Chapter Text
”The Young had won the war. But the hard part was just beginning.” ~Jedi Apprentice: The Uncertain Path by Jude Watson
Ben exhaled shakily, hands trembling.
The Young needed him to be calm.
Melidaan needed him.
Nield and Cerasi needed him.
He was the only one who could do this.
They were counting on him.
He would not, could not falter.
A breath in. Slow. Measured.
The memory of warm, scarred hands holding his face. A gentle weight against his forehead. Words said by a voice achingly familiar and precious. “When everything gets too big,” Nield whispered, breath soft against a freckled cheek. “All you have to do is find five things.”
Jedi padawan Obi-Wan Kenobi had looked at him in confusion. “What?”
Nield laughed. “Five things,” he repeated softly. “Find five things you can focus on. A certain color, something that starts with the same letter. Pairs or sets. The thing itself doesn’t matter,” dark eyes peered at him from beneath a curtain of thick lashes. “But find five things, keep them in your mind, focus all your attention on them.”
Licking dry lips, Obi-Wan couldn’t help but ask, “And then?”
Nield smiled. “Then the world doesn’t seem quite as scary,” he reassured.
Light years away, on another world, Ben opened his eyes. “Five things,” he breathed out.
Five things that were blue.
The carpet.
The Senate Commandos down the hall.
The underside of the Senator of Naboo’s collar.
Another breath in.
The chair in the reception room they’d given him to prepare before he boarded Melidaan’s assigned hoverpod.
A breath out, smoother this time.
The cerasi flowers that grew wild near their home. The ones Nield always picked for Cerasi as a joke, though they inevitably ended up in the cracked vase near the rumpled sleep mat the three of them shared.
Ben looked down at his lap.
His hands were still.
“Ready Senator?” Towan asked.
Ben nodded.
The boy once known as Obi-Wan Kenobi—the child who’d been a farmer, a slave, a padawan—stared.
“Ben,” Cerasi started. Her voice was gentle, entreating and in stark contrast to the very deliberate way she positioned herself between him and the nearest exit.
He turned away.
“This isn’t a punishment,” she tried instead. “The vote was unanimous—“
Ben scoffed. “A vote I wasn’t invited to,” he said bitterly.
Cerasi faltered. No matter how kindly she might want to phrase it, the fact of the matter was that he hadn’t been invited. Because they all knew what he would say, if he was provided the option of saying no.
And even though it hurt to employ the type of subterfuge typically reserved for Elders, for outsiders, what the council wished to achieve was more important than the empty, hollow feeling threatening to consume her. More important than the hurt. More important than the betrayed, broken look in Ben’s eyes. The same look he’d worn when his master abandoned him.
When Qui-Gon Jinn had chosen Tahl. Chose the Elders. Chose the Jedi. Ignorant, perhaps willfully so, of the way Melida/Daan was dying to the Elder’s war, piece by bloody piece. Chose his precious code, blinded to the hatred that had driven the Melida and the Daan to kill their own children. Deaf to their cries, to the sound of blasterfire and desperation.
A part of Cerasi, the part that was still just a dirty, sewer-dwelling girl desperately clinging to dreams of peace, wished it hadn’t come to this. Wished they could leave the boy who’d already given so much, without having to ask for more.
When he came to Melida/Daan, being a Jedi was as much a part of the boy named Obi-Wan as being Young was a part of Ben. Cerasi knew it was them—Nield and her—who had given him something more. Had allowed him to feel connected to something larger than himself without need of the Force. Without caveats of service, or duty.
Obi-Wan was beholden to the Jedi, to his master, to the Republic. Ben had stayed. Had fought alongside them. Bled with them. Starved with them.
Hoped with them.
Ben had stayed, even when his Jedi master had ordered him to go.
And now they were asking even more of this boy Melida/Daan had broken piece by bloody piece.
She swallowed, blinking back tears.
She couldn’t be the same Cerasi who had infiltrated the Daan-controlled Outer Circle with nothing more than a slingshot and a bag of laser balls. The girl who’d argued with a Jedi padawan, who’d abandonded her life above ground for the world below. The child who’d pleaded with a boy she barely knew to help save them. Had begged without knowing the cost of her selfishness.
Cerasi had learned what it had cost Obi-Wan, what it had cost Ben. Had weighed it against the actions that brought peace to her dying world, and been forced to accept the weight her decision. She could never be that girl again. Cerasi was a planetary leader now, a member of the Ruling Council. Their world needed help, and Ben was the only one they could trust to get it. Just as she was opening her mouth to say that, a voice stopped her.
“The care centers are over capacity,” Nield said. He’d been quiet till then, his presence cold and distant since the vote. He hadn’t raised his voice in support or condemnation, choosing to abstain. His silence was louder than any words he could have spoken. “Our people are cold and hungry. The med centers are running low on supplies. Zehava is still struggling to house everyone who’s been displaced by the war,” dark eyes trained on Ben, who had yet to look in their direction. “We inherited a world consumed by war, and these problems are the result of it.”
He came closer, arms wrapping around Ben carefully, as one would a spooked animal. Ben made no move to escape, though he also didn’t reciprocate. Simply allowed Nield to pull him closer, foreheads touching. “I know that this decision, what we ask of you, isn’t fair. Isn’t right,” Nield continued softly.
Cerasi closed her eyes, unwilling to intrude upon this moment between them, though she could hear the thick, devastated rasp in Nield’s voice.
“But we need you Ben,” the heartbroken boy said. “I know asking this of you, after everything you’ve already given, isn’t right or fair, but we need you. You’re the only one who can do this.”
There was a stuttered intake of breath, and Cerasi opened her eyes to see Ben breaking.
Hurrying forward, she wrapped her arms around the two boys who had become her family. Who had given her connection and belonging. Who gave her a home after the world of Melida/Daan had simply taken. Cerasi stood there with her brothers, as Ben sobbed.
“It’s alright Ben,” she crooned softly. “It’ll be alright.” After all, they’d lost everything too.
The Young had won the war.
They had stopped the centuries of violence. Negotiated a transition of power between the Middle Generation and crippled the Elders with one decisive strike against their remaining fighter ships, crippling their sub-orbital operations.
The Young had won the war.
But they inherited a world filled with problems.
Zehava laid in ruin.
Many parts of the city were without heat or electricity. A reliable water source was difficult to come by, and food was in short supply. The war left their decimated population cold and feeble after years of starvation. The few hospitals left were highly impacted, and running low on supplies, while any fuel that hadn’t been used in the Elder’s bitter feud against each other—and then later, the Young—was being used to clear what they could of the crumbling infrastructure to try and make Melidaan’s capital livable.
Yet that too, was getting scarcer and scarcer.
Even as squads of able-bodied Young and a few of the Middle Generation worked tirelessly in a vain attempt to supplement the transports they could no longer afford to run, it was just a matter of time before the few resources they had left, disappeared.
The Young had won the war, but Melidaan was still dying.
Nield never considered himself capable of softness.
Not after growing up on a world like Melida/Daan, where hatred was taught before they could walk. Where poison and vitriol was their first lullaby.
Softness had no place amongst the Daan. No place amongst the Melida.
He’d been born to a world that was dying.
The Middle Generation were all but gone, lives lost to the machinations of the Elder’s hatred and need for revenge.
His father, who lead his three older brothers to their death.
His mother, who chose violence and revenge over her son. Chose to give her life to a blood-debt grew deeper with every generation. Chose vendetta and retribution over love. Over hope. Over him.
”And to my son, Nield, my treasure, my hope, I leave my love and my undying hatred for the filthy Melida—“
Hatred was the only legacy his parents had bequeathed him. Poison dripping past their lips, their last words to him. An order, a plea, to widen the abyss no amount of blood would ever be able to fill.
The Melida and the Daan had given birth to a monster. A monster with a hunger so deep it could never be sated, regardless of how many monuments to the dead they raised in memorial to their hate. Melida/Daan was a world where the dead haunted what was left of the living. Who’s violence and bloodshed tainted even the rare happy memories its people had of growing up on a world consumed by war.
Nield remembered swimming at Lake Weir, its grey waters gentle in a way Melida/Daan rarely was. Remembered picnics of stale ration bars and coppery, stale water. Remembered trees and blossoms. Remembered a museum that had nothing to do with the dead.
He could almost remember the feeling of sunlight on his skin. Of the overwhelming sense—not of peace, as even back then, peace was too foreign of a concept for a child—but of contentment. Of feeling like even though Melida/Daan took, and took, and took, it was okay. So long as he could have moments like this. So long as he could know what it meant to live.
Only for another Hall of Evidence to be built upon Lake Weir’s placid waters, blocks of ebony stone supported by repuslor-posts. For the Daan, monuments to the dead were more important than preserving the last source of fresh water within a thousand kilometers. More important than a parentless child’s desperate refuge from the violence that left Melida/Daan a world of orphans.
Melida/Daan took everything and everyone Nield had ever loved.
Took Ediisa…
The first person who’d ever showed him love. Who taught him what family, true family, meant.
When she died, Nield promised himself to never depend on anyone ever again.
Melida/Daan had no room for softness.
Scoured it out of every single living thing, leaving only harsh and brutal facsimiles of life in its place.
Even amongst the Young, a movement dedicated to the living, he could not afford to be soft. Not when hatred had been taught to them before they knew what hatred truly was. Not when it had been bred deep within their very essence.
Hatred for the Melida.
Hatred for the Daan.
Hatred for the Elders and their war, which had already stolen so much from them.
Their hope for a new world, a better world, could only begin if that hatred had been stamped out of them. Could only begin if they were taught something new. As the leader of the Young, Nield couldn’t afford to be soft.
Yet he found himself learning how to be, as the reality of a new Melidaan began to emerge.
Learning how to make his words less harsh. How to make himself less gruff. Allowing the brittle edges of his armor Melida/Daan had forged to be chipped away. Folding himself into a new shape, a new form. It didn’t come naturally, not after everything. Not after he’d spent so many years learning how to be anything but soft. Yet he found himself eager for the day when it became second nature to him, eager for the moment where he extended a kind gesture without a moment’s hesitation.
Because Ben was soft.
Ben, with his blue eyes that were brighter than his memories of Lake Weir.
Ben, with his soft smiles and softer words.
Ben, the boy who’d been a Jedi padawan and had chosen the Young over his Jedi Master.
Ben, who’d given more than anyone could have asked for, and had done so without remorse.
Melida/Daan had purged softness from their lives.
Ben had brought it back.
Melida/Daan had tried to rid this boy of his innate softness, a feat not even the Jedi had been able to accomplish.
Obi-Wan Kenobi, the Jedi padawan, faded in the heat of blasterfire.
In the aftermath, standing tall and proud, stood Ben.
Ben was soft, formidable, resilient.
Beautiful.
Nield knew if Ben could survive the horrors of Melida/Daan, then surely he could survive Coruscant. Could survive, and potentially thrive. Especially with his advantage of a Jedi education.
Coruscant had been his home for years.
Yet there was still a glimmer of fear that refused to abate, no matter how hard Nield tried to rationalize it away.
A fear of the gilded splendor of the Republic Senate, with its dazzling parties filled with politicians and socialites, with Jedi who stood witness to the atrocities of the galaxy in their imperious silence and disdain. Feared the Republic’s far off battlefield would succeed where Melida/Daan had failed, stripping Ben of the softness that remained even in the wake of devastation Master Jinn had left behind.
“You won’t be alone,” Nield said at last, unable to remain silent. They’d gone to bed hours ago, the three of them piling onto their lumpy mattress and huddling close. If Ben was surprised by his words, he didn’t show it though he knew the other boy was still awake. Months of sharing a sleeping space, countless missions, and late-night strategy meetings had taught Nield how to tell the difference between a truly asleep Ben and a meditating one.
Blue eyes caught his, and he tried to remember how to be less harsh. How to make his words seem reassuring. Gentle.
Soft.
“You won’t be alone,” he repeated. “Cerasi and I have to stay, but there will still be people you can trust to have your back.” People I trust to have your back. He didn’t say, though he hoped the sincerity in his voice carried the words he was too afraid to speak.
The silence that followed felt like condemnation.
Mawat scowled.
“You didn’t seriously think we’d let you go alone, did’ya?” He asked, avoiding Ben’s watery gaze. Even though Mawat had been against asking for help—especially from Elders—he also knew it was the only hope Melidaan had for survival. The rest of the council were too rough and inexperienced to have any hope of convincing those posh bantha turds on Coruscant. Ben was, quite literally, their only hope in that regard.
Scratching at a scab, he deftly dodged Dor’s disappointed glare, and focused on the task at hand.
“Me and m’squad have already been scavenging what we can to put together a suitable ensemble,” he reported. “We’ve found a good chunk of material, but it’s not like we’ve had an opportunity for leisure so we’re gonna need help on creating a cohesive vision.”
Ben’s brow was furrowed, and Mawat resisted the urge to poke at the crease like he would’ve during the war. This was a whole different battlefield, one with an unfamiliar terrain. He needed to get his bearings before he could support his new squad.
“What?” He asked instead.
“Ensemble?”
Shifting a look over to Dor, who looked equally as confused, then to Towan who’d stayed silent so far, Mawat shrugged. “Well yeah,” he muttered quietly. “Those old holofilms always showed them Courscanti types as…” he floundered a bit for the right word. “Fancy. Like just real swanky and uh, elegant y’know? Can’t be sending our senator into battle with faded fatigues.” His words had gotten quieter at their continued silence, face uncomfortably hot.
Could he have been wrong? Swallowing, the thought settling uncomfortably in his stomach, Mawat considered.
Those old holofilms had been his guilty pleasure for years, the only solace he’d managed to find in the darkness of Melida/Daan. He’d memorized lines from his favorite actors, practiced their swagger, their movements. Secretly dreamed of being dressed in an elegant costume, a cup of something bubbly in his hand as he laughed prettily on some flowery balcony. They’d shown a different world, a different life. There had always been something glimmering with truth beneath the scripted surface, but maybe Mawat was just some dumb kid who’d never learned anything about the greater galaxy. Maybe—
A warm hand rested gently against his arm, fingers calloused from years carrying a saber and then later a blaster. Ben looked at him, blue eyes so unbearably soft. “A good idea,” Ben said. Though his voice was quiet, it had a presence to it. Something that demanded to be heard, without shouting. A voice that made him a tremendous general. A voice that would make him a formidable senator.
Mawat offered a one shouldered shrug, face growing warmer, though this time with shy pleasure.
“What have you found?” Ben asked.
Falling back into familiar territory, the Scavenger Young specialized in procuring inventory during the war, he straightened. “Several yards of cotton that must’ve been held in reserve for more uniforms,” Mawat listed. “Some waxed canvas. We did find a few parachutes that aren’t scored too badly, so we can probably salvage the silk,” he frowned thoughtfully. “And there are tents we could deconstruct for their durasilk, though I don’t know how well they’d work for fancy clothes.”
Dor hummed. “I could probably get a team from the Medical Squad to help sew everything together once we’ve got some ideas,” he volunteered. “Sewing fabric can’t be too different from sewing together people.”
That was a relief, since even though Mawat had the idea of gathering any material they might need, he didn’t have a clue on how to make what they’d found into anything wearable.
“Are you sure you want to do this?” Ben asked, voice painfully small.
It was Towan who stepped forward, slender frame seeming larger than before. “We are Young,” he said fiercely. “We are everyone.” So no one would ever be alone.
Ben listened as his new squad devolved into the merits of ruching or pleats, heart lighter than it’d been since Cerasi delivered the council’s verdict.
It hurt, hearing his companions voted to send him away.
To send him back, after everything.
After everything he’d given to help.
It felt like punishment, despite what Cerasi said. Especially coming on the wings of the disaster with the holdouts in the Old Melida Sector. Memories of the vibro-axe still unbearably fresh.
Delia made a good Security Squad leader, though it hurt to see his old lieutenant in the spot he’d so recently occupied. Hurt in a way he hadn’t known it would, despite having recommended her for the position. Because it was supposed to be Ben out there, helping to ensure peace. Helping to forge the Young’s vision on this new Melidaan.
But how could he, after what happened? How could he continue leading his team into dangerous situations when he could barely function? Although no one had outright asked, Ben decided it would be better to resign.
He still attended the meetings, though he couldn’t vote.
Still diligently listened as the ten squad leaders argued over how to best serve the people of Melidaan. Tried to offer what little advice he could. Though he often found himself at a loss.
”Is that one of your Boss-Master’s Jedi sayings?” Cerasi had asked so many months ago, snorting at his route repetition of an elder’s wisdom. Things had been different at the Temple.
Commitment was at the heart of a Jedi’s training, but a large part was meant to instill sureness and humility. To remove pride. The surety he’d witnessed was one born from over a thousand generations of Jedi who followed a code taught to them by masters who’d learnt it from their masters before them. A repetition of tenants and teachings followed by tradition. A tradition designed to honor the wisdom of those who’d come before them.
Yet the greatest truth Ben had learnt from his time on Melida/Daan was that he wasn’t sure about anything. He had his convictions of course, and there were universal truths—never try anything Cerasi cooked, avoid Mawat on bean-stew night, and cuddle-piles were the best source of comfort after a hard day, being just a few of them—but situations were always so very fluid and it was important to adapt to them as they came. To attempt surety in a situation outside his comprehension was arrogant and short-sided.
Humility was a lie told to make others feel better. There was nothing humble about being forced to survive in sewers, counting the aftershock between explosions. There was nothing humble about fighting in a war with children younger than you. There was nothing humble in being forced to watch as the life left a friend’s eyes, to see their light in the Force go dark.
The Jedi were taught surety and humility through the strength of their elders’ guidance, yet the Young had no-one to guide them. The Young guided themselves.
It was scary, and terrifying, and dangerous.
But it was also exhilarating, and exciting. But most of all, it was empowering.
Perhaps that was the greatest difference between what it meant to be Jedi and what it meant to be Young.
As a Jedi, they’d been taught to be lesser. That though they’d been chosen out of millions of others, their duty was to the galaxy. Not themselves. As Young, he’d been encouraged to fight for something he believed in. To nurture the spark in his chest the Jedi had done their best to smolder, and kindle it into a flame. The Young embraced their strength, embraced their desire to live in a world that was dying before they’d even been born.
He’d known it from the moment he’d joined Cerasi and Nield on the mission to the Outer Circle. Felt it, when he managed to bomb the deflection towers. When he faced Master Qui-Gon and told him he would not leave the Young to their fate.
”I have found something here more important than the Jedi Code,” he’d said. Though his hands shook, it was not with fear or hesitation, as he unclipped his lightsaber. His life as a Jedi. “Something not only worth fighting for, but worth dying for.”
Master Qui-Gon flinched at his words, knuckles white around the offered saber. The man had waited.
Waited for the boy Ben had been—waited for Obi-Wan—to take the words back. To return to the obedient, eager to please padawan he’d been taught to be. To return to something lesser.
But he couldn’t. Couldn’t content himself with serving an Order who taught him to be lesser. An Order that had strived to strip him of everything that had made him Obi-Wan. That made him Ben.
He didn’t take back his words.
Ben had said them.
Ben had meant them.
Months later, he didn’t regret the words. Didn’t regret where they had taken him, not when it had lead him to this.
Despite the hurt, despite fearing that Nield’s reassurance was nothing more than a hollow promise, that this path he’d been forced to walk would be his and his alone, Ben should have remembered the simplest truth that laid at the heart of the Young.
We are Young. We Are Everyone.
And no one walks alone.
And as the boy who’d been Obi-Wan allowed himself to fall back into the conversation that had somehow devolved into an argument on the merits of capes, the once-padawan wondered if Master Jinn had ever truly understood him at all.
There is no emotion, there is peace…
Qui-Gon breathed in slowly, stars and planets drifting lethargically across his furrowed brow in this quiet corner of his favorite room in the Jedi Temple.
The gentle murmur of bubbling fountains and the warm, delicate fragrance of jasmine carried on a humid breeze, made the peaceful atmosphere of the Room of a Thousand Fountains a preferred place to soothe the restlessness that weighed upon many of the Temple’s inhabitants. Yet for all its carefully cultivated serenity, it was here in the Star Mar Room, Qui-Gon most often found peace.
He breathed out.
There is no ignorance, there is knowledge…
He’d come here during his padawanship.
There is no passion, there is serenity…
When Xanatos drifted away from him.
There is no chaos—
Breath stuttering in his chest, Qui-Gon attempted to center himself deeper into his meditation.
—there is harmony.
When Obi-Wan abandoned his Jedi training.
Abandoned him.
Eyes fluttering open, Qui-Gon sighed.
It had been months since Obi-Wan chose the Young over the Jedi. Months since an arrogant, stubborn, pigheaded fool of a boy had forsaken the Jedi Code. Months since his former padawan decided to fight a war he had no hope of winning. A war that, if he was very lucky, he would survive.
Survive and be forced to stand witness to the massacre that would inevitably follow.
Dark blue eyes flashed in his mind. ”I have found something here more important than the Jedi Code,” Obi-Wan said slowly. Broad shoulders looking out of place on the boy’s wiry frame. “Something not only worth fighting for,” trembling hands unclipped the saber at his waist. He exhaled, breath shaky as determined eyes met Qui-Gon’s. “But worth dying for.”
The words hurt.
Force did they hurt, and despite himself, Qui-Gon had waited.
Waited for Obi-Wan to repent. To take them back.
For the boy to fall back into his proper role as a padawan and accept Qui-Gon’s counsel.
Yet he hadn’t.
Obi-Wan—the angry, idealistic, hopeful boy he had taken as his padawan-learner—didn’t take back his words. He had said them. He had meant them.
And so Qui-Gon said nothing.
Simply accepted the too small saber, ignoring the gaping wound it carved between them. Something that caused so much pain, so much anguish…the symbol of his padawan’s betrayal…surely it should weigh more? Surely such a monumental shift in their relationship should carry more weight?
Obi-Wan wasn’t the first angry boy who had drawn his saber against him…
Qui-Gon said nothing. He accepted Obi-Wan’s lightsaber.
Strode into the starfighter.
Powered on the engines.
Input the coordinates.
Rising cleanly over the canyon, he allowed Melida/Daan’s pockmarked surface to blur past him as the ship breached the planet’s upper atmosphere.
He didn’t look back.
Obi-Wan had made his choice.
And Qui-Gon was forced to make his.
Despite everything he had done, every time he tried to reach Obi-Wan, to connect with him, all that reached back was a void.
Taking in a shaky breath, Qui-Gon settled deeper into his mediation cushion.
There is no ignorance, there is knowledge.
The months between the council’s vote and Ben’s anticipated departure from Melidaaan passed quickly.
Mawat, who’d procured a truly enormous stockpile of material, worked closely with Dor and Cerasi in crafting a wardrobe that told the planet’s story. Ben’s story.
Dor, who flawlessly transitioned from healer to couturier and confidant. His quiet presence a bulwark against the heartache of leaving, and a hidden strength in why Ben had to leave. Why they had to leave. As a healer, he was all too familiar with death. He knew Melidaan was dying and that sometimes, in order to save a life, one needed to do whatever was necessary.
Towan, the boy Obi-Wan met so many months ago. The boy who made a comment about the Melida and who Nield had been forced to reprimand. Towan, who fiercely reminded Ben that they were Young. Who reminded him that being Young was as much a part of Ben, as being a Jedi had once been a part of Obi-Wan. Towan became his shadow—an aide, a shield, but most importantly, a friend.
Between fittings and logistics, the four tried to squeeze as much time together as they could. Strategizing late into the night.
“We need credits,” Dor said quietly, eyes trained on the sewing in his lap. “Would we need to introduce a bill? How would it get to the Senate floor?”
Ben bit his lip. “There’s over two thousand senators representing the Galactic Republic,” he said thoughtfully. “Things introduced on the Senate floor rarely receive enough consideration as it is. Most of the real work gets done at functions hosted by other senators.”
Mawat had a frown on his face, even as he sketched out yet another design for Ben’s senatorial wardrobe. “How do we go about snagging an invite to one of those?”
Towan regarded the chart of different worlds they’d managed to piece together, the senators Ben could remember listed neatly beneath them. “We’ll have to decide on a faction,” the slender boy murmured. “A single vote is meaningless in a sea of a thousand worlds.”
Mawat hissed, biting back a curse as he stabbed himself with a needle—again. Dor silently took the tunic before the smaller boy managed to get any blood on the fabric and set to work finishing the draping. “It’s the ‘im or da ‘ore, ‘ight?” He asked, words somewhat muffled from the thumb in his mouth.
Ben considered. “The Rim faction is conservative, their preference is more towards self-autonomy than central oversight.” Something that, in theory, would benefit Melidaan. Except for the fact their planet had managed to govern itself into devastation. “The Core prefers centralized power, but that means a lot of bureaucracy in practice.”
“What of the militarists?” Dor asked.
They all froze.
“They’d probably empathize with a world that has first hand knowledge of what a lack of central government means to the stability of a system,” he remarked calmly, finishing a seam.
Humming, Ben nodded. “They might be worth approaching, and they vote closely with the Core faction.”
Towan made a note on the piece of flimsi, and they moved towards potential committees Ben could join.
“Here try this on,” Mawat demanded, over-bearing tone in contrast to the careful way he shoved a bundle of yellow silk into Ben’s arms. “This will be your function outfit, since it’s the same color as those delicate bubbly drinks they have at swanky parties.”
Brows furrowing, Ben shook out the bundle. “You mean champagne?” He asked, eyes taking in the back. “Is showing this much skin really necessary?”
Mawat waved his hand dismissively, already working to strip the taller boy of his borrowed tunic. “Yeah, the bubbly stuff in them fancy glasses,” he agreed. “And yes, everyone knows the most important person at a function wears something backless.” Throwing the—tunic?—over his head, the smaller boy began straightening the rear bodice so it sat right.
Ben exhaled slowly out of his nose, not wanting to point out it was the heroine who typically wore such an outfit, and only so they could then be rushed into the arms of some big, strong, male lead who’d undoubtedly be able to solve all their problems with their bulging arms and dashing smile. “I’m not sure that applies to me,” he tried instead. Argument dying at the determined shake of Mawat’s head.
“Yeah, it’s usually the heroine who wears da pretty costumes,” he said, dashing Ben’s hopes that he’d been confused by his lack of galactic exposure. “Because usually da heroine’s supposed to be soft, delicate, fragile,” his eyes were trained on the yellow fabric, at the scars on Ben’s back. “But what people don’t know is that they’re not fragile like a flower,” Mawat straightened a pleat of the soft, almost gossamer material. “They’re fragile like a bomb, like a plasma grenade in a crowded square. They’re shown as soft, as delicate. Like something that needs to be protected, but they’re never weak. They’re the strongest people in those films, because they have the power to make the hero’s world break apart and they choose not to. Their fragility is a strength, because despite everything, the world hasn’t broken them.”
The room was quiet, and Mawat looked up to see three shocked faces staring at him.
Cheeks heating self-conciously, Mawat scowled. “What?” He asked defensively.
Ben opened his mouth. Closed it.
He regarded the tunic, its nearly sheer golden pleats arranged almost like wings down the scarred expanse of his back. “Nothing,” he said instead, a soft look in his eyes.
Finally, the time had come for Ben and his companions to leave.
The Young had used the last of their fuel reserves on a battered light freighter, placing their hopes for a future on Ben’s narrow shoulders. It would be up to him to actually get to Coruscant, being the only one amongst the Young with anything resembling piloting or astronavigation experience.
Together, the council loaded anything that could be bartered or traded. All so that Ben could come back.
So that he could come home.
Mawat had already boarded, fluttering near the crates holding Ben’s wardrobe, Dor calmly walking beside him. Towan had taken the pre-flight checklist, and was no doubt already running through it with his usual cool effiency.
Which just left Ben, Nield, and Cerasi on the landing platform.
Cerasi was smiling, eyes glistening wetly. She held out her hand. “Good luck,” she whispered, voice breaking.
Ben attempted a smile, though it felt broken even to him. He extended his own hand, close enough he could feel the heat of her palm. “D-don’t need it,” he whispered back.
Her throat bobbed. “Everyone needs luck,” she said.
Nield reached out his own hand, tan and broad against Ben’s pale skin and Cerasi’s slender fingers. “Not us,” he finished.
It was a ritual that had developed in the months following Master Jinn’s abandonment. A ritual formed in months of shared tears, shared heartache. Shared hope.
The Young made their own luck, their own destiny.
We are Young. We Are Everyone.
And no one walks alone.
Just as Ben was beginning to pull away, Nield gripped his hand. “Come back to us,” he commanded, voice brittle and fragile in a way Ben never heard before.
Unable to say anything, Ben only nodded. A confirmation.
A promise.
He turned, steps even and resolute as they boarded the gangway.
He stole one last glance at the people who had given him a home. Who taught him what it meant to live, to hope, to love.
“I promise,” he agreed quietly to himself.
And as Melidaan became a distant speck, as it faded in the cool blue of hyperspace and the ship hurtled forward, towards the Senate. Towards Coruscant. Towards the Young’s hope, he repeated it. “I promise.”
Ben would come back.
Cerasi and Nield were waiting for him.
”He could tell Qui-Gon about the battle he had seen. He could try. But he had tried before. Qui-Gon was right. He must make his choice.”~Jedi Apprentice: Defenders of the Dead by Jude Watson
Qui-Gon gazed tiredly out the windows of his quarters, a mug of tea clutched in his hands as the muted rays of Courscanti Prime crept over the horizon.
In a barren room, discarded but not forgotten, sat a lightsaber. One too small belong to Qui-Gon, its pommel still shiny. Still new.
Its owner wasn’t here.
Obi-Wan never had the chance to move into the padawan suite adjoining Qui-Gon’s rooms. Never had the opportunity to claim the space as his own.
Would he have been messy, clothes strewn about the space like Xanatos? Or would he have everything neatly folded and put away, like Feemor?
Qui-Gon would never know.
”I have found something here more important than the Jedi Code,” Obi-Wan said, his hands trembling. “Something not only worth fighting for, but worth dying for.”
Was his padawan even still alive? Had he survived the disaster that was Melida/Daan?
What had he been thinking, to throw his life away? Qui-Gon thought angrily, desperately. What had he found that was so important? Qui-Gon didn’t know.
He didn’t know what laid in the boy’s heart as he unclipped his lightsaber. As he severed their bond.
Maybe he’d never known Obi-Wan at all.
A flash of red drew his attention towards his comlink. Who would be calling him so early in the morning?
Setting his tea aside, Qui-Gon accepted the call.
Standing before the High Council intimidated him once, their placid silence and severe bearing frightening to the padawan he’d been under Master Yan. Not even the sprawling expanse of the Temple District from the transparisteel windows had been enough to soothe his anxieties whenever the pair was called before the austere body.
Yet after years of reporting to them, first as a knight and then a master in his own right, Qui-Gon slowly became desensitized to the awe that overwhelmed him as a boy. For all their enigmatic, even theatric posturing, reading the moods of the council was remarkably easy if one knew what to look for.
Which was why it was concerning he couldn’t read the shuttered expressions across their faces. Not even his grandmaster. Something was wrong.
Folding his hands into his sleeves, Qui-Gon let out a measured breath. “How may this humble one serve you, masters?”
Rising from his bow, Qui-Gon caught Mace’s furtive glance to Yoda.
“We would like to hear your report concerning the situation on Melida/Daan,” Mace said, fingers laced together in subtle meditation.
Trying to hide his frown, Qui-Gon dipped his chin. “I have already given my report on the Melida/Daan mission,” he said instead.
“We’d like to hear it again,” Mace retorted, face like carven stone. “What was the situation regarding your arrival, and then eventual departure, of the planet?”
Shifting, Qui-Gon collected his thoughts. “We arrived on Melida/Daan at 0600 local time—“
Master Mundi leaned forward. “When you say we,” the cerean master began, eyebrows raised, “whom do you speak of?”
Not sure if his attempt to stifle the heavy sigh that had built in his chest, Qui-Gon elaborated. “Myself and my padawan-learner, Obi-Wan Kenobi.”
Mundi shared a look with Mace, before the latter master inclined his head for Qui-Gon to continue. He did so.
Qui-Gon spoke of how they arrived on the planet, of vast structures made of ebony stone that spanned across the planet’s rugged surface. Spoke of Wehutti and his deception. Of the Young, in their sewers. Of Tahl—Tahl, sweet and beautiful, alive, yet injured. He reported on how tensions between the Melida and the Daan escalated, how their children defected. How the gap between generations widened, with only a few able-bodied adults left.
“And how did the planet feel to you in the Force?” Master Dapatian asked solemnly, his anti-ox mask hiding what little of his expression could be seen.
Qui-Gon hesitated for a moment, hands white from their place within his robes. “The Force was angry master,” he said at last. “Dark. I could not feel anything of the Living Force there.”
Centuries of civil-war had reduced the Force to nothing more than a shadow upon the violated landscape that was Melida/Daan.
Master Dapatian tilted his head. “And what became of your padawan?” He asked, voice curious. “Two Jedi embarked to Melida/Daan, and only two returned.”
He took a controlled breath in, before letting it out. “Obi-Wan decided to stay,” Qui-Gon said dispassionately. “He gave up his Jedi training, gave up his lightsaber.”
”I have found something more important than the Jedi Code. Something not only worth fighting for, but dying for.”
Mace was frowning. “And the events immediately surrounding your departure?”
Heart heavy, Qui-Gon bowed his head. “The morning we were to leave, the Melida and the Daan carried out an organized attack on the tunnels where the Young were based. The Young were hurt, unorganized in the wake of the attack,” he hesitated. “They needed help,” he finished quietly.
“Yet stay you did not,” Master Yaddle observed placidly. Beside her, Master Yoda remained silent.
Why were they bringing all of this up, months later? Why were they questioning him on Obi-Wan’s actions? On his betrayal?
Hands trembling from where they remained hidden within his robes, Qui-Gon raised his chin. “My orders were to return to the Temple with Knight Uvain,” he ground out, voice brittle. Tinged with something Qui-Gon did not want to examine further.
A quiet sound, the closest thing to a scoff a Jedi master would allow themself. “You have never shown a predilection towards following orders before,” Mace remarked. “Why would this time be any different?”
Starting in surprise, and hurt, Qui-Gon attempted to find his center. Obi-Wan had said nearly the same, hadn’t he? Accused him of following orders only when it was convenient.
“Why are you asking me about this now?” He finally asked. “What is the point?”
Mace leaned forward, chin resting on the steeple of his fingers. “Commitment was never something Padawan Kenobi lacked,” he observed. “It is natural for a teenage boy to have doubts, to be lead by his heart instead of his training.”
Qui-Gon was done with this farce of a meeting. “So I should let him make his foolish decision?” He asked. “Should let him fight a war he can’t win? Allow him to stand and watch the massacre that will result? He’ll be lucky if he escapes with his life,” Qui-Gon snapped angrily.
Instead of replying, Mace shot a look towards the still silent grandmaster. Yoda, looking more aged than Qui-Gon could remember, activated a hologram.
”Breaking news at the Senate Dome,” a bright-eyed pantoran exclaimed, smile too practiced to be natural. ”A historic moment in our Republic’s history, as the first senate delegation in over a century arrives from the Outer Rim planet of Melida/Daan.”
Qui-Gon felt his blood turn to ice, eyes locked on the grainy holo that appeared over the pantoran’s shoulder. His focus on the achingly familiar figure in the background.
Obi-Wan.
“Maybe now you can see why we’re concerned,” Mace continued, expression hard.
Still shaken from the sight of his former padawan, of the knowledge that Obi-Wan was alive, Qui-Gon remained silent.
“Won the war, the Young have,” Yoda said, voice startling loud in the heavy silence of the council room. “Formed a government, they have. Fighting a lost cause, Obi-Wan was not. A planet representative, he has become.”
Qui-Gon turned away. “Then he is more foolish than I thought,” he muttered.
It was unfortunate that for all his Jedi education, for all of their planning and strategizing, there were few things in the galaxy that could supersede Republic protocol.
NON-9, the tyrannical protocol-droid assigned to them, governed their first six weeks on Coruscant with a durasteel fist—shuffling them from one destination to the next with an efficiency that would have made a creche master green with envy and had Mawat contriving the most expedient way to strip the droid for parts.
“Senator,” NON-9 began, its vocal processor threatening in a way Ben hadn’t known a droid’s could be. “Your tour of the Curator’s Annex is scheduled for 0930,” its photoreceptors sharpened. “We should begin our departure, lest we arrive behind schedule.”
“If I have to see yet another spot where some poncy senator took a shat,” Mawat mumbled mutinously around a piece of muja fruit.
NON-9 ignored him, having been programmed only to respond to senators or a select number of Republic officials.
Ben decided he was done being paraded about the Capitol building like a bunch of unruly school-children. They’d fought a war. Stood up against Elders and a Jedi master. He was not about to be cowed by a dictatorial droid with a power-complex.
“You’re dismissed NON-9,” Ben ordered.
Mawat, who’d been in the process of putting on his shoes, perked up. Beside him, Dor tranquilly returned his attention to the tea pet a senator from Onderon gifted their delegation two weeks after their arrival. The quiet boy not-so secretly delighting at the way the duraresin gooberfish changed colors in response to heat, and diligently ’fed’ it every morning.
Towan glanced up from the pad he’d purloined from the Senate Quartermaster, mouth twitching.
NON-9 hummed. “Senator—,“ it tried. Only for Ben to make a cutting motion with his hand, silencing the droid.
“Get. Out.”
Photoreceptors glaringly bright, NON-9 made the droid-equivalent of a huff though its vocal processor couldn’t really catch the right tones for it to be effective, and left.
The moment its metallic blue casing vanished behind the automatic door of Melida/Daan’s cramped senatorial apartments, Mawat let out an exuberant whoop!
Ben rolled his eyes, though a smile broke out across his face at the other’s exuberance.
Towan said nothing, though his eyes twinkled from behind his pad. Dor kept feeding his ’fish’, allowing the smaller boy to drape himself dramatically across his lap as Mawat monologued how utterly exhausted he was and how this called for the finest entertainment the galaxy had to offer.
It wasn’t a secret that the former Scavenger Young was obsessed with old holofilms, especially anything with Linmar Colswall or Rorwill Woolpoll—actors who’d died over a century ago, much to Mawat’s consternation.
And as the other boys who’d somehow become his greatest friends within the last few weeks settled themself on the lumpy sofa to watch yet another grainy holofilm, Ben allowed himself to look out of the dingy transparisteel window overlooking the Senate District. Eyes trained on the glistening Senate Dome in the distance.
Ben was just leaving a committee meeting, Towan a step behind, when an unfamiliar voice hailed them from down the hall.
The handsome, slightly sneering face of Senator Ranulph Tarkin—representative for the Seswenna Sector and unofficial head of the militarist faction—greeted him with a tight-lipped smile.
Mawat, who’d taken to his role as master of the wardrobe with an enthusiasm once exclusively dedicated to setting off land mines and getting the last muja muffin respectively, had dressed Ben in an understated suit of bleached cotton. Lines softer, less severe, than an admiral’s uniform though its resemblance was unmistakable. To soften the image even further, Dor had pulled Ben’s copper locks into a simple twist, blue pin in the shape of a cerasi flower the one extravagance he’d allowed himself.
Towan was dressed in a similarly in grey, allowing himself to melt into the background when required. Few people ever bothered to notice the skinny teenager in the back of the room.
Senator Tarkin himself was dressed ostentatiously in a parody of a commanding officer’s uniform, though the number of buckles and medals would have been impractical in a real battle. He strutted towards them with an easy arrogance, barrel chest puffed up, shoulders comically straight and chin tilted at an inadvisable angle. A caricature brought to life.
“Senator Young,” Tarkin greeted, eyes straying to Ben’s right arm before drifting back to his face. “I wondered if I might have a moment of your time.” Though polite company might have called it a question, it was phrased as a command. Tarkin’s tone left no room for misinterpretation.
Nodding, he followed the other senator down the hall.
It had been over a year since the incident with the Melida holdouts, and although Ben had gradually gotten used to the cybernetic, he was uncomfortably aware of the looks it garnered amongst the rest of his colleagues. It was because of this Mawat decided to make it a focal piece of Ben’s senatorial wardrobe, rather than shy away from the injury. Sleeve of his overcoat draped artfully over the red and grey durasteel.
Tarkin said nothing for a moment, grey eyes darting to Ben’s right arm, before breaking away. “I’m sure that someone with your experience would be happier working on something more meaningful then,” he offered a bemused grin. “The transportation of construction materials.” There was an avuncular edge to his tone, body leaning towards Ben in a mock-conspiratorial manner. Like he was inviting Ben in on a joke. But there was something a little too mean about his smile, something a bit too mocking about the way he said ’construction materials’.
Despite all their plans, Ben couldn’t help but let a bit of his disdain show for this man who played at war. A man who’d never been forced to watch his comrades fall. A man who’d never held a dying child in his arms, murdered by their own parents.
Arching a brow, he cooly regarded the man before him. “In my experience,” he started softly. “The ability to reliably secure the transportation of construction materials is imperative for the continued stability of a civilization.” Ben’s voice was matter of fact, inflection giving away nothing of his true feelings. “Arterial shells and plasma scoring leave much to be desired in the way of infrastructure.”
Watching as Tarkin’s face turned an alarming shade of puce, Ben inclined his head before he calmly walked away. Towan a beat behind.
“Ah, Senator Young,” a bright voice exclaimed. Ben startled, ironclad grip over his reflexes the only thing preventing him from hurtling the flute of jogan juice at the newcomer. “How are you enjoying the festivities?”
Beside him, Mawat gripped his own flute tightly, knuckles white around the delicate stem. Dor gently peeled the smaller boy’s fingers away, removing the glass before it shattered—or worse, before it ended up in the face of a senator too stupid not to startle a delegation with PTSD.
To his credit, the man looked chagrined at his own foolishness. Dipping his head in apology, copper curls caught the light. “My apologies gentleman,” he said. Voice calmer, more tempered than the earlier greeting.
Ben inclined his head, an acknowledgment. Eyes darting towards his companions, Dor accepted the silent request and cheerfully guided Mawat away. Towan remained, a slender shadow beside him.
Once Mawat was a safe distance enough distance, Ben greeted the newcomer. “Senator Antilles, thank you for inviting us.”
Bail Antilles of Alderaan was a young man in his late twenties, who’d served in Alderaan’s senate delegation for over a decade, taking the planet’s senate seat the year before. Hardworking and dedicated, though perhaps a bit short-sighted when it came to matters outside the Core, he was a firm fixture in Galactic politics and had made a name for himself for his anti-corruption policies.
Policies which made him his fair share of enemies as well.
Antilles’ smile turned a bit more genuine at Ben’s words. “The pleasure was all mine,” he enthused. “I was wondering if I might have a moment of your time?”
He was genuinely asking, and likely wouldn’t even be offended if Ben declined.
After a moment, Ben agreed. Accepting the offered arm, Towan just a step behind, they toured the carefully manicured gardens that the Alderaanian delegation had procured for their soirée.
Antilles made no comment about Ben’s cybernetic, another point in the man’s favor despite his disastrous introduction. Barely spared it a glance, though it was wasn’t hidden by the gossamer fabric of Ben’s function outfit, durasteel extending to his shoulder blade and visible through the draped pleats down his back.
“My cousin Breha recently completed her Day of Demand,” Antilles said quietly. “An old Alderaanian tradition for heirs to the throne. They name three challenges, one for the body, mind, and heart to prove themselves worthy of their ascension as the crown prince or princess of Alderaan.”
Ben said nothing, though his brow furrowed slightly at the non sequitur.
“Breha named Appenza Peak as her challenge of the body, a mountain even experienced climbers have difficulty ascending,” Antilles offered a wry smile. “She’s always liked a challenge.” They took another turn about the gardens.
“Did she succeed?” Ben asked.
Antilles nodded. “She did, though she fell on the way down,” a quick glance. “Breha was hurt, hurt badly enough that her physicians needed to replace her heart and lungs with pulmonodes.” Antilles turned towards him, an earnest expression on his face. “She chose not to go through the bacta sessions typically recommended to cover them in new skin. She wanted to keep them as they were, a physical reminder she said, of what she had survived.”
Swallowing, Ben met the older man’s eyes. “Why are you telling me this?”
“It’s been pointed out to me that while I devote my life to the betterment of the Republic, allowing myself to be blinded to what others must endure in the name of survival, is—well, I probably shouldn’t repeat that in polite company,” Antilles mused, startling a laugh out of Towan.
Ben wasn’t any better, having to bite his lip to smother his grin.
“My point is,” Antilles continued. “I have allowed myself to be blind to the troubles of the Outer Rim, much to their detriment. I’d like to change that, if I can. Starting with Melidaaan.”
Ben paused, but only for a moment. Smiling something far softer and more genuine than he’d graced Tarkin with, Ben inclined his head. “We’d appreciate that senator,” he said sincerely.
SENATOR OF MELIDAAN MAKES A NAME FOR THEMSELVES IN PERMACRETE
Just months after the historic arrival of Melidaan’s senate delegation following a century of isolation, Senator Ben Young has quickly made a name for himself. Having charmed even the most intransigent of his colleagues with his thoughtful approach to issues and his quiet grace, the scarred darling has brought light to one of the galaxy’s most vital issues.
“The stability of our infrastructure and housing remains essential to the continued wellbeing of our citizens,” Senator Young remarked, fresh from a closed door session for the Committee on the Transportation of Construction Materials. “Permacrete is at the heart of that stability. If we cannot secure the transportation of such an important material, how then can we ensure the safety of our people?”
Melidaan, which had recently been plagued by civil-war, has noticeably suffered from their lack of access to reliable building materials. With the spotlight Senator Young has shown on his home planet, questions around their sudden emergence into the galactic arena persist. Why have they decided to return? What were the circumstances which lead to the first lasting peace on the planet in centuries? A source within the Senate has confirmed that a request for Jedi intervention was made by one of the political factions of Melidaaan nearly a year ago. While the Jedi Temple has refrained from commenting, one can only speculate on the relationship between the Order and the unified planet of Melidaan, and if the Jedi had anything to do with the planet’s sudden shift towards the Republic stage.
~TriNebulon News
Qui-Gon let out a heavy sigh, datapad screen dark.
“We’ll have to address this at some point,” Mace said. “With the kind of attention he’s getting—its only a matter of time before the situation on Melida/Daan becomes public.”
Qui-Gon said nothing, gaze trained on Coruscant’s darkening skyline.
Mace left him to his thoughts.
Cerasi grinned as yet another shipment of permacrete arrived, thanking the pilot while Nena’s squad took over.
Beside her, Nield stared off into the far distance, dark eyes longing.
She squeezed his arm, a gentle reassurance.
Ben would come back to them once his work was done.
They could wait.
Bail stopped him in between committee meetings, aides a tactful distance away. “Alderaan is scheduled to address the senate in about a week’s time from now,” the older man murmured quietly. “Queen Mazicia has already agreed to cede our remaining time to you, but will that be enough time to prepare?”
Ben shared a look with the slender boy beside him.
Towan nodded, eyes resolute.
“It’ll have to be,” Ben replied softly. His eyes were grateful as they regarded his fellow senator, who smiled in reply.
“Then Alderaan wishes you the best of luck,” Bail said.
Ben exhaled shakily, hands trembling.
The Young needed him to be calm.
Melidaan needed him.
Nield and Cerasi needed him.
He was the only one who could do this.
They were counting on him.
He would not, could not falter.
A breath in. Slow. Measured.
The memory of warm, scarred hands holding his face. A gentle weight against his forehead. Words said by a voice achingly familiar and precious. “When everything gets too big,” Nield whispered, breath soft against a freckled cheek. “All you have to do is find five things.”
Jedi padawan Obi-Wan Kenobi had looked at him in confusion. “What?”
Nield laughed. “Five things,” he repeated softly. “Find five things you can focus on. A certain color, something that starts with the same letter. Pairs or sets. The thing itself doesn’t matter,” dark eyes peered at him from beneath a curtain of thick lashes. “But find five things, keep them in your mind, focus all your attention on them.”
Licking dry lips, Obi-Wan couldn’t help but ask, “And then?”
Nield smiled. “Then the world doesn’t seem quite as scary,” he reassured.
Light years away, on another world, Ben opened his eyes. “Five things,” he breathed out.
Five things that were blue.
The carpet.
The Senate Commandos down the hall.
The underside of the Senator of Naboo’s collar.
Another breath in.
The chair in the reception room they’d given him to prepare before he boarded Melidaan’s assigned hoverpod.
A breath out, smoother this time.
The cerasi flowers that grew wild near their home. The ones Nield always picked for Cerasi as a joke, though they inevitably ended up in the cracked vase near the rumpled sleep mat the three of them shared.
Ben looked down at his lap.
His hands were still.
“Ready Senator?” Towan asked.
Ben, Senator for the Unified Planet of Melidaan, nodded.
“Thank you Chancellor Kalpana,” Bail said. “I would like to bring the chamber’s attention to Article 161977 of Senate protocol, which states that a senior senator may yield the floor freely, and without interruption, to a junior senator in matters of a planetary emergency.”
Kalpana frowned, though he didn’t interject.
“Per our most recent reports from the chairs of the Republic Security Council and the Committee on the Allocation of Disaster Relief Resources,” Bail continued. “The planet of Melidaan is in a state of a planetary emergency. As a result, I am invoking Article 161977 and yielding the floor to the junior senator from Melidaan.”
Mawat subtly adjusted Ben’s collar before Melidaan’s repulsorpod smoothly detached from its docking platform.
“For luck,” he whispered.
Ben breathed.
“Senators of the Galactic Republic,” he began. “There has been much speculation regarding Melidaan’s emergence in Republic politics after a period of isolation. A period marked with violence and bloodshed as its inhabitants did their best to destroy one another,” Ben’s voice didn’t shake as he regarded the assembly. His hands, resting serenely on the pod’s podium, remained steady. “I stand before you to lay that speculation to rest.”
Several murmurs erupted at his words, enough that the vice chair had to call for order.
He waited, until the last of the errant whispers abated.
“I’ve dedicated my life to the world of Melidaan,” Ben said. “Though it is not the world I was born on.”
More whispers.
“I came to Melidaan as a padawan-learner,” he tucked a piece of hair behind his ear. Cameras catching the bracelet around his wrist. One made of three different strands of hair woven together. Auburn, brown and ash blonde. “On a mission with my master to recover a Jedi who’d been lost in the field. I have almost no memories that predate my arrival to the Jedi Temple here on Coruscant,” Ben smiled. Something soft and tinged with an old sadness. “And few bonds of affection that cleaved so tightly. For a time, being a Jedi was as much a part of the boy I was, as being a member of the Young is a part of me now.”
Ben stopped, gaze resting once more on his hands. One flesh and bone. The other cool durasteel.
He closed his eyes.
Cerasi smiled gently, her palm pressed firmly against his. He could still remember the warmth of her skin, the beating of her blood against his. “You connect to me,” she whispered. “To me and Nield. To the Young. Our families have abandoned us, but that doesn’t matter. We’ll be each other’s families.”
Nield put his hand on Ben’s shoulder, grip firm and reassuring. “We are Young,” he said simply. The low baritone of his voice more solid than the ground beneath them. “We Are Everyone.” So no-one would have to stand alone.
“Through the years, I tried to serve the Republic faithfully and uphold the teachings of the Order that had raised me,” Ben opened his eyes. “The path of a Jedi padawan is an honor few are privileged to experience, an honor I had been gifted. I am grateful for the opportunity, grateful for all I learned. But on Melida/Daan all the abstractions that were discussed in our classes were able to fit into something concrete, something real,” he paused. “Melida/Daan was a world that had been dying long before our arrival on the planet, its native inhabitants locked in a never ending war between Melida and Daan. When we arrived, the children of both factions decided they’d had enough of the violence that governed their lives and the lives of their parents, their grandparents and great-grandparents. Enough of the hate, of the bloodshed, and monuments to the dead.”
All eyes were locked on this broken, fragile boy with plasma scars across his freckled skin. Whose hair glinted like starlight, eyes bright like kyber.
”Not fragile like a flower,” Mawat had said, gaze fixed on the pale fabric at Ben’s back. “Fragile like a bomb, like a plasma grenade in a crowded square.”
As a Jedi, he’d been taught to be lesser. Taught that his duty was to the Galaxy. To the Republic. Not himself. The boy he’d been as Obi-Wan Kenobi was taught to hide the cracks, the weakness and insecurity. To smother his anxiety with a placid expression and faith in a code he didn’t believe in. Obi-Wan Kenobi had been taught that fragility was weakness.
Yet for all their tranquil neutrality they hid behind like armor, the Jedi had broken on Melida/Daan.
The Young had encouraged him to fight for something he believed in. To nurture the spark in his chest the Jedi had done their best to smolder, and kindle it into a flame. The Young embraced their strength, embraced their desire to live in a world that was dying before they’d even been born. Acknowledged their fragile, breakable lives, and did it anyway.
He’d known it from the moment he’d joined Cerasi and Nield on the mission to the Outer Circle. Felt it, when he managed to bomb the deflection towers. When he faced Master Qui-Gon and told him he would not leave the Young to their fate.
”I found something on Melida/Daan more important than the Jedi Code,” Ben said. “Something not only worth fighting for, but worth dying for. These people feel like my people. This cause feels like my cause. It calls to me like nothing I’ve ever felt before. Melidaan has found peace, but our world is still dying. This chamber’s hold on the wealth of a thousand worlds, its hold on the allocation of resources from going to the worlds they can do the most good, has given birth to a monster more insidious than the one raised on Melida/Daan. How many more worlds will be lost as this chamber allows itself to become locked in gridlock and petty squabbles? I stand before you not as a senator, or a padawan, or a student of politics,” Ben breathed, voice breaking. “I stand before you as a child who’s witnessed his people dying, whose world stands at the edge of an abyss. How many worlds must die, because of your indifference?”
”Obi-Wan’s pale face shimmered before him, then disappeared. At that moment, he saw what Yoda and Tahl had been trying, in their different ways, to tell him. He had not been betrayed by a Jedi. He had been betrayed by a boy. A boy overtaken by passion and circumstance. The boy deserved his understanding. No, he had no secret way to see into a boy’s heart.
Perhaps all he needed to do was listen.” ~Jedi Apprentice: The Uncertain Path by Jude Watson
Senator Valorum opened his mouth, intent on delivering his own congratulations personally when Senator Young froze.
The man frowned. “Senator?” He called, alarmed at the pink that crept over the boy’s ears.
Before he could inquire further, the boy was moving.
A glance at the boy’s aides revealed nothing, the shortest wearing a bright grin while the tallest simply rolled his eyes.
Mawat leaned into Dor happily, eyes locked on Ben.
“Better than a holofilm?” The other boy asked quietly.
Mawat grinned.
Ben ran.
Heedless of the alarmed calls of his colleagues, or the worried glance of the Senate Guards.
He hurried down the hall, towards home.
He hurtled forward. Knowing that the other would catch him.
Would always catch him.
Ben’s eyes closed as familiar arms encircled him, the heartbeat beneath his cheek achingly familiar.
“Nield,” he breathed.
Another pair of arms wrapped around his waist, and Ben allowed himself to breathe.
The scent of blaster oil and Nield’s fry cakes a balm against the shattered pieces of his heart. “Cerasi.”
A smile was pressed into his shoulder, a gentle kiss pressed into his hair.
Ben breathed.
Nield and Cerasi were here.
He was home.
SENATOR FOR MELIDAAN DEPARTS ON THE WINGS OF IMPASSIONED PLEA
In a move that rocked the Republic to its core, Senator Ben Young for the Unified Planet of Melidaan has announced plans of his departure from the Republic Senate on the wings of his impassioned plea for better allocation of resources to the Republic’s most vulnerable worlds.
“I’ve done all that I set out to do,” the teen senator commented. “It’s time for me to return home.”
In related news, the Jedi Order has announced that their Service Corps will embark on a mercy tour across the Outer Rim, starting with Melidaan. Such an undertaking has not been seen since Chancellor Soh’s Great Works, and marks a shift in the Order’s operations. While the Council remains silent on the matter of Senator Young, sources within the Temple who wish to remain anonymous have confirmed that much has changed within the Order in the wake of the former padawan’s speech.
Although he intends to depart as abruptly as he arrived, the impact this scarred teenager from Melidaan has left not only on the Senate but the Republic as a whole, leaves one hopeful for the future of our democracy.
As Chancellor Lina Soh once said, “We are all the Republic.”
~TriNebulon News