeing of sentients, and their system of ruling (though they don’t know it yet) will be one of the models for the New Republic when the Empire falls.
Queen Breha came upon the throne by necessity, destroying her lungs in the process. That kind of sacrifice earned her their loyalty even before she proved herself a steady ruler. Through disaster and war, she kept her chin held high and her people afloat.
Senator Organa is kind, and many of the older staff remember when he’d just married the Queen and wasn’t quite aware that he was an entire separate class from them. When he became a Senator, he was one of the most outspoken, quickly garnering support for humanitarian aid to non-Core planets that many representatives tended to forget about.
The Organas are regularly celebrated for maintaining neutrality while aiding in crises on other planets, and while there are disgruntled civilians— as there will always be, in the matter of politics— nearly every Alderaanian cares deeply for the wellbeing of the little princess. In the residential palace particularly, the staff are fondly well acquainted with the shrieking excitement of Princess Leia, and it’s not uncommon to find her straying about with a frazzled nanny or parent following close behind.
Therefore, when the Princess goes missing, every member of the staff knows in an instant. Even if they somehow were to miss the palace-wide announcement; the bags under Bail’s eyes, Breha’s stuttered breathing, and the lack of cheerful noise in the halls are signs enough. The entire palace mourns for weeks, afraid for the worst and hoping for the best. The Royal party is in shambles. Breha still rules, but falters when she stops for even a moment to think. Her handmaidens find her wandering the halls at night, grey-eyed. Bail goes off-world the moment the news hits, presumably to look for the child.
When Leia is found, they crowd at the windows on the uppermost floors that circle over the private dock, away from paparazzi and nosy citizens. The Organas ordered the landing clear to avoid overwhelming the child, but of course the maids and the butlers and the cooks and the nannies all curl against the glass, noses pointed towards the clunky ship as it lands.
Out emerges a tiny girl in a dark green cloak, and they all breathe deep sighs of relief. Behind her, a curious man with greying auburn hair shields his eyes from the sun, and watches as she runs quickly to her parents. It’s slightly too far to tell, but a few of them murmur to each other— “He looks unwell.”
He steps forward and exchanges words with the Organas as little Leia wraps herself around her parents’ legs.
The head maid peers through wrinkled eyelids, humming to herself beneath the hubbub. She remembers this tired, frail man from when he was young and a thin braid draped down his neck. She remembers seeing the breakfast order for three people instead of two and chuckling to herself. She remembers the small stack of paper clippings they collected in the foyer, with the famous General gracing the cover of each one.
This man is nearly unrecognizable, enough so that she nearly doubts herself, but Bail’s hand touches his shoulder, Breha touches his cheek, and he easily folds from that aloof posture. It’s Obi-Wan Kenobi. She’s sure of it.
That’s why, when he suddenly pulls away, she doesn’t miss the way Bail’s hand curls in on empty air.
Kenobi steps back twice, seemingly shaking his head. He sways oddly, and Breha reaches out— he crumples to the ground. One instant upright, the next in a heap.
The collected staff gasp at the event, and immediately provide commentary on Bail’s quick grab of his limb body, and Breha beckoning over someone they hadn’t yet seen— the family’s private physician, a former clone trooper— who kneels next to Kenobi’s prone body.
They gather the man up, all gangly limbs, and then whisk him into the building where they can no longer see him.
Grumbling, they disperse, hearts soaring for the princess found safe and sound but curiosity flaring about the mysterious man that Bail Organa had held so close to his chest.
A week later, they get to learn quite a bit more.
The clone physician, especially— Thetic is a board-certified physician, despite their army medic training. Since their chip failed in the Halls of Healing, they’d found refuge on Alderaan with two or three others who’d gotten incredibly lucky. The others had died from the degeneration of their chips. Thetic did not. (Thetic is still waiting.)
There was little need for emergency care on such a rich planet with access to bacta wells, but also great danger in going to Rim worlds with a clone’s face and a bum leg. Limited to the palace’s safety, Thetic had assisted Breha briefly in the chaos, since the Queen had been reinjured in the fallout. The Organas needed a physician they could trust with Leia’s true origin, so Bail sent Thetic under disguise to complete their education with the Royal Medical School. They were passed by the time Leia was two, and spent eight years with a perfectly normal albeit exorbitantly powerful family. The war has been long behind them, yet somehow, somehow, here they are, dealing with the most infamous patient in the GAR.
When Kenobi crashes, he crashes hard.
Leia even feels the impact of it, something clearly occurring in the Force and slamming into her as Kenobi passes out. She shrieks for him and leaps for his prone body, and Thetic has to scoot her out of the way as urgently and gently as possible.
“Get her out, get her to the muting rooms,” Thetic throws out, and Breha’s brow ripples with resolve as she lifts the distressed child into her arms— Thetic will have to check her sats later; she isn’t supposed to be carrying anything heavy— and whisks her away to the Force-muting rooms that Kenobi had advised them to create when Leia was little. Her cries echo down the hallway, and Bail sets his jaw, trusting that his wife has it handled.
Thetic chuckles humorlessly as they get Bail to bring him to the elevator, quickly. “’S this what you expected when you asked me to standby?” they ask as they hit the button for the private clinic near the rooms.
Bail cocks his head, harried. “I was hoping you wouldn’t be needed, but…” he trails off and looks down at the unconscious man, eyes pinched at the edges. “He’s barely breathing.”
“He looked unwell from the moment he stepped out from the ship,” Thetic frowns. “Even during the war, he was… he never looked so sick.”
Bail looks up as the elevator stops. “You treated him during the war?”
“No.” They don’t talk much about Obi-Wan Kenobi. Thetic doesn’t think of him much and it seems a much better topic of conversation kept between the Organas. “But I knew of him.”
They move into the open space and Bail gently lays Kenobi down on the first bed as Thetic retrieves a heart rate monitor and an oxygen monitor and fastens them on the prone Jedi. The pressure cuff reveals—
“Osik,” Thetic curses. “He was tachycardic on the landing, and now I know why. His blood pressure is plummeting. He’s in shock.”
To Senator Organa’s credit, he doesn’t panic, just widens his eyes and sets his jaw. “How can I help?”
“Hold on. I might…” Thetic runs the pressure cuff one more time and has Bail hold it snug. They press into the panel on the wall and a heart rate monitor pushes out from the tiles. They haven’t been an emergency medic for over ten years at this point, but the hum in their blood and the life in their hands is kicking their brain into high gear. “Does he eat often?” They pull out two nodes and stick them onto Obi-Wan’s chest, and wait for it to set up as they pull out a meter and prick his finger.
“Not that I’ve seen. He’s clearly starving,” Bail says urgently.
“Low blood sugar. Crashing bp. I’ve seen this before,” Thetic says as they grab an IV line and hold the needle against the crook of Kenobi’s arm. They have trouble finding a vein, because of course they do, and quickly have to give up and move to the wrist. “When a Jedi is sick or exhausted or injured on a political mission but they have to continue their jobs, they keep themselves together with the Force for a day or two. Which is— that’s their religion, their beliefs, fine. It leads pretty quickly to Force exhaustion, which is why they avoid it unless they have to.”
“Obi-Wan’s been protecting the boy with his shields—“ Bail begins, then stops. “Thetic, he’s been protecting both of them with his shields.”
“On his own, for a decade?” Thetic asks incredulously. “The problem is that relying on the Force for too long leads to severe energy depletions in the body, plus your body’s organs just— don’t know what to do with themselves anymore. I’ve seen Jedi go into complete organ failure for less. You said he got in a fight with Vader?”
“Yes. My contact says he was injured. Burned, they put him in bacta for a rotation.”
“Probably wasn’t just that,” Thetic says, setting up more monitors and double checking every connection. He wakes up the sleeping med droid against the wall and it begins to whirr and maneuver around the room to catalog its new patient. “The Sith fight with both hand and mind. The few Jedi we had in the Halls that had encountered Dooku were… mentally distressed.”
“And if he’s been holding together a psychic injury with the Force…”
“That’s about to come crashing down on him,” Thetic finishes grimly. “He’s still partially holding on or he’d be flatlining. I think it’s the boy. Leia is finally safe, he’s finished his job, and he had to let go some. Our mortal bodies aren’t built to be beacons of the Force for so long.”
“We need to get the boy,” Bail breathes. “We need to get the boy before Obi-Wan can’t protect him anymore.”
“You do that, Senator,” Thetic says as he reaches for his call button. “Permission to get the Royal surgical team in on the situation? We’re about to have a mess on our hands, and I can’t deal with this single-handedly.”
Bail purses his lips. “Yes. Once they enter this clinic, they are not permitted to leave it before I speak to each and every one of them about where their loyalties lie. That man is one of the most hunted men in history, he—” his voice catches. “He should get to rest.”
Thetic nods firmly. “He will. I’ll focus on keeping him alive for now; you retrieve the boy. Later I’ll check on Leia; she should be fine, but it’s a frightening thing to sense from another Force-wielder.”
“She’s perfectly alright, in the rooms,” Breha murmurs as she re-enters, squeezing her husband’s shoulder. “Only worried about her ‘Uncle Obi-Wan’. She demanded I return to oversee his health. Thetic, how much information can you get about this illness? He never mentioned anything of the sort to us, and I’m afraid half my worry comes from how little I understand the Force.”
Thetic winces. “I’m not… the end-all be-all for Jedi treatment. I was only with them for two years; I’ve been with this family for a decade. I don’t remember everything.”
“You remember enough,” Bail sharply retorts, and Breha resists the urge to yank his ear.
“Bail,” she scorns, with the tried and true patience of a woman in power.
“My apologies, my love,” he murmurs, and pinches the bridge of his nose. “I am— I am unbelievably stressed and thusly unbelievably impatient, and I’m not— I should be reasonable, but I don’t know if I’m able, and you don’t deserve that. I will go— ensure Luke’s safety.” He steps back, sends his wife an apologetic look, and then steps out of the room.
“‘Most apathetic senator’ my ass,” Thetic says fondly, recalling a quick, inaccurate snip from a visiting ruler who’d felt the need to comment on Leia’s disappearance. The entire palace had been livid.
“In front of the others, maybe,” Breha says with a quirk of her lips. “He’s a bleeding heart. But you know. Thetic, tell me— what does this truly mean?”
Thetic sighs, looking over at the prone body. The droid is in the middle of scanning him, and already red alerts are appearing on the droid’s screen. Thetic reaches out and double taps them to export them to the large screen next to the gilded glass. “It means we have a tough timeline. He’s still relying on the Force, so we aren’t seeing the full effects yet. I’m seeing the beginnings of deterioration in his pancreas, liver, and lungs, and I want to get an EEG set up so I can see how his brain is doing. I’m worried him passing out is just a warning. The beast of the problem will come when his shields inevitably collapse, and until then he’ll just continue to, well, die. He’s in this in between state where he’s still holding onto the Force, which is keeping both the boy and himself safe, but he’s killing himself with Force-Exhaustion. See, the damage here—“ Thetic points to a black mass on the screen, right near his bottom rib— “That’s the worst I can see so far. That’s his stomach. If he hasn’t eaten in— maybe even years, that organ’s just sitting there and getting the brunt of the Force exhaustion.”
Breha rubs her temples, heavy sorrow in her chest. “I can’t pretend I fully understand,” she admits, “—but I’m running on fumes. I trust you, Thetic.”
“Thank you for your trust, your majesty,” he says. “I will do my best. For now, I ask that you let me work. I will send the information for what specialists I need; I ask that you make contact with them.”
“Of course,” she responds. “I’ll be right out there. Comm Bail or I with concerns or…” she looks back at Obi-Wan. “Anything you need,” she finishes softly.
She exits the clinic with a thick guilt entrapped in the gears of her artificial lungs. They let him handle all of this alone for a decade. That’s on them— but now, they will care for him as he has always deserved. That, she swears.
Breha occupies her time by checking on her daughter and calming her terrified heart, whispering kind but realistic words when Leia pretends she isn’t crying. Breha takes her to the kitchen and, instead of having the cooks do anything, she sets Leia on the kitchen counter and bustles about to make her mama’s kole soup, made with a knife, deft hands and an assortment of vegetables, herbs and sunken beet. She finds peace in the action of cutting with her hands, and her heart calms as she glances over to check on her daughter every minute and finds her still there.
They eat the soup in companionable silence, and then Leia is tucked into bed with eight guards outside the door.
It is morning before Breha and Bail are called back to the floor, with only vague updates from Thetic through the night. He was intubated after a scare, then given an entire list of medications and hooked up to support as his organs started shutting down. In under twelve hours the palace saw the arrival of a neurotech, surgeon, cardiologist and respiratory therapist; all pulled in through Breha’s trusted network.
As they arrive, Thetic unceremoniously exits the hallway to the clinic with a snap of their glove removal and a brisk, limping walk towards them. Bruises circle under their eyes, and Breha resolves to get them into a warm bed at some point today.
“We have a problem,” they say.
Bail raises his eyebrows, and Breha touches her fingertips to her lips.
“Not a— well. He’s fine,” Thetic says. “He’s fine, but…” Theh purse their lips. “Look. He’s clearly still holding on to their shields or whatever Force-osik they call it. It’s making him fail at an alarming rate. Whatever triggered this downwards spiral, it’s all I can do to stop it or at least slow it down. As you know, I have the Force-monitor that we kept in our packs for the Generals— it’s going crazy. Kenobi is ripping himself apart— there’s danger for brain damage, first and foremost. I need you both to go in and convince him to let go. The boy is safe?”
“He’s been collected with his aunt and uncle and is en route to Alderaan via protective services,” Bail confirms.
“Good. Now, here’s what you need to do…”
Fifteen minutes later, they stand outside the door to Obi-Wan’s room. Thetic cups a fresh mug of coffee Breha had delivered to the floor. They seem to have forgotten it’s in their hands.
“Don’t touch him at first,” Thetic cautions. “Force-exhaustion— and, to remind us all, at a much milder level than what Kenobi is facing— is similar to a kind of overstimulation. It’s like—” Thetic snaps their fingers twice, thinking, “—a ship, capsizing under the water from the pressure against the hulls. He’s under the water right now, and any touch— any more water— will push him further down.”
Thetic receives doubtful stares from the Queen and her consort, and deflates. “I like seaships,” they mutter, like Bail and Breha don’t gift them a model of some boat or ship for their Life Day each year. “Look—”
“Don’t touch him so we won’t overwhelm him,” Bail says with a nod. “We understand, Thetic, thank you for the analogy.”
“Sure,” Thetic replies. “Alright. Yeah. I’ll leave you two to it. I’ll wake him up and then I’ll be right over here so you can have his undivided, very dubious attention. Depending on how he’s feeling, I might step in and take some vitals.”
“Thank you,” Breha says earnestly as Thetic depresses the plunger to wake the slumbering man up. “And please, Thetic, get some sleep when you can.”
She receives a grunt in response. She lets it go for now.
It only takes ten minutes, though it feels longer to Breha, before Obi-Wan’s eyelids begin to flutter and his head tosses slightly to the side.
Another minute or two, and they finally get a glimpse at his eyes. Watery and red and the most precious thing Breha’s seen since maybe she first held Leia in her arms, they are unmistakably a sign of life. Though there is little fire behind them, an emptiness that they’re used to seeing from this foolish, lovely man, he recognizes first Bail, then Breha, and hums a strangled noise out of confusion.
The tube is gone from his throat, but his mouth parts slightly under the transparent plastic of the oxygen mask. A thin trail of shiny spit links his chapped lips together before he closes them and grimaces slowly.
Breha swallows, her heart in her throat. Thetic had mentioned potential for cognitive impairment— but if he speaks, if he manages to even utter a word or any semblance of one that promises that his frontal lobe hasn’t had as much damage as the neurotech suspects, then Breha might be able to breathe a little easier.
Yes, to them, Obi-Wan Kenobi is a beacon of light even if he cannot speak— but she knows him, knows that even as a young adult he relied on his tongue to take him places that his peers could not reach. The Jedi did not manipulate, but Kenobi came closest to a politician with his quick wit and the careful weaving of his sentences. He may not have believed it, what with his proclaimed distate for politicians in general, but Bail and Breha saw it clearly from his core. Even when he was alone with them, able to unwind, he’d never allowed for them to take his voice from him. Even when he was on his knees, he withdrew long enough to remark something Breha wishes she could remember, then dove back in with the fervor of a starving man.
Breha knows that if he cannot speak, even ill in the head as he may be, he will suffer much more.
So— please, she thinks. Please let him keep his speech.
She resists the urge to trail a finger down his cheek or perhaps hold his hand tight, and a glance from Bail assures her she’s not alone in her desire. While she trusts Thetic’s advice, she also wants nothing more than to reassure this man with the touch of another being.
His eyes are glassy as he blinks hard. One hand comes up slightly, but falls back down to the bed. His mouth opens without any noise, and her heart wilts pitifully in her chest.
“It’s alright,” Bail murmurs. “You’re in our medical clinic. Nobody knows you’re here.”
Obi-Wan shakes his head, though it’s more of a jerk than anything. His lips form something— two syllables or a shaky exhale. He repeats the motion, getting simultaneously more distressed and more fatigued.
It takes a second, but Breha knows what he’s thinking without understanding what he wants to say. She doesn’t need to be Force-sensitive to recognize the panic of a parent. “Leia,” she agrees. “Leia’s safe, Obi-Wan. She’s just fine; she’s in the muting rooms playing with her snerf gun set; she’s probably hit the bullseye on every target twelve times by now. She’s worried for you, but—“
Obi-Wan’s eyes close and he sinks back into the pillows supporting his torso. Breha stops speaking. He’s not listening anymore.
He’s calmer after he knows about the security of Leia, but his fingers still tremble. He’s confused and frightened. Like a perversion of a newborn who knows nothing but wonder; he knows little but fear. His eyes squeeze tightly, and a tear creeps out of one.
Breha purses her lips and, rules be damned, reaches out and allows him to cradle her hand. Obi-Wan fumbles for a moment, fine motor skills lacking, but clutches tightly when he finds her fingers. Even in her hold, his hand trembles.
She is a Queen, always meant to know exactly what to say or do, but she finds herself failingly at a loss for words.
“Obi-Wan,” her husband rumbles, and Breha flashes him a grateful, wavering smile. “Obi-Wan, you’re ill. You held everything together, but we have Leia safe, and now we have Luke. Do you understand, Obi-Wan? We have Luke; Luke Skywalker is safe.”
Wrinkled eyelids peel open to look at Bail, but comprehension seems dim.
“You’re protecting them both with shields, or— whatever it is you’d call them, but you’re killing yourself in the process. You must let go.”
Obi-Wan finally jolts, eyes narrowing. His hand jerks weakly from Breha’s grasp, and she reluctantly lets him go. His mouth makes some sloppy movements and his eyes dart back and forth and—
“Force-meter is complaining,” Thetic says mildly, out of sight. “I’ll have to sedate him if he gets too worked up. He’s lucky his heart rate looks normal. Or, well, normal for him.”
“Obi-Wan, dearest,” Bail says, and Obi-Wan’s head drags back over to look at him. “You need to understand. You’re dying. You— you cannot prevent starvation and heal psychic trauma and protect those two sunbeams all with the Force; you’re mortal. You need to let go. We can help your body; we have access to a plethora of medical resources, and your trauma— well, what you need is time. And Luke and Leia will remain in our cancellation rooms until you’re well enough to help us figure out a long-term solution.”
“We agreed on this plan because there was no better option, and we were all— you as well— so terrified for the babes. But this cannot continue,” Breha cries softly. One of her hands curls around air, and Bail reaches out to clasp it. “We have loved you for a very, very long time, Obi-Wan. We refuse to sit and watch you tear yourself apart any longer.”
Bail and Breha had— technically— agreed to keep things brief, to avoid confusing the man. But her heart hurts, and her pulmonodes have been creaking with every inhale, and she would like for the world to stop and allow her to keep her people safe for just a moment.
(Luke, the little boy with the sand-shone hair, is now part of her people. Obi-Wan loves him almost like his own— that much has been clear, even with the scarce communication— so Breha will protect the boy not only out of duty but out of piety as well.)
So, she’s let the tooka out of the bag, so to speak, but she’s never been a stoic woman. For Alderaan’s sake, she proposed to Bail right after watching him water their plants! Bail, who is endlessly endeared to her, looks at her fondly and exhales softly as he switches his gaze back to Obi-Wan, who looks spooked. His eyes are glistening with tears again, and Breha prays it’s not out of fear or pain but just overstimulation.
“Yes,” Bail says gently. “We love you very much, Obi-Wan. We expect nothing in return; but you must understand that you can trust us. You can let go, and you can ‘fall,’ and we will catch you.”
The inside of the mask fogs as his breathing picks up. His hand creeps up, trembling, and splays oddly in the direction of his pale face. He gestures toward his skull once, and then his hand falls back to the blankets, exhausted.
It takes Bail a fraction of a second longer than Breha to understand, so she is first to reach out and cradle Obi-Wan’s cheek. His skin is cold to the touch. “Your mind,” she begins quietly, her bright, piercing eyes affixed on his weak gaze, “— is incredible. Your strength and your will are the best I have ever seen in a man, Jedi or not. I don’t know what kind of mental pressure and trauma you’re currently keeping aloft, but it will come crashing down whether you want it to or not. If you let go now, your body will stop deteriorating. If you let go now, Thetic is— concerned for your mind, yes, but at least you will be alive. You can stay here for as long as you need, and if— worst-case, forbid your death— you were to be unable to live on your own, or remember anything, or think at all, we would care for you and give you everything you needed— space, care, time.”
He’s— certainly not full comprehending, but he’s getting enough. Breha can see it in his eyes; he is getting enough of their words to let go.
“Thetic,” Bail alerts quietly.
“Uh-huh,” they say behind them, rustling to stand.
Obi-Wan’s crying again, thick tears rolling down his cheeks. He’s given up on trying to form words, and instead is just tracking between the both of them with frantic eyes.
“Don’t be afraid,” Breha murmurs. “We’re here. We have you.”
Bail’s hand comes to the other side and cups Obi-Wan’s chin as well, and together they lean and cradle the weeping man.
His breath hitches, once, twice, and then he—
He goes lax, and Breha feels his skin grow warm at a frankly alarming rate. The monitors around his bed begin to alert the room to various abrupt changes, most notably the inexplicable drop in his heart rate that blares an alarm almost directly into Bail’s ear. The EEG display shows an obvious aberration across all thirty-two electrodes, and Thetic hisses when they see it.
Obi-Wan’s eyes flutter as he sinks deeper into unconsciousness and Thetic swiftly moves next to him, a force-suppression hypo at the ready. It seems to be unnecessary, however— in Thetic’s other hand, the Force-meter reads a steep drop into a negligible amount of midichlorian activity in Obi-Wan’s body. He’s let go, just like they’d asked, with no guarantee of what awaited him on the ground.
Breha clenches her jaw and forces herself to look away from the screen. “We’re here,” she repeats to him, even though he’s unconscious. “We’re so proud of you, Obi-Wan. We’re here, darling. We’ll be here.”
Slowly, as she murmurs sweet nothings, the monitors relax back to semi-regular status. One by one, Thetic resolves the alarms around the room, adjusting drips and feeds and mumbling to themself the whole while.
Finally, the room is quiet save for the regular beep of his heart, and Thetic sighs at the door.
“I’ll leave you two to it,” they say, rubbing their eyes. “I’ll be, uh, sleeping, probably. He’s under sedation now. I’ll see what we need tomorrow morning after I do an eval. Dora is outside; let her know if something’s wrong. She’ll page me if I’m needed.”
After Thetis’s exit, it’s just the three of them in the room.
Breha finds she hasn’t quite let go of Obi-Wan. She grips him with gentle security, unable to leave him be.
She purses her lips and tries valiantly not to think of the young, vibrant man who teased and flirted his way into her and Bail’s hearts.
Somewhere behind the knots and webs of grief and trauma, he remains.