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Chapter Text

It is a truth all Jedi are forced to acknowledge at one point or other, that a knight in good possession of the proper flimsiwork and a tenuous grip on their sanity, will be expected to add to the lineage lest they be confronted with the terrible and horrifying consequences of a master in want of a grandpadawan.

Unless that Jedi, was Qui-Gon Jinn.

Having raised one apprentice to knighthood, only for his second to Fall, Qui-Gon Jinn made the solemn vow to never take on a padawan-learner ever again.

Because no matter how hard he tried, every initiate only served as a painful reminder of the padawan he had lost. The padawan he’d failed. It would be unfair to ask an initiate to fight the shadows that haunted Qui-Gon’s past.

So despite the annual invitations to the Initiates Tournament and all his grandmaster’s clever manipulations, Qui-Gon Jinn would not be contributing to the lineage.

Hands trembling, Obi-Wan stared at the words in shock. This couldn’t be right. It couldn’t! There was still four weeks until his birthday. He still had time.

Yet no matter how hard he wished, the words didn’t change.

Corpsmember-in-Training Kenobi is to report at 0730 to the Monument, in preparation for his reassignment to the Agricultural Corps on Karlinus.

He’d never be a Knight.

Not now, not after the Council of Reassignment decided his fate.

He’d…

He’d never…

The words became blurred, pixelated characters obscured. Was something wrong with his pad?

It took a moment for him to realize he was crying.

Fat, heavy tears breaking free without his consent in a manner unbefitting of a Jedi.

Obi-Wan’s chest made a hollow, rasping sound. Breath escaping in a desperate gasp.

’There is…no emotion…’, he tried. Mind struggling to recall the familiar words.

’There is…there is…peace…’, Obi-Wan bit his lip hard. The pain grounding, though it did little against the aching in his chest. ’There is no…no ignorance…’

Distantly, he heard a dull clatter as the pad fell from shaking hands.

What was the next verse?

Why couldn’t he remember?

Biting his lip harder, hard enough that his teeth broke through the delicate skin of his lip, Obi-Wan ruefully thought it was little wonder why a master didn’t want him.

A sound, like a knock on his door, though he couldn’t go check.

“Obi-Wan?” A gentle voice asked.

It was familiar.

Why was it familiar?

Another sound, a sharp hiss as the automatic door lock released.

Then a warm green robe filled his blurry vision, the familiar scent of brine and driftwood invaded his senses before two arms wrapped around him in a firm hug.

“It’s okay Obi-Wan,” a voice murmured. Bant. “It’ll be okay.”

Swallowing back his tears, Obi-Wan buried himself deeper in his friend’s soothing Force presence. “I’ve b-been assigned to the A-AgriCorps,” he whispered tearfully. Unable to stop. Unable to act like a Jedi.

Bant said nothing for a long moment, hands running up and down his trembling back soothingly. Finally, once Obi-Wan managed to take a full breath without shaking, salmon-colored fingers lifted his chin. He stared into the Calamarian’s big silver eyes.

Her voice, when it came, was so achingly gentle. “We are not to know,” she reminded him.

Chest aching, though this time with something like fondness, Obi-Wan dipped his head. “We are to do,” he replied back, words bittersweet.

Master Ali-Alann said it often in the creche, a way to remind them that even if they didn’t understand the significance of a task assigned to them, it was still their duty to complete it to the best of their ability. No matter how unwanted.

Bant’s eyes glistened with tears, though she blinked them back furiously. “Miss you, I will,” she said. Mimicking Master Yoda the way they often did when there weren’t any masters looking.

Obi-Wan’s lips twisted into a shaky smile. “M-meet again, we will,” he said.

It was tradition for a senior corpsmember to accompany a reassigned Initiate to their new post.

So it was something of a shock for Obi-Wan to take in the intimidating height of Master Jinn, face carved into a stern yet thoughtful mask. One too carefully cultivated to be anything but practiced.

Everyone in the creche had heard of Qui-Gon Jinn.

Although he was a powerful Knight, considered to be one of the Order’s best, that wasn’t why every Jedi Initiate between the ages of ten and twelve knew his name.

Instead, he was known as the master who’d repudiated his first padawan after his second had Fallen to the dark side.

Despite having made a solemn vow to never take a padawan again, the enigmatic master still attended the annual Initiates Tournament. The man’s silence and vacant stare steering hopeful initiates in the opposite direction.

And every year, as yet another class of Initiates aged out or were taken as a padawan-learner, Master Jinn would leave.

Empty-handed. Determined to fight the darkness of the galaxy alone.

Though younglings liked to whisper that it wasn’t the darkness of the galaxy Master Jinn fought, but his own.

So why was the man standing in-front of an aged Corellian barge destined to take Obi-Wan to his future?

Speaking of the ship, Obi-Wan was honestly concerned at its ability to complete the trip.

Pockmarked with what looked like meteor hits—which indicated either an issue with its deflector shields or an indifferent captain, neither of which eased Obi-Wan’s doubts about its space-worthiness—and riddled with layers of grime and carbon-scoring, it was possibly the most hideous thing he’d ever seen.

And he’d seen Reeft after they’d found the one food that couldn’t be processed by a Dressellian’s digestive system.

Hawkbat Clan still suffered nightmares from that awful day, and Jogan fruit was forbidden from being anywhere near their clan dormitories.

Almost as though he’d sensed Obi-Wan’s confusion, Master Jinn turned around. A bushy brow rose in question, making his rough features appear almost serene. “Ah,” the man said.

Obi-Wan waited, but no other words were forthcoming.

Just as he was wondering if he should perhaps greet the older Jedi, Master Jinn was already turning. Gargantuan frame striding up the gangplank, and ducking through the barge’s open hatch.

Alright then.

Taking a deep breath, hand wrapped reassuringly around the packet of tea his friends gifted him before his departure, Obi-Wan squared his shoulders.

Lifted his chin.

Settled his pack more comfortably on his back, and strode towards his new life.

Qui-Gon Jinn stood calmly on the Monument’s bridge, hands folded serenely into his sleeves as the blue light of hyperspace swam across his vision.

“Sir,” a Rodian started nervously, dull grey flightsuit marking him as a midshipman. “We’re receiving an emergency transmission, marked priority clearance and addressed to a Master Jinn.”

With a mere dip of his chin, Qui-Gon asked for the message to be patched through.

It was unusual for a Jedi Knight to escort an initiate to their corps posting, though Qui-Gon had his suspicions.

Master Yoda was particularly tenacious in his attempts to convince Qui-Gon to take a padawan-learner from this year’s class of initiates. Even paraded about this specific initiate, before calmly stating the child was slated for the corps if a master couldn’t be convinced to take him.

Probably hoping that Qui-Gon’s soft spot for pathetic life-forms would be enough to convince him to break his vow.

Yet Qui-Gon Jinn remained unmoved, unwilling to take responsibility for another angry boy’s future.

Which was why he’d kept his distance, taking up a position on the bridge or meditating. Resolute to ignore the boy until they reached Karlinus, and Corpsmember-in-Training Kenobi officially became someone else’s problem.

A flicker broke him from his thoughts, and Qui-Gon turned his attention to the incoming transmission.

Chancellor Valorum’s face looked grave, though his eyes were warm when they regarded Qui-Gon. “Master Jinn,” the supreme chancellor greeted.

Qui-Gon bowed. “Chancellor,” he replied.

“A situation has arisen, one which requires Jedi intervention,” the chancellor continued. His eyes glanced down, probably reviewing something on his pad. “By mere coincidence, you’re already en route to resolve the situation. I’m sending you the details now.”

As his pad chimed, Qui-Gon Jinn bowed once again. “All is as the Force wills,” he murmured. “I will strive to complete this as quickly as possible.”

Padmé’s hands didn’t shake as her eyes traced the graceful lines of Naboo’s capital city, its beauty marred only by the metallic gleam of the Trade Federation’s droid army.

She was too well-trained for that.

Even from this distance, she could hear the dull, metallic clank, clank, clank as they marched through the heart of Naboo. Their heavy, hydraulic powered steps no doubt cracking the smooth stones that lined Theed’s streets, the people—her people—unable to do anything as their home was invaded.

As their Queen was captured, forced to sign a treaty that would indenture the entirety of the Naboo.

Beside her, Sabé squeezed her hand.

Turning her head, dark eyes met hers.

“We are brave, Your Highness,” Sabé said quietly.

Resolutely.

A little further away, the rest of her handmaidens stood patiently. Waiting for their Queen.

Padmé closed her eyes, fingers wrapped tightly around her bodyguard’s. Finding comfort in their steadiness, in tracing a callous formed from years of playing hallikset. In the knowledge that she wasn’t alone.

We are brave, Your Highness.

When she opened her eyes, Amidala stared back.

If the changeover was going to happen, it would have to be now.

Eyes turned once again to the city, she solemnly committed the image to her memory. Whatever came next, she would have to be brave.

For the Naboo. For her people.

For herself.

We are brave, Your Highness.

Queen Amidala nodded.

Eirtaé muttered a curse as she poked about the engine room.

The hyperdrive was shot. Their shield generator was on its last legs and there was a fuel leak Force only knew where. To make matters worse they’d landed on a miserable dust bowl of a planet that, even with the ship’s environmental controls, left her mouth gritty and tasting of sand.

Hearing a soft clatter from beside her, Eirtaé swore. If that kriffing Gungan was making yet another mess for her to clean up—

Except it wasn’t Jar Jar Binks.

Head bowed at an uncomfortable angle, soft blue eyes glanced up at her from beneath a mop of strawberry blonde curls.

It was the padawan.

Something Kenobi.

Eirtaé could admit she’d been a bit frazzled when introductions were made, though the boy did an admirable job of staying out of the way. Perhaps too good of a job, as Master Jinn barely spared him a glance throughout the entirety of their flight from Naboo.

Barely took the time to make sure the boy was strapped in, before doling out orders to take-off.

Since then, he’d kept mostly to himself. Though she’d heard him conversing softly with the R2-unit who’d managed to get their shields back up before disaster struck.

Casually scanning the smaller teen, Eirtaé noticed the cup in his hands, fragrant steam curling in lazy spirals in the ventilated air.

”I, um,” he started, voice slightly cracking. “I t-thought you might like some t-tea.”

When she made no move to take it, he nodded. Almost in understanding, and left it on a nearby console. With another duck of his head, and surely the kid’s neck had to be hurting, he disappeared just as suddenly as he’d arrived.

Eirtaé returned to work, intrigued.

Taking her time to clean her hands of the various substances they’d acquired from her inspection, she hesitantly picked up the lukewarm cup and took a sip.

Rabé regarded the state of the Queen’s wardrobe, Yané beside her.

”It’s not too bad,” she muttered. “Could be worse.”

They were fortunate all starships with a royal classification carried a complement of the Royal Wardrobe.

Which meant that even though they’d be arriving on Coruscant little more than beggars, at least they’d be well dressed ones.

There were even a few variations of the handmaiden’s uniform.

Yané hummed her agreement. “If needed, we can deconstruct some of the pieces for a wider variety,” the older girl said. She eyed a deep red outer robe embroidered with swirling rosettes. “Though most of these might be too jovial, given the circumstances.”

Making to reply, Rabé paused when she noticed they had a visitor.

The boy stood there awkwardly, a tray clutched desperately between white-knuckled hands.

Yane turned, eyebrows raised when she spotted the padawan.

”Yes?” Rabé asked, tone a bit too defensive to be considered polite.

Shifting uncomfortably, the boy raised his tray in answer.

”Oh,” Yané smiled. “Is that for us?” She asked, gesturing to the teacups arranged on the tray the young padawan had in a death grip.

Nodding in answer, he froze when the older handmaiden carefully picked up a saucer.

Bringing the cup up to her lips, Yané blew over the rim of her cup, before taking a delicate sip.

She hummed in delight.

Curious despite herself, Rabé made her way over and accepted her own cup.

She drank.

The familiar taste of bergamot and strawberries danced across her tongue, ending on the rich earthiness she’d come to associate with Karlini tea.

”This is perfect,” Yané enthused. A bright smile on her face. “Thank you.”

The padawan, who’d brought the empty tray up to his chest and was currently hugging it like it was the only thing keeping him from having a nervous break down, ducked his head shyly.

Yané shot her a glare.

”Yes,” she replied hastily. “It’s really good, thank you.”

It was good.

Better than what they served in the palace. Rabé wondered if Padmé could find some excuse to invite the Jedi back to Naboo after this business with the Trade Federation was concluded. She’d even be willing to put up with Master Jinn, if the padawan continued making tea like this.

Wide-eyed, the boy nodded before scurrying off.

Yané watched his retreat with a frown while Rabé shrugged, taking another sip.

Obi-Wan wasn’t entirely sure how he’d ended up here, eyes darting nervously to the Queen before looking away.

One moment they were bound for Karlinus.

The next, Master Jinn had received an emergency transmission from the Supreme Chancellor. Their ship was rerouted, and they boarded a Trade Federation ship. Which then proceeded to fire upon their transport. It was obvious the Monument, with its pitted and scarred hull, would never withstand a direct hit.

Then his and Master Jinn’s flight to Naboo.

An underwater city.

A droid-occupied capital.

Master Jinn rescuing the Queen and securing a transport, only to then worry about breaking through a planet-wide blockade! Nearly being blown-apart as their shield-generator was hit. Only to be saved by the efforts of an R2-unit.

And now they were on Tatooine.

Master Jinn had left, intent on finding a replacement for their hyperdrive generator.

Which left Obi-Wan here. Trying his best not to stare at the Queen who felt different in the Force than she had while they were fleeing from Naboo. Her handmaidens’ silent presence eerily reminiscent of the Temple Guards, and just as blank in the Force.

He chanced another look, only to squeak when dark brown eyes regarded him with amusement.

Sabé forced herself not to smile at the adorably high-pitched sound the padawan let out when she caught him looking at her, curiosity in his bright blue eyes.

Though the feat was made all the more difficult with her face itching under the makeup.

She was pretty sure the generic blend they’d managed to find in the ship’s supplies would cause a break-out.

This was the longest she’d ever worn the Queen’s face, and the distance it created was starting to chafe at her resolve. Was this how Padmé felt?

Speaking of her Queen, Sabé couldn’t help but worry. Why hadn’t she returned yet? Had Master Jinn managed to secure the parts they needed? Could he protect her? She’d witnessed his skills on Naboo, and while he was a consummate fighter something about his attitude and high-handed approach made her protective instincts flare.

Lost in her thoughts, she almost didn’t notice the proffered tea had it not been for the gentle rattling the cup made in its saucer. Sabé glanced at the padawan again, wondering when he’d had the time to make it. Let alone where he could have found it.

He licked his lips, wincing as it prodded a barely healed scab on his lower lip. “Um,” he started. Voice high with nerves. “T-tea, Your Highness?”

The cup rattled harder. Deciding it would be better to accept it before he managed to spill it all over her lap—something she did not want to deal with, especially in this dress—Sabé inclined her head. “Thank you, ser padawan,” she said. The Queen’s voice adding an odd note of formality to the kind gesture.

The boy ducked his head, and Sabé could hear Eirtae’s wince. At this rate, he’d be lucky to make it to knighthood without back problems.

“N-not a padawan,” he murmured.

Sabé couldn’t hide the flicker of confusion, though fortunately the boy still hadn’t looked up from his intense scrutiny of the floor.

“Oh,” she replied. “I was under the impression that was the title typically given to a Jedi apprentice.” She chanced a look back at Rabé, who offered a nearly imperceptible shrug in response. Naboo might have been a bit isolationist in relation to the wider Republic, but even they knew what a Jedi padawan was.

As though confirming her thoughts, the pada—, the boy nodded. He still hadn’t glanced up, and she honestly wondered if something was on the floor to have capitvated his attention for so long. A quick look confirmed that no, it really was just a floor. A bit scuffed, but otherwise clean. No secrets of the galaxy tucked away between its durasteel plates.

“That’s correct, Y-your Highness,” he stammered. “But I-I’m not Master J-Jinn’s apprentice.”

What?

She said nothing. Simply waited.

“I was supposed to go to the AgriCorps outpost on K-Karlinus,” he said, voice nearly a whisper. “But then M-Master Jinn got the Chancellor’s comm and o-our ship was rerouted,” a shrug. “N-now I’m here.”

Unsure what to say, Sabé brought the tea to her lips. Fragrant steam bathed her face, its scent achingly familiar. Karlini tea. A common blend, despite being stored on a royal starship, but all the more precious because this was the blend her family drank. The tea they all drank.

She took a sip.

It tasted like home.

When she glanced back up, the boy was already gone.

Tatooine was a harsh planet. A world of sand and dust. Its twin suns making life a constant battle for survival.

For Anakin, it was home.

The only one he’d ever known in his, admittedly, short life. But home all the same.

And sure, there were some things he wished he could change.

That mom didn’t have to worry about Watto gambling away their water rations.

Or Kitster would stop getting in trouble.

If Greedo could stop being a kriffing sleemo.

But overall, life was simply what it was.

Which was why when he glanced up from his work one day and saw a pretty girl accompanied by a scruffy haired man and a salmon-skinned humanoid, Anakin took it in stride.

For a moment, he considered a greeting he’d been taught by an old spacer. But in the way that he sometimes knew things without really knowing how he knew them, Anakin had the feeling if he tried the angel line, the girl would laugh at him.

”You’re a funny little boy.”

Blinking, Anakin silently decided it would be better if he didn’t say anything at all.

”The death toll is catastrophic,” Governor Bibble said, face a study of devastation. “We must bow to their wishes. You must contact me.”

Obi-Wan could feel how desperate the situation was, how worried the Queen and the rest of her party were as they listened to the transmission. He worried his lip, hissing as the scab that barely began to heal burst open at the prodding.

“It’s a trick,” Master Jinn said. He was already standing. “Send no reply, send no transmissions of any kind.” And then he was gone in a swirl of brown robes.

The door barely swished closed before one of the handmaidens—Rabé maybe—huffed. “Well of course it’s a trick,” she groused. “What does he think we are, some bumbling nerfherders who can’t see the fleece for the wool?”

The Queen made a sound that might have been a laugh, while the handmaiden beside her—Eirtaé?—chortled.

Captain Panaka sighed. “Your Highness,” he began. The captain seemed to have aged a decade in the time between their flight from Naboo to the unexpected landing on Tatooine. “Master Jinn may be a bit,” he hesitated. “Unorthodox, but he’s still our best bet at reaching Coruscant.”

Obi-Wan wasn’t sure if he was supposed to be here for this.

As he was considering the best way to get up without being noticed, the Queen hummed.

“What is the current status on the part we need?” She asked, voice pitched lowly.

Panaka shrugged. “Either we’ll have the part by the end of the day tomorrow, or we won’t,” he said. “Master Jinn said he’d be at some cultural event tomorrow, where he hopes he’ll be able to finalize everything. Though he was admittedly vague on the details.”

Master Jinn was usually vague on the details, Obi-Wan discovered.

When no further information was forthcoming, Panaka saluted.

Leaving only the Queen, her handmaidens, and Obi-Wan.

Dark eyes met his.

“And what do you think?” The Queen asked.

Obi-Wan felt his breath stutter in his chest.

He worried his lip again, the pain grounding and missed the dark looks the handmaidens shot at the action.

“I think,” he began. “That even if Master Jinn is a bit reckless, we have to trust he’ll do what is right.”

The Queen didn’t say anything.

Bowing lower than he normally would, Obi-Wan exited the throne room.

“That’s it,” Yané growled. Making as though to follow the boy out.

Saché stopped her. “You can’t just adopt a Jedi youngling,” she sighed.

The older girl shot her a glare, and Saché felt her stomach flutter at the look.

“It’s not as though that pompous Master Jinn is going to look out for him,” she snapped. “Did you see his lip? Or the state of his hands?”

Eirtaé stirred the pot even further. “Not to mention the way he’s constantly ducking his head, as though terrified of making direct eye-contact with anyone.” She had a considering look on her face, and Saché knew that the blonde was already considering the best way to improve the “not-a-padawan’s” posture before it caused permanent damage.

Rabé said nothing, and desperate, she turned to Sabé.

A tiny shrug. “Do you think he’d want to be called Wané or Obé?”

Saché sighed. It might be nice not to be the youngest amongst the party. She hoped he picked Wané, it was definitely the better choice out of the two.

“You Jedi are far too reckless,” Padmé reproached. “The Queen will not—“

Master Jinn leaned down, a patronizing smirk across his face. “The Queen trusts my judgement, young handmaiden,” he said. Tone light. “You should too.”

That insufferable—

“You assume too much,” she hissed in reply.

As they took to the stands, Padmé couldn’t help but wonder if there was some hidden agenda behind the man’s scheme.

Surely this couldn’t be the way all Jedi operated? Entrusting their fate to the Force was one thing.

Placing it in the hands of a twelve year old boy who’d never won a race—let alone finished one—seemed a bit too cavalier for her taste.

Please, she prayed. Please let this work.

Qui-Gon could admit he was acting a bit too insolent than a Jedi ambassador typically should, especially when he had the sneaking suspicion the girl beside him was more than a mere handmaiden, but there was something about the situation that left him feeling off-balance.

No, he thought. Glancing at the screen as Anakin waved joyfully. There was something about this boy.

He hadn’t expected to meet another Force-sensitive on this miserable planet, let alone one who shone like a miniature sun. Learning he was a slave had been a surprise, though it made sense why the Republic hadn’t discovered him yet.

Qui-Gon returned to the ship, ostensibly to hear the transmission they’d received, though in reality it was to run an analysis on the blood sample he’d managed to get his hands on when he treated the boy for a cut. What he found, shocked him.

A midi-chlorian count of over twenty-thousand.

Not even his grandmaster had a count that high.

Qui-Gon was not a Searcher, he’d never felt the call, but he couldn’t help but wonder if the Force hadn’t meant for him to find Anakin? If perhaps he hadn’t felt the urge to take a padawan-learner because the boy he was meant to train was here? On Tatooine.

As their platform rose, Qui-Gon placed a reassuring hand on Shmi’s shoulder.

No matter what happened, he would do his best to give Anakin a better life.

Obi-Wan stood in the cramped galley, stripped down to just his undershirt and leggings as he fruitlessly tried to clean the dust from his tunic. With his reassingment, he hadn’t bothered to pack more than a spare change of clothes since the AgriCorps would provide a new uniform.

But with everything that happened between his reassignment and now, and losing his beige outer robe to an unfortunate oil spill from one of the R2-units when he was napping in their hold, he’d been left with one tunic and an extra pair of leggings. And he could admit, at least to himself, that he was starting to smell.

How is there still more sand? Obi-Wan thought in horror. I haven’t left the ship!

He was still musing over the best way to deodorize the sweat-stained fabric of his old training tunic when a throat cleared delicately behind him.

Obi-Wan jumped, criniging as the back of his head met the durasteel cabinet above the sink. One hand going to rub at the forming knot with the other clutching the tunic to his chest, he turned around.

A handmaiden stared back at him.

Saché? He thought. The scary one.

While most teen girls were scary, this one was particularly horrifying because she reminded him of Madam Nu, with kyber bright eyes that saw everything. She was just as blank in the Force as the rest of them, something Obi-Wan was still trying to figure out since he didn’t think any of them were Force-sensitive. But combined with the cool marble of her face, and the unnatural stillness they all seemed to possess, Obi-Wan had no idea what she was thinking. That thought scared him more than the eerie resemblance to the Chief Librarian.

Saché’s eyes were turned towards the wrinkled fabric in his hand, nose curled in distaste.

Remembering the smell, he blushed. “S-sorry,” Obi-Wan said awkwardly.

Bright eyes met his. “For what?”

Rubbing his head, he winced. “Um…” Obi-Wan trailed off pathetically. Because calling attention to the fact he smelled definitely wasn’t an option, but he couldn’t ignore the fact either.

When he didn’t continue, a dark brow rose imperiously. “Do you have any other clothes?”

Face hot, Obi-Wan shook his head.

A hum. “I might be able to help,” Saché answered. Turning around, she gestured for him to follow her. He took a step forward, only to fumble when she suddenly peered over her shoulder. “And leave that,” she ordered, indicating his tunic with a wrinkled nose.

Face burning hotter than Tatooine’s twin suns, Obi-Wan mutely placed the wrinkled lump on the counter and followed her out of the galley.

Saché hummed thoughtfully, adjusting the tabbard as she did so.

“And the shoes fit?” She asked, fixing a pleat.

She glanced up to see the not-a-padawan’s flushed expression as he shyly nodded.

Eirtaé’s feet were too big, much to the older girl’s chagrin, and Rabé’s too narrow.

So Saché had loaned him an extra pair of hers. It was somewhat hilarious that despite being taller than her, they shared the same shoe-size.

“Um,” the boy started. She glanced back up at him. “A-are, are you sure this is okay?” He asked, voice cracking at the end.

“Oh yes!” Yané reassured as she swarmed in, chittering happily as she made her own adjustments. “Well done Saché,” the older girl praised. Saché ignored how warm her ears were, for once thankful for the karking hood, and stood up.

Obi-Wan stood there with a bright blush as the girls regarded him, looking like he was fighting the urge to fidget. Saché allowed herself a smile. The flame colored robes suited him.

“What do you mean you’ve been sleeping in the droid repair bay?” Yané nearly growled, dark brows furrowed dangerously as she regarded the fidgeting boy before her.

Eirtaé wore a similar expression.

The not-a-padawan shrugged, chin tucked into his chest. “T-there wasn’t room anywhere else,” he said, quietly enough Eirtaé needed to lean in to hear. “And I d-didn’t want to bother anyone w-when I didn’t get assigned a room.”

“We thought you were sharing with Master Jinn,” Yané exclaimed. “Had we known that wasn’t the case, we’d have found a more suitable arrangement.” She didn’t yell, but it was a near thing.

They’d all assumed the Jedi would room together. It only made sense for a master and padawan to share. Except Obi-Wan wasn’t Master Jinn’s padawan, and the older man seemed to want nothing to do with the boy. It was incorrigible that he’d been sleeping in the droid repair bay, even if it was a lot roomier than others with the Naboo preference for aesthetics over function. Any number of things could have gone wrong, and Eirtaé was honestly surprised the worst had been an oil spill that ruined Obi-Wan’s spare change of clothes.

But he was right, unfortunately. The cruiser, while luxurious with it’s royal designation, was a logistical nightmare. There simply wasn’t enough space for everyone onboard, and with Jinn having taken a room for himself, the options for Obi-Wan were severely limited.

Yané’s eyes narrowed, before her head gave a single decisive nod. “You’re rooming with us,” she said.

Eirtaé cast a surreptious glance towards the brunette, but Yané was already dragging Obi-Wan in the direction of their room.

“Well we have all the essential parts we need. I’m going back.”

Panaka frowned as he turned to face Master Jinn, finding the man already mounted on an eopie. “Back?” He asked. “Why? With the situation back home—,”

“I have some unfinished business,” Master Jinn interrupted, face a serene mask that Panaka sincerely wanted to punch. “I won’t be long.”

Calling on all his training, and reminding himself that Mariek wouldn’t be available to break him out of prison for assaulting the chancellor’s ambassador, Panaka exhaled slowly. “Might I remind you,” he began carefully through gritted teeth. “That your role as the chancellor’s ambassador is to address the situation with the Trade Federation. Not galavant across Mos Espa.”

Master Jinn turned hard blue eyes on him, his silence palpable in the hot desert air. After a long moment, he began turning his mount. “It’s the boy who’s responsible for getting us these parts,” he remarked drily. Almost chastising.

Panaka worked his jaw. He’d heard all about the man’s recklessness from the Queen, and he had quite a few words to say regarding the Jedi’s complete failure to secure her protection. Never mind the fact she was in the guise of a handmaiden. As a member of the Royal House of Naboo, Qui-Gon Jinn was still responsible for her safety and he’d instead gambled it on some hare-brained scheme that could have left them stranded here for Force only knows how long. With no way to contact the Republic.

He went to reply, only for the Jedi to turn his back on him. “Get this hyperdrive generator installed,” Jinn said dismissively.

Fists clenched, Panaka whirled back towards the ship. Eirtaé was probably elbow-deep in the ship’s engine already, and he wanted to be wheels-up by the time that kriffing Jedi got back. The sooner they were on Coruscant, the sooner he could lodge a formal complaint regarding Jinn’s conduct on this mission.

Anakin winced as the weight of his pack slid across an old bruise, thumping against it uncomfortably with every step. “Master Qui-Gon, sir,” he huffed as he chased after the older man. “Wait! I’m tired.”

It was fortunate he slept soundly every night before a big race. Between the adrenaline crash and the emotional goodbye with his mom, Anakin felt drained. As though the sands had worn through brittle layers of skin and bone, down to the exhausted boy underneath the armored bravado he bore against depur.

Master Qui-Gon turned around, face scrunched against the wind, and Anakin felt a tremor through the air.

“Anakin, drop,” Master Qui-Gon yelled.

Anakin, a boy raised in the slave quarters of Mos Espa, followed the command without question. Flinching as he felt warm durasteel brush across the back of his head as the fierce screech of a repulsorlift thundered in his ears.

He glanced up, just in time to catch a black-cloaked figure leap from the back of a beige speeder. The long black cylinder clutched between its gloved hands let out a vicious, threatening hum as a blood-red blade emerged.

Master Qui-Gon’s green blade met the attacker’s. Both swords hissed, plasma flaring as the two met strike for strike.

“Go!” Qui-Gon yelled, raising his weapon. He blocked a heavy downward slash, arms jolting at the impact. “Tell them to take off!”

Anakin ran, sounds of the battle echoing distantly. Heartbeat pounding against his eardrums. He stumbled, just once, as he climbed the sleek gangplank. Breath shuttering, Anakin kept moving.

A severe looking man in a uniform looked up as he ran in. “Please,” he gasped. “Master Qui-Gon-,” Anakin swallowed, trying desperately to get enough air into his lungs. “He’s—there’s—attack!”

The man jumped up, gloved hand moving towards Anakin’s sweaty back as he lead him deeper into the ship.

Pressing a command into the door lock, he pushed Anakin forward. “Qui-Gon’s in trouble,” he said.

A man in a yellow flight jacket turned to face them, eyebrows raised as he spotted Anakin, though he powered on the ship. This was the cockpit, Anakin realized. Tamping down his excitement for a more suitable time. The uniformed man peered through the cockpit’s transparisteel windscreen.

“Over there,” he commanded, indicating a sand dune near the fight. “Fly low.”

The ship hummed as its engines powered on, vibration resonating through his body. It quieted something in Anakin that had been unable to believe he was really free. He was on a starship, bound for a different world. A world where he could be a Jedi. It was really happening.

In a daze, he allowed himself to be lead out. Not really paying attention to what his guide was saying, mind racing.

It was only when he was lead into the cargo bay where Master Qui-Gon laid sprawled in exhaustion that Anakin glanced up, eyes widening as he caught the eye of an angel in flame-colored robes.

“You adopted a padawan?” Padmé asked incredulously.

Sabé offered a demure smile, Rabé grinning mischievously behind her shoulder.

“Not a padawan,” Eirtaé muttered, too engrossed with something on her pad. Yané was peering over her shoulder, brows furrowed as she snagged the stylus from the blonde’s fingers.

“What about this?” She asked, jotting something down.

Eirtaé considered it. “That could work.”

Padmé turned to her youngest handmaiden, nearly desperate.

“You adopted a local,” Saché replied.

“That wasn’t me,” Padmé nearly screamed. “That was Master Jinn!”

The smaller girl shrugged.

A calloused hand clasped her shoulder gently, Sabé’s expression soft behind the marble mask of the Queen’s Face. “You’ll get used to the idea,” she said comfortingly. “Just wait till you try his tea.”

Padmé could admit later, much, much later as she sipped greedily at a warm mug of Darjeeling tea Obi-Wan shyly presented her, that Sabé was right. Damn her.

She could definitely get behind adopting the not-a-padawan if it guaranteed access to tea like this.

Anakin watched Obi-Wan add a handful of beans to a pot, the other boy humming tunelessly as he clicked the igniter.

His angel seemed to shine in the ship’s sparsely lit galley, his quiet joy radiating through the Force. Anakin basked in the soothing waves of contentment, in Obi-Wan’s warmth. It helped sooth the aching hollowness rattling in his chest, heart still firmly entwined in a rundown slave quarter of Mos Espa.

A rich, nutty aroma filled the air as the pot heated.

Obi-Wan pulled the pot off the burner. Adding some water, careful not to spill any, he returned the now full pot back to its place. Something about it tugged at Anakin’s memory, the movements eerily familiar. Like he’d seen it before, again and again. Though he couldn’t recall where.

Anakin must’ve made a noise, because Obi-Wan startled. Turning around to face him, flame colored hood sliding off as he did so.

Blue eyes widened as they met Anakin’s. “Are you alright?” The other boy asked, sun-kissed curls glinting in the low light.

Anakin swallowed. “It’s uh,” he cleared his throat. Scrambling for something to say that wouldn’t leave him looking like a wermo. “It’s very cold.”

Pale brows scrunched up, bottom lip caught between bright white teeth as the other boy processed that. Obi-Wan opened his mouth, only to be distracted at the faint bubbling coming from the pot.

Turning around, he adjusted the heat.

Back turned to him, Obi-Wan’s softly accented voice carried in the empty space between them. “I um, I know Tatooine is a warm planet,” he said. “Space is cold, since there’s little matter for nearby suns to interact with.”

He pulled out a dark brown mug, placing a strange looking mesh spoon over the rim. With quick, practiced movements, Obi-Wan pulled the pot off the stove and delicately poured its contents into the cup.

Lifting the spoon, he dumped the beans back into the pot.

When Obi-Wan turned again, brown mug clutched between shaking hands, his mouth was twisted in a nervous grin.

“Here,” he offered, cup held out.

Anakin accepted it, fragrant wisps of steam bathing his face before he cautiously took a sip.

A rich, earthy taste flooded across his tongue. Notes of a subtle sweetness lingering as he drank. The taste wasn’t exactly the same, the beans different than what grew on Tatooine, but Anakin’s eyes watered as he finally remembered why Obi-Wan’s actions looked so familiar.

Because his mom used to make them h’kak bean tea.

Roasting them in the battered durasteel pan that had a dent on the bottom from when Anakin dropped it when he was three. Pouring their carefully hoarded water into the pot, allowing it to simmer for hours, before finally serving it in smooth clay cups she’d traded from Jira.

Anakin blinked, taking another grateful sip at the unexpected gift of home.

When the tea was finished, he dug through his pocket. Ignoring the spare scraps of metal and loose wires, Anakin smiled when his fingers grazed against what he was looking for.

He offered it to Obi-Wan, who accepted it curiously. “I carved it out of a japor snippet,” he said.

His angel’s eyes were wide with wonder as he regarded the pale carving. “It’s beautiful,” Obi-Wan breathed, long fingers tracing its delicate grooves. He went to offer it back, but Anakin shook his head.

“I’d, I’d like you to have it,” Anakin murmured, ducking his head shyly. “It will bring you good fortune.”

Obi-Wan was quiet for a long moment, the silence heavy between them.

“Thank you,” Obi-Wan smiled, expression causing Anakin’s heart to flutter the way it did during a podrace. “I’ll treasure it always.”

And in that moment, with a mug of warm tea in his belly and his angel’s gentle smile, Anakin didn’t feel quite so cold and alone.

He still missed his mother, but the pain of their separation seemed a little more bearable. So long as he had Obi-Wan there to help him carry it.

Obi-Wan ducked his head, thankful for the hood, as he passed Master Jinn on the landing platform.

Flanked by handmaidens on either side and with Her Highness ahead of him, the older Jedi seemed to have forgotten Obi-Wan completely. Attention firmly on Chancellor Valorum, one hand clasped around Anakin’s bony shoulder, as he requested a shuttle to take them to the Jedi Temple.

He swallowed. It seemed like such a long time ago that the prospect of never being a Jedi Knight, of never getting to see home, was the worst thing that could’ve happened to an initiate who’d only wanted to belong. But now he was back, the Temple’s spires visible from the landing platform and something in Obi-Wan ached. Even though he was back, he could never go home again.

Because Obi-Wan wasn’t a Jedi Padawan.

He would never be a Knight. Would never have the opportunity to call the Temple home again.

A shoulder nudged his, and Obi-Wan looked down to see Saché’s dark eyes watching him. Yané placed a warm hand on the small of his back, pushing him deeper into their cluster.

From her place beside the Queen, Padmé turned. “Wané, c’mon,” she murmured.

With a smile, Obi-Wan followed.

“The Republic is not what it once was,” Senator Palpatine said, green-blue velvet rustling as he paced the length of his receiving room. Obi-Wan tried not to fidget in the heavy crimson cloak Eirtaé had thrown at him just hours before, gaze fixed firmly on the dark burst of blue beneath Palpatine’s collar. “The senate is full of greedy, squabbling delegates. There is no interest in the common good.”

From her place on the deep red couch, Queen Amidala followed the almost hypnotic patterns the senator paced with cool regard.

“I must be frank Your Majesty,” Senator Palpatine began. “There is little chance the senate will act on the invasion.”

Obi-Wan frowned.

The chancellor had assigned Jedi ambassadors to negotiate between the Federation and Naboo. Invoking senatorial privilege to have an independent moderator step in was usually considered an extreme solution, especially for a trade dispute. Normally, it would’ve indicated how the chamber was leaning.

It seemed odd Palpatine was under the impression the senate would do nothing.

“Chancellor Valorum seems to think there is hope,” she noted. Strings of veda pearls tinkling as she tilted her head.

Palpatine’s face twisted, as though holding in a scoff. “If I may say so, Your Majesty,” he cleared his throat. “The chancellor has very little real power. He is mired by…baseless…accusations of corruption. The bureaucrats are in charge now.” A heavy sigh.

The pause before baseless was a bit too pointed, Obi-Wan thought. He shot a quick look to Saché, who offered a discreet nod. She thought so too.

The Queen let out a soft breath. “What options have we?”

Palpatine stepped forward, closer than he’d been since the meeting started. Obi-Wan tried not to flinch as something brushed across his shields, dark and insidious as it attempted to worm past his defenses. “Our best choice,” Palpatine began, voice low. “Would be to push for the election of a stronger supreme chancellor. One who could control the bureaucrats, and give us justice.” He paused, and in that heavy silence the weight of a thousand untold horrors pressed against his mind.

“You could,” Palpatine started thoughtfully. “Call for a Vote of No Confidence in Chancellor Valorum.”

Her Highness became very still. “He’s been our strongest supporter,” she said. A hint of disbelief and confusion coloring her voice.

Palpatine turned away. “Our only other choice would be to submit a plea to the courts,” he replied dismissively.

“The courts take even longer to decide things than the senate,” Queen Amidala said, every word radiating with Royal Authority and Obi-Wan was honestly surprised the smarmy politician wasn’t genuflecting at the obvious displeasure in her tone. “Our people are dying Senator. We must do something quickly to stop the Federation.”

Senator Palpatine glanced up, subtle moue reminding him of Master Jinn. “To be realistic, Your Majesty, I think we’re going to have to accept Federation control for the time being,” he said.

Queen Amidala’s headdress slithered in a thunderous cacophony of indignation as she turned to stare the man down. “That is something I cannot do,” she cooly replied.

Bowing, the senator excused himself.

“Your Highness,” Captain Panaka started, only to be cut off.

Eirtaé finished inputting something on her pad, before she glanced up. “There,” she said. “All surveillance equipment has been disabled.”

Queen Amidala exploded. “Out of the question,” she snapped. “I did not come here to oust a sitting chancellor, simply because of one senator’s aspirations to turn a tragedy into a personal political victory.” Each word was filled with enough ice to frost over Tatooine, and it was to Panaka’s credit that he bore it with grace. “What are our options?”

Saché stepped forward. “We need to get a gauge on the Senate,” the smaller girl said seriously.

Panaka was frowning. “But Senator Palapatine—“

“Can’t be trusted,” Rabé interrupted. “Or did you miss the very obvious streak of chancellor’s blue sewn beneath his collar?”

Eirtaé was back on her pad. “It’s unlikely the Core Worlds would respond,” she said quietly. Running variables through an algorithm as she spoke. “But the Outer Rim is too dependent on the Federation to even consider opposing them. Who does that leave us with?”

“Um,” Obi-Wan started, only to hesitate when several heads turned in his direction.

“Continue Wané,” the Queen commanded. Using the name Saché had given him.

Biting his lip, only to blush at Yané’s firm look, he picked at the Naboo crest etched into his cloak. “The ship we arrived on was registered to Corellia,” he murmured.

Rabé hummed. “I doubt they’d take kindly to a ship belonging to a Corellian company being destroyed by the Federation,” she said thoughtfully.

“And it wasn’t a diplomatic courier,” Obi-Wan continued. “It was a transport ship. Members from Arconan Mineral Harvest and OffWorld Mining were onboard, they were headed to Bandomeer after picking up supplies on Karlinus.”

“And the Commerce Guild definitely won’t tolerate their largest competitor killing its members,” Saché said.

Expression pinched, Captain Panaka sighed. “And it’s against Republic Code 5456.2 to attack a diplomatic envoy,” he added. “And Republic Code 5469.6 to attack a civilian vessel.”

Queen Amidala looked thoughtful. “But the ship was destroyed,” she said. “And the Viceroy claimed to have no knowledge of the chancellor’s ambassadors. How would we be able to prove the Federation was behind it?”

“Records of the ship bing rerouted on behalf of the chancellor would have been registered with the diplomatic corps,” Obi-Wan said. “And Master Qui-Gon’s tracking beacon would show he’d arrived on the Federation’s ship.”

Eirtaé glanced up at that. “Tracking beacon?”

Picking at the etching harder, Obi-Wan nodded. “It’s part of a Jedi’s standard kit,” he informed them. “In case one…joins the Force,” Obi-Wan cleared his throat. “The Council will know where to retrieve the body.”

Everyone quieted at that, uncomfortable at the fact the life of a Jedi was so perilous their younglings knew to carry specific equipment to ensure burial.

Yané cleared her throat. “So we can establish wrongdoing,” she said. “But how are we going to get everyone on the same page?” She glanced at a gaudy chronometer. “And in less than four hours?” Even though the senate was set to meet at 1730, it would take at least two hours to get the Queen dressed and ready.

Her Highness had a slight smile on her face as she turned to regard the fidgeting boy. Her dark eyes twinkled, and Obi-Wan had a bad feeling about this.

“We know of a way,” she said. Regal bearing doing nothing to hide the streak of mischief in her words.

Oh yes, Obi-Wan definitely had a bad feeling about this.

“Are all of these layers really necessary?” Obi-Wan asked desperately, yelping when Rabé pulled the sash tighter.

She rolled her eyes. “Keep still,” she ordered. “And yes.”

Trying not to fidget, especially as Yané had painted his thumbnails and the lacquer wasn’t quite dry, Obi-Wan scrunched up his nose. “It’s really heavy,” he muttered.

A snort. Eirtaé’s blue eyes met his in the reflective transparisteel as she pulled back his hair. “You should be thankful this is a modern reproduction that uses Karlini silk,” she retorted. She smoothed some flyaways back with gel. “It’s a lot lighter than some of the more traditional pieces.”

He gulped at that, unable to believe Her Royal Highness and her handmaidens did this every single day. Sometimes with multiple wardrobe changes.

“Good work,” a strangely familiar voice said. “Wané looks great!”

He turned, staring at the taller girl with confusion. She wore the garb of a handmaiden, but Obi-Wan didn’t recognize her. From their lack of reaction, the girls obviously knew who she was. He peered at her inquisitively. “Weren’t you—weren’t you the Queen on the ship?” Obi-Wan asked incredulously.

Sabé laughed.

Anakin shivered as he stood before the circle of Jedi of various ages and species, their cool regard as they conducted their tests reminding him of the buyers in Mos Espa’s slave market. The wizened creature the rest of the Jedi seemed to defer to, depur perhaps, leaned forward curiously. “Hrmm” he hummed. Taloned fingers tapping thoughtfully at his chin. “How feel you?”

Anakin cleared his throat. “Cold, sir,” he answered politely. Even though he wasn’t sure on the correct title yet, Jira told him sir was an appropriate form of address for most beings and Anakin wanted to impress them with his manners. Wanted to make the sacrifices made to get him here worth it. To make his mother proud.

Thoughts of home were interrupted as the elderly Jedi scoffed. “Afraid are you?”

This was an easy enough answer. “No, sir,” Anakin dutifully replied. Fearful slaves didn’t last very long.

“See through you,” depur said, wagging a finger at him. “We can.”

The stern-faced man beside depur narrowed his eyes thoughtfully. “Be mindful of your feelings,” he said, almost soothingly.

A bushy-browed humanoid stroked his beard. “Your thoughts dwell on your mother,” he said. Voice taking on that fake-thoughtful tone that Anakin knew from working in Watto’s shop. That was the voice of a potential buyer trying to see if they’d found a flaw in the merchandise, and were looking for a better deal.

Obi-Wan told him that the Jedi council were beings of great wisdom and learning, with Force talents beyond regular Jedi. Perhaps the myth about Jedi reading minds weren’t as far-fetched as Greedo had lead him to believe.

The dark-skinned man’s brows furrowed consideringly as Anakin thought of Obi-Wan and his sun-kissed hair, though he remained silent.

Deciding that it was better to be truthful, as the flaw had already been found, Anakin dipped his chin. “”I miss her,” he admitted. Voice wobbling at the end, but only just.

“Mmm,” depur hummed again. “Afraid to lose her, I think, mmm?” He asked, voice mocking the way Watto’s would get when he’d offer Ani something only to snatch it away.

In another world, perhaps the fierce bravado he wielded like armor would have prompted him to scoff. To say something dismissive, or nonchalant. Like ”What does that have to do with anything?” Because depur wouldn’t care if a slave missed their bearer. Slaves were separated all the time, sometimes to the furthest reaches of the galaxy. The name Anakin carried, Skywalker, was evidence of that.

But in this world, the burden of Anakin’s pain wasn’t his to bear alone. Remembering the way his angel’s bright blue eyes crinkled as he smiled at the roughly carved japor snippet soothed the anxiety bubbling in Anakin’s chest, and he let out slow breath. “It’s the first time we’ve been sold separately,” he admitted quietly. The circle of beings shifted, but Anakin’s eyes remained on the elaborately tiled floor. “I know it’s silly,” he continued. “But I promise I won’t allow it to impact my work, sir.”

The silence that followed his oath was the kind that hung like a noose around one’s neck, the seconds dragging painfully slow, until the red haired woman that resembled depur but with a kinder face leaned forward. “Sold?” She asked softly.

Slightly bewildered at the confused lilt to her words, Anakin offered a hesitant nod. “Yes,” he said. “We used to belong to Watto, but he lost me to Master Qui-Gon after betting on a pod-race.” He didn’t bring up the fact that Master Qui-Gon told him he was free. The older man had never given him the deactivator wand for his transmitter, and Anakin wasn’t sure if he could ask to get it removed.

After a pregnant pause, the dark skinned Jedi leaned forward. “I think it would be best we call Master Jinn in,” he said, expression hidden behind steepled fingers. “Now.”

Qui-Gon entered the council chambers with an unusually optimistic bounce in his step.

He was still determined not to take a padawan, especially not a boy who’d known nothing but the darkest and cruelest parts of the galaxy. But Qui-Gon couldn’t help but feel that finding Anakin was the start of finally stepping out of Xanatos’ shadow.

Because Qui-Gon had been the one to find Xanatos. The one to take his midi-chlorian count and bring that tiny light in the Force home to the Jedi Temple. He remembered the heartbreak on Crion’s face, the same heartbreak etched in Shmi’s, as he asked to take their sons away. Remembered the painful, bittersweet hope when he spoke of their bright futures with the Order.

The parallels were too great to miss, but instead of the familiar ache that followed whenever he thought of his fallen padawan, for the first time in years, Qui-Gon remembered what it meant to feel hope.

He knew that had Anakin been born in the Republic, they would have identified him early. At twelve he would be considered old, perhaps too old as there were hundreds of initiates searching for a master, but the Force was unusually strong with him. Even if some members of the council, like Mace, would be weary about his age it was clear the boy would require training.

He didn’t need to become a Jedi padawan. Just needed enough training not to be a threat, and there was always the corps. Anakin would have a better life, even if he’d never become a Knight.

This time, Qui-Gon would keep his promise.

The moment he’d made it to the center of the council chambers, Qui-Gon offered a deeper bow than normal. “Masters,” he greeted. He shot a look to Anakin, who stood stiffly beside Mace. “He is to be trained then?”

Mace’s expression, difficult to read on the best of days, was a mask of Jedi serenity. “Where is the deactivator wand for Anakin’s slave chip?” He asked placidly.

Qui-Gon startled. “What?” He asked.

“The deactivator wand,” Mace said again, eyes harder than durasteel. “Where is it?” This time his words were a command, and Qui-Gon mutely handed over the device from a pouch on his belt.

The Korun master handed it over to the stiff boy beside him, who accepted it hesitantly, before turning that hard-eyed stare back on him. “Was there a reason you neglected to tell this body the circumstances in which you’d found the boy?”

Unsure what to say, Qui-Gon inclined his head. “I—,” he swallowed. “I was concerned that if you knew about the boy’s past, you would be hesitant to train him.” He admitted.

Mace said nothing, though his fingers tightened in their meditative position under the man’s chin.

Master Yaddle leaned forward. “The boy’s mother,” she began. “Still a slave, she is?” Although there wasn’t an accusation in her words, Qui-Gon couldn’t help the instinctive guilt that flared in his stomach until he released it to the Force.

“I tried to free his mother,” Qui-Gon said softly. “But their owner wouldn’t have it.”

Yaddle hummed. “To Tatooine, a team will be sent,” the elderly master said. “Procured, Shmi Skywaker’s freedom will.” Qui-Gon knew better than to doubt the word of the Master of Shadows, and quietly wondered just how long it would take for Anakin to see his mother again.

There was a bright flare of hope in the Force, the council’s eyes drifting to Anakin’s cautiously optimistic face, before they returned to Qui-Gon.

Master Yoda cleared his throat. “Young Kenobi,” he started. An interesting note in his voice. If pressed, Qui-Gon would almost say it was bashful. “Back at Temple, he is?”

Breath catching, Qui-Gon felt a shiver of anxiety creep down his spine. He’d forgotten about Obi-Wan completely, too concerned with the possibility of righting an old wrong to worry about the initiate he’d been charged with escorting to the AgriCorps Outpost on Karlinus. He swallowed past the thick lump in his throat, and buried his hands in the wide sleeves of his robe. “I’m—,” he started, only to stop. “He’s with the Queen?”

He couldn’t help the high-pitched inflection at the end of his words, making it a question.

Mace’s face was a study of thunderous fury when it turned towards him. “We’ll discuss your errors in judgement later,” he replied. “Our priority at this point is to locate our missing initiate.”

Obi-Wan stifled the sudden sneeze behind a voluminous sleeve.

“Your Highness,” Garm Bel Iblis greeted, rising from his bow. “I must say, I was surprised to receive your invitation.”

The senator for Corellia was a stern-looking human male, whose durasteel grey hair and deep crows-feet, made him look older than his forty years of age. There was a blaster on his hip, a nod to his Corellian roots, though Padmé noted it was missing its power-cell. Ceremonial then, though it would be easy enough to function as a weapon.

She inclined her head, strings of veda pearls helping to balance the precarious weight of the shiraya headdress Rabé had pinned to her hair. “I wished to speak with you before the senate session,” she replied.

She gracefully lead him deeper into the apartments she’d taken over, ignoring the sudden stiffening when Bel Iblis caught sight of the other guests she’d invited.

Senators Fan and Antilles glanced up curiously, the gossam’s expression doing little to hide his displeasure. Antilles offered a polite nod.

As Bel Iblis settled in the deep red sofa, he tilted his head in question. “Was there a reason, other than tea,” he cleared his throat. Though it did little to hide the laughter in his words. “That you invited us here?”

Corellia and Alderaan were both founding members of the Republic, but Antilles was a staunch pacifist and was usually at odds with Corellia’s more militaristic leanings. Both Antilles and Bel Iblis were at odds with Pan Fan, the senator for the Commerce Guild. Antilles due to his position as the chair for the ethics committee and Bel Iblis due to the Guild’s constant attempt to infringe upon Corellia’s shipyards.

The three had little to do with one another, and rarely seen together. Which made their inclusion to an impromptu tea with the recently elected Queen of Naboo curious.

Padmé couldn’t smile while wearing the Queen’s face, but her eyes twinkled mischievously as she turned to regard the Corellian. “All in due time, Senator,” she said. Allowing a bit of warmth to bleed into the Queen’s Voice. She extended a hand to the boy kneeling beside the table. “My tea master, Wané.”

The former Jedi-initiate was enveloped in layers of karlini silk, a mirror of her own gown. Though while hers was highly structured, cinched at the waist with a pale colored sash, Wané’s flowed delicately about the boy’s gangly frame. Consisting of several robes elaborately arranged to reveal each layer, it was a more formal Naboo style than what was usually worn.

It represented part of Naboo’s history and cultural identity, each layer whispering of the artistry and elegance the Naboo prided themselves on, and symbolized the strength hidden behind beauty and stillness. Eirtaé had even added pearl suspensas, the beads tinkling as they trailed down bony shoulders as Wané offered a deep bow of respect.

The rest of her party seemed equally mesmerized at the quiet grace of the boy before them, watching as he delicately flicked the long sleeves back to pour pre-heated water into a brightly painted tea set.

They’d had little time to try and procure something, and Padmé hesitated to use one of Palpatine’s. Which meant that the set arranged on a simply carved tray belonged to the former initiate himself. The young queen couldn’t help but marvel at the small glimpse he’d unknowingly given her into the boy’s true heart.

It was simple, though handmade and lovingly rendered. Painted to resemble a black barabel, inner enamel a swirl of yellow-red, the cups made to look as though the fruit had just been cut. A delicate glass pitcher was arranged next to the cups, a tiny clay kybuck taking the last available spot on the crowded tray.

After a moment, he dumped the water into a bowl, using simply carved wooden tongs to lift each piece. It was a study in mindfulness, each act deliberate and effortlessly beautiful.

They watched as he opened a colorfully wrapped canister, using a wide mouthed wooden tool to scoop out leaves that smelled of brine and freshly cut grass, and added them to the warmed pot.

Steam bathed his face as he poured over the leaves, bringing a soft flush to freckled cheeks. Wané picked up the delicate lid by the lovingly rendered stem, and traced the rim of the tea pot with it, before allowing it to settle. After a moment, he poured the steeped liquid into the glass pitcher, only to drain it over the clay kybuck.

He poured again, tracing the rim of the pot with the same artful twist of his wrist, and waited.

This time when he poured, he carefully drained the pitcher over each cup. Drying the bottoms off with a nearby cloth, he offered each guest their own cup with both hands. First Senator Pan Fan, as the eldest. Then Senator Garm Bel Iblis, followed by Senator Antilles and finally Padmé herself.

“Thank you, Wané,” Padmé said. She breathed in the scent of a Mon Cala storm, feeling the tension in her shoulders relax, before taking a delicate sip.

When her guests finished their own cups, Padmé was ready.

“I’ve asked you here because we have a common enemy,” she said, meeting each senator’s gaze.

Senator Fan’s large yellow eyes narrowed, though he gratefully accepted the fresh cup of tea. Taking a noisy slurp, he cradled the tiny cup between his three-fingered hands. “The Trade Federation and Commerce Guild have been in competition since our inception,” the gossam croaked. “But we have always maintained a tenuous alliance for the greater good of the Republic. Why do you expect us to intercede on your behalf?”

Garm Bel Iblis snorted. “Greater good?” He asked, offering a quiet thank you to Wané as he refilled his cup. “Admit it. You’d happily watch them crash and burn if it meant securing a greater share of the galactic market.” The Corellian took a sip. “But I have to agree with Senator Fan,” he replied, sounding regretful as he turned to Padmé. “Your own senator hasn’t made any inroads in curbing the Federation’s ire, and any allies he might’ve had were lost after that bypass amendment he introduced.”

Antilles was watching her, expression thoughtful as he brought the cup to his mouth. He didn’t drink, simply held it there for a long, quiet moment. Finally, he placed it down. “That’s why you wanted us here,” he said at last.

Bel Iblis turned to him, heavy brows furrowed in confusion, while Pan Fan blinked.

Padmé said nothing.

“You doubt your own senator,” Antilles continued. “Which is why he’s not here, and you’re worried about the upcoming session.”

“You seem to have come to a conclusion regarding my motives quite quickly,” Padmé noted politely.

Antilles inclined his head. “What I don’t understand,” he said, a smile twitching at the corner of his mouth. “Is why try and curry favor with us?”

It was Wané who spoke. “The Jedi ambassador sent to negotiate with the Trade Federation didn’t take a diplomatic courier,” he said quietly. His eyes were trained serenely on the folded sleeves in his lap. “He was transported on a civilian barge called the Monument.”

Garm Bel Iblis’ eyes widened. “That’s a Corellian ship that disappeared over a week ago,” he breathed. “We haven’t been able to find any trace of it, after it had been re-routed—,” He faltered. “Are you saying that the Federation—,”

Pan Fan throat clicked in agitation. “Members of the Mining Guild were on that transport,” he croaked dangerously. “Subsidiaries of the Commerce Guild. If what you’re implying is true—,”

Padmé waved her hand, and Saché dutifully provided the senators with a data pad. They read over the information, faces thunderous. “As you can see,” she began. “Records from the diplomatic corps and the Jedi Order confirm that the ship boarded the lucrehulk-class droid control ship currently orbiting the Naboo system. If footage from the ship’s cargo-bay were to be subpoenaed by the Senate, not only would it confirm the destruction of a civilian ship but also that they are currently blockading my planet without any legal jurisdiction.”

“You want us to introduce a motion for the subpoena,” Garm Bel Iblis said, a considering look on his face.

Padmé nodded.

“I understand why you wanted them,” Antilles said. “But why include me?”

“Don’t you find it curious,” Padmé started. “That no public comment has been made regarding an ambassador being sent, or even missing, despite the fact Senator Palpatine assured me he invoked senatorial privilege to acquire an independent moderator to mediate the matter.”

The smile that had been twitching at the corner of Senator Antilles’ mouth bloomed. “I see,” he said. He picked up his abandoned cup, and drank. “It will be done, Your Highness.”

Padmé hid her sigh of relief.

Obi-Wan yelped as Yané pulled him into a fierce hug, the slender girl having a surprisingly strong grip. “Wha—,” he began.

“You were incredible,” she exclaimed. Squishing him tighter.

There was a dark look on Saché’s face as she regarded them, almost like she wished to be in Obi-Wan’s place, though she offered a sincere smile when the boy looked at her. “Good job, Wané,” she said, voice teasing as it lilted over his ’name’.

Obi-Wan huffed, though his cheeks heated at the waves of affection radiating through the Force by the cadre of scary girls who’d somehow adopted him into their ranks in the short amount of time he’d known them.

“Yes, yes, our not-a-padawan is absolutely brilliant,” Rabé huffed. “And we’re certainly not giving him back, but the senate session is in less than an hour and he needs to get changed.”

“Wha—,” Obi-Wan tried, eyes wide with horror. “Ouch!” He cried, wincing as the girls efficiently stripped off his robes. “Hey, wait! I promise I can—,”

Sabé shot him a commiserating look in the transparisteel mirror hanging in the room they’d allocated as a temporary wardrobe. “It’s better just to accept it,” she said sympathetically. “They’re ridiculously serious about these kinds of things.”

Blue eyes wide with terror, Obi-Wan wondered if life as a Jedi would have been less scary.

Anakin fidgeted nervously as a guard waved him through.

After the council meeting and Mister Mace leading him to the Temple’s medical center to get his chip removed, Anakin had been informed that although he was technically too old to be considered for a padawanship, the council would be willing to help him find the option that worked best for Anakin’s needs.

Hearing about the different corps, and the ExploraCorps sounded totally wizard, and knowing a team was being sent to Free his mom had been a relief and he needed to share it with somebody.

No, not just somebody. He needed to share it with his angel.

He knew in the way that he didn’t quite know how he knew it, though he suspected it was the Force, that the boy with sun-kissed hair and a smile that made his heart race faster than a pod ever could, would be with the Queen.

After sharing his feeling with Mister Mace, the older man kindly offered to take him to the apartments the Queen and her party were residing. Which had lead Anakin here, with the Jedi Master patiently waiting beside him as one of the handmaidens shot him a sly look from beneath the cowl of her cloak.

Anakin was about to ask what that look was for, when his heart stuttered to a stop. Breath catching, the boy from Tatooine struggled to swallow at the sudden dryness in his mouth, as he took in his angel.

Obi-Wan was blushing, the color a close match to the silk over-robe draped across his shoulders. There was a golden halo perched atop the burnished copper of his hair, strings of gold trailing down to rest across his chest and pick up on the finely embroidered crests of his inner robes. “I’d um,” his angel started. “I’d come over, but I don’t know how to walk in these pants,” the other boy said quietly.

Anakin glanced down, taking in exaggerated pant legs that trailed across the floor, and hurriedly made his way over. Obi-Wan was even more beautiful up close and the desert boy felt like he was back home on Tatooine. Warm again, after being cold since the landing platform. “Um,” Anakin said, biting his lip. “You’re really pretty, angel,” he said softly.

Obi-Wan’s blush darkened, though there was a small smile on his face as he regarded Anakin from beneath eyelashes that would make an eopie jealous.

“T-thanks,” Obi-Wan stuttered. He shifted, silk rustling as he did so. “W-what um, what did you want to tell me?”

Grasping those long-fingered hands with his own, Anakin grinned.

Mace startled at the sudden appearance of a darkly glaring Queen, noting the similar coloring of her gown to Obi-Wan’s.

“Your Highness,” he greeted.

She raised an imperious brow. “You’re not taking him,” she said. Words carrying every ounce of regal authority she possessed, and so unbearably certain. Mace had to wonder if she wasn’t just a little Force-sensitive, as it was similar enough to a Jedi mind-trick that he was half-convinced anyone else would have bowed to her wishes immediately.

“Sorry?” He asked, though they both knew who she meant.

“He’s ours,” the Queen said. “The Jedi didn’t want him, but we do.”

Mace struggled to maintain his composure at the gauntlet thrown between them, anger at Yoda’s manipulations prickling along the edges of his control. “There was an administrative error that resulted in his early dismissal,” Mace said. He breathed, in and out. Eyes flicking back to the initiate he’d hope to take as his padawan. “It’s been corrected.”

The girl was too well-trained to do something as crass as scoff, but Mace could tell she wanted to by the flicker in her eyes. “I’m afraid you’re too late,” she said. “As Queen, I’ve adopted him into the Royal House of Naboo.” Her glare threatened that as soon as she was done with this war, she was willing to wage another. “As I’ve said, he’s ours.”

He breathed through his frustration, through his anger and pain, and continued to look at the boy he’d hoped to train. The boy who looked happier than Mace could remember, as he discussed something with Skywalker in tones too quietly for Mace to hear. “Would you be willing to allow a Jedi Watchman be stationed on Naboo?” He asked.

Queen Amidala inclined her head, the heavy gold headdress perfectly steady. “Perhaps.”

Palpatine had to hide his gleeful smirk as Queen Amidala took the podium, her faith in the Republic Senate sure to crumble as soon as Lott Dodd and Aimlee Teem came forward with their request for a commission.

With that regulation Amedda found, Valorum would have no choice but to adhere to Senate Protocol.

He’d worked hard to plant the seeds within the girl’s feeble mind. Amidala was primed to call for a ‘Vote of No Confidence’. By the end of the day, the Republic would have a new Supreme Chancellor.

A stronger Supreme Chancellor.

He willed his face into the concerned, avuncular mask he wore in public and watched.

“Honorable Representatives of the Republic,” Queen Amidala said, voice steady. “I come to you under the gravest of circumstances.” This was it. He shot a look towards Lott Dodd. “A ship sent by the Supreme Chancellor, the one used to transport the Jedi ambassador assigned to mediate this issue, was wrongfully destroyed and over two-thousand souls lost.”

What?

Palpatine tried not to look incredulous as the Queen continued, proclaiming the violation of Republic Civil Code and loss of civilian life after the transport had met its end in delivering the chancellor’s ambassadors. Not once did she mention the Trade Federation’s invasion, or the subsequent communications breakdown.

The Neimodian looked confused, though he rallied as the girl paused.

“I object! There is no proof!” He yelled. “This is incredible. We recommend that a commission be sent to Na—,” the Neimodian faltered. “—Be sent to ascertain the truth.”

Right before Aimlee Teem could approach, the Senators from the Commerce Guild and Corellia had already positioned their pods before the chancellor’s podium.

“I would like to yield the floor to Senators Fan and Bel Iblis, to provide corroborating evidence on this grave misstep in diplomacy by the Trade Federation,” Queen Amidala said.

The gossam blinked at her approvingly, while Bel Iblis grinned. “Your Excellency,” the Corellian greeted. “We present—,”

Palpatine could only watch as all of his plans went up in flames.

“Resign from the council, you cannot,” Yoda said, hands grasped about his gimmer stick desperately.

Mace sighed. “Positions on the council are voluntary,” he reminded. Mace didn’t have time for this. The Queen was set to leave in a little under an hour. it had taken far too long to find that tea shop Depa had recommended, though the parcel tucked within his robes would hopefully be worth it. “With the situation resolved, it would help soothe frayed relations if a Watchman was appointed to the Chommell Sector. Who better than a councillor?”

He continued on his way, luggage in hand and secretly delighted at the older man’s huff.

“Needed here, you are,” Yoda tried instead. “Another, to Naboo could go.”

At that, Mace whirled around, face twisted in a glare that had made initiates and recalcitrant masters alike quiver in their boots. “Enough,” he said. “Obi-Wan is lost to us because of you,” Mace hissed. “My future, my child, was taken from me because of your actions. Qui-Gon Jinn has sworn to never take a padawan, and that is his choice. You have no right to say differently.” He turned around. “Perhaps I’m not the only one who should reconsider their place on the council.”

He left the wizened old troll behind, intent on making it to the landing platform before they left.

Obi-Wan was waiting.

Quinlan silently crept away, careful not to make any noise as he crawled through the air-ducts. He’d been planning a prank on Windu, one last send-off seeing as the man was planning to take up a new watchman position, only to stumble upon a conversation he definitely shouldn’t have heard.

Flipping through a grate, he hurried towards the dorms where Kybuck Clan stayed.

He had crechemates to find, and little time to drag them where they needed to go.

Obi-Wan smiled as Eirtaé nudged his shoulder. The blonde rolled her eyes as Yané rambled about all the different things they’d show him once they were home, flinching when Saché pinched her.

The shorter girl shot the blonde a dark look, eyes trailing longingly towards the oblivious seamstress.

Eirtaé nudged him again, and he stifled a laugh. Those two really were hopeless, he thought.

Panaka looked tired as he lead their party to the landing platform, though he perked up when he caught sight of the Jedi Master among them. Master Windu had been a surprise, but a welcome one. Obi-Wan had always felt close to the man, who volunteered in the creche often, and snuck them the best treats. It would be nice to have a piece of home in a new place.

The Korun Jedi caught his eyes, and offered a warm smile.

“Wait!” A familiar voice shouted.

Obi-Wan turned, catching a glimpse of Anakin’s tousled blonde hair before a solid weight tackled him.

“Ow!” Obi-Wan yelped. “What the—,”

“Obes!” Quinlan shouted happily in his ear. Bant’s familiar briny scent had Obi-Wan meeting the Calamarian’s large silver eyes over Quin’s shoulder. She smiled.

“Meet again, we will,” she answered.

Garen was grinning beside her, and Reeft was snacking obnoxiously on a piece of cake he’d found Force only knew where.

“Get off, Quin,” he groaned.

It took a few minutes to detangle the assortment of limbs, and one scary Yané who’d nearly decapitated the normally exuberant Kiffar at the pleats he’d ruined, but Obi-Wan was finally pulled to his feet. Anakin’s broad hand warm around his own. The blonde boy smiled at him bashfully.

“Sorry angel,” Anakin said softly. “I promise to catch you next time.”

Obi-Wan went to answer, only for Quinlan’s obnoxious voice to interrupt.

“Force Obes,” the other boy exclaimed. “When’d you get pretty?”

Obi-Wan Kenobi, the boy who’d once been a Jedi initiate destined to become a farmer, and was now a member of the Royal House of Naboo, sighed.

Palpatine growled as Senator Antilles smirked at him.

“Senator Palpatine, the ethics committee has called for a ‘Vote of No Confidence’ in your position as Senator for the Chommell Sector. We find you unfit for the office you hold,” the man paused. “Is there anything you’d like to say?”

This certainly hadn’t gone to plan, Palpatine thought dismally. His master would not be pleased.

It is a truth all Jedi are forced to acknowledge at one point or other, that a knight in good possession of the proper flimsiwork and a tenuous grip on their sanity, will be expected to add to the lineage lest they be confronted with the terrible and horrifying consequences of a master in want of a grandpadawan.

It is a lesser known truth that a recently elected queen, being in possession of a cadre of scarily competent handmaidens and one exasperated guard captain, would be in want of a not-a-padawan.