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In the dimly lit bar room, tucked away in a private booth, Obi-wan regards Feemor solemnly. The glass of Sundarian whiskey tastes sharp and pungent as he sips pensively. Across from him, Feemor savors a bitter ale.
The booth is enclosed in clouded transparisteel panels, but it’s not completely soundproof. Faint music is audible from the bar area, and the slight flickering of disco light is obvious in the far corner.
Midnight is long past and empty glasses litter the table among the remnants of bite-sized snacks.
It’s just the two of them now, enjoying a rare evening in Little Keldabe.
Jango doesn’t count for company. He’s currently slumped over the table, snoring.
While Mandalorians pride themselves on their strong alcohol tolerance, a drinking contest with a Jedi is blatantly unequal since the Jedi could purify the toxins as they drank. As they say, ignorance is bliss, and Jango is blissfully sleeping unaware. His partner, Myles, on the other hand, had left early to see little Boba to bed.
Setting down his glass, Obi-wan hesitates. Finally, after a minute of sleepy silence, he musters the courage to speak.
“I’ve been granted the chance to undertake the Knight Trials.”
Immediately, Feemor looks at him with a beaming smile.
“Congratulations, Obi-wan! This promotion is well earned,” he says warmly.
“The council of Mastery reviewed my file after the alliance with the Mandalorians was signed. They felt that such a historic achievement deserved due recognition,” Obi-wan continues. He swirls his glass, watching the amber liquid swish.
Feemor hums questioningly. “You don’t agree with their reasoning, I take it.”
Obi-wan shakes his head. “No, I agree. Objectively, we made history with this alliance.”
“Then, what’s troubling you?” Feemor asks gently. He’s set down his drink and simply waits for Obi-wan to speak.
It takes Obi-wan a long moment to return Feemor’s gaze.
“Did you know? When the Council of Mastery reviewed my file on your recommendation, did you know?”
“Know what?”
“That I am Qui-gon Jinn’s padawan?”
“Ah,” Feemor grimaces, “So they told you? That I was Jinn’s first padawan.”
Obi-wan nods. Feemor takes a swig of beer as if to chase away a foul aftertaste.
“Yes,” he says, “I knew.”
“However,” he continues as Obi-wan’s face falls in dismay, “Only after you joined the guard for your rotation duty. Before that I kept myself far away from any gossip about Jinn.”
The bitterness in Feemor’s voice surprises Obi-wan.
“What? Why?” He asks quickly.
“Why I kept away from Jinn?” Feemor repeats wryly. He looks down at his drink, a dark shadow blanketing his face. His blue eyes turn grey as slate.
“All you know is that I was Jinn’s padawan right? Well,” Feemor grimaces again, “Qui-Gon Jinn had two padawans before you. I was the first, but he only took over the latter half of my training due to unfortunate circumstances. We were more like peers than a traditional teacher-apprentice relationship. And his second padawan was Xanatos.”
Obi-wan flinches.
Unconsciously a hand drifts to neck, where he rubs a decade-old scar. As a boy of 12, he had been kidnapped by Xanatos and sold into slavery in the underwater mines of Bandomeer, all because of the grudge Xanatos held against Qui-gon Jinn.
“I see you’re familiar,” Feemor says, watching Obi-wan with shadowed eyes. He sighs, roughly rubbing a hand over his face.
“I can’t make excuses for Jinn, but I can understand him to some extent. After Xanatos fled the order, Jinn crumbled. He loved that boy like a son, but he spoiled him, blind to any flaws. He blamed himself and his teaching abilities. So, like the stubborn son-of-a-bantha he is, Jinn repudiated his own apprentice and declared all his teaching to be null and void.”
Feemor threw back the rest of his drink like a shot.
He continues bitterly, “Which included me too. Only a few years into my knighthood, and it all came crashing down. Jinn invalidated my entire life as a jedi, essentially proclaiming to the rest of the temple that I was incompetent and unworthy of knighthood. Even when the Council of Mastery rejected his repudiation, the effects still lingered.”
“But that’s unjust!” Obi-wan exclaims, aghast. “He had no right to do that to you! Xanatos’ actions shouldn’t reflect on your accomplishments at all.”
“Your compassion is commendable,” Feemor remarks with a sad smile. “But in the temple one’s lineage is closely tied together. In most cases this is positive, building bonds and support networks. But crimes by association are hard to shake off in any community. And I found the temple here in Coruscant to be the same.”
Feemor leans back in his seat, gazing off to the side for a long moment.
“So, I left. I went on an educational exchange. First, with the Guardians of the Whills on Jedha. I spent a few years with the monks on Jedha, and then a few more with the Green Jedi on Corellia. By the time I came back to Coruscant and joined the Temple Guard, I wanted nothing to do with Jinn. I purposefully avoided any mention of him.”
Feemor finally locks eyes with Obi-wan. He smiles sadly. It is an odd look for the normally cheerful knight.
“And for that, I am sorry.”
“Sorry?” Obi-wan echoes faintly, “Whatever for?”
“I’m sorry that by turning away, I didn’t get to meet you sooner. I regret all the time we never got to share together as lineage brothers. You are an amazing person, Obi-wan. Kind, sincere, determined, and courageous. Knowing you sooner would have enriched my life even more than you already have.”
Reaching across the table, Feemor gently pats Obi-wan’s hand.
“It’s okay to cry,” he says, “you can mourn what could have been. Death is not the only thing we grieve for.”
Tears trickle down Obi-wan’s face. He covers his eyes with his other hand.
“I’m sorry,” he hiccups. “I’m sorry, but it’s been so difficult these last few years. I barely even see Master Qui-gon anymore. But even before that, he often left me alone. ‘For my own independence’, he said.”
He hiccups again. “Even during the whole affair with Boba and negotiations with the Mand’alor, he never once checked in to see how I was doing. He didn’t even realize I led the negotiations until the notice came from the Council of Mastery to discuss the knighting ceremony.”
Feemor winces. He’d known Jinn to be absentminded, but this was worse than he’d thought. It was straight-on neglect. Silently, Feemor vows to always support Obi-wan in all things going forward.
“Once he read the notice,” Obi-wan continues with a hiccup. “He gave me this look as if seeing me for the first time. And then he asked if I was certain, that knighthood was difficult, and not a path for everyone. He hinted that I should wait a few years instead.”
“Oh, Obi-wan,” Feemor murmurs softly. He gently squeezes Obi-wan’s hand. A gentle reminder that he was here with him, supporting him.
Obi-wan lifts his head, blue-grey eyes shimmering with unshed tears. He scrubs a hand across his eyes.
“I know he is not a good teacher. A good Jedi, perhaps. But not everyone has the talent for mentorship. I’ve known this for a very long time. However,” he squeezes Feemor’s hand back, “what I’m really crying about, is how he hurt you and that we didn’t meet sooner.”
He laughs a little wetly. “Because I also enjoyed our time together as a temple guard. You’ve been nothing but supportive and warmhearted since we met. I wish I had known an adult like you a long time ago.”
Feemor roughly wipes his face, trying to brush away a few teardrops. It’s been many years since he’s heard such affirmative words.
“The drinks are getting to me,” he says jokingly. “I normally don’t cry after hearing a few compliments. Maybe we should finish for the night. A cup of herbal tea, perhaps, to wind down?”
Obi-wan laughs light-heartedly. “Tea sounds good. I recommend the behot. It’s an herbal blend which just a hint of spice.”
“Anything’s better than the mud-like tea Master Yoda served at linage dinners.” Feemor says wryly and presses the buzzer to call the waiter to the private room.
Obi-wan wrinkles his nose. “Don’t even call that foul brew tea, it’s literally dirt water. I don’t know how Master Yoda even stomachs it.”
“Honestly, I think he drinks it just to be a troll. I remember how he would drink it and stare you down over the rim of the cup, as if daring you to spit it out.”
“It was so intimidating,” Obi-wan agrees with a grin. “But definitely good practice for consular missions. Somehow, a three-foot tall troll is scarier than most other sentients.”
Feemor laughs. “I’ll drink to that. Especially with that gimer stick of his, whacking shins left and right.”
He attempts to chug his ale and realizes the glass is empty. Before he can do more than look scandalized, the waiter knocks on the door.
Once the waiter leaves, the atmosphere settles into something soft and mellow. The comfortable silence is only broken by Jango’s gentle snoring, blissfully dead to the world.
Obi-wan checks the time and sends a quick comm to Myles to pick up his partner.
As they wait for the tea to arrive, Obi-wan asks another question, his voice bright and hopeful.
“My knighting ceremony is scheduled for next month. If, it fits in your schedule, could you be a witness at my ceremony?”
“I’d be honored,” Feemor replies, beaming brighter than the sun.
And so, the two jedi enjoyed the night with laughter and tears, building a bond that could never be broken. If Jango, after that night, swore never to drink again, well, that was his business and no one else’s.